The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep14: NoSleep Podcast S18E14

Episode Date: October 2, 2022

Tune in to Episode 14 of Season 18 for trapped tales of torment. “Dental Work” written by K.M. Bennett (Story starts around 00:00:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Elie Hirschman “Stationary” written by Liam Hogan (Story starts around 00:04:55) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Penny Scott-Andrews, Co-worker – David Ault “Dear Jennifer” written by Mattea Heller (Story starts around 00:15:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Jessie – Tanja Milojevic “The Room” written by L.N. Hunter (Story starts around 00:29:50) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett, You – Nichole Goodnight, Man – Matthew Bradford, Robson – Kyle Akers “Ghouls” written by Christopher O’Halloran (Story starts around 00:42:10) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Linsay Rousseau, Riley Jones – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Ernest Graham – David Cummings, Stephen Tompkins – Matthew Bradford "This Book Will Kill You - Part 4" written by Alexander Gordon Smith (Story starts around 01:05:50) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Jessica McEvoy as Tommi Bright, Kristen DiMercurio as Flint, James Cleveland as the unknown author, Dan Zappulla as Donnie, Erin Lillis as Tommi's mother, Linsay Rousseau as the barmaid. “Patient 4B” written by Elizabeth Napier (Story starts around 01:04:25) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Doctor Matlock – Andy Cresswell, Margaret – Erika Sanderson, Narrator – Ash Millman “A Face of Death” written by Dustin Burden (Story starts around 01:20:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Gabe – Jeff Clement, Ellis – Graham Rowat, Luke – Atticus Jackson, Debbie Mckinness – Erin Lillis, Cult Leader – Elie Hirschman, Dad – Jesse Cornett This episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp - Betterhelp's mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient - so anyone who struggles with life's challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleep Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about the podcast, “It’s All in the Cards” Click here to learn more about K.M. Bennett Click here to learn more about Mattea Heller Click here to learn more about L.N. Hunter Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “A Face of Death” illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy 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

People dread different parts of dental care. As a dentist, I've seen it all. For many, it's the needles. I've had some people try to forego the pain medicine because of it. For others, it's the infamous drill. Its whirring sound is enough to cause even the strongest to tremble. That's the thing, though. Nobody sucking down nitrous oxide thinks about what I'm doing while I'm in there.

They can't see inside their own mouths. The thing to be afraid of, is what happens after. You see, it would be easy to kill someone in that chair while they're prone and under my influence. But there are witnesses. It's much more fun to insert the micro-tracking device just under the filling.

It's something that will stay with them their whole lives. I can bide my time and take my tools on the road at a later appointment. The sun has gone down. It's dark outside. 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. Brace yourself for the no sleep.

Podcast. Dentistry has come a long way lately. It seems the pain you could feel has been delayed until much later, as we learned from author K.M. Bennett, from the tale which was this episode's Cold Open. Dental Work, performed by Ellie Hirschman. As Halloween approaches, I can see a new podcast in your future, created by two members of the No Sleep podcast editorial team.

Ashley McAnally and Morgan Wilson. It's a new horror fiction podcast, likely to develop a cult or occult following. It's called the It's All In The Cards podcast, where all questions are welcome, but you may not like the answers. Join in as we follow Jade Albright, an Ozark Folk Witch who runs an occult bookstore and offers tarot readings. In season one, a string of ritualistic murders occurs in Jade's town. Who's behind it all? Well, she could care less. That is, until the local coven makes it her problem. It's an innocent enough question, but it still irritates the shit out of me. So how does this work?

It's simple. You ask a question, and the cards answer it. Well, then, what's the point? The point is to see how much of it happens. Hey, Al, is it already that time again? Well, is that so? I'm not here for myself. I'm here to warn you. I haven't done anything wrong.

I need a reading. I can certainly help you with that. But are you sure that's what you want? Are you sure you want the answers? Oh, more than anything. Okay, follow me then. It's all in the Cards podcast. Episode 1, premiering September 30th.

Episode 1 is available now, with new episodes releasing biweekly. Check the link in the show notes for all the details. And now, we offer for your approval a series of stories we hope will make you sleepless. In our first tale, we venture into that most terrifying of locations, an office workplace. They can be cutthroat places at the best of times, but in this tale, shared with us by author Liam Hogan,

We meet a woman who is hiding from a person stalking the office with an axe. I wonder if she feels lucky that hiding along with her is a very chatty co-worker. Performing this tale are Penny Scott Andrews and David Alt. So try to remain quiet and still when hiding from a killer. You need to remain entirely stationary. Did you ever play hide-and-seek? Shh! Oh, it's all right.

No one can hear a... in here. I dragged my attention away from the unmoving handle of the stationary cupboard. In what little light filtered beneath the door from the office beyond, I could just about make out the man whose hiding place I had crashed. His name floated somewhere in the ether, occasionally brushing against the tip of my tongue, short, English, forgettable, Jones, was it? Something, something in accounting? Or was he a James? Whatever it was, it was a long, long way from being important right now.

There's a lunatic out there with an axe, I reminded him, keeping my voice low, and hoping the reams of paper would help deaden the noise. I don't sink anywhere safe. He nodded, even grinned, which didn't exactly reflect the severity of the, the situation. So, did you? Did I what? Play hide and seek as a kid, at Halloween or any other time of the year.

I wanted to tell him a lot of things. I wanted to tell him to keep quiet that this wasn't some childish game. That, never mind the Axemaniac, I'd bloody well kill him myself if he gave away a hiding place. But I didn't say any of that. Of course I did. Were you any good at it? Excuse me? Good. At hiding? I'd spent the majority of my adult life making sure I stood out. And,

right now, in my nod to the season, I was wearing my sleekest black skirt, my brightest blood-red lipstick, and even a bejewed spider brooch, just the right side of subtle. My stationary cupboard cohabitee had made no effort at all, not even a spooky bat logo tie. Okay, I guess. I was. You were... Good at it. Like insanely good. So good my parents banned it because they were fed up tearing the house apart to find me.

I'd slip into cracks you wouldn't have dreamt possible, emerge shrouded in dust and cobwebs. I gave him the once over once again. Two walls of the narrow, windowless room were shelves, packed with cartons of pens, different sizes, of coloured post-its, elastic bands, spare staples, the usual. The wall at the rear of the cupboard was reserved for printer paper, headed or otherwise. It was in the gap between the stacked boxes and the stationary shelves that we crouched, one to each side, barely a meter apart. He was a nondescript kind of guy, grey, hair-thinning, spectacles, a stranger to the gym. Basically, your average behind-the-scenes back-office employee of Dunn and Newlands Investment Managers Limited.

Someone far from the tricky business of handling our customers' money, and the even trickier one of handling our customers. Miles away from the tightrope we had to walk, between lavishing them with expense account dinners, and appearing to be extremely frugal with what, after all, was their cash. The tightrope made all the harder for female client-man. such as I by the mandated minimum three-inch heels. Heels that I'm pretty sure I'd never had to run in before and would be very glad never to have to do so again. He seemed to find my close scrutiny

amusing, the creep. Oh, I was thinner then, though that was never really the point. The willingness to cram yourself into a small space is more a mental than physical thing, places that you might not even be able to escape from without help. There's an advantage in being in a space so obviously too small for a victim that no one ever bothers to look. I shook my head. Trust me to be sharing a hiding place with a talker. At least he wasn't that loud, however much an unexpected and unwanted shock his first words had been. He was surprisingly softly spoken, neutrally toned even when he said things like victim. Perhaps he wasn't in accounts after all. Maybe he was a telephone receptionist, though hadn't they just been outsourced?

Things have gone quiet behind the stationary cupboard door. That wasn't much of a surprise. In the wake of any number of disasters from 9-11 to Grenfell, I'd promised if I ever found myself in the midst of one that I wouldn't blindly follow the herd, because that was always what seemed to doom them that lined them up in the crosshairs. I'd been on the second floor when news began to spread, about what was initially reported as someone walking in off the street with a knife, before being hastily amended to a disgruntled employee going postal with a fire axe.

So, as the office lemmings waited for the lift or blindly packed the stairwell until it slowed to a shuffle, I'd headed in the opposite direction, up. Which may, or may not, have been the wisest move, as the axe splintered boardroom door and the blood smeared along the wall at the fourth floor corridor had gruesomely testifying. Far too realistic to be mere Halloween decoration

and totally out of character for stage, serious, done and newlands. That had been what had driven me to see comediate shelter, and having found it, prevented me from leaving this loser to his own sad faith and looking for somewhere else to hide.

What really happened in scenarios like this? By now, someone would have called the police on their many mobiles, since the office phones were dead, presumed sabotaged. But the authorities wouldn't enter the building until they knew it was safe, would they? They'd wait for an armed response. So this was a kind of hostage situation. I had two options, hold up with the world's greatest hide-and-seek expert,

or risk making a break for it. What were my chances of slipping down a fire escape unnoticed? Probably low, because if everyone else had already scarpered, any noise, any movement was a risk, and this game was being played for keeps. Though, if I could convince John, or whoever he was, to lead the way, then perhaps that might nudge the odds back in my favor. There was, after all, only one Axmania, wasn't there? John's lack of physical fitness might actually play to my advantage. I didn't have to run faster than the Ax-Maniac, just faster than this dweeb. I turned to him, honeyed my words.

I've always thought the best way of playing hide-and-seek was to switch locations mid-game, to hide somewhere that has already been searched. For the first time since I'd discovered him lurking in the dark, since the sudden shock of seeing the shifting glint from his owlish spectacles even as my eyes began to adjust to the gloom, he looked as horrified as I think our dire situation merited. He shook his head. No, no, no, no.

Well, perhaps if all you're doing is hiding behind the curtains or under the bed. Places you know will be explored on a second sweep. But if you have a really good hiding place, why on earth would you swap it for somewhere worse? No, no, you should hide in place. Keep still, keep silent. I was a master at that. I could lie there for hours. I didn't need distractions to keep myself entertained, didn't need a comic or a book,

or I suppose a phone in this day and age. And those urges, hunger, thirst, the need for the bathroom, they're all conquerable if you put your mind to it. Funny how human emotions can't keep on a single track for very long, my fear had ebbed away to be replaced by boredom. I was bored of his boasts, of his pointless conversation. at the horrible thought that, as he seemed to be suggesting, we might be there for hours. I guess I was annoyed as well, and not just because he'd dismissed my harmless little gambit. It was bad enough having to share this cramped dark space.

The least he could have done was keep quiet so I could have ignored him. But now, he would go on and on about what I guessed had been the only thing he'd ever had to be proud of. So finally, I turned to this Jones or James or John or... Was it Jack? You keep going on about how good you are at hiding. But you're not. I found you. And really, it wasn't even that hard.

Oh, heavens. I heard the noise of something heavy, the metal, scraping across the stationery cupboard's industrial flooring. As he giggled in the gloom. Of course you did. It wasn't my turn to hide. When you become a huge star in the world of horror, there are countless fans who adore you.

Take my word for it. Oh, no, no, I'm no star. I mean, take it from me as I've learned from this tale, shared with us by author Matea Heller. In it, we meet a woman who's a huge fan of the young star of a killer horror franchise, a fan who tries very hard to reach out to the starlet. Performing this tale is Tanya Milosovich.

So keep those fan letters coming, but stick to just writing them and make sure you begin them with Dear Jennifer. Dear Jennifer. Hi, this is the first time I've ever written to someone famous before, so it might sound a little dumb.

I got your address from Heart, Throb magazine. My best friend, Tabby, said I should write to Jonathan Taylor Thomas, but I really wanted to write to my favorite actress. I'm 11 like you. And my favorite food is pizza, same as yours. What's it like to be in a horror movie? I've seen Pumpkin Slayer 1 and 2 so many times that the videotape wore out on one, and I had to beg my mom to get me another copy. She said maybe for my birthday, which is coming up on September 1st, only a few days before yours. You'd probably never be free to just show up at a birthday party of a kid you don't even know, but I thought I threw it out there in case. Anyway, were you ever scared when the Pumpkin Slayer tried to kill you? I know it's only a

movie, but I bet it could be really freaky. It was so crazy in Pumpkin Slayer too when you found out that the Pumpkin Slayer was actually your missing dad? I guess I have to wait till Pumpkin Slayer 3 to find out why he's stalking you. But maybe when you write me back, you could tell me. And I promise I won't tell anyone. I can't wait to hear from you soon. T-TYL. Jesse.

Dear Jennifer. Hi again. It's been a while. I got your letter. And to be honest, I was really bummed. because it was just one of those form letters that you sent to everyone. I was really hurt when I read it the first time, Jennifer. Maybe I didn't say it clearly enough, because I was trying to be cool.

But I'm your biggest fan. So I read your letter again and again, like 20 times. And then I realized that you probably get like 50 letters a week. But if I keep writing, then you'll know I'm a true fan. And you'll send me a real letter soon. T-T-Y-L, Jesse. Dear Jennifer, I knew if I kept writing you,

you'd send me a real letter. And you did. Now we can be pen pals. Tabby said that your letter wasn't even a real letter, only a better form letter you send to every kid who won't leave you alone, but it's not true. You told me all about your family and your dog, Lassau,

and you said you never want to take your fans for granted. You said it was way cool of me. to keep writing even though you're so busy, and it's hard to respond. Tadby's just jealous, and I'm not going to hang out with her anymore. Anyway, Pumpkin Slayer 3 is coming up this weekend, and I begged my big brother to take me. He's 18, and he's friends with all the ushers at the movie theater. I can't wait. I hope you slay the Pumpkin Slayer.

T-T-Y-L, Jesse. Dear Jennifer, I really thought, Maybe you'd give me a heads up that you were going to die in this film? I mean, it's so unfair. Is there even going to be a Pumpkin Slayer for? What is Pumpkin Slayer without you? Don't get me wrong. Your death was really cool.

I've gone to Home Depot with my mom a million times, but I've never thought about all the tools the Pumpkin Slayer could use to murder you. When he tossed your body into the woodchipper and all your guts, spewed out everywhere, then yelled, clean up aisle seven. That would have been so funny if it was happening to someone other than you. I can't understand why they killed you off. Maybe you didn't want to be a horror actress. Maybe you wanted to do Disney movies. Maybe you wanted to go back to school and be a regular kid. I just think you should have told me so I wasn't so traumatized watching it in the theater with my big brother.

And I started crying at the credits. He thought I was totally freaked out of the film. And he said he wasn't going to take me to a scary movie again if I was going to act that way. But Jennifer, I wasn't scared. I just couldn't believe you were dead. Please, please, please, promise me that you haven't given up acting. My family doesn't understand why I've been moping around the house or why I'm scratching my myself again, only you can understand why I'm so depressed. T-T-Y-L, I guess.

Dear Jennifer, it's been a really long time, and you haven't responded to any of my letters. Our 13th birthday came and went, and I was sure I'd hear from you. My mom took me out to pizza to celebrate, but then her new boyfriend showed up, like always, and my pizza tasted gross after that. Mom and my therapist tell me I need to be nicer to him. But whenever I see him with this slimy goatee and his cappuccino, I think about that moment in Pumpkin Slayer too, you know, the one with a coffee grinder. Anyway, my parents are divorced. My dad's not a serial killer like yours. In Pumpkin Slayer? Just a club owner in Asbury Park, which my mom says is kind of the same thing. I know you're super busy with all the slug monster movies, but I want to be a little bit.

I wanted you to remember who your real fans are, and that we need to hear from you some time to know you're doing okay, okay, Jesse. Dear Jennifer, I don't know why you haven't sent me any letters, but now I know you're still reading mine. I saw your interview in Heart Throb magazine and the photo you were wearing,

you were wearing blue and pink, my favorite colors. And even better? You said a friend recommendation, Mended twin peaks and now you're loving it. That friend was me. I was beginning to lose hope, Jennifer. But now I know all my letters are worth it. I don't care if my mom's boyfriend says I'm acting like a loner psycho,

or that my therapist says I have unhealthy coping behaviors. They don't understand that we're not only pen pals, but real friends. They don't understand that when I start to scratch myself, The only reason I stop is because I think of you. They don't understand. But you do. Your friend, Jesse. Dear Jennifer, you seem really different now.

I know you're not the little kid that starred in the Pumpkin Slayer movies, but now that we're teenagers, it just seems like you keep getting cast in these really slutty roles. I know I shouldn't say slutty. I'm totally all for girl power. But if you're the slutty one in horror movies, that means you die first. You're supposed to be the final girl, the one who survives until the end, like you did in Pumpkin Slayer.

Now you remind me of skanky tabby and her friends, who taped maxy-pats to my locker. Don't worry, I made them sorry. Anyway, it's not a good look, Jennifer. I mean, you look good. You got side-swept things exactly like. like mine from the picture I sent you? But why do you keep accepting roles that don't showcase your talent?

Are you trying to be a sex object instead of a star? I saw the photos you did in last month's Heartthrob magazine. Can your dress get any tighter? Okay, I know I sound judgy, but it's for your own good. I only want you to have a lifelong career as a respected actress. your true friend, Jesse. Dear Jennifer, Hi, I'm coming to see you.

I saw the TV ad for the horror convention coming to my town next month, and your name was on the guest list. This is so crazy. I can't believe we're actually going to meet. I just thought I'd give you a heads up, so you can look for me when we're there. And maybe let me cut the line to get an autograph?

Now that we'll finally be together, maybe we could grab dinner afterward, I know that this great Chinese restaurant, one of my favorites, right around the corner from the convention hall. Can't wait to meet you soon. It's going to be so awesome. T-TYL, your friend, Jesse. Dear Jennifer, I waited. I waited for hours. I saw you sitting there at that table and you looked so pretty, the prettiest you've ever looked. And I was so excited. And I knew it was going to be. be me and I knew it was going to be the best day of my life and we were going to have Chinese afterward and I was going to tell you all about my family and you were going to tell me all about

yours but then before I could get to the front of the line you left your security said you had another engagement when I told him we were supposed to meet for dinner he said I should call you and then when I explained that I did have your number he only shrugged and he was supposed to meet for dinner shrug and said maybe next year, honey. I don't know what else to write in this letter. My tears are smudging the ink. I'm scratching and scratching. It's just so shitty, Jennifer.

Why didn't you wait for me like we planned? I thought you cared about me. I thought we were friends. Day. Dear Jennifer, I'm so fucking upset right now. I don't even know who I'm writing to. I just found out that Heart Rub magazine doesn't even exist anymore. Out of print, done, gone forever.

For three fucking years. So where have my letters been going to? Are they even reaching you at all? I'm such an idiot. This whole time I thought we were friends. I thought we were best friends. This whole time... This whole damn time, I've been writing to no one at all.

Jay. Dear Jennifer, thanks to the wonderful people of the internet, I found your address. Your actual address. Not one issued by some stupid teen magazine where any loser with a weird obsession can write to their favorite star. It's kind of spectacular. How easy it was to find you. I only had to post a question on a forum. Can anyone help me find Jennifer X. home address. And then poof! It was like I had a team of private investigators just waiting to be given a task. It took 48 hours for someone to respond, but he had it.

Technology is amazing. So anyway, I thought I'd give you a heads up that I'm coming to visit. Who would have known that you only lived two hours north of me? this whole time. Now we can finally get that dinner we've always been talking about. Just so you know, so you don't get freaked out or anything. If you don't answer the door because you don't recognize me, I'm bringing a crowbar.

And the rope, it's only for emergencies too. You know, like if you have leave for another engagement. And this knife? Also no big deal, of course. It's like yours from the movies. For carving pumpkins. I'm shaking. It's all finally happening.

TTYL and see you soon. Your friend, Jesse. It's hard to imagine anything more terrifying than being abducted. Seized by some nefarious person, bound and blindfolded, hidden away in a dark location. But in this tale, shared with us by author L.N. Hunter, we meet a woman who not only is enduring that horror, but she also has no idea how she got there in the first place. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornette, Nicole Goodnight, Matthew Bradford, and Kyle Lakers. So stay calm and try to keep your wits about you. It's the only way you'll escape, the room. It doesn't take you long to find the door.

even groping around in the pitch black with your wrists bound together. You beat at the rough wood, twisting and yanking on the handle again and again. Your screaming finally weakens to impotence sobbing, and you collapse on the thin mattress that occupies almost half of the floor. You ask yourself, why? Why you? How did you come to be here? Your memory is fuzzy. You were at Sally Ann's 19th birthday party.

Shots with the gang, everyone laughing. It was quieter later on. Margaritas on the balcony with Robson, a new friend of Sally Ann's brother. Tall, rugged, easy to talk to. Made you laugh. Ticked all your box. When the party was over, you were more than a bit drunk, and Robson offered to drive you home.

You remember getting into his car, and then, light blast your eyeballs. You blink and squint. You see blood from where you clawed at the door earlier, ripping your fingernails. It's soaked into the musty mattress, taking its place alongside older stain. you don't want to think about. As your eyes become accustomed to the brightness, you look around the room. Four plainly painted windowless concrete walls

and a greenish wooden door with a round handle. Above, an unshaded light bulb hangs from its wire, and about two feet across from it, a sturdy steel hook has been bolted to the ceiling. The lock clicks, and the door swings inwards. A man stands there, silhouetted between the light outside the room and that from the bulb above you. You stagger to your feet. You lick your lips with what little moisture there is in your mouth.

You force your voice to be calm. What's going on? Why am I here? You squint. The man looks a bit like Robson, but it isn't him. He stares for a while, saying nothing, then sets a tray just inside the door. You dash, but not quickly enough. The door closes, and once again you hear the click of the lock.

The tray contains a bottle of water and a sandwich. You don't know how long you've been here, but you're thirsty. Too thirsty to care what might be dissolved in the water. You wrench the top off the bottle and chug half its contents before you force yourself to stop, gasping. The sandwich is a PB&J. The bread, a little stale, but your stomach needs it, and you shove it in your mouth and chew. You use the rest of the water to wash down the sticky mass. The light snaps off.

You scream. You run to the door and beat the tray against it until your arms ache. You crawl back to the mattress. Sometime later, minutes, hours. You can't tell. The light comes on again and the door opens. It is the man who isn't Robson. Stan.

You feel embarrassed at the way your voice quivers. His response is a blank stare. You climb to your feet, and he strides forward. He hauls your hands high, slipping the rope binding your wrists over the ceiling hook. Your struggles and your screaming and your pleading mean nothing to him. He pulls a knife from his back pocket and grabs the front of your dress. When he starts to cut the material, you can't help. Help yourself. You vomit, terrified. Half-digested Peeb and J splatter the man's face and chest.

Jesus Christ, fucking bitch. He punches you in the stomach, making you wretch, but there's nothing left. He leaves, slamming and locking the door. You want to curl around the pain in your stomach, but you're dangling from the ceiling, barely in. able to touch the floor with your feet. Gradually, the pain moves to your shoulders and wrists. You stretch up on tiptoes to relieve some of the agony, but then your calves start to burn. The man returns. You notice he's wearing a clean shirt. He ignores your whimpered pleas as he cuts off your dress and underwear. He looks you up and down, then pushes his feet. He pushes his feet. face close to yours and sniffs. You recoil, and he laughs. A single, mirthless grunt. He lifts you off the

hook and throws you onto the mattress. Your arms shriek as blood races through them again. They're too weak to let you push yourself up to prepare for whatever comes next. But the man leaves, picking up your shredded clothing and closes the door. The light goes out. You have time to think as the pain slowly subsides. As soon as you muster the energy, you stand and grope for the hook in the ceiling. You roll the mattress into a clumsy cylinder and drag it to just below the hook to gain some extra height. You try to twist the hook in an attempt to remove it, but it doesn't budge. Later, you remember the light, and using the folded mattress as a crude step again, unscrew the bulb.

You break it in one of the room's corners and crouch near the door, clutching the metal cap with its vicious crown of glass pointed outwards as you listen for the man's return. A faint tick. The light switch perhaps startles you. The lock clicks and the door open. What the... You leap up and thrust the broken glass into his face with all of your strength. He falls back and you follow him down to the floor.

He brings his hands up to protect his eyes as kneeling on top of him and screeching. You smash the light bulb into his head over and over again and drop your bloody weapon. The man's not dead. You can hear his bubbling breath as you step over him. In front of you is a short corridor with stairs at the end. You lurch up the steps, glancing around the small house you find yourself in, and race to the front door. Panic flares when you can't open it. You notice the security chain.

Swearing at your stupidity, you undo it and yank the door open. You run down the quiet suburban street, not registering how the road surface tears at the soles of your feet. Your need to get away is stronger than that mere pain. Headlights appear in front of you. A car door slams. What are you doing here? Robson? Robson?

Is that you help me? There's a man he... Robson drapes his jacket over your naked. its shoulders. There, there. Easy now. Take deep breaths. Tell me all about it. I was trapped. He locked me in a room and took my clothes. I... You look at your blood-covered hands. I stabbed him and escaped. I think he's dead. Robson's strong arms pull you close. It's over now. I've got you. You rest your head on his shoulder. He leads you to his car and settles you in the passenger seat. You stare out the window, not seeing anything.

As he puts on your seatbelt, he gets in and turns toward you. So, you met my brother. He says and punches you hard in the side of the head. Getting out of that room sounds like a pretty intense problem. Fortunately, not every problem is that difficult to solve. Let's learn more as we now have a word from our sponsor, Better Help. We all face problems in life, and dealing with them sometimes gets difficult because we focus solely on the problem, not a potential solution.

Speaking with another person, someone who can offer a different perspective can really help you see a problem in a new light. And believe me, a therapist can help you become a better problem solver, making it easier to accomplish your goals, no matter how big or small. And that's why we believe BetterHelp Online Therapy can help you solve the problems you're dealing with. And I've learned that with some problems, it's all the other little issues that come with it that can compound the issue and make it harder to solve. All that stress and self-blame, things that I've experienced can be brought into balance thanks to speaking with a therapist. BetterHelp is online therapy that offers video, phone, and even live chat.

Not only therapy sessions, so you don't have to see anyone on camera if you don't want to. It's much more affordable than in-person therapy. You can be matched with a therapist in under 48 hours. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's betterh-elp.com slash no sleep. And now, let's get back to the horror podcast. No, no wait. Or is it a true crime podcast?

True Crime Podcasts. They're extremely popular these days. People love the allure of the crimes they detail, but some people think they go too far in exploiting the torment and pain of the victims. But in this tale, shared with us by author Christopher O'Halloran, we meet a young true crime podcaster who blurs the lines between investigation and participation. I join Lindsay Russo, Sarah Thomas, and Matthew. you Bradford in performing this tale. So decide for yourself. Are these podcasters doing good with

their investigations, or are they just ghouls? Won't suffice. She needs the whole damn loaf, something to feed her followers, watching at home, listening while folding laundry, or driving to the grocery store for their weekly resupply of soda and potato chips. The world needs the smoking gun. We all know the story of Brandon Tide. Riley's hiking boots break the fallen leaves into innumerable fragments. The police could have stopped him. They could have saved Gianna and Ava French.

Does her lapel might pick up the wind blowing through the trees, the dirt under her heel? Each rock she kicks down the steep hills of Downs Bowl. They tumble like laundry. Small, large, doesn't matter. If a rock isn't a boulder, it falls. But even boulders fall with enough manipulation. It's only a matter of time before she cracks this case like a child's femur, like the femur of Ava French, Brandon, and Gianna's daughter.

The lower half of the bone, identified by the forensic expert she met online, is all she has to go on. The only thing that suggests this is something more nefarious than abandoning an abusive boyfriend. A domestic argument gone wrong. Something the ineffectual police have let happen time and time Again, but we can't do their entire job for them. We can't lock anyone up before they kill.

All we can do is pick up the pieces after the fact. Riley takes a deep, dramatic breath. Her lungs are working hard on this hill. She's not looking forward to the uphill climb back. We don't save lives. We deliver answers. Another breath. Justice.

There's nothing to connect tides to the murder of his girlfriend and daughter. It's not even a murder, according to the police. Not yet. Just two missing girls. 27 and 2.5. They left me, balls Brandon Tides. He doesn't know why. Riley and her 385,000 followers know why.

They know he killed them. They know the bone fragment found a block and a half from Downs Bowl belongs to Ava French. The cops say they don't have the resources to run a DNA test, but in truth, they're just lazy. They don't take Riley seriously, despite her track record. Nobody takes you seriously when you're 17. She's too young and experienced. Her followers aren't so naive.

She's not blinded by the way life used to be. She sees it the way it is now. It's up to Riley to prove the bone fragment isn't just some raccoon hip or squirrel skull. She's solved crimes before. The phone booth kidnapping. the English Bay Barber, the Summa's Prairie Slaughterhouse. Sure, she's fucked a few up. Obtained faulty leads from her sedentary Patreon members trawling through CCTV footage

and misidentifying suspects by the wrong backpack. But that's just the nature of the game. Riley never docks anyone. How her fans act on the internet is their business. None of the suicides are on her conscience. Not as long as she throws herself into the work without too much time to think about it. If she can solve this case, it will give her profile a huge bump,

the competitive edge that would allow her to take things pro instead of using school equipment. She was already validated in the eyes of her teacher at Muat Secondary, where she developed her own subject. New media. In the spare period she had every day. But more views would mean more sponsors, money enough to supplement their stipend, enough to get her parents to look up from their tablets for a second

and realize they have a daughter. Riley comes to the end. edge of a deep ravine. She knows her lapel mic is picking up the rushing stream. Water splashes up the rusted sides of ownerless vehicles below, at least a dozen, abandoned like unwanted children. The police search the roads for Gianna French's pickup truck, but it's all for not. Riley allows for a natural pause filled with the cussarations of the trees above and

the water far below. Sounds her listeners only hear through speakers, supplementing. an image they'll only see on a screen. I know it's in the auto graveyard of Downs Bowl. I'll be sure to include photos in the show notes, with more available to patrons. Support us for more content like this. It was one of her patrons that tipped her off to the truck buried in the scrub,

spotted through the lens of his drone. God forbid any of the keyboard warriors actually get off their atrophied asses and investigate for themselves, she'd be out of a job. The truck isn't down there. Everything in the graveyard has been there for years. The beetle on the far bank on rims. The rubber of the tires eroded by water. A Jeep on its roof.

Garbage bags spilling out of the rear hatch. A corolla with a bird's nest in the driver's seat. Eggs framed in the hole through the windshield. Riley leaves the edge. She doesn't suffer from stagnation. Not yet anyway. Every grown-up in her life tells her things will change after high school, but they're only trying to justify their laziness.

She's a shark, constantly on the move. She wades through brambles, making sure to keep an eye on the edge of the ravine. A fall might not kill her, but it'll break bones. Nobody would find her. Nobody hikes these days. Better be careful. She finds the truck on a downhill slope, its hood missing, in the ravine about 30 feet below. It matches the model Gianna was last seen in, white F-150, a relic of a bygone.

on time. Something only the desperately poor resorted to, a gas guzzler at a time when gas is hard to find and priced accordingly. Being poor is so expensive. I'm approaching the truck. Riley keeps her voice full of reverence for the situation. The underbrush crawls up the wheels, starting to claim the vehicle like it has all the others. Thanks to Hoovian 69 for the tip. Join the Patreon for access to our exclusive Discord server, where you too can provide tips. Something in the passenger seat catches her eye as Riley comes close. Lime green. The rubber corner of something poking up from between ripped fabric and hard vinyl. It looks like the case to a tablet. Something to keep a toddler from destroying expensive electronics.

Something that bounces. Her hand floats to the door handle as if remote controlled. Fingers worm underneath. Something slimy undulates away from her touch, burrowing in its dark home. Riley breathes deep, then pulls the door open with a creek of dirty hinges. A voice calls down from in the ravine. Hello? Something moves in the backseat of Gianna's truck. Riley gasps. Her hand, still controlled by some more instinctive part of her brain, pushes the door closed. The truck shifts. It lurches forward, back tires bouncing over tree roots. Riley falls away, trying to get some distance from its downhill path. Her jacket pulls her off her feet, however, sleeve caught on the door. She screams unable to help herself. Her feet push

at the dirt, shoving leaves into piles, Ava French would have loved to kick through. The ground grabs her pants, pulling them down and exposing her lower back. Small, sharp rocks gouge her flesh, scraping her skin as she struggles desperately to wriggle out of her jacket. The truck picks up speed, tires rumble. The sound definitely picked up by her lapel, Mike. Only a few feet ahead, the edge of the ravine drops off. Riley's eyes shoot wide. Her heart jackhammers in her chest. She can't get free. The truck drags her against a tree whose branches scratched like the clawed arms of her followers, demanding more, demanding all. Something tears in her arm. The rip of it cuts through the sound of the truck's lumbering progress, but it doesn't come with pain. With sudden hope,

Riley sees the tear in the armpit of her jacket, ripped open by the tree as it scratched furrows in her cheeks. With the final tug, she opens up the rip. The arm of her jacket tears completely with a slow rasp. She rolls away from the truck, but momentum takes her over the edge regardless. The truck falls, engine down, nose sinking into the ravine like an Olympic diver. Riley grasps a loose tree route. It doesn't stop her, but slows her enough that she slides into the ravine instead of dropping suddenly, rolling down steep hills and bouncing off bumps that dig bruises. deep into her body. The truck crashes, the sound accompanied by something wetter than the steam, something more visceral,

a crunch, a splatter, twisting metal and shattering glass. Gianna French's truck at permanent rest. Riley comes to rest in the stream face down. Her first instinct is to breathe deeply. She's punished with lungfuls of water. Spluttering, she pushes up into air, hands sinking. sinking into soft mud. She falls back onto the grassy shore, scooting her ass backward until she comes to rest against a burned-out panel van with flat tires. Fire spreads along her back where the

ground rubbed her skin raw. Her head pounds, each heavy inhalation sending dull spikes through it. Her chest heaves as she desperately tries to catch each fleeting breath. Then the sight stops her cold. Gianna French's truck, grill against the ground crumpled into a mess of machinery, glass scattered around the scene of its crash like diamonds, the small glimmering shards carried away in the stream. A long flash of silver comes up from deep waters, some sort of fish, less than the length of the shallow gash in her forearm. The fish surfaces, swallows one of those diamonds, darts further into the red now, tainting its commute to the wider Fraser River. The truck rests on top of something.

All Riley can see is a lifted shirt, skin exposed to his hairy navel, thick legs extending from the mess, like the witch crushed by Dorothy's flying house. One of the feet twitches rapidly. The movement's too small to be anything but primeval. The last few flashes of electricity and nerves no longer connected to a brain. A brain crushed beneath 4,000 pounds of American manufacturing. His body leaks into the stream, blood pooling around the bumper. There's body.

It takes her a second to realize she's speaking into a lapel mic in pieces. Wires pulled open like a bouquet with plastic and metal blossoms. Fuck! She'll have to record the rest of this after the fact. Hopefully her phone survived the fall. Nobody will believe her without photos, videos. She'd do an Instagram live if there was any reception in this fucking park. On the other side of the truck, the passenger door falls open, then off, hinges failing.

It slams against the ground, the sound, sending a jolt of panic through her body. Someone groans. Is the man alive? He can't be. She crawls over to him. Mr. Riley peers at the bumper. His head is caved in completely, crushed beyond recognition, something like spaghetti bolognese in a ceramic bowl.

Riley goes still. Her body vibrates, micro-tremmers radiating along her skin. She's seen a body before, but this. Motherfucker! A man from the other side of the truck. He crawls away, visible through the window of the driver's side. Old man pants held up by brown suspenders. Gray hair, a horseshoe on his head.

Riley is pretty sure she knows who it is. Ernest Graham, the fisherman. Take a trip on his boat and he tells you a tale of true crime. just two fishers shooting the shit waiting for a bite. Or at least that's his schick. He records in a studio that also puts out improv comedy podcasts and audio plays. That's not where the fisherman's hypocrisy ends. Riley's pretty sure he's vegan.

There was a photo posted on Reddit of him picking through tofu at the supermarket. Probably hasn't fished a day in his life. He rolls over onto his back, panting at the sky. Blood paints his face crimson. His white beard is soggy with it. it rusting on his neck. One of his suspenders is ripped. His plaid shirt has come untucked and his belly hangs out like that of the man beneath

the truck. Ernest Graham? He winces and sits up jerkily, almost like claymation. His hand lifts to his forehead and touches a swelling mass before coming away quickly. Riley's skirts are on the truck. Were you in there? I found it. Found it.

Of course I was in there. Solved. Solved it. Fucking Hoovey in 69. He must have shared the tip with anyone who would listen. And they call the investigators' ghouls. The keyboard warriors are worse. We can share the discovery.

Riley eyes the truck. Its rest not as permanent as it first appeared. It balances precariously on its nose, a child standing on one leg, one strong breeze from falling to earth. Ernest Graham finally sees, the man crushed beneath it. Is that?

Riley notices the crocks on the man's crushed feet. Pink is bubblegum despite the grime of the stream. The sponsored footwear donned by thousands of Tom fans in support of their true crime Messiah. Stephen Tompkins, the stay-at-home dad who started his own podcast while his kids were at school. Another true crime investigator.

As far as Riley knows, he really does do it at home. The real deal began in his closet. laptop between his knees and coats surrounding him. Now he has the money for a home studio. Now, all the money in the world can't help him. Stay-at-home dad should have stayed at home. You killed him. You...

You are in the car. Riley is glad her lapel mic is broken. This is a conversation she doesn't want on the record. Are you telling me you got in without engaging the parking break? His eyes are glassy. They dart around, clouded in confusion. Something pulses in his forehead. The swelling grows. I...

Ernest Graham looks at Riley. His eyes are bloodshot, bulging. If the crash knock them loose, or is that how he always looks? Are you going to kill me? What is he talking about? She's not a killer. She's a fucking high school student. Mr. Graham. Riley Jones? His eyes narrow. He wipes blood from his eyes and... flicks it into the water.

You... You solved the Knox murder. Riley smiles. That's right. That was me. Carl Knox ended up dead. At the bottom of a flight of stairs with a broken neck. Riley's smile fades.

An image of the man. Body twisted at her feet flashes before her, swimming like the fish with a belly full of glass. She closes her eyes and shakes her head, wiping the memory. He came after me. He attacked me. Yeah, because he knew you were dangerous. Ernest Graham's chest rises and falls rapidly on the verge of hyperventilation.

How bad is his head injury? He's not thinking straight. I'm going to call for help. I'm going to get you help. She can no longer feel the bruises and cuts from her fall. Adrenaline courses through her veins, electricity in her bones. She reaches for the phone in her pocket. pocket. It's broken. The screen shattered. She's not getting pictures of the site. She's not getting a life flight for Ernest Graham in his pulsing forehead. There'll be no recovery of Stephen Tompkins's body anytime soon. Ernest Graham reaches into his own pocket to bring out a phone of his own. He pulls a knife,

removing the leather sheath and throwing it in the water. He knew you were dangerous. He takes a wet step forward. not. Riley takes a corresponding step back and comes up against Gianna French's truck. It rocks back and forth, digging into Stephen Tompkins' skull and crushing bone into dust before settling. You killed him. Ernest Graham points his beard at the body. I won't let you kill me. Riley steps around the truck and into the stream. Wait! Her heel comes down on a slimy rock. It shoots out forward and she goes down hard on her ass. flash bulbs go off on the end of her eyelashes. Ernest Graham takes advantage.

He lunges, knife in both hands, raised high above his head. His teeth bared as he falls. Riley scrambles backward. As she does, her heel pushes rocks out from under the bumper of the truck. Two things happen almost at the same time. Ernest Graham plunges his knife into the stream. The blade bounces off rocks taken downstream. He lands face down in the water.

Then the truck falls. It tilts over. brought out of its apex by the dislodging of rocks keeping it stable. The cab lands on Ernest Graham's legs. He screams in agony, head underwater. Bubbles float to the surface. His beard streams out around his face. Ava French's lime-green tablet floats out of the shattered car window.

It bounces off rocks and is carried downstream into Stephen Tompkins' blood, now mingling with that of Ernest Graham's busted forehead and mangled legs. Riley rushes for him. Despite what Ernest Graham claims, she is not a murderer. Despite what her critics say of her and her colleagues, she is not a ghoul. She grabs Ernest Graham under his arms and lifts him out of the water. She can't pull him out from under the truck, but she can prevent him from drowning. His screams fill the ravine, bouncing off the walls, reverberating against the rusted

metal of every vehicle abandoned there. The water has washed his forehead clean. His skull is busted open. A fissure about an inch. wide letting dirty water inside his head. His brain would be floating in there if it wasn't swelling before her eyes. Riley's muscles scream. He's a big man. She can't hold him forever. He cries and pants slurring his words. Fresh blood coats his face. A mask the color of cartoon apples. It flows freely into the water and thankfully obscures the window into his head.

Don't let me die. Better than don't kill me. I won't. She can dig him out. All she has to do is remove the rocks under his legs, as long as he... A hollow in the ravine wall catches her eye. Dark, damp, about the size of a doghouse. The perfect hiding spot.

She leaves Ernest Graham rushing over to the hole in the dirt. There's something white inside, small like a polished rock. Rocks don't have teeth, though. Riley digs her arm in, pressing her fingers into the eye holes of the skull. Something there's something there's. Squishes like jelly. But she's been doing this too long to get grossed out anymore. The gash in her arm opens more, blood leaking onto the dirt as she struggles with the skull.

It gives a pop, the spine detaching. Riley pulls out the half-decomposed head of a child. Eva! Animals have been at the exposed bits, but what was in the dirt is remarkably preserved. Dirty, blonde hair, gray flesh along a torn ear. She can't tell how the child was murdered. But she suspects Brandon Tide suffocated her, placed a pillow over his daughter's head, strangled her maybe. If she digs around, she can reveal the body, find out the cause of death,

maybe even find the body of Gianna French. Were they buried here, then revealed by erosion? It's only been a month. Then again, they've had some heavy rains. It's possible. She'll have to get in contact with her forensics guy, maybe stretch an interview with him over an episode of its own. This will surely lift her past 500,000 subscribers, maybe even bump her up to a solid mill. This case is nationwide. People across the continent will want to know how she solved it. Interviews, articles written about her, guest spots on daytime TV.

Mom and Dad will be thrilled. She'll FaceTime their tablets and give them the good news. Riley pulls her phone out to shine the flashlight in the hole, but the crack and the screen and the dented back remind her of its condition. She won't be able to see any more unless. Ernest Graham has a light. Ernest Graham, she can't call for help with her busted phone. The least she can do is share the discovery with him.

Maybe they can team up in the future, climb out of this ravine full of derelict vehicles and start their own network. Mr. Graham! She holds up the skull. She smiles so wide, it hurts. Scrapes from her fall tearing open on her face, bruises cry out. But it's the pain of a job completed. The satisfaction of being the greatest in your field.

He doesn't struggle against the water. His head is fully submerged, arms akimbo. They sway gently in the stream. Blood continues to pour from his busted skull. We don't save lives. She couldn't save Carl Knox from his tumble down the stairs. Couldn't save the poor high school kid bullied into a news when her fans turned a million misled eyes on him. The trout darts up and nibbles at the exposed brain of the fisherman.

We deliver answers. Her smile falters only for a moment. 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.

I just know I'm going to dream about the witch. But when I wake, it's dawn, and all I dreamed about was water. Not a dream as such, but how sleep itself felt. A big, dark lake, perfectly smooth, not so much as a ripple on the surface. I'm tired, though. I ache with it, even though it's the best night's sleep I've had in a long time. It hurts to move my eyes in their sockets, and I think maybe mom's right. Maybe my laptop is slowly killing me.

There's nothing of yesterday in my head until I sit up, and it slides down the inside of my skull and into my eyes. I see the cops. I see Kara's photo. I see the party, and a cramp rolls over my stomach. I reach for my laptop the same way I do every morning, remembering it's out of juice. I grab my cell instead, seeing five messages and two missed calls from Flint. I know what they're going to say, and I'm right. Where you?

Tommy, you twat, answer me. You okay? Tommy? You okay? Gonna call your mom. Duck you, douche move. I write sorry as a reply. I don't send it.

She's right. It was a douche move. I should have texted her when I got home. I barely even remember getting home. Had mom been in the bath? Hovering outside my door? The whole evening feels half real, like my dreams have slipped loose,

like they'd started and finished before I even went to bed. When I draw back the covers, I see I'm still in my clothes, too. And with a jack-in-the-box jolt, if somebody slipped something into my bottle, or if Flint somehow got me to swallow one of her little pills to help me relax, because that part of the night has gone completely. Something moves in the bathroom, an echoing squeak of heavy flesh in the tub, the slosh of water. I need to pee, but I can wait, so I head downstairs instead.

I'm the first one up, the draped strong, the house yet to take a breath. I put coffee on, put bread and the toaster. Fresh crumbs off the counter while I wait, staring at that weird pattern of black mold on the kitchen wall. My brain's still catching up, little chunks of yesterday falling into place. I ought to leave it well alone, but I know I won't. That's the trouble with having a writer's brain. You cannot let a sleeping dog lie. I must have woken mom up because she's staggering from her bedroom, half dead when I walk up the stairs.

She looks at me through her limp hair, grunts something about coffee. In the pot, I say as I walk into my room, closing the door behind me. I take a breath, feeling knackered from just climbing the stairs, feeling like there's not enough air in here. It's better when the windows are open, the cold air entering the room like the first explorers on a new continent, slowly as if there's danger here. Back under my duvet, loud. The laptop plugged in, toast-eaten, coffee cooling on the table.

I'd spend my whole life here if I could, if I thought Mom wouldn't kick me out on my ass. I run my finger between the keys, brushing away crumbs, until the laptop finally has enough juice to crawl back up from its grave. It seems to take forever before it's ready for me, and I wonder if it's so reluctant because it knows where I'm about to take it. I take a sip of coffee, swallowing, even though it's still too hot. Then I start with Kara Pierce's Facebook page. I'm surprised to see that her profile picture has changed, and I can't for the life of me make out what it's supposed to be. It's just a black square with two out-of-focus yellow circles, almost like eyes,

and two fat lines growing up from the middle, arms maybe. The whole thing is blurry. I click on the photo and it should take me to the next one, and it does, only this one's exactly the same, so's the next. They're all like this, some Facebook glitch maybe. Tanner's page is still missing, deleted last night after I messaged him. I can't quite believe I did that. It feels like an utterly alien act, way too brave for me. I scroll through Kara's other friends, but there's nobody there I recognize.

Megan aside. So I click the creepy.com tab and load up Kara's profile. I scanned the list of stories she liked or commented on, finding the one I was looking for. Tubby. I knew I'd seen the word before. That single comment on the single photo on Tanner's page. Kara commented on this story three days before she died, and all she wrote was, I don't know if this is right, but look at the table. Look at the table. It's the same.

My cursor hangs over the link to the story like a guillotine blade, but after a few seconds I move it away. I don't feel ready for it yet. Instead, I launch Google and type Witch's Game into the bar. Nothing comes back but ads for video games, so I add Kara's name, but that comes up blank too. I try adding dead girl alongside it, and halfway down the first page there's a link to a Fox News page. Girls' death linked to Facebook Witch. When I click through, though, it takes me straight to the Fox homepage, and there's no sign of it there. I retreat, trying to make sense of the thumbnail photo that goes with the article. Another teenage girl, not Kara, a school picture maybe.

It's dated 2016. I drum my fingers on the laptop, popping my lips, but I can't think of anything else to search for, so I head back to creepy. It takes me half a mug of coffee before I can bring myself to click on the story, and I finish the drink off completely before I start reading. I get the feeling I'm going to need it. Tubby added by Unknown on 1227, 2013.

Tubby is sitting under the table again. Tubby isn't saying anything, but he won't stop smiling. I can feel him smiling, even when I can't see it. And he keeps touching my ankle with his cold fingers. Tubby isn't talking. Tubby never talks, but he's grunting the way he does when he's hungry. He's always hungry. Mother is serving.

It's Chip Night and she's done sausages with them. Tubby don't always like chips, but he likes sausages. He prefers meat. His fingers rubbed my ankles, rub them red raw, but I don't dare kick my leg because I don't want to make him angry. I tell him to hang on in my head, and he grunts and rubs my ankle some more until I think his sandpaper fingers are going to reach bone.

Father is staring at me. He's staring at the way my cheeks curve in instead of out, at the dark hollows where my eyes sit, where the tears gathered like dust at the line of my collarbone jutting over my t-shirt. Mother too. She's serving me an extra big portion, but it doesn't matter because Tubby won't let me eat it. Tubby is too hungry to share. Here, she says, putting it down before me.

It smells so good. I can see the grease on the sausages. The meaty smell of them rides up my nose and sits. in my stomach. The chips are home-cooked and crispy, but they will be fluffy when you bite into them. There's gravy too, pooling between everything deliciously thick. Eat, she says, it's good for you. Eat, father says, an order. And they see me pick up my fork. They see me stab it into the flesh of a sausage. They see me lift the sausage off my plate. But they don't They don't see Tubby's bones, thin, arms slide up from beneath the table.

They don't see his dirty nails punch of the sausage, pluck it from the fork. They don't see his grinning moon face in the shadows between my legs, his wet lips opening, sucking down the meat with a choking, gulping desperation. He eats everything. He even picks up the plate and pulls it beneath the table. I can hear him licking it long and slugging it. And my parents just sit there and watch me and they don't see it. They see something else, something that isn't real.

And when it's done, they smile and take the plate that Tubby has put back on the table and tell me I did well. And they give me pie and custard for pudding. But Tubby eats that too. I make my excuses and leave, but when I look back I see Tubby there, so big he barely fits, beneath the table, his obese body squatting on two fat folded legs like a toad, his bald sausage greased head resting on a cushion of chins, only his arms are thin, as thin as broomsticks. Tubby never wears clothes, but he's so fat his skin hangs down like a skirt. His eyes are just holes in the doughy flesh of his face and he is still grinning at me.

My parents' feet are touching him. His back fat folded around their legs, but they don't feel him. I know that Tubby could dance around in front of them, could jump up and down upon their spines, and they would not know he was there. Only I see Tubby, and he sees only me. I can't even remember when he was first there, or maybe he's always been there, but he never used to take everything. He would only ever help himself to a slice of ham or some apple peel.

But the more he took, the hungrier I got, and the hungrier I got, the more he would take. Now he's always there. He sits beneath the tables at school. He stands in the shadows behind the candy machines. He waits for me at night when I'm so hungry I can't sleep and I come downstairs for a snack. He was there at the hospital when mother and father took me. When the doctor handed me a lollipop, it was Tubby's hand that took it, and it was tubby that sat quietly in the corner, crunching it into dust. All while the doctor and my parents stared at me and smiled and nodded and told me how well I was doing to eat.

Tubby is here right now. He's sitting in the bath, even though the bath isn't big enough for him. His flesh hangs over the edge and touches the floor. He's bigger than ever, and he's grinning at me and grunting, and I ain't know what. what I'm going to feed him. It's right here in my hands. A skull on the label and the words, bleach written on the side of the bottle.

I don't even care anymore if he drinks or if he lets me. I'm so hungry I don't want to live. My legs look like his arms. They're almost too weak to hold me. I'm made of twigs and sticks, not even real anymore. Tubby grunts. The bath squeaking as he jiggles impatiently.

I lift the bottle to my lips and Tubby pulls it from me, puts it to his mouth and drinks and drinks and drinks, drinks until the bottle is empty and he tosses it to the floor. Still grinning, still grunting. He won't even let me have this, I think. He won't even let me go. God, I'm so hungry. Let me eat. Tubby climbs out of the bath. He waddles to me on those enormous.

legs. They're so towed bent beneath his weight that he's the same height as me. He holds out his hand and I think he wants something more to eat but I don't have anything. And anyway, he's just wanting to hold my hand because he does, his long fingers cracking as they close around mine. Just gently. He's leading me out of the bathroom through the kitchen that smells like food because mum is always cooking now. Out the front door, oh, onto the street, I'm almost too weak to move, but Tubby is there, a dreadnought that pushes down the sidewalk. People must see him because they skitter out of his way, but they also can't see him because nobody looks at him. They just stare at me, that the scarecrow thin shape of me, bent-legged and bow-backed, my arm outstretched

before me. I don't know where we are. A tall, building that reaches the clouds that is drenched in shadow. Tubby knows, because he pulls me through the door, up the stairs, up and up and up and up and up and up and up past screams and laughter and shouts and cries until I just can't walk any further. There's a door. It's open and I can smell food. Tubby goes first and I wonder if it is his apartment, but I know it is not because there's somebody else here, somebody I can't see, even though I can feel them watching me. But it doesn't matter because there's a table in front of me, and it's covered in food, so much that it looks like it might break.

And Tubby just grins at me. And the other thing I can't see grins at me, and I know I can eat as much as I like it. I know I can. So I do. I dig my hands into the red of it, that glorious stickiness. and I eat. Thank you, Toffee, thank you toppy, thank you, tubby, thank you, chubby, thank you, Tommy, thank you toppy, thank you toppy, thank you toppy, thank you tommy, thank you Tommy, thank you Tommy, thank you Tommy, thank you Tommy. Consider me officially freaked out. I'm trembling as I look up from the laptop and that makes me realize how close I am to peeing myself.

I snap the computer closed and fly into the bathroom, no time even to close the door. My eyes are watering with the relief of it, and it's only when I've washed my hands and splashed water on my face that I noticed the bath is full. There is no tubby in it, I'm happy to say, but there's a wad of mom's hair in the water, about the size of a hand, just floating there. I reach in to pull the plug, the water's still warm, my hand coming free with a curate. of hair wrapped tight around my fingers. I wipe it off on the towel, then crash onto my bed. Tubby's in my head, and I know that's the whole point of creepypastas. I know that's why people write them, but this one's getting to me.

It wasn't even particularly good. I open up the laptop, the story fizzing out of the dark as the screen comes to life, like a shark appearing from deep water. Those last three words go on forever. the author must have written them a thousand times. When I finally get to the comments, they're mostly positive. A couple of shout downs. One accusation of plagiarism.

And of course, Kara's comment somewhere in the middle. I don't know if this is right, but look at the table. Look at the table. It's the same. A table full of food, I think. A table full of meat. And it's not just that, is it? The building described here isn't a million miles away from the building in Pinch.

It's not a million miles away from the building in my story either. The building I used to see in my dreams. Except that's ridiculous, because all they say is a high-rise, and how many of them are there here, in this country alone? A million? I'm jumping to conclusions. I'm seeing things where nothing is there. It's just a story written by some kid who was probably

sitting in a bedroom like this when they did it. Laptop on their knee, annoying brother playing the Xbox in the room next door. To prove it to myself, I click on the author's name, but it's an unknown page, which is weird in itself.

I'm looking too deep, I know it. Like Flint told me yesterday, this is just a case of a lonely, sad, horror-loving girl, who probably found out her douchebag boyfriend was cheating on her with her best friend, and decided she just didn't want to be here anymore.

Megan was trying to throw me off the scent with the whole game thing, casting the blame on Tanner. Back when Dad had been alive, he always told me I thought too much, about everything. His favorite thing to bring up was Occam's razor. Whichever solution to a problem is the simplest, is almost always correct, or something like that.

Sad girl commits suicide? Or two people play a weird witcher? game based on creepy pastas that ended up with one of them dead and one missing, and which, by the way, might have something to do with a dream used to have when you were a kid? I actually laugh, and the room feels a little brighter for it. I could click out of creepy now and never come back, I know. I could go through my whole life and never think about Kara Pierce again. And I almost do. I almost do. But I don't. You know I don't. You wouldn't. You wouldn't. You wouldn't. be hearing this story if I'd left the dead girl alone. You'd still be safe if I had left the dead girl

alone. You'd still have a chance. I'm back on Kara's page before I even know it, scrolling through her photos, nothing but that weird, blurred image. I check Megan's page next, and halfway through her feed, I see it, an image of her and Kara sitting at a bar, cocktails in their hands even though they were way too young to order them. The explanation for this lies with who's serving them. A young, tanned guy with a $3 million smile and a barman's uniform. There's no ID on him, but the caption reads, Tanner's always spoiling me, and the photos geotacked.

Outcast bar. I haven't heard of it, but Google comes to the rescue again. It's on Peterson and forth, a subway ride away. I closed the laptop and lie back, staring at the ceiling. There's a string of cobweb hanging down from my lampshade, as thick and dark as hair. And even as I notice it, I hear a splash of water from the bathroom again, a heavy body moving, then footsteps pounding across the landing and down the stairs.

Nothing passes my room, though. It must be from next door, I think. But the truth is my stomach is churning. My skin's trying to crawl off my bones. Forget about it. Stony, shouting, and he sounds close. I clamber off my bed and walk to my door, poking my head out to see my little brother standing right there,

staring into space. Forget about what? His eyes crawl to meet mine. The rest of him seems utterly motionless, a glitch in time. Then, just like that, he sneers at me. The door, you idiot. He turns and gallops down the stairs.

Somebody's knocking, and I'm chasing after him. I got it. I hear myself say, but he's making a point of it now, stomping to the front door. There's a pair of shadows hanging in the marbled glass, broken into a thousand pieces. Wait, Donnie, hang on. He slides the dead bolt and opens it, but somebody grabs my shoulder. are hard, and I turn to see mom there. Her mouth is open, like she's yawning, like she's silently screaming, and there's a wad of darkness sitting on her tongue, stuffed down her throat like a rack.

She moans, chokes, her jaw snapping like a nutcrackers. Once, twice, then she's speaking. Where are you going? I don't want you skipping out again, getting drunk. My entire vocabulary is lodged in my throat. I look at her, standing there in her bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head, strands of damp hair hanging down from it. What? Did you hear me? I remember the door, turn back to see that it's closed. There's definitely a shadow in the glass, though, getting bigger, getting closer. The latch turns, the door opens, and Donnie's there. Forgot my phone. He pushes past me into. He pushes past me into. the kitchen, then walks back again.

That goes for you, too, Donnie. Six at the latest, hear me? Yeah, yeah. He grins at me. What's up with you, dork? You look like you've just seen Mom and the Milkman doing the naked Fandango on the dining room table. Donnie, enough! Mom chases him out the door with the back of her hand.

He's laughing as he drops down the steps onto the sidewalk. Mom's laughing, too, as she closes the door behind him. I'm not laughing. I'm not sure I will ever remember how to laugh again. Six. Mom twirls a finger in her hair, pulling out a thin strand, staring at it. No later.

She walks to the stairs, heads up them, and as she turns the corner, I swear I see her put her finger, put that little curl of dark hair in her mouth. I can hear her chewing on it right up until the bathroom door slams behind her, and the bath starts right. running. I call Flint while I'm walking to the subway station, but she's too pissed at me to answer.

I call again, and this time I leave a message. It's a whole 30 seconds of me trying to find the right words, then settling for the wrong ones. I think something's happening. I'm not sure. I think it's got to do with the girl, with Kara. I shake my head. I'm sorry, Flint. I'm just a little freaked out. Call me, okay? It's only just past nine, but the sun has forgotten to wake up. The skies are dark, the clouds low, a drizzle turning everything gloss. It's not like I want to be out here, but I don't want to be at home either. It feels like something has broken there, that something has pulled loose.

It's ridiculous, of course. I'm just wired, on edge. They are tiny little tricks of a tired mind. But every time I think this, I find myself wondering if Kara thought the same thing, if she thought she was sliding into madness too. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn't. I dropped down into the cemetery quiet of the subway, platforms all but deserted. The trains are too loud, too hot, too empty, and I'm almost weeping with happiness by the time I climb the stairs onto Peterson North. This side of the city is brighter, not quite spring but not quite winter either.

I lose my way twice trying to find forth, and even when I do, it takes me another half an hour to locate the bar. It's in a basement, and the only indication that it's there at all is a tiny label on the bottom right corner of the glass door. The only other thing on the door is an eviction notice. It's dated last week, and already the place looks dead. the mail piling up inside, one window fractured. I try the door anyway, because I've come all this way, and the feeling I have when it opens is mixed. I look down the street, both ways,

but there's nobody here, nobody in the windows, nobody driving. It's like this part of the city has been forgotten by everybody except me. I have to use my shoulder to shunt the door open past the avalanche of letters. There's a staircase ahead, heading down, and there has to be somebody there because there's a light on, and I can hear the clink of glassware. It's impossible to find the air to call out with, so I head down, hearing the door click shut behind me, feeling my ears pop like this place is an airlock, like it's much deeper here than it lets on. It gets brighter, though, and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see a big bar, tables and chairs neatly arranged, the smell of the smell of it. polish hanging in the air. Everything's in shades of red and black and brass, a patterned carpet leading across the room to a huge mirror-backed bar. There's a woman there, a girl, really,

maybe the same age as Tanner. She's polishing shot glasses, lining them up on the bar, six of them in a neat little row. Hey, hey. She doesn't hear me, just takes another glass. She doesn't hear me, just takes another glass from beneath the bar, polishes it with her cloth, then puts it next to the others. My head across the room, my footsteps swallowed whole by the carpet. Ornate lights hang from the ceiling,

and I notice that they're all swaying, just slightly, like a subway train has passed nearby, where a bomb has dropped overhead. The thought of it makes my throat close up, but I push the image of collapsing buildings out of my head, walk to the bar, I hang back a short distance, though, six feet, hovering there like I'm afraid to land.

I'm right there in the mirror, and it's tilted. It makes me look like I'm growing out of the barwoman's head. I'm not sure if it's the glass or the light, or maybe both, but I look gray. Hey, hello? She pauses halfway to putting the next shot glass on the bar, finally sees me. She manages a smile. but it doesn't come anywhere near her eyes. I wonder if she's lost in thoughts of repossession.

Hey. She puts the glass down. Sorry, miles away. She looks around, as if remembering. We're closed. Can't serve you. It's okay. It feels wrong to be standing so far away,

but something's holding me here, something magnetic, repulsive. I was actually just looking for someone. buddy. Tanner. Tanner? She shakes her head. He won't find him here. We lost him days ago. I know. I chew my lip while the barmaid places another glass on the bar, nudging it into line with the others.

Six of them. I've been trying to reach him. He was girlfriend? No. One of his girlfriends, I should say. If you were, I feel sorry for you. Stringing us along like kites. Wherever he is, I hope it's cold and dark. and underground, but not a bar. You get me? I'm not. I'm his... his sister, but from another mister. We're cousins. You're Julia? You know, I never really heard Tanner say anything good about anyone,

but he thought you were a damned queen. You're over from Pasadena, right? I nod, hoping the lighting covers up the blush. We're worried. Nobody's heard from him. I was wondering. wondering if you knew where he was? The barmaid polishes another glass, places it in the line, takes another from the shelf. You know, it's his fault this place closed.

Don't ask me how, but it was. It's... She shudders so hard, the glass in her hand drops to the bar. She picks it up, polishes it again, puts it down, takes another.

I don't know what he was doing. I don't know what he did, but it's... It's whatever he did, it's stuck. What? I don't understand. It's stuck. I'm getting that sick feeling again, like I've downed a pint of cooking oil.

I look back to where I know the stairs are, but they seem further away. The whole room seems bigger, and it's almost like there are people hovering on the edge of it. But when I look at them, they're not there. They're just shadows caused by the swinging lights. Please, tell me where he lives. I need to speak to him. Won't do you any good. He's not there. Then where is he?

She sighs, the glass squeaking as she runs her rag over it. He's here, but you won't find him. He's too deep. He's too slow. She places the glass down next to the others. Six of them. Still just six of them in a neat little row. Backing away before I know it, and the girl's smile follows me.

I feel like I want to reach out and grab her. I pull her up with me so she doesn't have to stay down here by herself, but I'm worried that she'll never let me go, so I turn and walk away, walk back toward the stairway door. Only the room's too big, it's growing, and even when I break into a run, the door doesn't get any closer. A factory line of tables and chairs appearing from nowhere, passing me, while that back wall stretches further and further and further.

I turn. The bar is still right behind me. The girl's still smiling. She's put down the cloth, and her hand is reaching over the top of the bar. Her arm too long, broomstick thin. I trip, fall, use a chair to climb back up again, and I run and run and run until I just can't bear it anymore, and I open my mouth and scream. The room wobbles and I slam into the door so hard I think I've cracked a bone in my wrist. I push it open, stumble onto the stairs. looking back just once to see the barmate. There's somebody sitting right in front of her. I'm sure of it.

A guy with his face turned away from me, his finger tracing around the rim of a shot glass. He starts to turn his head, but I'm not waiting to see. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't trust my legs, so I take the stairs on all fours, staying on them until I push through the door onto the sidewalk. Even then, I don't stand. I roll onto my back, the building leaning over.

over me like it's going to scoop me back inside itself. I swear, kicking myself away over the lip of the sidewalk. Something honks, the squeal of brakes, a cab swerving to avoid me. It doesn't stop. Its horn blaring until it reaches the end of the street. You crazy? An old guy gestures at me with his walking cane. Almost got your head popped like a melon, fool girl. He doesn't stop to help me up. and even though a younger guy offers me his hands, I shake my head, finding my own feet and backing away. The bar watches me go, that glass door dark. I wonder what will happen if I try to open it again, whether this time it will be locked, whether it was always locked.

But nothing on this earth will make me try. Not on my own, anyway. I dig out my cell phone, nothing from Flint. I call her again, but it could. straight to voicemail. Please, Flint, I need you. I hang up, standing to one side to let people pass.

Nobody reaches for me with bone thin arms. Nobody even looks at me. I'm sliding my cell back into my bag when it rings, and I'm sobbing as I answer Flint's call. Thank God, thank God. Don't think I've forgotten you, ass wipe. Why the fuck didn't you text me? I looked around that party for an ass-wit.

hour trying to find you, search the whole building, thought someone at roofie you, was getting ready to call the police before your mom called me back and said you'd been home half the night. I know, I know, I can't explain it. I think somebody did spike me. I hate myself for the lie, but right now she needs to hear it. I don't even remember going home, woke up in my clothes. Oh, fucking hell. I hear her say something to somebody else, the phone rustling. Then she's back. You okay? Yeah, yeah. Nothing bad happened.

Just like, no memories. Assholes. Not Marcel, but the others. Listen, where are you? Downtown. I'm... I stop, because something is suddenly sliding around inside me. A nest of snakes coiling in my gut.

My skin's gone tight and cold. My scalp peeling itself off my skin. I'm just down the street from the bar. I can see the door, and something's coming up the stairs. I don't know how I know it, but I know it. It's as real to me as if I had x-ray vision. Something is dragging itself up those stairs, something with boiling red eyes. I can feel it like a rabbit feels a hawk.

I can feel it in every single part of me. Something kicking against my skin and screaming, screaming for me to go before whatever is grinning up those steps reaches the door. But I can't move. I'm just standing there, groaning into the phone, and I can't move a single muscle. Tommy? Tommy, what's going on? Where are you?

It's nearly at the top. It's reaching for the door. It's nearly at the top. And I hear Flint gasp. Run. Fucking run. Tommy, run! I rip myself free, sprinting for the end of the street.

And in my mind's eye, I see an old hand press against the glass of the door. I see a yellow. moon face in the darkness of the stairwell. I run, her grin as big as a building behind me, as bright as the sun. I run, reaching the end of the street, looking over my shoulder even though I know I shouldn't. I see the door. Stop running until I'm three streets away. I duck onto my haunches, sobbing into the phone, Flint screaming at me so loud her voice is broken into pieces. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. I finally manage.

Then I take a breath, and I almost believe it. I'm okay, Flint. I'm okay. Was that Tommy, we must spend too much time together because that was intense. I felt like... I hear her slap her chest. Christ, what happened? Nothing.

They can't explain it. A group of kids are watching me from across the street, laughing, and I stand up, turn to the wall. My wrist is throbbing from where it hit the door, and I pull it in, pull everything in as close to my body as it will go, folding myself like paper. Please, something really bad is happening, and I don't... Please, I need to see you. Flint sighs, and I can picture her checking her watch. Sure, T. Now, I got ahead to work in a bit. Just a bit, then.

Starbucks? I'm already across town. It'll have to be breakers. I nod. It'll take an age to get there from here, but I'm not lying. I need to see her. If I'm on my own for much longer, I feel like I'm going to shut her right out of this reality. I feel like I'm going to slip into hers. I'll be there. Thank you. What friends are for? And I think she's hung up when she speaks again. By the way, there was a girl at the party last night. Said she spoke. to you. Megan. Yeah? Yeah, Megan. Kara's friend. Weird as hell. She gave me something for you,

said she wanted you to have it. For me? For the crazy girl who was asking about Kara, is how she phrased it. I'll bring it. She said it was important. I think she went home to get it. What is it? Nothing, just like papers and stuff. A story, I think. Not that it made much sense. A story. Flint, did you read it? A burst of static, than something that might have been a pop and wine of a camera flash. Yeah, of course I did. It was shit. Look, got to run. See you at Breakers. The line goes dead. And even though I don't know quite why, I'm running again. 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 fourth part. Star Jessica McAvoy as Tommy Bright. Kristen DiMecurio as Flint. James Cleveland as the unknown author. Dan Zupula as Donnie.

Aaron Lillis as Tommy's mother. And Lindsay Russo as the barmaid. Join us next week for This Book Will Kill You. The fifth 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 Michael. 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 past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long,

and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, 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.