The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep6: NoSleep Podcast S17E06

Episode Date: December 12, 2021

It's Episode 06 of Season 17. Our spells cast a devilish gaze upon you."PainKiller" written by Tor-Anders Ulven (Story starts around 00:05:15)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Graham Rowat"The Tall Man" written by Nick Bouchard (Story starts around 00:10:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Jeff Clement"Bad Tidings from Queen Sophie " written by Danielle Williams (Story starts around 00:25:05)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio, Cass - Nichole Goodnight, Creature - Jesse Cornett"With Love's Eyes" written by Liam Burke (Story starts around 00:40:50)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Derek - Peter Lewis, Julia - Jessica McEvoy, Mark - Jesse Cornett"The Interview" written by Rona Vaselaar (Story starts around 01:13:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: James Smith - Matthew Bradford, Detective Matthews - Eddie Cooper"When the Fair Came to Town" written by Jack Thackwell (Story starts around 01:26:10)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - David Ault, Neil - James Cleveland, Mel - Penny Scott-Andrews, Mr. Pickman - Andy Cresswell, Creature - Erika SandersonThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp - Betterhelp's mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient - so anyone who struggles with life's challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepCaliper CBD - Caliper CBD is a fast, easy way to use CBD. With precise 20 mg doses of dissolvable powder which mix quickly and flavorlessly into any food or drink, you'll be your merriest this holiday season with Caliper CBD. Get 35% off your first order when you use promo code NOSLEEP at trycaliper.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here for Brandon Boone's Bandcamp page Click here to learn more about Tor-Anders Ulven Click here to learn more about Liam Burke Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar Click here to learn more about Jack Thackwell Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"The Tall Man" illustration courtesy of Naomi RonkeAudio program ©2021 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The weather outside may be frightful, but we know this episode is definitely delightfully frightful. Ugh, bad weather, less sunshine, holiday stress, yuck. Let's try to be a little more positive, please. You're right. December can be a fun festive month. I suppose we can slap a smile on our faces for a few weeks anyway. You know, there are ways you can improve how you feel without just faking a smile, right? You mean actually feeling better?

Not pretending? Right. Actually changing how you feel inside. Often, I find myself caught up in small stresses when I could be looking at the bigger picture. Taking a step back and reassessing helps, but it can be difficult to know how to do that without some guidance. That's why we recommend better help. Reach out. Sign up and Better Help will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist.

It's professional counseling done securely online. and something you can start in under 48 hours. They have a broad range of expertise worldwide. It's great that you can log into your account anytime and send a message to your counselor, getting timely and thoughtful responses along with weekly video or phone sessions. BetterHelp is committed to matching you with the right counselor, and they're affordable while also making financial aid available. BetterHelp wants you to start living a happier life today,

and they're recruiting additional counselors in all 50 states to make that happen. Many people already are, thanks to better help. For example, one client says, Dr. Moreno is an excellent therapist. She asks the simplest questions that give so much revelation. Another client says their counselor is very caring and offers lots of encouragement and support to help you get through it all. Would highly recommend.

Counselors who don't just listen, they engage with their clients and give them new perspectives. One client wrote, I enjoyed speaking to my counselor about what was going on in my life, life, and I could always rely on her to ask deeper questions that allowed me to view my issues in a different way. She was kind, but never coddled me. I really appreciate her candor. Such positive results. How can our listeners connect with BetterHelp? Visit BetterHelp.com slash No Sleep. That's Better, H-E-L-P, and join the over one million people taking charge of their

mental health with the help of an experienced professional. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, And No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. Now, you were seeing something about a frightful episode ahead? No, not just ahead. Oh, it's starting right now. It's long gone in days of yore. There are legends and tales of dark folklore, round candlelight and fireside. The tales are shared.

Enchanting dark secrets in hushed toads declared. And from those days, both present and past, he beseech you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. Sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings. So here we are. folks, this is it. The final regular no-sleep podcast episode

before our made a list and checked it twice, killer Christmas Bonanza. Episode 7 of Season 17 will be a Christmas special, available to all listeners, containing many stories to fill you with frights and delights. And for Season Past 17 holders, there'll be an additional Christmas episode released in the run-up to the holiday itself.

And who knows, maybe there are a couple of other. festive treats in store. But for now, it's the last week of calm before the storm. Hopefully, you've gotten all your Christmas shopping done, including plenty of food, horror books, and Brandon Boone albums. And in the spirit of shopping in December, it's time for horror. In our first tale, we join a man who's made it his purpose to help others.

Is he a doctor or a saint? Does his role as healer follow a scientific route? or a supernatural one. In this tale, shared with us by author, Tor Anders Olvin, the answer may be more complex than it seems.

Performing this tale is Graham Rowett. So it might not be Judas Priest, but this is the pain killer. The ritual is simple, painless. That's kind of a joke right there. Not the ha-ha kind,

but more of a forced smile and a nod of appreciation kind. They call me the pain killer. I take away your pain, for a modest fee, of course. I don't do it for the money. I'll lay you down on my couch, a cheap three-seater with a weird Swedish name,

Blumenflugin or some such. I'll ask you to bury your head in the pillows, and you look at me like I'm going to smother you. Don't worry, I'm not. Just can't have your eyes on me as all. I'll light some incense. Nyak musk or maybe a hint of moist frog sweat or something. Honestly, I don't even read the packages anymore.

It's all an act. The way to get you to trust me. My grandmother was Norwegian. So when you're all nice and comfortable, I'll start babbling incoherently in her mother tongue. Under, scrimmedo vieter, la Orr smarte for Svina herritor. I'll keep presiding the line,

over and over, until I can hear you sleeping. Well, not required for the ritual. It's a preferred state of consciousness. It means I don't have to worry about you peaking. I can treat all sorts of pain, even mental. It's not a cure, per se. If you're dying, you'll still be dying when you leave this place. I just treat the symptom.

That most heinous part of human existence, you don't deserve the pain. That ceaseless and sufferable throbbing sense. wave after wave, eating away at your sanity, until one day you're no longer human. It doesn't take long, maybe five minutes. There'll be a creaking sound, and if you wake up, I'll tell you to take a deep breath and relax, and ignore everything around you.

You'll feel my hand on your back. It'll be cold as death, and it will leave a mark. You will gasp in shock, but soon find yourself unable to move. part of the ritual. I'll whisper. Try to relax. Next up, a flood of memories will rush over you.

They'll feel strangely familiar, but you'll come to realize they're not yours. One by one, they'll take away your pain, fragment by fragment, like removing a single needle from a cactus until, finally, you're all needle-free, pain-free. You'll hear a creaking sense, and suddenly you can move again, and you will thank me. Praise me. Cry a little, maybe. Write me a check,

transfer some cash, shower me and dough, and you'll leave. I'll make sure you're gone before I open the hidden trap door again. I can't help myself. I have to see him, see him writhing in agony, the mark on his back pulsating with searing pain. When he's, he's not. When he's, he's, he's He's had enough when his systems shut down or he rots away. I'll find a new one. Abuser. Destroyer. Human filth.

They call me the painkiller, but that's not entirely accurate. I don't kill the pain. I simply pass it to someone else. It's a sad but inevitable fact that on long stretches of road, sometimes a wild animal will wander into the path of a spirit. beating car. It's never a pleasant sight, but when you're a kid, such things can particularly stick with you. And in this tale, shared with us by author Nick Bouchard, we meet a man whose childhood roadkill observations stuck with him into adulthood for quite a different reason.

Performing this tale is Jeff Clement. So take care when you're crossing the street. Look left, look right, and then look up. because towering above you might be the tall man. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street. I saw it hop one last time after being struck. The final hop was just as much habit as it was momentum. It toppled to its side. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street.

Its legs still moved, trying to hop. The front legs made their customary small circles. The hind legs made less graceful, twitchy. arcs. He'd move like my dog when he dreams. That may have been the toughest part. Road kills happen, but they don't usually keep moving. The rabbits, twitches were so like my Franco's dream-induced strides that I was sure I faintly heard the panting and chuffing sounds that invariably accompanied his dreams. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street, imitating my dog at nap time.

I looked to be sure Franco wasn't actually dreaming his dream of canine conquest. He was not. He was at the back door looking out into the woods. He wagged his tail and lazy sweeps. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street. And because his final valiant effort had landed him directly in the double yellow line, he was not dead yet. He had fallen where he was struck.

he would have been finished off by another car. Since folks weren't in the habit of driving on the double yellow, he got to continue his sleeping dog imitation for his meager audience. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street. I wondered where road kills go. I had seen crows pecking pieces off of them sometimes. Once I saw a skunk lug a meaty strip of raccoon into the trees beside the road, and I had heard a couple of stories from people whose pets had been hit by cars.

They talked about wrapping their friends in a warm blanket and taking them motionless to the emergency vet. None of those stories ended with survival. But I'm sure some. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street, still kicking. He showed no signs of slowing. If it weren't for the blob of end trails protruding from his mouth, I might have believed he was just knocked out, dreaming of chasing something.

Perhaps he was. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street, and I don't know how long I watched, fascinated by his relentless attempt to finish crossing. It could have been minutes. It could have been days. I was so mesmerized, I might not have noticed the sun setting or rising. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street. and a long, old gray car pulled to the side of the road. The door opened and from behind tinted glass stood a man.

He must have been seven feet tall. He was dressed in a gray suit with dark pinstripes. He reached back into the car and extracted a bowler hat, which he crammed down over wild yellow hair and a large valise. The rabbit led. in the middle of the street, and the tall man looked both ways before moving ponderously toward the center of the road. Rickety is an old split-rail fence. He walked with the tentative care of a man on stilts. When he reached the rabbit, he knelt at its side and placed his bag on the ground

beside him. The rabbit lay in the middle of the street, still twitching his fruitless getaway, as the tall man carefully opened his battered release. The bag swallowed his forearm as he rummaged for the proper instrument. He drew the length of his arm from the bag to reveal a hammer. The tall man brought his arm back and brought the hammer down on the rabbit's head, striking three swift, precise blows. Lay still. The man used an enormous thumb to wipe the head of the hammer.

clean. He returned it to the Villeuse. The rabbit lay motionless on the road. This time the man reached beyond his elbow into the seemingly bottomless bag. He pulled out a large, pale ring, a roll of masking tape. He reached back into his impossible satchel and produced a large square of gleaming white paper. The rabbit lay motionless on the large white square. The tall, man had placed him there near the center. Then he picked up one corner of the square and folded it over the rabbit. Then he folded the two sides in and rolled the rabbit out of sight with the care of a mother swaddling her baby. He secured the final corner of the paper wrapping with a piece of masking tape and returned the roll to the bag. The rabbit lay in the middle of the road,

wrapped like a cut of beef on the butcher scale. As the tall man licked his fingers clean, he picked up his satchel in his grisly papoose. After a few steps, he stopped. Turned to write, he smiled. And even from that distance, I could see that his teeth weren't normal. Shark teeth.

The smile faded, covering the jagged teeth. And he nodded to me just once before getting in his car and driving away. The unsettling smile. The terrifying nod. They said, I see you. I know you see me. Worst of all, they said, you're next. But I wasn't.

For years I saw that tall man with his doctor's satchel stopping on the side. side of the road. Have you ever seen him? I sure hope not. I don't think most people can. I don't think people are supposed to see him. He only stops for the ones that still have signs of life. A heaving chest, a blinking, staring eye, gnashing teeth, dreamily kicking legs. You're sure you've never seen him? Now here I lie in the middle of the street, staring up at a darkening sky. I could feel the handlebars when they punched into my chest. I felt my knees strike the grill work.

I felt my face hit the windshield. I can't feel any of that now. But I remember the smell of beer was thick in the air, as I hurtled past the shocked yet sedated face of the dry. His expression was that of someone awakened to find they were no longer next to the person they had fallen asleep beside. I lie on my back in the middle of the street. I can't move, and I can no longer feel my injuries, but I can still see and smell and hear. My ears remembering the screeching tires.

My nose remembers the waft of cheap ear. My eyes, remember that rabbit, and I'm not surprised when I hear the throaty rumble of an old V8 or the roadside. Its tires crunched to the stop on the shoulder. The sound of the tires is a slow replay of the sound that came from the base of my skull when I hit the wind. I'm lying on my back in the middle of the street, and something tells me that the double yellow is right beneath me. I imagine myself from above. The stripes enter one crippled shoulder and exit at the hip on the other side. I hear the door of the old sedan snick open,

and I hear the spring sigh as someone exits, relieving them of their burden. There is a moment of silence. I hear my pulse crickening in my ears. I know he's putting on his hat. and retrieving his satchel back in the middle of the street, and I know there's some outward sign I'm alive because he's here. This could be death, but I know it's not, or he would not be visiting me.

I'm lying on my back in the middle of the street. My pulse is rapidly ticking my life away. The door thunks shut with a satisfying sound, big American cars, made in the late 60s. I count four uneven footsteps before I see his silhouette. Like a skyscraper looming above me. I can see his valise as he kneels,

setting it beside my head. Up close, I see that his suit is perfectly pressed. It's clean and looks brand new, even though he's had it for at least 20 years. That suit, as much as the man has held a mythical status for me since that afternoon when I was 12 and home alone while my mother made a grocery run.

Lying on my back in the middle of the street, I see him close up as he leans over me. His face contorts with something that might pass for a smile. The smile is a slack maw, crowded with row upon row of sharp, serrated teeth. One bite could turn steak into hamburger, a rumbling, and somehow gleeful sound boils in his throat. His breath is an open sewer and rotting flesh and sulfurous coals. But his face is not what I thought.

His face is just a mask. He seems to have the poorly preserved skin of a person pulled over his head. The eyes and those tattered sockets are as shark-like as his teeth, glittering black orbs, infinite and unblinking. There are a few small circular scars on his face, about the size of a quarter. Small, clumsy stitches wreath each scar. In an instant, I realized that the stitching is holding in place the pieces that were punched out by his hammer. The skin of the nose.

hangs loose. There is nothing behind it to fill that little pouch of flesh. I am looking up the sky in the middle of the street. His face has disappeared from my vision, and I know he's up to his elbow in that old doctor's bag. He makes another wet, foul-smelling sound of triumph, and I know he has found what he's looking for. And I try to close my eyes against the swiftly arcing hammer, but they won't close. And the hammer comes down once, twice, three times. I lose count at five. Each blow is more squelchy and less crunchy until there is only darkness. I'm lying in the darkness in the middle of the road. And I imagine the tall man in his tattered man mask, licking a lumpy gray bits of my brain from his fingers. Perhaps a tuft of hair or a stringy gobbit of

flesh have snagged in his rows of teeth. I sense nothing, but I know I'll be wrapped in that bone-white paper, that he's up to his shoulder in his satchel, searching for a piece big enough. for a grown man. In the darkness, I wonder if I am with my body being rolled into that paper like a market fresh fish. I feel certain

that whatever it is that makes me, me, would be lost if it were no more than the contents of my skull now splashed across the pavement. You can find an app for almost anything these days. Find real people in your area to cuddle with?

Check. Tag every public toilet you've used. Check. Endlessly milk a photo of a cow's utter? Check. And in this tale, shared with us by author Danielle Williams, we're encouraged to download an app

that translates the language of cats. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Nicole Goodnight, and Jesse Cornett. So ever wondered why your pet is misbehaving? There's an app for that, but be sure you really want to know because you might just hear bad tidings from Queen Sophie. 3am. Dark in the apartment. Completely still. Except for the cat. Cass had trained her cat Sophie in the use of push buttons for communication. It had looked cute

on YouTube. The cat was good with them. Ma. Cass was beginning to regret the buttons. A long, drawn-out wall. Demanding, not lonely. Monkey, attend me immediately. Is how Cass would translate it. Cass and Queen Sophie normally enjoyed a peaceable relationship. But the buttons couldn't solve all their communication problems.

Two months ago, Sophie began pooping outside her litter box. Cass had changed litter brands to no avail, and the vet ruled out any illness. Besides, it wasn't a consistent error. It might happen three times in a single week, then on the next. Sometimes with whaling, sometimes without. And it never happened during the day. Nope, it only happened in the dead of night. So Cass could step in the creamy surprise first thing in the morning on her way to work.

But tonight, for the first time ever, Cass wouldn't have to guess at what Queen Sophie was. was trying to tell her. Cass pulled up the app her friend had shown her, blue light shone in her face. She squinted hard, swiping. A sound of kitty nails on laminate. Cass paused the arcane sequence of swipes needed to access the secret app to hear what Sophie would press next. Her guess was mad. Second guess, snack. And... Dang, she lost her place. She exited the app to restart the sequence. Dragon's Dream, Copyright 2019, Edmo Software, Loading. On first glance, it was cheap asset-swapped shovelware,

a 2D platformer where a night float jumped across Greenfield set against a purple mountain scape. But if you pressed right, died three times in the first chasm, a pay screen came up, trading seven-league boots, actually a double jump for cold hard cash. But if you pulled up your phone's keyboard, held the E until a pop-up with additional symbols came up, then entered the first smiley emoji followed by three lightning bolts, swiped up once, then hit your phone's back button three times the phone would reboot into an animal speech translator. Her best friend frequented some odd forums, but Cass had zero, no less than zero clue how anyone in those forums

dug up these obscure secrets, too elaborate to just stumble upon. Cass wouldn't have believed it, except her friend had shown her in person on her own phone and then used it on her elderly pug Bruce Wayne, who, through the phone, requested medicine for his doggy arthritis before trotting to the cabinet where his pills were kept. She'd been convinced. Follow. Cass shoved off her covers and discovered her slippers with her toes. The phone was rebooting.

She scuffed into the kitchen. The cat looked up, normally soulful sparkling eyes, shining creepy laser red in the oven light Cass kept on 24-7 as a nightlight. Upon sight of her slothful keeper, Sophie gave what Cass thought of as a frustrated grumble. Well, it's about time. Cass held up one finger. One minute. The cat meowed in protest.

The screen's back, had turned gray, displaying blocky white text inside a blue screen of death box. Dragon's Tongue Translation Program. She hadn't seen a screen like this since she was a kid, trying to figure out which sound blaster option to pick out from the list. Cass tried to pull up the phone keyboard, but that didn't work, just like her friend had warned. The box disappeared in a veil of dithered pixels, then reappeared. Speak species of animal, read the text.

The form had a list of over 60 animal species so far that the program recognized, according to a friend, but you have to speak clearly. Cass wet her lips. Domestic cat. The text changed. Speak cat's name. Sophia. Speak one to translate felinees, domestic dialect, into English.

Two, for all others. Domestic felinees? How ridiculous what? Was she? This was just some stupid prank app, not even a creepy pasta, just some big joke on a forum somewhere. The cat weaved between her bare ankles. Ooh, extra soft, like she just bathed herself, then bounded over to the soundboard. Mom. Invalid speech entry. Speak, desired option. Abort, retry, fail.

Sophie hush a second. Mad. She held up her finger again. One minute. The cat grumbled. Cass shushed her. We try. There it was. One to translate into English. One.

Now listening. She squatted down, held her phone close to the cat who pushed it away with a paw, claws out. Okay, Sophie, show me, show mommy. The cat turned in a circle, hit the soundboard again. Mom. Yes, I'm here. The cat arced her head. head up, gave full voice to a yowl, then turned her head sideways to try and bite Cass's leg.

She stood up in a hurry. Oh, hey! No bite? The cat dashed away. Cass watched the screen. Now translating, a horizontal dash turned into a forward slash, turned into a vertical line, turned into a backslash, a primitive working animation. She began to follow the cat into the hall.

Then her eyes fell on the text on the translator. Mom, there's a demon in the laundry room. She stopped cold. Then let out a soft bark of a laugh. A demon, clearly a mistranslation, probably a roach, or a vinegaroon. Though a dog would probably fit the functions of a demon better, given a cat's worldview. The hall led straight on to a bathroom. To the left lay a spare bedroom,

across the way from it, the laundry room. She overshot the laundry room to pluck a tissue from the Puffs Plus box in the bathroom. Sophie squalled. Cass checked the screen, but would have to ask it to listen again, apparently. Demon indeed. She stepped into the cramped laundry room, dimly lit by the scentsy warmer kept above the washing machine to keep the litter box smells at bay.

She scanned the tile of the floor looking for dark, bug-like spots. Behind her, Sophie screamed. Cass jumped, then whipped around. The cat was a sleek shadow, back arched in the dim hall. I'm not taking you to the vet, darling. That was the only time she screamed like that, but was Sophie trembling? Maybe I should go. Cass turned back to shut the door and noticed the shadow in the corner behind the dryer.

A shadow that was too dark. She took a step back. Something moved in the shadow, or so Cass thought. Then she realized it was the shadow itself, a shape meaty and black and big as a Rottweiler, oozing into clarity. A shape now perched on the front loader. She thought it was looking at her. At least she assumed those dozens of glittering round craters making her skin crawl were eyes.

They were set above long teeth, each half the size of a butter knife. The shape reached for her. Cass hurled her glowing phone at the shape and, yanked the door shut with a bang that made the sensy lid clatter. Sophie rubbed her head gratefully against her shin, but Cass was too busy fighting to hold the handle shut. Whatever was in there? Wanted out. Cass's breath came out in soft wheezes,

a counterpoint to the low grunts of the thing in the laundry room, heaving against her grip on the door. What seemed to be years later, the handle released. The slit under the door darkened, then went bright blue for a second. It's got my phone. The light swept back and forth. Did it even have hands to hold it with?

Its full, terrible shape had brushed her eyes before she slammed the door, but her mind was holding the door shut on the information. A low, drawn-out sound from the other side of the door, the low, roar grind of an empty garbage disposal. But when it stopped, there was no fading whir of blades coming to a stop. It ended like a brutal dry hack, final and sickening. A pause, then another onslaught that ended with creepy sibilance. Then it sounded like...

No. A pause, and then the floor shook as another turbulence of noise was unleashed in the laundry room. Sophie wailed, Cass shook, her fingers hurt from gripping the door handle so tight. The awful sound cut off again. Then came a sound. that startled Cass because of its delicacy. It sounds like it placed my phone on the floor? Looking down between her feet, she saw the blue light.

It was centered behind the door and no longer moving. Behind her, Sophie scratched the floor. The stench that followed of well-digested tuna primavera made Cass gag. But she refused to move. We're kidding. A firm bite on her shin awoke, Cass. She shrieked. The hallway was flooded with normal sunlight, just like every morning.

Silent, except for the cat, pacing impatiently between her feet. Cass had fallen asleep standing up right in the hallway. Her hands were cramped in a knot, strangled around the laundry room door handle. It took five agonizing minutes to unravel them. It had to be a nightmare. It had to be. I was sleepwalking. She bumbled the door open with a clumsy sweep of her elbow.

The cat hurried in, took her position in the litter box. While she scratched around, Cass worked the phone off the floor with her stiffened fingers. What made the maneuver even harder was that she wanted to avoid the blackened marks that now marred the outside of her teal phone case, where it had held it. She jabbed the blackened power button with the tip of her pinky fingernail. The screen lit up. It was the translation program. She read the message left for her. Catch you later, Cass.

We'll take a short break from the horror to clean up our own cat's litter. You know, I'm glad when Kalea makes a mess, it doesn't involve demons. That's true, but it's still a pain to clean up, and her messes can add to the daily stress. Good thing we have our faithful remedy for life's stresses and pains, especially with a busy holiday season ahead. Like when I have to get the Christmas tree. put up and decorated. Exactly. When that's all done, I'm glad we can take some Caliper CBD. Ah, of course. Good old Caliper CBD. It's always a good tonic for my body and soul. I'm just glad we stop using that nasty tasting CBD oil. Taste worse than old fruit cake. Caliper is easier to take

and delivers 30 times more CBD in the first 30 minutes versus that oily stuff. Exactly. And when I want to de-stress and calm that nagging pain, I don't want to wait. over an hour for CBD oils to work. I prefer to get all the benefits of CBD from Caliper in just 10 minutes. I love how Caliper CBD comes in convenient and easy to use packs. Precisely 20 milligrams in each packet. Always THC-free so we can feel better without the high. And consider how easily Caliper CBD powder mixes into any food or drink.

No weird taste, no oily residue. And you can't beat how it's all-natural, vegan, non-GMO. Free of fillers, added chemical. and no artificial flavors. And with so many holiday details to cope with, I find Caliper CBD perfect for me to take around bedtime. I fall asleep easier and I find I sleep deeper and more restfully. With visions of sugar plums dancing in your head.

Whatever you say, St. Nick. Well, let's gift our listeners with how they can get Caliper CBD for their own. After all, it's been developed by food science experts with decades of experience and rigorously tested for purity and quality. Well, getting it is easier than Santa coming down the chimney. They can get 35% off their first order when they use promo code no sleep at tricaliper.com slash no sleep. That's right, folks.

You can try Caliper CBD risk-free for 30 days. If you don't love it, they'll give you a full refund. So go to trycaliper.com slash no sleep. Don't forget promo code no sleep for 35%. sent off your first order. Okay, I'll get the caliper. You can return to the show. Great idea.

I'll just head round the old alleyway to find even more horror. It's pretty common to discuss who you wouldn't want to meet down a dark alley. But what about just outside the entrance? What about Derek? He's been standing at the opening of this particular alley for as long as people can remember.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Liam Burke. We find out why Derek stands vigil and why you won't regret listening to him. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Jessica McAvoy, and Jesse Cornett. So remember, there's no light at the end of the tunnel when the tunnel leads to a dead end, but you won't see that if you look with love's eyes. I needed that coffee badly, friend. Thank you. Now, you. You. You need to listen to me like your life depends on it.

Something tells you I'm more than just some lunatic staring at nothing all day. Philly's full of weird and eccentric, but I can assure you I'm the only thing standing between you and that alleyway sucking you dry. Hey, hey, hey, hey, eyes on me. Why would you look over at a predator when I just told you it's hunting you? Now, I may look like a juice box squeezed hard for the last drop, but I'm just. still sane, you've started seeing things in there. The edges of something are someone you love drawing you in. Between my sorry state and those tempting visions ending up here was inevitable for you. What do I see in there? It doesn't matter, but if you need to know what it looks like

down there so badly, I'll tell you, just keep your eyes on me. Hmm? It's a short walk past that chain link fence into empty darkness day or night. Gray stone blocks, even though the buildings next to it are red brick. The mouth is 20 feet wide, or maybe it's 50. It could be that it stretches like lips pulling back, exposing teeth primed at the bite down. You feel it, but you don't care because the scent of something your heart screams desperately for is yanking you back around. Hey, hey, eyes on me. It's not that the alley's alive. That wouldn't make sense. Something inside, living within long enough that it's contaminated the space like a disease. It smells like love,

but I'm telling you it's not. I used to think it was too. I lied to myself so I could get a look at my own past without the guilt of betrayal. It showed me what I wanted, so that it's could feast, guzzling that agony down greedily. Sorry, this coffee's heavenly, and I'm making a lot of drinking references. Your fault for bringing... I can see I'm not convincing you, though. You think you're just walking up to a sickly waste of a guy and helping out, sneaking a peek down there while you're here, like I did.

Oh yeah, you heard me. Focus up and listen in. With any luck, you'll walk away from this a monster slayer. There is no distance you can travel or stretch of time you can cross that lets you get away from abandoning the ones who mean the most to you. No matter what they've done, pain's a terrible motivator. It comes in all sorts of flavors and will make you do a million different terrible things. Guilt, especially.

See, I loved my sister. I should say love, present tense, but I'm so tired now. I was exhausted long before I fled from her in Cali. Philadelphia seemed far enough to go to escape. I reasoned it was a solid plan. It wasn't. Nursing school drop out, no connections. I saw the red brick of downtown near Webster and 12th,

decided I'd start over here. Have a fresh start without any failed, responsibilities are accusing stairs. Hawthorne Park was within spitting distance of my apartment, and my job at Sunny's clothing store was close enough I didn't need to drive. Oh, you know the store. It's abandoned now. Oh, that tracks. I can't imagine the place lasted more than a year after everything. Long, dark, and ravenous here has been feeding on me much longer than that, I assume. Let me guess. You're in 4B over in that building, too.

Yeah, I thought its influence might have gone further than I assumed at first. Every day I got my steps in, up before dawn, back after the sunset. It was a great way to keep my low 20s physique intact. The pavement felt a little closer every week as my shoes wore out. The cool temperature worked its way further into my chest. I was alive, but I wasn't really living. It's not like I ever got a decent night of sleep, what was my abandoned sister haunting my dreams.

With the frequent cutbacks, I was one of the only employees left at Sonny's. That meant I was an opener and a closer, but I didn't complain. Out loud, at least. Okay, not a lot, but... Fine, I may have annoyed the hell out of my coworkers. I've always had an obligation complex, and making myself needed is reflexive. On the upside, long hours kept me from thinking of her,

remembering the smell of antiseptic and slow death that eventually drove me from all hospitals permanently. I started seeing the one before me on the way back from work, a middle-aged guy standing outside the alley while the crowd flowed around him. He was always staring into the darkness, always as intently as he could. When he moved at all, the motions seemed ritualistic, like some kind of slow-motion mime act.

Still, four blocks down, I'd seen a clown put a cigarette out on his own thigh, two odds relative like that. I came up with all sorts of stories about who he was and why he was there, a smoker avoiding his disapproving family, a secret agent sending codes at a drop. off. Maybe he was a reptile person getting instructions. You're smiling. You must have come up with your own theories about me, too. But don't worry. I guarantee it's much worse than you thought.

It felt intrusive finding him there so often. And I thought about taking a different route. Bad enough, I was infringing on his solace. The only thing worse would be to actually talk to him. Like asking what someone's reading when they have headphones in. You just don't do it. I should have more strongly considered taking a different route. Something kept pulling me back to that exact path. You felt it too. A sort of caged menace that you have to check on,

or else it might surprise you from behind. Early on, in those stages, he was still healthy-looking, and there wasn't anything about the alley itself that was strange. When my hours got cut and I started coming home earlier and earlier, he started changing. He began drying up and thinning out, a shriveling pattern I'd seen before, and had hoped never to see again. I seemed to be the only one who noticed. I now know that I was being lured. People walked around him, either acting like they didn't see him or legitimately caught up in their own worlds.

For a busy crowd in a city like this, that would have been normal, except no one bumped into him either. No one looked down the alley with its grisly sense of awareness. It kept the pickpockets away at least. It was good and bad, right? Tragically, for me, there was no upside to the way my mind started reacting. His declining appearance triggered the guilt of my past fiercely, and there was only one way to process it. My recurring nightmare, of course. I'd pass him by, see him a little smaller, and later get to revisit the greatest hits of my worst moments instead of sleeping peacefully.

As always, in that familiar hell I stood just outside the hospital room. The number 412 was nailed to the wall by the door, which was how I knew. This was that memory. Sadly, that knowledge never stopped the film from rolling. Never stopped the events from playing out as I wined in and out of that room. At first, Julia was barely ill, a clinging sensation of weakness. Enough that she needed care, but not enough that we couldn't talk. We quipped about her never making the WNBA.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, and we knew we'd beat the odds in time for me to graduate. We didn't talk about how Mom and Dad had gone like this, even though the afflictions were different. I'd been a child then, and I hadn't known the things I was learning now. This time would be different. Instead of big sis taking care of me, I would take care of her. Slowly she lost weight. Her eyes sank and her skin stretched across her skull and fingers,

as if her skeleton was impatient to get out and become a Halloween decoration. Her hair withered from some. Science's attempt at playing chicken with her body. She still made cracks, though. Joked about how there wasn't a force on earth that she couldn't win a blinking contest with. The fact that she was actually playing it with herself was never brought up. The color faded from her day by day, enough that I could see the roadmap of fire that danced through her flesh

etched in blue lines across her body. Vains, you see, are blue until the blood is exposed to air. the iron in the liquid, I guess. I was certain if hers was split, it would shine with radiated crimson light, because despite the pain, despite the agony, the countless visits and endless sick days I'd taken, she just wouldn't pass. Iron wasn't just in her blood, it was in her soul, shed in step with her muscle mass, leaving only bitter cynicism, until one day, as they always do in America. The funds ran out long after my hope. For the last time I walked past the number 412. I sat in the chair that had become a vile second home to me. I slipped my healthy, warm hand into

her icy grip and felt the near vindictive strength as she clamped down, rasping past tubes and her own frailty. They say a few more treatments and I can maybe go. Her eyes shone with the same steel that raced through her vessels and capillaries. I winced involuntarily and shook my head, exhausted. No, no, Julia, there's not going to be any treatments anymore. No. The word was a defiant curse. When I'd heard from her every day, it had been molded by her time here,

beaten like white-hot steel into conviction. It wasn't a denial anymore. It was a new law of physics spoken into existence. It doesn't work like that. You can't just defy more money into my bank account. I'm already working more than is healthy for me. Healthy. She cackled, snatching her hand away. Tell me about healthy. I'm not done yet. I have things to do. The coughing fit took her,

but mercifully my dream skipped that to her next desperate grab. Go fund me. Crowdsourcing. Hell, you're not bad looking. Surely you could make side money stripping. That was it. I could tell that she was serious. That was when I knew my sister was gone.

I got up my heart pounding and I walked to the door. I paused not looking at her, working up the nerve to tell her. I almost cried or laughed at the ridiculous pose I must have struck, like out of a damn soap opera. Finally her gaze boring holes in my back, I told her. They're transferring you to a hospice tomorrow, Julia. It's over. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you, but I can't do this anymore.

Goodbye. I can't die like them. Not like them. After everything I did for you. I took a step and another, allowed me, whispered and deafening. I always awoke, screaming. My name chased me out of the vision along with an image of Julia, a corpse with hate-filled sockets inches from mine.

I'd fled all the way across the country to get away from her. For all I knew, she was still alive, beating the odds. And wherever she was, she'd only gotten nastier. I had no doubt of that. I was ashamed to think such things of her. Day after day I repeated the cycle, knowing he was a guy who could be going through something just like Julia. Something was killing him, and of all the scrubs that could have run into him, fate had chosen me.

I had to do something. I hadn't been looking for another chance to do the right thing, and I'm usually bad at that. But this had fallen right into my lap. This time would be different for sure. My eyes are up here, pal. Not in that cement gullet. It all sounds familiar, right? Motivations might be a little shifted, but the pattern of events lines up.

Good, good, good, you're starting to catch on. So I started trying to reach him every way I could. Right after Halloween, before winter really kicked in, I remember thinking I'd have to bring this guy a coat before long. So I saved up and got a few from a thrift store to hang on to. Trying to get him to eat didn't work. I'd attempted mundane conversations, but that had been a dead end.

He was still in the grips of the beast, but to me he just seemed crazy. He would never speak directly to me, just rocked forward and back. His eyes would squint, and I could hear him making small noises without opening his mouth. He would reach down at an angle like he was trying to pull something up. He'd whine in the back of his throat and go back to staring.

I considered calling paramedics to get help, but decided against it. He was my pal, and you don't send pals to insane asylums, and obviously I hate hospitals. Instead, I just spent time with him, making sure his vitals were decent. Despite his appearance, his pulse was strong and his eyes were intensely focused. No other signs of illness. He was as healthy as he could be, considering. I rationalized he must have been getting food when I wasn't around.

prayed that his symptoms didn't mean what I thought they did. All the while, the strip of black between the buildings grew more intimate, like a dangerous friend of a friend who slowly takes you in, hated or not. Every day that a mugger or catastrophe wasn't birthed from its sinister womb, I was put just a little more at ease. It was wrong, it was unsettling, but it was almost comforting. in a way, like walking through a graveyard at 3 a.m. or popping a pill you've survived before. I spent increasing amounts of time hanging out with Ned. I called him that to myself and to him

because I needed a friend, and he was the closest I had, Ned, for short. Since all I could seemingly do for him was be present, I contented myself with that. I think that was around the time Sonny's finally let me go entirely. I had no idea how I was going to make rent, but somehow being there at the mouth with Ned made it seem less critical. It was easier being with him, anyway. Ned never judged me or told me I was letting him down. He was out there every day, all day, all night, reliable. If I could stay out with him long enough, sometimes I even passed out so hard I barely remembered the nightmare. As an added bonus, I didn't. As an added bonus, I I never had to clean him or his clothes.

He wore the same red flannel shirt and jeans, same black undershirt. They stayed spotless, his garments perpetually fresh, like the alley. Nothing but he and I wanted to be near it, not even dirt or germs, I supposed. But while the cement gash seemed to stretch more and more, Ned filled his garments less and less. I started to worry in a much stronger sense than before. I needed to know why he was out there, and on top of that, how? By all rights, he should have been dead, and his plight drew me in like a fish hook in my heart. Determined to do more, I marched downstairs one day, out of my apartment, and over to Ned.

It was early afternoon in November. It was freezing, and I didn't need most of a nursing degree to know he wouldn't make it on crazy alone in those temperatures. I had lunch packed in a cooler with a few drinks. I'd picked out one of the old blue winter jackets from the pile I'd built in my closet. I planned to stay there the entire day if need be and to just drape the damn thing on him if he didn't acknowledge me. So without so much as a blink in my direction from Ned, I set up my rickety lawn chair and went about trying to get clothes on a man refusing to look at me who moved as if sleepwalking. It reminded me of my head. It reminded me of my training, a double-edged sensation of regret and satisfaction. I was finally doing something meaningful

for someone. His frame was so light I felt like I might break him. His entire existence seemed brittle on the edge of a collapse that had no medical reason. As I attended him, out of the corner of my eye, movement demanded my attention from the dark hall. That was the first time I'd felt frightened of it in weeks. It felt as if it had woken up and some obsidian eye had finally noticed me fully. I tried to focus on Ned. I told myself I was imagining things. Nothing was in there. Nothing ever been in there. One of the habits you pick up when learning to care for others is connecting through speech. Even if they are in the deepest pit of Alzheimer's, the tone and cadence strums something primal in us. It can be the difference between a slow, grisly decline and an arduous recovery. It also works

wonders in holding back fear in the dark. In that moment, I needed that communion as much as he did, if for different reasons. As was my habit, I asked what I thought was an innocent question to start. What do you see in there, Ned? I didn't expect an answer. Ned was crazy, after all. So we When suddenly a croak escaped his lips, I nearly jumped out of my skin. After recovering from my complete bafflement, I grabbed a Caprii son, stabbed the straw in, and put it to his lips. He drank greedily eyes burning holes through my own. Oh, okay, okay. Holy shit, Ned, can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?

I wiggled digits in front of him, but he had suddenly found his voice and ignited. ignored the question entirely. My name's not Ned. And I want to see what it is. To look. Look a little closer. See that? It was pointing now, but I didn't follow his finger right away.

This was incredible. Ned was talking to me. Even if it sounded like he was coughing up a full vacuum bag. This was huge. Sorry, man. I just kind of came up with that. It's short for... You know what? Never mind. What is your name? I have so many questions.

I helped him finish dressing and offered a P.B. and J. He looked at it as if he hadn't seen anything like it in his life and practically snatched it, taking a massive bite. Around the mouthful of dollar store ingredients, he replied. Mark. Mark Danbury. This is a great sandwich. Thank you. Thank you very much. and and for the coat. But really, you should look again. I have been, but okay. I slowly swiveled my head to follow the unwavering, bony finger of Mark. Honestly, I was a little disappointed.

I thought his name would be something whimsical or irrational. In my excitement, I'd forgotten my earlier misgivings about the space. I'm Derek, Derek. I tried to tell him my name as I looked, but the introduction died on my lips. On the other side of the fence, where I'd been staring with him for days, was movement, after all. It was no more than that, something you just catch at the edge of your vision. I tilted my head and squinted, but it kept eluding me.

Just a series of familiar motions spat up from my nightmare, only now it was out in the waking world. I thought I saw the edges of an oversized bed, the slender skeleton of an IV stand. And what was that? Squamming in the middle. I wanted to see if it was what, who, I thought it was. It couldn't be.

I struggled to make sure and cut nothing but eyes train as my reward. By the time I tore my gaze away, it was seven o'clock at night. hours had gone by in an instant. My staring buddy was still doing as he always had, but this time he was at least able to speak. You almost had it. Don't go. You're almost there.

You'll see it. And then I can... You have to look. His tone was insistent, nearly a feverish demand, a fanatic imploring I drink from the cup. I reconsidered him speaking being a good thing as a chill went down my spine. I had a half-hearted explanation for leaving, cocked, and ready. But a single sound from the alley killed the lie before it ever left my lips.

It was her voice. Without a doubt, her tickled my nose. Terrified, I stumbled back and ran from the formless shape beginning to approach the chain-link fence. I didn't stop until I was safe in my apartment, curtains drawn and all the lights on. I didn't dare look out the window, instead choosing to concentrate on my last bottle of gin and a dirty glass. No, do not check in there. This is a cautionary tale, don't you get that? That night? The dream chased me out of my head for what I didn't realize would be the last time. A desiccated mummy with Julia's voice accusing me, as always, drove me out of slumber and back into the world.

The hospital agony was being replaced earlier and earlier by the inevitable corpse. I could hardly stand it. But the image in the alley, that had been earlier, when there had still been hope. Was that what Mark was staring at? Was he gazing into his past, trying to make it better? That felt right somehow. I thought to myself, and maybe I could, too. There was only one way to find out.

I convinced myself. This time I brought coffee in a protein bar. I know. It's like you were following a script. I planned to take one last look. If I saw her again, I could maybe do something about the nightmares ruining my life. If there wasn't anything, after all, I could go back to dealing with my past and the tanked economy, one glass of booze and microwaved burrito at a time.

and try to bring Mark in from the cold. I stood there next to my only friend, and I stared as the formless outlines converged. He had transformed into a vertical bag of bones, little to nothing remaining, like how Julia was, just before I left, a lot like how I look now. While I waited for the shapes to coalesce into what I hoped they would,

Mark started speaking unprompted. It was a little funny after so long wanting him to say something. Now all I wanted was silence. I was trying to see my sister after all. I didn't understand the ritual that was happening. I had a real good friend years back. Ben was his name. We went on an ice fishing trip. It was one of our favorite things to do. We went out to that sheet of I'd revise every day for a week and didn't catch a thing. But it didn't really matter. I just wanted the company. If I'm honest, finally, it was never about the fishing.

Twenty years of thankless marriage and all I ever wanted was him. When we were out on the lake, just the two of us, I was free. Sarah, that's my wife. She never came with. couldn't take the cold. And that was the point, wasn't it? Finding the one place cold enough to end up with someone warm. The last night, we went out for one last shot at coming home with even one fish.

The weather had been getting better. That's why we went out after dark, so the temperature would be lower. It didn't help, it turns out. He fell in. My bin. No matter how hard I held on, the ice kept breaking and sloughing off in chunks. And my gloves were so soaked, and it was just cold enough to numb me. And he went under.

I was devastated. I couldn't stand to look my wife in the eye knowing if I'd just been true to myself. We wouldn't have had to sneak around. He would be alive. I came here in that apartment building. He pointed, never looking away from the alley, directly at the place I was living in. Then I saw him. In there.

That's what I've been looking at. My bin. I keep trying to pull him out or stop him from falling in, but every time... His voice dropped, and he murmured to me, tears making his piercing eyes shine. What do you see? Stood there, voiceless and really looked. Slowly the bed formed. The IV stand, the blankets, the awful chirping of the EKG.

Suddenly I could see her, actually see her, my sister, the way she was when she first went in, before the disease seeped into a soul, destroying the person I'd loved. I see her. I see my sister. I spoke softly. Raising my voice any louder seemed like sacrilege. She was getting out of bed, stretching, her head turning to see me, and she smiled. My heart filled with a surge of emotion.

I hadn't felt that way in so long. I almost didn't recognize happy when I had it. She stood up and took a step towards the fence and another reaching out for a hug. She... I think she wants a hug. I laughed a little. My eye is welling up and ready to ugly cry. I didn't care. I had her back somehow. I leaned forward, my fingers reaching, yet hesitated at the absurdity of what I was doing.

Hadn't I seen Mark do this exact thing for weeks? A book of confusion crossed her face. I shook it off. It didn't matter what Mark had been doing. Sorry, it's nothing. I'm just so tired. I can't believe you're here. I stuttered and stumbled through the first word spoken to her in so long. I was trying to get it all out so fast. The phrases collided and jumbled on my lips. This time it was an admonishment. She knew I couldn't believe it, and that was ruining it all. My heart sank as she backed up.

No, I mouthed. She sat down on the bed. face crestfallen. No, no, no, I begged. She was lying back down, her form fading once more. No, please, no, I love you. I shouted as the lines went out of focus and the shapes became indistinct. Yet I knew they were still there. I could feel tendrils of emotional friction binding me to something.

I could almost see them leading back into the dark of the closing mouth. It's okay. Mark's voice came from behind me, but I didn't turn. I had to see it when Julia came back, or she might not stay. She'll be back. Or whatever it is wearing her memory. I really am sorry, Derek. You seem like a decent guy.

His voice was calm now, the sense of a ticking timer having left him entirely. But it needs a food source. There's only one thing it wants. Love. I think whatever it is, it must be very old, to sustain itself on something like that. But really, I have no idea. I wiggled and squirmed trying to see her. The hook fully planted in my mouth now.

I heard him. But finding Julia was a need that drowned everything else out. Mark sighed, seeing me like that. There's only one way out of its trap. Someone has to specifically ask you what you see. That's when you can talk back again. You have to get them to look and then ask them what they see. And if you're lucky, they tell you.

That's when you get to walk away before you're all used up. I swallowed hard. barely able to absorb the words, yet they had the ring of truth. Hadn't it all gone, just as he just said, I couldn't move, but I didn't really care anymore. It took me a long time before I even wanted to stop seeing him. And when I realized it wasn't really been, hopefully it won't take you as long as me. The one before me didn't explain anything. You seem like a nice guy, though.

So I wanted to give you a head start. Don't worry. It won't let you die. Not until the next food source comes. So, until you shake it off, try to make the most of it. Goodbye, friend. I never saw Mark again after that or much of anything other than my sister. She caught out of bed.

tried to hug me, and I failed her every time. For so long I thought if I just loved her hard enough, I'd reach her. In time, I realized the truth. It wasn't just love, I felt. It was the guilt of failing her. And that's what it really wanted. That's when the curtain was pulled back. It's an ugly thing in there, friend. All wrong. Wrangles and bloated skin, it black pit, eyes draw out your deepest regret, reflecting it back a hundred times. It reeks with rot, and it grins at you, knowing you can't let it go, no matter how it hurts you. It puts you in a feedback loop as long as you give it that emotional buffet, and as soon as you don't. Well, you make a great lure.

It starts eating your body when it can't eat your body. and casts you out, a worm on a hook. The next bleeding heart sees the shimmy and gets sucked in. Not me, though. I refuse to play. I may have told you what I see after all, but it's different this time. All I've ever wanted to do was save the ones I love. And if I can't save my parents or my sister, I can stand watch here. I can take this bastard down with me and starve it out. I can Can do that. At least that one thing. All we have to do is break the cycle. So please, when I tell you this, know that I mean it with love. Do not look. Walk away. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and darkness deep. Remain with us. Embrace no sleep. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the exceedingly. extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program, 25 episodes each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening

and for being under our spell. This audio production is copyright 2021 and by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.