The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep19: NoSleep Podcast S18E19

Episode Date: November 6, 2022

Tune in to Episode 19 of Season 18 for transformative terrors.“Creepers on the Bus” written by Lex Reckless (Story starts around 00:02:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio“The Collector” written by Robbie Slaven (Story starts around 00:06:23)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Mr Becker – David Ault, The Collector – Jake Benson“Charlie” written by Anthony Criswell (Story starts around 00:14:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett“The Floor Nurse” written by Ivan Lopez (Story starts around 00:42:22)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Roy – Graham Rowat, Boy – Kyle Akers, Brian – Elie Hirschman, Amanda – Nichole Goodnight, Tiffany – Mary Murphy"This Book Will Kill You - Part 9" written by Alexander Gordon Smith.(Story starts around 01:13:26)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jessica McEvoy as Tommi Bright, Mary Murphy as the woman on the train, Erin Lillis as Tommi's mother, Kristen DiMercurio as Flint, and Tanja Milojevic, Danielle McRae, and Katabelle Ansari as the dead things“The Woman Who Can Exorcise Any Demon” written by L. Hutchinson (Story starts around 01:09:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson, Rose – Erin Lillis, Young girl – Nichole Goodnight, Demon – Mick Wingert, Simon – David Cummings“Reflection” written by Craig Gridelli (Story starts around 01:34:19)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Billy – Matthew Bradford, Reflection – Jeff Clement, Mom – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Dad – Dan Zappulla, Jonah – Elie Hirschman, Mr. Hoyt – Jesse Cornett, Mrs. Hoyt – Mary MurphyThis 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 $40 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 teamExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Charlie” illustration courtesy of MiggeaAudio 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

Halloween may be over, but the No Sleep Podcast works tirelessly to keep the horror coming. And I think you can tell how much we've been working for you lately. But if you're taking CBD and you're not sure if it's working for you, that means it probably isn't. NextEvo Naturals developed smart sorb technology, clinically proven to help your body absorb CBD four times better than regular CBD oil, because oil just doesn't mix with your water-based body. It works faster too. So when you're trying to get to sleep, you won't waste time wondering, is it working?

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First, they start with the fast-acting smart sorb CBD to call. your mind, and then they add fast-acting melatonin to get you to sleep fast, plus a controlled release melatonin so you sleep longer and wake refreshed. They're the only brand to combine these proprietary ingredients in one product. So get a better night's rest with sleep CBD solutions from NextEvo Naturals. For up to 25% off subscription orders of $40 or more, use promo code no sleep At NextEvo.com, that's N-E-X-E-V-O.com. Promo code, No Sleep. And now the horror is waiting for you to show up.

Hop on the bus and get here soon. Fuck public transportation. Seriously, every time Sammy rode the bus, there was always some weirdo ruining her ride. Like today, for instance. All she'd wanted to do was hit them all after school and being without a car, the bus was her only choice. She boarded, sat down, and sighed the sigh of relief that the damn thing was nearly empty.

But now? Now a man was opposite her, mumbling to himself, fingers fidgeting, and overall just being a creep. She couldn't focus on her phone, feeling eyes fixated on her. It was almost as if her scalp was being pricked by a needle. If only Sam was less judgmental. Maybe she'd have seen how the man, in a simple monk's habit, was looking just above her head. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck as he recited the Lord's prayer, hoping to banish the demon breathing over the girl's auburn hair. Close your eye, frightened and disturbed.

What's that sound you hear from beneath your bed? Join us as the sleepless hours tick past. Brace yourself. for the No Sleep Podcast. Public transportation. It's good for the environment and quite economical, and you can even make friends while riding it. That's what we learned from author Lex Reckless,

from the tale which was this episode's Cold Open, Creepers on the Bus, performed by Kristen D. MacGurio. We hope everyone enjoyed a spooktacular Halloween season, but of course, when it comes to the house, Halloween spirit of horror, it's a 24-7-365 kind of thing for us. Regardless, I want to offer up my thanks and recognize the no-sleep team for their Herculean efforts in making our Halloween specials so good.

Between the full-length regular episode and the Season Pass Halloween bonus episode, we produced well over five hours of Salwyn scares on the Halloween weekend. Well done, team. Your treats for us were extra sweet, and our punt pumpkins were well and truly smashing. And so, as I said, there is no rest from the horror, despite what the calendar says. It's November, so be thankful for lots more sleepless horror. And now, check under the bed and pull the sheets up tight. The darkness is here, but you'll be sleepless tonight.

In our first tale, we visit a famous haunted house attraction. might think that with Halloween over there wouldn't be much interest in something like that. But in this tale, shared with us by author Robbie Slaven, we learned that Mr. Becker's haunted house is world famous, so famous that a mysterious visitor to the house just can't seem to stay away. Performing this tale are David Alt and Jake Benson. So go and enjoy the chills and thrills of the house. Just try to avoid the person known as The Collector. Staring at the screen, I recognize him straight away.

The camera can't see his face, but I know it's him from the long black coat and top hat that he was wearing the night before. I am the owner of the greatest haunted house experience in the world. People from around the globe flock to it all year round to be scared out of their minds. There really is nothing like it anywhere else out there. Many have tried to find out how I do it with the hope of copying it elsewhere, but they just can't figure it out. Many think I'm an accomplished illusionist, while others think I'm using technology the rest of the world hasn't found out about yet. It drives them mad.

It has given me wealth beyond my wildest dreams. People just can't get enough. The difference between the haunted house and my home is that people are invited to the former when I'm there to supervise. When it comes to the latter, I very rarely welcome visitors. The man I am looking at had visited the haunted house the previous night. I get all sorts of people that dress for the occasion, and upon setting eyes on him, I assumed he was doing the same. Those customers are often the most enthusiastic,

but while the others around him were losing their minds, he didn't flinch, even during the most horrifying jump scares that shred the nerves of the bravest people without fail. While others would look at my ghosts and buckle at the knees, he seemed to look at them like he was appraising a piece of art. It had bothered me so much that I couldn't get it out of my head. And now here he was, standing outside my front door. How he had got there without being stopped by security at the front gate was beyond me. There would be a couple of security guards looking for new jobs in the morning, but firstly, and most importantly, I had to deal with this.

I wasn't worried, as my home, much like the haunted house, was like Fort Knox. No one was getting into either without my permission. I hope you like waiting, asshole, because he'll be standing out there until the police arrive. His head suddenly darts upwards looking straight into the camera. The suddenness of the movement causes me to jump. Jesus, I had forgotten how pale he is. He lifts a finger and wags it. Okay, this is creepy.

My feeling of safety has quickly evaporated. It was almost as if he heard me, but that's impossible. I shake my head to regain my composure. Time to put an end to this. Just as I'm about to press the panic button to alert the authorities, a strong hand grabs my wrist. I turn my head to find him standing beside me. The shock causes me to jump backwards,

tripping over the chair behind me, which sends me crashing to the ground onto my back. Winded, I gasped for breath while I kick my legs to push me as far away from him as possible, but I soon find myself trapped in the corner of the room. I slowly gain control of my breathing while he stands on the same spot he had suddenly appeared in, watching me without expression. How did you do that? Well, much like yourself, Mr. Becker, I'm a bit of a showman.

I really was impressed with what you've been doing, very creative. Sorry if I didn't show it yesterday. He takes a step towards me, holding out his hand to suggest he will help me to my feet. I refuse it, instead pushing myself up and getting to my feet while keeping as close to the wall as possible. I look around for anything I can use as a weapon. Nothing. Suit yourself? Let's get down to business, shall we? I am a collector and have been sent here by my employer to collect what is his. Sorry, it's taken me so long to get around to you.

I really have been quite busy. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a sheet of paper which he begins to study. Please, if it's money you want, I'll give you whatever you need. I swear I haven't taken anything from whoever you're working for, but whatever they want, it's theirs. I don't have much here, but I can arrange for it to me. He cuts me off as his eyes flick back to me. Please, Mr. Becker, I'm not in the business of collecting money. Such a pointless thing.

You have property belonging to my employer, and he will be needing it immediately. Tell me, how long have you heard your gift? My head starts to spin. My gift? Let's not kill ourselves here. You've managed to take possession of a total of... He looks back at the sheet of paper in his hand. 36 souls.

Unfortunately for you, 14 of these belong to my employer. He is quite displeased that they were stolen before he could claim them. They really were the worst kind of people, from what I can see here, definitely destined for an eternity of pain and torment. Very clever that you turn them into something that scares humanity, I must say. Like I said, very creative. I assume you quickly realize that the souls of the damned make the best ones. My heart feels like it's going to beat out of my chest.

Please, take them back. I didn't realize who I was fucking with. I won't take any more, I promise. That's the thing, Mr. Becker. I already have. The reason I'm here is because I was only able to recover 13 of them. And I really needed to tell me where to find the missing one. My blood turns cold.

One of them was destroyed in my attempts to control it. I really didn't mean to. I trail off. Words are beginning to fail me. A worried look comes across the face of the collector. He begins to scratch his chin. I'll get you a new one. Please, I'll get you as many as you want.

Just don't... He holds out of hand to silence me as he continues to scratch his chin with the other hand. Unfortunately, Mr. Becker, I'm as busy as my employer is impatient, and I really need to bring back 14 souls worthy of his attention immediately. I'm already running late. A smile climbs up his face as his eyes fall hot. hungrily on me. Actually, I don't believe that's going to be a problem after all.

If the many posts on social media are an accurate indicator, a vast majority of people love cats. Those furry little purboxes can make us love them intensely. And in this tale, shared with us by author Anthony Criswell, a man finds that a stray kitten is a good way to work through his grief. Even if his is a needy little kitty. Performing this tale is Jesse Cornett. So despite needing to feed them and clean up after them,

nothing beats the love of a cat. Even a cat like Charlie. My father had two loves, whiskey and violence. Meanwhile, my mother huddled herself away in prescription pills and excuses. excuses why she could never leave him and excuses why she needed more medications. I say these things factually. No malice for either of them in my heart. In the end, maybe he did care more for her than I thought.

Because when he found her body, dead from an apparent overdose, he drank himself into a stupor, put his Smith and Wesson 442 to his head and joined her. In least, this is the story etched together by the police and relayed to me. They didn't believe my mother's overdose to be intentional and truth be told. Neither do I. It's more likely that she didn't care either way. Maybe being alive and dying had become such vagaries to her that it simply didn't matter to her anymore. Much in the way a drunk. stops carrying how much they've already drunk, only looking forward to the next one and the one after. They died almost ten years ago, and the day of their funeral, after burying them both,

listening to the preacher of the only church they had ever attended tell bald-faced lies about the qualities of their character, was the day I met Charlie. Charlie is was my cat I found him outside my apartment building when I came home that night my grandparents hosted a wake at their home in Stillwater but after a brief time there I took my leave

and headed back to my apartment in Tulsa I hated the condolences and more than that I hated the pained look on my grandmother's face watching her daughter go through so much trying over and over to help and being turned away each time. I was walking up the stairs to my third floor apartment, thoughts a million miles away,

when I heard a soft mulling coming from the top of the stoop. As I crested the stairs, there sat Charlie. He was just a kitten, small and scared, alone. I'd like to think I wouldn't normally take in a stray, but I haven't had occasion to do so again. Looking back, I should have thrown that tiny pathetic creature from the balcony, letting it splatter on the concrete below and saving myself from the events of the last decade. But you know what they say about hindsight.

Instead, I slowly approached him, picked him up, and felt happiness. washed through me. It was as though that entire shitty day was a boat that had set sail long ago and crossed the horizon never to be seen again. Life with Charlie was like that. He had a way of making you forget your troubles just by spending time with him. We'd sit on the couch, me playing video games, Charlie rubbing his orange head on my hands, wanting my attention. Some nights we'd sit around and watch B horror movies, Charlie, in my lap, pepperoni pizza in my hand. I loved that little guy with all my heart at the time. The first thing I noticed that was off about Charlie was his diet. Not owning a cat before, the only thing I could think to feed him that first night was canned tuna.

He loved it. He ate it greedily, never leaving a speck in his dish. However, when he was he was canned tuna. However, when I bought him actual cat food, he would need it. He'd snub it, wet or dry, no matter how I tried to mask it. I thought maybe it was because I couldn't afford to buy the high-end stuff like Blue Buffalo, or maybe he was just a picky eater. Now I know better. As Charlie got older, his hunger for both food and attention grew. He'd eat seven,

sometimes eight cans of tuna a day. Easy. He also started getting it into the habit of trashing the apartment when I'd leave for extended periods, staining the carpet with urine and cat shit as though he were saving it for the moment I'd leave. It was intermittent at first, but became so frequent that I began putting down newspaper over each and every square inch of carpet in the apartment, only to come back and find that Charlie had ripped that very same up and still done his business on the floor. And he never did this on the tiled flooring in the kitchen or in the bathroom. It seemed purposeful, like he wanted me to regret leaving him,

like he wanted me angry and frustrated on purpose. Still, the moment I pet Charlie, or he rubbed against me, it was as though nothing had happened. It was all no big deal. something to worry about tomorrow. This went on for years with us eventually moving from the apartment to a rental house in the suburb of Broken Arrow. I hadn't gotten my deposit back for the apartment, obviously, but I had landed an accounts-payable

gig at a local oil company downtown, and my manager let our department work from home most of the time, only going to the office to mail checks to the dying number of businesses that would only accept them as payment. This let me stay at home with Charlie and keep his damage to a minimum. The little rental house where I still live, where I'll likely die, is two bedrooms, one bath with tile in the kitchen and bathroom, while the bedrooms and living rooms sport vinyl plank flooring. A lifesaver for my trips to the grocery store and any errands I might have to run. It was nice, and I was looking forward to finally being able to invite people over to my place without fear of that awful, pervasive cat smell. I had started chatting with a local guy via a grinder shortly after moving in.

I had made a promise to myself to start putting myself out there when I felt I had my own financial stability, and I felt that the rental house and new job were the landmarks I needed to see that I had finally arrived at that point. His name was Jacob, and he was such a sweetheart. We had great conversations. We talked a lot about video games, his love of the alien franchise, my love of the Scream franchise, and our shared loves of all things pasta. Eventually, we decided to go for a date to see if we clicked as well in person. I was nervous, of course.

Hell, I hadn't dated in years, meaningless hookups aside, and had no clue what to expect. We decided on a rooftop dinner at El Guapo in downtown Tulsa. It was late spring, and the sun had set, leaving the air comfortably cool. The Tulsa skyline towered around us, and the enchiladas were delicious. and we left the restaurant opting to keep the date going by taking a walk. Our chemistry was every bit as good in person as it had been through text and against my better judgment. I asked him if he'd like to come back to my place. To my mutual delight and dread, he said he would.

When I opened the door, the landscape of my home had become a nightmare. The couch, the curtains, the throw pillows, all of them were shredded. Foam and filling coated the floors, loose cloth scattered everywhere. The stench of urine and shit filled the air, and I had to hold my nose before entering. And on the couch, amidst the chaos, sad Charlie. his eyes fixed in accusation. I couldn't believe it. And apparently, neither could Jacob.

He was polite, but understandably changed his mind about coming in and promised to reach out as he left. He wouldn't, but I didn't know that at the time. I was lucky to have shut the doors to the bedrooms and the bathroom. Who knows what Charlie would have done if they had been open? Would I even have had a bed to sleep in that night? I was furious. I slammed the door, a flush creeping into my cheeks as I marched to the couch,

screaming at Charlie, asking him what his fucking problem was. All the while, he sat stone still, eyes following me, admonishing my absence. I reached the couch, reaching out to grab Charlie to throw him out of the house to never let that awful, evil little creature back into my home or my life. As my hand neared him, though, he bit me. If this were any other cat, you'd think that this would have sealed his fate. But with Charlie, no, with Charlie, it turned out to be the opposite. The moment his fangs broke my skin, bone rending into my flesh, I felt my fury wash away.

relaxed contentment taking its place. Suddenly, nothing mattered. Not the disastrous end of an otherwise wonderful date, not the destruction of the house, and especially not the punishment of a certain cat. From that night forward, everything changed. Charlie began eating less and with less fervor. Conversely, he started to get bigger.

Not like he was gaining weight, but he just started increasing in size. One day I walked into the living room after getting a shower to find him sitting on the couch. His skin looking stretched over his body, patches of fur missing on his back and torso. His coat had lost its luster, and if he hadn't been staring directly at me, sitting straight up, I might have mistaken him for dead. I decided to take him to the vet. I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt. Grab the keys to my Prius and move to pick Charlie up.

He, of course, bit me. Feeling washed over me again. Nauseating and delightful at the same time. Charlie is fine. I thought. He's perfectly okay. It's just some bald spots from stress. That's all.

Charlie didn't let go of my finger. He was chewing on it now. But that's okay because it didn't hurt at all. It was just fine. By the time Charlie had let me go that day, he had eaten the pinky and ring fingers of my left hand, leaving the wounds inexplicably closed. I didn't realize this until I woke up that night,

bleary-eyed, and confused. I went to wipe the sleep from my eyes and then I saw mangled remains that had once been the digits of my hand. Now little more than stumps. Now I could feel the pain. dull and aching, the pain of an abscessed tooth right under my skin. I got up slowly, assessing my surroundings, realizing I was still in the living room, but now it was

dark. The only light that illuminated the room was from the solitary window and was obscured by curtains, blurring the edges of everything in my vision. I had to get out, get to a hospital, a doctor, I had to get somewhere other than in my house with Charlie. I felt for the keys in my pocket. Still there. I started toward the door, head aching, body sore, hand throbbing in pain. Something skittered from the dark corner of the room, fast and indiscernible, coming to a stop between me and the front door.

It had to be Charlie. It was much bigger than he was and faster, but what else could it be? I was frozen in place. My instincts telling me to run and fear melding my feet to the floor. Thank God. Where can I go? How can I leave? The back door, the back door.

The kitchen was on my left and the door was on the far wall. If I could move fast enough, A chittering noise came from the dark before me. A series of clicks that trilled in the black, starting low, working their way to a piercing crescendo. I lunged for the back door, but I was too slow. No, more aptly. The thing was too fast. Now it stood before me.

illuminated in the light of the street lamp shining through the kitchen window, and horror and fear gripped me anew. The incandescent light revealed creature that seemed to have come from inside of Charlie and still had bits of him attached in various places, an ear on his forehead, fur on its back, three of Charlie's legs still dangling from a cool gray body, What I could make out, what was discernible from that slanted pillar of light, were four new legs, much too large to have been the legs of a cat. They were bent in angles in two spots, giving them the shape of a spider's legs. But at the ends of them, there were what I initially thought were paws, with five large black talons protruding from each digit.

each bent in two angles of their own, though I couldn't see if they had joints because the light wasn't bright enough and because I quickly busied myself with an alternate plan. I ran from my bedroom in the opposite direction. I could hear the Charlie thing skittering after me, but I managed to make it into my room, slamming the door and locking it quickly.

I felt back, on my bed, staring at the door, hearing the thing scratch and scratch and scratch at it. Trying to get in. It's keening noises rich with need and hunger. This went on for 20 minutes, I think. I don't actually know. The only real clock I owned was my cell phone and I had left that in the bathroom that morning. I was too concerned with Charlie.

in my rush, I forgot to grab it. At some point, the noises stopped entirely. I was rifling through my bedside table looking for something to numb the pain in my hand that had grown steadily worse when I realized the only noises I heard were my own. I stopped as well, listening to the silence, hand throbbing.

I was getting nauseous. My skull felt like it was filled with liquid and I was on the verge of vomiting. But I had managed to stay absolutely still. Then I heard the noise again, but the rhythm was different. Instead of the insistent scratching that had filled the air previously, there was now a tap, tap, tap sound of clobes. on metal. I tried to figure out where it could possibly be.

Tried to make a plan to defend myself, but the noise felt as though it came from everywhere. I grabbed the bedside lamp that sat on the table with my good hand, raising it up and in front of me, chambering my elbow in anticipation of the attack. The tapping grew louder and all too late. I realized it wasn't coming from all around me. But from above me, from the air duct, the thing had been above me that whole time trying to remove the duct cover quietly at first, but then, abandoning stult for strength.

Was it intelligent enough to reason that out for itself? There was no time to consider this. The vent cover quickly became nothing more than ragged and bent metal. I ran for the door. Turn the knob. Heard the cover fall to the ground with a harsh clang, pushed hard on the door, and I remembered I had locked it. Oh, God damn me, come on my God!

I fumbled for the doorknob lock, turned it, and burst from the room just as the creature bit my calf. I felt euphoria and relief as I fell to the ground. The pain and nausea were both. Gone in an instant with calm and warmth. This, this was, this was maybe a week ago. I don't remember what day exactly. My head is foggy, and my body is wracked by waves of pain.

I've been in and out since that night, coming to consciousness, like leaping forward in time. Once I awoke to the sound of crunching bones to find the thing eating my foot. It was perfectly okay, though. I felt at peace, as though the consumption of my extremities was the most natural thing in the world. When I awoke today, the creature was sitting upright. Knees tucked to its chest. Its exoskeleton now strangely fleshy and growing pinker the longer I looked at it. I think it's digesting?

I have no legs now. just stumps above where my knees used to be. I tried to crawl toward the front door, then the back, but each time I do, the thing's eyes, no longer the eyes of a cat, but eyes so curiously like my own, flit to life and send me a silent warning. So, now I'm here in my bedroom again. I've managed to get the door shut, but I didn't bother to lock it.

It's the point. I know it's going to eat the rest of me. Become me. Just like it became Charlie. Maybe it had always been Charlie. You know, no sense dwelling on it now. I'm just thankful to have left my laptop in my bag on the floor in my room. where I'm riding this now.

I'm at peace with this end. I just want the pain to stop. I wasn't looking for death. But when it finds me, I think that will be okay. I hurt so much and just want something to make that hurt go away. I'm writing all this to send in an email to every. everyone I know. So you'll know the truth about what happened to me. I'm past wanting to be saved. I think whatever toxin is in Charlie's bite is similar to opioids and even now.

I feel like I'm dying. Suv it. I'm ready for the end. But I need you all to know when you see me again, if you see me again, that's not me. It's Charlie. Well, I've heard of cat scratch fever, but that story seems like something a little more severe. Time to take a break, even during this busy time of the year. If you're running your own online business, you know that the busy holiday shopping season is upon us. The most wonderful time of the year is also the most hectic time of the year. Everyone puts off shopping until the last minute.

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So listen, ship more and grow more with ShipStation. Go to shipstation.com today and sign up with promo code No Sleep for a free 60-day trial. That's two months free. Visit Shipstation.com, click on the microphone at the top and type in code No Sleep. And now that we've helped your business get healthier, let a medical professional help you feel better. The past few years have shown us that there are many unsung heroes out there serving us in our time of need. Yes, nurses deserve to be recognized for all that they do. But in this tale, shared with us by author Ivan Lopez,

we meet a woman who, despite dealing with death on a regular basis, seems to enjoy her job intently. You see, she knows there's nothing dull when she works her shift. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Graham Rowett, Kyle Akers, Ellie Hirschman, Nicole Goodnight, and Mary Murphy. So be thankful for nurses, well, most nurses, I'll let you decide how grateful you should be for the floor nurse. Watching someone die is something many don't get used to. Every molecule of air seems to get sucked out of the room.

And the fact that you can still take a deep breath to swear to yourself that you can feel the spirit of a person as it exists the body reminds you that there is indeed still air to breathe. In some way, it feels like you've died too. Some patients only have you for their last days of life, and something develops from it. They would probably call it a bond, but I haven't quite figured out what I'd call it. As a nurse, you get pretty good at moving past it.

Yes, the deaths will affect you, but I couldn't begin to count the amount of deaths I've seen in my line of work. So just trust me when I say that it's probably tough to handle. Mr. Barker lies in front of me. Gone. It was of natural causes. The man was 92. But the same feeling fills the room every time. Last night it was Mrs. Kingston from a prescription drug overdose. She was attempting to get out of an abusive marriage. She obviously succeeded. We tried our best to save her. But pumping as much stomach acid as possible won't get the stuff out of the bloodstream. She's one I really didn't

want to see go. But under her circumstances, it needed to happen. Surely it eventually would have been by him, if not by her own hand. If I'm being honest, I'm glad she didn't let the bastard have the satisfaction. Now she can rest knowing she took a piece of his pride with her. I work on the floor during the night shift at Victory Regional Medical Center. An ironic name, if you ask me, considering the amount of failures we experience, but we would never disclose that, of course. I actually enjoy the job. As a home body with no one to go home too, it gives me the chance to have a good time meeting all these new people.

Even when they and I can only hold a relationship for a brief moment, posing the challenge of really getting to know them. Luckily, I'm really good at knowing people. People do die here, yes, but at least they'll go comfortably and never alone. I like to think that's because of me. matching with the deceased they get wheeled out of here with smiles on their faces. The walls are a cold, bluish gray, an understandable decision given the fact that blue is a calming color.

But when you see the world the way I do, you can't help but see the cruel joke this place plays. It's as if they're trying to prepare you for the worst. To say, in case you've forgotten, this is a color you'll soon be seeing, and not because you'll get a good look at the function Shway when returning from the restroom. It's amusing how an institution that's in the business of keeping people alive can't wait to remind us that we're all going to die someday. Fortunately, there's

hope for the future, explicitly told by the detailed murals on walls scattered about the hospital's various hallways. Large depictions of biblical events from Adam and Eve to the resurrection. Whenever I'm bored, I like to walk the premises and visit each mural and chronological order. of which events the pictures represent. I don't do this as a means of satiating some hunger for religious salvation, but for the comedy of keeping in mind that people in fact believe this shit. No amount of steps through this five-story coffin can wrap my head around the idea that souls spend their time in purgatory before judgment.

It's really that part that bugs me. It's a cruel idea. To think that after all the waiting rooms we sit in, so we can be told by doctors that were deteriorating, we have to sit in yet another waiting room once we've passed on. It's pretty silly, if you ask me. I never really saw it as a waiting room per se. I must admit, however, the rest of the murals are quite compelling.

The nostalgia of a simpler time is fun to experience. And the artwork isn't too bad either. When my walk ends at the lobby, I'm usually saddened that the fun's over. But where that fun ends, more begins. I can step outside through the automatic doors and look to my left. And just pass the awning to the emergency room, not very far away, I can see into the waiting room, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and determine if it's busy enough for me to casually walk in and pass through

like I'm on some kind of mission that lacks importance but still needs to be done. Doing this gives me the chance to overhear some of the asinine reasons people have for visiting. My favorites are the drug addicts who come in and lie about their telltale signs of substance abuse. One man swore he was bitten by spiders all over his arm, as though none of us here can tell the difference between bites and track marks. To his credit, he probably believed his story and saw the tiny arachnids swarming all over his arms, burrowing into his skin and finding a new home within his veins. The entrances resembling a miniature meir-cat column,

with a not as cute population. This week hasn't been anywhere near as interesting, but that will change soon. The staff tends to say, there's never a dull moment here, quite frequently. Either they're unaware of the fact that a moment is an actual unit of measure for time, or the gig has gotten so deep into their psyche

that a week feels like a mere 90 seconds, which I can understand. It can be an eternity before anything interesting happens. Some guy losing his absolute shit is the grab of the collar we need before we lean forward just enough to fall down the rabbit hole ourselves. It's Friday night and I'm more excited for tonight than usual. I've got a good feeling about it. Like we're at 10 of the 90-second countdown.

It's been dull all week. And I've had enough chuckles at the expense of those who seek soft. in our murals, as I keep an ear open during my walks. I'm sitting in the break room, a drab in cold place that would oddly have a happier atmosphere if the walls reflected the color scheme on the other side of them. This eggshell with light wood floorboards makes me wonder if the person who designed this cage was a sadist or just blind, never knowing what any of the names of colors mean unless they're synonymous with emotions. And even then, they'd be only having to half right. I'm hoping for the former, in which case I like them. For my lunch, 2 a.m. has become

lunchtime for me, and my body doesn't seem to mind. I'm having some macaroni and cheese that I quickly and lazily prepared, and by that I definitely mean it came from a blue box. While I have a good feeling about tonight, I have an even better feeling that it'll last beyond that. So I'll save a more extravagant meal for later. Besides, after so many years of 2 a.m. lunches, everything starts to taste the same anyway. I finish my lunch, and just before starting my walk, I see him. He's being wheeled into his room, and before he makes it completely through the threshold, he meagerly turns his head in my direction. The snarl on his face gives me joy. We make eye contact, and he returns to his normal position, looking up, at the place he's hoping to go if he makes it out of this building

in one particular way. I can't wait for the fun to ensue once his energy is back. I stick around for a little while until after the last nurse leaves the room and is long gone. I have to get a closer look at this guy. Upon entering his room, I noticed the empty bed next to him, closest to the door. He got the spot near the window. I'm sure. I'm sure. I'm sure. I'm sure. I'm or he'll be quite satisfied with that. As the view of the courtyard just outside, should make up for the lack of get-well cards and flowers that would normally take up the space on the dresser

under the mounted television. The vacancy would make you wonder if there was anyone in the room at all. I walk up to the bed and take a better look at him. He's fast asleep and not the least bit bothered by the bright amber lights, illuminating the courtyard and flooding every room with a window facing them. Still, through the glow, the wrinkles that cement his face into a snarl are a brilliant display of brutalist architecture. There is nothing that will improve those jagged cheeks.

I crack a smirk at him and take a step back to close the curtain hanging around his bed. I'm incredibly anxious for tomorrow morning. Part of me wants to pull up the chair that's taking up space in front of the empty bed, for whom I'm not sure. next to him and wait it out until he wakes up. But I know that seeing my face upon waking up will most likely startle him. Then the fun will end before it starts. I'll come back tomorrow.

The sunset scene from a fourth floor window is painting the sky with a beautifully variegated palette that distracts my attention from the nine-foot-tall mural of Lucifer falling from grace. I adore this piece. It captures what so many people do here. The physical being isn't the only thing that dies, but souls, the psyche, the essence of the patience that physically expire, fall from their seemingly high pedestal so easily when they feel that it's time to make peace with their savior.

Whomever that may be to them, they all believe that confessing to every mistake, shortcoming and utter fuck up is going to negate the fervoir, fact that they've committed any wrongdoing towards others or even to themselves. I revert my attention back to Lucifer. His arms stretched out above him towards heaven as he plummets to his demise. What's left of his beautiful wings detached and laying on the ground below him. Feathers scattered all about.

His eyes focused towards them. It's his last glimpse of his once prominent majesty before he crashes through our ground. his roof and renders himself trapped in his new kingdom. I'm willing to bet he admitted to every terrible thing he's done too. It did as much for him as it did for everyone else. I snicker at the thought and make my way to introduce myself to my new salty friend. I walk into his room to find him awake and sitting up in the bed, staring out the window at what looks like something quite distant.

He's fixed. not noticing me as I walk deeper into the room and approach his bed. I look at the white dry erase board on the wall across from him, explaining the pain scale and pictures of a smiley face for no pain, to a crying one for unbearable. The short message above the scale and blue dry erase marker is straight to the point. Welcome, Mr. Johnston. Enjoy your stay.

I take it no one had anything nice to add. I turn back to Mr. Johnston. to get his attention. Hello, Mr. Johnston. He turns his head to me at a moderate speed. Maybe he did know I was here. He scans me, only moving his eyes and gives me a slightly perverted smirk. His bottom jaw hanging low enough to keep his mouth slightly agape, which doesn't help.

Roy. He speaks in a weak, deep voice that resonates in his chest and is made prominent by his southern droll. That reminds me of what you'd hear in Florida once you get away from the castles and roller coasters. He keeps the scrutinizing smirk directed right at me and continues. My name is Roy. Who are you? I extend my right hand to him with authority. I'm not about to make him think he can follow through with whatever is on his mind,

something that I really don't want to know. I keep my voice somewhat monotone and cold. Amelia. Roy directs his eyes to my gloved hand, then travels up my arm with a furrowed brow. You cold or something? I look down at my arm, covered by a white long-sleeved t-shirt under my scrubs. I get cold pretty easily. I've always been that way.

He nods, finish his shaking my hand, and lets go abruptly, letting his hand fall to his side. He still gets some drugs in him, but at least he has his consciousness. He lets out a hard cough. and then clears his throat. You know what I'm doing here? I do. I walk to the chair by the empty bed and pull it up next to Roy's bed and sit down.

Do you? Roy gives a nod, but not a somber one. This nod doesn't beg for pity, nor does it show any fear whatsoever. It's one that has accepted his heart attack and probably knows why he had one in the first place. Result of a fast lie, familiar. I live too hard.

Now I'm stuck in this bed talking to a pretty lady. I have no energy to bag. He immediately follows his crass comment with a cackle. Not unlike what you'd hear from witches who have successfully found that eye of newt they've been searching for to finally complete their potion. It's a shitty position, I'll tell you. The space between my brows wrinkles up,

turning my face into a landscape of valleys that emit my utter disgust for this man. Still, I'm not going anywhere. I'm here for a reason. And that reason still excites me. I'm pretty sure he noticed my expression as he immediately stopped laughing and cleared his throat. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my thighs.

Why don't you tell me about your hard life? You really want to hear about that? Absolutely. I have a feeling I'll enjoy the story. Besides, it could help us figure out exactly why you had that heart attack. Roy shrugs his shoulders and then struggles to reposition himself so he can sit up a bit taller. I get up to help him, but he pauses and shoots a sharp, threatening look at me. As to say, I can fucking do it.

I read him loud and clear and sit back down to watch him sit up. Funny he didn't take the opportunity to be touched by me. But when his ego is at stake, I can see why nothing. else would matter to a person like him. There's really nothing much to tell. He finds his position and settles. A lot of drugs. Back when it wasn't seen it's so bad to do them.

Some good days those were. Can't say they treated me good in the long run, obviously. But I wouldn't take back those days for shit. Most of the next 20-some-odd years was a blur. Had some women. had a family, had some more women. He reiterated about the women with a cheeky smile. I simply rolled my eyes in response and let him continue.

I was arrested a few times. I'm sure you saw that. Nothing that was my fault. My ex-wife was a piece of work. She'd hurt herself and called the cops on me saying I did it. Of course, there was nothing to prove her to side, so I got off pretty easy. Ain't no way to go about being pissed at someone.

I'll admit I misbehaved, but that's still too far to be taking things. I sit back and cross my arms. I take it the misbehaving was the women, yes? Roy gives me another shrug, but this one is completely different. This is a much more arrogant one. It's slower and accompanied by a cartoon.

smirk and a raise of the eyebrows as he turns his palms up. I'm not impressed. I couldn't help myself. If you saw some of the girls I was spending time with, you wouldn't blame me. Hell, you'd probably give the other team a chance, if you know what I mean. This is followed by another cackle. I certainly know there's nothing valid about his claim of sexual prowess. I know this conversation won't go any further, and I really don't feel like sitting here all night to listen to the perverted drivel. So I take a look at my watch and stand up. I have to see some other patience, but I'm glad I got to know you a little bit. I'll be back tomorrow to see you. I place the chair back in its spot. Maybe you can tell me about yourself tomorrow.

I pause and shoot him a reassuring smile, then put on a genuinely chipper tone. I'll be happy to tell you everything about me tomorrow. He's smiles back and I turn towards the door to leave. As I walk out, I know he's watching, but I'm not letting it get to me. Darkness overshadows my chipper smile, and it turns devious just as I pass through the doorway and leave him for the night. The sun sets again over the flat horizon. The western view from the fourth floor is one of the best in the city, in my opinion.

It overlooks the edge of the skyline and runs off into a blanket of green and gray. made by the canopy of moss-covered cypresses and oaks that shield the marshlands under them. Lucifer isn't going to take me away from this. It's beautiful. It's a shame this is my last day here. I take in the sun's departure a final time and get myself in the headspace to go to Roy's room. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, clearing my mind of everything but one thought that I was sure I was able to ignore. and have been doing successfully until now. I've never done this alone. It's not typical, but here I am.

Then he speaks up. Is it the guy in room 415? I open my eyes and look beside me. He's a kid, about eight years old, wearing jean shorts and a Star Wars t-shirt. It's about time he showed up. I smile. Yeah.

He looks up at me and smiles back. You've been waiting for him. him for a long time. That's why I took my time getting here. I'm comfortable with you going solo on this one. He's all yours, Amelia. The confidence he has in me is humbling. Normally that would put a person under pressure, but I find it fueling. That's all I needed. Thank you. He nods. I have to get going. I'm sure someone saw me walking around alone and is trying to find me. A child was a bad choice. I chuckle at his mistake instead of start to make my way to Roy's room.

But the kid tugs at my hand, stopping me for one more thing. You look nothing like an Amelia. I'll consider something else next time. He lets go and I walk towards room 415. I get one foot in the door and I'm immediately greeted. Well, hello, Amelia. Roy exclaims this with a surprising amount of vigor.

He's definitely feeling much better today. That's too bad. I give him a short wave and a smile. It's cordial but borderlines on dismissive. I may be happy to be working at that moment, but that doesn't mean I like the guy. How are you today, Mr. Johnston? Roy.

My name is Roy. After one conversation, he thinks we've reached that level of informality. I'll let him enjoy that for now. I walk up to the foot of his bed and he smiles that predatory smile at me. It makes a tiny bit of vomit shoot into the back of my mouth and fall right down my throat. How's your day been? Pretty good. Not very eventful, though.

Looking forward to something changing that soon. He's hoping I'll have something to do with that. I don't acknowledge it at all. I take a look out his window, only being able to see the silhouette of the buildings and tree tops that are a slightly lighter shade of than the night sky that meets them. Everything is beautiful tonight. I look back at him with a small grin.

You wanted to know about me today, yes? Hell yeah, sweetheart. Tell me all about you. Sure. But first, maybe you can tell me about those girls from your past. Any good stories about those? The happiness on his face turns to a nervous expression, and I keep my face unmoved and fixed towards him.

There ain't much I remember, with the drugs and all. There has to be one good story. Roy pauses and regains his confidence. Like I said, I don't remember nothing. Besides, tonight is about you. I nod, then briefly shake my head a little, then scoff happily. Ha, nah.

Tonight is about Amber Wallace, about Tiffany Price, Amanda Hicks. and about 30 other girls. Do you know any of them? Roy's confidence is as short-lived as his sense of decency. His eyes grow cold and his frown radiates suspicion with a hint of confusion. How do you know those names?

They were on the news. You couldn't have missed that. I start to approach him closer. What you should be asking me is how I know what you did to put them there. His eyes are the size of golf balls the second that sentence meets his ears. The ends of my smile reach my ears and I don't break eye contact. Who the hell are you? He asked this with an amount of authority he absolutely doesn't have in this scenario.

Ha! Glad you asked. I stand up straight and throw my hands up. That is what we're here for, isn't it? I'm the one person you didn't want to see this visit. The one person who never wanted to meet those girls but had to. The one person who they told about what you've done in your alleged drug-induced stupor. My inability to refrain from theatrics is clearly making him uncomfortable and terrified. I can see it as he tenses up.

I just can't help it. I'm the one who's been waiting for tonight for a long time and couldn't be more excited for this job. He frantically reaches for his remote, keeping his eyes on me in the complete opposite way than last night and repeatedly presses the call button. I just sit and wait for the nurse to come. It's Brian who comes in. Nice guy. He's lived a clean and good life and has plenty of it left ahead of him. He's everything Roy should have aspired to be.

What's wrong, Mr. Johnston? Roy's eyes dart between Brian and me. Get her out of my room. Brian looks in my direction, then scans the room before addressing Roy. There's no one here, sir. Roy begins to shake. He can't believe his ears as he's looking at two people standing in front of him. You don't see the other nurse?

It's just me, Mr. Johnston. The meds you're on might be causing some slight a little. but that'll go away soon. You should probably rest, or you'll upset your heart, which is weak enough right now. Can I get you anything? Roy slowly shakes his head at Brian, who nods in response and walks out. Roy's attention is redirected back to me. What are you? Even better question. I never cared for the who are you inquiry. See, I'm whomever I want to be. He's spooked as my facial features morph into someone he recognizes. I can be the first girl

whose life you ended. I say as Amanda. I morph again. Or the last. I say as Tiffany. Roy's breathing becomes heavy and quick. It's time to do what I do best. I take off one of my gloves

and hover my hand over an exposed part of his leg peeking out of the sheets. There's one more face you need to see. And you should feel privileged to see. see it. Most don't get too. They can't handle it, and it would be inhumane of me to show it. You, however, have earned it. Congratulations, Roy. The whites of my eyes turned black and spread to my irises, like a massive oil spill being seen from space. The smile I display no longer shows a perfect set of straight white teeth, but a jagged row of small,

sharp spearheads, indicative of a carnivorous life. Despite my face still being that of Amelia Prescott, my eyes and grin don't seem to be so attractive to Roy anymore. He breaks eye contact with me to look down at my exposed hand, black and charred, light smoke perpetually lifting beautifully from it, as though the smolder will never be extinguished. I didn't ask for this, but I've come to not only make the best of it, but love it. His eyes come back to my face, Amelia's face, now riddled with clusters of black freckles and sores. I can't stop smiling, as he can only shake his head in protest of what's to come. I know what's in his head. Please don't take me. I lived in honest life the past several years. I swear I'm good now. I shake my head back and I'm in response at the same

frequency. But the expression on my face isn't of fear and pleading, but of sarcastic pity. Aw, poor Roy. Don't beg. You've proven to be so much stronger than that. Hearing that in his mind sends a shock down his spine that I couldn't be more excited to sense. I place my smoldering hand onto the bare skin of his leg, and the action is met with an immediate tensing of Roy's entire body. His head whips back and stays there. His mouth agape, but not a sound is made. His eyes are open, and they are the only parts over which he has any control. It's like experiencing sleep paralysis. When you wake up in the middle of the night not being able to move, feeling like it's all a bad dream until you come out of it and still feel like it wasn't. That's not entirely the case with Roy,

however. This is real. This is death, and it's not a dream. My face is the last he'll see in this life. His eyes finally close as his body relaxes and goes from its terrified state to a tranquil one. I listened for his drawn out last breath as he departs, followed by the steady, peaceful tone of the flatline. I take a moment to take in the victory. Nurses and a physician come rushing in to tend to him. I turn and walk out, not being seen by anyone. I'd stay and watch, but I've seen this before, and it's not like I don't know how it'll end.

Roy's gone. They'll rule it as a cardiac arrest and be none the wiser of what really took place. The sun sets over what pieces of the horizon I can see. The last hospital is impeding my view a bit, so I'm trying my best to enjoy this sunset from the other side of the city. This one doesn't have any artwork of any interest, nor importance. This particular case hasn't been half as exciting as Roy, but it's about to get better. I make my way to the room, walk inside with a smile, and close the door behind me.

People say that when you love your job, you'll never work a job. day in your life. I'm happy to say I've never worked a day in my death. 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.

You know, I don't have a choice, right? You know it's not really up to me. Because going home isn't an option. My house is contaminated. Mom and Donnie are infected. Going back there means dropping into madness. It's a fast and violent death, and at the end of it, the witch wins. I don't know what she wins.

I don't even know what she wants from me. Not really. But she wins. There might be a fast and violent death this way too, but I'm going to take her with me if I can. I reach into my bag again, feeling for the knife again, reassuring myself again. It's sticky with my blood. It's going to be sticky with her blood, too. Down in the subway, the world feels a little more normal

because I can't see the sky, and under the yellow lights, everyone looks half dead, whether they're half dead or not. A river of people flows past me, all heading up to the street. Most have faces, but there are some that don't. hollow-headed men and women and even children, the meaty smell of them filling the corridors. I ignore them, but they don't ignore me.

They stare at me through the empty bowls of their heads as I trot to the subway map, as I run my finger up at until I find the station at the top. Kara had already done the work for me. It's written right there on the story, Haller Street, and 21st. I head down, riding the escalator until I hit the red line. There are fewer people down here, but enough to make me feel safe. Tourists heading to see the old world fair site, office workers on their way to Fairfax and Celeste. I watch a couple of them throw coins into the hat of a beggar without a face.

Then the train's here and we're bustling onto it together. I don't sit. I worry that if I do, I'll black out. I stand by the door, staring at myself in the window, wondering why I can see a silhouette of night right over my shoulder, a silhouette with a moon-yellow grin. Nobody talks to me, even though I'm covered in blood, even though my finger is dripping again, even though I'm tear-stained and tattooed with dirt. Nobody asks me if I'm okay. Maybe they can see the shadow over my shoulder too. It takes longer than I thought.

Nearly 20 minutes before the train squeals and hisses to a halt at Haller Street Station, and the recorded voice states that it's the end of the line. I've read the story seven times by now, and I know the rules, but I'm not sure if I need to reset before beginning. So I hop off with a handful of people and stand on the platform, staring at posters of vacations and health insurance and corporate investments. People mill around me checking their cell phones. They're talking to each other, but it's like they've discovered a new language.

A new language I can't hope to understand. Even the quality of their voices sounds wrong, as if I'm listening to them from underwater. I look at the story instead. I don't want to get it wrong. You can get on by yourself or with another person. I don't think it matters, but know this. If you get on with a person you know, then what happens next is worse. The doors beep, slide open, and I climb inside, finding a seat in the middle of the carriage.

There's maybe a dozen people in here with me, and they all keep their distance. They all have their faces, too, which is a huge relief. Check my cell as we pull away. There's no signal down here, and I wonder if I should have texted Mom, told her goodbye, told her to give Donnie a hug from me. Then suddenly, I don't know what I'm doing here. Suddenly none of it feels possible. How was it that just days ago, I woke up an ordinary girl in an ordinary life?

Stop the train. I'm close to screaming. And I grip the back of the seat in front so hard, my missing finger pulses supernova bright. It's the conductor's voice that settles me. There's a junction stop coming up. Take the train to the first interchange. You have to get off here and take the line that goes east or south. Half the carriage gets off with me,

and I follow them down an escalator to the eastbound line that runs from here. I hear the train rumbling around the bend, breaks squealing. There's a sudden flash of lights in the tunnel, a wave of hot air. A thought hits me with the force a train would, the idea that I could end it all here. Five steps, a jump. I wouldn't know a thing about it. And isn't that a hand on my shoulder?

Bony fingers in my skin. Then dig my heels in because I don't want to do it. I don't want to let her win. Nobody there. But I can feel the echo of her touch on my shoulder bone, like her fingertips have detached and are worrying themselves beneath my skin. The train's nearly full, and I have to stay. Rocking and swaying as it pummel's way through the earth.

The lights blink off and on as I try to read the instructions. Stay on this train for three stops. Get out on the force. I count three stations, watching strangers climb on and off the train. The fourth is Madison, and I get off the train. It's roasting here, the air hot enough to taste. I'm shivering, though, barely able to hold the page. as I cross to the other platform and wait. Wait, wait.

Get on the same train, but going back the way you've just come. Then here it comes. A primal roar, a metal monster punching out of the tunnel. I get on, write it back past the first stop and then three stops to the west. Get on the same train again, going back. You will notice that this time, the carriage will be empty. There might be people on other carriages, but the one you are in will be empty. If it's not, you've done something wrong.

It seems an age of waiting before the next train stops in front of me. The door right there. I hardly dare look. But when I do, I see that there is nobody else in the entire carriage. To the left and right of me, people climb onto the train, climb off it. They talk and they shout and they laugh, but it's all muted. It's all too far away for me to really hear. There's too much between us now.

I'm like a splinter that's deep inside the skin, I think, muffled in flesh. I don't move, and the train just sits there patiently. I think I can hear its breathing, and there's an image in my head of a horse, a huge black warhorse. It's chest heaving, its nostrils steaming as it rests before the next charge. There's a beeping, a warning to stand back from the doors, and I run, darting through them as they slide shut. Then they're closed, and my ears ache like I've sunk to the bottom of an ocean. I can't hear anything at all in here, not the rumble of the engine, not the hiss of the brakes or the rattle of the wheels of the train rocks into motion.

I stick a finger in my ear, wiggling it, swallowing, but there's nothing. If you get on this train, it is too late to turn back. Nothing but that maddening quiet, and I'm so focused on it that I almost forget what I'm supposed to be doing. When the doors close, sit down somewhere in the middle, next to a window. Look forward. I crash into a seat, eyes forward, my stomach contracting as the train picks up speed. Ahead of me, I can see through the little window in the door. I can see the carriage in front of me.

That's empty too, even though I know I saw people pouring into it. And I'm turning my head to look back when I hear footsteps, when I hear a soft mourning cry. When the train starts moving, you will hear a woman sit down behind you. Do not turn and look at her. Do not acknowledge her in any way. She is looking for you. Behind me, the hair is on my arm rise like soldiers. my scalp crinkling. There's another cry than the sound of somebody sitting. I can hear it because

there is still no other sound. The train is perfectly cold. There's only that soft cry again, like somebody struggling to take in air. Their breath ragged, wet, wheezing. Voice is a million years old, cracked and broken into pieces, whispered right into my ear. It's so unexpected that the groan pours out of me like liquid, and I snap a hand up to hold it in. Are you there? Feels too loud. I can feel something brushed the back of my neck, something soft, a finger or a tongue. Is that?

The train will stop. Nobody will get on. The woman is still sitting behind you. She won't be doing anything, but she is there. You may hear her talking, but do not reply. She is blind, but she is looking for you. We're slowing. I can feel the force of it, pull me forward.

I hold on to the chair in front, focusing on the pain in my finger, losing myself in it because anything is better than the cold, whispering thing in the seat behind me. Nobody gets on, although I can see people on the platform. They seem to be moving in slow motion. Their smiles too slow. Their laughter too slow. Some glance at the open door. Others look at me through the window.

And I can see the moment their brain tells them to look away, to not see me. I'm danger. I'm wrong. I'm not really there. The train will stop two more times. It will stay empty apart from you and the woman in the seat behind you. After the third stop, you will feel as stand up and walk away.

Do not follow. her, do not look. The acceleration pushes me back, pushes me into a cloud of her breath. I hear her gasp, feel her lean right into me. Turn around. Let me see you. Don't you want to... No, but I think this is a lot.

You do. Don't you? You want to know who I am. behind you. Who I am that sits on this train. Because you know me already, don't you?

You know. We're stopping again, and again nobody gets on. The people out there are slower than ever, and there's something wrong with their eyes. They are cracked eggs leaking from their shells. Their smiles are wide.

wide and false, as if their lips are stapled in place. None of them sees me. I don't think any of them see anything at all. Turn around, Tommy. I've waited so long to see you. Turn around to your mother. I almost do. My head starts moving without permission, and I lock it in place. I stare at the seat in front, at the graffiti scratched there.

You won't look at your own mom? After everything I did for you? It's not her. Laughter. So familiar. It's Flint's laughter. Joke, Tommy. It's me.

Come on. Come and give me a hug. And it really could be her. I can hear the click of the rings on her finger as she brushes a hand through my hair. As she leans in. I miss you. It's her smell. It's her.

No. Flint's come. Oh, Flint's gone. A gasping saw, than a muttering that I can't make sense of. And we're slowing again. Thank God we're slowing again. I can feel my chair alert as the woman pulls herself up. I hear the soft thud of her footsteps.

And I want to look. I have to look. Because what if it is, Flint? I don't, though. I don't look. I scrunch my eyes shut until I feel the train. shudder to a halt until I hear the beep of the doors. When you arrive back at the interchange, everything will seem normal, but it is not.

You have found a way beneath the skin of her world. You are in. You must get off the train here. If you do not, you will be forever lost. And I can't move. I'm just so tired. I'm just so broken. I sit there.

I sit there. I sit there. I sit there until I picture myself trapped on this train forever, trapped on this train with a woman who isn't Flint. I fly out of my seat, running for the doors, seeing them close, throwing myself between them and feeling them clamp around my chest. I grunt, pulling free, skittering onto the platform. The train's moving out. Through the window, I see people, dozens of them, the empty carriage somehow now full of them. None of them have faces, just those empty nests perched on their shoulders.

They all turn as one, and I watch them watching me until they vanish into the darkness of the tunnel. There are more of them here, on the platform. Ten of them, maybe, dressed like regular people in suits and skirts and school uniforms. The inside of their skulls scooped out and thrown away like pumpkin cuts. Some are sitting, slouched against the dirty walls like discarded toys. Those on their feet puppet jerk along the platform, their feet scuffing the dirt, something other than bones and muscle and skin holding them upright. One, dressed like a teenage girl, lifts her hand and points to an archway.

The rest imitate her, ten trembling hands showing me the way. I walk, slowly. because it feels like there's a million tons of rock sitting on my shoulders, walk through the arch into a lobby. It's the same station I was in just minutes ago, but it's also not, and there are people here too, but also none. I can feel them. I can almost hear them, regular people in the regular world, but I can't feel them too. I can't hear them either. I'm not. I'm not. I'm Too deep, I think. Too slow. They're just a blue bottle buzz in my sinuses, a cold vein in the bedrock of my spine. There's an escalator heading up. It's not running, so I walk up it, holding my bag like it's a life raft,

hoping it will stop me from drowning in the madness that lies at the top of the stairs. There's no station up here, no building at all. There's a forest. Trees towering over me like the arches of a church. It infects the metal escalator, moss growing on the steps, shoots pushing up from the cracked tiles. I stumble off at the top, spinning in delirious circles. It's like somebody has ripped a section of the subway and planted it here decades ago.

I can still see the concourse below me, people milling back and forth. Their shouts drift up on currents of war, Or a mare, calling me back, but I ignore it. She's up here. Because it's working, isn't it? Kara was right. The stories are a map, a way of finding her.

She thinks she's safe here. She thinks we can't reach her, but we can. I slide the tube game back into the back and rummage until I find the next one. Three dead things. This story isn't instructional like the last one, but there's a secret coated into it. I have to find the statues first, of course. But when I turn around to face the forest, I see that they have found me. There are three wooden statues there, where there were none before.

They are all facing me. They're crudely carved features drenched in shadows that make them look utterly real. On the left is a bird, its wings angled across its beak. Inside the Skylark, you will meet the first daughter, he said, and she will ask you a question, but you must not reply. In the middle is a hair, its face a mask of grief, its paws clamped to its ears. Inside the hair, you will hear the second daughter whisper to you, but you must not listen. next to them, slightly taller and leaning in, as if ready to strike them both down, is a creature I cannot identify.

Its body is a sheep's, I think, sitting upright, its face covered by a huge pair of human hands, horns poking through the fingers. 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. It's so awful that I have to close my eyes. I have to force myself to claw in a breath. There's a crack of wood, a rustling. When I look again, they're closer.

They're almost on top of me. It's impossible, of course, because they are held tight by vines and brambles, the forest growing up and over them. So much so that the three little doors in their stomach, are half buried. Two of the doors are closed. Only the mothers is open. I read the story again. Then I walk in a circle around the three statues. They're the length of a fully grown man, no more. And in the gaps between the warped wood, I can see the interior, as green and moldering as the outside. They're empty, all three of them. They're not, are they? To do this,

but I have to. I don't even know what would happen now if I followed the escalator back down and tried to get back on the train. Maybe I'll end up as one of those faceless people riding the quiet from station to station to station until time grows old and tired. Anything is better than that.

It takes me a while to pry open the first door. I have to dig a path for it in the heavy soil with the knife. I'm not sure. if I have to go in all three, but something tells me it won't work otherwise. It's weird, because when I finally wrench it open enough for me to squeeze through, I can't see anything. It's choked with darkness. I walk to the side and stare through the slats, seeing the interior just fine, but through the door is nothing, just nothing. Clambering down onto my hands and knees,

I push my head through the door. stinks of old wood here, of decaying things, but it's not a bad smell, just a forest smell. The door's too low for me to crawl in, so I slide the knife into my pocket. The stories, too, because I won't get the bag through the door, and drop to my belly, feeling twigs push into my stomach. I worm my way inside, the darkness consuming me. It's absolute. It's like I've gone blind.

I have to pull myself deeper. The agony in my finger unbearable as I claw at the dirt, at the wet wood, moss gathering beneath my nails. There's no end, and on. And when I try to angle my head around, I can't see the door behind me either. The panic detonates in my chest. I'm retreating, pushing backward. But I think my t-shirt is caught on something

because it's bunching around my neck, as tight as a noose. Only, it's not my t-shirt because whatever is there is moving, coiling around my throat, cold fingers working their way over my chin and pushing into my mouth, tasting of dirt, of age, scream through them, scream because I can feel her beneath me, her bird-like body moving under mine, her face right there, dry lips, nozzling my forehead. Inside the skylight, you will meet the first daughter. he said and she will ask you a question but you must not reply can't move my hand over my mouth there's no space but i bite my lips between my teeth bite hard bite until i can taste blood her face nudges against my face

like a cat i can feel the ridge of her nose i can feel the wet bulge of her eyeballs her lashes tickling me as she blinks her hands still work their way around my mouth my ears, my eyes. She suddenly lurches, her body's shaking so hard it throws me up against the roof of the coffin. There's still movement there, but when my head drops down, it's worms I can feel a nodded mess of them. I dig down, pushing back, feeling them mush between my fingers, but I don't care. I just drive myself back, cracking my elbows and my knees and my skull against the wood until the day is right there, until it catches me. I make it to my knees, but no further.

I cup my head in the filth of my hands and the sobs just pour out of me. Terrential. I can't breathe past them. I can't do anything except ride through them. Wait until there's nothing left inside. I stay that way even when I've calmed, spitting the taste of the dead thing from my mouth. Then I turn my head and look at the second statue. I understand its expression now.

because I'm wearing it too. Lines of grief have been hacked into my skin and my eyes. My face is swimming with horror. I go in. Of course I do. I grunt and swear and scream my way into the darkness of the hair, crawling for five full minutes before the dead thing bubbles up from the soil and wraps me in its arms.

I'm almost not quick enough. I almost can't get my arms up in time, but I ram my fingers into my ears just, as it begins to talk to me. No! I can still hear her. I can still hear the soft whisper of her voice as she speaks to me. I can hear her cries.

I can hear her desperate pleading calls for help. I'm screaming the words now, screaming them into her face with everything I have until she too erupts into a soup of worms and maggots. I almost don't have what it takes to make it out. I'm too weak, and the tunnel is too long. I don't know how much later it is that I feel the softness of the forest floor beneath my boots, the warmth of the sun on my ankles.

Those last few feet are the hardest, but I do it, birthed like a mulling, breech-born baby, rolling onto my side with the statues behind me. The escalator's still there. The third statue's still there, too. I can feel it watching me. It is watching me, because when I flop onto my back, its long wooden fingers have opened,

and its black eyes blink at me from underneath. I'm coming for you, I think I say. I know that if I lie here for a minute more, I'll never get up again. The weeds will grow over me, and I'll live here forever in the shadow of the statues, three dead things for company. So I crawl to the little door in the third statue, and push my way into the darkness there. It's the same story.

I'm almost used to it now. This one feels worse, though. It feels smaller, the ceiling's so low that I can't even take in a full lungful of stale air. I imagine the statue folding itself over me, compacting me inside it, digesting me,

and I'm groaning with the horror of it as I push deeper and deeper and deeper. Till the ground grows, soft, crumbling beneath my touch. I dig at it, feeling it drop away from me. And there's light there, like I've burrowed my way into an underground room. The earth's falling from beneath me now, and I panic, wedging myself between the walls of the tunnel, frightened of falling. There's nothing beneath me now but light, and I'm not falling.

I'm not falling because there's something holding me in place here, face down and staring at the sky. I can see the clouds moving across it, and I can hear people, too, speaking a language I don't understand. I'm about to call out to them when I remember, screwing my eyes shut. I feel a cold shape lean over me, clamber in beside me. It's potty cold. I shake my head, and as soon as I do, a handful of soil lands back inside the tunnel, hitting me in the face as hard as a slap. I spit it out, coughing hard, feeling another one land on my chest, another on my neck. They're landing fast and hard, and I grab at it, trying to throw it back out.

But gravity has reversed. It keeps bouncing back up, choking me, blinding me, and all I can hear is laughter as the tunnel fills with soil and stones. It's all for my head now. Breathe. Spinning like a tumble dryer, the soil peeling away. The tunnel peeling away, the whole world peeling away, and I'm lying on my back on hard, cold, asphalt, the sky still overhead.

I sit up, while burning from my stomach, hanging from my lip. I'm not in the forest anymore. I'm back in the city, back in my city. I know it's my city because I can see the entrance to the mall just up the street. I can see the window of the Starbucks. where Flint and I meet. It's my city, but it's empty. There's not a single person in sight. Except that's not true, because somebody is watching me. I can feel it on the nape of my neck, as if I've carried a dozen spiders with me from the forest. I don't want to turn around,

but I do. I don't want to turn around because I know what I'll see there, but I do, and I'm right. 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. She will show you a building, I think. She will show you her home. And it's right there. The tower from my dream, the witch lives.

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 Ninth Part, starred Jessica McAvoy as Tommy Bright. Mary Murphy as the woman on the train.

Aaron Lillis as Tommy's mother. Kristen D. Mercurio as Flint, and Tanya Molozovic, Danielle McCrae, and Catabelle Ansari as The Dead Things. Join us next week, for this book will kill you. The final part. Tales have ended. Are you feeling all right? We did our best to give you a fright. You may feel safe in the bright sunlight, but soon, once again, you'll be safe. Sleepless tonight.

The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our program, Please visit the 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 tonight. This program is copyright 2022 by Creative Reason Media Inc. 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.