The NoSleep Podcast - S17: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 8

Episode Date: January 16, 2022

The NoSleep Podcast celebrates its 500th episode with a special volume of Sleepless Decompositions!This episode features the wraparound story:“Epiphany of the Dead” written by David AultAlso featured during the episode are the following stories:“Snow Gloves” written by Manen Lyset“Sprinkles” written by Marcus Damanda“No Class in First Class” written by Manen Lyset“O Tannenbaum” written by Jae Christopher“The Candle Eater” written by Manen Lyset“I’ll Be Home For Christmas” written by Jae Christopher“The Connection” written by Michael WhitehouseAll stories performed by: David Ault, Andy Cresswell, and Erika SandersonThe episode was produced by: Phil MichalskiThis episode is sponsored by:Upstart – Upstart believes people are more than their credit score. We take a holistic view of an applicant, rather than write them off because of their credit score. We want to empower people to take control of their debt and financial future. Get started by going to Upstart.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about David AultClick here to learn more about Manen LysetClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaClick here to learn more about Michael WhitehouseClick here to learn more about Jae ChristopherExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio 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

It's our eighth volume of sleepless decompositions coming right up. Don't forget to mention the other very special aspect of this episode. Oh, you mean the fact that you wrote and performed so much of it? Well, um, dare I say that would make any episode special. No, I'm referring to the number 500. Ah, I see. Right. Well, this is awkward, but I really can't lend you 500 pounds, David, nor $500, for that matter. Well, no, I'm not asking for that.

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Upstart considers your income and current employment to find you a smarter rate for your loan. With a five-minute online rate check, you can see your rate up front for loans between $1,000 to $50,000. You can receive funds as fast as one business day after accepting your loan. It's a genuinely helpful service, considering the financial hardship so many of us are facing over the last couple of of years. Yeah, that's true. Upstart can help you regain your footing and get things back on track. Like you and your search for that 500 bucks. Look, Mr. I am not asking anyone for 500, pounds or yen. I'm trying to celebrate. Celebrate the fact that you can find out how Upstart can lower your monthly payments today when you go to upstart.com slash no sleep.

You just won't listen, will you? Yes, indeed. That's upstart.com slash no sleep. Don't forget to use our URL to let them know we sent you. Loan amounts will be determined based on your credit, income, and certain other information provided in your loan application. Go to upstart.com slash no sleep. And if you do that, David, you'll have your 500 in no time. Now look here, Cummings. I mentioned 500 because this is the No Sleep podcast's 500th episode. But you couldn't let me be happy for you, could you? No, you have to ruin everything. Well, as he blows off steam, we'll start the show. Oh, and did I mention that it's our 500th episode? I hope this is working. Hello, sleepless, Cummings here. Away on my travels once again. As you know, I traveled to many strange places during 2021,

such as Canada, a storage unit, New Jersey, a bookstore in New Jersey, a park outside a bookstore in New Jersey, and various multiverses. So now, I'm on vacation somewhere sensible, in the middle of the Moors, in Northern England. No phone, no internet, no television, nothing. Just pure, unadulterated peace. But this week, I've cracked out my satellite phone just for you. Because I'm excited and proud to announce that this is the 500th episode we've released at the No Sleep podcast. and what a perfect time for it.

This episode marks the end of the old and the beginning of the new in many ways. It's the final episode of our holiday break, and yes, there are other things too, though. New surprising things that are going to start happening in 2022. Even season 17 won't escape unscathed. But to find out what's coming then, well, stay tuned, dear, listeners. Ah, but 500 episodes, though. Ah, marvelous. To celebrate, I'm going to settle in by the fire and crack open this 500-year-old whiskey I found hidden away in this cabin. I'm sure the owners won't mind. And now, looking outside, it's snowing heavily. Almost a storm. The moors stretch in every direction,

growing darker as the sun dips below the horizon. Oh, I'm glad I'm tucked up inside. I wonder if there's anybody out there in the cold. At least the snow's stopped. Yeah, the morning sky is breathtaking. I think that's just the cold. Clear skies tend to do that. It wasn't like that earlier.

That snowstorm was... Unnatural. Speak for yourself. But seriously, I know what you mean. I'm surprised you were able to hold the car steady for so long, especially after, you know. I must have been out for a while. Who knows, I may have a concussion.

That's not to think about it. No way an ambulance would get out here either. Well, let's hope that I stay conscious for long enough to get things done. I still think we could have left it until tomorrow, later in the week. Yeah, I know that we could, but I also know that today is significant. What, the 5th of January? Well, the 6th now.

Wait, has this got something to do with... Yes. And... and no. Oh, come on, Gabe. That was an accident. It's been, what, 16 years? Maybe we'll find a house or something soon. I hope so.

Or whatever it is, we're walking out here for. Now, in the... old early morning, through the snow, without a car. Yes, all right, all right, I'm aware of our situation. I'm just worried about you, that's all. In your condition... I know, I know. Yeah, first I lose control of the car, then I pass out,

and now I'm leading you out into the middle of nowhere. I get why you're concerned. I'm not saying I don't trust that you have your reasons, but... Yeah, well, the sun's not too far from rising. That'll put the kibosh on things. Will you tell me what it's for, though? Yes, just not yet. When the sun has risen, we'll see what happens. Thing is, I...

Thing is what? Up there. Can you see that? A fire? I wasn't there before. I think we might be in luck. But it wasn't there before. I know. That's why I think we might be in luck. Just don't agree to anything, okay? But it wasn't there before. I know. But this is... what I've been waiting for. Just let me do the talking. We haven't got long, the sun will be up within half an hour or so. I'm taking a lot on trust here, you know? Yes, I know, and I appreciate it. Hopefully it'll all work out. Oh, there's a lot of them around that fire. Yeah, there will be.

Good morning. Not morning yet, travellers. While the darkness rains, it is still night. The wheel of the day turns, just as the wheel of the year does. Cheery. But you must know what day it is, or will be when the sun rises. Of course we know. We're making the most of our time here while we can. What is it to you? We're looking for someone. Is that so? Look, can we come a little closer to the fire, please? It is very cold and my friend here has had a nasty bump to the head.

Yeah, it's nothing, thank you, but the fire would be appreciated. Blood needs warmth. Come closer. Be comforted. Take your final rest. Final rest? Thank you. So what are you lot doing up here at this time of night? Some sort of New Year's party? Us? We're waiting, friend. But let me offer you a game to pass the time.

What say you to a friendly brawl? You look like a man who can handle himself? Be careful. A brawl? Like a friend. fight? If you will. With you? If that is what you want, friend. I don't fight women.

Then how about we place a wager on the outcome? That may entice you somewhat. Name your stakes and I'll think about it. If you win, I'll give you whatever information you seek. If I win, I get your heart and soul. Wait, what? The fire may

keep you warm, but it doesn't give us the warmth we crave. Only blood can do that. This is why I told you to be careful. They're dead. Wait, you're not surprised. You knew they'd be here. Yes, I did. They're what I've been waiting for. Wait, the dead. Is this... Yes, it is. Shut up. Oh, that's it. I'm out of here. No, no, no, no, just, wait. Just wait. I need you here. Please. Are they all dead? Or just this one. My name is Kate.

Yeah, whatever. Yes, they're all dead. That's why we needed to get here before sunrise, because that's when the day starts. And especially as this is 12th night. After this, they're much more difficult to contact. What? Your friend is correct.

That is the way it works. While the Lord of Miss Rule reigns, the worlds are inverted. We can gather, we can converse, and we can interact with the mortal world. The Lord of Miss Rule. It's an old English custom. Suffice it to say that on this night we can interact with the dead like no other night.

Not even Halloween? No, not even then. This is a special night and we're losing time. So, friend, care to make that bet? I... No, he doesn't. After all, how can you defeat someone who's dead? It's not as if you'll get tired, is it?

You know, that's a very good point. That's why I told you not to agree to anything. You know of us? Very well, then. What do you propose? I'm a storyteller. There are stories all about the dead and what they want. So I choose stories.

We each tell short stories and whoever's best wins. Who will arbitrate? Let the universe decide. I don't really care. I just know we have very little time. Do you agree? For your heart and soul? Yes.

If you'll give me the information I need if I win. It's a deal. What? Trust me. But where did that basket come from? I have no idea, but it's filled with logs. This magic is not just for tonight. With our thoughts we make the world.

To tell stories, we have a fire, but to know wood to burn. I thought you might appreciate it. With our thoughts we make the world? Wait, so... So earlier on, I... What? Summoned you? You expected us and we answered.

You brought us into being. Here. I am so confused. And this wood, it's... From the yew tree. It is? You, the graveyard tree, said to contain spirits of the dead

and bring them forth when burnt. You are well versed in folklore, stranger. If you care to start, think of your story and throw your log onto the fire. Let the spirits speak through us. Very well. Let battle commence. I'll start with a story I call snow gloves. Snow, thick and wet, had accumulated through the night and continued to fall as morning came. The snowstorm had been rough, with heavy winds periodically sending hail clattering against the windows in the middle of the night.

You could sense the cold even indoors, as though invisible threads of ice were weaving in and out of the walls. Mum and Dad said school was cancelled, but shot each other worried glances as they looked at the mounds of white that had once been the car and van. Work was never cancelled, no matter the weather. The river could flood, the forest could burn, a tornado could rip through the East Hall, and the campus would remain open. It was decided that they would both face the elements. and would only free one of the vehicles to minimize time spent outside. We were told to stay indoors and behave. I was more than old enough to watch my sister and myself.

I wanted to play in the snow. I planned on sneaking out as soon as they left. The cul-de-sac came alive with the sound of shovels as more and more parents began the arduous task of clearing their driveways. I watched from the frost-coated window, using my palm to melt the ice enough to see. About halfway down the path to the driveway, Dad was already cussing. Mum trudged through knee-high snowdrifts to take the snowblower out of retirement.

By the time they were done with one section, the previous was already white again with fresh snow. As I swept the area by gaze, I thought I could see something in the distance. I squinted my eyes down the street and saw an approaching wall of white with a vague outline at its helm. Whatever it was, it had albino pink eyes. and what I thought were antlers. But my little sister tugged on my shirt, insisting on that cocoa, and in that second it took for me to avert my gaze,

whatever it was had become engulfed by the tsunami of snow. The snow squall continued its journey into the cul-de-sac, and at first I could just barely make out disappointed groans of neighbours around the sound of the snowblower. And then, was that a scream? My sister tugged on my sleeve and told me to make cullisage. Coco. I shoved her aside and rubbed circles in the foggy window looking for my parents, who had managed to clear the snow all the way to the car. The approaching wall of white

blew into my driveway and before long formed a barrier between us. It wasn't until the snowblower stopped that I truly felt a pang of horror in my guts. Now I could hear the screams clearly. They came from all directions, undertones filled with primal terror. The squall hugged the house, pressed itself against the window in a complete and utter white out, dense enough you'd wonder if the sun would ever be visible again. The screens stopped. All at once, all of a sudden. I hadn't even noticed I was gripping my sister's shoulder so hard my knuckles had gone white,

until her little voice broke the deafening silence and asked if mum and dad were okay. She didn't even say I was hurting her. I think she was as shaken as I was. I don't know that she noticed my fingers. I let go and told her everything was fine. It was just snow. This was just a normal blizzard. I told her not to be afraid, even though I couldn't take my own advice.

And then the squall thinned. Not enough to see the other houses, not enough to see the cars, not even enough to see the head of the driveway. It was only enough to see the gloves as they flew to the window and smacked against the glass. One after the other smack, smack, smack, smack. Some reared back and slammed forward, smacking against the window in desperation in very rhythmic and repeated motions as though still attached to arms. Others tapped lightly, almost politely with their fingertips, reminding me of the clatter of hail from the night before. And some simply flocked back and forth like dying fish.

There were easily two dozen pairs, just gloves. no hands, no arms, no bodies. And though their techniques were different, they all seemed to say one thing. Let me in. I pulled my sister away from the window and heard a clatter against the front door. I wasn't tall enough to look through the peephole and for the rest of my life I'll wonder whether my parents were on the other side, desperately trying to get in. But I made a choice in a split second and I locked the door before they could turn the handle to get in. I knew deep down that opening the door would seal our fate. If it was them, I figured they had their keys.

If it wasn't, well, better safe than sorry. My sister and I ran from room to room, closing the blinds and curtains to hide us from the storm of snow and gloves. There was nothing in the world but her dark little home and the sound of smacking at the window. It went on for hours. And for hours I held my sister in my arms, shushing her. her whenever she cried too loud for fear of making our presence known. It was overwhelming. The sounds, the movement I could see through the blinds, the fear and all this without knowing whether my parents were dead or alive. The wall of snow dissipated some time before lunch.

The storm had passed, leaving behind a wasteland of white outside. White, speckled with hundreds of gloves belonging to people who were never heard from again. It's snowing again. I'm so cold. A story about a blizzard brings the snow. Wait, Gabe, look, a pair of gloves on the ground. They weren't there before. No, they weren't.

With our thoughts, we make the world. Your story concerned gloves, and so they have appeared for you. There's only one pair. You have them, Mike. I've got pockets. Thanks. Let's remember not to have too many stories about freezing to death. So then, we shall answer yours with our own story. You have spoken of family.

Some of us have had family more recently than others. I see in your eyes that it is important to you too. It is. And tradition, too, if you're so knowledgeable about the turn of the year. You could say that. So I ask you then, what happens when the last... lines blur between tradition and habit, and then habit and ritual. And finally, ritual and obsession. Perhaps you'll have more insight after you hear this tale I call sprinkles.

I'm more than a little OCD. Until this morning, I never saw it as a problem. I just have to prepare, take care of things, same as anyone else. Example, I have to have at least two of everything I might run out of. That way I'll never run out. I have two bottles of moisturiser in the bathroom, two tubes of toothpaste, a spare toothbrush and a spare shaving razor. If I should run one of my cans of shaving cream dry tomorrow morning, I'll know I'll have to go to the store. Here's another. I like my food in solid, uninterrupted colours. If I splatter ketchup or mustard on anything, I have to clean that shit up with a napkin, shake up the bottle and try again. Generally, I have my condiments on the side to avoid this calamity. As you can imagine, things like black-eyed peas would be impossible for me.

and if I'm to have sprinkles on my ice cream, they have to be the same colour as the ice cream itself. That goes for my caramel macchiato with sprinkles on top too. But here I'm a little adventurous. Or I was this morning. Just the idea of putting those little sugar sprinkles on the top is kind of risky, since the drink changes from creamy white to dark honey brown just under the surface. And that's one very good reason that things are served in paper cups and not glass or plastic. You don't have to see the colours mixing together.

You just work your way down from one to the next without looking too much or overthinking it. So I took a chance when the barista offered me sprinkles, something I'd never even considered putting on my favourite hot drink before. Yolo, I thought to myself, let's do this. But I had to have white sprinkles, of course, because the top of a caramel macchiato is white. Problem was, as my barista explained, she only had sprinkle shakers in multiple colours. I told her I'd pass on the sprinkles then, no big deal. Thanks for the suggestion.

She gave me that long-suffering look that non-OCD people reserve for people like me. She explained that there was virtually no difference between coloured sprinkles and white sprinkles. They're exactly the same. I was tempted to leave. I wanted to explain why I could only have white sprinkles just so she'd understand and leave me alone about it. I didn't need any sprinkles at all, really. I liked my caramel macchiato just fine without them. Instead, I climbed up, and that made an awkward side.

silence. And that made me panicky, so I said the only thing I could get out just then. Just white sprinkles, please. She sighed with anger, swept up the multicolored sprinkle shaker in one hand and left with it behind the door that led to the back, abandoning her co-worker to deal with the whole line of customers behind me by himself. I felt legitimately bad. I wanted to leave now more than ever. And the guy server told me I shouldn't have done that. He said that Courtney was super stubborn. I shrugged. I didn't even know her name was Courtney, but I couldn't leave. This was my coffee place, right here, nowhere else. If I left like this, I could never come back to it. So I stayed, and eventually Courtney re-emerged with the sprinkler shaker in one hand, within which I could not see a

single white sprinkle and a coffee filter in the other. She shook the filter under my nose. In it, I saw a small mound of only white sprinkles. She asked if I was happy now. I told her that I was. I got my caramel macchiato with white sprinkles, and I quite enjoyed it for all of the walk home. I knew better than to look inside of it once I got a few sips in, and honestly, it didn't taste noticeably different with the new edition of sprinkles. It was quite a sweet drink to begin with,

so in the end I had nothing to complain about. But some of those sprinkles lingered in the bottom of the cup when I tossed it in the trash, and that bugged me. It bugged me a lot. I'd just have to take that whole bag down to the trash, even though the bag was only half full. I let it go, though, because my stomach suddenly felt funny. In fact, it felt bad, and I was pretty much incapacitated for the rest of the day.

Only started to clear up a little while ago. But that's not the worst thing. Usually, I don't see my OCD as a problem, but half an hour ago, the sprinkles at the bottom of my coffee cup hatched. And now, something on the inside of my stomach tickles. Wait, that was a long story. You can't do that. You know the rules of this night,

and before the sun rises, you'll have to disappear and leave us without what we need. We'll have to wait until next year. It was barely longer than yours. And besides, that is of no worry to us under the rules of this game.

Look at your watch. And the sky. What does she mean? That's what she means. What time do you make it? 336. How does that work? We were still a lot.

in the car at that point. I said the universe could decide who wins. Shit! So what? They can affect the universe? We all can. You heard them with our thoughts who make the world. Then we should make it daytime and be done with this. No, no, I need information. I can't leave without it. Oh, come on, Gabe. No, we're dealing with the dead, but we keep playing. Shit. And you've bet your body and soul on this? Yes. You said you knew what you were doing. I... Yeah, I did. I did. I just... Oh.

I just feel a little woozy, that's all. Do you yield? I've got a story. Mike, I... Go on. We're all ears. I know what I'm doing, Gabe. This one's called No Class in First Class.

First Class used to mean something, he thought, as the stewardesses lugged what looked to be a... very drunk passenger through the curtain partition into his section. The man, an oaf of a person, did nothing to keep himself upright. The weight of his fat and height fell entirely on the shoulders of the two small ladies dragging him forward, head slumped. They dropped the stranger on the seat next to him, and he hoped this was a temporary stop to catch their breath before bringing him to his final destination. That hope was squashed when one of the two unceremoniously threw a white, blanket over the man, which slid into his lap the second she hurried off.

The most good-looking stewardess, the one whose blouse buttons could barely contain her bosom, said something. Due to the drone of the airplane and his ears still blocked from liftoff hours prior, he couldn't quite make out what she'd said, and he'd been too busy peeking elsewhere to read her lips. She gave him a quizzical look, and he shrugged as though to give approval. She smiled and hurried off, leaving him with the man. man passed out next to him. He pulled out his agenda and flipped through the pages until he reached the last week of December, this week, and realized the book came to an end. Damn it, his secretary hadn't packed the agenda for the new year. He wasn't due to return home until January the 5th,

but how was he supposed to manage without her notes of the who's and when's of the meetings he was meant to attend overseas? He really shouldn't have given her that 20% raise, he realized. It had made her sloppy and complacent. The Oaf's head reared back as he let out a snarling huff that seemed a mix between a snore and a pig choking on a bone. Disgusting! The airline had better pay him handsomely for this inconvenience. He turned the page over and scrawled a grid on the virgin surface.

He only needed up to January 5th, but he wrote all the dates nonetheless. He tapped the pen to his lips as he examined the daunting empty squares with great attention. He racked his brain trying to remember any detail he could, and just as a memory surfaced. The oath let out a putrid puff of buttocks. The scent lingered, making his eyes water and forcing a hand to clasp his mouth and nose in protection. And the nerve of the stranger. He didn't even have the decency to look apologetic. The businessman tried his best to focus to his agenda,

to the blank slate of dates his secretary should have provided, and from memory jotted down a few details before giving up. He'd have to call her intercontinental fees be damned once he landed. In the meantime, it was late. He turned off his light, buckled his seatbelt, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. The stranger's ragged breaths eventually melted into background noise, and he fell asleep. A tug of the seatbelt and the sensation of falling woke him up with a start. His eyes shot open, and instead of seeing the cabin in disarray from turbulence,

he saw a pair of menacing peepers glaring at him. They belonged to the Oaf, who was now leaning over him, eyes wide open and staring deadpan at the businessman. The Oaf's chest bounced up and down in a laughing, no, mocking, jiggle, as though to tell him he was a fool for being startled. Even with the screams in the cabin and the sounds of rattling luggage, He could hear a hissy laugh choked out of the oaf with every bounce. He had had enough.

With a stern, get off! The man shoved the oaf as hard as he could back into his own seat. But he pushed him a bit too hard, and the oaf toppled over the armrest and into the aisle. He made no effort to soften the impact, and as turbulence persisted, he was shoved up and down the aisle, staring at the businessman every time he slid past his row of seats.

The stewardesses came only once the turbulence had ended and proceeded to put the man back into the seat, this time buckling him in. The businessman tried to protest, but it's hard to argue when you can barely hear. Once they finally landed, he was asked to stay behind as the rest of the plane emptied. The oaf wasn't moving, and he was too big to get around, so he couldn't even slip out unnoticed. It was then that the paramedics arrived on scene. and attended the drunken oath. He pieced together the story from the conversations between them and the stewardesses who explained

the situation. The oath had died early in the trip. A simple heart attack. To spare the panic, they'd moved him to the most secluded part of the plane, first class, and sat him next to a businessman who'd shrugged when asked if he minded the company. You would think that's where it ends. Just an unpleasant trip with a corpse as a seatmate. But you'd be wrong.

For, you see, in treating the dead man's body with such disrespect in such close quarters, a little something transferred onto the businessman. For the rest of his life, whenever there was an empty spot next to him, something not quite visible, yet somewhat tangible, would sit next to him. He would hear the ragged hiss of gas escaping its body, feel the weight of something pressing against him, and smell the stench of soiled bottoms, which his nose could never quite become sent blind to.

And yes, that includes in bed. Thanks, Mike. Not so keen on that lingering smell, though. Your story is intriguing. One character alive, one dead, and a memory that one can't shake. Why have you come here tonight? I've already told you I'm looking for someone.

And on this night's of all nights. I needed to speak to you and... Oh, how's your head? Is the concussion hitting you? I'm okay. I'm okay, let's just get on with this. Your turn. Very well. This story is entitled, O Tannenbaum.

You string from the bottom up, not the top down, Henry said, arms folded over his chest as he watched me from the doorway. I sighed. Every year was the same thing. Every year I offered to help decorate the tree and every year he would agree only to stand there and criticize something he decided I was doing incorrectly. Last year I didn't space the ornaments far enough apart to properly catch the light. The year before that, I was apparently too heavy-handed with the tinsel. Year before that, the star was crooked.

Every single year. Never in my life had I met a man so anal about something we only did one time per year. I stood up and offered him the bundle of lights. Would you rather do this? I asked, attempting to keep my voice casual. Henry held up a hand and shook his head. Then I'll get on with it, shall I? I said, though I did do him the courtesy of kneeling down and beginning to string the lights from the bottom, as requested. Did you get the ornaments? I asked over my shoulder.

Henry beamed at me and clapped his hands, bounding out of the room with a childlike glee only someone who truly loves Christmas can muster. I smirked as I watched him leave. Infuriating though he could be at times, it was heartwarming to see how excited he got every year when it was time to decorate the tree. Henry practically skipped back into the room, dropping the sack onto the floor. You're going to love these, he said, smiling from ear to ear. I went for a matching set this year.

I opened the sack and peered in. It took me a moment to realize what he meant, until I realized that every single one of the shiny little orbs were the same color. Henry nodded enthusiastically. Every single one. I figured we could have one of those monochromatic trees this year, like they do in department stores. It'll look classy. I smiled up at him. Going highbrow this year, eh?

I like it, I said, as I tossed the eyeball I was holding to Henry, who caught it mid-air. I'm impressed. Must have taken ages together this many. Henry nodded. You have no idea. I'm glad I thought to start gathering them right before Halloween. Well, there's no way I would have found enough. I mean, I could have done brown, but what's festive about brown?

He said, looking down at the eye thoughtfully. You start sticking the hooks in, and I'll come and help as soon as I'm done with the lights, I offered turning back to the tree. I'll even make cocoa. Henry gave me a playful salute as he picked up the sack and picked up the box of ornament hooks from the table. Just remember. Don't place them too close together or they won't catch the light.

I know, I know, I finished. Why would anyone do that? Why, indeed. Thankfully, this tree that's manifested is mercifully undecorated. Gabe, I've noticed something else. What is it? Well, when we tell a story, the sky moves one way. And when they tell a story, it moves the other way.

You remember, I told you not to fight with them. Yes, you said they could never get tired because they're dead. Exactly. You fight them and they can get up even when they get knocked down. If someone living were to fight, that person would get tired and make a mistake or whatever. They can't lose. I've already come to that conclusion. Can we call it a draw?

No, you cannot. Hey, were you listening in? The dead hear everything. Or at least you think that, so it makes it true. With our thoughts? We make the world, yeah, yeah. Very well, then. It's a fight to the bitter end.

It is. Well, even though it's been years since I decorated a tree, I have a story that might bring some light to the situation. The tale of the candle eater. It started small, like with most disorders. She was making chocolate truffles one year for the holidays, and the recipe called for an ingredient known as paraffin wax. She'd never heard of it,

before, and in doing a little research, she fell down a rabbit hole of all the foods that contained wax. Foods, she realized, she loved. According to her research, the wax was harmless. The human body simply flushed it out of the digestive system due to its lack of nutritional value. The truffles were a hit, so next year, for the office New Year's party, she made more. As she watched the wax melting in the chocolate, she felt a sudden urge to scoop a bit of it into her mouth. After all, what was the harm? If it's safe in the chocolate, then it's safe separate from it. The wax didn't taste like much, but something about its texture and consistency made her very happy. Later that evening, after the party, she snuck a few pieces and chewed on them,

enjoying the waxy sensation against her teeth and gums. It was even better solid. This became her little secret habit, something she only ate when she made truffles. Before long, she found excuses to make them, for candelmuss, for Easter, for the solstice, to celebrate a long weekend, for every birthday and any potluck,

until people grew sick of her truffles. And even then she kept making them, knowing they might wind up in the trash. One winter's night, freezing rain blew a nearby transformer, cutting power to her neighborhood. It was in the light of a long white Christmas candle that the disorder truly took root. As she watched the creamy wax trickling down the long shaft, she felt compelled to taste it. It was delightful, a little different, perhaps more pronounced than paraffin. It was also thicker sticking on the sharp points of her teeth.

like toffee, she was enthralled. A candle a month became a candle a week, which became a candle a day. And so the cycle continued for two years. She tested different candles, some flavoured, some coloured, some plain, and even a few wax melts to tide her over between waxy meals. It was on a night, much like tonight, where snow and hail pelted against her window, that she finally suffered the consequences of her actions. She'd been binging candles and chopping wood all afternoon preparing for the storm and was now sat at her fireplace, sweat trickling from her, cocoa in one hand, candle in the other. She scratched her arm and felt something oily, and when she looked, she found a thick, clear liquid oozing from her paws. She wiped it off and brought it to her nose, sniffing the distinct

scent of wax. She could have blamed accidental spillage, if not for the fact that the same wax was pouring from every part of her body. And as the fear and realization dawned on her, she found comfort in the one thing she knew. Candles. Even as tears of worry fell from her eyes, her teeth gnawed reassuringly against more wax, soothing her like a comfort blanket. She didn't even notice when those same tears thickened to the consistency of melted wax. Her stomach churned like butter as she felt something welling inside of her. She felt an urge to stand, but it took some effort to pry her body from the waxy seal on the ground beneath her. She looked at her hands and noticed a certain amount of translucence at the tips of her fingers.

They had gone numb, or, no, was it wax? Were her fingers always that length? or had wax melted over their tips elongating them. She couldn't tell. She couldn't remember. She tried to take a step back to get to the phone to call for help, but her feet were now caked to the ground. She let out a cry, but the sound was stifled by bubbling wax,

and her tongue had become encased in waxy saliva. Her arm just barely managed to lift to her mouth as a single thought hijacked her brain. Pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull. her waxy, no, her waxed, tipped fingers clawed at the blobs of wax trapping her tongue. And as the command persisted in her mind, she took hold of her tongue and pulled as hard as she could. To her hands, it didn't feel like a tongue anymore. As she tugged it, she felt a raspy pressure and pain shooting down her mouth into her throat and all the way into her stomach. That's when she saw herself in the mirror.

Her tongue had blackened and thinned. It had coiled around, pulled, tort. It was a wick. She felt the panic come in waves. Her body? Was it encased, or had it become, wax? Either way, the sight made her shudder internally. All she could do now was release what had once been a tongue

and let out a final gurgling plea for help as the last layer of wax dollops hardened. And then finally, without any effort on her part and rather against her will, her body slowly arched back, her head tilted upwards, until the wick in her mouth had become perfectly straight. She was still conscious when its tip lit up. She felt its stinging warmth as it chewed down the rope and slowly melted her nose, then mouth, then her face. Eventually all that was left was a puddle of beige wax on the carpet There is a darkness inside you I can see that

Gabe are you okay But your thoughts have lit up the Christmas tree Once you have joined us in death We shall be able to destroy it But remember it must be taken down Before the sun rises on Epiphany morning Why is that? Oh, is this because of taking down decorations

by the 6th of January Yes. Otherwise, it must be left up till candle mass on the 2nd of February or pancake day and the pancakes cooked over the burning tree. When was that a thing? The old tradition, it depends who you ask. Oh, right. What about you ghosts? It is said that spirits will take refuge within a tree that is left up after sunrise, and thus the Lord of Miss Rule is invited into your lives for the rest of the year. And we wouldn't want that, would we?

Of course not. And I do have an appropriate story, too. I'll be home for Christmas. I sometimes still can't believe I haven't seen my family for five years. Five years? That's a long time to be away from your loved ones. Not a day goes by that I don't miss seeing Mom, Dad, or Clara, my sister. She was always my favourite.

So much time lost. So many memories unmade. I wonder if they look different. Clara was only 12 when I left. How much she must have grown in the years since. I didn't really want to leave them, but some things just can't be helped. Life just pulls you away, and you must attend to other matters. You say you'll be back, that you'll make the time to visit, but you never do.

It's sad, really. But they do say that's what the holidays are for, don't they, for reconnecting with those you care about, forging new memories. Oh, I can't wait to see them. I just know they'll be surprised. I didn't tell them I was coming, of course. That would ruin the magic. And Christmas is nothing, if not a time for magic. No, no, instead, I'll just show up at their door. Hi, Mom, hi Dad, I'll say. Did you miss me? I'm sure they have. I can only imagine how dull life must have been since I left. They'd never admit it, because we're just not that type of family, but I know I was the one that really made life interesting for them.

How could I not be? Dad was always so stern. always frowning and, Mom, what a basket case. I can't honestly remember a time when she wasn't staring off into space, that faraway look on her face. Clara was the only one with any life in her. Oh, my sweet little baby sister, I hope she remembers me.

I'm sure she will after this Christmas. I'll make sure of it. I even bought her a gift. It's a little extravagant, sure, but... I want her to know her big brother never forgot about her, never stopped thinking about her. I hope she likes it. I had a hell of a time finding just the right present to get her.

She'll like it. I know she will. And she'll be touched that I went through the trouble. Maybe I should have got something for Mom and Dad, too. Nah, no, they'll be happy enough that I'm home, and that I thought of Clara first. Definitely. And they'll be glad that I didn't go through the trouble.

I mean, I had to go to three different malls in three different states just to find this. But it's perfect. I know it is. Clara always did love Santa so much. I'm so excited. I can't wait to see them. They're going to be so surprised and impressed with all the planning this took. Getting myself out of my room, slipping past the orderlies and getting over the fence.

All of that took a whole month's worth of planning. And that doesn't even take into account searching out just the right Santa. One that looked exactly like the one in the old picture book Clara loved. Three malls. Three! But I found him. and he's perfect. And as if that weren't a Christmas miracle enough,

his head came off so cleanly, barely any tearing at the neck. I wonder how Clara looks now, how well the scars have healed. I'm sure her face has settled into them by now, now that she's a young woman. Five years. Five missed Christmases.

So much time to make up for. So many new memories to make on her. And make them I will. Why, as soon as that front door opens, I'll leap out of this closet and run right up to them. They'll be so surprised. There's no way they'll know I'm waiting for them.

I made sure to clean up the glass after I broke the window. That'll make Dad happy. It'll show him how much I've matured over the last five years. I clean up my own messes now, instead of him having to keep hiding them all in the basement. I wonder if Mum will cry. Oh, my kidding. Of course she will.

She always cries. Well, I can't remember a day that went by that I couldn't hear her sobbing behind her bedroom door. She's so emotional. always with the sobbing and begging me to just leave Clara alone, every single day. Like it's weird to make memories with your own sister. But all of that's in the past. I've had plenty of time to think about ways to bring this family back together while I was gone.

Plenty of time to dream up new memories to make with them. And what better time, what more perfect time than the holidays, to come back and show them all the things that I've only dreamed of. This is going to be the best Christmas ever. They're going to be so glad I came back to see. see them, and we'll be together again. Christmas is a time for family after all. Very cheery. It's funny. All this time I've been trying to work out how to win, how to get what I want, but I know that the dead have all the best stories, as so many of you have your own tales of what

happened to you. You can alter time so that I can't get out of the ongoing storytelling. My head aches so much, and I have no way of getting out of this. And then I wondered about what story I could tell. Have any of you heard the story of Andrew Coffey? We have not. Well, one of the ways his tale is told is that he is walking across the moors like us, and diving into a hut to avoid the supernaturally heavy rain, he meets a ghost. So far, so good? Of course, that reminded me of the snowstorm we arrived in. The second such snowstorm that has brought such misery to me. In his story, Andrew Coffey can't think of any stories, so simply tells the story of his life and how he came to be there that evening. Then, as part of the story, narrates his life

again, and how he came to be there once he got to that part of the tale, and on, and on, round and on, round and round, and round. It's a tale that never ends. Why would you tell us this? You've given away your advantage by revealing your intentions. Because I realized that I have to tell my story. The story of why I hate this time of year, especially with the stories that have been told, family, tradition, loss. Christmas is a difficult time for me. It was even before the story I'm about to tell. But I think I've got an insight into the connection. I hate Christmas, but it hasn't always been that way. Two dreadful events in my life led to that hatred. One, four years. One, the other fed it, and I'm convinced they are connected. Those two awful moments took place

during near identical snowstorms on the 21st of December, the same date, though more than a decade apart. 17 years ago, on the 21st of December, I was travelling with my wife, Claire, up north to Aviemore in Scotland. We thought it would be romantic to drive through the snowy landscape, the mountains glaring down at us, and then to a cosy log cabin for our own. Christmas retreat. That evening, the weather worsened as we drove. A thick blizzard smothered the winding country roads from miles around us. I was sure we could make it if we were quick. Claire thought otherwise, but I still went on. Less than three miles from our Christmas getaway, a driver swerved onto our side of the road. The front of the other car ate up our headlights as a banal Christmas

song played on the radio. Then with a snap of growling metal, it leapt up and smashed through the windscreen. My legs were pinned underneath the dashboard. A shower of broken glass clawed at my face. As the air filled with a stench of petrol bleeding out, the dust and snow settled into an oppressive silence. In a days I turned to look at my wife. Claire's head and chest were crushed beyond recognition, with the exception of her left eye. It stared at me, glassy and lidless, catching the flickering glare of the beast that killed her. Its wired metal innards a contorted mess on top of us. Through the grief that followed, I never remarried and I never celebrated Christmas again. Instead, I established my own festive tradition. The week before each Christmas

I would fly out to somewhere warm and sunny, preferably with a country with no interest in jolly Santas and rustling tinsel to forget that the damned holiday ever existed. That tradition was broken last year. My boss needed me to work with an important client just before Christmas, one worth a fortune to the company. If it went well, I was told I'd finally be made a partner. This was an opportunity I couldn't refuse. The dreaded date for the final meeting was given to me from up on high

the 21st of December. I hated having to work on the anniversary of Claire's death even 16 years later, but still that was what I intended to do. The 21st of December came, bringing with it a snowstorm that lashed the streets with white flakes and a biting wind. It was all too familiar. I drove through the blizzard, trying not to think of the last time I'd been in a car during a snowstorm on the 21st of December, Claire's lidless eyes staring at me. When I finally made it to the towering office building, it was deathly quiet, the ping of the elevator echoing through the marbled lobby. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the 14th floor.

Before the doors could close, a couple in their 40s entered the elevator with their son. He couldn't have been more than six years old. The brass doors closed, and I hovered my finger over the brightly lit buttons out of courtesy. which floor, I asked, as the elevator began to make its way up to my boss's office. The man said nothing. He looked at me with a peculiar expression like he was shocked I had spoken to. His pale brow furrowed, and I then noticed the anxious look on his wife's face. She was glancing around the elevator, not daring to make eye contact with me.

Are you okay? I asked. The man opened his mouth, but another voice spoke in. instead. It was the young boy who was with them. He was facing the doors and I could see the reflection of his pale features on the brass. You shouldn't be watching, the boy said in a thin, somber tone. I then noticed a red line forming on the skin at the back of the boy's neck. It was faint at first but then grew more crimson and vivid. The line suddenly broke open as a piece of white bone pushed up through the skin with force. Blood sprayed over me as the boy's head slumped forward off of his body, thumping onto the floor. I instinctively screamed, but the boy's parents did nothing.

They watched me for a moment with puzzled looks on their faces while I stared in horror at the still standing headless body of the child. The father then suddenly reached out with his hands to violently grab at my throat. The doors to the elevator opened on floor 14 with the ping, perfectly time to allow my boss's important clients to see me screaming in terror at thin air. I was alone in there. When I was taken to my boss's office, weak and deliriously unnerved, he was ready to fire me for embarrassing the firm. But when I revealed what I'd seen, he sat down and told me something in a grim, hushed voice. Many years ago, on the top floor of that building, a man had dragged his wife and China.

to the mouth of the elevator shaft, tied a rope to himself and to them, and then leapt to his death, falling 48 floors. The three bodies crashed through the roof of the elevator below. The mother and father died on impact, but the boy was already dead before he slammed into the roof. His head had struck a support beam on the way down, decapitating him. This all took place during a blizzard on the 21st of December 1952. The only thought I have is that on the night Claire died in our car on that snow-covered country road in the mountains, a connection was made between me, the 21st of December, the snow and the dead, a grave thread pulling at the world. I still hate Christmas. I haven't changed my mind about that. But whenever I now escape the festive period,

and the memories of my wife's death, I always check three things. That there have been no violent deaths in the immediate vicinity, that there is no snowstorm on the horizon, and that I am never alone on the 21st of December. Otherwise, who knows what I'd see. Your pain is delicious. The sky gets darker every minute.

Those clouds are black. So what? Are you wanting to see clear again? Is that the information you've been? after? No. No, it's not, because I haven't got to the ending yet. And with our thoughts, we make the world. The ending? Of a story that has no end? You've asked me a few times why we're here tonight at the end of the 12th night when the Lord of Miss Rule is holding his final suiress. Well, it's because it was 33 years ago that my little sister disappeared. Wait, you mean? You mean? You

Julia? I remember. I watched her from my bedroom window that dark night so long ago. She was enticed out into the garden by the lights and sounds, the music and the dancing. I was too scared to say anything or to follow. My parents believed me that she'd gone outside. There were footprints in the frost, but she was never found. But it was this night when my world was first turned upside down by the Lord of Miss Rule. I remember it well. She laughed and danced with us and became part of our community. I knew it. Thank you. That's what I needed to know. So, she's here? She is? The police looked for days. My parents kept looking for years. They used all their savings on private investigators, trackers, legal expenses. It drove them. It drove them.

mad and drove us apart. That's when Claire came into my life, it was... Oh, it was so wonderful. A breath of fresh air. But even she was taken from me. We can make a trade, you know. One life for another. No strings attached.

Only if you think there would be. Gabe, you're not seriously considering... No, I'm not. And thanks for the offer, but... Why ever not? Because over the course of the last hour or so, I've come to realize that those who have passed are memories. Nothing more.

Characters in stories. To try to hang on past that point is futile. We still have the ability to affect your lives. Oh, yes, as tradition goes, but soon that will be a memory too. Peer pressure from dead people. And countless dead people have affected my life from people, from people who designed things I use to those in the media who have shaped my thinking,

to those who stand around me now. I can't choose that, but I can choose how I respond to them. What do you mean, Gabe? I mean that just like Andrew Coffey, we're constantly telling our stories again and again, highlighting the bits that we want, the pain, the success, the anger, but we don't realize that we can change the story itself, set ourselves free. All of you here, you can let go of your stories. Let what keeps you here slip away and move on.

Gabe, your head. It's bleeding. Yeah, I know. I know. And I didn't come here to try and set the dead free of their load, but it's what I've come to realize tonight. Better to pass boldly into that other world than fade away. How dare you talk to us like that? Even now as your life ebbs away, and you too will be just a memory. Yes.

but I'd rather be a good memory if it's all the same to you. And here I must make a confession, Michael. What do you mean? After I woke up in the car, I saw the windscreen. I saw your body on the ground a few yards away. I didn't want to accept you being lost to me too. And I guess you didn't either. I wondered why these gloves didn't warm me up.

He's one of the... us? With our thoughts, we make the world. It's why I didn't let him fight you. I'm so sorry, Mike, you didn't deserve this. Is there anything I can do? I have the power to make the trade. His life for yours. No. I may be a bit pissed off, Gabe, but it was an accident. If that's that, then that's that. What do you think I should do? Before the sun rises, you can join this merry group of lost souls, endlessly repeating their sorry stories to themselves. Or you can choose again. Respond differently and let this world go.

More people will come. Next year we shall bring you a life to trade. Come, join us. If someone has to die for me to take their place, then no thanks. Thanks, Gabe, for everything. I love you. Thank you too, Mike. That's the choice

The only thing keeping you in this situation is you If you want you can move on Stop repeating the same thing year in, year out Choose again No No, I am the Lord of Miss Rule and I command you to stay Well, if you're staying I've got a surprise for you

What is that, mortal? With our thoughts The sunrise. No! How did you? To the tree! The tree! We make the world. Those dark clouds were very useful in covering up the sunrise. And you were the ones who brought me the Christmas tree, where you were forced to take refuge. So now it's done. So tired. I just hope someone finds me soon. phrasing out here Say, what

What is this? Ah, looks like some folks had a campfire out here last night. Oh, I can't say the middle of a storm was the right night for it. But people gotta do what they gotta do, I suppose. I just hope everyone got home safe. At least there are no bodies lying around.

You have been listening to Suddenly Solstice. created by David Alt and Manon Lyset, and performed by David Alt, Andy Cresswell, and Erica Sanderson. The Rapparound Story, Epiphany of the Dead, was written by David Alt with contributions from Manon Lyset. The stories Snow Gloves, No Class in First Class, and The Candle-Eater were written by Manon Lyset.

The stories O. Tannenbaum and Albrecht, be home for Christmas were written by J. Christopher. Sprinkles was written by Marcus D'Amanda. The connection was written by Michael Whitehouse. The witch will fall. The goat will rise. Season 17 returns next week. And so, as always, brace yourself. This audio production is copyright 2022 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights, I say, 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.