The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep15: NoSleep Podcast S18E15

Episode Date: October 9, 2022

Tune in to Episode 15 of Season 18 for wretched romance. “Dinner Date” written by Yulea D’Argento (Story starts around 00:02:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin “Trick or Treat” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 00:06:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Scott – Kyle Akers, Jonah – Matthew Bradford, Heather – Mary Murphy, Matt – Atticus Jackson, Jock – Jeff Clement, Sarah – Danielle McRae, Partygoer 1 – Elie Hirschman, Partygoer 2 – Katabelle Ansari, Scott’s Mother – Linsay Rousseau “Honey Do” written by Jason Washer (Story starts around 00:30:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Eric – Jesse Cornett, Megan – Nichole Goodnight, Plumber – Jeff Clement “I Answered a Personal Ad Last Year” written by Wayne Power (Story starts around 00:44:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Margaret – Erin Lillis "This Book Will Kill You - Part 5" written by Alexander Gordon Smith (Story starts around 00:59:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Jessica McEvoy as Tommi Bright, Kristen DiMercurio as Flint, Atticus Jackson as the unknown author, Elie Hirschman as Rohan, Nichole Goodnight as the crying girl, and Sarah Thomas as Megan. “The Other Side of the Planchette” written by Kat Sinor (Story starts around 00:54:25) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Winnie – Sarah Ruth Thomas, You – Linsay Rousseau, Friend – Wafiyyah White “All Is Well, Friend” written by Jill Baguchinsky (Story starts around 01:15:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Graham Rowat “Underhill Rectory” written by Simon Bleaken (Story starts around 01:21:05) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Stuart Heath – David Ault, Mrs Lyndell – Erika Sanderson, Mr Bowman – Andy Cresswell This episode is sponsored by: NextEvo - Stop wondering if CBD is right for you. Try NextEvo Naturals capsules, gummies, mints, and topical creams, clinically proven to be better absorbed by your body. Go to nextevo.com, enter promo code NOSLEEP and you'll get 25% off your first order of $50 or more. ShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. You'll spend a lot less time on shipping and a lot more time growing your business. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Doctor Sleepless at The Stanley Click here to learn more about Yulea D’Argento Click here to learn more about LP Hernandez Click here to learn more about Jason Washer Click here to learn more about Jill Baguchinsky Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Underhill Rectory” illustration courtesy of Alia Synesthesia 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

The No Sleep Podcast. Horror to keep you sleepless coming right up. Yes, that's right. Tales to keep you awake in the dark hours. Sleep is unattainable in our world. Now listen, all that sleepless talk may be fun in the realm of horror entertainment. But not being able to sleep in real life, that's kind of a nightmare on its own. Even just one night of lousy sleep can have a ripple effect on the rest of your week.

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And now that you know how you can get a good night's sleep, Let's make it a bit more difficult as we bring on the horror. I'm just so tired. All day slaving away in the kitchen. Cooking, washing. I know you've suggested we go out instead, but I just really wanted to make this dinner special for us. I know things haven't been going too well,

and I know what's been on your mind. That's why you said we should go out for dinner and have a talk. I already know what we're going to talk about. I know what you're going to say. That I wasn't there for you. I wasn't tender. I wasn't sexy. That I was constantly overworked.

And my body lost the ability to excite you. You don't know that I already know. I know you've met someone on Tinder behind my back while I was working. Beautiful eyes. Great skin. I know what you've found in her. Her perfect breasts. Her thin, feminine arms.

Her small waist. Her carefree attitude that only someone who doesn't have a job can have. I admit, you have great taste. And you should have her for dinner. The sun has gone down. It's dark outside. Nighttime has begun. But you dare not close your eyes.

For in the darkness there are things unseen. Faces without eyes watching you. Nightmares exist while you're awake. No matter how much you try. You remain sleepless. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's classy to be a delightful hostess. Having your partner's new,

a friend for dinner is quite gracious, as we learned from author Yulia Dargento, from the tale which was this episode's cold open. Dinner Date, performed by Nicole Doolin. As we're now well into October and the month of Halloween, I trust everyone is bracing fully for a spooky few weeks. We've got our big Halloween episodes coming out at the end of the month. And don't forget to get your tickets to Dr. Sleepless at the Stanley.

They're going fast, so hurry before you miss the chance to hang out with the no sleep crew, along with Mike Flanagan and Kate Siegel on November 4th and 5th at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado. The link to tickets is in the show notes. We're working hard to make this the most successful. sleepless Halloween ever. We hope you'll join us for all the festivities. And now, we offer for your approval a series of stories we hope will make you sleepless. In our first tale, we see the calendar turn over to the month of October.

As such, Halloween is on everyone's mind. And in this tale, shared with us by author L.P. Hernandez, we meet a couple of teenagers going to a Halloween party at the the home of the new girl at school. Dare we ask, is love in the air? Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Matthew Bradford, Mary Murphy, Atticus Jackson, Jeff Clement, Danielle McCray, Ellie Hirschman, Caterbell Ansari, and Lindsay Russo.

So enjoy the funning games of a teenage Halloween party. But don't be nervous. I'm sure you'll be able to figure out if things are a trick or treat. So what do you think it's going to be like? I mean, you're the only one who knows her. I don't know. Yeah, we talked a bit, but I don't know if she would consider me a friend, just a guy in her neighborhood whose family wasn't rich enough to leave for the summer.

That makes two of us. But, I mean, she doesn't go to her school, so no one really knows what to think. Does she go to the academy or something? Home schooled, I think. It's just her and her grandma. Well, she didn't actually say anything about school. I'm guessing she's homeschooled, though. Says they live off her grandma's government checks and a small inheritance.

Not academy material. How could they afford the Murdoch house? You could fit every house in Coldwell drive in there. Yeah, but it's falling apart, you know? No one has lived there since, I don't know. I didn't even know you could rent it. I mean, someone must own it. Some Murdoch grandson or niece who doesn't want to deal with it.

It is big, but it, probably cost less to rent than my house, which isn't exactly a mansion. Wow. Look at it, man. I haven't ever seen the place lit up like that. It's like, it's like spider's eyes, the windows, looking over all the lessors. I wonder how many are going to show. She's not in her school.

Couldn't have made a lot of friends with most kids leaving for the summer. True, but we've all wondered about the Murdoch House for years. And... She's hot. She's hot. Well, you would know. I think I only saw her a couple times from a distance, but after that, I've only ever seen the grandma out in the yards picking wheat. Actually, she's gathering herbs, some like that.

Heather said there are a lot of plants that have wild cousins, stuff you can eat. I guess her grandma knows. You're avoiding the part about her being hot. Yeah, she is, but there's more than that. She's like no girl I've ever met, like an old soul presence. I mean, she's the new girl in Texas. living in a dilapidated, probably haunted house, and is poor on top of it. But she didn't seem bothered by any of it.

Like, when we were talking, she would get distracted by a butterfly and lose interest in our conversation. And I think she might have worn the same dress each time I met her, just some old summer dress a hipster might wear ironically. Is young Scott falling in love? I, we're just friends. And yet, here we are. are going to a Halloween party when we both promised tonight would be our last time trick-or-treating. We were in high school. We were in high school last year, too.

True. But last year, no one invited us to a Halloween party. Didn't figure it would happen this year either, so trick-or-treating was a safe bet. Ugh, look at those cars. Makes me sick. What teenager needs a BMW? Those aren't even assholes. They'll be fashionably late.

Well, whatever the opposite of that is, is what we are. Pathetically on time. Sounds right. Let me get the gate. Fuck, that was heavy. Or you're just weak. I'm going to blame it on the costume. The same Ghostbusters jumpsuit as last year? Did it get heavier, or is your arm tired for another recent?

I did have the house to myself this afternoon, but I'll stick with the costume. Shit, that's a lot of steps. Imagine getting groceries. Groceries? I can barely handle this heavy-ass costume. I was agreed. when it come. Of course I came. I mean...

Yeah, and I'm his handsome friend, Jonah. We haven't met yet. Nice to meet you, Jonah. Come on in. She's fucking beautiful, and she likes you. So has the party going? Oh, okay, I guess. I thought this would be a good way to meet people,

not being in school and all. Your grandma? What she doesn't know won't hurt her. I'm kidding. She's around. Probably upstairs somewhere. Doesn't hear well and goes to bed early. Oh, okay.

Well, I wanted to thank you for inviting me. I don't go to many parties. Of course. You were my first friend in this town. Oh, I'm sorry. Let me get that. Feel free to explore, but we haven't done much with the place yet. If you find something weird, don't blame me.

Previous owners and all. Dude, she fucking likes you. What? Squeezing your arm, all that disgusting eye contact. She likes you. And it doesn't look like there's much under that dress, and there's a lot of rooms in this house if you want to. I'm not like that.

What do you mean, not like that? We trade porn all the time. That's different. I'm a nice guy. I'm not some horned up jock like Matt. Did I hear my fucking name clown? Matt? No, no, we were talking about math.

You know, like school, math? Yeah? You sure about that TP? TP? Oh, yeah, Scott. Like the toilet paper brand. No, we were just talking about... Yeah, okay.

You two would be talking about math at a Halloween party, huh? You, uh... You looking at that new girl, TP? That means you, fuck-face. No, I... I wasn't. I got plans tonight, TP. Don't get in the way of them.

Come on, let's get a drink. Hey, sorry about that. It wasn't your fault. Now I remember why we don't come to these things. Look, I'll get us a drink. Why don't you explore? I mean, we've wondered about this house since we were kids. Look at all those books.

Look at those paintings. There's got to be some cool shit around here. Yeah, okay. Book of aberrations. Hmm. Cot-Cath-Cathon... Cothonic... Cthonic...

Cothonic Gnosis. What the fuck is this thing? Jesus! Oh, fuck. Sorry, I didn't see you there. Ma'am? Um, Heather's grandmother? I...

Oh. Ma'am, you're... You're close. You don't have any. Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, where's, where's your room? I can take you to your room. Ma'am? Can, can you hear me?

What, what are you smiling at? Oh, Jesus. Scott. Scotty, over here, man. Where, what's wrong? I, I went exploring. I went to the second level, I think. Could have been the third.

Most of the stuff is covered up, but I found some books. Weird stuff. I ran into her grandmother. And she was naked. Well, I guess you're in the lead then. No, no. She looked confused, old. She had plants in her hand.

Herbs, I guess. And she was smiling. Hey, man, I said you're in the lead. Don't have to rub it in. There's something off about her. Like, she was confused, but not crazy. More surprised to see me, I guess. Did the curtains match the...

Oh, my God. Dude. I didn't look. I told you. I'm not like that. I know. I know. You're a nice guy.

Well, you can be a nice virgin guy when you get to college with that attitude. Dude, it was her grandma. It's not like... Hey, sorry for betting in. Totally not spying on you. But I overheard you had a run-in with... Well, you know.

Sorry. She can wander sometimes. Don't worry. You won't see her again tonight. Unless it's in your dreams. I, uh, can you tell her? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare.

I think you were the scared one. Where is everyone? Come on. Whoa. Okay. What's going on? I've never hosted a party before. Didn't know exactly what to do.

Sorry if it's lame, but we're going to play seven minutes in heaven. What? Is something wrong? Who invited the asshole? And his asshole friend. Hey! Sorry, just having fun. You know that, don't you, Scott? It's a big night for you. I'll make sure to stop by your house with some tepee in your honor.

Don't listen to him. And don't worry, he's not the one I'm hoping for. You have to sit across for me, though. I told you, man. Thank you all for coming to my party. I haven't met most of you, but I'm happy to. I don't really know how to start this. I guess someone needs to spin the bottle. Fine. I'll do it.

You better spend again, you piece of shit. I'll do it. I have to do anything, right? Don't kiss and tell. Seven minutes. Seven minutes. Oh, smells like shit in here. That's all you, buddy. So do we just wait now, or?

There are 28 closets in this house. 16 are on the first floor. Fuck yes. Heather, you don't have to... Fuck off, T.P. It's the rule, Scott. We have all night to play. I mean, you don't have to do anything.

You don't want to. I said, fuck off, T.P. Who says she doesn't want to? Anyone else? Nope. Yeah, let's just wait for them. Hey, it'll be okay. And like you said, nothing has to happen.

And even if it did, it's not like here together. We're just having fun. wanted a party. We should be glad to be here. I just hope she's not like that. Like what? You're not together. Yeah, but... You're not together. Yeah.

Hey, I'm not trying to rub salts in the old wound, but is that the dress you were talking about? The one she always wears? I think so. I just saw it for a moment, but I don't think she's wearing anything underneath. What? I'm just saying, maybe she is that kind of girl. Here they come. Look. He looks like a new man.

This is fucking bullshit. Fuck this. What's up with Matt? I don't know. This is fucking bullshit. Dude, chill out. It's just a game. Jonah.

Jonah. Jonah. Jonah. Jonah. Jonah. Jonah. Jonah. Jonah.

Me? Who you gonna call? Jonah. Jonah. Uh, okay. I mean... It's the rules. Fucking bullshit.

Hey! Watch out! Thought you were different. God, it's fucking sucks. I can't believe this fucking happened this way. What the sh... God damn it. Scott? Is that you?

Yeah, Mom. How was trick-or-treating? It was fine. Got ahead to bed. Oh, okay, dear. See you in the morning. I knew you were just like them. Hey, we're just like them.

Where did you go? I need to talk to you. Scott, I need to talk to you about tonight. Call me now. Hello. Hello? Yeah. Who is this? You're a friend, right? The new girl? Who, who is this? It's, uh, it's Matt. You're friends, right? Matt? I guess. Why, why are you calling? Tell her, I'm sorry.

Sorry. Tell her, I'm sorry. Sorry? What did you do? Matt? What did you do? Oh, Jesus. Tell her.

Matt? Hello? What the fuck? Huh? What happened to the... Hello? Don't be silly, Scott. Come in.

Heather? What are... How did you get in? Come in, silly. What are you waiting for? I... No, you went with the other... Who cares about them?

I was waiting for you. I want my seven minutes. But I'm... I'm not like that. Aren't you? I saw you looking up my dress, Scott. No, no, I didn't. I didn't mean to.

What if you did? What if I wore that... dress for you. But you went with the other. Oh, come on. It's a hand, not a snake. I didn't want it to be like... Oh?

How did you want it to be? You wanted me to throw myself at you? I'm here, aren't I? That's better. I can't see you. That's the point, right? I could be anybody. Now, what have...

we do with our seven minutes? What did you do with them? Hmm. I'm in your bedroom, in your closet, wearing nothing but this dress. And you want to talk about them? I thought... You thought? You thought I was waiting for you?

Something like that? I just... Because you're a nice guy, right? I mean, yeah. I am. I mean, I try to be. Respectful? Yes.

What's that smell? Even when you have a girl naked in your closet, huh? So, what to do with our seven minutes? Huh. I have an idea. How about a game? Game? A Halloween game.

You have to guess what you're touching. I... Hold you. It's a hand, not a snake, but that one is free. You'll have to guess the rest. Oh, okay. What do you feel? Um, it feels bumpy, warm, kind of like, I don't know, a pumpkin, but soft?

Mm-hmm. Um, maybe like a rotting pumpkin. Is that the smell? What about this? Oh, it's, uh, feels like my mom's hairbrush. Like, all the hair tangled in it, it's wet. Is, is it the inside of the pumpkin? It's warm, kind of furry.

What does it taste like? Taste? I, I don't. Oh. There you go. That's a little. A good boy. Oh, that's awful.

It is a rotten pumpkin, isn't it? It would fit the season, wouldn't it? I don't understand. You came to my room and hid in my closet with a rotten pumpkin? That would fit the season, wouldn't it? Oh, uh, it's something old. How do you know? It just feels old, like something that's been out in the sun.

Old leather, an old baseball mitt, something like that. Maybe. Is this what you did with them? With the other guys? The other guys again. Is that what you're thinking about? I just thought... Why don't you think about this?

What is that? What do you think it is? I don't know. Sorry for the fright earlier. I was just preparing a few things. Wanted to know what I did with the others, didn't you? Because you're so special, right? I needed to be pure for you.

What's so special about you, Scott? Why do I have to be pure? you. What did I do with the others? What I do? That's what I am. I take. You're so special, right? Like that thing between your legs is pure gold, right? Pure gold. Yes, I took from them, but I'm going to give to you something pure, something go. How you're special. Where'd you go? We came back and you were like gone. I ended up leaving too. My head feels funny. We should probably talk. Call me when you wake up. Hey, Scott, I really need to talk to you, man. Something happened.

I don't know what, I just feel off, like drain. I can't remember what we did in the closet. It smelled funny in there, but listen, I feel, I feel empty. Please, please call me. Scott, something's wrong. I went back to the Murdoch house to confront Heather, but there's nothing there. It's locked up, chains on the gate, no lights, nothing.

No one's been there for a long time. and I feel old. My hair's turning white. I can't remember what we did. Did I see the grandma too, or was that just you? I have a memory of seeing her, but it's fuzzy. I'm so tired. Call me, please.

Picture this. You're a newly married couple, and you've already found your first home. Sure, it's a bit of a fixer-upper, but you're up for the challenge. But in this tale, shared with us by author, Jason Washer, the couple realizes there's a strange smell somewhere in the house, and they're determined to find out where. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Gaudio, Jesse Cornett, Nicole Goodnight, and Jeff Clement. So plan to do a lot of work. The list is long, it always is, when the list is known as a honey-dew. The words every woman wants to hear.

Megan walked into the living room, her crooked half-smile changing to a frown. Some women here, I love you. You're beautiful. You light up my life. You're the stars and the moon and the entire world, baby. But me, Eric, I get, come smell this? Oh, it smells like a cow died under here. He pointed to the corner of the living room next to the wood stove. Do you smell that? Megan sniffed, the nostrils of her small nose flaring. I think it's just the floor polish, the wood cleaner?

I cleaned the floors yesterday. It's bad. He shook his head as he walked to the other side of the room. We should try a new brand of cleaner. He dropped down onto the couch and turned on the news, rapidly clicking from one network to another and back again, enthralled with the finally repaired cable television that Megan had surprised him with earlier in the long.

week. It had taken three long weeks to have it fixed. Eric soon forgot about the smell. A month ago, newly married six months after their first blind date, they moved into the small house set deep in the woods. Not quite a cabin and not quite a house. It came to them cheap, a single story over a crawl space, two bedrooms and a bath, wide pine floors. Most of the tiny backyard taken up by a septic field and surrounded on three sides. by woods deeper than a man could walk through in a night. Calling the house rustic was a kindness. Ramshackle was a better descriptor.

In the short weeks they had been at the house, a series of workers and repairmen had filed through. Last week, when the pipes froze, Eric had crawled under the house with Megan's hairdriar. When he wasn't able to thaw the pipes, Megan called a plumber over while Eric was at work. Later, still irritated that it had taken so long to get someone out to thaw the pipes.

She said that the plumber had told her that the house seemed like it had been built by a couple of good old boys for a case of natty light. But that smell. Eric noticed it again after work the next day. He walked in the door at half past seven and dropped his empty briefcase in the corner of the kitchen. He grabbed a beer, not a natty light, and then went to the living room to say hello to Megan.

Hey, doll. How was your day? She glared at him. from the couch, the frown from the day before back on her face, the half-smile nowhere to be found tonight. The smell, Eric, the smell is really bad. I knew I smelled something yesterday. I knew it was something.

Yeah, you win, but God, it stinks. You've got to find it. Eric walked across the room toward the corner, cowed by her irritation. She had a fast temper and he didn't want to flare up tonight. As he crossed the room, his head snout. snapped back. The odor was much worse today, much stronger. It's too dark right now. I'll get under the house tomorrow and see what it is. They watched the television in the bedroom that night, far away from the smell. They kept the door shut. The next morning, Saturday, they woke up slowly

and fooled around a bit before getting out of bed at 9.30. Eric slipped on yesterday's jeans and a clean T-shirt and a flannel over that. And after coffee and putting on his coat, he went outside to find the source of the smell. The house was open concept, the small kitchen on one end and the living room on the other. Off the living room, a deck looked over the airpiece of the woods, and under the deck was the entrance to the crawl space. Eric grabbed the flashlight from under the kitchen counter, went outside, and walked around the house toward the deck. His feet crunched on the snow. A cold winter day, overcast, a light flurried drifting down from the gray sky. As he ducked under the deck, he wished he wasn't. He didn't want to be looking for smells on a weekend morning,

or, for that matter, doing any sort of work around the house. He could swing a hammer if he had to, but he sure as hell didn't want to. He came from a long line of builders and carpenters, his grandfather, his father, both his brothers, countless uncles and cousins. Eric, wisely, he thought, was an accountant. He wielded a calculator and computer instead of a hammer and saw. And yet, here he was. His pride wouldn't allow him to hire an exterminator to crawl under the house. He might have been an accountant, but he was still filled with pangs of misplaced shame

every time he farmed out handyman work around the house. and it was worse yet when Megan did. So, down on his knees, under the deck on the damp dirt, he slid the metal barrel bolt to one side and carefully opened the small hatch to get under the house. He crawled through the door. On his hands and knees, he shined the flashlight from corner to corner, under the pipes and scraps of loose hanging insulation. The smell was worse down here, even in the freezing winter cold,

much worse. He expected a dead raccoon or a squirrel. In the far corner, he saw something. Not a squirrel or a raccoon. No, too big. Whatever it was, suddenly seemed to take a slow breath. Eric shuddered involuntarily and crawled out from under the house as quickly as he could, accidentally smacking his forehead on the top edge of the crawl space door on his way out.

Again, that night, they stayed. in the bedroom, the door shut against the stink of the living room. Megan, usually a good sport, was not amused. She expected him to be handy around the house, to fix things. Eric promised her he'd get it, whatever it was, out from under the house, tomorrow. Sunday morning, they woke slowly, but this time, there wasn't any fooling around. Maybe later. At breakfast, before she had even two sips of her,

For coffee, she announced her intent to go into town to run some errands. Can you take care of it while I'm gone? Or do I need to call someone to come over and do it? He promised he would take care of it himself. Under the house again. This time armed with not just the flashlight, but also a short-handled gardening spade. His father was too old to come over and help out with this, and Eric was too old to ask him, he thought. He was sure his grandfather, tough guy that he had been, would have crawled right up to whatever the hell this thing was and snapped its neck. Eric resolved that he would. He would crawl right to it, kill it, and drag it out from under the house. He could bury it in the woods, whatever it was. It was still breathing,

slow, rolling breaths that seemed to move the whole body. Eric inched closer to it and held the flashlight out as far as his arm could extend. A muskrat? He wasn't. He wasn't. He was a muskrat. He What did a muskrat look like? And what if it had rabies? Of course, if it had rabies, it probably would have already attacked him. He went forward another foot, and now he was 15 feet away. Eric could hear it breathing. As the body rose with each inhalation, there was a soft, wet, crackle. Eric froze, unaware that he was holding his own breath. There was no one else to do this, only him. What else could he do?

Sell the house? Let Megan leave him? For a split second he considered both options, and then let out his breath and kept going. As he crawled further in, the headroom grew lower and lower. He moved carefully, his head down. It was dark, even with the flashlight,

and with the low pipes and bits of torn insulation hanging down around him, he couldn't quite see back to the door he had come in anymore. He heard a door shut upstairs. Megan? Hello? He wondered if his voice would carry up through the thick layer of insulation under the floor. No response. And then, in front of him, he saw the boot.

His heart pounded, and in an involuntary spasm he shrank back as far as he could until he was pressed back against the wall. He tried to speak. but was frozen mute with fear. Finally, after long seconds. Hello? Jesus, are you okay? Hello?

The thing moved up and down, breathing, and he heard the wet, crackling suction with each breath now. And the smell. Oh, God, the smell. He crawled toward the boot, the person's foot. A person. He had to have. helped him, of course.

Hello, it's okay. Don't worry. I see you now. I'll get you out of here. The man. It was a man, Eric thought, although he wasn't sure, wore a filthy jacket and dirty overalls soiled through with urine and feces, the smell. And only then Eric noticed the second man, this one not moving.

His neck bent at an impossible angle, still wearing the cable company. he had. He found the smell. Oh, Jesus. Everything's okay. You're going to be okay. We'll get you out of here. Don't worry. Eric saw the toolbox now. The plumber.

How long have you been down here? Finally, a response, a voice that hadn't spoken in a week. A harsh, strained whisper. Run before she locks it. and then Eric heard the metal bolt slide shut, and he could hear footsteps. Megan's crunch on the frozen snow as she slowly walked away. Megan sank down into the couch and turned on the television. She flipped through the channels until she found the home improvement network

and then turned the volume up high to block out Eric's faint screams. He would quiet soon enough, a day, maybe three, and then she could drag him and the others out from under the crawl space. The septic guy wasn't due to come out for another week, and it was a large tank. He'd fit too. A cold breeze came in from under the door, and Megan pulled her sweater tight.

Eric had installed weather stripping around the door a few weeks ago, but obviously had done less than a workman's job of it. She would need to call someone over in the morning to fix it. You see, sometimes you've got to do a job yourself. If you don't, you never know what problems will come your way. Let's take a quick break to learn about other ways to get things done easily. If you're running your own online business, you know what's ahead. A busy holiday shopping season.

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Click the microphone at the top and type in code, No Sleep. And now let's ship things in a different way, as in starting a new relationship. Being lonely is an all too common problem. You want to share your life with someone else. You want companionship and maybe even love. That's not too much to ask for, right? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Wayne Power, we meet a wholesome man who isn't looking to hook up. He's looking for someone special.

Performing this tale are Dan Zapula and Aaron Lillis. So let's learn of this man's tale as he looks for love. Let's hear why he says, I answered a personal ad last year. Before I start, I would like to clarify, I am not a womanizer. I don't condone sleeping around with a lot of different partners, gaining another notch in the bedpost, as some people like to say. I like to consider myself a long-term relationship sort of guy. I really like to get to know my date and have multiple outings with them before, well, you know, the quickest way into a young lady's underwear is not my cup of tea.

All that in mind, last year I answered a personal ad on a local website. You have to understand. At that point in my life, it had been almost 15 months. Over a year without meeting someone and having a connection real enough to move past a second date. With my own personal beliefs, that's over a year without a sexual encounter. The human body has certain needs you have to satisfy. It's in our nature, a sort of animal instinct to mate. I know that might sound barbaric or paint me as to be.

a Neanderthal just after another woman to mount. I assure you this is not the case. I'll admit my growing appetite, my longing for affection, to feel the warmth of another body against mine. This is what pushed me into seeking another like me, someone else just looking for a physical release. This is what led me into the personal ad section of my local buy-cell website. I will find what I'm looking for in here, I thought.

Amongst the seemingly endless amount of scammers, people looking for college friends, and others literally selling themselves for sex, I will find another lonely soul just looking for a night of fun. In retrospect, I wish I had just swallowed my pride and answered a cash-in-ad-ad-dance type of ad. Life's funny like that. The road not taken, that is.

Everything would have been different. So very different. I checked for weeks, refreshing the list whenever I had a chance, hoping to find something that spoke to me. I responded to a choice few that I thought might be what I was looking for. I don't know what was worse. The ones who didn't answer back? Or the ones who did?

One woman told me she would give me the contact I was looking for, as long as her male roommate could want. us. Another wanted me to pay her car insurance in exchange for sex. The best one was a recently divorced woman who explained she wanted me to essentially act like her ex so she could work through some leftover frustrations. I was beginning to think it was pointless. I started spending more time reading escort service ads. I was becoming desperate. Then I saw it. Female seeks male, lonely, timid, seeking compassion.

Someone to hold tight and make me feel alive. I long for my arms to wrap around someone while I sleep. Age and looks are not important to me. I just need to be held. Will you hold me? I was skeptical at first. Many ads had seemed promising at first glance before you saw the person's true nature.

Nevertheless, I responded to her and waited for my impending disappointment. To my delight, the disappointment did not follow. Margaret seemed so very genuine, another lonely soul. We chatted back and forth for only a night before we had plans to meet. She wanted me to have dinner at her house and go for a nighttime walk.

She told me there were plenty of trails nearby. She lived in a small suburb outside the city. I felt like I was heading into the deep country, not driving towards a suburb. It was almost two hours from my house, and the thought of turning around raced in my mind. I'm not the greatest with directions, and getting lost was always a worry for me. I found it easy enough, though, thanks to Google Maps and an extra large coffee. It was a small community, and it looked like it was desperate for an update. Houses with chipped paint, missing shingles, and crooked fences lined the road.

I guess you could call it a road. It was mostly cracked pavement filled with gravel. Did anyone even live out here? Maybe Margaret wasn't as good as I thought. Another fake account or scammer online. Simply there to take advantage of sad and lonely people. Just my luck, someone sent me on a wild goose chase to an abandoned suburb in the middle of nowhere. I had almost given up hope when I eyed my destination. It was a

small home, but at least the roof was intact. It was painted a light green color, faded from years of sun exposure. I could imagine the vibrant green years before, but with no one to do upkeep for her, I guess Margaret let it go. From the look of things, she had no neighbors to help her out either. Before I had an opportunity to knock on the door, I heard a soft voice calling me from the other side. It's unlocked. I was caught off guard. I hadn't seen her looking out any windows. Maybe she heard the car. It doesn't matter, I guess. I've come this far. I took a deep breath and walked inside. I was pleasantly surprised. The inside of the house was in a lot better condition compared to the outside appearance.

Fresh paint on the walls, no dust to be seen. The hallway was filled with framed pictures, all perfectly positioned to the ones adjacent. The smell of fresh baked bread filled the air. Any hesitations I had on the commute drifted away. This felt like a home. I'm in the kitchen! The soft voice echoed from the other end of the hallway.

I tucked in my shirt, ran my fingers through my hair, and made my way towards the inviting smell of fresh bread. She wasn't facing me when I entered the kitchen. I was greeted by the sight of her long waist-length red hair, perfectly straight. She appeared to be slicing one of the loaves of bread. She was a small woman, no taller than five foot. Without even seeing her face, however, I was intoxicated. by her. It was as if she had an aura about her that was drawing me to her. But something had me

locked in place. I couldn't move. I didn't want to leave, though. I wanted to be here with her. I didn't even know if I could talk, if my mouth wasn't working along with my legs. I didn't have a chance to find out. Before I could properly introduce myself, she spoke again. I am so very grateful for you coming here today. I've been waiting for so long for someone to hold me tight. Can you do that for me? Can you hold me and cover me with your warmth? She laid her knife down on the cutting board and began walking towards me.

The strange thing was she didn't turn around. She was still facing away, taking snow. small steps backwards towards me. I was in awe. I didn't grasp what was really happening, but I couldn't look away. I was fixated on her long red hair like a crimson silk over her head. It did not sway or bounce as she moved. It stayed perfectly straight down her back, almost reaching the back of her knees. I could have sworn it was only to her waist when I first entered. That thought vanished when a new smell hit me. The welcoming baked bread scent in the air had drifted away. The pleasant aroma that surrounded me was gone. It was now something rancid,

something that burned in my nose. It smelled like roadkill cooking in the sun. How is that possible? I would have smelled that immediately. This was one of my last thoughts before. It she reached me. Her hands reached up behind her, reaching out to me. Elbows twisted and popped, as her arms bent in a way the human body doesn't move. Gently, her long, slender fingers slowly stroked my face. Her touch made my whole body feel numb. It was colder than the coldest wind hitting your face in the middle of a blizzard. My breathing was slowing down. I was slowing down. I felt like I was slipping into a trance. She had done something to me, but what?

I was terrified, praying to move. I remained frozen, pleading with my body to do something, anything, to get away. She leaned the back of her head towards my face, one hand still caressing my cheek as she lifted the other one onto my lips. I was inches away from the once radiant red hair. Now a greasy, unkempt mess of knots and curls approached my face. I've been waiting so long to be held. The faintest glint of a smile showed amongst her messy red hair.

This isn't the back of her head? How? Her neck began creaking and cracking as it twisted slowly from vertical to almost, almost horizontal. Her hair now hung in a different direction towards the floor, revealing a single eye, black as coal. I could see more of that crooked smile as well. Tiny yellow teeth pointing everywhere but straight.

Her head snapped back to a vertical position in an instant with a loud crack. Now hold me! The words echoed from her as she wrapped her body around mine. My body awoke with a jolt. I was dripping sweat and breathing furiously. I was also in my own bedroom. Could it have all been a terrible nightmare? I would like to give you all a bit of hope or a happy ending, if you will.

That it was all in fact a dream and there never was a woman named Margaret. The truth is never really happy, though, is it? Margaret has become my curse, a burden I now hold with me. She doesn't paralyze my movements anymore or torture me, per se. If you were to come to my house, you'd swear it was just me here. She's here, though. Every night, sometime after midnight, I'll awaken to the smell. The sour, rancid,

smell of rotting food. As her cold hands wrap around my body, I refuse to look at her. I can't. She places her body against mine tightly and whispers ever so lightly. This has become my life. A year of sleeping, cuddled into the cold grasp of what I believe to be death itself, holding me, whispering to me. I was scared to go to sleep at first, knowing Margaret would be waiting. It's amazing what the human mind can become accustomed to. After all, it is nice to be held. 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 waiting for me outside. shivering in a short-sleeved shirt and apron, cigarette in her hand.

She nods at me, taking another drag, then grinding the butt beneath her boot heel. Her arms open, and I mold myself into her, into the ashtray scent of her. But when her arms close over me, they don't hold fast, loosening after a heartbeat. She's still angry. Come on inside. She looks at her watch. shift starts in 15 but i'll get you a coffee you look like you need one you look like shit sorry she manages a smile shaking her head only you she holds the door open for me the restaurant's practically empty the breakfast crowd gone the lunch crowd not here yet

there's a couple of wait staff at the bar and i feel my skin ripple as i think about outcasts I have to gulp down a couple of airless breaths, have to screw my eyes shut to stop the panic. I'm not underground. The day is right there outside the window. There are people here. And Flint. She slides her arm through mine and pulls me to the back.

I only open my eyes when I hear her drag out a chair. Sit down before you fall down. Hey, Rowan, two coffees, okay? The guy at the bar shouts something back, lost beneath the scrape of Flynn's chair as she pulls it next to mine. She spins it around and straddles it, keeping the back between us like a shield. What's going on? Last night? She shakes her head again, then lifts a hand.

Look, forget it. You really think you were spiked? You should see a doctor, Tommy. Some of the stuff around these days can stay in your system for like weeks. Makes you lose your mind. You think that's it? I run my hand across the table, feeling crunch. comes collect between my fingers. Maybe that's it. Everything's been so, so wrong. And I'm so desperate for an explanation that I'm almost praying that somebody slipped

me or roofie. I don't even care what happened to me, to my body, because I need to save my mind before it runs through my fingers like sand, scatters and the wind. But now it's me shaking my head, because the truth is all this started. Before last night, it started yesterday morning. Maybe it's just that, mixed with what happened to that girl. You were pretty rattled anyway, anxious about it, the way you get. Then somebody gives you some chem or other, and wham, your brain explodes.

What's been happening anyway? Why are you so freaked? It's hard to explain. Like, ever since the cops showed up yesterday, ever since they asked me about Kara, things have been weird. Weird how? Mom keeps having. I chew the end of my thumbnail, realizing how ridiculous this is going to sound.

Like, she keeps having baths, and she's losing her hair. And I'm getting mixed up hearing people and seeing things when there's nothing there. Dreaming and stuff. Right, you're tired, stressed, and you're you, Tommy, let's not forget that. Dreaming and stuff is who you are, awake or asleep. More importantly, what happened to you today? I felt them. She slaps her hand to her chest.

I've never felt anything like it. Like there was danger. I felt like I downloaded it down the phone. The guy from the bar is here, putting down two steaming mugs of coffee. He smiles at me. Enjoy. You want something to eat? I shake my head and Flint waves him away.

What happened? She cups her hands around the mug, shivering. Where were you? At a bar. You? At a bar? By yourself. That's why it felt so weird.

No, not drinking. I was trying to find Kara's boyfriend, Tanner. He works at a place called Outcast. Worked. It's going under. It was in the basement and... So I spoke to the woman behind the bar and she said he wasn't there. No, that he was there, but that nobody could find him.

Was that what she told me? The whole thing feels like a half-forgotten childhood dream. She tried to grab me, seeing that wooden arm sliding over the bar, the puppet shake of it. I think. Seriously? Flint deposits half the sugar shaker into our coffee and sprinkle some in mine too. She hugs the mug again like she's sitting outside in the snow. She attacked you?

That's why you were running? She followed me up the stairs. I think she did, but it wasn't her. It was something else. Something. The witch. I don't know, Flint. I'm holding my cup to my chest too. The steam warm against my cold face. She stares at her coffee, then at her watch, then at me. Okay, so you went to a bar that was closed. The barmaid told you she didn't know where her boss was. She tried to get you to leave, maybe, then came up the stairs. after you to make sure you were gone to lock the door.

That's what I'd do if some weirdo came in asking stupid questions before we open. Your mom's just tired. You know she's never been the same since your dad passed. So she's losing some of her hair. My mom went gray when she was in her 20s. It happens. And the other stuff, the confusion, the whatever, it's that brain of yours, that anxiety,

taking a dead girl and inventing a world around her, a fantasy, a mystery or something. You're seeing things that aren't there because you're... She waves her hand at me. You're writing a story in your head. You want to stop all this? Then forget about Kara or whatever her name was.

Focus on something good. She's so confident. I almost believe her. The anxiety is there. A seething ball of terror and panic right in the middle of me, controlling me like a ventriloquist's hand. It's bad. Worse than it's been for ages.

But it's not the worst. it's ever been. And back in those worst days, I'd seen things too, hadn't I? I'd seen people talking about me when my back was turned, heard them whispering. I'd seen the overweight imposter in the mirror even though I was stick thin and starving. I'd seen the tumors in every part of me, the death that was eating me up from the inside. And none of it had been real. None of it. Flint had been there for me every single day back then. She'd even slept on the floor of my bedroom when I'd refused to leave the house, when I'd refused to even go to the bathroom.

But when I got better, when I found myself again, she'd told me she wasn't going to do that again. Not ever. That's why she's staring at her coffee. That's why the back of her chair divides us. That's why she didn't hold on to me the way she normally. does. Flint's a girl of her word. She knows that if I go down that road again, then she can't be here to call me back. Tears are boiling out of me, rolling down my cheeks. I smudge the heel of my hands

against my eyes until there are strobe lights. When I take them away, the world is dark. Flint is dark, just a silhouette, until my eyes adjust. She's looking at me now, and she takes me. And she takes my hands and hers. You're going to be okay. Take a breath. A deep one. Tell yourself you're going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.

I'm going to be okay. Flint stands up, letting go of my hands. I keep hold of hers, though, until she pulls them free. She pushes her chair beneath the table, then opens up her arms again, welcoming me. This time she doesn't let go for a full 30 seconds. squeezing me hard, squeezing me the way she always used to, until it feels like all the panic has been wrung out of me. It's still there when she lets go.

It's always there. But at least I feel like I can breathe again. I got to run. She leans in and kisses me on the forehead. Sorry, go home, take a bath, watch some crap TV, or stay here, eat something. I'll talk to you when I can, okay? Okay. She walks off.

then turns back. I'm going to toss that story from Megan. That okay? I don't think you should read it. I nod. It will just be more fuel for the fire. Something pops in my ear, like I'm suddenly underwater, and I stick a finger into it,

wiggling until I'm right again. Thanks. Thank you, Flint. I love you. Yeah, yeah, love you, too, kiddo. I'm technically older than you. You're the kiddo. She fires a middle finger at me as she heads for the bar.

My eyes are burning. My sinuses cramped. I'm a mess, so I leave the coffee and head for the restroom. The mirror at Outcast hadn't been lying. I really do look gray. My hair is hanging in clumps, like I haven't washed it for days. My eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. I'm still wearing last night's clothes.

even though I'm sure I changed when I got up. Come on, Tommy, I tell myself. Hold it together. My reflection is nodding, smiling. I run the water and douse my face, drag wet fingers through my hair, squeeze the snot from my nose. When I'm done, I swap myself with hand towels,

happy to see a little color back in my cheeks. You're going to be okay, I say. Something replies, and it's only now that I look over my shoulder to see that one of the cubicle doors is shut, the end one. The hammer of embarrassment hits me hard, and I'm skittering out of the restroom when I realize that whoever's in there is crying. It's ever so quiet, but now that I've noticed it, there's no mistaking those choked, breathless sobs, muffled like whoever's in there is holding a hand over her mouth. Hello? Are you okay? The noise continues, oblivious.

I know how you feel. I'm having a day like that myself. If you need somebody to talk to, more sobs, quieter now. I put my head closer, hold my breath, hear a whisper. I want to help, but she's made it pretty clear she doesn't want to speak to me. I'm not planning to leave breakers just yet. I'll keep an eye on the restroom door and make sure she's all right when she comes out.

It gets better, I say with a shrug. Whatever it is, it gets better. It still feels like there's a piece of me stuck in there with her, holding me back. A piece of me I have to fight against to get out of the restroom and back into the restaurant. Annoyingly, somebody's taken my coffee, but Flint's hovering by. the bar so I head her way. She's talking to somebody, and the moment I noticed that, I also noticed that the light fittings above me are swaying from side to side, almost imperceptibly. The air has thickened. I can feel it on my tongue. It tastes like meat. I stop, staring at the

floor to stop myself from being carried away by a wave of vertigo. This isn't happening. This isn't happening, it's anxiety. It's just a panic attack. I should be used to them by now. It's got that same core of terror. You feel your whole body shrivel around it like a spider and a flame. Deep breaths. Deep, there's that scent again. Not horrible, just raw, but rawness on the edge of turning bad. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, hearing Flint's voice. Hearing Flint's in my head. You're going to be okay. Take a breath.

A deep one. Tell yourself you're going to be okay. To be okay. Until the nausea passes and I can lift my head. I see Flint. I see myself too. I know it's me because I'm wearing my clothes, the same ones I've got on now.

I've got the same hair, unbrushed, greasy. I'm facing away from myself. one elbow propped on the bar, the other hanging limp by my side. I can't see my face, but I know it's me by the way Flint smiles, by the way she places a hand on my shoulder, squeezes. I can feel it, even though I'm standing half a room away. I can feel the way her fingers massage my skin.

I say, breathless. There's a high-pitched wine right in the center of my head. My body doesn't feel like it's mine, and it's. anymore, like it might collapse into a jumble of pieces if I so much as take a step. But I do, because I can't just stand here. I can't just stand here. I stumble forward, my hip hitting a table. I'm closing in on them now, watching as Flint lifts something from the bar as she hands it to the other me. A lot of paper sheets, covered in type. You sure? The other me nods.

No! I say, louder, clutching at the paper that's in my hand now. I stop again, hold it up, see the story there, a note from Megan. It's poisonous, I know, and I toss it away, a hurricane of paper, running for Flint, slamming into another chair and knocking it over. Flint turns to me, still smiling, but there's something wrong with her face. As soon as she sees me, it starts to draw. drop on one side, her mouth limp. I can see her eyeball rotate down beneath its drooping lid,

the other one struggling to find me. I'm screaming now, but the other me is turning. She's turning to look at me and there's something wrong with her face too because it's just not there. There's a hole where it should be, an empty eggshell lined with meat. A light that isn't quite light, That's more dark than light. Pulses out of it. Something pushes me back, that same magnetic repulsion. I don't fight it. I turn and run for the doors, the day visible just beyond them.

I don't look back, not even once. I just push through those doors and run back into the restaurant. Annoyingly, somebody's taken my coffee, but Flint's hovering by the bar, so I head her away. She's talking to somebody. And the moment I noticed that, I also notice that the light fittings above me are swaying from side to side, almost imperceptibly. The air has thickened. I can taste it on my tongue. It tastes like meat. I stop, looking at the floor to stop myself from being carried away by a wave of vertigo. I think, but there's a piece of me missing, a great black hole where a chunk of my mind has been carved away.

The sweats pouring off me, and I breathe, breathe, breathe until the nausea passes, and I can lift my head. I see Flint. I see myself, too. I know it's me because I'm wearing my clothes, the same ones I've got on now. I've got the same hair, unbrushed, greasy. I know it's me because I've just been here. As impossible as it sounds, I've just been here. No.

I say, as Flint lifts something from the bar, as she hands it to the other me, a lot of paper sheets covered in type. No! I say, stopping dead, lifting the paper that's in my hand now, seeing the story there, a note from Megan. Flint's looking at me, her face melting off the bone. The other me is looking at me too, even though she can't possibly see anything through the empty nest of her head. I'm screaming. It doesn't even sound like me. It sounds alien.

It's not a noise that a person could ever make. But I'm making it, screaming as I run for the door again, as I push it open again, as I run onto the street, slipping on the damp sidewalk and landing on my ass. I'm up again as fast as I can, backing away from breakers. Out here, my scream is a whimper, like I left my voice behind with Flint. with her.

I can still see them through the glass. Flynn's face is normal again. She's giving the other me a hug. The other me is hugging her back. They're talking the way any friends would talk, my hands gesticulating, Flynn's head tilting back as she laughs. They hug again,

and they're both walking toward the door, heading right for me. We can't bear to see Flynn's face fall again. I don't want that thing to turn the scooped-out shell of its head in my direction. I clutch the papers to my chest and put my head down and walk. No idea where I'm going just so long as they are far behind me. I'm not even sure how long I walk for, but when I next look up, it's like half the day has been swallowed, the evening moving in. I'm soaked through, a steady rain falling.

My hand is aching, and I realize it's because it's still clenched or the sheaf of papers, pressed against the ridge of my breastbone. I've been holding them there so long it's like trying to move a dead girl's arm, the rigamortis holding it in place. My fingers crack as I peel them open, but I don't throw the papers away. I know that if I toss them to the floor, they'll just end up back in my hand anyway. Somewhere that isn't here, somebody will give these pieces of paper to a girl that isn't me, a girl without a face, and they'll will be back in my hand again. This story wants to be read. I'm in a park, one I don't know. Everything's half dead, more brown than green, but there are families here, dog walkers too.

They're all giving me a wide berth because I'm out here without a jacket. And judging by the way my face aches too, I've been grinning like a corpse all the way here. There's a bench across the green and I walk to it, hating the way my clothes cling to me, the way they feel like a burial shroud. I'm shivering so hard I can barely uncrease the paper, and when I do, I see that the ink has run, although not so much that I can't read it. I don't read it, though. The thought of it makes me feel sick, makes the acid claw up my throat. I spit, scaring another dog walker away from the bench. The notes getting wetter by the second, so I glance over it. It's written in small blue handwriting on a sheet of yellow paper, printed pink hearts clustered in the top right corner.

Tell me who's not a boy. I have no idea why I'm giving this to you. I feel like I should burn it after what happened to Kara. I feel like I should burn all of it. But the cops took most of it so there's not much I can do about that. But Kara gave me this and told me to keep it. it's safe, told me not to let anyone read it. She told me not to read it too, and I haven't because I saw what it did to her. I think she gave stories to other people too. Tanner for sure. Rambling, sorry. I don't know what Kara was into before she died, but this is part of it, and I don't want it

anymore. Read it, shred it, fucking roll a joint with it and smoke it. I don't care. She called it A game, but it's not a game. Kara's gone. Tanner's gone. I don't want any part of it, and I don't want to see you again. Do you understand? Sorry, Megan. I read it again, then scrunch it up and put it in my pocket.

I count five pages of story, printed from a website. I know which one because the format and the font are the same as always. Three dead things. added by unknown on 1-1-2001. It's the story that was missing when I was looking through Kara's creepy.com page, the one she commented on. I can't even remember what the comment was, or if I even read it. My eyes take in the first line without my permission.

It was my brother Frank who took me to see the three dead things. And I look away because I just don't want to know what happens next. The air still carries that same sweet stench of overripe meat, like it's followed me here. I look at the sky, at the sunlight, trying to break through the clouds. It's too bright, but I keep looking until it feels like there are fingers against my eyeballs. I don't want to stop, because I feel like if I read this story, I'll never see daylight again. But this story wants to be read. It wants me to read it.

so I give it what it wants. It was my brother Frank who took me to see the three dead things. I found them last night. He told me as we walked through the woods behind our farm. Daniel told me they was there and he was right. Daniel, Frank's friend from school. The same guy who told Frank that aliens built the pyramids and that dogs can read your thoughts.

Nothing Daniel said was ever true. but Frank believed all of it. Every word of it. He's 12-2. Two years older than me. Old enough to know better. Daniel says you can't go looking for them. Daniel says you only find them when you're lost.

But I remember. He taps his head. His grin as bright as the sun through the tops of the trees. I made a map. In my head. but as usual Frank's head didn't work right. We walked for an hour before he admitted he didn't know where we were, and that the three dead things weren't where he thought they'd been the day before.

And almost as soon as he admitted it, I saw one of them staring at me. I got a mighty jolt of my heart for sure, because I could have sworn. I saw it move, like it was rolling into position behind a yew tree, peeking at me through the leaves. But when we got closer, Frank grinning even harder now, I saw that it couldn't have moved because it was made of wood, rooted in place by decades of undergrowth.

It was a statue, twice as tall as me and shaped like a bird. Frank told me that Daniel told him it was a skylock, but I wouldn't know. It was standing upright. its eyes staring into the forest, its beak covered up by its wings, which were folded over the bottom of its face. It must have been standing there for close to forever, because its wooden body was warped and green with lichen. But when Frank pointed to the bottom of the statue, I could still see the door there in the weeds. Two foot square with a little wooden latch.

They've all come, Frank said, nodding at something over my shoulder. I think I've stood on an ant's nest because my skin is all over. When I turn, I see two other statues crowding around us, facing inward, as old as the first and rooted to the ground like trees. They're so close, I don't know how I didn't see them to start with. And I'm not lying when I say there's something kicking in my gut. Something telling me that this part of the forest is too old, too dead for me to be. year. The second statue was a rabbit, maybe a hair because the years are longer. Its paws stuffed

into them. Its eyes seemed somehow full of grief. Whoever made this thing as hacked lines into them, into its brow. Its mouth is open, but they look more like horses' teeth than rabbit ones. It too has a little door at the base of it, shut tight. I'm not sure. What the final statue is supposed to be. It has the body of a sheep, maybe, sitting upright on its haunches. But its hands are human and enormous, big enough to curl over the whole top half of its head like it's trying to pull off its own scalp. I can't see its eyes.

And its mouth is just a line half visible beneath its thin wrists. Two short, stubby horns jut out over its years. This too had a door, and this door was open. Just a crack, mind you. I wanted to leave. There are some places that you know right away are wrong. Their places where bad things have happened. Places that want bad things to happen again.

I felt those statues watching us, and it wasn't an illusion. They knew we were there. They were so old, so still, and they knew we were there. I asked Frank if we could leave, but he shook his head. He had that look on his face, the one where he was going to hurt me. Not physically. He would never have done that, but he wanted to play a trick. That's what big brothers do.

I know. And Frank's tricks were almost always harmless. But it wasn't like I'd be able to find my way back by myself, and the night was stirring. The sun falling fast. Daniel says there are two dead girls beneath the ground here, Frank said, relishing it. They've been here a long, long time, and they are so lonely. I begged him to stop. I was even crying now.

But tears are like a red rag to brothers. They were murdered by their mother, he went on. She harvested them and left the rest here for the crows. Their father, driven mad by grief, built three statues to remember them. The first for his oldest daughter, who he called his little Leveret. He pointed to the hair. She died last, Vaniel says, and she had a little. to watch her sister pass first.

The younger daughter was as thin and carefree as a bird, so he gave her this statue. I thought I heard the wood crack, like a swaying tree. And I pleaded with Frank trying to pull him back to the path. But he was so much bigger than me, so much stronger. Daniel says the father hunted down his wife and killed her to avenge his daughters. He brought her here and buried her beneath the third statue So that she would forever have to live with the horror of what she did Another crack of wood

And I thought maybe one of the fingers of the third statue had moved Because wasn't that the corner of an eye I saw now between them And I backed away Ready to escape by myself But Frank grabbed my arm and held me Don't you want to know about the doors he said his eyes full of glee. I nod, even though I don't want to know about the doors.

I don't even want to look at the doors. Daniel says the father left the doors there because he knew that he would always have a way to speak with his children. And he left a door in his wife's so that she would never be able to rest. I noticed how quiet the woods were. No birds singing. No wind in the branches. Just another of those bone-shaking cracks.

I swore I could see more of the third statue's eye now through its fingers. Dark and wet. Something about the story doesn't make sense. Because if the door doesn't let the wife rest, then surely those little girls can't rest either. Daniel says that if you're brave enough to go inside, you'll see the dead. Frank said, and as soon as he said this, the reality of what was about to happen exploded in my skull, so bright I couldn't see.

They'll tell you a secret. No, was all I could say. But Frank was hauling me to the first statue, the bird. Inside the skylark, you will meet the first daughter, he said, and she will ask you a question, but you must not reply. I was hysterical now. I was hitting it with my fists. Inside the hair, you will hear the second daughter whisper to you,

but you must not listen. We were so close, and the statue seemed closer still, like they were hurting us in. And inside that one, the bad one, the mother will lie down beside you, but you must not look at her. If you do all these things, then you will learn something incredible. I lashed out again, and my fist connected with his lip. He let go, swearing, and I fell scuttling backwards.

I was scared, because I'd never hurt Frank before. I didn't know what he would do to punish me. He was mad, spitting blood from the wound I had opened up on his mouth. But he did not move to hit me back. Fine, he said. Coward. You stay right there. and watch. And when they tell me their secret, I won't let you know. I won't. Daniel says he did it,

and the secret blew his mind. I'm going to know it too, and you won't. I called his name. I asked him to come home with me, to leave the statues alone. But he had a look in his eye I'd never really seen before. His head had always been a little bit broken, but this was something new. He didn't even look like my brother anymore, as he gently lifted the latch and the first door opened. I don't think I've ever seen darkness like that. It was an impossible kind of darkness. It seemed to bleed out of that door and embrace him. It was almost too big to get inside, but somehow he managed it.

I hate myself because I just... watched it happen. I just let him shuffle his body through the dirt until all that was left was the souls of his sneakers. Then they too vanished into the shadows. I don't know how long I waited. It might have been minutes, maybe even an hour. By the time I gathered the strength to move, it was almost dark, and Frank was still inside the statue. He did not respond to my calls, plunged my arm inside the door. I could not feel him at all, even though there was barely enough room for him to lie down inside of it. I can't describe the fear I felt right then. Part of me knew that Frank was joking, that he was waiting in there for me to start screaming. Then he would burst

out and howl at me the way he always did. But part of me knew too that I was never going to see my brother again. Part of me knew that the girl inside had asked him a question, and the idiot had answered her, that he'd sunk down into the leaves, into the moss, into a little nest of twigs and bones. And I still did it. I still got down on my knees next to that little door and began to crawl inside. and he was my brother, you see, and I loved him. I loved him enough to crawl into this dead thing and call his name. It was like a coffin. No space to do anything other than push my face and chest to the dirt and wiggle forward.

I could smell forest mulch, dirt, rotting wood, and the damp crept into my clothes, into my bones. It was hard to breathe, but I still worked up enough courage to call Frank's name, reaching out for him. None of the day came in with me, and I could not even turn my head

to see if the door was still open. I just inched my way forward, surely too far, surely far enough to have emerged from the back of the statue, except it kept going. and going. The space growing smaller and smaller and smaller. I had to stop or lose my mind. And it was only when I lay there gasping, nowhere for me to breathe, that I heard a voice.

It came from right beside me, and I became aware of a shape in the dark, soft and cold. It pressed into me, and I would have screamed if I could remember how. A pair of lips brushed against my ear, and I heard the same whisper once again. Do you want to know? My mouth was open to answer, but I remembered Frank's words. I clamped my lips shut while that corpse cold body folded itself around me, while stiff fingers felt my face, while it breathed its grave sten. to me. It asked the same question a dozen times, but each time I stayed still, stayed quiet,

until I felt the shape of her roll away. I escaped that statue with such violence that I was bleeding in three or four places. I slammed the door shut and clicked the latch and ran from the clearing. I only looked back once to see all three statues facing me, all of them watching me go. Two, through wide, sad eyes. The third, through the open fingers of its hands. I know you will hate me for what I did. I hate myself. God only knows it.

I wish I had had the courage to search for him in the other two statues. Because maybe that's the secret I would have learned. My mother and father hate me too. Because even though I've never spoken a word of what happened to anybody, They sense it. They see the giant holes in between my words. They feel the abyss of unspeakable truth there. In the space between the lies.

They know that Frank did not run away. That he did not fall into an old mine. That he wasn't bundled into a white panel van. They know something far worse happened to him. And they know I will not. never tell them what it is. They know that they will die, not knowing what happened to their son. Maybe you will forgive me a little if I told you I did go back. I searched for those statues for weeks, armed with a flashlight, and with Frank's instructions. But I never found them. I never found

him. And I will pay for my crime for the rest of my life. Because even though I never found Frank, he found me. He finds me every night when I close my eyes. I wake up inside the moldering coffin of my bed sheets. His cold body pressed against mine, his lips breathing the same hoarse words right into my ear. over and over and over until dawn breaks. Oh, no, where I am. Oh, where I am.

Where I am. I never, I never answer him. The sickness is worse than ever, like something's moving down there. I crumple the story into a ball, drop it on the bench next to me. Even though I'm outside, even though I can feel the wind on my face, there's no air here. I'm trapped inside a wooden coffin, and I push up, pacing, gulping. It's too much, and I double over, my stomach contracting like a fist. A jet of bile streams out of me, splashing against the bench, on the floor.

A heave again, emptying myself. But even when there's nothing left to get out, I'm still gagging. There's something caught in my throat, something rubbing against my tonsils. I hawk it up, coughing, managing to pinch it with my fingers. Then I'm pulling out a lank string of dark hair, so long I have to use both hands, working them over and over each other until the end of it comes free. It's wrapped around something small and meaty, a nubana flesh whose nail is still attached. My groan is almost subsonic, and it comes from the deepest part of me.

I tossed the hair onto the bench, onto the sodden story, and it curls and rithes like a worm, finally falling still. The sobs hit me by surprise, as powerful as the sickness. They pour out of me, tears burning my eyes. I put my hand to my mouth to try to hold them in, but it's like trying to stop the tide. I have to wait for them to pass, for them to drain out of me. And when they do, I'm paper thin. I feel like my head has been scooped out. My body, too.

A single gust of wind will carry me into the evening. What is happening? What is happening to me? The hair does not answer. The story does not answer. I don't even understand why Megan gave it to me. Why she wanted to be rid of it so bad she went home for it in the middle of a party. It wants to be read.

I start walking, stuffing the story and the note into my pocket so I don't have to watch them sprout legs and scuttle after me. So they don't tread on my shadow all the way home. 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 Fifth Part, starred Jessica McAvoy as Tommy Bright,

Kristen DiMecurio as Flint, Atticus Jackson as the unknown author, Ellie Hirschman as Rowan, Nicole Goodnight as The Crying Girl, and Sarah Thomas as Megan. Join us next week, for this book will kill you. The sixth 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 Brameless. Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our program, please visit the nosleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us and for being sleepless.

This program is Copyright 2022 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.