The NoSleep Podcast - S17: NoSleep Podcast - S17 New Year Hiatus Vol. 2

Episode Date: January 9, 2022

We're resting up after a wild and crazy New Year's Eve but we are offering up two previously featured Season Pass stories."A Firm Handshake" written by J.R. Stinson (Story starts around 00:02:10)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Chris - Jesse Cornett, Marge - Mary Murphy, Dietrich Simmons - Peter Lewis"The Bones of Lily Gordon" written by Evan A Davis (Story starts around 00:20:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Jared - Atticus Jackson, Woman - Erin Lillis, Eliza - Nikolle Doolin, Simone - Jessica McEvoy, Susan - Nichole GoodnightThis 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/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Holiday Hiatus Vol. 2" illustration courtesy of Alexandra CruzAudio program ©2022 - 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

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Let the sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings. This is our final holiday hiatus episode of our New Year's break, but before we return with Season 17 Propper, we have a special treat for you next week. Consider this. It's a dark and snowy night,

when the cold nips at your toes. You're stranded on a moor. No shelter to be found. But look. Here, what's that up ahead? A fire glowing in the distance. And friendly faces seated around the embers. But as you draw closer, are those faces friendly?

Or are they a little gaunt, a little deceased? Come, sit, join us. Why not toss a log onto the fire to summon up the spirit's stories? Then and only then will you discover the epiphany of the dead. Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 8, coming next week. But before we start those decompositions, it's time to settle in for our sleepless tales right now. In our first tale, we meet the new folks next door. Meeting new neighbors is always a gamble.

Are they going to be quiet, calm sorts who keep to themselves? Loud, raucous partygoers? Sometimes it can be easy to predict at a glance. Ah, but in this tale, shared with us by author J.R. Stinson, we welcome some newcomers to the neighborhood who are a little harder to pin down. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Mary Murphy, and Peter Lewis. So don't judge them on their fashion sense people can wear what they want. Don't judge them by their silence because some people are just shy.

Rather, judge them on whether the patriarch has a firm handshake. Large! Come check this out! Somebody's moving into the house at the end of the street again. My wife entered the living room. Really? I thought that young couple moved in just a few weeks ago. Those 20-somethings who looked like extras in a Cindy Lauper video?

Yeah, they did. You didn't see them move out, did you? I don't think so. It was like they skipped town in the middle of the night or something. Weird. What do these new people look like? Marge has never been anything short of a sweetheart. Cruelty and malice where his alien...

to her as a mountain is to North Dakota. But one of her very few guilty pleasures is to try and figure someone out just by looking at them. It wasn't like she was looking for reasons to hate them. It was just some sort of game she played with herself. She liked pretending to be a kind of suburban detective, a Sherlock Light, as I've often called her. And in all honesty, I'd be a liar if I said she wasn't surprisingly accurate most times. In fact, I'd say, I'd say, I'd still remember when she accurately predicted the neighbor across the alley preferred Pepsi over Coke. She said it was the way he carried himself as he mowed the lawn, but after weeks of pressing her, I had to accept that she would never reveal her secret.

I kept my nose glued to the glass. It looks like a family, maybe early 40s, with two kids. How tall is the husband? What? Why? And how am I supposed to know that? I don't know. Just use your eyes.

I made a playfully sarcastic display of pushing my face right up against the window and opening my eyes as wide as possible. Oh, okay, now I see. Oh, yeah, he's tall, really tall, like six-four at least. And he's handsome, too. Look at that marble jawline. Really? No, not really.

Do I need to be concerned about you and this guy? Marge punched my arm with her bony knuckles. Don't even joke about that. Now come on, move over. Let the professional do her work. I shuffled out of the way and gave Marge a turn at the window. She stared intently for a while, studying the new neighbors like a house cat,

watching birds flit about the front yard. Hmm, nothing really. It's just that their clothes are kind of funny, don't you think? Look at that man's clothing. He's dressed like my father. I squeezed my head back into view of the window for a second glance, and sure enough, the husband had a dramatically outdated wardrobe. It was complete with beige pleaded trousers resting high on the hips, an equally drab green wool cardigan over a button-down shirt, and a pair of thin, round, wire-framed glasses pressed firmly against his nose. Yeah, you're right. He is.

And it looks like the whole family is into the retro thing, actually. The children, a girl and a boy, roughly ages 10 and 13 respectively, were both wearing clothes that looked straight out of a mid-20th century Eaton's catalog. And the wife was no different. Also, take a look at the car they're driving. Parked in front of the house was a black 53 Mercury Station wagon in pristine condition. It looked like it just came fresh from the factory. I let out a low whistle.

That car in that kind of condition isn't cheap. I got to go talk to this guy and figure out if that's all original. Because that is one hell of a beauty. I left Marge to our observations and went to put on my shirt. shoes. As I placed my hand on the doorknob, she spoke in a tense, almost hissing voice. Chris, wait. Marge turned to look at me. I stood in the entrance, half stunned by her sudden intensity. Something's off. There's something weird about them. They're a little eccentric, sure, but... It's not that. It's their eyes and the way they move. I don't know exactly how to describe it,

but it just doesn't look like they have anything in their eyes. I haven't even seen them look at each other yet. And their movements are stiff and awkward. They kind of remind me of those things. You know, the dolls with the strings? Marge made a gesture with her hands that looked like she was playing an invisible keyboard. Marionette puppets? She snapped her fingers.

That's it. Marionettes. Okay, well, you may have been right about Lewis and his Pepsi, David, and his reality shows, and Michelle being an ex-smoker, but what are you trying to say about these people? I don't even know. They're just strange. Don't go out there just yet. Please, it doesn't feel right. Not sure what to do with Marge's insinuations. I let out an insincere chuckle. I'm sure they're just tired and frustrated from the move. You know how exhausting that can be. Maybe a friendly neighbor is exactly what they need right now. Plus, I have an ulterior motive.

If this guy's good with cars, we need some work done on hours. Maybe we can sucker him into helping by lending a hand right now. Marge watched nervously as I went out the door. I stepped on to the front porch and immediately felt the warmth of an early September afternoon. The final breaths of a dying... summer. It seemed strange to me that someone would be wearing a wool sweater on such a gorgeous day, but then again, some people had poor circulation and things of that nature. Who was I to judge? I waved and hollered at the gentleman removing boxes out of the back of the old station wagon.

The man stopped what he was doing and stood still for a brief moment. Then he turned to look at me with a stiff and ragged motion. Hey there, how's it going? Um, the name's Chris, Chris Fletcher. So it looks like we're going to be neighbors, huh? Glad to have you in the neighborhood. I extended an open hand. The guy seemed like a traditional kind of fellow,

so I thought it best to greet him in a traditional fashion, getting ready to squeeze his palm like a wet sponge in order to show my assertiveness. He twisted his head downwards and stared at my hand through his round glasses, as if he were trying to figure out what. what to do with the appendage before him. So do you need any help with... Before I could finish, he languidly stuck his hand out to meet mine.

I clasped it firmly and expecting a powerful grip. But instead, I wrap my fingers around something limp, delicate, and cold. Extremely cold. Oh, wow, you have pretty cold hands, sir. My voice trailed off, too distracted by the freezing grip to continue the introduction. The man spoke in a wispy voice that slithered between his teeth like smoke seeping out from underneath a closed door. As he said this, he raised his head and met my eyes. Marge was right.

I swear to God, the man did not have any color in his eyes, just black and white. No iris, like coals and a dead fire. His thin mouth worked itself into a crooked smile, and I couldn't shake the feeling that he was taking great care to keep it shut. Suddenly, his icy grip on my hand tightened tenfold. I tried to pull away, but the harder I pulled, the more his hand cinched, like a python with its prey. The ground began to heave, and everything around me started spinning.

The sound of white, noise gradually filled the air while the taste of copper flooded my mouth. The static grew to a deafening level and my vision began to fade. Then, as quickly as he crushed my hand, he let go. And I crumpled onto the pavement. To Fletcher. As I massaged to my aching hand, I pried open my eyes and looked over to see his wife and children standing near the front entrance of their house. They all waved in perfect synchronicity at me, each one having that same crooked, deceptive smile and the same vacuous eyes. The wife grabbed the little girl by the hand and the three of them walked directly through the closed, solid oak door as if it weren't even there.

They simply dissolved through it. My blood instantly went cold and my body began to vibrate with adrenaline. I launched myself off the ground and started running back to the house, but my knees were still weak and I collapsed again mid-stride. Behind me, I could hear Dietrich Simmons start laughing openly. I turned to look at him and I finally understood why he wouldn't open his mouth. Dozens of oily, tentacle-like appendages started to see. slither out from his throat and flail about frantically like hungry leeches.

Scrambling to get my feet back under me, I darted back for the house once more. Marge had watched the entire exchange from the window. If she had one particular jewel in her crown of virtues, it was that she was astute and knew how to act under pressure. By the time I made it to the sidewalk, she was already outside and unlocking the car doors. March, get in the car! We both flung ourselves into the car seats. I knew it. I knew something was wrong.

What the hell is that thing? I don't... Jesus Christ, I don't know, March. Whatever that was, it wasn't a fucking man. I could tell you that much. I looked down at my right hand and struggled to understand what I was seeing. The area that Simmons had gripped was turning a dark purple, almost black and shriveling up. There was now a deep indentation in the shape of a handprint all around my palm, the back of my hand and partially on my wrist, and it was both frigid and numb.

I cradled my hand. Just drive! As Marge spun the tires and rocketed the car down the suburban road, I looked in the sideview mirror, and there Dietrich Simmons was, standing in the middle of the pavement, still laughing his car. hysterically. And although the mirror was bouncing around violently as the car quickly gained speed, I could see more people coming out to join him. Among the growing crowd was the young couple who had lived there previously. And every single one of them had those dark appendages slithering out of their mouths. They continued to laugh as their figures shrunk with each meter March put between us and them.

It's been just over seven years since that incident, and my hand still has Simmons imprint on it. It's completely numb most of the time, but every now and then, for no discernible reason, I'll feel an icy sting where he grasped me. My nightmares have become few and far between, but it's not uncommon for me. to shriek and laugh in the middle of the night. For a while, Marge had to sleep in another room because it was so bad. Ultimately, we found a new place and left most of everything we owned in that house, save for a few important documents and sentimental artifacts picked up by friends or family. We just couldn't bring ourselves to go near that house at the end of the street ever again.

I don't know if my sanity could survive another encounter with whatever it was that called itself Dietrich Simmons. Well, that story made more than my hands shake. Time for a short break to escape that horror. You really need a break? How pathetic. Who said that? I did. That is to say, you did.

I'm the voice in your head, Sybilton. Oh, great. You again. Yes, you can't escape me. Do you really need to bother your listeners with another ad? Oh, how insecure. Listen, you. I mean me. I've been putting up with your negativity and unhelpful thoughts for way too long. And what do you plan to do in order to quell all of our dark, pessimistic notions?

I'm going to invest in myself and find a counselor I can speak with, like the professional therapists at BetterHelp. Oh, here we go. Look, we're all living through really shitty times. The past two years have done a number on my mental health. I know I'm not alone, so I'm going to keep sharing about Better Help with our listeners. You don't do a very good job of it? Oh, hush.

Better Help is professional counseling done securely online. They will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist. You should just listen to me instead. You are the exact opposite of helpful. Better Help offers a broad range of expertise which may not be locally available in many areas. The service is available for clients worldwide, and you can log into your account any time and send a message to your counselor. I must admit, after speaking with a therapist, you... I mean, I tend to feel better.

I dare say my thoughts start to feel positively. Well, positive. We're not alone in feeling that way. That's why I encourage people to visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's better H-E-L-P. And join the over one million people who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. And you claim to save them some money, don't you?

Why, yes, that's because this podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. You realize that if you keep working on your mental health, you might just miss having me fill our head with negativity, don't you? Oh, goodness me. Imagine that. Living a better life. Just like how Better Help wants you to start living a happier life today.

Well, you seem awfully proud of yourself for sharing this good news with your listeners. I'm going away for now, but I'll be back if you don't brace your shit. Nope, nope, I'm the only one who gets to say that. Now, make no bones about it. It's time to return to the horror. In our final tale, we join a young woman recovering from a boating accident. But the accident has left her haunted, haunted by the past, haunted by trauma. And in this tale, shared with us by author Evan A. Davis, she's also haunted by appearances from a mystery woman.

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Atticus Jackson, Aaron Lillis, Nicole Doolin, Jessica McAvoy, and Nicole Goodnight. So sink into this tale with us as we explore what it means to survive and how you go on living when you're connected to the bones of Lily Gordon. There's a rustle in one of the bushes just outside my window. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for some nighttime shadow to creep across the white. But nothing ever comes. Soon, the rustling is gone, and silence bleeds back into the room again like an unwelcome fog. It's choking, vulnerable, my ear's straining for every little sound, but the only ones there are Jared's soft snoring and the odd car passing in the background.

Still, I twist a handful of sheet in each hand a little more tightly every time his breath disturbs the quiet. My ear's perk, vigilant for the hush slither over the floorboards, the shuffle up the stairs, or the gentle click of the drop. door knob, all hiding under the sound of his breathing. My heart thumps, my jaw shifts and tenses, and I throw off the covers. I clap my feet against the hardwood, gentle enough to let Jared sleep, but loudly enough to drive back any stocking shadows. I quietly march down the hallway until I reach the bathroom. I turn on the light, run the faucet, and look at myself in the mirror, slack-jawed and exhausted. I haven't slept since Jared brought me home after my accident.

Just lose time here and there. I run the cold water down my hands and over my knuckles. Then I pinch my nose and rub my eyes with wet fingers. A deep breath stretches my chest, and I realized something. I made it to the bathroom. No monsters, no shadows, no squirming horrors to grab me. I breathe again. and this time smiled too.

It's all in my head, real and scary, but just in my head. I can control what's in my head. Nothing from outside is reaching in to get me. I am the master of my own mind. I dry my face, my hands, and give myself another good long look in the mirror. I wink at my reflection and hit the light. This time, I tiptoe back down the hallway, back to Jared's snoring, and slip back into the covers. I wriggle into the blankets and bury my face in my pillow, finally ready to pass the hell out.

Then something taps the back of my head. I freeze for a minute, more confused than frightened. Then another tap shocks my neck just below the hairline, and wetness runs down to my shoulder. I roll over and examine the ceiling. Nothing. Just as pallet and blank and dry as it had been minutes before. But I still keep staring at the ceiling, still keep listening to Jared's breath. Eventually, after long enough, my eyelids get heavy again, and I let them close.

I focus on the soft down of the sheets, the way the pillow cradles my head. It's comfortable, secure. I start to imagine what dream to finally give myself over to when another drop of water hits my forehead. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. Just let it go. I tell myself again. There's nothing there.

You know there's nothing there. Two more drops hit my nose and my cheek. My teeth grit and grind. Another drop hits my ear. Go away. Another hits my eyebrow. I sit up and shout, eyes bursting open. Go away!

But the words don't come out. They catch at the back of my throat. She's right there, over my bed. She's oozing out of the ceiling, torso stretched unnaturally long, and reaching for me with hanging arms. Her face is bloated and peeling, head-set on a crooked neck. An insect squirm out of a hundred slits on her arms, staring at me with wide open, milky eyes from the center of a web of stringy raven black hair. She gurgles through parsed lips.

Her mouth is half-stuffed with filth, which does nothing but muffled her checkered groans. More droplets run down strands of hair and dot my peasant. pillow as her mouth opens further, revealing a formless tongue running between gray and broken teeth. My voice finally breaks free when her hands clutch around my head, broken nails digging in behind my ears and her fish-like eyes inches from my own. I kick and I scream and I thrash my arms but her hands don't loose. She just matches my screaming with one long, deep croak and squeezes my head so hard I can't stand it. There's just so much. much hatred in her eyes, and something inside me knows that I'm about to die.

Then, in less time than it would take to blink, she's gone. The room is bright with daylight, and there's a bird singing on a branch just outside. The bushes below the window rustle again, as a breeze carries into the room and gently waves the curtains like the sails of a ship. Jared's standing in the doorway, looking like he's just noticed me. He's wearing his usual red sleeping shirt and Spider-Man boxers. His mouth is moving like he's talking to me, but he isn't saying anything. My throat constricts and my heart thumps in my ears as I start to cry.

The weight on the bed shifts, and I finally hear his voice. Hey, sweetheart. Hey, I've got you. I've gotten you. He's holding me now. His voice is sweet, caring. Hey, what's the matter? He's stroking my hair, but he stops.

Did you see it again? I just bury my face in his chest and nod. Through another rack of sobs. There's this plant in the kitchen window that I bought when I first moved in. Jared has the walls painted a weird honeydew green and always refuse to change it. So I got him this little fern in a square clay pot to bring a warm color and some life to the place.

While I sit here with some coffee he's poured me, I find myself fixated on the buzz of a fly that keeps circling that plant. It just circles a few times, lands, and circles again. I'm starting to grit my teeth again when I finally notice Jared's voice. Hey. He waves a hand. at me. There you are. You went blank on me again. Sorry. Just, you know. Yeah. He has his hands in the

pockets of his sweatpants and is leaning back against the counter. Want to talk about it? You mean again? Talk about it again? Well, yeah. That's how you're going to move forward, honey. I feel like a goddamn broken record, but yeah, it's the first step. You're just reliving your trauma when you... But that's not what it feels like, Jared. I hate shouting at him, and I don't mean to, but this no-it-all attitude when it comes to this shit just grates at me. Sorry.

He takes a deep breath and adjusts his lean against the counter. What is it like, then, when you see it? You've never described her more than one time. Is it the same one or different? It's her. Every time. And I don't know. It's my eyes settle on the fly again.

It lands and scuttles underneath the leaves, then scuttles back out. And I fight off a sense of nausea. Babe. It's like when you're in your happy place or something, and reality pokes through. Or maybe the other way around. don't know. Either way, it's the same kind of grip on your heart. Like when you're being reminded of something, something you're guilty of, or afraid of, or worried about. The pens and needles under your scalp, the tingle in your fingers, all of that. He rubs his lips together, but doesn't

say anything. He knows the word I want to use, but I know he'll just make some joke about burning white sage and bring it back to his armchair psychology he's so sure about. Instead, he chuckles a little. You know what I just realized? I don't think you've been in your studio since you've been back. He pauses a second, gauging my reaction. Then, without waiting for an answer, he walks over to me and reaches out his hand. Van Gogh should get back to our office.

I take his hand, and he leads me around the corner, up the stage, and to a familiar door on the right. Even before he opens it and gestures me through, the earthy smell of oils, washes, and dusty canvas sneaks under the door and up to my nose. I step through the threshold like I'm walking into a different world altogether, so suddenly wrapped and swaddled in the smell of that room. He walks me over to the easel in the corner

and pulls the sheet from the room skylight while I uncover the canvas. And right then, the rest of the world goes away. For a few moments, a lakeside house is all that exists, with a willow in the foreground lazily tickling the water's surface, and a girl in a light dress on the other shore. It's supposed to be my grandparents' house, or how I remember it 20-some-odd years ago, though it's not done yet.

There's a truck on the gravel road that's only an outline and a shed nearer the background that's without defined features. But for the first time since coming back, my mind doesn't feel heavy. Jared's bone ringing breaks the spell, and I look over my shoulder to see him check the screen, silence it, and quickly put it back in his pocket. Sorry. He smiles sheepishly.

I shake my head in a way that says, it's fine. Who was it? There's a moment where he just rubs his fingers together and looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights. Simone, sorry, yeah. She calls every so often to check up on you, but I figure we'll give you a few more days to get yourself together before flooding you with visitors and the get well soon paraphernalia.

He stands there, guiltily scratching his elbow, looking like a boy who's just admitted to stealing his friend's allowance. I was wondering where all my loving cards were. I follow with a wink to let him know he's off the hook. He laughs and goes to say something, but there's a knock on the front door downstairs. I take a step, but he puts a hand out. I got it. He motions to the easel.

Go ahead and get yourself reacquainted with your pal Roy, and I'll be back in a minute. I raise an eyebrow. Roy? Roy G. Biv? Colors of the rainbow? You call yourself a painter. He chuckles his way out of the room and leaves the door ajar. I pull the stool to the center of the room and take a seat. I would get some paints and a couple of brushes,

but for now it's just nice to be here, surrounded by it all. With my eye shut, I basked. in the smell of oils, tents, the canvas, and the warmth of the sun coming in through the skylight. The quiet might be a little too quiet, because soon I realize I can hear Jared answering the door downstairs. Knowing I don't intend to start a project here and now, I give in to the temptation to eavesdrop. I managed to tiptoe out of the room, down the hall, to the top of the steps without so much as a squeak from the floorboards. I don't recognize the woman Jared's talking to.

She's older than us, maybe late 40s. But she's wearing clothes I've seen my great-grandmother wear in old family photos. Her hair is beginning to turn from blonde to silver, but mostly what grabs my attention are her green eyes. I walk into what sounds like the middle of their conversation. Check in. Yes, check in. See how you're doing. How's everything been since...

Oh, yeah, no, thank you. Yeah, it's been... Well, it hasn't been easy, but where... I'm getting through it, you know? Getting there. Getting there. Good. Good. Yep. The two stand there a bit awkwardly through a pause.

Any luck with what we went over? Yes, ma'am. Thank you. It's taken a little time, but I think I've started to make some legitimate headway. I can see that. She glances over Jared's shoulder to me, and I shudder a little. He follows her eyes to me and turns back around. Thanks again for stopping by.

It's really... very considerate. I'll call next week. He closes the door before I make it all the way downstairs, but I still catch the silent smirk on her face as he does. Who was that? Who was who? The lady at the door. Who else? He looks at me pretty intently for a few moments, then around the room.

His feet shipped a little, and he flexes his fingers around his fingers around his. thumbs in each hand. Therapists. Oh, honey, I didn't know. When did you start? Recently, okay? Okay, okay. It's not like him to snip at me.

It's nothing to be embarrassed about, you know? I know. He sighs. He won't lift his eyes off the floor in front of him. It's just... I know there isn't the most room. for me to complain, but what happened was hard for me, too. There's something in the way he says it,

something in the way he won't look at me in the moment that, like my painting upstairs, makes me forget everything else. I walk over to him, put his arms around my shoulders, and listen to his heartbeat with my head on his chest. I wouldn't know until later that this was the last moment of comfort I'd remember for a long, long time. Jared's at work today. I open up the windows for the breeze and the smell of last night's rain,

and after making the bed, I go downstairs to the kitchen. On the table is the vase of flowers, a few balloons on sticks, and a small bundle of Get Well Soon cards from all of our friends and my co-workers. One step at a time, Jared had said. We'll work up to visitors next. I'd complain more about wanting company, but I know this hasn't been easy on him either.

It was his idea to go out on the boat, but it had been mine to get drunk. I turned a nice, sweet anniversary into an incident. Cooperating with him in the name of recovery seems only fair. But more than that, is that when Jared's around, she feels so far away, like a distant memory. I know he doesn't like me using the word haunted,

but I don't know any better word for it. I must have mentioned it less than a week after moving in with him the vibes his place gave me, but he just made his jokes. They went away for a while, the shadows in the corner, the eyes on the back of my neck, the empty whispers just outside my periphery,

but came back after my accident. My aunt Rebecca would say that near-death experiences can do that to a person, and Jared would say there's a name for that. I'm standing at the sink, debating with myself overdoing some dishes, when there's a knock from the front door. I'm excited, at first. But as I walk across the house to answer it, my feet get slower and slower until when I finally make it,

I'm just able to stand. I want to open the door, but every part of my body is tensed, like I'm biting gravity. I get as far as looking through the peephole where I can see the group of Girl Scouts on the porch waiting for a response. Still, my hand just trembles in front of the doorknob.

I can't shape into words the feeling exactly, but it's like a part of me deep down is sure that outside is a body. vacuum, a void, like I'll fall up into the sky and sink into an endless chasm of cold and stars. A sound under the floor brings me back to earth, and immediately I notice it's happened again. The Girl Scouts are gone. The light is different, and the sun's pouring now deep golden light through the kitchen windows, the other side of the house. All of a sudden it's become evening. I sigh, but then another low thud from the basement startles it short.

I have to squint my eyes to see it at first. But sure enough, it's there, a dark spot, like a shadow blossoming from between the floorboards, just a few feet away. It's a fight with my senses, wrestling, negotiating with my mind over whether or not to trust what I'm seeing. Another low boom rattles the floor. Bubbles are foaming from a crack at the center of the spreading darkness now. I stay frozen in place, but my knees buckle and my stomach is twisting in on itself. The shadow stretches across the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, and as it touches the light, the gold sparkles, ripples, and dances.

It's water. It's just water. Oh, shit. Water! Oh, no. I look around for a towel or a blanket to throw on the leak while I think of the countless times Jared said he was going to get the pipes fixed. I drag a beach towel out of the hall closet and try to use that to shore up the still growing pool. I make my way through the kitchen and around the basement stairs,

still chuckling at my own panic attack moments before. I glide down the rickety stairs and try the old handle. It sticks for a second. So I rattle it a bit and really crank on it. Then, water runs over my bare feet from under the door, and before I can even think, the concrete floor itself is different. It's softer and softer, until it's like wet mud with my feet sinking up to the ankles.

I try to backpedal up the stairs, but they lose their shape and become another wall of slick mud and silt. stems like weeds on the bed of a lake worm upwards out of the walls and gently wave with an invisible current something slams against the door hard enough to crack the wood and a tortured moan bellows from the other side my teeth are chattering and my heart is about to burst through my lungs but i'm swallowing my breath as best i can even though the air has gone cold and thick it's okay it's just inside your head you can control what's in your head There are more heavy slams against the door, but soon they stop. Something, less than a few inches from my feet, starts rising out of the ground. The pounding in my chest suddenly holds still. Her head, and now her shoulders are out of the floor. The muck slides down her face, revealing her milky, unblinking eyes first.

It's okay. She can't. Before I finish the thought, she lunges. at me. Her hands claw into my neck with a grip like iron and she thrusts me back against the wall. Mud and silk and slime run down over my face

and into my mouth. I kick and thrash, but my body is heavier than lead. She croaks a deep, baleful moan next to my face, and I can feel her jagged teeth scrape down my cheek. My whole world is her.

No breath, no thoughts, no life outside of her hands around my throat and the feral hatred in her bulging dead eyes. Then, nothing at all. Jared says he found me at the bottom of the stairs. He says I was in the middle of a seizure and that he brought me upstairs and helped me come out of it. Though I don't remember any of that. The next thing I recall is him telling me all of that in the kitchen.

Now we're in my studio, just... sitting together. Like a picture slowly coming into focus, Jared's voice crystallizes out of the static. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but we'll get through it. It won't be like this forever. And we won't have to deal with... What's all this we, Jared? You keep saying we, but I'm the one who has to see her. I'm the one who feels all this shit. I'm the one, Jared. He bites the inside of his lip, like he's picking. his next word carefully.

You're right. But you do have someone in your corner. Honey, I'm here to take care of you. And it's not like these hallucinations have been a picnic for me either. Oh my God, stop it. Just shut up. You have no idea how hard this is.

She's haunting me. I can't sleep, don't eat. I can't even make myself go outside. I feel torn up and trapped. And you don't believe me when I tell you these things is worse. I know he's formulating the wind-up for some retort, but I'm spared by the doorbell ringing. Clearly, we both wanted out of the conversation, because neither of us says anything at being interrupted or makes an attempt to continue. He just sort of puts his hands up and walks out.

I follow him down the stairs wordlessly, and when he opens the door, I almost forget that I'm mad. Almost. Simone's standing on the porch with her arms crossed. Her nose and eyes are red, like she's either sick or been crying. He throws me some awkward glance as he quickly snakes through the door and closes it behind him. I don't think Simone even sees me, or if she does, she doesn't say anything. I go to open the door, to not be put out of whatever conversation is so important. But the same thing happens. I freeze. I'm listening to their voices just a few feet away, muffled by the door, but I can't open it for the life of me. I can't think of what to do with myself. So I storm off to the kitchen rather than torture myself trying to listen in on them. What the hell could they be talking about that I can't be a part of? Isn't she here to see me anyway? And if not, why not?

I've been home for days and not one visitor. I look back to the pile of cards and unopened candy on the table. It's funny how easy it is to send a card, but not take the time for a ten-minute drive. I flipped through a couple on my way to the recycling bin, but stop. I shuffle back over to the sink. Get well soon. From Karen.

You've been through worse, kid, writes Charlie. Can't wait to see you. with a little heart over the eye from Dominique. I'm not sure why, but for some reason I hate these cards. I want to think of them as well-meaning, but something about them makes me furious, furious enough that I finally realized something I wish I'd thought of sooner. The buzzing of a fly pulls my attention to the window,

and just when I'm about to scream, I realize I'm being watched. There's an old woman out on the street, just off the curb watching me. She has a little dog on a leash that's trying to pull her forward, but she still just stands there staring through my window. My anger turns to feeling more and more uneasy the longer she creepily watches me. I finally wave my hand as if to say, hello?

And immediately, whatever spell she's under breaks. And she scurries down the sidewalk. Before I can even focus on that, I hear a commotion from the front of the house. Jared's just come through the door, but I can see Simone marching down the driveway like she's shouting at no one in particular. He comes into the kitchen, but stops when he sees me. His eyes flicker back and forth between my own and the cards in my hand. She wanted to come in. See how you're doing. I just think that, I mean, we're getting.

I'm not sure you're ready yet, you know. I figured just a few more days we can... Why'd you bring me home? What? After I slipped on the boat, hit my head, and whatever, you dove in and saved me. But why did you bring me home? Why didn't you take me to a hospital? What?

Come on. Because it wasn't bad enough for a... I don't know. almost drowned, Jared. I could have died, and you don't think that's reason enough to see a doctor? Well, because I thought we could... Even after that! Even if you think I'm just hallucinating, I start seeing ghosts again.

Hey, I told you. And then I have a seizure at the bottom of the stairs, and you still don't see a reason to go to the emergency room? You know what? I'm not going to deal with this right now. Jared, don't you walk away from me. Jared! Jared! We spend that afternoon talking and smoothing things over once we both had a chance to cool down.

He apologizes and blames it on stress at work, saying that tomorrow morning he'll help me go outside, that we can go for a walk around the neighborhood for starters. We don't make much more of the hospital talk, but I do what I do what I'm going to do. I can to understand. I don't know what our insurance is like, and I would probably panic, too, if things had been the other way around. I apologize, too, saying I'll be more patient with how he's handling everything, and hop in the shower before bed. The water burns at first, but in a way that feels like an itch being scratched, pain which quickly turns to euphoric relief. For a while, I stand there with it hypnotically drumming like rain on my upper back.

Slowly, my hands start finding their way around. They glide up my legs and pause on my hips for a few sways. Then cross, hugging my sides. With a big breath, they pet my ribs. Caress my chest and lace together behind my neck to cradle my head. Together with the hot water, they massage my scalp. And I let my fingers run through my hair, rubbing and scratching away the stress. I get grit under my nails after a moment.

It's probably from lying at the bottom of the basement stairs, I figure. I rinse it out and go back to combing my hair with my hands. When I find something like wet cobwebs toward the tips, I turn to face the water and hang my head, letting the curtain of hair flow while I thoroughly scratch and clean the rest of the dirt. But it just keeps coming, scratching after scratching of silk and sand, and the discoloration of dirt streaming down the drain. I keep scratching, and first a weed, then a worm alive and writhing, falls onto my foot.

Right when I'm about to shriek, the water goes freezing cold. I blink several times from the shock of it, and when I open my eyes again, there's another pair of feet just behind my own except they're wrong the skin is brackish and blue the nails are black split or missing I feel someone else's fingers weave into my hair and lace in between my own

and a gurgling croak rouse at the back of my neck immediately I scream and break from the shallow falling right through the curtain I hit my head on something but I don't stop. I run, screaming through sobs. I burst through our bedroom door, but it's dark. I spin around, turn on a light, and close the door behind me.

The room's empty. On the bedside table, there's a little post-it note that reads, Ran to store, BRB, heart. I sit on the bed for minutes, deathly still, clutching the note in a fist. listening fiercely in the quiet. Nothing. It takes a world of effort. But eventually I inched my way to the edge of the bed,

then to the door. And finally, summon the strength to open it. The door creaks open to an empty hallway, silent but for the sound of the still-running shower. My knees buckling with every step, I tiptoe down the dim hallway. I'm halfway to the bathroom when the sound of glass breaking downstairs

freezes me in place. Fear paralyzes me and roots me to the spot, even through the sound of footsteps ascending the dark stairs. Tears burn their way down my cheeks as the intruder makes it to the top, but when they step into the light, I stop knowing what to think. Simone? She's standing there, half looking at me, half scanning the doorways of the hall. She takes a few cautious steps forward, and in the light I can see. She's holding a knife. Simone? She walks silently towards me in the same way,

and I backpedal until I reach the end, where I curl into a ball. Still without a word, she walks right up to me, and at the last moment turns right to inspect the bedroom. Then she turns around, back down the hallway. She checks the bathroom, the shower, and bewilderingly goes back downstairs.

I don't know what drives me forward, but I crawl on my hands and knees to the top of the staircase. She's going through the drawers on the desk in the living room, like I'm not even here. I grab a towel and wrap it around myself as I slowly come down the steps. Simone, hey, what do you want? Still no answer. Finally, something inside me breaks. What are you doing in my fucking house? She looks over her shoulder at me, glaring intent.

for a few moments, then closes the drawers and walks into the kitchen. I follow her, furious now. Talking to you! But I don't even finish saying it. I try to grab her by the arm, but my fingers cut straight through, like trying to clutch smoke. I recoil like I've been burned, screaming, though there's no pain. She pauses momentarily and briefly rubs where my fingers pass, but keeps going, muttering something to herself. You're the master of...

This isn't. She isn't. My mind is numb. My chest feels hollow. I can't breathe. And I keep trying to swallow, but my throat's gone drier than ash. A million things that don't make sense blur through my head all at once. But through the dizziness, I hear Simone struggling with the door to the basement.

Finally, there's the sound of woodbreaking, and it's like, someone has broken the seal of an airlock in space. A force like an impossibly strong wind pulls me across the kitchen, and I slide to the corner of the room. From here, I can see down the stairs where Simone's broken the basement door at the handle, letting it loosely swing open into the dark. In three slow, careful steps, Simone is swallowed up by the black. Beyond the reach of the stairway's lone pale light. I pull myself to my feet and begin to follow her,

gripped by a sour fear. My feet move shakily, slowly, and almost not even by my command at all. A part of me wants to chase her, to grab her by the collar and pull her out of that blackness. I'm not even certain she's real,

but I want to protect her, to tell her to run and to leave. But the other part of me understands. I feel it too, what Alice felt staring into the dark of the rabbit hole, the same that pulled at Simone. And so, my feet move, one step at a time, until I wade into the dark with her. I can hear her fumbling for the light, but knowing the house, I search it out and pull the cord. When the bulb flickers to life, the breath is pulled from me so quickly, Simone is the only one of us. able to scream.

Me. There's a row of benches arranged like seats on a bus along the back wall, which has been crudely painted to look like windows. I'm sitting in the middle bench looking out one of the windows,

except it can't be me. The skin's so pale. And it's wrinkled, split and rotted in places. The neck is black from bruising. When I get closer, I see the stab marks. Dozens of them. They dot the chest, the arms through the sleeves of the sweatshirt,

riddle the abdomen, and all down the legs. She's been propped with her discolored hands folded in her lap, and she's wearing headphones that run to an old CD player on a bag next to her. It looks like a sick diorama, using a corpse like a doll or a mannequin. I don't hear Jared come down the stairs until it's too late. There's a metallic impact and a thud. I turn around and see Jared standing over Simone holding a crowbar. I scream and run to stop him.

But a rotted arm shoots out of the dark. Water sloshes around my feet and her jagged nails dig under my collarbone and ribs. The same dead eyes peeped. into mine as I'm tackled to the ground and choked. She's grunting and grinning a broken smile, slime pouring from her dead lips. There's a sickening crunch. And then I hear Jared's voice.

Catherine! Catherine! That's enough! Like a scolded dog! She releases me and slithers away to a corner, but still enough in the light that her eyes stand out against the dark. He comes over to me. Honey, oh my God, are you all right?

I am so sorry. She didn't hurt you, did she? Get away from me! I scramble on my hands and heels. No, no, no, no, no, shh. It's all right, sweetheart. You're okay. She isn't going to hurt you again.

I'm not going to hurt you. What do you mean? Won't hurt me. What did you do to me? He mulls it over. nervously wringing his hands and biting his lip. That's sort of complicated. It wasn't something I wanted to do exactly. I just...

It was for you. The words make me want to scream and hit him, but a subtle growl from the corner keeps me quiet. My eyes settle on Simone's body. Her blood drips from the crowbar he's holding. Life can just get so fucked up. And there's no getting away from it. You know, even if I could make you happy for a while,

something would happen to ruin that. I just wanted to make you happy, as happy as happy as I could, then keep you from ever being sad again. He crouches down and tries meeting eyes with me. Now, I know I'm not perfect, but I am getting better. Now I look back at him. I fight back tears and can't keep my jaw from trembling. Why did you call her Catherine?

Oh, I'm... He stammers a moment, then shakes his head, smiling. She was a friend. I must have given a way that I didn't understand. So he just pets my hand and continues. I did the same thing for her once. A couple of years ago. But when I did it for you, I just...

Lily, I love you. I went back for you. She's angry, but honey, I think that's just because... She's jealous. I cry through every word he says. Exhaust it. You mean you went back for me. Why are...

There's so many holes. He leans forward on a knee and brush his hair out of my face. Back to the lake, sweetheart. And they were so you wouldn't float, silly. Why else? It's too much. I break away, wailing, and dash for the stairs. I'm at the top in a few, leaping steps, and I don't even bother with the door.

He's calling after me the whole time. I ignore him and run, not even realizing my towels disappeared, and I'm suddenly dressed in jeans and a faded pink sweatshirt, the same way I was dressed in the diorama. I rushed to the front door, but I just can't tell you. Watch the damn thing. Like two of the same magnet, the door repels me from leaving. I jump on the couch and slam my fists against the windows.

But they're as solid as concrete walls and don't even rattle. Jared's footsteps echo up the basement stairs, so I flee up to the second level of the house. I throw myself through the door to my studio and close it behind me. I don't know what else to do, so I ball up in the corner farthest from the doorway. There's something in my hand, and I realize I've had the post-it note from the bedroom clenched in my fist the whole time. On the stool by the easel is one of the get-well-soon cards that I'd left in here the day before. I opened them both.

Examine them by the moon rays coming to the skylight. And tearfully crumpled them. The handwriting is exactly the same. The door opens slowly. He sighs, with an anger that's thinly veiled. It's fair to be a bit surprised. I planned on telling you, really. But it's like, did you even notice what it was?

He waits a moment and then answers his own question. The bus. It was the moment we met, honey. Some appreciation of the romantic artistry must be kind of nice. My stomach bottoms out. And pins prickle my cheeks. I'd stopped taking the bus months before I ever met Jared. I swallow hard.

Don't call him sick. Don't make him mad. What about the woman from the other day? Your therapist. What about her? Eliza? He rolls his eyes. Well, she's...

She's not really a therapist in the traditional sense. More like a consultant, a psychic kind of. But she's how I got you back. How I got you here. Gave her a sob story about losing you and she helped me reach you. He smiles. Jared. My voice is dry from exhaustion.

and terror. His face twists into a frown and he looks away. You've been keeping me. Listen, I did what I did because I love you. You can either like that, but you can stay here with her. I follow his eyes over to my unfinished painting. The paint around the middle begins to melt and run down the canvas, like a candle blackening paper.

With a sputtered croaking, Catherine's necrotic arms reach out of the oily abyss. My knees go weak and hope sinks out through my feet. I put on my best twitching smile. Look him in the eye, and meekly nod. He smiles, strides over to me for a hug. And I make my last mistake. I flinch. At first, I don't think he knows.

notices, he just holds me and breathes a single, big, deep breath. Finally, he holds me at arm's length. Fine, to be like that? His grips on my arms tightens, and he wrestles me toward the easel. Catherine's hands claw into my neck and shoulders. As I'm pulled into Atari blackness. Sorry. Hey, I think you dropped this.

Oh wow, thanks Wait a second Do I know you Hmm Maybe Jake's circuit class No No, no

Not it Do you ever go to Aromas Huh Just about every work day Yeah That's it I knew you looked familiar Hi, I'm Susan

Susan Pleasure to meet you. I'm Jared. 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 My Call. 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 extended editions of our audio program,

please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season-pass 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 2022 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.