The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep1: NoSleep Podcast S18E01

Episode Date: June 26, 2022

Tune in to the Season 18 premiere in glorious black & white!“Not Before Bed” written by Craig Hallam (Story starts around 00:03:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement“The Wishgiver” written by Salma Dasgupta (Story starts around 00:07:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Sheela – Katabelle Ansari, Corrine – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Teen Girl – Danielle McRae, Teen Boy – Elie Hirschman, Bill – Atticus Jackson, Corrine’s Grandmother – Erin Lillis, Gaunt Boy – Graham Rowat“Why I Wear the Mask” written by Samuel McQuail (Story starts around 00:36:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis“The Cyclone Sisters’ Traveling Circus of Wonders” written by Angela Sylvaine (Story starts around 00:50:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Eliza – Mary Murphy, Sam – Matthew Bradford, Dad – Jesse Cornett, Barker – David Cummings, Light – Nichole Goodnight, Shadow – Linsay Rousseau“Crooker” written by Alex Bestwick (Story starts around 01:08:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Ault, Crooker – David Ault, Lewis – David Ault, Moderator – Erika Sanderson“Witch Grass” written by Seth Borgen (Story starts around 01:28:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Jody – Jessica McEvoy, Pete – Kyle Akers, Lady of the Manor – Nikolle Doolin, Furnace Man – Graham Rowat, Guest #1 – Erika Sanderson, Guest #2 – Danielle McRae, Guest #3 – Elie Hirschman, Blonde Girl – Nichole GoodnightClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about voice actor Katabelle AnsariClick here to learn more about Craig HallamClick here to learn more about Alex BestwickClick here to learn more about Seth BorgenExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Witch Grass” illustration courtesy of Kelly Turnbull*WNSP is a fictional television station and is not affiliated with radio station WNSP 105.5 in AlabamaAudio 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

WNSP presents the No Sleep Podcast Hour, starring David Cummings and the No Sleep Players. Nights of Darkness. Fear creeping through your soul, pounding heartbeats. Join us for tales of horror during the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. And we're warning you. brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Good evening. I'm David Cummings. Thank you for daring to be with us at the No Sleep Podcast Hour.

Welcome to our 18th season. Or is it our first season? I'm a little confused because, well, you see, I feel like I'm trapped in an old television. This model is definitely from the 1950s, which was the decade when television became a common form of media. I don't suspect many of you were alive in the 50s. No, even I wasn't born in the 50s. But as you can imagine, the television of the day wasn't like it is now. Some could argue the

content was better, while the audio and video quality was rudimentary at best. Television programs were given titles which reflected their length. I suppose that's why the No Sleep Podcast hour is apropos, even though our episodes run over an hour. Ah, well, it was a strange time in television history. Nonetheless, the television of past decades will play a large part in season 18. We're beginning in the 50s. Who knows where we might go next? If you guessed the 60s, then I'll have to ask you to stop being such a smarty pants.

But as television slowly started taking over from radio as the most popular form of entertainment, the popular radio programs transitioned with it. Horror presented on the television bore a strong resemblance to the horror radio of the day. As such, old-time radio now becomes old-time television. And the No-Sleep podcast will transition right along with that familiar theme. And so, I hope you'll join me and the entire No-Sleep team as we traverse the decades of television and strive to stir up the horrifying tales which began as scratchy black-and-white images, blossomed into color, progress to high definition and beyond.

Now, there is one other aspect of television programs that we're going to adopt this season. It's called The Cold Open. And no, that's not some sort of weird Canadian sex position. It's when a show begins without any credits or introductions. It just jumps right into the story. Well, we're going to be starting our episodes with Flash Fiction Tales at the very beginning, in the spirit of television's cold opens. Naturally, we didn't quite open coldly for this first episode,

but if we did, it would have sounded like this. But remember, like listening to most of our stories, we recommend not before bed. Go take a look if you'd lie. It will only take a second. Nothing. But as soon as it clicks to the jam, I'm there.

My toes, curling in your carpet, inches from your door. As you change, as you turn out the light, I'm there. As you slide down into your linen cocoon, I'm there. I'm patient. I can wait. I press my serrated ear to the wood paneling. I can hear. you breathe, I listen as you turn over, shifting your drowsy weight into that familiar position.

You're breathing slow. I've listened to you for a long time. I know when you're asleep, and when you are, I slip inside. Fascinating to me, you creatures that sleep, stay on your chest and breathe in your scent. Oh, you sleep on your side? I like that better. Squirm up behind you.

Fold myself to match your form. Sometimes you feel my breath on your neck or fingernails brushing your hair. But you won't wait. I won't let you. Slumber on as I lay beside you and sing soft nightmares in your ear. I know when you're dreaming in your sleep, I am the one who answers. When sweat prickles from your tormented dreams, I'm the one.

who licks the brine from your skin. And when you open your eyes and can't move, it's the fear of me that freezes you. It's the fear of me that halts the voice in your fragile throat. You get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow. A cold and chilling opening. Indeed.

With our thanks to author Craig Hallam and performer Jeff Clement. And so, sleepless listener, or shall I say viewer, we hope you are fully braced for our 18th season. And as always, we're glad you're with us during the darkness of the night. Now adjust the antenna, tune in our signal, and settle in front of the TV to watch this week's night. In our first tale, we meet a young woman enduring the nightmare of moving to New Jersey. But alas, there is much more to her harrowing tale.

You see, moving means a new school, and the bullies who pick on the different kids. But as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Salma Dasgupta, Sheila is fortunate to learn about a solution to all her problems. if only they didn't come at such a high price. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Danielle McCray, Ellie Hirschman, Atticus Jackson, Aaron Lillis, and Graham Rowett, and introducing our newest voice actor, Catabelle Ansari, starring in the role of Sheila.

So, as Sheila learns, desiring something better is a worthy goal. Just be careful when you encounter the wishgiver. I don't think I'm being too melodramatic when I say that 1987 was the worst year of my life. My dad got a job transfer and we moved from Queens to South Jersey. The move broke my heart. New York was all I'd ever known. Her new neighborhood was called Briarville and we were the only Indian family there.

Our ethnic background worked against us. We got frigid stairs instead of welcome back. baskets. Teenagers egged our house. My new classmates told me to go back to India, even though I'd been born and flushing. The loneliness was brutal. Then my mom found out her sister had cancer. I had never met my aunt. Her job had always kept her traveling. But she'd moved near Philly after her diagnosis, and my parents decided to visit her a few evenings a week. My mom didn't want to come along. She thought I'd be traumatized. She didn't want me home alone either, considering our less than friendly neighbors. So she got me a babysitter, even though I'd just turn 12. As sad as it

sounds, I was happy about this. I thought a babysitter might make a decent substitute for a friend. I wasn't sure how my mom found Corinne. She was 16 and lived with her grandmother. She didn't, didn't dress like everyone else. Her style was more Janice Joplin than Madonna, right down to her long red hair. More importantly, Corinne was nice to me, though I do think the fact that I grew up close to Manhattan scored points with her.

She wanted to go to Parsons to study art after she graduated high school. Corinne was a phenomenal artist. Everything she drew looked at. alive. This was both ironic and unsettling because she liked to draw the undead. Her zombies and vampires look ready to leap off her pages. But the scariest was her drawing of an old woman. I saw it on the last page of Corin's sketchbook one day when she let me flip through it. The woman's teeth looked as sharp as Freddy Krueger's nails. She had green eyeballs without pupils.

eyes that look like they belonged on a blind evil cat. Is that a witch? The wishgiver. She's like a fairy godmother. No offense, but I don't think Disney's going to pick up that sketch anytime soon. No argument there. She's not exactly like a fairy godmother. You've got to pay her for wishes.

Probably with your soul. It's possible. I've never read about this wishgiver anywhere. You wouldn't have. She's a local legend. Briaville had been around since the Revolutionary War, and towns with history had legends and ghosts. But the wishgiver looked way more frightening than something that wouldn't stay in the grave. I closed Corin's sketchbook.

At least she's not real. We don't know that. You think she exists? I've heard stories. She clearly was not about to elaborate. How would you summon her? Would I have the nerve to lock eyes with that monster crone if it meant returning the queens? I don't know.

I'll find out. My grandma knows all this stuff. But I know you really have to want to see her. Obviously. I couldn't shake the side of those eyes. Have you ever wanted to see her? Hell no. But maybe next year, when I'm applying to Parsons.

As it turns out, we didn't have to wait that long. Corinne showed up late the next time. Mom was annoyed, but she didn't say anything. It was Corinne's first offense after all. I knew from my babysitter's face that something was wrong. She sank into the sofa, turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels until she got to a teen soap. Her hair smelled dank. When I tried to talk to her, she turned up the volume on the TV.

I didn't get why she picked that show. The characters were boring and the storyline sucked. I wonder if she had a crush on the lead. He looked like Ricky Schroeder. She laughed when I asked her this. There was hostility in the sound, as though she thought I was making fun of her. I went to my room and stayed there the rest of the evening. When my parents came back, Corrin left without saying goodbye.

The following Tuesday, my mom asked her to stay with me longer than usual. My aunt had deteriorated. Corrin was friendly again. But she didn't explain why she'd been so weird last time. It was warm for October, and we took a walk. One thing I will say about Briarville, it belonged on a postcard. The sky was violet and some stars were out. A breeze blew and chimed sang from porches.

It looked like a place where nothing bad happened. I was about to be very rudely awakened. We walked for 15 minutes, and you were, came to a restaurant called Church Street Cafe. Teenagers hung around outside, mostly coupled, some making out. Von Jovi screamed about prayers from a nearby car. The sign in the window caught my eye. Pizza tonight, New York style. I miss New York pizza so much. I had pies at the mall since our move, but Jersey slices didn't cut it when you'd have Lombardis. I was naive. So it didn't occur to me that the sign was false advertising.

I just wanted to be in New York again, even if only through my taste buds. Corin refused to go in with me. You don't like pizza? She pointed to some people by the stairs. She sounded the way I felt whenever I walked into the school cafeteria during lunch. I wondered if her classmates were why she'd been so moody that day at my house. And it made me angry.

Bullies were not going to stop us from getting pizza. I held her hand and pulled her forward, thinking nothing of the gesture. But that's when they noticed us. I was tall, and in the darkness, her classmates probably thought I was older. They went silent, and then a girl's laugh rang out. Shrill and mean. Future prom date. Her dark lipstick made her look bullish.

Her boyfriend grunted. A gum wrapper bounced off my arm. Something hit Corinne's face and then fell to the ground. It was a lace panty. To set the mood. Everyone wore. Corinne wrenched her hand from mine and ran. I fall at her.

The yellow moon stared down at us. Corinne made a strange noise. She sounded as though a cricket were caught in her throat. Are you going to throw up? Shut up, Sheila. That hurt, but I did. I figured I deserved it for trying to make her going to the cafe. Then I realized she wasn't taking me home.

I asked where we were going, but she didn't answer the question. They wouldn't fuck with me if I had a boyfriend. I didn't know what to say to that. But she never cursed around me, and it felt like a bad sign. The wind picked up, sounding almost like an animal as it blew. Corin muttered something non-stop under her breath, but I couldn't understand the words. I thought of the wishgiver. Had Corrin asked her grandmother how to summon her?

Is that what she was doing? I got my answer. We came to a public park, empty since it was long past sundown. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, an old woman sat on a bench, holding flowers. I thought they were roses, but then I saw their dark, pointy petals lap at the air, like tongues. The woman turned to look at us and her eyes glowed like green bulbs. Her mouth lengthened into a fame-filled grin. I was too scared to scream.

I tried a persuade her to do the same, but it was like trying to catch the wind. Coran slowly walked up to the wishgiver, who then handed her one of those nightmare blossoms. Corrin put her lips to those tongue petals and muttered something. My heart raced. I was afraid the flower would tear her mouth off. She gave it back to the wishgiver who said something to her. I couldn't hear. Corrine nodded.

Then she walked back to me. The wishgiver's glowing eyes dimmed, as though there had been a brown out inside her head. The buzzing sound filled the air, and then like a ghost, she vanished. The wind quieted. This time, Corin held my hand as she led me out of the park. We didn't speak on the way back.

I barely heard myself breathe. The lights were on in my house. I didn't ask Corinne to come in. When I walked into the living room, my mom was crying on the love seat. My aunt was dead. Since I no longer needed a babysitter, I didn't see Corin anymore. I called her a few days after the night in the park to make sure nothing horrible had happened to her. I hadn't slept since that night.

I'd become afraid of the dark. Corrin picked up the phone. Her tone was the equivalent of the Lisa Frank Unicorn sticker that had started talking. I was astounded. Had our encounter with that terrifying crone slipped her mind? Uh, sure. Um, are you okay? I couldn't believe she was for real.

Maybe the wishgiver had messed with her head. Um, just curious. Are you still drawing monsters? Corian was quiet for a second. I don't have much time anymore. Why? The doorbell rang on her end. I've got to go.

Oh, okay. Then she hung up. One Sunday afternoon, I walked out of the public library and saw Corian across the street. She'd bobbed her hair and was with a guy. They just left. of all places, the Church Street Cafe. I crossed over. Sheila!

Her bohemian clothes were gone. She wore a stonewashed denim jacket over a Guns and Roses t-shirt. She looked mildly embarrassed to see me, as though I'd caught her doing something bad. I stared at the guy next to her. This is Bill. My... Boyfriend.

She said boyfriend as though the... the word didn't quite be long on her tongue. Bill seemed to notice because he frowned at her. They wouldn't fuck with me if I had a boyfriend. And I knew what she'd wished for. Bill looked like a senior. His arms were meaty and hairy. They made me think of were wolves. His eyes were like blue raspberry popsicles, bright and cold. I turned back to You like guns and roses now? She'd always paid Cindy Lopper around me. Bill got the shirt.

Her smile was drained. You want one? He had a teasing, raspy voice. The kind that turns teenage girls on. I just thought he sounded creepy. No, I said. He looked offended, but then he saw. I'm surprised your name Sheila.

What'd you think it would be? Something no one can pronounce. Corin's cheeks brightened. It was one thing for my classmates to say something like that to me, but someone that much older? I gave Bill a nasty glare, but this just seemed to satisfy him. Tears pricked in my eyes. I quickly walked away from Corinne and her so-called boyfriend. before they spilled.

I went to my only favorite place in Briarville, the duck pond. It was a few blocks down from the library. The mallage that skimmed the water had flown south. The sun was red and it cast an eerie pink glow on the empty pond. Footsteps pounded behind me and I turned to see Corinne. Sheila, I'm sorry. Bill shouldn't help. Why are you with him?

Corrine looks ruffled by. my question, but she answered. They leave me alone now. I waited for her to add something else. She didn't. Her answer depressed me. I turned to look at the marigolds that grew to the left of the pond. A dark flower with a pointy petal suddenly appeared among its golden neighbors.

I blinked, but then it was gone. What's wrong? Nothing. Corian, did you ever pay her? I felt silly for whispering, but I knew what I just seen, and fear rumbled in me. She paled. Why? I looked at the marigolds again.

Nothing. Had I imagined it? No reason. I can't, Sheila. That night she said she wanted the first gift my boyfriend gave me. within one week. She pulled a necklace out from under her shirt. A motorcycle charm hung from a silver chain.

It's been two. Why haven't? Because Bill will ask where it is. Tell him it got stolen. She went to the Marigold patch. Don't go there. Why? The dark flower shot up again,

and its stem rapidly elongated. Horrified, I watched as a wishgiver's face appeared in the flower's pistol and aimed for Corinne's throat. Corrin gasped as her chain snapped. Then the wishgiver bit into Corrin's flesh. Into the spot right above her heart. The wishgiver shrunk back into the bed.

Necklessed dangling from her fangs as she disappeared. Corrine fell onto the grass as were closed. I shook her and cried. She finally opened her eyes and touched the wishgiver's fang marks. There was no blood. She took any serious. You're alive. I didn't realize yet that death wears many different clothes. Corrine got up and wobbled.

I need a drink. Something with sugar. I feel. She sounded like a zombie. I had a can of Coke in my bag and gave it to her. She practically drained it in one goal. That's a little better. Do you have another one? Another one?

Yeah. I'm out of it. I feel... I knew she wasn't talking about the necklace. What? She was silent. The next time I called, Corrin's grandmother picked up. She used to babysit me.

Sheila! Yeah. She okay? Ma'am? She's alive, right? I was so relieved that the rebuke didn't bother me. I wasn't sure what that meant. Is she still with a bill?

I figured only he could arouse this much agitation. She cried harder. I felt awkward, but I just couldn't hang up on her. Do you know about the wishgiver? Her silence chilled me. I wanted to tell her everything, but I stopped myself. What if hearing the story gave the elderly woman a heart attack? Just asking, I like the picture Corin drew of her.

Even now, I wonder if I should have just told her about the night in the park. Does she still draw? I asked. Her grandmother hung up. I saw Corinne for the last time in early December. Again, she was outside the church. Church Street Cafe, alone. She sat on one of the chairs and didn't seem to register who I was when I approached. Had she forgotten me? I had just started wearing a bra, but I was still recognizable.

She, however, was barely so. Her hair had grown out, but it was tangled. She lost weight and her eyes looked too large. Her hands trembled. She didn't wear it. She didn't wear it. She didn't wear it. gloves, so it could have been the cold, though somehow I felt it wasn't. But then she spoke. Sheila. Huh? She sounded different, as if she was playing at being coring. She constantly sniffed at the air, like she was trying to smell something just out of reach. Do you have a cold? Amusement danced over her face, and for a second, I almost saw the old Korean. No. I felt like she expected me to ask her something,

but I wasn't sure what. Are you still applying to art school? Her expression made me step back. She laughed. It was a manic noise that didn't sound quite human. She put her head between her knees, and the laugh turned into gulping, soft. The restaurant door opened and someone came out. He looked familiar and I wondered if it was one of

the boys from that night we saw the wishgiver. Babe, you okay? He wore an apron and looked as gone as Corrin. He also had the nastiest looking teeth I'd ever seen. What'd you say to her? I ran away without a word. My dad got transferred back to his old position and I finished middle school in Queens. It was like waking up from a nightmare. I discovered my own love of drawing when I entered high school. I'd always enjoyed it, but before, I'd only turned to art when there was nothing good on TV. I think seeing Corin waste her talent persuaded me into cultivating mine. By sophomore year, I'd spent hours sketching and painting while Pearl Jam blasted on the stereo. I wanted to go to art school. my parents, the volume of our fights could have broken glass. They said they were absolutely not

going to pay for me to spend the rest of my life selling paintings on a sidewalk. Luckily, I got a full scholarship to Parsons, so I didn't need to depend on them. I did well. I got a job teaching art at City College and miraculously scored a rent-controlled studio in the East Village. I had a show in one of the Chelsea Galleries. I had everything. So I thought, that's the thing about life as a human. There's always just one more thing to wish for. It happened on my 30th birthday. I met a few friends for drinks, and I was the only one at the bar without a significant other. Being single had never bothered me, but that night, watching my friends with their partners made me upset in a way. I hadn't been for a long time. I left around midnight and walked around Chelsea by myself.

The galleries were closed, but a few kept their lights dimmed so you could still see paintings inside. I thought I'd feel better if I looked at art, even if it was just from the windows. But I continued to ruminate on what I didn't have, a partner. I started crying. Happy birthday, Sheila. When grinned at me from under a street lamp, there was no mistake in that face. Though it was older and damaged by drug use, her hair was thick, lush, and red. And it was obviously a wig. Corian?

Her dark eyes lit up and turned in unhuman green as their pupils disappeared. My stomach felt like it had plummeted into my legs. She reached into a dirty satchel and took out a dark flower with moving poignant petals. She spoke to me as though I were still twelve. I couldn't look away from a familiar blossom. It was like there was an invisible hook connecting my eyes to it. The pain I'd felt all night exploded in me. And I was sure only that flower could make it better.

The flower was the answer. If I asked it to bring me the love of my life, the pain would stop. As I was about to lean in to make my wish, something flickered at the edge of my vision. The gallery next to me had been dark, but its lights came on and I saw one of my own drawings on the wall. My heart pounded in terror. This gallery had never shown my work. That sketch was still in my book. It was of Korin.

of how she looked when I'd first met her. I'd always meant to turn it into a painting, but it just never happened. I turned back to the green-eyed Corrine in front of me. I don't have a wish. Then I walked away, fast. When I looked behind me, the thing pretending to be Corrine was gone. I lay in bed for a long time after I got home. When I couldn't sleep, I found the sketch of Corin and took out my paints.

I worked on it for weeks. When I was done, I knew it was my best painting. And yet I knew that I would be the only one to ever see it. I needed it as a reminder of how easy it is to succumb to monsters. Since that night, I've been asked to make wishes many times, mostly on birthdays. It's not that I don't wish for things anymore. I just have too much experience with seeing what happens when some of them come true. So now, when someone asks me what I want, I look at that person.

Imagine Corinne's smiling back at me and force myself to forget my wish. When we're in our homes, we can usually relax and be ourselves, right? We don't need to worry about acting certain ways, wearing the right clothes, being something we think society demands, but isn't really us. But in this tale, shared with us by authors, Samuel McQuail, we realize that sometimes what's outside our front doors might require us to fit in and be just like everyone else. Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So let's learn how one man manages to fit in, as he explains why I wear the mask. The cold porcelain mask stares up at me. It's smooth surface twisted into a smile.

fake. That's the only way to describe its expression. Broad billiard ball eyes in sunken sockets, and a grin too big for its own cheeks. Sometimes I grin back, as if maybe I can try to match it for once, as if I could ever look how they want me to. It never works. A cacophony thumps at the wall's endless chaos that beats its way into my head all day and night. I can't sleep through the sudden shouts and the Banshee whales. My own hollow eyes ache. A quick glance across the cramped space I call home reassures me that, yes, the windows and doors are locked and bolted, seven for each. I can't be too careful.

They always try to creep and crawl their way inside my Spartan sanctuary. There is nothing to take here. Nothing except for me. I pull the mask over my face. A few slow breaths steady myself as it grinds against my skin. Missing pupils let me peer through and the world peers back. I tell myself over and over that it's a short trip. I've done it before and I can do it again.

No food left, so I'll have to go eventually. The comforting weight of my backpack helps. It means I have a goal, that I have something I can do besides do in my loneliness. But the mask presses insistently on my mind. What if today is the day I make a mistake? I hurry through the locks, counting off each one. The numbers ground me, keep me moving forward, despite my trembling. One goes to two, down to three, opening four.

When I'm done, the door swings open, and I have to. no choice but to go. No choice but to slip into the dark corridor, carefully picking past debris and filth. Down the old metal steps whose clanking echoes around me, out through the open foyer between ruined decorative pillars sprouting rebar branches and into the world. They loom above me, ghoulish giants on spindly limbs, clicking on concrete street, hunched backs, arms that reached the ground bones threatening to tear through thin, translucent skin. Serpentine mecks crane above the crowds of monsters and snoop along underbellies, always watching, always sniffing and snarling and scrounging for something, someone.

I wait for one to pass by me before stepping into the river of twisted bodies, The chittering, gurgling conversations reverberate between garish buildings that claw their way into a dead, grey sky. I've never seen another person in this city, not alive, at least. The iron stench of blood lingers everywhere. If I watch long enough, I can start to work out the differences between them, the patterns they scar themselves with, or the blood they've drawn and drowned. ragged over their skin, subtle shades in the thin strands of hair limply draped over their necks, the nonsensical patterns of head tilting and talting clicking.

Slowing my pace lets me watch their rituals for a while longer. It gives me time to try and puzzle out the curious dances. I can't stare for too long. They hate that. I snap back to reality too late. One of them drops its head down to my level. I skid to a stop. Hold back my scream as its face hovers inches from mine.

The same impossible grin lined with yellowish teeth. The same billiard ball eyes set in blacken the sockets. It cocks its head past 90 degrees neck, cracking and wispy hair brushing the ground. Breathless. Blood frozen in my veins. keeping my eyes firmly locked with its own. I want to look away. I want to look anywhere else with those narrowing pupils,

but then it did no, all of them would. It bobs its head four times and burbles. I do the same, and wait. Warbling, it pulls its head away and lumbers over and past me. I can't afford a sigh of relief. Any break from the ritual alerts the rest. All I can do is swallow. the lump in my throat and keep going, keep looking forward. An old skyscraper stands like a dead

titan, its glass shattered, and its guts bare. Around the lobby the things gather, hauling lumps of flesh in their teeth and monstrous corpses in their claws. The weak, the sick, the old, and other creatures, too. Things I don't know of nor care to. It doesn't matter once it's thrown into the bile. Rott, iron, and the reek of decay flood my senses with each breath. I swallow back bile as I inch closer, and the sound of an orgy of gnashing teeth and the wet smacks of lips that never stay closed, they take a single bite of splintering bone and discard the meat. They gargle blood and water in the drippings of torn flesh. They're shrieking and chatter. They're shrieking and chatter. dig into my skull, the same way their claws cracked through the head of one of their dead young.

One of them buries its head into the torn open stomach of another chewing through guts and gore. I recognize the corpse, the pattern of scars torn into its neck and the pale shade of their hair. I almost feel pity for it. What small thing had it done to condemn itself? Bowed at the wrong time, warbled when it should have. clicked. Well, no, that matters now. It's just another thing to be chewed up. I snatch the scraps that tumbled to the floor and stuff them in my backpack. A thin plastic liner keeps the worst of the juices contained. It won't last for long, though. Maybe by the time I get back, preserve it,

store it away in my lockboxes, allow the energy to make a meager meal before I collapse into bed. Not likely. But the hope is... is something like a rush of warm air under imaginary wings. The journey back is worse. Their eyes burn into my back, though I know they aren't watching. I've done it all right. I nodded and burbled and walked straight on without a click of interest from the things milling around me. The meat weighs me down, making each step sluggish.

It's fine. I tell myself it's fine. It's... I... I trip. The mask slips. It skips across the concrete as I crashed the ground. A dozen flicking conversations go silent.

My heart stops, and I try to pull myself to my feet before they come. But it's too late. They're already on me. Screeching, screaming, howling. Talens rake across my skin, pulling me every way at once. As they lift me into the air, they hook my lips and pull my mouth. into a grin. I shout and struggle pulling myself out of their grasp, barely landing on my feet. The swarm of blocks out everything else. Nothing but a storm of spindly limbs whirling and crashing

against each other as they fight to snatch me up. I barely get a step. A dozen hands dig into my backpack, a dozen more yank my arm behind me. Hot blood gushes out of my pricked skin, tears bud in my eyes, my voice growing hoarse. They won't listen. They don't care. One shoves its foot into the small of my back and pulls my arm further and further bone cracks, shoulder splits, skin screams as it stretched. They snap and gnash in confusion.

They don't understand. Why doesn't my arm bend? Why can't it stretch? No matter how much they tug and pull, no matter how much they break my bones, they don't understand why my arm can't be as long as theirs. A brawl breaks out between them. I squire them out from the straps of my backpack and tumbled to the floor. They rip through the fabric and shower me with the meat scraps within. I crawl and stumble and scream.

Where is it? Did they smash it? Where is my mask? White porcelain shines between gray limbs. I lunge, smacking again into hard concrete and knocking the wind from my chest. My fingers brush the chipped surface, clawed hands and feet stomp around me. Come on, just a little, yes! I roll on my back and pull the mask over my face.

They stop and stare. Raised limbs lower as their snarling faces. snake down, their eyes narrow as they scrutinize me, the ground, each other. Where did it go? Where did that thing disappear to? I pulled myself up and the hundred eyes burn my skin. I smile behind cracked porcelain hoping to bring the impossible grin into my eyes. My shattered arm hangs limp by my side, twitching as I try to hold the shoulder straight. I pray they don't see the hot tears as they drip off my chin. I pray they don't see every wince and shudder.

As lances of pain bring me to the brink of screaming, I pray that all they see is the mask. Turn to the no-sleep podcast hour in just a moment. But first, ladies, are you tired and stressed by all the work you do as a busy housewife. The cooking, the cleaning, looking after the little ones. You must find it hard to keep up a nice home for your husband while he goes to work. Wow, the 50s sure were a different time, huh? I think it's safe to say that gender roles and societal expectations have changed quite a bit. But no matter what your gender is, we can all

struggle with the pressures of day-to-day life. Stress and burnout are things which affect all of us. So now here's a word from our sponsor, Better Help. Back in the 50s, if I told anyone I struggled with burnout because I worked hard running my own online business for a popular podcast, well, I'd probably be prescribed some happy pills and told to relax in an institution. Thankfully, these days we have a much better understanding about the toll of stress and burnout on our body and mind. Symptoms can include a lack of motivation, irritability, fatigue, and more.

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of your life. Better Help is customized online therapy that offers video, phone, and even live chat sessions with your therapist, so you don't even have to see anyone on camera if you don't want to. It's much more affordable than in-person therapy, and you can be matched with a therapist in under 48 hours. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's betterh-h-el-p.com slash no sleep. So help you. yourself with better help today. Now, the commercials are over and the show is coming back on. Let's get back to the TV, because this next story is a wild ride, a real circus. If you were watching TV in the 1950s, you'd no doubt see commercials for a form of entertainment,

which was quite popular back then. The circus! And even though they're not as popular as they once were, there are still some performing around the country. And in this season, tale, shared with us by author Angela Sylvain, we learn about a circus which is very well attended. Sounds great, right? Well, not when you realize that for this show, attendance is not optional. I join Mary Murphy, Matthew Bradford, Jesse Cornett, Nicole Goodnight, and Lindsay Russo in performing this tale. So don't you dare miss this one. It's a three-ring circus of horror when you attend the Cyclone Sisters Traveling Circus of Wonders. Three circus tickets appeared in our mailbox last week.

The thick golden paper or innately embossed with a personal invitation for each of us to attend. My hands only tremble a little as I tuck the tickets into the pocket of my green party dress and slip on my ballet flats. Easier to run away in once we're allowed. Normally, I'd cinch my hair. into a tight bun, but the dishwasher brown mass hangs loose tonight. Folks say

the sisters prefer the girls to wear their hair down. Sam calls up the stairs, a wobble in his voice. Eliza, we'll be late. Coming! I dabbed blush on the apples of my cheeks and apply a smear of lip gloss.

It's important to look nice, but not too nice, not too noticeable. Sam waits at the bottom of the stairs. The oversized blue suit he borrowed from dad, hanging off his narrow shoulders. Mama would have made sure he had a proper suit. My eyes burn at the thought, but I can't let him see me cry. Not today. You look nice, Sammy. I lick my fingers and smoothed down the calic that tufts his blonde hair on one side of his part. Really? He watches me with wide, trusting eyes. You're

going to do fine, and I'll be right there with you the whole time. We'll all be perfect. There's no other option. Okay. He raises his chin, but still reaches from my hand. I square my shoulders and lead him through the front door. This is my fourth year attending the circus, and I remember every act, every smell, every scream. If I could protect sound from this, I would, but once you hit age 12, attendance is required. Dad stands on the front porch. He takes a swig from a metal flask before slipping it in the pocket of his rumpled sport coat. Are you trying to get picked?

It would almost be a relief to only have to care for Sam. Regret at the thought punches me hard, right in the center of my chest. I blow out a breath. Dad, please. Just lay off a little today. Okay? He meets my gaze for just a second. His eyes red and bloodshot, maybe from drinking, maybe from the sobbing he thinks we don't hear. Okay, Lilo. We follow his shambling down the steps to fall in beside the rest of the town's people that fill the sidewalk. As a group, we move silently toward the edge of town. A shiver dances over my bare arms at the side of the grand red and white striped tent that has sprung up in the field. Sam grips my hand tight. The first time is always the hardest. I plaster a wide smile on my face. I can't wait for the show. Sam's lips stretch to their

limit. I'm so excited. His voice shakes, but it's okay. I'm the only one who's heard. A wooden archway makes the entrance to the fairground and displays a larger version of the flyers posted throughout town. Come one, come all. See our array of freaks and oddities, prepared to be terrified and amazed. The Cyclone Sisters traveling circus of wonders, in town for one night only, must be seen to be believed. I wonder what new acts there will be this year. Dad's voice is flat, not trying hard enough. My pulse picks up speed as we step through the entrance and, follow the crowd toward the main tent.

The scent of buttery popcorn, roasting nuts, and sweet-candied apples wafts over us, with a tantalizing lies boiled by the underlying taint of rotten meat. The barker towers over us as we near the tent's entrance, elevated on stilts, and clothed in a blood-red suit with a matching top hat. You folks are in for quite a show. I beam up at him and hand over our take. My hands steadied by pure will. Sam mimics my enthusiasm, just as I taught him.

Tomorrow, I'll make him something extra special for dinner. Play whatever dumb game he wants. Anything to help my baby brother forget this night. We're swept inside. The darkness is broken by flames ahead, and the narrow entry opens to a ring of torches surrounding a barren patch of dirt. I shuffle toward the first of three. sets of bleachers on my right and watch as the others fill in each row from top to bottom,

leaving our family to sit in the very front. If only we'd walked a little slower or a little faster, Dad slumps on the cold metal bench. Front row seats, aren't we lucky? Yes, Daddy. Sam's grip on me tightens until I think he might break my fingers, but I don't pull away. The melody of a pipe organ slightly off tune, lifts through the air. I follow the sound to the corner of the tent, where a shriveled leather-like creature hunches on the bench behind the instrument, pressing the keys with clawed fingers.

The barker strides into the center of the circle. His spinly limbs and exaggerated movements, those of a grotesque insect. Welcome one and all to the Cyclone Sisters Traveling Circus of Wals. Wonders! This year is certain to be the best show yet! The last of the townspeople have filed in, and I risk a peek of the last set of bleachers. One full row sits empty. Cast your eyes on our freaks and oddities!

The torches glare, illuminating the cages on either side of the tent. The first holds a young woman with three arms, not by birth defect, but by some. some barbaric surgery that has left her with an extra limb sewn to the side of her neck. She snarls and grips the bars, as if trying to pry them apart. The second cage houses an old man writhing on the floor. He appears to have been flayed of his skin, leaving only exposed muscle. I make myself look. We must look.

Sam whimpers beside me. It's just wonderful, isn't it? I infuse my voice with still determination. You can do this, Sammy. The Barker gestures behind him. Please join me in welcoming the amazing, the terrifying, the truly one-of-a-kind Cyclone Sisters. We all stand to clap and scream and cheer as the sisters appear just outside the flames.

If they have names, I've never heard them, but I call them light and shadow. Light's hair shimmers like snow in the sun, a perfect match to her sparkling silver gossamer gown. Shadow's blue-black curls are an extension of her deep midnight velvet dress. Both wear their locks twisted around and around in a swirling mass that teeters atop their heads, swaying and tipping with each step. The two enter the circle the step.

on either side of the barker, each carrying a thin silver cord that continues behind them into the darkness. Prepare to be amazed. Light's lips remain still, her voice cutting through my head like a shard of ice. Sam claws my hand, but I cement a happy expression on my face. Prepare to be terrified. Shadow's mental command is laced with a despair so profound. A sob tries to escape from my mouth, but I swallow it. They each release the ends of their cords, letting the silver strands hover in the air.

With a flick of their fingers, they send the cords up toward the apex of the tent. Pale figures emerge from the shadows at the back of the tent, seemingly tugged along by the strands. I gasp as the absent town spoke come fully into the light. Each person's chest is pierced by the court. Some are dressed up, as if they were on their way but didn't quite make it, while others wear street clothes, as if they thought to skip or flee. No one escapes the circus. I brace for their cries of pain, but there are none.

I lean forward, straining to see, and have to contain my scream when I realize what's been done. They have no mouths. Only a flat expanse of skin covering the bottom half of their faces. All around me cheers erupt through the bleachers. I urge Sam to his feet. We join in. The court lifts the townspeople into the air one by one until they hang high above us like paper lanterns,

writhing and twisting in the wind. A shoe falls from someone's foot to land in the dirt below. Bile spills. into my mouth, but I choked the nastiness back down. Mama wore her best patent leather heels that day, but one slipped from her foot to land in the entryway. That shoe, sitting all alone, stark black on the white tile, was the first thing I saw. Her body swinging from the banister was the second. More applause. Sam sniffles beside me, and I want to reach out to him, squeeze him tight. But instead I clap and clap until my skin is raw.

Truly outstanding! The sisters curtsy, their hair swaying to one side than the other. For this next trick, we'll need a volunteer from the audience. The barker teeters closer as a bright spotlight illuminates the bleachers. You! He points one spindly finger at the front row, and I know who he's chosen. But they can't take my dad.

I can't lose him, too. Terror freezes me in place as a spotlight narrows, narrows, narrows until the light shifts away. Relief floods through me. We're okay. We're going to be okay. But the light hasn't moved on. It stopped right next to me. Oh, God!

Sam! But they can't. He's just a boy. The others in the stands catcall and holler, as the people directly behind us push my little brother until he's forced from the bench. He falls to his hands and knees in the dirt. I move to go after him,

but Dad clamps his hand around my waist, holding me tight. I rise and struggle, but his grip is like a vice. Stop, please. The sisters gaze at Sam, smiles warping their faces. Let Sing-Song command echoes through my mind. Come join the show. Shadow's mental voice reeks with the promise of pain.

Sam rises to take several jerking steps forward like a marionette on strings. Their puppet, he enters the ring and is spun in place to face the crowd. His tear-streaked face is ghostly in the forest. firelight, and his mouth gapes wide in a soundless scream. I wrench away from Dad and race towards Sam. The Barker lunges toward me, but I grab a torch from the circle and shove it in his direction. A flames ignite the cuffs of his pants and rise up his legs. Burn, you bastard!

The crowd goes silent. Their forced enthusiasm doused by fear. Not for me or Sam. For themselves, there was. be consequences for this. Give me back my brother. My scream rises above the pained whale of the barker. The flames threaten his face now, and he careens toward the side of the tent.

I reach Sam and pull him to my chest as the sisters watch me. Their faces emotionless porcelain masks. They pay no attention to the barker who crashes into the tent. Flames spread to the white and red striped fabric, eating it. inch by inch. The sisters open their mouths and release their cyclone shrieks to whip around my head, stab my eardrums, my eyes, my tongue. I taste blood, feel the warmth of it blowing down my face and my legs crumple.

Sam slips from my arms to lie on his back in the dirt, his face stained crimson. The needling shrieks rise and gust over us to whip into the crowd. I watch as the townspeople scream and bleed. Dad claws at his own face, howls and writhes, then fall still. All around him are neighbors wilt like dying flowers. Dad's mutilated face stares back at me, dead eyes accusing as I gather Sam onto my lap. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should have gotten him a new suit.

I should have prepared him better for the show. Sam opens his mouth, tries to talk, but gives a wet cough instead, spraying my neck and face with blood. No, no, no! I grip him tighter and rock in place. This is all my fault, all my fault. The sisters close their mouths, and the shrieks stop, leaving the tent in silence except for the lilt of the organ and the lick of flames on fabric. They move to stand before me. You can't have him.

The salty taste of my tears mixes with copper and coats my tongue. They're going to kill us both. Do anything you want to me. I don't care. Please, just let him go. They lean closer. Light's eyes become pure white. No iris, no pupil, no veins.

Entranced, I feel Sam being tugged from my arms, but I can't resist. I can't look away. Like grasps my face And frigid cold leeches from her skin to mine Anything Her voice sounds almost normal Almost human Fear claws my insides

Urges me to run away But I can't I won't leave him Anything She squeezes my jaw Forcing my mouth wide Then seals her lips to mine Frost consumes my insides

spreading until desperate cold is all I feel. Stinging pain turns to numbness and nothingness. I fall back. My muscles limp and my head flops to the side. I watch Shadow's eyes turn to Onyx. Putrid black smoke seeps from her mouth as she presses her lips to Sam's. The old-fashioned wooden carriage we call home, rocks and sways, as we make our way up the steep dirt.

road, Sam shifts in his seat beside me with a groan. I'm hungry, Lila. He doesn't make eye contact. Can't. The constant stark whiteness of my gaze pains even him. I tugged the quilt up to his chin. I know, Sammy. His skin is sickly pale against his now blue-black hair.

Only a week since his last beating, and already he lacks the glow of life. I peer out the window as we pass a signpost marking the next town's fairground entrance. Come one, come all, prepare to be terrified and amazed. The Cyclone Sisters Traveling Circus of Wonders, featuring the Carillon Children, in town for one night only, must be seen to be believed. The sickening smell of roasting nuts and candied sweets waths through the air, but they can't hide the enticement of coppery blood and brush meat. A black pit of ravenous hunger consumes me, demanding attention.

I press my cheek to Sam's head, cradling him against me. Tomorrow you can eat as much as you like. Okay, Sammy? I'll even let you choose which game we play with the townspeople. Anticipation of their deliciously sweet screams of pain, swells inside me. I hope they try to run. Hope you survived our terrifying tales.

Join us again next week, if you dare. The No Sleep Podcast Hour is presented by WNSP in conjunction with Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cordette. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy.

If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast Hour, we thank you for tuning in. This program is copyright 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 program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.