The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep13: NoSleep Podcast S18E13

Episode Date: September 25, 2022

Tune in to Episode 13 of Season 18 for warped reality.“Adieu” written by Alex Woodroe (Story starts around 00:00:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Cummings“Nothing” written by Douglas Smith (Story starts around 00:05:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Man – Mike DelGaudio, Woman – Mary Murphy“Bait” written by Ashton Le (Story starts around 00:13:40)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Man – Matthew Bradford“The Bright Side” written by Noah Sarvey (Story starts around 00:36:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Dan – Graham Rowat, Sarah – Linsay Rousseau"This Book Will Kill You - Part 3" written by Alexander Gordon Smith (Story starts around 01:09:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jessica McEvoy as Tommi Bright, Kristen DiMercurio as Flint, Matthew Bradford as Marcel, Kyle Akers as the Frat Boy, Sarah Thomas as Megan, Wafiyyah White as the Passerby, Erika Sanderson as the Witch, Dan Zappulla as Donnie, Erin Lillis as Tommi's mother.“Vinyl and a Veneer of Safety” written by Melissa Rose Rogers (Story starts around 01:07:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Baritone – Atticus Jackson, Tenor – Matthew Bradford“Red Lake” written by K.P. Taylor (Story starts around 01:18:25)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Narrator’s father – Mick Wingert, Jacky – Mary Murphy, Jacky’s father – Jesse Cornett, Jacky’s mother – Nichole Goodnight, CDC spokesman – Kyle Akers, News anchor – Mike DelGaudio“Empire of the Moon and Stars” written by Simon Bleaken (Story starts around 01:48:50)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Stu – David Ault, Kaz – Erika Sanderson, Delv – James Cleveland, Stoker – Andy Cresswell, Figure – Jake BensonThis episode is sponsored by:Quip - Quip is the good habits company for oral health. With their leading-edge electric smart toothbrush combined with dentist-recommend scheduled replacement plans for brush heads, toothpaste, floss, chewing gum, and mouthwash - Quip makes oral care easy and affordable. And if you go to getquip.com/nosleep right now youíll get your first refill FREEClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Horror and OperaClick here for the Horror and Opera: Nosferatu KickstarterClick here to learn more about Alex WoodroeClick here to learn more about Douglas SmithClick here to learn more about Melissa Rose RogersClick here to learn more about K.P. TaylorClick here to learn more about Simon BleakenExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Bait” illustration courtesy of Emily CannonAudio 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

Do not, under any circumstances, interrupt this broadcast. They're here. Look around you. There's a spot in that room where the air is thicker. Has that waver in your daily surfaces always been there? You won't want to believe it, but they're already altering our perception, and we need to fight back. You can't trust anything you see or hear or taste or touch. Trust only the thoughts you've already had before this.

And smells. They can't seem to alter smells. Do not trust anything new. Do not listen to any foreign language you suddenly understand. Do not approach anything that smells like something it isn't. They spread from when we form new connections. They develop into new espas. Do not open your mind.

be very still experience nothing there's either a cure somewhere in what we already know and we'll find it or there isn't if there isn't

the sun has gone down it's dark outside night time 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. You've got to pay attention to what's going on out there. Things are changing. subtly and insidiously, as we learned from author Alex Woodrow, from the tale I shared as this episode's cold open. Adieu. The Halloween season is quickly approaching,

and a haunted virtual opera theater once again opens its mysterious gates. Horror and opera is founded and single-handedly run by a one-woman horror composer and trained operatic singer, Alia. You know Alia from the great illustrations she's done for our podcast, as well as some original music she's created for us, especially in the Gold Meadow universe. The Horror and Opera Venture is dedicated to exploring the best public domain classics of silent horror cinematography and bringing these classics to life by composing and scoring original operatic soundtracks to match the atmosphere of the films.

Last year, horror and opera delivered an original and critically acclaimed rescoring of Benjamin Christensen's film, Haxon, that received an honorary designation, Projects We Love, from the Kickstarter platform, along with being reviewed by horror media trendsetters like Rue Morg and Horror News. This year, you're invited to celebrate the 100th anniversary of F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu, as Aaliyah is working on a truly special score to match the 1922 classic. The operatic vocals for this film will be recorded in a church with genuine chavoured. Apple Acoustics, and you can follow the journey and contribute to the project on her recently launched Kickstarter campaign. You can own your very own copy of a digitally restored public domain version of the film with the new original soundtrack on a cute, branded, coffin USB drive.

Check the show notes to learn more about this exciting project and how you can support it via Kickstarter. Horror and opera, Nosferatu, a project you can sink your teeth into. And now we offer for your approval a series of stories we hope will make you sleepless. In our first tale, we meet a couple in the midst of a disagreement. Is it a minor issue like laundry left on the floor or unlowered toilet seats? No, this time it's a bit more serious. And as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Douglas Smith, the woman feels like things are slowly changing.

No, no, not just changing. disappearing. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgadoo, and Mary Murphy. So perhaps things are slowly devolving into a void. Perhaps this is incredibly serious. Or then again, maybe it's nothing, nothing. This is not the first time he says this. She watches him straighten his tie in the hall mirror, so he doesn't have to make eye contact, she thinks. I fear nothing. Then I must be fearless. I don't feel fearless. Leaning on the kitchen doorframe,

she hugs her faded blue dressing gown around her, as if she's holding the universe together. She's staying home again. He shakes his head. He does that a lot lately. I mean, there's nothing out there to be afraid of. He picks up his briefcase, ready for another day. But she knows that it's not just another day.

Nothing out there. Nothing? He stands by the front door of their little bungalow. Are you going into work? No. She watches his jaw muscles tighten, enjoying the clarity of predictable stimulus in response. Fine.

He leaves. She hears the car pull away, feeling no less alone than when he was here. She's sorry he's angry, but he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand that he's right. She is afraid of nothing. She makes toast and coffee, taking comfort in the routine. Mundane remnants of the way her world used to be.

At the kitchen table, she savours the smell of the coffee, the heat of the mug in her hand, the sharp edges of the toast in her mouth, the sound of its crunch, the sweetness of the jam. Each of her senses has become a lifeline, snaking out from her, seeking something tangible and a fading reality to which to anchor herself.

Later, sitting on the sofa, she holds the phone in her lap and sips her coffee even after it's cold, delaying. Finally, she dials her parents, punching the area code that is a plane trip away. And then their number, as if it were a combination to a lock, slowly, carefully. She listens, then hangs up. Yesterday it rang and rang. Today, it didn't even do that. Silence.

Nothing. A sense of loss fills her, but it tastes old and stale. She realizes that she lost her parents long ago, when the aura of protection they once gave disappeared. They can't save her. They couldn't even save themselves. Planning to distract herself by cleaning the house, she turns on the radio for some music.

but can't find her favorite station. She picks another and starts to dust. The station fades out to nothing. Not even static. Three more stations. Same thing. She turns the radio off and stops cleaning. She thinks of sleeping but decides against it.

Even her dreams are empty now. She sits and waits. He comes home at the usual time, but something has changed. What's wrong? She asks this over a dinner of leftovers in silence. Nothing. She waits. She knows.

I visited my client. She knows the one on the outskirts of the city. Yes. She knows what he'll say next. They're gone. Out of business? She plays the game for his sake, pretending that the world is still normal. Gone?

There's nothing there. Nothing. She looks up when he doesn't answer. He puts down his knife and fork, and she enjoys the solid click-clack they make on the kitchen table. He meets her gaze finally. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Picking up the knife and fork again,

he studies them as if unsure they're real. He shakes his head and goes back to eating. He's pretending it didn't happen. But she is beyond pretending. She saw his eyes. He knows. He goes to bed early. She stays up watching TV. Flipping channels as one by one, the city's station stopped broadcasting. She keeps flipping. The last station disappears. No test pattern. No static. Just a slow fade to a blank dead screen. She turns the TV off and sits in the dark. Sleep is not an option. She fears what she will wake to, or that it will come while she sleeps. The clock shows that it's morning.

She doesn't open the curtains. The gray that creeps around their edges is not sunlight. He should be awake by now. She listens for his morning sounds. Nothing. She rises and walks upstairs, feet silent on the worn carpet. Up here, the floor, the ceiling, the wall. All seem thin, insubstantial.

A paleness oozes under their bedroom door. More a rejection of both darkness and light than an actual color. Leaving the door unopened, she backs away. It is too late for him. He is gone. He is nothing. She goes back downstairs and sits on the sofa. To wait.

Alone. Now she is truly alone. It comes. eating first through the corners of the room, devouring walls and ceiling, crawling across the freshly vacuumed carpet towards her. She realizes, as it consumes the very space around her,

that she is the center of a dwindling ball of reality. Or perhaps, she thinks, as it draws closer, this world is simply escaping to join with it. It touches her, and she knows. He was right all along about what she feared. It is nothing. Nothingness. Void.

Nothing exists here. No light, no sound, no smell, no taste. Nothing to touch or be touched by. Only her thoughts exist here. And even they begin to flee her. Not to escape, but to join with the void. As they leave her, she feels herself joining with it as well. Soon there will be no identity, no separation from it.

No her, her last thought forms, departs. She is... Fishing is a popular pastime. It can be a relaxing way to spend your time. floating on a quiet lake, line dipped into the water, waiting for the fish to nibble. But in this tale, shared with us by author Ashton Lee, we meet a man who's not catching much fish lately, and that makes him anything but relaxed. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis and Matthew Bradford.

So prepare your fishing rod, check the line, and don't forget the main thing. Make sure you've got bait. slowly died down as my wooden boat made it to the middle of the lake. Picking up my fishing rod that laid in it, I reached my hand inside a rusted tin can. There, I picked out a worm squirming with a liveliness that was sure to catch the attention of the fish. Stabbing it through the hook of my rod, I pulled it back and cast it out into the still waters of the lake. After the ripples from my rod settled themselves, the lake became completely calm and quiet, with only a light breeze rustling the leaves. It was quite early

in the morning, so I had a bit of time to wait for a bite. But the longer I waited, the louder and more intense, a certain sound got a scratching. It was nails drowned in water running across a piece of wood. It wasn't just one, but many all scratching at the bottom of my boat. It was, you know, trying to carve away at it bit by bit. As the sound grew louder, I could almost feel the vibrations coursing from the bottom of my boat to my very core. And the sound became too loud when the feeling of it harmonizing with my bones became too chilling. I quickly pulled back my rod and shifted my weight slightly to rock the boat. The small movement always drives them away for a little bit.

When I drew back my line, however, the worm was unmoving. Dead. And dead worms are not the best bait that you can have. So I just threw the worm out into the lake and grabbed another one from my tin can, a livelier one. I repeated the process of stabbing the worm through my hook, casting it into the waters of the lake and waiting in utter silence. When the sound of scratching became too unbearable, I rocked my boat, redrew my line, replaced the worm, and recast my hook.

This continued on until I swore that I'd thrown more worms into the lake in one day than bodies in my lifetime. Unfortunately, today wasn't a good day for fishing. Not a single one bit my hook. It had been like this recently, but it had been like this recently, but, I had some fish stocked up for the upcoming days so that I wouldn't starve. If push came to shove, however, I could probably excite the lake with the bits of meat I had stocked up for the worms. As the starry night led into the dawn sky, I started up the engine to my wooden boat again and drove it back towards my small pier.

I looked down into the waters of the lake as I guided the boat. Something stared back at me, asking for its next meal. It hadn't eaten for a couple of months now, only feeding on the little bits of meat stuffed inside the worms. I tried to tell it to give me more fish, and maybe I would find something, but it only growled back in response, causing the waters of the lake to tremble.

I eased my boat into the rotting pier, overgrown with plants. As bad as it looked, the boards were still stable. As I stepped onto the pier, the boards wailed under my weight. But no matter how much pressure I put onto it, I knew that they'd never snap. Not when they still had some food in their bellies. I picked up the rope, sprawled across the boards, and tied the boat to one of the legs of the pier.

My shack wasn't too far from there, only a little beyond the grassy hills in the ditches. distance. Taking my old fishing rod and a rusty tin can, I went back to my shack before the sky has turned completely dark. As I approached the door, I noticed that something was awry. The chains and locks binding the door were broken, sprawled against the floor. But that didn't stop me from swinging the door wide open to reveal what was inside of my shack. Stop right there. The setting sun

slightly illuminated a man aiming his rifle towards me Who are you? I looked the man up and down He was a little skinny But there was some meat on his bones Probably enough for the lake To feed on for a few months

Don't ask questions Drop everything you have Or I'll shoot it I did as the man told me Dropping my tin can and fishing rod The sound of the two objects suddenly dropping made the man flinch a little. Do you live out here? This is my home, yes, and it is quite rude to be suddenly breaking into it.

I... The man weakened. It seemed like he had some semblance of a moral compass. That would make things a lot easier on me. Don't worry, I won't harm you. I'm just an old man trying to survive from them. So, just put your rifle down and we can talk this out, okay? The man contemplated my words for a few seconds before lowering his rifle.

Okay, sorry for that. I just, you know. I reached down to pick up my fishing rod and tin can, still keeping my eyes and my eyes. on the man. No, no, I understand. Ever since they came, right? The man shuddered, as he recalled some memories. Yeah, I... The man quickly shook his head to stop the thoughts from coming back. Anyways, how long have you been living here? I saw you had quite a bit of food, and... It was clear this man wanted a bite of the fish, though it would cut into my... food supply it wouldn't be a bad idea to fatten him up or the fish that's from the nearby lake I go down to fish every day though recently I haven't been turning up

with much I took a step into my shack and though the man seemed worried he stopped himself from doing anything rash if it isn't too much to asking for food from the same person whose house you just broke in Into definitely didn't sit right with the man, so I just completed his thought for him. Of course, you could have some to eat. After all, we have to help each other out during these times. Man stayed quiet as I started to gather everything to cook. After bundling a few sticks together and lighting them on fire, I brought out two skewers and stabbed them through the fish I had in my icebox.

Once the flames grew big enough, I threw some logs onto the sticks. Once the fire was started, I handed the man a skewered fish. Here, cook this over the fire. The man stared at the fish a little dumbfoundedly. Don't just stare at it. Cook it. Oh, yeah, it's just, how are these things unaffected by the sludge?

Thankfully, I've been lucky enough to live near a lake that's been unaffected. Even the water is clean enough to drink from. And you haven't seen any of those creatures come by? No, I haven't. Seems like they actively avoid this lake for some reason. Really? Putting the man's shocked face aside,

I started to cook my fish over the fire. After a few seconds, the man followed suit, his face twisted into thought. Under the night sky and within the presence of a warm crackling fire, I ate as I fattened up my precious little worm. I suddenly remembered that there was something I needed to do. What is it? Nothing. I just need to leave something out for the worms tomorrow.

The worms? Yes, the worms. We need to have some lively bait to care. good fish. The man nodded slowly in understanding. As I stood up from the ground and headed back towards my shack,

I noticed the man was trailing me a bit. Do you want something? No, I just wanted to learn how to fish like you. I've just decided on staying here. I mean, it seems pretty safe, and there's a pretty good supply of food and water. I mean, if that's okay with you, of course.

I looked at the man's eyes. and smiled. Of course I'd be okay with that. Just watch carefully and listen closely, okay? The man nodded his head. After entering the shack, I brought out a damp piece of cardboard. Every morning, you want a good amount of worms to act as bait. Cardboard attracts worms, so every day you want to get a small piece like this

and cut it up even more. Taking out the knife in my pocket, I started to cut up the cardboard into smaller pieces. After getting a bunch, I went towards the back of my shack. There was a small hole with some worms already squirming around. I threw the cardboard into the hole. Just leave it overnight, and eventually a good amount of them will build up. I'll teach you how to fish tomorrow. Does that sound good to you?

Yeah, yes, of course Thank you so much for teaching me And letting me stay here I gave the man a light smile Anyways, why don't we head off to sleep We want to wake up early in the morning If we want to catch a lot of fish The man agreed and went inside

As he disappeared from my view I reached toward a small box That was pressed against my house Opening it up, I quickly took the rotting pieces of meat out and threw them into the hole, letting the worms fester on them. After that, I went back into the shack as well. I asked the man where he wanted to sleep, and he told me he was fine with sleeping on the floor, with his sleeping bag.

As the both of us lay in our respective beds, the man suddenly started to talk. Hey, have you ever seen anyone besides? besides me. Of course I have. Only a few have come and gone, however. Why do you ask? I was just wondering, I mean, if those creatures really avoid getting close to this lake, then isn't it like a safe haven? Couldn't we build a community here and use the lake's resources? We could. I left out how unstable the supply of fish could be and what it cost to appease the lake. We might be able to build a safe haven for people here and all survive together. It was at this point that I stayed completely silent.

Well, I guess we could iron out the details tomorrow, so let's just sleep for now. Finally, the man started to drift off. Safe haven. I couldn't help but laugh to myself. Was anything here a safe haven? No, it was a prison From the boards of the pier To the walls of my house

And even the fish that we ate It was all a piece of a greater hole The lake I was a prisoner to it Letting my morality be scratched away Bit by bit just to survive Under its guidance And this man

He was just another piece of bait For the lake But first I had to prepare him, stuff him up just like a worm. So I listened to the man's breathing and heartbeat, paying attention to the rhythm. The heart of a sleeping man, the breathing of a sleeping man. I knew it all too well. I didn't know how long it passed, how long it took until the man's breathing and heartbeat was finally slow enough, quiet enough for me to stand up from my bed.

My steps were careful, so careful to the point where even if you strained your ears as hard as you could, it'd be unable to hear anything. I thanked the shack. Its boards did not strain, did not creak. It understood what I was trying to do and knowing it would get a piece of him as well. It kept quiet. I went towards a cabinet and slowly. wrapping my finger around the cold metal handle, I pulled it open. Inside of it was a long piece of rope,

stained at certain points with either blood, sweat, grime, or tears. I grasped it and slowly approached the sleeping man. Things could not have been any more perfect. He was stuffed into his sleeping bag, wrapped up nicely already. However, I needed to. to restrain him even further. Under the guise of the night I worked carefully, slowly, quietly. He needed to be alive, after all. It's the lively and squirming worms that attract the most attention from the fish. I started with his chest and arms, binding them tightly to each other. My work was quite messy, but just creating knots was enough to keep him in place. Despite all of my caution, I could sense that the man was starting to wake up as he groaned and moved.

I had, however, not finished tying him up, still needing to bind his legs. But after doing this so many times, I knew how to deal with situations like this. Throw away caution, throw away quietness, just quickly finished the job. And so I did. forcing his legs into position, uncomfortable or not, and creating knots upon knots upon knots until he had finally woken up. He started to scream, yell, and thrash around, trying to undo the rope that had kept so many before him in their place.

His movements were perfect. His screaming was superb. He would act as the perfect piece of bait. I couldn't wait anymore, and as the man continued to scream into the night, I grabbed my fishing rod and tin can. I went to the back of my shack to the worms that were festering on the flesh I had fed them. They were bloated, stuffed with such tantalizing meat that I could not have the liberty of eating. The lake, however, would give just a taste through those fish.

I gathered up the worms into my can, and with everything in order, I dragged the thrashing, screaming, and lively piece of bait towards the fear. The waters of the lake were no longer calm or quiet, and very distinct beats, ripples formed from the middle of the water and pushed outward, shaking in anticipation for food. I placed my bed. under the boat causing it to rock a little, but not enough for it to capsize. Calm down there. Don't use up all your energy before we get to the middle of the lake. Where we going? Please, let me go. Let me go. I stuffed his mouth with worms. Tears formed from the corners of his eyes as he tried to scream out. But the feeling of worms squirming in his mouth was too much.

Though it was a little early to be stuffing my bait, I was starting to get annoyed at his screaming. He was still thrashing and jerking, which was hopefully enough for the lake. Sturting up the engine to my boat, I started to drive it towards the middle of the lake. I grabbed the rope bound to the man, and after looking at his face one final time, I cast my rod. The rope was the line. the line with the knots with a hook, and the man was the bait. The lake would consume a good chunk of him, leaving some for the fish.

The fish would blow to their own stomachs, leaving straps for the worms. The worms would excrete what they had eaten into the soil, feeding my shack. I pulled my lime back after leaving him in the water for some minutes. His body was mangled beyond belief, but thankfully the sleeping bag covered most of it up. Leaving it in my boat so that I could take it back to the worms, I took my fishing rod and cast it into the lake. I received bite after bite, fish after fish, until my boat overflowed with hundreds of pairs of dead eyes. As the morning sunlight poured through the tree,

trees and onto the lake I could hear it again, scratching. But this time it was different. Another hand, five more fingers, five more nails trying to carve away at the bottom of my boat, hoping to bring me down with them. I decided to return with my harvest of fish and slowly eased into the pier. I stepped onto the board so that were no longer wailing from home. Longer, and I started to wonder just how much longer until I've thrown more bodies into the lake in my lifetime than worms in a day. Well, I guess the concept of the fish biting takes on a new meaning in that tale. In this case, you'd better be able to bite back. So let's pause briefly while I tell you about a great way to keep your teeth in healthy biting condition.

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That's your first refill free at G-E-T-Q-U-I-P dot com slash no sleep. Quip, the Good Habits Company. And now we positively must get back to the show. It's the best way to stay positive. There's a famous poem which begins, If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you. Yes, yes, if you can do that,

then you're a lot like the man in this tale. You see, he has a very positive outlook on life. But in this tale, shared with us by author Noah Sarvey, he finds that things have suddenly become rather chaotic. Good thing he'll be able to handle it. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Kristen DiMicurio. So learn a lesson from him. Stay calm, be positive, and always look on the bright side.

I think sleeping late is one of the greatest things in the world. I love being able to take my time and just ease into the day. No blaring alarm clock, no rush to get ready, no traffic. Instead, I lounge in the bed until I feel the nice warm sunshine on my face. Slowly I stretch my shoulders and back as I yawn, then reach to the side table for my glasses. I rise and peer out the window. Another beautiful day. Sure, you'd probably roll your eyes.

Believe me, I get it. None of these things used to matter much to me. I was too preoccupied with my work and all the hectic distractions in life. Now, though, I've come to see the importance of taking pleasure in all the little things. It helps a person stay positive, and positivity is the secret to my success. After all, compared to others, I'm doing pretty well. In fact, I'm doing just fine. I have a lot to be thankful for.

Each morning, I like to go through a mental list of all the good things in my life. I'm healthy. I'm young. Then there's this new house. I've really found a nice place here, and I hope to stay for a long time. Being up on the hill like this, there's a great view. I can watch the whole neighborhood. I walk downstairs to the kitchen.

My phone is waiting for me on the counter. I check it out of habit, and just as I expected, there's still no signal. It hasn't worked in a long time, but I don't let it bother me anymore. I like the quiet. It's so very, very peaceful now. And I've had more than enough stress lately. Yes, more than enough. I load a cake up into the machine and flick the switch.

Hazelnut cream, my favorite, and open up the pantry as I wait for the mother. to fill up. Breakfast time. Should I have oatmeal today? There's a large variety pack just behind the instant soup. The Quaker Oats man smiles at me from the box and I smile right back.

Apple cinnamon would be nice. Or maybe maple flavor. It all sounds so good. I really can't go wrong. I remember the jar of strawberry jam. I found it the other day in one of the cabinets. That's the ticket. I'll make

toast. Simple. Wonderful. Then I'll head back upstairs, leisurely drink my coffee at my favorite chair by the window, and watch the streets below. It'll be so nice to just chill. I have the whole day ahead of me. Plenty of time to make plans. Figure out what to do next. I grab my coffee mug and the bag of bread. I think I'll have two slices. What the hell? Nothing wrong with a little indulgence. I load them into the toaster, set the timer, and I take a nice slow sip of my piping hot coffee. It's perfect. Today, everything is perfect. The steam from the mug gets my glasses all foggy.

I take another sip and then wipe the lenses on my shirt, and for a moment the room goes all blurry as I squint. But beneath the electric hum of the toaster, I can hear something. It's hard to make out. very faint. If I hadn't stopped for a moment, then I probably wouldn't even have noticed it. I listen closely. But now there's just silence. I probably just imagined it. I'm probably not quite awake yet. It's fine. But then I hear it again. It's louder this time, and getting louder by the second. It's coming from outside. Down the street somewhere. I recognize it now. I wish I didn't. I wish very much that it would just go over. away. It's someone screaming. Suddenly, I'm not sure what to do. It's awfully hard to concentrate,

but I need to stay calm. I want to pretend nothing happened. I want to eat my toast with strawberry jam and just sit in the sun. That would be very nice. But the screams are getting worse. Someone might be hurt. Someone might be dying. There's the pile of furniture I shoved in front of the door and the side window, a bookshelf, a heavy table, and a few chairs. I carefully push everything aside. I check from the window, but I can't see anyone out there. The streets are still all empty. I'd better find out what's going on. Maybe I can help. That would be nice, I suppose. Yes, that would be very nice. I unlocked the door and slowly make my way down the steps.

I haven't been outside in a while. It's the perfect temperature this morning. Not too hot, not too cold. The spring air is sweet and fragrant. There are houses still burning off in the distance, across the river. Thick plumes of oily black smoke are drifting high into the sky, pierced by shafts of golden sunshine. It's beautiful.

What a beautiful day. I start walking down the hill, watching carefully. There's the screen. again. Sounds closer now. Good. I'd better start running. I can always use the exercise. Not a bad way to start your morning, all in all. Sure, my quiet routine was nice, but it's fun to change things up. In fact, maybe I'll start running more often. I'm at the bottom of Cedar Street when I see her, long black hair and a denim jacket. She's stumbling, limping badly. Looks like she lost one of her shoes, but otherwise she seems okay.

Oh. Oh, no, she's not okay. Not at all. She whirls around as she screams again with all her might, nearly falling over from the exertion. Her jacket is torn and so sticky with blood. There are two deep slashes across her shoulder, still oozing. She's talking to herself now, probably in shock.

She hasn't even noticed me yet. yet. Very bad. This isn't my emergency. I don't have to get involved. My coffee is getting cold. There's still time for me to get back to the house and relax. No, it's best to be neighborly. Do the right thing. That's it. I guess I'd better introduce myself. Good morning. What a day, huh? I wave to catch your attention. Startled, she turns and stares at me. She grimaces, both from pain and utter confusion. I smile right back. My name's Dan. I live up the next block. I point back in the direction of the house as she looks in stunned silence. She slowly tenses up, like she's getting ready to run, or fight. She opens her

mouth as if to say something, but stops, like she can't find the words. Her bloodshot eyes. Her bloodshot eyes. go wide, and then she squeezes them shut, shaking her head and clenching her fists as she sobs angrily. Oh, God! Oh, my God! Before I can take another step, she grabs my arm, hard enough to yank my shoulder from its socket. She's shaking me. I feel my glasses start to fall, but I catch them in time. I really should get them fixed. Do you have a car? Where's your car? We need to get out of here. She's absolutely frantic.

I'm starting to feel a little stressed myself. But meeting new people can be kind of awkward at first. It's fine. I gently take her hand from my arm. It's okay. We don't need a car. Isn't it nice out today? What the fuck are you talking about, please?

For God's safe. We've got to get out of here. Excellent idea. But first things first. Let's just take it easy. You want some coffee? Come on. We can go back to the house.

I'll show you the way. She looks at me like I'm speaking Russian, gasping for air. She sobs. She shows me back, and I lose my balance, staggering to the ground. Fuck you, help me! I can't run anymore. I've been running for miles. Good, that's a good thing.

I get up to my feet and dust myself off. No harm done. That means it probably lost the scent after a while. You know, I think you ought to come inside with me. I reach out and take her hand, but she pulls back and punches me in the stomach. I wasn't expecting that. It really hurts. It really, really hurts.

She's screaming again. Try to breathe. Deep breaths. Take a few deep breaths. Just breathe. No! That wasn't nice. I need to relax.

It won't do any good to get upset. I smile. I want to help you, but I think we're running at a time. Let's get back to the house. We need to hurry. She glars at me, but lowers her fists. I wait for her to follow as I start back up the hill. After a while, she comes after me.

Slowly at first, and then she tries to try. her best to catch up as she hobbles on her bloodied bare foot. Now, this is more like it. I start to whistle while I walk. Soon we're back, and she's cautiously following me inside. I make sure to show her that I'm locking the door behind us before I drag the furniture across the room and pile it back against the door. I grab a roll of paper towels from the bathroom

and discover some sports wrappings in the medicine cabinet. I run up to the bedroom and tear the pillow kit. into strips of fabric. Good. When I return to the kitchen, I see her standing by the door, tense and nervous. I've got some stuff for your shoulder. Let's get you patched up. She eyes the makeshift bandages. She shapes her head. Don't touch me. I smile, shrug, and watch as she painfully lowers herself into one of the chairs by the counter and slowly, miserably, starts winding the fabric around her arm.

Sure, it's not ideal, but the way I see it, there's no reason to let it ruin your day. Soon you'll be as good as new. I just know it. Believe me. She looks up from her arm and stares at me, quite unable to understand my outlook. You know, originally I was going to have some toast, but now I've worked up on appetite. I think I saw a carton of eggs somewhere around here. I'll make us a real breakfast.

Coffee will be ready in a second. My stomach tightens into a knot that I'm sweating. I can't remember what I'm doing. Oh, yes, I'm looking for a spatula. This will be nice. It's been a long time since I've had company. A very long time. If only I could stop shaking.

She's exhausted, but still watches me like a hawk as I search through the kitchen drawers. Finally, she slumps down, holding her head in her eyes. hands. I wish I could play some music. I say as I pour some vegetable oil in a pan. Music always makes things better. Hey, what's your name, by the way? I'm sorry, in all the excitement I forgot to ask. Sarah, my name's Sarah. Okay, Sarah. I hope you like your eggs sunny side up, because that's about all I can cook. Well, that and toast. We've got some very nice jam, too. It's perfect. You'll love it. We were trying to get to the highway.

Me, Cassie and Jimmy, and then something ran onto the road, flipped the car over. What's going on? What's happening? Should I tell her? I don't want to make her upset. I'd much rather enjoy spending time with my new friend. And yet, if only there was some way to cheer her up, there has to be a way. I have to make her understand. Things are changing.

changing very quickly, and that can make things tricky. But I found it helps to keep it all in perspective. I try to focus on the good things, like this house, for example. Door was wide open when I found it. Must have been my lucky day. And now you're here, and that's good. And isn't that what really matters? All the good things that make life worthwhile? Reminds me of that Buddhist story, you know? There's a monk, and he trips over the edge of a cliff. He grabs onto a vine, but it's starting to be a life. break and there's thousands of sharp, jagged rocks beneath him. He hears something and thinks maybe somebody's coming to help, but there's no one there. Instead, it's a tiger, a giant, ferocious tiger. It's getting closer and closer, leaning over the cliff to swipe at him with its claws.

What does he do? See, there's some wild strawberries growing off the face of the cliff. He reaches over and picks some, savoring each bite. The toast pops up from the toaster. I take one of the slices and smear a blob of jam over it. Sarah doesn't say a word. And I can't escape to her suspicious, bewildered glare, even as she takes the plate and mug of coffee. Gratefulness.

Yes. Peace of mind. That's what really counts. That's what Tim Palmer used to tell me. He loved that stupid story about the monk. Hey, let me tell you about my friend Tim Palmer. That'll be a good way to pass the time. time. I'll tell you how I got to know him and what he did. Tim Palmer was one of my first

patients. I'm a behavioral therapist, or I was up until three weeks ago. It seems like forever. Funny. Time is just so funny now. Working with Palmer was a difficult experience. Don't get me wrong, I really liked him. Nice guy, interesting, polite, but struggled with severe depression. And uncontrollable rage, nearly broke his wife's neck before the divorce, drove away all his friends and family. But that was all in the past. No reason to dwell on unpleasant things. Palmer was all about staying positive, looking forward, not backwards. He sincerely wanted to redeem himself, to become better and as quickly as possible. Maintained a journal. Did yoga, meditated every day. Most of his paycheck went to charities. But it was a little.

never enough. During our meetings, he report feeling anxious and dissatisfied. The guilt and the hopelessness. And above all else, the anger remained. And still he looked for a miracle cure. His determination turned into outright obsession. Jesus, he must have bought every self-help book ever published. After a while, he started calling me up in the middle of the night, demanding to know if I thought he was a good person. I told him it was an inappropriate thing to ask. And anyway, my opinion was ultimately irrelevant. What truly mattered was how he felt about himself. He didn't like my answer. Told me he would look for alternative treatments. Afterwards, things started to get out of hand. Ah, yes, all very unfortunate. Started going on these

weird religious retreats. Flew out to Europe and South America and visited dozens of hippie clinics that promised spiritual cleansing. I think he hoped to come back reborn, but there were no changes. He felt nothing. Again and again, he was left bitterly disappointed, and he hated himself for all these failures. But he kept at it.

He refused to submit to all his demons, as he would say. And so his dissent continued. Palmer started conducting little experiments on himself. One time, he told me he was dabbling in sensory, deprivation. Sleep deprivation came next. Then fasting. Then cutting and bloodletting. Weeks of isolation. Finally, hallucinogens of every flavor. I warned him that it was unhealthy and counterproductive. I tried so many times to steer him back towards conventional, effective methods of self-care. But he never listened. That sounds resentful. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so hard on him.

After all, he was only trying to feel better. Isn't that what we all want? My hands twitch as I crack the eggs into the frying pan, and flex of shell go everywhere. I watch them splatter in the hot oil. Oops, no big deal. I smile and shrug to Sarah as I toss everything into the garbage. She hasn't even touched her toast.

Maybe she isn't hungry. A red stain is soaking through the bandages around her shoulder. She keeps looking back at the door. Hyper-vigilant. She hears it, too. There's this quiet pulsing in the air. Almost electrical. If I hadn't stopped for a moment,

then I probably wouldn't even have noticed it. We're probably just imagining things. It's fine. We just need to relax. Please don't think about it. Eventually, I had no choice. I told them it would be best if I was no longer as therapist. It was the right thing to do. He agreed. Shirked my hand and said he was thankful for all my

hard work. Such a nice guy. I truly hoped he could find the solution he wanted so desperately. But even as I tried to focus on the needs of my other patients, I still heard about Tim Palmer from time to time. There were troubling rumors about his activities. They persisted for years, getting darker and darker until it stopped abruptly. I felt so relieved. It was very nice, actually. I'd have liked it if I'd never heard from him again. Ha, I would have liked that very much. I wish that he had just disappeared forever. But then I got the call in the middle of the night, just like old times. His voice sounded different, though. Scratchy, raw, like he'd been screaming. Palmer wanted to see me. Right away. He was very excited about some new breakthrough he'd made and couldn't explain it over the phone.

I should have known better than to get involved, but I was concerned about his well-being. And, to be perfectly honest, I had this morbid curiosity. He had a small house across the city in a bad neighborhood. The lawn had grown up into a sea of swaying grass with little islands of piled up tires and garbage bags. There must have been 50 people living there with him. A crowd of them had gathered on the porch to greet me. They were all so thin and pale, that all smiling so warmly when I approached.

They treated me like a dear old friend and gave me a tour of their empty rooms with dirty sleeping bags strewn all over the floor. Palmer was seated in the kitchen, in a deep trance. They approached him timidly, whispering in his ear that his former therapist, had arrived. His eyes lit up, and he stood to give me a very unwanted hug. I was only there for about 15 minutes, but it felt like ours. He rambled endlessly, as the others nodded and laughed with

joy, hanging on his every word. I could barely understand it. Something about poisoned in our minds, making us do bad things. He'd found a way to purge himself of the poison through dedicated mindfulness and resolute positivity and relentless optimism. After years and years, he had finally found a way to become the perfect man he always knew he could be. It was all happening that night, the big moment, the final experiment. He compared the procedure to removing a tumor, but it sounded more like performing an exorcism. Palmer asked me if I would doom the honor of witnessing his purification.

I politely declined. I notified the police on the drive home. Next morning, I heard all about it on the news. Something's outside. Something's scraping against the house. In a flash, Sarah jumps to her feet, spilling her coffee all over the counter. She's shaking.

She's looking around the room for something to grab, something to use as a weapon. It's outside the door now. There's a rhythmic tapping that's getting loud and louder, but we'll be okay. Look, I know you're scared and all fucked up. We're not safe here. We have to leave right now.

Tell me you've got a car somewhere. Of course we're safe. We're safe as could be. You just need the right attitude. When people started going missing, I had my assumptions. By the time the National Guard was rolling through town, I had it figured out. It's all Tim Palmer's fault. Sarah's got her back to the wall.

I don't think she's listening to me anymore, but she really should listen. I think it would be very helpful. He did it. I don't understand how, but he did it. Somehow that lunatic freak rewired his brain. Just not the way he wanted. Everything negative, everything dark, everything painful,

every bad thought and terrible memory in his head. All of Palmer's. demons coalesced into something physical, something real. It crystallized in his head, an entirely new form of life. Palmer must have died giving birth to it. It crawled out of him and, and it killed all the others. And it grew bigger and bigger. There's a loud banging against the door, but I'm sure it'll go away. The pile of furniture is shaking now. Isn't it nice to finally understand? The thing's completely mindless.

Blind and mindless. It's attracted to negative thoughts, like scrap metal to a magnet. Pain, anger, fear. I think it likes fear the best. So you have to stay positive now. That's what I do. I choose to feel good about the world. I look on the bright side.

Every minute of every hour of every day. And then I'm up all night. I barely get any sleep because it might catch the scent of my nightmares and track me down. Isn't that wonderful? Sarah doesn't seem to agree. You're completely fucking insane. She looks into my eyes with this angry, frightened look. I don't like it.

I don't like it one bit, especially as I feel my face start to fall into the same expression. The banging and scratching on the door is getting worried. Oh, no. Where's my smile gone? You might be right. There were others that would have agreed, but then they're all dead now. You know how it is.

We have to do what we can these days. Try to stay upbeat. I put my hand on her shoulder and pull her close. She squirms while I squeeze so tightly that my knuckles go white. We've got to stay alive. Oh, dear. Oh, no. She's brought it right to us.

It's breaking through. The barricades crashes over, and it pours itself inside. Oh, fuck. Oh, Jesus, God, please know. It's in the house now. Look away. Don't look. I can't close my eyes.

I see it. Before, I'd only caught glimpses of it, but now I see it fully. It moves. clumsily, skittering back and forth on hundreds of long, jagged legs, like an enormous cluster of black spiders all stuck together. Its body is like shrapnel, like a million shards of broken black glass, twisting and scraping and grinding against each other as it moves. There's no head. There's a writhing mass of long, glistening black filaments, wire thin, and razor shir. It shudders.

The filaments tremble and then whip back and forth excitedly. It knows we're here. I want to run, but I can't move. I can't even close my eyes. Don't think about, for God's sake, don't think about any of it. It's such a nice day. Such a beautiful day. It's all right.

Sarah grabs the chair, she was sitting on and raises it above her head, ready to smash it down on the thing if it gets any closer. But it's useless. We both know it. The filaments snap back. There's a red splash, and most of her face is gone. She falls to her knees, clutching at her head, still trying to scream without her jaw. All she can do now is make this awful, gurgling, choking noise. She sinks to the floor, and slowly it crawls over her body, flashing at her with its filaments and cutting her apart piece by piece. She twitches and shakes, and then goes still. I'm going to be sick. Don't think about it. It's distracted. Don't think about it. It doesn't matter. It's not happening.

Freeze. Keep calm. Hang in there. Don't think about it. It's okay. I'll creep away. It doesn't know I'm here. I'll just inch back toward the door and then I can run. The thing turns ever so slightly. I'll be quick. Everything is going to be okay.

It's fine. Everything's fine. It'll be quick. It'll be just a second. Maybe dying is better than being alive. Without another thought, I bolt. It's launching. for me. Keep running. There's a burst of pain. Keep running. I fall onto the lawn and rock it back to my feet.

My glasses are gone. Keep running. That's it. Good. Run and run and run. Get away. Get far away. I'll start over. Find a new place to hide somewhere. It's better this way. Think of the mess I'd have to clean up back there. Something warm is dripping onto my leg. I see the extent of my injuries. My right hand, a fingerless stub, like a hunk of meat. The pain is overwhelming. As I wrap up my mangled hand in my shirt, I can barely breathe.

Can't even see. Everywhere I look, darkness is creeping around the edges of my vision. Maybe I'm blacking out. Could be worse. I'll be fine. As long as I keep moving, I'll find somewhere new. Then I'll figure out what to do next. I'll think of something, some kind of plan,

and tomorrow I'll have a nice breakfast with coffee and toast with strawberry jam. It'll be so delicious. There's so much blood. I have the whole day ahead of me. The whole... Day ahead of me. The No Sleep Podcast presents

the exclusive 10-part audio adaptation of Alexander Gordon Smith's epic tale. This 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. Flint's friend's place is uptown and we ride the subway from Mendel Street. It's raining out and I'm almost glad to be underground, glad to be moving. The train's fast, but it rocks from side to side like somebody's got hold of it, like they're trying to pull it back. Twice I headbutt my own reflection in the window, once hard enough to make me cuss. I sit back, wincing, watching Flint as she hammers out a message on her cell, watching her until she looks up and smiles.

Better? She sends the message, then slides the phone into her jeans. You got some color back? Better. I haven't told her about the dream, because there's nothing to say. The whole thing's fading now like breath. on a window. Even the meat in the sink, it's just something left over from mom's dinner prep, a lump of gristle. It's not the worst thing I've seen in there. Sure, you don't want some candy

to take the edge off? She pats her jacket. There's a bag of pills in there, mainly downers, but I shake my head like I do every time she offers them. I'm too scared that if I swallow one, I'm just opening up the doors of my dreams to something far worse than a hollow face. based girl. Flint wraps her arm around me, holding me tight. There's a guy across the aisle wearing a bright red, God-bless 45 hat and eyeballing us hard. He probably thinks we're lesbians. He's only half wrong, I guess, and Flint's toying with him, putting her hand on my leg and eyeballing him right back until he looks away, shaking his head and pretending to stare out the window. The carriage is near empty, just us and the man, and a bunch of high school

kids near the back, who are quiet enough to let the world know they're not used to being here without their parents. Everybody dances in time with the movement of the train, heads jerking left and right like somebody's got us all on a strain. Flint squeezes my knee, then reaches into her back, pulling out a plastic bottle with the label torn off. She unscrews the cap and takes a swig, the sweet smell of rom hitting me before she passes the bottle. I wave it away. Just Bacardi, court it myself. Nothing in here but a little bit of relaxed and happy Tommy Bright. Go on. I surrender, swallowing more than I meant to and inhaling it instead. I cough so hard I think I'm turning inside out, all the while Flint's laughing and pounding me on the back. Jesus, you absolute rookie.

I watch through tears as she slides the bottle back. The train slowing and Flint bounces up, holding the seat with one hand and offering the other one to me. This is us. Try not to choke to death before we get there. Okay. We hop down from the doors and weave our way through a cluster of people into the rain. It's been a while since I've been out in the night. And despite a weighted vest of nerves, I'm drawn to it. The bustle of folk near edge-down market, the way the streetlights and the storefronts and the glowing cigarette tips stare at themselves in the puddles.

The clouds are low and dark and smothering, but in a good way, in a hide beneath a duvet way. I feel safe as we trip from street to street. I'm almost having fun until we find ourselves in the middle of a pack of neglected apartment buildings, and I hear the thump of music. "'Fent, you utter douche. "'Don't say it.' "'She takes my hand and leads me toward a three-story walk-up "'that's seen better days. "'The second floor is glowing,

"'and I can see a swell of people through the glass, "'an ocean of bodies. "'You said it wasn't a party. "'It's not. It's a thing. "'Come on. Seriously. "'I stop because there's a cannonball lodged beneath my ribs. "'The air's electric with my anxiety. I can feel it radiating from me like a beacon.

No, it's a party. I'm sorry. He told me it was a thing, honest to God. But we're here. And I want you to come, Tommy. I need you to be there for me. She doesn't need me. She never needs me. Not anymore. Not since she stopped being Allie and started being Flint. But the pouting look on her face helps dislodge some of the weight on my chest. If I convince myself I'm here for her, then it makes it easier. She beams, squeezing my hand and pulling me through the door into a trash and people-strewn corridor. A couple of them look at me, but most have their eyes on Flint. She's good at getting attention.

Just have a couple drinks. Enjoy the music, the company, live a little bit of life outside your head for once. Scary outside my head. We head up the stairs. Scenario inside it. Whatever else she says is lost in the bone-shaking thump of the music when she opens the stairwell door. Ahead's a short corridor, four apartments leading off from it.

Two doors are open and Flint goes for the nearest. There's too many people to move in here. A hundred of them, maybe. Most of them jumping up and down. I'm amazed the building's still standing, and suddenly I've got another thing to add to my list of worries. being buried alive. I'm so convinced it's going to happen.

I don't want to leave the safety of the stairwell. But Flint's pulling me along like I'm a stubborn dog. I don't have any choice but to follow her. There's no way I'm ending up on my own here. Not that I have much choice in the matter. Marcel! Her hand lets go of mine. The crowd swallows her hole, gulps her down.

The dancer's as hard as teeth as I try to push past them. Somebody else grabs my hand. a guy with a silver-toothed grin reeling me in. I tug-free, turning my back on him. The music is a hammer, and I'm a nail, vanishing into the bare wooden floor one beat at a time. I turn again, looking for the stairs but utterly lost. It's too dark, too loud, and I'm...

Come on! Flint reaches for me through the throng. She leads me deeper into the madness. Then we go through a door, and I'm... suddenly free of it. It's a bedroom, just a handful of people here sitting on the floor in a haze of sweet-smelling smoke. One of them's a guy I half-recognized from something else Flint once dragged me to. He nods at me, taking a drag on his joint. So yeah, like I was saying, I ended up stranded there all night. Anyway, you've met Tommy, right? Right.

Marcel's word is long and forged of smoke. You got plenty, sister. Pull up a pew. I shake my head, but Flint speaks for me. She won't touch it, but I will, here. She hands me the rum, and I stand there with it in my hand like I've never seen a plastic bottle before. Flint takes it back, unscrews the cap, holds it to my lips. 50 cc's a fun, stat.

I take a small sip, keeping the bottle. It's a start, but it's something. Just stay for a while, yeah? If you feel a panic attack coming on, just say, we can go any time, I promise. I have felt a panic attack coming on since I left my goddamn house, but I do my best to smile at her. She slides down the wall next to Marcel and snatches his joint, taking a hit. I don't know what to do with my eyes or my arms or anything else, so I just take another tiny sip of rum, feeling it in my nose behind my eyes.

I pull out my cell, a message from mom saying not to be too late. No notifications on Facebook or Insta, but I check them all anyway because it uses up some time. Like, ten seconds of time. I have no idea what to do next because a guy across the room is trying to talk to me, and I'm doing everything I can not to make eye contact. I angle myself away from him, staring back out the door, into the crowd. And that's when I see her. That's when I see the dead girl.

Kara Pierce. By the time I get to the door, she's gone. Not gone, of course, because she was never really there. Dead girls don't party. All the same, I push up on my tiptoes and stare through the crowd, through the heaving mass of bodies, through the smoke, through the trembling music-filled air. It's her. It has to be.

She's walking away from me. moving around people as fluidly as water. Her hair is styled in a perfect pixie cut, dyed electric blue. She's wearing a neon pink halter top which reveals the small of her back, faded hipster jeans. For a moment, it looks like she's turning back. But before I can get a good look at her, somebody appears in the doorway, pushing past me, shouting something so loud it makes my ears ring.

I wait for them to pass before heading out. The dead girl, Kara, I told myself. Her name's Kara has gone again, and I'm in such a rush to find her that I walk right into someone. He's too drunk or too high to notice. They're all too drunk or high, grinning like idiots, all moving exactly the same way. I get the feeling I'm inside an engine. The cogs and gears grinding in perfect harmony. At least until somebody grabs my arm.

and I turned to see the man from the room I've just left, a frat boy who was trying to talk to me. You're going too fast. His grip is too tight. I tug once, twice, and on the third go, he releases me. What? Too fast? I thought you wanted to dance.

Here's good. I shake my head, start walking again. Is that a flash of electric blue up ahead? It's heading for the exit, and I barge and shod. of and curse my way after it. By the time I get to the front door, I'm soaked with a drink and other people sweat and the coolness of the corridor is welcome. There are a few people out here, but not many. Did a girl just leave? Short, blue hair? I'm talking to nobody in particular, and nobody in particular answers me. There's only three other apartments on this floor,

but the stairwell door is open and I can hear footsteps. I chase them out, listen to them echoing above and below and all around, like there's an army marching in here. I stare over the banister, seeing nothing, then look up and catch a flash of pink ghosting up the stairs. I'm halfway to calling out, but I don't, running instead, not quite brave enough to take the concrete steps two at a time. There's the sound of a door opening,

and when I turn the corner I see it swinging slowly shut. There are no more floors after this one, so I follow the sound of the dead girl into the third floor corridor. It's harder than it sounds, because there are no lights on up here. The door opens onto nothing but darkness. Hey? The music from downstairs is muted, like there's a ton of insulation in the floor. It's quiet enough that I can hear the pop and whine of a camera flash right in my ear. I wiggle a finger in it, wondering why I did it.

see the light. Who the hell is taking photos up here? Fumbling my cell out, I fire up the flashlight and shine it through, seeing a short corridor, four doors, and Kara. She's facing away from me, standing right in the corner, so close to the wall that it looks like she's got her head pressed against the peeling wallpaper. It's so dark in here, even with my flashlight, that it looks like she's in black and white, like she's just stepped out of an old photograph. Even her hair looks washed out, gray. Hello, I say, not quite enough to make it a word. Kara doesn't move, but I can hear her talking, whispering. That awful, sucking sensation of deja vu grabs me. I think she's going to turn around and there's going to be nothing where her face is but a hole. I'm backing

away before I'm even aware of it, but my ass hits the door and it cracks against the wall, and suddenly the dead girl turns to look at me. The hell! She squints against the light, but it's her. It's definitely Kara. Who is that? You're blinding me. I'm sorry.

I swing the phone down. I... I have absolutely nothing. I see the shape of the girl approaching me through the dark, as smooth as a ship in the night, pushing a wave of heat in front of it. I stand back to let her out the door, but she hovers in it, just enough light for me to see the blue shoulder-length hair, the boyish face. She's wearing a pink halter top in jeans, but that's about all that could possibly be mistaken for Kara. What the hell are you doing up here? Her body is as tense as a

cobras, like she's going to snap out and shove me down the stairs. Nothing. I got lost. I saw you, thought you were here for the party. I'm sorry, I thought you were somebody else. I smile and she relaxes. There's a cell phone in her hand, and she holds it between us like she's offering it. Came to see if I could get a signal. This piece of crap don't get nothing.

Yours work? Um, yeah. I lifted up and accidentally shine it in her face again. She's less like Kara than ever. I don't know how I could have made the mistake. You can use it if you like. Make up for the fact I almost gave you a heart attack. Nah, thanks though.

I'm Megan. Tommy with an eye. Thomason, it's a girl's name. Some people think I'm a guy if I don't, you know, tell them that. Sorry, I have no idea what I'm saying. I'm rambling because my heart's beating so fast, firing out words like bullets. Megan's mouth curls up a fraction of an inch. Okay, Tommy who's not a guy. It was nice meeting you.

Yeah, you too. I stand aside to let her pass, and she makes it to the top step before stopping, not looking back. Who'd you think I was? Nobody. I mean, somebody you couldn't have been. Somebody impossible. Somebody dead? The eruption of goose flesh is almost crippling. I open my mouth to deny it, but what's the point? A girl. Her name was Kara. She seems to deflate. Suddenly old, suddenly small. I think she's going to fall and I reach out for her, but she straightens, turns to me. She looks guilty. You knew her? I don't know you.

I knew of her. I mean, it's complicated. You knew her? She nods, plucking at her top. I knew I shouldn't have worn it, but it felt right. It felt like I was bringing her with me. A bit of her, at least. She looks over my shoulder, thinking for a moment before meeting my eye. You're the second person tonight. It's the hair as well, I think. We dyed it together.

I'm her sister. By another mister. We're not related. We just grew up together. People say you spend enough time with somebody you start looking like them. I guess it's true. I'm sorry. Sorry, she...

She waves away my silence, and I realize she's had more than a few drinks. Shit happens. Kara had more than her fair share of it. It just doesn't make any sense. You only get one shot. She spent hers bitching about everything, scared of everything. You said you knew her? I, yeah, from school.

She's drunk enough not to question it. Her foot hovers over the top step, and she looks past me again, right over my shoulder. It's like, why would somebody as smart and funny and pretty as her do those things? Why'd she take it out on herself? The cuts? Megan cocks her head. Her dark eyes boring into me.

You know about them? Yeah. She used to cut herself. Her and her boyfriend. Right? You know about him? How? Like my mom.

My mom told me. Didn't everyone know? I didn't even know. That bitch, I was supposed to be her best friend. Do you know where he is? I hope they lock him up for life. You think he was involved? She shakes her head.

He was with me the night it happened. Not like that. We were at a party. I had no idea they were seeing each other. No idea they were doing that stuff together. How'd your mom even know? There's a sound like a gunshot downstairs. A crashing wave of screams and an ebb of laughter.

Megan sighs, looking at her cell like it's got all the answers. You know where Tanner is? Nobody's seen him since the cops took him in. He's going to get away with it. I know it. Get away with it? With what? I thought he was with you.

But Megan isn't listening. Stupid bitch. Wasted her whole goddamn life on a game. Her whole goddamn life. Another firecracker pop flicks me in the ear, then a whole burst of them. The walls light up. Somebody's letting off fireworks in the same.

I don't even have the urge to run. I'm not even picturing myself stuck up here in the inferno burning to death. It's been pushed aside by something else, something even more primal, even more powerful, a need for answers. Game? What game? And you don't know everything. Megan flashes me a smug smile. Tanner introduced her to it. Maybe you should ask him. She starts down the stairs, and I call her name to stop her. What game? She looks back, but again, she's not looking at me. She's looking past me.

The game. Her game. And I swear, I hear a quiet sigh, feel a breath on the back of my neck. I spin around, the door right behind me, wide open and leaching darkness. There, in the corridor beyond, right in the corner where Megan had been standing, a pile of shadow and dirt, a grinning lump of night,

gone as soon as I swing my phone flashlight up. Ask Tanner! Megan's already out of sight. Tell that asshole he's as good as dead if I find him. Then ask him. Ask him about the witch. I don't even stop to find Flint. I just barrel down the stairs,

through the choking black smoke of the firecrackers, through the lipless grins and the barking laughter and the unblinking eyes and the endless numbing beat of the music. I run down flight after flight after flight of stairs. Surely too many. Like there's another three stories beneath the building until I see the main door and throw myself out onto the street. Ask him about the witch. Her words have literally taken my breath away. There's no air here.

The clouds seem even lower, full of night. smothering. I have to put my hands on top of a car and force my lungs to inflate. But even then, it's like sucking in carbon monoxide until after the fourth breath, when I feel the oxygen hit my veins, my brain. I rest my head on the cold metal, close my eyes, and just breathe, breathe, until the giant's fist are on my ribs grows loose. You okay? I grunt a reply, but I don't have what it takes to lift my head to see who it is. You're too slow. This time I look up, squinting at the girl who's walking away from me.

What? She stops. You, okay? Just checking. There are some real assholes up there. They're spiking drinks. Be careful, is all. I'm okay.

I realize I'm still holding Flint's bottle. I put it on top of the car. pressing my hands into my eyes until more firecrackers erupt inside my skull. When I look again, the girl is halfway down the street. Her arm looped through a guise. Inside the apartment, the people still rise and fall like they've melted together, like they're being churned in some vast oven. I look at the windows of the third floor, but they're utterly blind.

They may as well have been painted black. I can't leave Flint, but I don't. do. Nothing will make me walk back inside that apartment. And besides, once Flint's on a rail, it's impossible to make her stop. I should never have come in the first place. I set off, heading back for the subway, stopping when I realize I've left the bottle on the car. It sounds stupid, but I go back for it. There's some of me in that bottle now, and I don't want it anywhere near the house, anywhere where the darkness at the top of those stairs can reach it. It's only when I get to the subway station that I chuck it in the trash, and even that leaves me worrying for the whole ride home.

It's only just after nine when I closed the front door behind me, and I'm happy that Mom and Donnie are still up. I holler out a hello, heading for the kitchen and pouring myself a juice. The sink is clean, not even a smudge of blood, but the counter is still covered in breadcrumbs. I look for a towel so I can clean them up myself, but before I can, I hear my own. mom thumping down the stairs. She's in her bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her hair, and she's going so fast she misses the last step, cussing as she limps past me. You okay? I can see her lip trembling. What's wrong? I'm not sure why she's so worried. It's not like I've been gone long. She stops by the island, her hands on the back of a stool,

strands of wet hair hanging down the back of her robe like seaweed. Her skin's puffing. Her skin's puffed. Her up like she's been floating in the ocean for a week. Were you in the bath? All this time? She looks at me like it's the stupidest question in the world, but her brows crease the way it is sometimes when she's stressed. She looks at her hands, picks something out of her nail, then shivers. Helps me relax.

Where have you been? Out with Flint. Some stupid thing. She wanted to stay. I didn't. Pretty tired after today. You want food? She opens the fridge and stares inside.

Not much in there. There's enough for a sandwich. I'm fine. I'm chewing on a question. One I don't really know if I want answered. But my skull's full of cracks and I need to fill them in. So I just ask. Look, Mom, about earlier.

About Kara. Still? Forget about her. It doesn't matter. It wasn't just you that killed her. No. I say, feeling a little like she's gut punched me. No, not that.

I shake my head, half hoping I just heard her wrong. About what you were telling me, this afternoon, about Kara hurting herself. What about it? I'm wishing I hadn't drunk the juice. It's mixing with the rum in my empty stomach, and I'm belching battery acid. How did you know all that? about the cuts and boyfriend and stuff. She looks at me like I'm an idiot,

but that crease still slices her forehead in two. She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. Everybody knew? Except Kara's sister from another mister, I think. Her best friend. But you didn't even know her. Who told you those things? Her mouth's moving like a fish again.

She closes the fridge, moves to the sink, and for an awful second, I think she's going to start moving her finger around in there, tracing patterns in blood. But she just rinses her hands, drying them on a towel. I just, I just know she's bad news. Who told you? Mom turns to me, and I can see the answer bubbling beneath the worry. She doesn't know. She doesn't remember. I hold up my hands. It doesn't matter. She's bad news, I know. I wait to see if there's anything else. But she stares me out of the kitchen, and I head upstairs.

Donnie's coming out of the bathroom, toothpaste smeared over his bottom lip. Night dork. Night, Dick. My reply, our bedtime routine. He walks into his room and slams the door, and I head into mine. I'm worried it won't actually feel like mine anymore. After earlier, But it's just my room, my stuff, my smell.

I sit on the bed and wrestle my Doc Martins off, then shuffle up to the headboard and pick up my laptop. I know, I know, I should leave it well alone. But questions are like a hole in your soul. And right now I feel like I'm leaking out through them, that I'm losing myself. I open it up, wait for it to notice I have woken it. The battery's low,

the screen on energy-saving mode. So dark I can barely see it. Pinch is still there. It feels like a million years since I read the story, and I snap the window closed before it creeps into me again. It's the last thing I want in my head before I go to sleep. I open up a fresh window and load Facebook, tapping out a rhythm on the laptop shell

until I work up the courage to search for Kara Pierce's page again. She's right where I left her. Like nobody's noticed she's dead yet. But it's not her I'm interested in. Her relationship status is listed as, It's Complicated, so I click on her friend list instead, searching for Tanner.

There are two of them, and one is in his 40s and dressed in dad shorts. The other greets me with a two white smile and perfect hair. He's young and tanned, and if he doesn't play football and chug beer and dream of following his dad into the stock market, then I'll eat this laptop hole. He's not the kind of guy I thought I'd see Kara with. Not at all.

And I wonder if that's the reason nobody knew about them. Or maybe Tanner didn't want the rest of the team to know he was dating the weird writer chick. I click on his photo. The cursor spinning while my laptop has another mini-stroke. Down the hall, I hear a sound like somebody in water, the squeak of flesh on. plastic, like mom's still in the bath. But I can hear her coming up the stairs, too, and she walks past my door a second later with a mug of tea in her hand. Sleep, child. That thing will kill you.

Night mom. Sleep well. She stops, framed in the door, says something that I can't hear, something that sounds like, slow. Then she's gone, her door clicking shut behind her. Tanner's looking at me. His page has loaded. I scroll through his photos, stopping on one with him and Megan. It's after she dyed her hair, so pretty recent. And they're obviously at a party because there's a wall of people behind them. Kara's there, too.

But all you can see of her over Megan's shoulder is her electric blue hair. And one wide, angry eye. I wonder if Megan and Tanner were seeing each other too, or if Megan was just jealous of her friend, wanted to be like her. That would explain the hair, the clothes. Megan's staring at me, and I feel suddenly guilty for even thinking it, so I click through the rest of the photos. Tanner running, Tanner smoking a blunt with his buddies,

Tanner and his football gear, and scroll down the rest of his page. His posts stop completely on the day that Kara died, but there's one last thing on his page. left there by somebody else two days later. Facebook user posted a photo on your page, but there's no photo, no text, no likes, and only one comment. Facebook user commented on this post,

tubby, which sparks something in my head, but I can't think what. I scroll back up, stare at his profile picture, Tell me about the witch, I say. And this time I know I just imagine the pop of a camera flash in my ear, even though it was loud enough to make my skull buzz. I'm cold all over. I wish I hadn't said it.

I closed a laptop before realizing I don't want him next to me all night. When I open it again, though, I don't click the window closed. I click the message icon instead. I need to talk to you, I write. Then I delete it and write. Somebody told me to talk to you, about Kara. I delete that too and type, Can we meet?

And I post it. I stare at it for a moment and the red notification appears beneath my words. He's not replying, though. There's no ellipsis. Please, I write. Red. It's important.

Brett. I wonder if he's looking at my page now, at my photos, seeing all those smiles, the real ones and the fake ones. I wonder if you'll see the links to creepy.com and put two and two together. It's about Kara, I write. But when I type enter, the site reloads to an error page. I click refresh, then try to navigate back to Tanner's page. user not found i search for him again but there's just dad tanner in his shorts no sign of those white teeth those dark eyes

somebody's watching me it's like a hammer blow to my heart i look up to see mom framed in my bedroom door a mug of steaming tea in her hand her hair wrapped in a towel sleep child that thing will kill you You said that already. She shuffles off, her door closing behind her. I look back to the laptop, but the battery has died. There's just a black screen and another me trapped inside it, hollow-eyed and dark. 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 Third Part. Starred Jessica McAvoy as Tommy Bright. Kristen D. Macquario as Flint.

Matthew Bradford as Marcel. Kyle Akers as the Frat Boy. Sarah Thomas as Megan. Wafia White as the passerby. Erica Sanderson as the witch. Dan Zappooley. as Donnie and Aaron Lillis as Tommy's mother. Join us next week for this book will kill you.

The fourth 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 Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Micolsky, 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 no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for 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.