The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep12: NoSleep Podcast S18E12

Episode Date: September 18, 2022

Tune in to Episode 12 of Season 18 for some sweet supernatural revenge! “The Blood Accord” written by Nick Moorefox (Story starts around 00:00:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla “Time for a Change” written by Mark Towse (Story starts around 00:06:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Bec – Erika Sanderson, Paul – David Ault, Olivia – Penny Scott-Andrews “Giving up the Ghost” written by Evan Dicken (Story starts around 00:28:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Preston – Jeff Clement, Ronnie – Atticus Jackson “Seeing Double” written by Denzel Edwards (Story starts around 00:39:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: James – Andy Cresswell, Tabby – Erika Sanderson, Linh – Penny Scott-Andrews, Jasmine – Ash Millman "This Book Will Kill You - Part 2" written by Alexander Gordon Smith (Story starts around 01:05:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jessica McEvoy as Tommi Bright, Kristen DiMercurio as Flint, Ilana Charnelle as the unknown author, Dan Zappulla as Donnie, Erin Lillis as Tommi's mother “The Wading Pool” written by John M. Floyd (Story starts around 01:03:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Susan – Mary Murphy, Mary Murphy – Mick Wingert, Voice – Kristen DiMercurio, Darlene – Sarah Ruth Thomas “The Smith Grave Monument” written by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 01:17:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Willamina – Erin Lillis, Matriarch – Mary Murphy, Younger Smith – Matthew Bradford “The Stowaway” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 01:29:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Alastair – Mike DelGaudio, Mary Beth – Jessica McEvoy, Mrs. Cooper – Nikolle Doolin, The Stowaway – Graham Rowat, Drug Dealer #1 – Erin Lillis, Drug Dealer #2 – Atticus Jackson, Guard – Jesse Cornett, Ricky Harlowe – Elie Hirschman, Trace Terrance – Jeff Clement, Marley Brenner – Matthew Bradford, Boy #1 – Dan Zappulla, Boy #2 – Kyle Akers, Boy #3 – Mick Wingert This episode is sponsored by:ZocDoc - Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Doctor Sleepless at The StanleyClick here to learn more about Manen LysetClick here to learn more about John M. FloydClick here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Wading Pool” illustration courtesy of Kelly Turnbull Audio 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

Marco's legs shook as he crouched behind the boulder. His tormentors shouting threats drew closer. Marco could not know that millennia before, men had trapped something dark there. This place lost to the wilderness, bound and cursed and left to be forgotten. He closed his eyes and prayed. Blood from his nose dripped down his chin and hit the dirt. Something beneath him spoke, blood and a request for freedom. Speak your desire.

Set me free. Marco pointed towards the bullies and heard screams, then silence. He walked out of the forest peacefully, following giant footprints, burned into the earth. The sun has gone down. It's dark outside. Nighttime has begun. But you dare not close your eyes. For in the darkness there are things unseen.

Faces without eyes watching you. Nightmares exist while you're awake. No matter how much you try, you remain sleepless. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. A powerful form of protection brings forth ravenous revenge. Awakening and ancient power has its benefits, it seems, as we learned from author Nick Morfox, from the tale which was this episode's cold open,

The Blood Accord, performed by Dan Zapula. It gives me devilish pleasure to make the following announcement. Brace yourself. This autumn, in the Rocky Mountains, horror doesn't end with Halloween. You are invited to attend a two-day trip into terror at the legendary Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado. The Stanley Hotel became infamous thanks to Stephen King's horror classics, The Shining, and its sequel, Dr. Sleep. And on November 4th and 5th, Dr. Sleep will become Dr. Sleepless. Spend the weekend with renowned horror creator Mike Flanagan,

director of the Doctor Sleep movie and creator of Netflix horror series, such as Haunting of Hillhouse, Haunting of Bly Manor, and Midnight Mass. Joining Mike is Kate Siegel, one of the stars of those Netflix series, as well as the star and co-writer of the movie, Hush. A devilish duo bringing horror to the big and small screen. Mike and Kate will be screening the director's cut. of Doctor Sleep and answering questions about the movie and the inspiration they draw from the haunted Stanley Hotel.

Don't miss your chance to engage with these outstanding creators who are elevating horror to new heights. But as I mentioned, at this event, the Doctor will be sleepless, because joining me on stage for a full live performance by the No Sleep podcast will be Lindsay Russo, Mick Wingert, Nicole Doolin, and Kyle Akers, with a live musical score performed by Brandon Boone.

This performance will feature a brand new, never-before-heard chapter from the Goat Valley Camp Ground series, an original script written for the stage by author Bonnie Quinn, featuring the original cast of the Goat Valley Camp Ground series. That's right, a brand-new live chapter of Bonnie's epic tale from Goat Valley Campgrounds. The Man with the Skull Cup will be extremely. expecting you. Along with these two events will be your chance to experience the splendor and spookiness of the Stanley.

Attend a cocktail party while being served drinks by Mike and Kate and the No Sleep team. Meet authors Matt and Harrison Query as they sign copies of and discuss the No Sleep subreddit short stories origins that led to their new horror novel, Old Country, coming soon to the big screen. Ghost tours, meet and greets, all with the great. glorious rocky mountains as the backdrop. It's an event you won't want to miss. Tickets are on sale now.

Find out all the details and get your tickets by going to live. The nosleeppodcast.com. That's L-I-V-E dot the no-sleeppodcast.com. Dr. Sleepless at the Stanley. Come out and shine with us. We hope to see so many of you. you there, sleepless friends. And now we offer for your approval a series of stories we hope

will make you sleepless. In our first tale, we meet a woman who has escaped from terrible domestic abuse. She knows she needs to stay away from that man for good. But in this tale, shared with us by author Mark Tows, we learn that she wants to meet with him. She's ready to end things, but knows how dangerous he can be. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, David Alt, and Penny Scott Andrews. So be strong and do what you know is right when you know it's time for a change. Cold white light sweeps across the house, sucking out any comfort in its path. Crunching gravel has my aching fingers clamping even tighter around the mantle. This was a bad idea. And we're back in relative darkness again,

the flickering candle on the patio fighting for survival. The car door slams, a silhouette, footsteps, inhale, exhale. I could hide, maybe if... I promise you bet. This is the only way you'll be free of him. Olivia's voice in my head settles me a little, but I feel nowhere close to as brave as in her presence.

Without closure, she told me, I'll never be able to move forward. I'll always be running. And God knows, I've tried everything else. His familiar rhythmic wrapping of the door sets my skin on fire. All of my rehearsed words start tumbling like kicked over alphabet blocks, and as I walk to the door, I feel like I'm going into battle without arms. I'll be there with you, Ben. Remember that. I won't leave your side. None of us will.

There he is. The love of my life. He smiles his once powerful smile and raises the bouquet. Never been a flower kind of girl, but I'll take them over a broken jaw any day of the week. My trembling fingers lock around the door handle, the metal feeling impossibly cold. Hello, Paul. Rebecca, you look amazing. I stand my ground as he leans in towards me, blue eyes all childlike and hopeful. Familiar spicy aftershave wafts in with the gentle breeze,

tainting the smell of cooking food and causing my stomach to churn. But I allow his lips to find my cheek. Warm breath sends a shudder down my spine. But I refuse to move, reaching my hand out and imagining Olivia's fingers coiling around mine. I won't leave your sign. I missed you. He pulls away slowly and offers the flowers.

His eyes even more alive with expectation. People always struggled to understand why I kept letting him back in. They used to look at me as though I was stupid, not quite all there. Christ, they only knew the half of it. The marks I couldn't cover with high-top dresses, scarves and long sleeves. But I thought this man was the last. love of my life, and we were happy once, as content as can be in such an absurd existence. To this day, I can't pinpoint when the darkness consumed him. But as the saying goes,

love is blind. Wine? Sure. He closes the door behind him. Beautiful night. It is. I thought we could eat on the patio. He eyes the table outside and takes the glass of red. Stunning place, but a bit off the beaten track. Drove past it twice. Whose is it anyway? Belongs to a friend, a proper country girl. Olivia runs it as a safe place for abuse victims.

Shady Pines retreat. Quite often she'll just let people have it for a few days, a chance to embed themselves in nature. Can I give you a hand with anything? No, sit down. It'll be ready in a couple of times. of minutes. What a view. He folds his arms, surveying the wooded area at the back. It smells amazing out here. I mean, the food also, but the air so fresh and invigorating.

I call this eggshell mode, usually lasting a couple of days after an event, but inevitably giving way to darkness. That's how I used to think of it, that there was a demon inside of him, and I was the only one who could cast out the evil. A tumultuous life spent walking a tightrope between love and fear. It is beautiful, I say, already thinking of the place as a second home. The pine, the wildflowers, the faint smell of smoke. Simple things, eh? The ones we lose sight of.

He pulls a chair out. How have you been? I begin slicing the lamb, my appetite returning. How have I been? How have I been? My bones are fixing, but the scars will remain forever. Getting there. I was surprised.

He inhales again, a city boy all his life. When I got the invitation, I mean. Dinner's nearly ready. Help yourself to more wine. But I notice his glass already replenished. He tried giving up alcohol before, even booked into an AA meeting once after a particular. particularly nasty episode.

Just another offering to temporarily appease. Don't you get scared out here all alone? I didn't see another house for miles. It's the safest I felt in years. The chorus of crickets fails to disguise his sigh. But he says nothing as he lifts his glass to his lips. I carry his plate through. I hope it's good.

Don't usually go to the trouble with it just being me. Usually a sandwich or a microwave meal. It looks great I feel his eyes on me As I put the plate down There's more if you're hungry The candles flame flickers As the gentle breeze blows across

Bringing more of his scent In an image of our old bedroom The extended crack in the ceiling And the sheer purple curtains I grasp the back of a chair for support Waiting for the dizziness to pass So, um What am I doing here, Beck?

What do you mean? I retreat towards the kitchen counter, full of doubt once again. You haven't replied to my text for weeks and then out of the blue, I get an invite for dinner. Gripping the plates to stop my trembling. I make my way back to the table. This is the only way you'll be free of him. Let's eat before it gets cold. He smiles and nods. It's so good to see you. To anyone who doesn't know our history, I imagine we'd look like lovers at the beginning of our relationship.

Gentle, classical music playing in the background. Dining and drinking wine under the light of a glorious full moon. We talk about our jobs and our friends, mutual and new. We smile, we chew, we open another bottle, letting nature's perfume wrap around us. The night has all the awkwardness and superficiality of a first date. But ours takes place on a thin sheet of ice that could crack at any moment. I think about you every day. He reaches for my hand.

I recoil and pray for strength. Shall we have dessert? That depends on what's on offer. Bake to Alaska. I'll go and... Sit down! The shadow passes across, the demon leaving just as quickly. Softness returning to his face.

Please. I think this marks the juncture at which small talk ends. Why am I here back? So I can move on. So we can both move on. He says nothing. But from the corner of my eye, I see the napkin crumple under his grip. We share a history pool, a portion of time that's come to an end.

Let's close that book and move to the next. What if I don't want to? You just don't have that kind of power over me anymore. I clasp my hands together. I'm doing this regardless, and I was hoping tonight you would finally agree to let me go. I know you follow me. I know it's you on the end of the phone.

I swallow hard, watching the napkin unfurl as he picks up his glass and consumes the dregs. Doesn't it prove how much I love you, though? My heart is breaking, Beck, can't you see that? I'm nothing without you. Stay strong, Beck. We are with you. Your heart might be breaking, but mine is just mending. I lift my gaze from the table to his blue eyes.

Some of my bones, too. His face twitches. A familiar sign he's on the defensive. His offence never far behind. Leaning back with his hands clasped behind his neck, eyes towards the stars he exhales. My parents have been married for nearly 40 years. They never gave up on each other.

How many times did I take you back? How many? Had their fair share of wars but came out better from it. War. Every couple argues, Paul. I lean in towards him, crossing into no man's land. No marriage should end in broken bones and blood. I feel the hair prickling on my neck and arms. The air feels charged, like just before a storm.

I can almost see the thunder cloud forming around him. And I can't apologise enough for that, Beck. All sincerity is sifted out by gritted teeth. He leans towards me, hands knotting together, wedding ring on show. But I've done my time, had a chance to reflect on my actions. And I... You're what? I'm taking charge, and it feels fantastic.

fantastic, reciprocating his advance until our heads are only inches apart. A different person? A man of God. His eyes widen and his nostrils flare. I'm not the guy you used to know. He gives me the puppy dog eyes, but I see his knuckles turning white. Always the same lines, the same routine. I can't even remember the guy I first met. I think back to what Olivia told me.

releasing my words with as much dispassion as possible. He's buried under mounds of tainted soil. Why am I really here? I told you already. I don't believe you. He settles back in the chair. You still love me, don't you? I look deep into his eyes, beyond the innocence of the blue.

No. You're lying. Lines carving their way across his temple. He begins gently shaking his head. There's still a way back, Beck. I know it. As he lunges forward again, reaching for my hand, the breeze wraps around us, extinguishing the candle and bringing smells of damp tree trunks, moss and carrion.

I try to break free from his grasp, but his fingers coil around my knuckles like a giant's. Tell me there's still a way back, Beck. Let go of me. Not until you tell me we can be good again. He momentarily releases his grip, sliding his hand to my wrist and snapping me towards him. Please, Beck, one more chance, one last chance. We're here with you.

No. I feel his elevated pulse on my skin, his grip tightening. Air is heavy, polluted with his aftershave and the smell of rotting meat. You always were a fucking tease. His sky-blue eyes are now loaded with the promise of a storm to end all storms. Let fucking go of me, Paul. He clamps down harder. His warm smile at the door a fleeting memory, replaced with the demon's leer. That perfume, you know I like, the music, the low-cut dress, eating under the stars, all for what, Beck?

Some twisted joke, a way of hurting me? I hear rustling leaves, and breathing, heavy and excitable. Look at me when I'm... talking to you. He pulls me in, wrapping his other hand around the back of my head. This is not

how it ends. Glasses tumble, plates clatter as he rakes against my softness, his lips devouring mine, his tongue hungrily searching within. As I revert to well-practice numbness, orbs like glowing embers

light up the woods around us, moving in time with the music and creating an almost magical display. A fairy tale romance to the outsider. He comes up for air, resting his forehead against mine. I love you so much, Beck. We can start again, I'll show you. His left hand wraps around my waist. His right beginning to slide up my low-cut dress.

Something I could never wear when we were together for so many reasons. One more chance. More ember-like globes appear as he applies his lips to mine with sickening intensity. I hear blood washing in my ears. Scenes of violence in my mind melts into the vivid imagery behind my beloved shoulder. Each branch visible with impossible clarity. The grass beneath dancing to the breeze. There's fear, but only of the unknown.

Placing my palms on his back, I bring him into me. He lets out a groan as his tongue gets busier still, his hands squeezing at my breasts. There's a crackle What I think at first to be the forest carpet But my skin begins to prickle And my body flares with pain More snapping fills my ear

Accompanied by explosive pain That has me instinctively grinding our ribcages together We lets out a muffled rasp As I push my lips harder against his My sharpness continuing to explore his back Eyes wide, face red He flails against me But there's no gulfed

give at all. The first time is always the hardest. Every hair on my body stirs as the breeze blows across once more, bringing too many sense to decipher. He continues struggling, trying to force my head back with his hands and sucking air through his nostrils, his tongue finally retreating like a wounded animal. As though someone is bending my spine like a piece of plastic, pain detonates across my back. I can hear every bone expanding, snapping, buckling. My skin smoulders with impossible intensity as Paul continues offering dampened moans. His eyes widening further still as they stare into mine. His lips form a scream as my claws pierce his flesh, but I steal it from him, just as he stole mine for all those years. Refusing to let go, I dig them in further still,

Listening as blood pumps violently around a shredded body that now feels puny within my clutches. Fire rages within. Skin stretching to accommodate elongated bones. My jaw dislikets, contorts, enlarges as new teeth cut through the rawness, bringing unimaginable agony. Instinctively I clamped down. Feeling his body trembling violently against mine as blood spills down our chins. Pure fear in his eyes now. I'm ravenous again.

But as I bear down on him, ready to dine, I catch sight of my reflection within the blue, and I release. Recoiling until my back is against the brick. Embrace it. It's a beautiful thing. The hair, the eyes, the ears, though, Olivia. I'm scared. A miracle of nature.

We are blessed. Her voice in my head is like water on my skin, extinguishing the flames until once again only magic surrounds me, the heightened sounds of the forest and the ever-approaching golden orbs. With a hand across his shredded lip and blood spilling through his fingers, Paul lets out a garbled cry. In return, I offer a howl of my own, nearly a decade's worth of screams rolled into one.

He begins a delayed retreat, eyes not leaving mine. I see the knowledge in them, though, and can taste his fear now, far more potent than that rancid aftershave. As a chorus of howells return mine, eyes like headlights continue to close in. His leg buckles, and he crumples to the concrete tiles. The night didn't quite go as planned, did it, darling? Livia said doubt would creep up on me from time to time. But since seeing him through the glass of the door,

the pathetically hopeful look spread across his face and the puny offering grasped in his right hand, I have no regrets. Finally, I'll be free of him, no longer frightened to look over my shoulder or answer my phone. One bite, and they can all... be different. Olivia's first to pounce,

launching towards him with a growl, her teeth clamping around his neck, prompting a blood-curdling scream and multiple streams of red that looked magnificent against the backdrop of the moon. Riving and moaning, trying to prize her jaws away, Paul's terror-filled eyes fix on mine,

perhaps hoping for a last-minute reprieve. But this dog has had its day. I can smell the blood, stronger than before. A coppery bitterness that usually turns my stomach but now only serves to heighten my hunger. He's just prey. Others begin emerging from the darkness, ready for the feast.

Teeth bared, snouts frothy with saliva. The only way. A series of watery gurgles emerge from his throat as they were enculturing and ripping at his flesh. They tug at his body like a rag doll, dragging him this way and that, until the twitching finally ceases, and the light dins behind his eyes. She was right. Moving in, I feel free, empowered, about to feed on someone that ate away at me for most of my adult life.

And when we finished eating, picking the meat from his bones, will share a glass of wine and toast to new beginnings, a stronger, unified, dependable pack. We howl in unison, the women of Shady Pines retreat. There are some rather unique professions out there. Have you ever considered becoming a hermetic necromancer? Well, it's pretty easy. You facilitate hauntings by tethering spirits to buildings.

Like Preston, for example, the man in this tale, shared with us by author Evan Dickon. and we'll learn that Preston is currently preparing his newest future revenant for transition. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement and Atticus Jackson. So no matter what your job is, keep up your spirits. It's better than giving up the ghost. So, this is where you're going to kill me? Ronnie glanced around the empty room,

gaze lingering on the twisting sigils sketched onto the floor. This is where you'll transition, although I'm not killing anyone. Pointedly, not looking at the loaded pistol in the center of the spiral, he snatched a bottle from the six-pack of Millers he'd brought and offered it to me. I don't drink on the job. Back when I'd started, it had taken weeks of trawling bars to find someone with the right mix of ego and self-loathing. The internet had made it laughably easy to recruit potential revenants. Job.

Hell, I'm doing all the work. He tossed the bottle at my chest. I caught it rather than let it spill beer all over my incantations. Sure, fine. The beer was flat and tasted like it had been marinating in Ronnie's truck for a week. Still, part of my job was to keep the victim happy. I'd done far worse than drink lukewarm beer. I sat on the floor facing Ronnie, trying not to check my watch.

Mr. Coleman had been very specific with regards to the haunt time frame. His ex-wife's movers were coming tomorrow morning. It wouldn't do for them to find the mansions, battered in blood and Eldridge scribbles. I want to see the money. Ronnie waved his beer like I could conjure cash from me. the air. I don't have it here. The words came sharper than I'd intended. I took a breath and smiled. I'd spent weeks, months listening to Ronnie whine about how he never got to see his kids,

how he had no job, no prospects, no friends, how both his parents had died when he was just 13. It made him just perfect. They'll be taken care of, though. My kids? I held up my phone. All I have to do is press a button. Two million transferred to non-refundable trusts. It was only half a lie.

Hunter and Brittany would see some money when they turned 18, less my generous finder's fee, of course. And Shelley won't get any? Not a cent. I mirrored his shit-eating gritty. reflecting that Ronnie and Mr. Coleman actually had quite a bit in common. What's it like being a ghost? Revenant.

What's the difference? Ghosts are echoes of people. Revenants are more, I shrugged, active. So what's it like? I took another sip from my beer and immediately regretted it. Every soul has two parts. Higher and lower. Hun and Po, the ancient Taoist mystics called them.

Your higher soul is your spirit, your mind, your hopes. Basically, the best bits of you. Your lower soul embodies all your anger, your hunger, your hanger, all your baser instincts. Damn sure I'd like to be rid of that shit. Ronnie glanced at the pistol. Progress. When you die, your high. higher soul goes wherever it goes. Normally your lower soul would decompose along with your body.

I tapped the floor with my shoe. These incantations make sure it stays tethered right here. My lower soul's a nasty piece of work. Ronnie polished off his miller and reached for another. Your boss must want to scare the shit out of whoever lives here. You could say that. The other difference between ghosts and revenants was a deadly one, but Ronnie didn't need to know. Hell of a lot of work.

Ronnie shook his head. Let's keep you up at nights. Honestly, no. But you're like a warlock. Hermetic necermency has nothing to do with the devil. I took another drink, barely wincing this time. Still, killing all those people. I held up a finger.

Transitioning. Sure, but it's got a way on you. Everyone who... He belched, pounding on his chest with one hairy knuckled hand. Transitions. It's a job, like any other. I shrugged. Like insurance adjusting or hospice care.

Except I ain't dying of cancer. I've never heard anyone. I hiccpped. It had been a while since I'd had anything stronger than water, and the beer was making my lips buzz. So your current employer's wife is going to be fine when my lower soul... Ronnie bared his teeth, making claws of his free hand. I felt a flush creep up my neck.

Are gunsmiths responsible for who fires the bullets? But you're not making guns, are you? Ronnie reached over to pat my knee, like we were sharing a joke. You leave a house soulless, evil. You make it a killer. His laugh was almost a sob. Never think about what happens after? You know, once you ghost gobbles up its victim,

When the next family moves in, did you ever consider what happens then, Preston? Not ghosts. Revan. My words slurred through lips that felt loose and wooden. I glanced at the half-full miller in my tingling hand. Cold realization, prickling up my spine. Ronnie had used my real name. I'll tell you what happens.

Ronnie finally reached for the pistol. Two parents, dead. Their dog? Dead. And their 13-year-old saddled with enough trauma to get him committed. Even after he gets out, he can't hold down a job. Can't keep a relationship? Chip can't provide for his kids.

I tried to stand. It fell back. Oh, I toast you good. Ronnie knelt to fish the cell from my pocket. Pistol pointed at my face. But the money... Ronnie pointed the phone camera at me. My throat tightened as I heard the chime of its facial recognition lock disengaging.

You said it yourself, Preston. One click. And it's non-refundable. I tried to struggle as he gently pressed me down, but my limbs hung heavy as stones. Once you're gone, I'm going to burn this whole place down. It ain't the hell you deserve. We'll see how your soul likes rambling through ashes for a spell. The pistol's muzzle was cold against my forehead.

Ronnie's smile, seeming to fill the whole of my vision. Don't you worry about nothing, Preston. You and me, we're going to make everything right. Ah, I guess Preston doesn't have a ghost of a chance. Sorry, revenant of a chance. Let's take a quick break and hope he can make it to a doctor in time. And do you know how he, and how you, for that matter, can make it to a great doctor in time?

Well, just use Zoc Doc. Zoc Doc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. On ZockDoc Doc, you can find every specialist under the sun. Can ZockDocop help you find someone who treats ghosts?

Well, maybe not. But the good news is Zoc Doc has you covered for any living human condition. Zocdox's mobile app is as easy as ordering a ride to a restaurant or getting delivery to your house. search, find, and book doctors with a few taps. Find and review local doctors.

Read verified patient reviews from real people who made real appointments. Now when you walk into that doctor's office, you're all set to see someone in your network who gets you. Just go to Zocdoc.com. Find the doctor who is right for you and book an appointment in person or remotely that works for your schedule. Every month, millions of people use Zoc Doc. Make it your go-toe whenever you need to find. and book a quality doctor. Just pop on over to Zocdoc.com slash no sleep

and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Many are available within 24 hours. That's Z-O-C-D-O-C dot com slash no sleep. Zocdoc.com slash no sleep. And now you'd better get your eyes checked as well. For this next story, you'll want to see straight. There was a very popular toy back in the 1970s called A Viewmaster.

It was a stereoscope, meaning you could put photo discs into the device, and through it you could see scenes in 3D. Very fun back in the day. And in this tale, shared with us by author Denzel Edwards, we meet a man who has rediscovered his old stereo viewer, and unfortunately the strange instructions it came with. Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell, Erica Sanderson, Penny Scott Andrews, and Ash Millman. So don't always believe your eyes. Keep some things in two dimensions. Otherwise, you'll end up seeing double.

Now, Gribbing the B2 between my teeth, I smudge particles of graphite with my little finger. Shades blend into other shades. Well, Tavi, when I draw, I can make the world's what I wanted to be. Rub down life's sharp edges. Make things better. Daddy, you're strange. Why can't I draw like you? Her face drops a little.

My pictures look really childish. Of course, Tavi. Pulling the B2 out of my mouth, my voice is clear again. You're only six years old. I like your pictures. They're very good. She adopts a serious tone. No, they aren't, Daddy.

You need to teach me. Mr. Abiyoye says that I can do anything I put my mind to. Well, Mr. Abiyoye is absolutely right. Look what I found. Lynn's voice swells towards us as she clunks down the attic ladder steps. The morning sun's rays halo her figure as she steps in front of the. window. I squint, trying to identify the object swinging from her finger. What's that, mummy? Lynn lifts it towards her eyes.

It's one of Daddy's old toys, I think. Let's have a peek at what's on here. Leaping to my feet, I snatch it from her grip, my heart exploding into a painful pace. Whoa, easy there, James. What are you hiding on there, naked ladies? Lynn, not in front of Tabby. My thoughts are toppling over each other, bundling into a chaotic heap. I just want a quick look first. I treasured this as a little boy. I smile, trying to project affectionate nostalgia.

My face feels tight and artificial. Okay, Mr. Precious, I understand. You spend some quality time with your toy, and I'll make the tea. My breathing slows as she turns and drifts out of the room. Daddy, please may I have a look? Later, darling. Tabitha frowns. I should see her stomping after her mum, stiff little arms swinging back and forth theatrically.

But my eyes are down, fingers sliding tentatively over the plastic surface of the toy, pondering its secrets. Then, the stereo viewer was sitting in a box. on my doorstep one humid afternoon as I trudged home from school. I'd been walking somewhat gingerly, as was often the case, thanks to yet another humiliating wet towel whipping that Dale Chambers had unleashed on my private parts after our school's swimming lesson. The jostling throng of onlookers had jeered and howled, feeding Chambers' ego with theatrical hysterics and gleeful dances, essentially the fee you paid to ensure your most vulnerable assets,

wouldn't be next under the brutal snap of his towel. Even Mr. Cook grinned when I stumbled out of the changing room, doubled over in pain. Much to my disappointment, my parents refused to let me open the box, initially at least. You'll need to send it back, James. My father had commanded his patience as famously short as his stature. I wasn't really sure where, since it was devoid of any sender details. My mother had me leave it on the doorstep each day for the rest of the week before they reluctantly let me keep it. Opening the box was like a ritual. Shutting my bedroom door, I'd simply stared at it for some time. Eventually, I'd carefully pulled open the flaps and drew out my treasure. Red and shiny, the hard plastic was smooth beneath my touch. I drew it to my eyes and pulled on the lever,

desperate to see the exciting images inside. What would they be? See? Footballers? Spacecraft? My favourite female pop stars? But each slide, supposed to present the viewer with an exciting scene or object, was blank. Pushing down on the lever again and again, I begged for my reward. But the only thing I could see was my disappointed gaze in the reflection of the eye holes. Tossing it on my bed in disgust, I flung the empty box across the room. Well, nearly A sheet of paper cut sithing arcs through the air on its descent to the carpet. The instructions were as basic as the font they were typed in. Draw your intended outcome.

Slide it into the slop. Push the lever three times. Done. I picked the toy back up and rolled it around in my hands. Sure enough, there was the slot. I'd somehow missed it the first time around. a couple of inches wide, a tiny letterbox into the device. I peered inside, trying to assess whether this bizarre claim could be true.

Sliding it back into the box, I hid it under my bed, switching on my Commodore 64. Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about the instructions on the paper, and the bright red device beneath me that promised so much. Now, Jesus, put the knife down. She's pincering the blade of a utility knife between thumb and finger. The glinting silver quivers slightly under her grip. Why? I'm still using it. Don't be such a pussy. She delivers it nonchalantly, but the words slice me like the blade she's brandishing.

James the Pussy. The default target of the school bullying fraternity. The easy option. Old scars never disappear. It looks very sharp. It is sharp. That's the idea, James. It supports its core function of cutting stuff. The stuff in this instance is apparently the dry lumps of skin around her toenails.

Not that I can see any. Jasmine's body is impeccably maintained. These are usually my favourite moments. Post-coitly relaxed, comfortable in our nakedness, luxuriating in the dreamy haze of our brief moments together. me replicating the perfect curves of her body with my pencil. Yet the guilt, so easy to shelve during the white-hot intensity of our early union, has started to rest uncomfortably in my stomach like a spiky ball of lead,

its density increasing daily. Why don't you lie down for a moment so that I can finish my sketch? She pretends not to hear me. Or perhaps she's happy for me to know she's ignoring my question. One foot on the bed and one on the floor, she continues to draw the blade delicately around her toenails, slicing tiny particles of dead skin. The thing is, sometimes things need cutting out of your life. The detritus. The things you can leave behind in your past.

The things and people that will play no part in your future. My pencils stop scratching on the page. The room growing colder. What are you trying to say, Jasmine? That we are finished. You're cutting me out of your life. I'm just a lump of old skin to be tossed in the bin. I tried to infuse it with humour,

but it seems to articulate exactly what she's suggesting. She exhales slowly before speaking, the outward breath buying her some time to arrange her words into order. James, I adore our time together. It can be absolutely fucking electric. I think, think that we have got something special. I don't know if it would work outside of this bloody sex bubble our lives coexist in, but I can't wait forever to find out.

I need to know if we have got any sort of future. Otherwise, the sex will wither and we'll be arguing like an old married couple, and I'm not even getting the benefits that my friends assure me come with that bloody, terrifying marriage thing. I never thought you wanted more, though. I thought we had an arrangement, an agreement. I mean... I struggle to order the words into something coherent.

Jasmine is beautiful and vibrant and invigorating, but I've never looked at her beyond the thrill of our illicit liaisons. She speaks brusquely, clearly disappointed with my lackless response. Well, maybe it's time you started thinking. I've got a busy evening, James, so you'd better run along back to your little family. Her smile is wide, yet hard and inflexible. I start pulling on my socks. My head is fuzzy and irritable on the drive home, thoughts flying at velocity, crashing into one another. Lynn calls, and her voice is warm and comforting. My black ball of

guilt increases its mass, churning deep in my gut. You're okay? We miss you. Hi, darling, I'm good, thanks. Won't be long. It was a busy one. You worked too hard for us. The concern in her tone further amplifies my guilt. It's no problem. You know that you guys are my world. My tongue is almost paralyzed by my appalling duplicity. Lynn is, of course, too trusting to hear it. Well, we love you too.

Tabby misses you big time. She keeps asking when you're coming home. Oh, I won't be long now. Ten minutes, maybe. I feel a sudden longing to be there right now, in the warmth of our little unit, insulated from the cruelty of the world. Brilliant, she'll be a happy little bunny. We've been baking your favourite this afternoon, bow-bands. Oh, and she's been asking where your stereo viewer is? She'd like a look. Do you mind? Where is it, honey? I'll make sure she's careful with it. I know it's special to you. I'm sorry, Linnie, I'm not sure. I'll find it for it when I get home. Not long now. Okay, baby. No problem. Drive safe. Hugs when you're back.

Hugs, I reply, repeating our little family trademark. Reaching to the passenger seat, I stroked the stereo viewer's smooth red plastic, scratching out a mental note to hide it beneath my seat before going indoors. Then, the crumpled, bulls. balls of paper were amassing on my bedroom carpet. Each one a sphere of tiny folds, overlapping tiny folds, lines and shades exposed here and there. Ideas, concepts and half-hearted intentions evolved into half-lives before being tossed aside. Their voices drifted up from below, muffled bass tones only, dialogue compressed into a thin spectrum of sound, rendered unintelligible.

Yet the anger was ringing out loud and clear. usual looping arguments, familiar and boring, money, lack of money, how we should spend our money, what little there seem to be. My abject failures at school, my unwillingness to focus, my lethargy around the house, and my father's close relationship with Maggie from the office, for whom his interest clearly went beyond the scintillating corporate tax analysis they worked on together. As they worked through their marital problems, I, worked on a variety of scenarios. Dale Chambers suffocating in the abandoned chest freezer we used to play inside. Dale Chambers bleeding to death under that stupid little dirt bike he'd race around the fields.

Dale Chambers mauled to death by the security guards dogs whose saliva-drenched jaws protected the sprawling car plant on the edge of town. But finally it came to me, my pencil accelerating across the page with noisy scratches. Dale Chambers, head bowed at a sickening angle, body hanging ominously, feet pointing toward the dirt of the forest floor, life fully squeezed from his body, and curled tightly around his neck, digging into his flesh, tendons and bones bulging, rendered starkly. Damp, cold, dripping, the wet towel that's robbed him of any further breath.

Now. I was starting to wonder if you had found yourself a new muse. I think there's some mileage left in you yet. My eyes flick between her and the page, capturing the curving lines of her lips. There'd better not be an old hag staring back at me when you finish this. Definitely not. A princess, perhaps. Princess Lynn. It's been almost a week since Jasmine turned cold on me, with no contact since. I've started to wonder if it could be a blessing. Perhaps things have indeed run their course. I realize now, sitting here sketching Lynn, that my family really is everything to me. It's where I needed. The transient bubble of intensity with Jasmine. has finally burst, the iridescent particles dissipating into thin air, as if the bubble had never

really existed at all. Aren't you letting me play with your toy? We're sitting in the snaking row of brake lights. The thought of Tabby's little eyes gazing into the viewholes makes me feel nauseous. Oh, I will do, darling, I promise. Maybe later on. But why won't you let me daddy? She folds her arms, frowning. Her eyes fixed forward in anger.

I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm relieved when we finally reached the school gates. We'll sort something at. After she's marched into the safety of the building, I decide to take a different route home, working the car through the gears and enjoying the liberation of the sleepy country roads. Pulling into a layby,

I turn and stare into the forest, suddenly realizing where I am, inhaling sharply. I'd slept well that night, all those years ago as a little boy, folding my sketch of Dale into a tidy square, pushing it into the slot, pressing the lever once, twice, pausing for the briefest of moments, and then a final firm press of my forefinger. The following day, I could barely even remember having done it. And then, even when Dale didn't turn up for school, I can't say that it entered my consciousness, beyond the usual life-affirming relief of not having to face in that day. His absence from school wasn't even that unusual. But a few days later, there was talk, whispers and rumours and gossip.

Where was he? Had he run away? Escape to London to deal drugs? Gone to join the traveller camp his father apparently lived in. Arrested? And then his mother on the news. Bloodshot eyes, copious tears, tissues. passed across by unidentified hands.

He's a good boy, really. He ain't never done nothing like this before. The search parties, the dogs, the helicopters. And finally, the discovery. His mother wailing, screaming, falling to the leafy carpet of the forest, his body swinging lightly. The towel grubby.

Nature already assimilating it into its world. I pulled the stereo viewer to my eyes, my finger hovering over the lever. I pressed down firmly, and the photo is still there, just as it was when I was a child. Mirroring my sketch perfectly, his body hangs awkwardly, face bloated, a scene of appalling horror. I'd kept the toy hidden for all these years, tucked away in the distant recesses of the attic, It's terrible secrets safe from innocent hands. The phone call makes me physically flinch. James, it's Jasmine.

We need to talk. Did you think about what we discussed the other day? Pausing, I tried to think of the right words. It's over. You're right. It'll never work in the long term. I want to be with my family. It's best for both of us that we never see each other again.

Um, yes, I've given it a lot of thought. And? Emptiness sits between us on the line. Well, I think you're right. I think you deserve better. Okay, James, I agree. But what does that mean? I deserve better in our relationship or I deserve better out of our relationship.

Which is it? I pause again before speaking. Heart hammering my ribcage. Well, yes, better in our relationship. I think we've definitely got something. special like you say. She pauses this time, considering my words. Really, James? Is that really what you think? Because I actually think that too. I think we'd make a fucking great team, but I need you to be all in, okay? No half measures. It is too late for that. Yes, definitely. It's all or nothing.

Oh, thank goodness for that. So you need to talk to Lynn, James. You need to tell her it's the next step. I think you should do it today. Let's do this properly. A clean start. I'll be honest, if you'd said no, I was planning on telling her today anyway. It feels like the right thing. Wait, I shout, trying unsuccessfully to keep the panic from my words. Sorry, I'm just saying, we need to plan this carefully. We don't need to rush. Her tone switches. No, James, this is a thing. We do need to rush. I have told you, I'm a moment. I've told you, I'm a very much. I'm a little. not waiting forever. My life has been on hold whilst I've been seeing you, James. I've invested a lot. But what about Tabby? The thought of her finding out about Daddy and this strange woman is absolutely unbearable. Jesus, James, she'll have to find out at some point. Look, have you really thought about this? Because it doesn't bloody sound like it. No, I mean, yes, I have. I've given it lots

of thought. And I want to commit to you. I really do. I'm just saying, I need a bit of time to plan my words. This is a huge change for all of us. She softens a little. I know. I really do. It's massive. But everyone's lives could be better.

We're all living a lie at the moment. I know. I reply, trying to soothe her. We'll make everything right. Thank you, James. Look, let's talk later. Then you've got some time to think. But let's not allow this to drag on, yeah?

Yes, Jasmine, absolutely. We'll get things sorted out. Okay, darling, I'm really excited, you know. I realize it's going to be tough for both of us. I love you, okay? The world becomes darker, like someone twisting the master dimmer switch downwards. I know, Jasmine. Me too.

I terminate the call and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. Pushing my head back, I forced the air out of my lungs with a huff. I turn my gaze to the side. The forest is dense, dark and ominous. I see his body, as if it's still there, swinging like a pendulum in slow motion under the morning breeze. A skeleton, stripped bare by the birds and insects, rain-battered and encrusted with filth, back and forth, the teeth dirty and jagged, grinning inanely. reaching into the glove compartment, I pull out my sketchbook and flick through the pages. And then, she's there. Her horizontal form, so perfectly proportioned and beautiful in her nakedness, curved and smooth and wonderful. Staring at Jasmine for a moment, the thoughts flood my mind. The unbridled electricity of our sex, the moments of laughter and pure joy, the clandestine. Stein untouched world where we existed, insulated from the miserable mundaneity of real life,

with its pressures and responsibilities and soul-draining wretchedness. And then I'm moving the pencil again, enhancing, tweaking, changing, erasing here and there, and replacing. First, it's the position of the hands. The right hand no longer supports her head, but instead lies limp. Up turned, the fingers spread. The left lies similarly helpless, resting on her naked body, facing the ceiling. And then the head itself, no longer rotated towards the viewer with eyes flirtatious and dreamy.

Now it's resting, facing upwards, the eyes closed, the whisper of a smile rubbed out. Next, I focus on the wrists, grabbing my 7B to craft the jagged opening, Slicing up the arm, the blood flow copious, spraying the wall and gushing onto the carpet, enormous puddles staining it liberally. And finally, fallen to the floor, the shiny glint of the blade. Its diabolical work complete, all life extinguished beneath the cruel efficiency of its cut. Drawing a deep breath, I fold it carefully, rotating the stereo viewer to expose the little slot, pushing my work into the device with a forefinger. I raise it to my eyes, my finger coming to rest on

the lever. I think of Tabitha and press the lever once. I think of Lynn, and press the lever a second time. I think of Jasmine, and pause for a moment, alone with my thoughts and the forest. My finger hovers, the plastic cold beneath my touch. My phone vibrates hard on the passenger seat, accompanied by a loud beep. I lean my head to the side to read the message. James, I love you. Jasmine. Kiss.

Taking a breath, I push the lever down for the third time. The No Sleep Podcast presents the exclusive 10-part audio adaptation of Alexander Gordon-Smith's epic tale. book will kill you. This book will kill you is the story of Tommy Bright, a young woman who dreamt about a witch, a room, and a table full of meat. This is her story. This is about what happens when the witch comes back to finish what she started. But be warned because this book just might kill you.

I think I'm running late, but I'm hanging outside Starbucks for you. nearly half an hour before Flint shows up. I feel her before I see her, a shape bounding up beside me. So when she leans in and says, boo, I'm almost ready for it. Still, it's a bad day to test shattered nerves. Whoa, sorry, douche move. You okay? I nod, and she makes up for it by taking my arm, marching me through the door.

She sits me down in a booth and goes to order. It's not busy in here for a Saturday afternoon. The whole mall's quiet, but that suits me. I'm not one for crowds or company, especially on a day like this. Flint's different, because she's Flint. So what the actual fudge? She slides in beside me and passes me at Chai Late. I breathe in the sweetness of it, suddenly hungry.

Luckily, she's got chips as well. And she breaks open the bag like she's cracking them out of prison. Some of them don't even stay on the table. Dead girl, cops? Are you writing crime stuff now? Or do I need to be afraid? Despite everything, I laugh. She laughs, too.

Running a ring-heavy hand over her shorn head, scratching her scalp. But seriously, you look like crap, Tommy. What happened? If you shut up a minute, I'll tell you. She mimes a zipper across her lips, locking it tight with a. an invisible key. I take a sip of tea first, still too hot. Then I start at the only place I can start.

She happened. Flint shrugs. The dead girl? The witch. I see the smile break on Flint's face like a second of sunshine before the cloud swallow it. The witch? Jesus, Tommy. What brought her back?

I haven't heard you talk about her since like... I take another sip, then a deep breath, then I tell her everything, squeezing her arm every time she looks like she wants to stop me. I leave out the bit about the photo on Facebook. Doesn't even seem real now. Kara was probably just goofing around with somebody, and those fingers in the bed? The way I'd been feeling, I could have seen that witch anywhere, everywhere. I know if I look again, there'll be coat hangers or drumsticks or just gone. I knew her. I sit back.

The sugar helps with the shakes I didn't even notice I had. All the same, I still sit on my hands to keep them still. Flint's pushing her mug around in a puddle of coffee and sugar, them doing my best not to grab a napkin and wipe it up. Kara Pierce? She went to the rich kid's school across town. Fullerson. I wasn't friends with her or anything, but...

She used to hang out with... She clicks her fingers. Um, Bruce, no. Bert, Bart. What's his name? The fruit stall guy. Brent. Stupid name.

But yeah, I think they were cousins or something. She hit the same parties sometimes. Small girl, short hair, had that twisted pixie look down to a tea. Wouldn't have guessed she was into all that story stuff. Story stuff. You mean writing? It's not a dirty word. I don't know. I've read some of yours.

I think I spoke to her once. We were waiting for the restroom together. I was drunk as shit though, so, who knows? I didn't know she died. That's messed up. They think she killed herself. I mean, they never said it because Donnie was there, but they weren't hiding it either.

You didn't do this. Flint pushes a finger against the middle of my head. I know you. I know exactly what's happening in there right now. You don't know what stuff that girl had going on in her life. I know, I say, squirming free. But there's got to be a reason why they came to talk to me. I mean, I bet there were a load of books on her shelves, movies, whatever.

But they only came to talk to me. It was just a story, Flint. I mean, it's just a stupid story about a stupid witch that wasn't even... Even now, even though I'm 16. years old. I can't bring myself to say it. I can't bring myself to say she isn't real. I scream behind my teeth. She'd written on it. Like she'd written, she sees me too. So what? She sees the witch? Maybe she just meant you? Flint checks herself. Like you see her? Maybe she was just desperate for likes? She clicks a few things on her phone, then looks up at me.

Come on, Tommy, I know it's freaky, but look at the facts. There was a girl who was into writing and horror and the same stuff you are, right? She prints off your story, maybe for research, maybe for a school project, maybe just because she really liked it. But she wasn't happy. Bad shit was going down in her life, so she ended it. There's nothing else to it. It's just coincidence. I guess.

I look across the cafe. Everybody looks pretty happy, pretty oblivious. And you want people to read your stuff, right? You're a writer. She read your story. That's like a natural process. That's how it works. I guess.

So come here. She opens her arms. I slide into them and she holds me so tight her cell phone digs into my neck. Forget about it, Tommy. We don't get long in this world. Don't worry it all away. I nod into the smell of her. Make to pull away.

But she doesn't let me go. It's like she's frozen, except I can still hear the wet thump of her heart right beneath me. That and another of those weird, whining pops right outside my ear. Flint! I plant my hand on her ribs and push. If anything, she's holding me tighter, ratcheting me in, and her arms feel too thin,

just shards of bone, knuckles pressed into the flesh of my neck. I see her too. Flint! I rip away from her so hard that when she lets go, my head cracks into the window. Jesus, Tommy, seriously. Flint holds up her hands. Seriously. You didn't?

I start, then shake my head. Pain sloshes around inside my skull like muddy water. Flint's doing her best to smile at me, but there's an edge to it, like she doesn't quite remember. who I am. Half the people in here are looking at me too, their heads turning away like a Mexican wave as I scan the cafe. I fold my hands over my chest. I'm fine. Just rattled. No shit. Let's unrattle you. She glances at her cell. Marcell is having a thing tonight. Come along? No, I say, drawing even further into myself. Flint, I... Flint, I'm so glad you mentioned it because

I've had the suckiest of days, and I could do with unwinding or whatever. I'll see you there at seven, and don't worry, it's fine because it's not a school night, and my mom will be okay with it, and I've definitely got something to wear, so that doesn't matter, and she presses her hand to my lips, and despite myself, I snort a laugh past it. And I know I have crippling social anxiety, and would rather curl up under a bed and listen to thrash metal or whatever, but I really do think I should just get out with my gorgeous, talented, sexy as hell best friend, and just chill. Right? That's what you were about to say?

I can't reply because her hand is still there. I can taste salt and caramel on it. I just nod until she pulls her hand away. It better not be a party, Flint. It's not a party. It's a thing. I'll see you there. She slides out, stretches like a cat. I clamber out after her, stand behind her, casting my eyes around the room and knowing that everyone will be watching me. only they're not.

Nobody is watching me. Every single person here, there must be 20 of them, is looking away, looking at the far wall. Even the barista has turned, his face pressed to his shelves like the naughty kid in class. I can only see the back of their heads and they're all so quiet, all so still. Flint is mid-stretch,

like she's forgotten how to put her, arms down. I study the ridge of her skull, the pattern of her stubble. I wonder if I walk around her how long it will take me to find her face. Christ, I'm tired. Her arm slapped to her sides. She looks over her shoulder at me, her face etched with a frown. But I don't think I'm as tired as you. Go home, Tommy. Go home and try to forget about it. I nod, following her out of the cafe. We part at the entrance to the mall, and she takes my hand as I'm about to walk away. And for God's sake, no more stories.

Here I am, back in my room, looking at stories. I don't even remember the walk home, not that it takes long. My laptops open and humming and creepy.com's on screen. Kara's page staring back at me. I'm cross-legged on the bed, and I feel like that. okay. This is my room, my house, my space. I won't let her scare me here. No more stories, Flint had said, but I think the stories are important. They were important to Kara anyway, and I can't just forget about it. It's like telling somebody to forget about the fact they're bleeding out. I'm not

even sure why I feel that way, but there's a ball of anxiety inside my chest that's bigger than my heart that seems to have swallowed my heart whole, and I know if I don't do something about it, then it's going to start eating me from the inside out. I scanned down her info page again, but I didn't miss anything. There's a box for comments she's made on other people's writing, and I read the first too. Both are for a story called Pinch. Hey, wait, I used to have bad dreams about being tickled too when I was a kid, and I thought I saw this building, but is this something you made up or did you hear it from somewhere? I've got chills. It was dated over a month ago, and the second comment was added a few minutes after the first. Like, when I say I saw it,

I didn't mean for real or anything. I'm not crazy. Or maybe I am, L.O.L. How do you delete comments? It's like listening to a ghost talking, and I still can't quite fathom the idea that the girl who wrote that, whose delicate fingers trace their way over her keyboard, isn't here anymore. I'm suddenly wondering what will happen to my stories when I die, and the thought of them being up there forever, a little piece of me left behind for eternity makes a shaft of dread yawn open inside me. I click on the link to the story because it's the only thing I can do to chase the cold the way. Pinch, added by Unknown on 221, 2016. I haven't read it before, and the author is anonymous. It's a popular story, though. There are almost a thousand likes, over a hundred

comments. I slide down the page to see that it isn't long. I don't want to read it, and I don't even know why. I don't want to read it, but I do. because she did, added by unknown on 221, 2016. When I was 14, my parents divorced, and being the kind of girl who loved her fun dad more than a bitch mom, I went to stay with him. He lost most of his savings and his pension in the split, that God knows Mom didn't deserve it,

so he could only afford a gnarly apartment on the second floor of a 10-story walk-up. He lost my brother too, because Jason was 12 and too young to detach himself from mum's teat, so to speak. But Jace would come and visit us every now and then, sleeping in my room, and my dad had a PS4, so he was happy about it. Dad's place was, I guess, old is the best word for it. Not like antiquy or quaint,

not down to Abbey for sure. It was more like an old person. It stank of piss out in the corridor. Pieces were falling off it. Wallpaper peeled like old skin, and the ceilings were broken bone, bowed in the middle. It was a building that sat there day after day waiting for death, and I was amazed it held

on for as long as it did. To begin with, it was good. After months of listening to my parents threatening to knock each other's teeth out, I relished the silence, the calm. I mean, it wasn't actual silence. You could hear everything from every single apartment in the building, and you heard some weird things for sure. But it was a kind of silence because I wasn't crouched in the corner of my room trying not to hear it.

I wasn't waiting for the door to smash open and their rage to just spill inside and drown me. The rooms were big, mine easily wide enough for two beds, and I felt like I had a palace all to myself. I'd sit and read or listen to music or draw. I was actually happy for the first time in forever. So happy that at first I didn't even notice the bruises. I stopped reading, shivering. It's a typical creepy pasta, and even though I've read a thousand of them over the years, still makes my skin fold into goose flesh.

I take a breath, hearing Mom downstairs on the phone, hearing my little brother next door yelling at his TV. I'm safe here. I am. They started small, clustered like rotting grapes around my knees, my ankles. It was dad he spotted them first, glancing at me as I walked out of the shower one day and asking me if I'd joined the wrestling team. I counted seven of them that first morning,

all on my left leg. They didn't hurt, but just knowing they were there made my skin tingle. I figured I'd just been restless in my sleep or smacked my knees on the desks at school. It was only when I looked again a few days later and saw another four bruises on my right knee. These ones bigger.

But I started to worry. These ones did hurt. I kept track of what I was doing during the day, But there were no accidents, no collisions, nothing to explain the fact that I woke up the next day with a bruise the size of an apple right beneath my left ribs. I didn't want to tell anyone. You'll probably think I'm insane,

but the truth was my parents had just divorced. I was living with my dad, and I know how much people leap to conclusions these days. The honest truth was, I didn't want the school nurse to tell the social worker, then the cops to show up one afternoon and take dad in for questioning. My dad wasn't perfect, not even close. But I knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was no way he'd ever hurt me.

Besides, the divorce seemed to be hitting him harder the longer he was away from mum. He'd grown thin and gaunt and I noticed a lot more grey in his hair. I just didn't want to worry him. The only explanation for the bruises was that I was doing something in my sleep, something weird. And that made sense too because it had been a rough ride and I had my fair share of nightmares. I think of the witch and the hair on the back of my neck turns electric. like there are fingers weaving through it. Grabbing the laptop, I shuffle back until I'm leaning against the headboard,

and I push with my legs until I hear the headboard hit the wall. No space for her to climb through. So that night I forced myself to lay awake. It was harder than you might think. There was an air conditioning unit in the living room window at Dad's Place, and he'd leave it running all night. It made an almost perfect white noise, and that sound would knock me out faster than a fistful of sleeping pills.

But I made coffee and kept the lights on and watched videos on my phone, intending to stay up all night if I needed to. It was about half past 11 when I heard Dad laughing. I didn't even know it was him at first because it didn't sound like his laugh. It was too high, giggling like he was a teenage girl. I swear my heart almost stopped. I actually felt it squeeze like there was a hand around it. I was out of my bed in a heartbeat, leaving the well-lit safety of my room and feeling my way down the short stretch of corridor to where Dad slept. As I walked, he laughed

again and again. He must have been having one hell of a dream. I picked around his door, into an ocean of darkness. His room was huge too, and his bed lay on the far side of it. The longer I stood there, the more I could make out. He was moving around like he was wrestling with somebody, the covers rucked up and half on the floor. I couldn't actually see him. The dark over the bed was too great, too thick. He was still laughing, but it was different now. I can't really explain how, just that it wasn't a good laugh anymore. It wasn't a fun laugh. It was almost a scream, grunting, punched out of him again and again and again. I opened my mouth to say his name and he suddenly stopped. He fell still, and the darkness on top of him turned around and looked right at me.

I can't explain it any better than that. The darkness moved, and it had a face, too, eyes as yellow as moons and a corpse's mouth that split open into a grin. I remember the scream was too big to fit up my throat. It was wedged there. Then it suddenly burst free like vomit, loud enough to flood the room, and Dad sat up in bed, the darkness just not there anymore. He fumbled for his lamp and there was just him and his room and me still screaming. He got up, hugged me tight, put me back to bed. It was just a dream, he told me. Just a dream. And I would have believed him if I hadn't seen the red marks on his stomach and the old yellow bruises that decorated his ribs. I didn't want to sleep that night, or ever again. But dad stayed by my bedside until I dropped off.

I remember my sleep being restless, and my dreams were full of darkness, a darkness with eyes like cracked eggs, a darkness that grinned at me. When I woke, I was in pain. I actually winced as I got out of bed. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my room, I saw that my torso was more bruised than skin. It looked like I'd been in a car accident. I covered it up like I always did, and went for breakfast. Dad was worse than ever, still not eating. I asked him what the matter was, but he just shrugged and told me he needed time. I noticed that he seemed to to be in a lot of discomfort when he moved, and I almost mentioned what I thought I'd seen the night before. But I was scared, because I didn't want this boat to be rocked. I didn't want

to risk being sent back to my mum. I just kept telling myself that we were both stressed and both prone to nightmares. The following night, I decided to stay up again. I wanted to prove to myself that there was nothing to worry about. I picked a good book to read and poured myself a mug of coffee, and after Dad had gone to bed, I crept out of my room into the living room. From here I could see right into his bedroom, although it was too dark to see anything much at all. It was like that door was a threshold and anything beyond it was part of a different universe. It started again at 1137, a low, rumbling laugh from Dad's room. My heart lurched so hard I thought it had cracked my ribs. I leaned forward on the sofa and stared into his room,

seeing nothing but hearing that same laugh, the rustling of his covers and a thump like the bed had been shunted across the bare floor. Dad laughed again, this time loud enough to wake the entire apartment building, and it went on and on, rising into a scream. It was this that pulled me up from the sofa, sent me stumbling through the living room and out into the corridor. I pushed open his door and slapped my hand to the light, trying to ignore the grunting, ugly, miserable laughs that poured from the shadows around his bed. Nothing happened. The room stayed dark. I called his name, but my voice was lost in the sounds he was making. The laughter like somebody being tortured.

I flicked the switch, back and forth, but it was like the night had a hand over my eyes. I couldn't see a single thing. I called his name again and again, fumbling for my phone, switching on the torch and shining it at the bed just as the room felt quiet. Dad was sitting up. His covers thrown around him, his torso wet with sweat. He was sitting up and looking at. right at me. His face twisted into such a monstrous grin that every single one of his teeth was

visible. I didn't think it was him. I thought that someone else crawled into his flesh and was wearing him like pajamas. He just stared at me and grinned that joker grin and I staggered back the light from my torch swinging in my shaking hand. And that's when I saw her standing beside his bed. She was too tall, too thin. Her arms like broomsticks. hanging by her side, her eyes glowing in the light from my phone. My whole body jolted like I'd had an electric shock. I tripped and fell back and the wall cracked my head like a bat. I was lying there until morning, until Dad woke me. He moved me to the sofa, laid me there while he went to call an ambulance, but I told him I was okay that I'd just tripped in the dark

when I went to get water. He called in sick, and to look at him you'd think he was sick. I couldn't even remember the last time it'd eaten something. I wish I had. I wish I had. had let him call for an ambulance because they would have taken one look at him and put him in a hospital bed next to me. I waited until lunchtime before I asked him about the laughter. He looked at me like I was mad, swatting away my words with a wave of his hand. So I asked him about his bruises, and he was about to deny them too when I made him lift his shirt. It was like he was seeing them for the first time, and if it was possible for him to grow paler then, he did. They were everywhere now, a band of them around his ribs, malignant and dark.

He looked at me and told me he didn't understand, so I took a deep breath and told him what I'd seen. I showed him my bruises too, and it was then that he started to cry. The rest of the day was spent in silence, not because we didn't have anything to say, but because we were waiting. I wanted to get out of the apartment. I needed to get out, but Dad refused to go, refused to believe that what we were experiencing

was anything more than a bad night's sleep. So I made him promise me something. I made him promise me that he'd set his alarm for 11.30 and that he'd keep his lights on all night. So he sat and watched Telly and waited for the sun to die. I pretended to go to sleep. But as soon as I heard Dad snores, I moved to my sentry position on the couch. He did as he'd been asked, leaving his light on.

And at 11.30 I heard the soft beep of his alarm. He rolled over, sat up, oblivious to me watching him. He turned his alarm off, scrolling through something on his feet. phone. I counted the minutes, ticking them off until 1137 had been and gone. At 1142, he switched off his light and went back to sleep, but I didn't move. I didn't want to leave him. I would wait there until morning, I thought. I wouldn't even close my eyes. The next thing I knew, I was dreaming, I'm sure of it. Something was sitting on me in the dream, something made of night. It lifted its fingers, each as long and as thin as the handle of a wooden spoon. And before I could do anything,

it dug them into my ribs hard. It was excruciating. It was agony like being a kid again and being tickled too hard. Its hands were in my sides, between the bird bones of my chest pinching, tickling, and all I could do was laugh. Not a good laugh, it was a scream, punctuated by haggard, wrenching breaths. I fought it, but in my dream it had no body, just those hands, and I couldn't stop it, I couldn't stop it. I laughed, screamed, grunted, my whole body bucking, my lungs empty, and still its two long digits borrowed themselves into my skin, trying to grind their way into the meat between my ribs, tickling, tickling, tickling.

It spoke. Just one word whispered over and over. Pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch. I woke, the world snapping back around me. The living room, the lights blazing, everything back to normal apart from the void of darkness right above me, the weight of night that sat heavy on my stomach. Its two hands were made of shadow, but they drilled into me like machinery, tickling relentlessly. Its head peeled open, those sunken eyes full of rancid delight, the sucking pit of its mouth dripping laughter. And I was laughing too, I couldn't stop myself.

It was this, the sound I was making more animal than huge. It was this awful, unrecognizable laughter that tipped me right to the edge of madness. Dad called my name and the darkness flew off me instantly, seeming to cartwheel across the room and up into the shadows of the ceiling. Dad was standing in the living room door, his face full of sleep. I rolled off the couch, my head a seething mess of white noise. He stumbled toward me, trying to calm me, but all I could feel was those fingers digging for treasure in my sides. All I could see was the thing that tickled me, and still hissed that word from where it hung upside down in the corner of the room. Pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch. I ran, wrenching open the door and

heading out into the apartment building. I didn't know where I was going. I just had to get away. Every door was closed, but I could hear voices from behind all of them, maybe the same voice, chanting, laughing, crying. I ran, stumbling up the stairwell, third floor, fourth floor, those voices chasing me, forcing me higher, higher, until I burst out into a corridor on the seventh floor and saw the door. And I knew that I was supposed to be here. I don't know how, but I knew that she was waiting for me. I knew she should keep me safe. The door was open, but all I could see was the floor and part that a kitchen with a table full of me. Then she heard me. I could sense her, and she breaks. Break breaks. It ends here. Nothing below but

comments, and most of them asking what the hell happened next. I close the laptop, suddenly aware of the way my heart is throwing itself against my ribs, as if there are long, thin fingers wrapped around it, tickling hard. It's a good story, one of the better ones on creepy, but that's not the reason I feel like the temperature has dropped 100 degrees in here. I opened the laptop lit again, looking at those last few lines. I knew that I was supposed to be here. I don't know how, but I knew that she was waiting for me. I knew she'd keep me safe. The words beneath that don't make a lot of sense. They've been written that way on purpose, like it's a broken radio signal or something. But there's enough there for me to have a go. There's enough there for me to guess what she was trying to write, what she saw through that

door, a kitchen, I think, with a table full of meat. I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about pinch and thinking about her, the dead girl. I think about her so much that I feel almost like I see her, a flash of a smile in the corner of my eye every time I turn my head. It's just screenburn and exhaustion, but even so, it scares me downstairs pretty quick. You okay? Mom asked, me this as I walk into the kitchen, not because of this morning, but because it's the same thing she asks me at the start of every conversation. She worries a lot, my mom. I nod, sitting on a bar stool and pressing my thumb down on the crumbs that still lie on the

island. Mom doesn't seem to be doing anything other than standing by the sink. She's tracing the plug hole with one finger, tracing it in tight circles. The faucets running like a fire hose. What are you doing? She shrugs, lifting her hand and staring at her finger. There's something on the end of it. I was speaking to somebody.

She told me that Kara girl was a bad kid in all kinds of horrible stuff. Yeah? Cut herself, all up and down her arms, legs too. used to skip classes with her boyfriend and tramp across town, but God only knows where. She was on the edge of getting kicked out altogether. Only the fact her father donated so much money to the school kept her in. I nod again. I can't decide if this makes me feel better or worse.

Kara didn't look like a bad kid, but then again, all I had to go on was a bunch of Facebook photos. She killed herself. I flinched so hard my stool. scrapes across the floor. Mom, I say, but I've got nothing to follow it with. I knew it anyway, right? But it sounds different coming from her mouth. Sounds different when you say it like that.

But they don't know how. They say they've never seen a body like hers before. It was like somebody had taken a bat to her. It's like somebody has taken a bat to me too. My gut, a clenched fist. Mom's still standing there, staring at her finger. She hasn't even looked at me. And I know it's because somehow, in her head, she's conflated me with this whole thing.

I'm linked to the dead girl, and now it's me who skipped classes, who hangs out with my boyfriend slicing up my arms with a cheap razor. It's how her brain works. They say they didn't find all of her. They searched that room a hundred. hundred times and they didn't find all of her. I swallow the image down, compacting the crumbs between my fingers and thumb, feeling the little implosions as they cave into the pressure.

I feel like I'm about to implode too because the kitchen feels too hot, the wall's too close, and my head is pounding. I stick the same finger into the collar of my shirt and pull it away from my neck. I'm about to change the conversation when, and something occurs to me. Why do they think she did it to herself then? I mean, nobody beats herself up, cuts pieces off or whatever. Then, you know, I mime the action because it's easier than saying it.

That doesn't make any sense. I didn't say she committed suicide. Mom slides her finger, the same one she's just been using to wipe the sink, into her mouth like it's a popsicle. It's in there for a full 30 seconds before it pulls free, as wet as a slug. She stares at it, lost somewhere. Mom? I didn't say that. I didn't say she committed suicide.

You... I get off the stool because it suddenly feels like it's lost three of its legs. Even the ground feels as if it's tilted, and I cling to the edge of the island to stop myself rolling downhill, rolling into that weird, rotting stain on the wall. You said she killed herself. You just said it. Yeah.

Mom finally looks at me. She killed herself. She didn't commit suicide. She killed herself. She murdered herself. She killed herself. What? I'm about to push it when the doorbell goes.

I don't even wait to see if mom moves. I just want to get the hell out of that kitchen. The silhouette at the door is familiar, and I'm almost giddy with the relief of knowing Flint's standing on the other side of the glass. You're here, I say, pulling the door open. She's rocking back and forth on her heels, a massive grin plastered over her face. There's something different about her, and I can't quite figure out what it is. You're not. She pushes past me.

It's after six. I thought if I didn't come and get you, you'd hide away here for the night and run. refuse to answer your phone. I know you in social gatherings, like two negative magnets bouncing off each other. She heads straight to the staircase and starts walking up it, not looking back. I glance at the hallway clock. It's about 10 minutes slow and still stuck on summertime. But she's right. It's after six. I have no idea how that happened. It must have taken me longer to read the story than I thought. Flint?

I closed the front door and follow her. You need the bathroom? Her voice floats down from the landing, weirdly muffled. You're not leaving this house like that. Come on, there's something up here for you. I glance into the kitchen to see that mom hasn't moved, still staring at her finger, the faucet blasting out white noise.

I walk to the stairs, put one hand on the banister, but I don't step up. I feel too heavy like gravity has doubled beneath our street. The air is so hot, so thick. Come on, Tommy, you'll like it, I promise. I haul myself up like I'm stuck in quicksand,

dragging myself around the bend to see Flint standing outside my bedroom door. She's running a hand through her hair, grining that same grin. Don't take too long. You never want to take too long. on the stairs, and you never want to stop. Why?

Because you don't know who's behind you. The goose flesh explodes onto my skin like I've been wrapped in cold, wet linen. I look down the stairs and mom's right at the bottom of them, staring up with dark eyes. I trip, fall, then make it to the top on all fours. If anything, it's hotter up here. The air seems to swim. Right there. Flint nods.

my bedroom door. You're going to love it. I don't know why she's lying to me. If she had something for me, why wouldn't she just give it to me downstairs? I glance at Donnie's door. It's closed, but I can still hear him in there shouting at his Xbox.

And it's just Flint. Whatever game she's playing, it won't be bad. She loves me. What's in there? Oh, something delicious. Something special. Go on. Look. I make my way to Flint, standing so close that I can feel the weight of her next to me.

I can feel the heat coming off her. My door is half closed and there's a bathrobe hanging on the back of it, but I can see a fraction of my bed through the crack. It looks almost like there's something on it, something big. You're so slow, you're going to miss it. The word slide into my ear on a needle. I look at her, then back again to see Mom at the top of the stairs. She must have moved like a ninja to get there so fast.

Whatever this is, Mom's obviously in on it. I feel myself blushing, like they've got me an early birthday present or something. When I push my head past the door, though, it's not a present I see on my bed. It's a girl. She's facing away from me, her legs over the side of the bed. Her face about three inches away from a laptop screen. She's rocking back and forth, ever so slightly, and I can hear her voice, too quiet to make out words.

What's going on? But Flint just smiles. I look back at the girl on the bed, ready to ask her the same question. But when I do, I notice she's wearing my clothes. Not just the same clothes I own, but the clothes I'm wearing right now. Now. She's got my hair, too, and my earring. It's me. I'm looking at myself. She's not you. Flynn's mouth is against my ear. She shoves me hard, and I stumble into the room. The floor seems to tilt again, as if the whole house has started to slide into a sinkhole, and I'm falling toward the bed, falling toward her. There's nothing I can do to stop myself. I kick a leg against the bed, but the foreman.

that's pulling me is too strong, and my knee buckles. I roll onto the mattress, grabbing the frame until my fingers feel like they're about to break. The girl's turning her head, slowly. I grip the bed, feeling like there's an invisible rope around my middle, the other end tied to a truck. I think I'm screaming, but I can't be sure. There's no sound other than her frantic whispers, as soft as distant bird wings. Her head turns and turns. turns like an owl, and when it turns enough, I see that the girl doesn't have a face. Her skull is a smooth pink hollow, an empty shell. My fingers snap free and I accelerate into her, into that awful, sucking absence of her face.

We hit like we're both traveling at 60 miles an hour, the impact knocking the wind out of me, sending the laptop clattering off my lap. It hits the floor hard, and I jolt onto my feet, backing away from the bed so hard. I almost stand on it. There's nobody there. Nobody there. Just me, right here, on the edge of tears, is literally the only word I can think of.

I must have fallen asleep sitting on the edge of the bed. Christ, my heart's apoplectic. It's frothing at the top of my throat. I bend down to pick up the laptop, but before I can, I hear Mom scream my name. Tommy! It almost sounds like she's in the bathroom. I can hear the gallop of water as she moves in the bath.

Go get the goddamn door! What? I'm so disoriented. The room feels like it's turning in slow circles. It's almost too much for me to walk to my bedroom door, but I manage it, peering into the empty corridor. The bathroom door is open, and I can see Mom right there, soaking in the tub. She eyeballs me and I take the hint, dropping down the stairs.

The kitchen's empty, but the faucet is still running, and its flint's silhouette I see trapped in the glass of the front door. You're here, I say, when I open it, falling into a yawning pit of deja vu. She smiles at me, running a hand over her shaven head. You're not. She pushes past me. It's after six. I thought if I didn't come and get you, you'd hide away.

here for the night and refuse to answer your phone. I know you and social gatherings, like... Magnets. She tilts her head in confusion. Yeah. Negative ones. You okay? You look like you've just seen your mom in the milkman doing the naked fandangle on the dining room table. I'm... I'm not okay. I need to center myself, so I open my arms and Flint reacts instantly, moving into them. I hold her tight, pushing my face into her neck. smelling the sweet smell of her, the not my house smell of her. It's enough, and my heart calms. My mind stills.

She doesn't let go until I do. I thought I told you no more stories. She runs a hand over my head. This thing has sucker punched you. No more stories. But definitely a night out. I'm about to say it's the last thing I want to do, but that's a lie. The last thing I want to do is walk up those stairs and look into my room and see a girl with no face sitting on my bed.

Sure, definitely. Just give me a minute. I'm not exactly dressed up, but it's not exactly prom. I grab a jacket from the hook and yell upstairs. I'm going out. Don't wait up. Mom shouts something back, but I lose it behind the sound of Flint opening the door. I let her go, running into the kitchen and turn. turning off the faucet, instantly wishing I hadn't.

There's something in the sink, something slick and red and raw, something surrounded by trails of thick, oily liquid, as if it's been pushed around in circles. It almost looks like the top joint of a finger. This book will kill you, written by Alexander Gordon Smith, adapted for audio by

Jessica McAvoy, produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski, musical score composed by Brandon Boone. This book will kill you. The second part, starred Jessica McAvoy as Tommy Bright, Kristen DiMecurio as Flint, Ilana Charnel as the unknown author, Dan Zepula as Donnie, and Aaron Lillis as Tommy's mother.

Join us next week for this book will kill you. The third part. The sun creeps above the horizon. The darkness slowly fades for now. But you will fear the darkness once again as you remain sleepless. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Browell. Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our program, please visit the nosleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us and for being sleepless. 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 audio program is permitted. without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.