The NoSleep Podcast - S18 Ep2: NoSleep Podcast S18E02

Episode Date: July 3, 2022

Tune in to Episode 2 of Season 18 for disturbing dark tales!“Short But Sweet” written by Jackie Wright (Story starts around 00:03:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy“Jim’s Story” written by Boyd Mason (Story starts around 00:07:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jim – David Cummings, Psychiatrist – Peter Lewis“Contagion” written by Jessica Hill (Story starts around 00:16:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Dr. Peter Shaw – Mike DelGaudio, Maggie – Mary Murphy, Jane Doe – Erin Lillis, Little Girl – Danielle McRae, Detective Morgan – Matthew Bradford“Divide the Moving Creature” written by P.D. Radcliffe (Story starts around 00:36:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Elroy – Atticus Jackson, Stephen – Jesse Cornett, Darrell – Graham Rowat, Pa – Mick Wingert, Guard – Matthew Bradford, Warden – Peter Lewis, Nurse – Kyle Akers“The Ex-Widower” written by One Faraday and Ronin Ellis (Story starts around 01:32:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Rich – Dan Zappulla, June – Nikolle Doolin, Chester – Mick Wingert, “John” – Nichole Goodnight“Crown of Gore” written by Hatteras Mange (Story starts around 02:00:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Carrie – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Doona – Erika SandersonClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here for Season 18 trigger warningsClick here to learn more about Jackie WrightClick here to learn more about Hatteras MangeExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Contagion” illustration courtesy of Emily Cannon*WNSP is a fictional television station and is not affiliated with radio station WNSP 105.5 in AlabamaAudio 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

Goodness, that was a hard day of work at the No Slate Podcast headquarters. It's good to be home. Say, honey, what's cooking for dinner? Oh, darling, I haven't been feeling very well. I'm not up to cooking. Why don't we go out for dinner? Well, hey, that's a swell idea. I'll look over all the reviews and find a nice place to eat.

It's smart to read restaurant reviews, so we know we're finding a spot we'll love. I'm so hungry. I can't wait to... Wait a second, honey. Did you say you're not feeling well? We should get you to a doctor. You're right, darling. But how can we find a doctor near us

who takes our insurance and who can see us on short notice? Easy, my darling wife. We'll use Zock Doc. Of course. How could I forget? Zock's the perfect solution. It surely is. Just like with restaurants, you pour over lists and lists of reviews.

So why not do the same when you're booking a doctor's appointment? With Zoc Doc, you can see real verified patient reviews to help you find the right doctor in your network and in your neighborhood. After all, finding the right doctor is just as, if not more important than finding the right plate of eggs Benedict. I've used Zock Doc in the past. I love how easy it is. ZockDoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient reviewed. Take your insurance and are available when you need them. On Zock Doc, you can find every specialist under the sun. Whether you're trying to straighten those teeth, fix it achy back, get that mole checked out, or anything else,

Zock Doc has you covered. You've got that right, sweetie. Zock Dog's mobile app is as easy as ordering a ride to a restaurant or getting delivery to your house. Search, find, and book doctors with a few taps. Find and review local doctors. Read verified patient reviews from real people. who made real appointments. Now when you walk into that doctor's office,

you're all set to see someone in your network who gets you. Go to Zocdoch.com. Find the doctor that is right for you and book an appointment in person or remotely. That works for your schedule. Every month, millions of people use Zockdoc, and I'm one of them. It's my go-to whenever I need to find and book a quality doctor.

Go to Zockdoch.com slash no sleep and download the Zoc Doc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Many are available within 24 hours. That's Z-O-C-D-C dot com slash no sleep. Zock-D-C-com slash no sleep. Now how about some grub, mister? Grab your hat and purse, Snookums.

We'll be out the door as soon as I start up this week's episode. The burial was short but sweet, just by the oak tree a mile from his sweet. He looked tranquil, almost out of reach, as the wind whirled the smell of fresh bleach. Wildflowers were lying in his numb palms. We held shovels, but forgot the psalms. The carton coffin was a nice touch, not too tasteless, yet not too much. The headlights of our carlides of our carlestone. Cars trembled as his guilty fingers were disassembled. My tears burned, but you need not worry.

It was still in good taste, rightfully gory. They told me not to look too closely into the grave they dug right next to Josie's. Yet I couldn't avert my eyes, imagining all her unanswered cries. Now it's his turn to face this fate. with a little more agony, a little more hate. As the first rays of moonlight's innocently glister, we bury the animal who tortured my sister. UNSP presents the No Sleep Podcast Hour, starring David Cummings and the No Sleep Players.

Nights of Darkness. Fear creeping through your soul, pounding heartbeats join us for tales of horror during the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes and we're warning you brace yourself

for the no sleep podcast good evening I'm David Cummings thank you for daring to be with us at the no sleep podcast hour revenge they say it's a dish best served cold but they never tell you how it should taste.

Well, according to author Jackie Wright, it should be sweet, like in her tale, which was this episode's cold open. Short but sweet. Performed by Jessica McAvoy. Now that season 18 is well underway in the 1950s, we think back to those days when what was shown on television had to be very, well, let's say, family-friendly.

You would never hear some of the salty language we feature in our tales. No, back then it was risque to utter the word damn, let alone all the F-bombs and other vulgarity regularly heard on our program. It's shameful, really, a source of constant embarrassment to me. I pride myself on language most pure, not in words dragged from the muck and pit. Language should be divinely inspired, not full of words like f-k and shit. Ah, curse my filth mouth. But speaking of programs being family-friendly, as you know, our stories are decidedly not friendly to all family members. As such, it's a good time to remind you that we offer trigger warnings for the stories which weren't a bit of forewarning. We recognize that some of our listeners find it

useful to be made aware of content which might be rather upsetting. This episode especially contains some rather intense content, so we encourage those of you. who feel the need to brace yourself even more to consult the links in the show notes for the trigger warnings. And for all of Season 18's episodes, you can find the trigger warnings at triggers. orghum. It's our goal to make our horror entertainment

accessible to all our listeners. And speaking of horror entertainment, we have some ready for you, our dear viewers. Now adjust the antenna, Tune in our signal and settle in front of the TV to watch this week's nightmares. In our first tale, we meet a man who recalls an event from his past, an ordinary man facing rather extraordinary circumstances. But as we learn from author Boyd Mason, the man knows what he did was extreme,

but then again, sometimes people are pushed to extremes. I joined Peter Lewis in performing this tale. So let's hear what happened in the man's own words. Let's listen to Jim's story. It was late October of 74, and the night felt odd. I hadn't been right for some time now. I decided to drive west from Minnesota out to the Dakotas. I hadn't seen the badlands since I was a kid.

I just needed to clear my head. Somehow I found myself on a lonely gravel backroad, cutting through a wasteland of barren cornfields, recently butchered, leaving nothing to ponder upon the horizon. I was trapped in the old green station wagon with nothing but my own laments. Even the sun looked cold as it disappeared off to my left.

I flipped on my beams and caught a glimpse of a crucified scarecrow, guarding a frost-killed garden plot. He grinned at me, and I loathed him. It was getting dark, and I was lost in a sea of empty, desolate acres. I drove on, and, a miracle of miracles, spotted a signpost up ahead. Sharp's Corner, Motel, 13 miles. The arrow pointed west.

I obliged and made the turn. turn. I was low on gas and getting nervous. The wind had picked up, and the decrepit wagon was slapped by rogue corn husks blowing across the fields. Then the rain began. It quickly turned to sheets of sleet, attacking the windshield. I came to the outskirts of Sharp's Corner. I could see the motel's vacancy sign flashing in the distance. The N and the Y were burned out. I could make out the outline of the place. It was a dump. I always stayed in places like this, joints in disrepair. Their downtrodden state made me feel better about myself. There was a pattern that followed me to these vulgar dives. The husband would be at the front desk. He would be balding with bad teeth,

crooked and yellow. His shirt would be unbuttoned, about three buttons down, and the hair he did retain was greasy. His wife, who used to be something, would be clanking around the kitchenette behind the office. She would steal a moment from cleaning up the slop from supper to peek around the corner, just to see someone who wasn't her rancid husband. I continued on toward the motel. The sleet melodically pelted the windshield, putting me into an almost trance-like state. As I tried to refocus my eyes, an aged house caught my attention. I surmised it had at one time been a grand residence. Its carved gables and spindle-rich porch spoke of more glorious days.

Its current state of dilapidation sparked a tinge of anger in me, and I felt my forehead burn as I fanned the anger and it spread through my consciousness. My lip formed in a familiar tone. curl. Now incensed, I assaulted the dashboard, splitting open my knuckles. Just then, a flow of light shone from one of the upstairs windows. Through the sleet, I saw a man. He was holding something above his head. I flipped on my high beams, and the glint of a steel blade cut the night. It was a knife, a large carving knife. Curious, I stopped and continued to look into the window.

A flash of blonde hair whirled past. I saw the silhouette of a young girl cowering. Then the light extinguished and all went dark. I knew what I had to do. Without hesitating, I accelerated into the driveway. I barreled through the front door, taking it down, hinges and all. The splintered remains made minceme to my hands as I fell upon it. The screams of the little girl penetrated me, screams of extinction.

The ramshackle interior of the house was a blur of cream and brown striped wallpaper, owls and chipped dishes, dark paneling and tarnished doorknobbs. I bounded up the stairs four at a time. The light was back on, and the man with the knife had twisted her hair around his wrist and forearm, winching her mid-air as he held her off the ground. He gripped the knife in arm's length above her, ready to strike. His greasy, thinning hair was a burnt hawburn. He had putrid, rotting teeth.

I could smell them. He wore a vile orange shirt. It was open, three buttons down. He thrust the knife toward her neck. I leapt at him in an act of what I would call divine intervention. I seized his wrist, liberating the knife. from his grip. I then levied blows to his skull, rendering him a futile state. It was over, and the little blonde girl who had dropped to the floor rose up and embraced me. I'll never forget her

maniacal sobs of thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. You know that's not what happened, Jim. I'd had more than I could take for this day. I will not let you forget. I will not let you change this. You will not create sanctuary in your own mind. That was your little girl and her stepfather. You do not get to erase what you did to those innocent people. Do you understand me?

As always, Jim's agitation was swift and horrific. He turned ablaze. and shook violently. He dug his fingernails into his temples and mangled his thin, greasy hair. He tried to leap at me, but the guards held him down. They knew the routine. His lip curled into a snarl. Don't you curl your lip at me? I motioned for them to take him back to his cell. He looked back at me, gave me a toothless smile as they dragged him out the door. and button your shirt, I added, as the door slammed shut. I was the psychiatrist at the penitentiary in Sioux Falls, and it was my job to remain calm.

But Jim, Jim knew how to irk me, huh? You knew how to test my limits. He told the same story every time. Dealing with trauma is something mental health professionals specialize in. They train for years. to help people deal with their emotional pain. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jessica Hill, we meet a doctor returning to work after a traumatic event in his own life,

only to find himself assigned to a rather unsettling patient. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Mary Murphy, Aaron Lillis, Danielle McCray, and Matthew Bradford. So remember, even when dealing with psychological problems, you can't rule out the risk of dealing with a contagion. I've decided to start with one patient, to prove to myself that I'm fit to be back. A year off isn't so long

when you're trying to piece your whole life back together. I treated patients who had taken much longer than that to recover from their traumas. As I walked down corridors that were once so familiar, I let my free hand tap against the bottle of pills I have in my coat pocket. I take comfort in the muted chuckle of several times. tablets rattling in response. They're only for emergencies, but I was never one for letting my supply run low. I'd already taken my morning dose, but it wouldn't hurt to have another one,

if the morning proved to be too much. I know my scripts well enough to take an extra dose every now and then. Really, I couldn't be sure how many I might need today. Better safe than sorry. My new patient isn't with the general population. I felt it better to minimize my exposure to the insane until my own sanity is appropriately confirmed. My patient has been in isolation pending my evaluation, and I'm looking forward to the challenge. My mind runs through the report I spent the night before memorizing. She was found wandering the streets, completely lost and unaware of her surroundings. She'd been wearing Prada shoes and an Armani blouse, yet no one came to claim her when the reports began to circulate. There were no medical records to lend clarity to her identity either,

despite the wig she'd been wearing to cover up significant hair loss and what appeared to be sourced from radiation treatment. There'd been blood on her clothes and evidence of self-mutilation, cuts and scratches covering almost every inch of her body. I suspect she's suffering a breakdown due to severe trauma. But then, that is my area of expertise. I always think horses when I hear hoofbeats. Something has sent her over the edge. Now I need to figure out what. I'm pleased to see her see Maggie waiting for me outside of the patient's room. The short blonde nurse has been a rock for me in the last year. And although she's had her doubts about me returning to work, she's been nothing but supportive when I insist it's the next step in my own path to recovery. I do know what I'm talking about,

I joked more than once. I see you to check on me. I smile as I take the chart Maggie holds out to me. But I'm fine, really? Maggie hugs herself as soon as her hands are free to do so, and her face is too serious. There are shallow creases where her fine brows come together over the bridge of her nose. I wanted to make sure you got the update on your patient. There's been some new developments. Oh? I begin to flip through the chart while Maggie continues. The blood work came back. She's not in treatment of any kind. In fact, the doctor who examined her last night suspects the hair loss is self-inflicted. The sores are from where she tore it out in cold. She plums. Maggie swallows and I look at her again. It isn't like her to get so squeamish. There's more here.

The doctor was going to take another blood sample to run against the blood on her clothes. It seems it's not hers. And the police want the results right away. But it didn't go very well. I put a hand on Maggie's shoulder. It's shaking. What happened? She snapped out of her semi-conscious state and she... I feel a shiver passed through my friend into me. me. Peter, she bit his ear right off. I've seen my share of crazy in this place, but the way she laughed afterwards. The tears in Maggie's eyes unnerved me more than the violence she described. She reaches up a hand to tug at the gold cross she wears on a fine chain around her neck. If she experienced

severe trauma, a violent response to a trigger is to be expected. I glanced back at the chart in my hand. I see she was sedated. Is she restrained as well? Maggie nods. I just checked on her. She's near comatose. I frown. That isn't going to make my job any easier. Just don't go in.

Put it off another day until the results come back. She could be more dangerous than we know. She is sedated and restrained. I just want to jot down a few notes about her appearance. Start to accustom her to my presence. I'll report to you as soon as I'm done if it'll put you at ease. Maggie takes a step back for me, still hugging her body with her cross in one hand.

See that you do. Once inside the patient's room, the first thing I notice is the smell. Rotten eggs and rotten flesh slap me across the face, bringing tears to my eyes. The hand I bring to my mouth is as much to shield my nose as to hold back a surge of nausea. My skin starts to crawl. Oh, baby, they send me a ripe one. My eyes travel to where Jane Doe is restrained on her bed. So much for sedation.

Her eyes are fixed steadily on me. The whites a blend of red and purple from where tiny blood vessels have burst around dark irises. Her face holds the gray pallor of death. And where the soft restraints bind her wrists and ankles, her frail skin is sloughed away like wet tissue paper. A fly that has no business in the sterile environment of a hospital lands on one model cheek. It makes a way across her open eye than flies. off. She doesn't even blink. I'm glad to see you're awake. My name is Dr. Shaw. Can you tell me your

name? The woman regards me with those unsettling eyes before throwing back her head to laugh. Her lips crack and bleed. Her head snaps back to face me so quickly, I swear I hear a bone crack. Won't we get in my name, Dr. Shaw? Names have passed. How, you know? Her fierce scowl turns back into a maniacal grin, and she giggles. I sit in the chair someone has left for me across from the bed and focus on opening my notebook while I wait for my nerves to settle. I'm surprised to see my hands shaking when I try to set pen to paper.

Maybe one extra pill when I'm done here won't hurt. Are you afraid I might use your name against you? You don't have the bone. I decide to try a different approach. Do you know where you are? Silence, except for a low growl deep in the woman's throat. You are in St. Bartholomew's psychiatric hospital. You were found wandering the streets three days ago in a semi-conscious state.

I'd like to help you get back to your loved ones, but first I have to make sure you're not a danger to yourself or others. The woman's face changes. It softens in her dark eyes filled with tears. Do I look like a danger to anyone? Dr. Schult? Her damaged lips tremble. I find my head shaking no and I stop myself.

I sit further back in my chair. You are covered in wounds that indicate you've been harming yourself. And just yesterday you had a concerning encounter with one of our doctors. Can you tell me about either of these things? The tears disappear and that trembling mouth spreads apart into a toothy grin. That was a good bit of fun. It's boring around here. Her voice deepens with each word,

and it sounds almost masculine and more than a little raspy. Scrapes over my skin and holds me at attention. I find I can't look away when she starts to grind her hips against the mattress. We could have a bit of fun too, Doc. I promise I won't find. I feel myself begin to sweat, and my mind, if not my hand, goes to the little yellow pills in my pocket. Maybe I'm not ready to be back. My heart is racing and I struggle to remember my training.

Should I leave or redirect? Do you remember anything about the night they found you? I remember everything. Can you tell me about it? Yes. Will you? Yes. I wait, my pen poised over paper, swallowing the bile that rises to my throat as the scent of sulfur and death grow stronger.

The woman stares at me without blinking. First, you must tell me what's kept you away for so long, Dr. Shaw. I'm here to talk about you. And here's a long time, Dr. Shah. Maybe you should pop one of those Zolovs and tell me about it. It would make you feel so much better. I don't know what you're referring to. The temperature in the room plummets, yet I can feel sweat soaking through the back of my shirt.

If you're not prepared to speak to me, I'll come back. I stand to leave and the woman on the bed begins to spasm. When her face turns towards me again, I see true fear there. She starts to choke. I watch as her throat swells and pulses. She opens her mouth to scream and her jaw cracks as the mandible dislocates from her skull in a grotesque display of terror. The spell holding me in place breaks and I dart for the door.

I fumble with my keycard, but it slips from my trembling hands. I'm about to hammer a fist against the door when a new voice in the room stops me. Help me, Daddy. Don't leave me. I turn. The woman's face is turned towards me still, her eyes now staring blankly as a dark pool of shadow spills from her open mouth to the floor. Standing in the black puddle is a little girl.

My little girl. Her fine red hair burned away from her blackened scalp, and her face covered in angry blisters that burst when she speaks. Why did you leave us, Daddy? No. I shake my head heedless of the tears flowing against my hot cheeks. Yes, you left us, and Mommy got so sad. Please. No. I slide to the floor, the door at my back. What's wrong, Daddy?

The girl steps forward, the puddle sliding along at her feet. Are you afraid that it hurt when she threw the match on my bed? Are you worried that I was scared? I had keep shaking, and I realize I now clutched the bottle of pills from my pocket. Don't worry, Daddy. The fire didn't hurt me. Mommy held the pillow over my face first, so it couldn't hurt me. My nose broke, but that didn't hurt for very long either.

She giggles even as blood begins to pour from her nose. She throws herself into my arms. You shouldn't have left us, Daddy. It's all your fault. You might as well have held a pillow yourself. No! Did you smell us cooking when you came back for that file? Did your stomach crawl just a little?

I opened my mouth to scream and find myself choking instead. The black shadow rises up like a snake. Then launches itself towards me. I have no time to respond. It fills my mouth and nose and ears and lungs. Tears keep pouring down my cheeks as my vision darkens. And my daughter's voice continues to fill my ears. Did you smell us cooking, Daddy?

Did you? The words echo and bounce around in the darkness, consuming me. When the light returns, I'm out in the hall again. I see Maggie looking up at me. She's listening to what I'm saying, but I'm not saying anything. Except I am. I can hear my voice. I can feel the movement of my lips and the touch of her skin as I reach out to hold her hand.

Except it isn't me. I'm not in control. The gesture reassures her that I'm all right. But I'm not all right. I'm not all right. I scream, but the sound goes nowhere. It simply joins the echo of my daughter's voice with its heart. haunting accusations.

The darkness descends again. I humble my fists against the nothing. I claw and scratch at my eyes because I can't seem to open them. Why can't I open them? The next time the light comes, I'm looking at myself in the mirror. It's me, but it's not me. The face in the mirror is smiling in me with a toothy grin I've seen somewhere before. The eyes are bloodshot in purple, and they stare back.

back at me through the mirror, stare back beyond the reflection to where I cower somewhere within those dark dilated pupils. The mouth moves to speak, and I hear my voice speaking to me in the light, as well as the deep rasp of another filling the darkness. I like your friend. I think she and I are going to have some fun. No! So much fun. This time I don't slip into the darkness. The shadow won't let me.

I fight to take back control when Maggie smiles uncertainly at the person she thinks is me. Because I know what's coming the moment before it does. She sees the scalpel, and I cry out for mercy as I watch her smile disappear. I long for the darkness then, but the demon in control won't give it to me until the walls are painted red, and her screams finally become gurgling. gasps. When the darkness comes then, I'm grateful. I don't even mind the taunting echoes that are my only company. Did you smell us cooking, Daddy? It's all your fault. I don't know how long I've lost. Flashes of light come and go, showing me tableaus of horror each time. Blood and corpses everywhere

we go. I can feel my physical body wasting away. When I finally wake up, I'm in a strange place, sitting in a hard chair. I can feel the tug of restraints on my wrists. And a small measure of my old self takes stock of the situation. There's a man sitting across from me in a police uniform. The cop has a folder open in front of him. The word evidence layering at me in red. For a terrible moment, I dare to believe I've been given back control of myself.

But when the officer speaks, I know I'm lost. I'm Detective Morgan. We've got a lot to go over tonight, but I'd like to start with your name if you don't mind. I can hear the rasping voice superimposed over my own when the reply is given. No, I don't think so. Names have power, you know. Well, let's restrain ourselves and take a short break from that dark horror. Check out my new wheels.

Oh, wow, nice car, Atticus. I can't remember the last time I saw a station wagon with wood panel, sides, and everything. She's a beaut, ain't she? I can't wait to start making money with her. And how are you going to do that? Well, I'm going to deliver packages with it. I'm going to call my company, ship station wagon.

Ship station wagon. Wait, wait, wait a second. Did you do all of this because I told you about This week's promo for Ship Station? Yeah. I mean, no. Atticus, listen, we're talking about Ship Station. Just because Summers here doesn't mean small businesses can start slacking on shipping out their orders.

That's why we recommend Ship Station for all their orders. Oh, of course. I remember what last year was like. Shipping delays, supply shortages. It was a mess. Impatient customers, returns, and expensive shipping rates. It's time to switch to a shipping solution. that can handle it all painlessly.

I couldn't imagine having to ship orders and handle all the tracking and business details of exchanges without the power of Ship Station. I can save time by managing every order, Amazon, eBay, Etsy, or my own website, from anywhere, even my phone. No more headaches in dealing with returns

and return tracking. Ship Station makes it easy. And you can save money when you compare carrier options and choose the best shipping solution every time. Shipstation, works with every carrier, so you can always find the best fit for you. Your small business can access the same discounted rates usually reserved for Fortune 500 companies

without the contracts or commitments. Save your sanity, knowing your orders are handled, and you're getting the best rates. Make shipping the easy part of having an online store. You have bigger ideas to think about. And you don't even need a fancy station wagon. Definitely not. So ship more in less time with Ship Station. Use our offer code

No Sleep to get a 60-day free trial. That's two months free of no hassle, stress-free shipping. Just go to Shipstation.com, click on the microphone at the top of the page, and type it No Sleep. Ship Station. Make ship happen. And for even faster shipping,

just go to Shipstationwagon.com slash Adicus. Nope, no way. No-uh, no plugging your own nonsense in this ad. Aw. Relax. it's time to get back to the horror. You're great in this next story. In fact, you killed it.

We all have urges, don't we? Urges like having that extra slice of cake. Like spending a bit too much on that new outfit. Like killing that insufferable person who... Oh, wait. Thankfully not everyone is like Elroy. You see, Elroy has felt the urge to kill for as long as he can remember.

But as we learn in this time, tale from author P. D. Radcliffe, Elroy decides that the best way to deal with these urges is to put them to good use, working in the prison on death row. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Jesse Cornett, Graham Rowett, Mick Wingert, Matthew Bradford, Peter Lewis, and Kyle Akers. So before you decide if murder is a biblical mandate, let's consider how to divide the moving creature. The first time I went hunting with my paw, I wondered if killing a big animal with the heart the size of a man's head would stop the urge. I was eight. I felt it as far back as I could remember. I didn't know why. As I got older, the urge became clearer and therefore something

I felt I needed to do in life. The way some people needed to have kids or visit Paris. I always felt it. Deep beneath my sternum like a gaping mouth. I'm not a bad person by any fair reckoning. It's just one of those things. On that first hunting trip, I pictured what it would be like to pull the trigger

and see a living thing drop dead. Something bigger than the ground squirrels I killed with the 22 in the pastures back home. We'd already lost one, horse last summer after it tripped in a burrow and broke its leg. Paul simply said shit, as the animal tried to stand, screaming as horses do. He walked to the house to get his rifle, came back with those lanky fuck-all strides of his, and shot it in the head.

Blood arced, and I imagined putting my hand in it, feeling the heat. As we stalked through the mountains, I mimicked my father, stepped like he stepped, waited like he waited. He wouldn't let me chew yet, so I pretended by pushing my tongue between my teeth and lip. We listened to an elk bugle a few hundred yards off and made our way to a point on an adjacent ridge. Once the herd wandered into range, Paul tapped me on the shoulder. and pointed to a cow standing broadside. My heart pounded, and my hands shook. But I shouldered the rifle and took aim.

Bang! The bullet hit dirt, and every elk bolted as the report echoed over their heads and odds. Paul pulled off his filthy hat and rubbed his face. I knew it that, man. I embraced myself. But the first blow still surprised me. It always did. After a few minutes, he stopped, breathing hard.

He didn't used to get so winded. We made our way back to camp, and I killed an elk the next day. Paul smiled somewhere under his beard and even patted me on the shoulder. Brewed from the day before, but I didn't wince. No, sir. I was proud, at least for a moment. I'd finally killed an elk. I waited to see if that was enough to subdue the urge.

If anything, gutting that creature in the cold mountain air made the mouth gap a little wider. A couple of years out of high school, Paul passed away. Neighbors found him in the back of his pickup at the edge of the farm. Empty jaws of homebrew around him like a halo. Liver failure. I skipped the funeral and spent the day in bed thinking about that screaming horse with blood draining from its skull. I thought about the sticky grass around the gutted elk.

It's hard at my feet. I tried holding my breath so long I'd pass out. I only ever saw stars. By then I had found my way into corrections and eventually got a job at the state prison. What I didn't tell anyone during the interviews, was that I was less interested in justice than murder. I didn't like to call it murder, though. I wasn't a murderer.

I would have killed somebody already. I just wanted to turn off the lights. As a guard, I thought it would be simple enough to off an offender, as I'd like to say to myself. But it was easier imagined than done. I figured prison would be different that way from the outside world, but it was just as hard. Too many cameras.

Too much surveillance. Sure, there was plenty of opportunity to beat on prisoners, and I'd even crack the man's skull once, and made another losing eye. But taking that final step in the way I wanted would bring too much trouble. Part of the problem was I didn't much care who I killed, though I did figure the person should, That was more practical matter than principle.

If I killed someone who had it coming, it'd be just less of an issue for everyone else. I transferred to Death Row, and part of me hoped this would be it. The Death Row block could hold 60 or so prisoners, but there were only five when I got there. I knew that going in, but seeing all that empty space was still a disappointment. A month later, three of them would all be continued. convicted in the same murder case got proven innocent on account of DNA. This was also a disappointment, but I held out some hope. There were always more on the way, and the last two were real pieces of work.

Both in the 60s, there was little chance DNA on God himself had any miracles and stole for them. If worse comes to worse, I figured I could always volunteer to pull the switch. The younger one, Darrell McComb, shot a cop 30 years ago when he was up to his eyeballs in PCP. The other, Stephen Mark Hadley murdered two women in 1986. Stabbed her mother and her daughter to death after raping the girl. His defense tried to plead insanity, but in the end, he said he knew what he'd done. He couldn't explain it. He planned a robbery and then just kept cross.

crossing lines he didn't mean to. The more I crossed, he confessed a trial. The more the lines kind of went fuzzy. It was hard to stop. I know that ain't no excuse, but there it is. The jury took less than an hour to find him guilty. The judge sentenced him to death. A couple years later, Stephen found Jesus.

I've read the Bible three whole times. he'd tell me and the other gods as often as he could. I had to confess I'd only read it in parts. And God, what I did, honest, as I could recall, I'm real sorry. Sorry. I didn't usually say much in response, but one day I did ask Stephen if he was afraid of hell. Maybe I wanted to rile him. Maybe I was just bored.

That's a good question, son, but... It's a hard question. I'm afraid of hell because what I did means I deserve it, but I believe Jesus knows I'm sorry. And the Bible says if you're sorry, sorry like you've never been sorry for anything, then Jesus will save you. I can't say for sure, because God will be my judge, but... I think I might have a shot at staying out of hell, or maybe after a few lashes at least. I thought it was a strange thing to laugh about, but I'm myself smiling anyway. A few days later, I asked Stephen if he was afraid of dying.

Some, that's an easy one. I've had a long time to think about it, and plenty of time to be afraid. So much time, in fact, I... I ran out of fear. I spent it all, or most of it anyways. And what I did was wrong, so I think maybe I deserve to die. I guess I'm afraid of the pain. I guess I'm afraid of the dark that comes after the pain.

But if Jesus has heard my prayers, and I believe you has, then I think you'll catch me when I'm falling toward that eternal pit and bring me into his bosom with Abraham and all our sinners have seen the light

He stood slowly pushing through the arthritic sludge swelling his hips and knees He was taller than me But stooped by old age He leaned towards the bars instead straight into my eyes. I'm sure I'll see you there too.

Someday, so long as you believe the Bible just like I do. I smiled. That was nice. Real nice to think of being in heaven. I wondered if there was still a Bible somewhere in the box of my father's things I kept in the garage. Daryl tried to distract us while we were talking like this,

which happened more and more, time went on. Darrow was all pissing sin, needleing me about befriending a child murderer. He said Stephen's Jesus talk was just an act, nothing more than a load of horse shit. Stephen would just smile and tell me, those who believe on Jesus are always persecuted. Sometimes he'd say prosecuted, but I didn't know which was right. Over time, I grew closer to Stephen. and even wondered sometimes if he'd actually done what they'd say he did. Stephen was kind, always ready with an uplifting word for the guards, even the mean ones, and a bit of forgiveness for Darrell, despite his profane talk.

Maybe Stephen never did it, or if he did, maybe he really had changed. This made me think of my old fantasy, if you recall it. that. If anyone deserved to be killed, it was a murderer. But I couldn't imagine killing Stephen. Maybe I was changing too. One day I came in early. Stephen uttered a bright, good morning son, as usual. But Darrell, instead of making an obscene gesture, was suddenly calling me over, acting like something was the matter. What is it, inmate? I have. I have. Trying my best to be hard, but not feeling up to it. I got important information for you.

I looked at him with feigned confusion. You're in here all day. How did you get important information? You got a tiny spy on your pocket I don't know about? That made Stephen laugh. I always tried things like that I thought would make Stephen laugh. It's kind of like a bit of intelligence as they say.

He grinned his rotten grin, gestured for me to come closer. Quit wasting my time and just say it. Darrell gestured again, and I played along, leaning in. He spoke in a loud, slow whisper. Stephen, ain't your daddy.

I froze. My heart and lungs seized up, like Darrell had punched me in the gut. What the hell do you mean? I never said he was... He ain't your daddy, and you ain't his son. I hear the two of you talk. I bet your daddy was a real son of a bitch, wasn't he?

Inmate, you shut your mouth. I felt a new kind of anger. Or it was old. But I hadn't felt it in ages. I bet he beat you and everything. Never kissed your brother. bruises and told you you was a good boy. Steven seems like fucking old St. Nick next to him, I'm sure.

But let me ask you this. Your daddy hit you. But did he ever rape a little girl and stab her near 20 times with a knife already covered in her mama's blood? Your daddy hit you, but it wasn't no child rapist and he wasn't no child murderer. You think Jesus forgives that kind of abomination? I know I killed two, but it wasn't really me. Not really. Don't be a damn fool, son.

He ain't no good, and he ain't your daddy. No, I know that. You shut up. I... I couldn't finish the thought. My tongue tied up in rage and confusion. If I could have found the word and the will to say it, I'd have said I was embarrassed, but I wouldn't have known why.

I marched back down the corridor as Darrell shouted. He ain't, you damn fool! One last time. Everyone stayed quiet the rest of the day, just sitting with what Darrell had said since there was no walking around it. Worse, after my shift, it followed me home. Climmed on top of me and gripped at my throat. It got angrier as the night.

night wore on, and no amount of beer and cheap whiskey seemed to help. I couldn't put my finger on it. This revulsion, if that's the right word. I called in sick the next day, and for two days after that, when I returned to work, I decided the only way to get this thing to stop was to prove Daryl wrong. Stephen tried to ask me if I was all right. I told him to stay quiet. I reached through the bars to touch my shoulder. And I grabbed his hand and twisted it so hard, one of his fingers tore out of its socket with a loud pop.

Do not touch me, inmate. Do you understand? Yes, yes. I'm sorry, Elroy. It is Officer Standish, you feel. Fucking child murderer. You understand? Yeah, yes.

The officers are standing. Sir, I'm, I'm sorry. I let go and Stephen fell back, cradle in his hand. One of the other guards on duty buzzed Darryl Sello. And I stepped in, forced him against the wall. I guess you learned that lesson quick, did you? you. I ignored him and tossed the cell. You know you ain't gonna find nothing, unless you dropped it yourself.

Then what's this? I held up a small brown lump tied in clear plastic. Like I said, you must have dropped it. Before he could finish, I took Darrow by the shoulders and threw him to the floor. Me and another god laid into him with our clubs and boots. Ignoring his cries. ignoring Stevens begging for help. I threw my club aside and with my bare fist dropped one last blow straight into the side of Darryl's bloody head.

The cries stopped with an eerie finality, like he was telling a secret you needed to hear. And suddenly your ears stopped working. I felt a thrill. A surging current cracking through my veins and I imagine raising my boot and crushing Darrell's skull into a thule. thousand pieces. I imagine the gore and the gray matter. That'll teach them. The other guard pulled my sleeve.

Let's call it in. Daryl spent two weeks in the hospital. During that time, Stephen didn't speak unless spoken to. I did my job and minded my business. I yelled at Steve in a time or two, but mostly kept my distance and only spoke to the other guards. When Darrell came back, I talked down to him for a while, even pushed them around some. But eventually, we all settled into a quiet, mindless routine. Even the words Darrell had spoken seemed to settle down into one of the empty cells,

and everyone pretended not to notice. The next year, word came that Stevens' lawyers failed to get his sentence commuted. Three weeks later, his execution was scared. scheduled. He was given the option. Lethal injection or the chair. He chose the chair. Too many unknowns with the drugs, he said. When the warden asked him why, at least the chair's honest about its method. I had transferred out of death row by that time, but I kept tabs on Stevens' case. I was well-liked among the officers and the warden, and at one point I volunteered for the Steven's extraction team. Later, when no one else would, I volunteered to be executioner.

I planned to visit Stephen during his last meal and tell him I'd be the one sending him towards the dark pit. I'd tell him he wasn't my daddy, and he'd rot in hell with Darrell who'd join him soon enough. That's what I planned. But three days before, Stephen sent a message and asked me to come see him. I wondered if Stephen found him. I found out I was on the extraction team. I wondered if he was going to beg me for mercy. I didn't want that. But since I'd planned on going in anyway,

I thought maybe I could still say what I wanted to say. Stephen didn't look so good when I came in. No longer the jolly grandpa, just a beat-down old pervert, afraid to die. I tried not to feel sorry for him, but part of me couldn't help it. Stephen cut himself off. He watched me with wide eyes as I walked to the cell bars.

When I didn't react, he continued. Sir Standish, it's good to see him. He started to say something else, but then broke down crying. I didn't move. I was still trying to find the courage to tell Stephen what I wanted to tell. But this made it hard. I felt embarrassed For myself and for him

Listen Stephen kept sobbing Listen Inmate Stephen looked up at me with red watery eyes Tears and mucus dripping down his face I'm sorry

What? I'm sorry for what Darrell said And for my part in it Whatever that was. You didn't. You're not?

Yeah, I know. I know. I'm not your dead. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes. I never really meant to act like I was. I just, I just felt you understood me better than other guards. It felt good to have someone listened. Maybe someone I could pass my wisdom to before I died.

I don't know. I don't know what I was taking. I found a chair and sat down. My anger, such as it was, seemed to be wandering off as guilt settled down in its place. There's another thing, officer. Elroy's fine. Elroy, there's one more thing. I'm facing my death, and I just couldn't take this with me.

A priest came yesterday, and I couldn't tell him. I thought, maybe I could tell you. Stephen, what the hell are you talking about? Regretted it. I never did. Not really. even though I said so. Regretted what?

Stephen clenched his jaw and struggled to say the word. Finally, he muttered. He continued. Killing those two women and her girl. Roy, I told you and God and everyone. I was sorry. He said these words very slowly. And I realized I couldn't tell if it was because he was ashamed or proud or both.

Stephen paused and waited for me to say something. I just stared without blinking. Seven others before them. I cried to be sorry. And I did. I prayed to Jesus. And I read the Bible and told everyone I was sorry. But the truth is.

Stephen reached for his Bible and opened to the first page carefully, as though it might fall to pieces if he did it too quickly. I hesitated, but then leaned forward. I'd seen Stephen's Bible before, full of highlights and underlining, but I'd never read it closely. Tears filled his eyes again as his hand shook. Can you see it? In the beginning.

Boyd in darkness. was good. Divide the moving creature. Male and female. I have meat. And behold, it was very good. I reached through the bars and took the Bible. I flipped through the pages frantically.

The same highlighting throughout. scattered words phrases never a full sentence or verse every story i realized every murder stephen had committed was there encoded in highlights and red ink instinctively some part of me was repulsed it felt forbidden this is wrong this is wrong i said again

not realizing that i hadn't yet looked away from the book, not realizing that every highlighted word fell directly into that gaping mouth beneath my sternum, like a chunk of meat. That word. Immediately I felt the old shock, the current racing through my veins. I said again louder. The word was highlighted over and over. I looked up at Stephen whose head was bowed.

The voice didn't sound like you. Like him. I did. And they didn't figure out. About them seven other people, I know I'm going to hell. I deserve it. I'm to be sorry. But I'm not.

I loved everyone. Every killing. Every slice into those soft bodies. He lifted his head slowly until we were out of eye. left. My legs kicked out involuntarily. My chair slid back and slammed against the wall. The crash echoed and a guard stepped into the bare hallway, asking if everything was all right.

I didn't reply. I didn't hear or see the guard. I didn't breathe. The mouth inside thrashed and gnawed. The sudden hunger was unlike anything I'd felt. I thought it might devour my heart and eat its way out of my chest right then and there. Without a word, I left the cell block. The other guard's still calling after me.

I drove home running red lights and stop signs. It was only after I slammed the door behind me that I realized I still had Stephen's Bible in my hand. I sat at the kitchen table, the book in front of me, and didn't stop reading. Driven by fascination and terror. We sat by the flesh. We did eat hunger. Touched blood. I will destroy thy mother.

Thy children. Their heart. Their iniquity. I only looked up when my phone wouldn't stop ringing. I stared at the clock. Morning? How was it morning? I was late for work.

The next two days I wandered from task to task in a haze, only half aware of what I was doing. The shock of Stephen's confession. The answer to the question, I didn't know I'd been asking my whole life. It wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't be enough to kill. Then it struck me. Tomorrow morning, I'd pull the switch.

This was supposed to be it. The moment I'd finally satisfy that urge. Close that mouth. And now, more than ever, I realized Stephen deserved it. But I didn't want to. I didn't care that Stephen deserved it. I hated myself for it. But I needed more.

More answers. More wisdom. More details. There was nothing I could do. The morning of the execution came, and the extraction team worked with solemn ceremony. They brought Stephen into the room, treating him like a visiting dignitary. I stood to the side, a black hood over my head. I saw Stephen look at me and wondered if he knew.

I fought the urge to pull it off and say something, but there'd be an audience. The governor, lawyers, reporters, families. I had to stay hooded. I watched them strap Stephen into the chair. I watched the warden open the curtains and make a brief statement. I heard Stephen's last words. I tried to be sorry. And then it was time.

The guard stepped into the hallway. I stood in front of the controls. The water looked to me and nodded. My heart raced as I stared at Stephen, who was hyperventilating and choking on sobs. I reached mechanically for the switch and pulled it. 2,200 volts flooded into Stephen's body. He convulsed and convulsed.

went rigid at unnatural angles against the chair. I stared at him. Tried to focus as the warden spoke. This is justice. We are soldiers in the war against crime. This is how justice gets done. I tried to breathe. Beginning.

Breathe. Moving creature. Just breathe. Breathe Ten seconds in And a red Roershack blot formed on the front of Stephen's uniform And the glass, witnesses gasped

Hands clapped to mouth Others gripped armchairs As if it would stop The Himmerchia Before I knew what I was doing I threw open the door to the chamber And lunge towards Stephen Shit

Chaos Screams A guard stood front of the door frozen at the open door, while another reach to turn off the switch, a split second before the current stopped. My fingers made contact with Stephen's shoulder, and I felt an explosion inside every cell of my body before the universe went black. I woke up. Was I dead? How long had it been? Everything hurt like the cells were stitching themselves back together. I struggled to place myself. Someone was sitting near my feet.

That voice. Unnatural. I thought I was dreaming. My head pounded, and I struggled to understand where I was and what happened. I took a deep breath and tried to shake the blur out of my eyes. You said that. Where the hell am I? I could feel the mattress and blankets pulled to the right.

Someone was definitely there. No, it'd have it in you to do that to me. No, but I didn't know. It was... Stephen? How are you alive? I saw you. The chair.

Did you survive? No, son. No, I did not. My eyes began to clear, and the figure sitting before me came into focus. It was, Stephen, or it looked like him at least. Same hair, same stubble, same bags under his eyes. But parts of his face were blistered, red and black, the skin peeling away. He wore the same prison jumpsuit.

The red blot was still there, and it seemed to be growing. The primal terror gripped me from the inside. I clenched my eyes and mouth, squeezed my temples between my palms. This can't be real. I found the call button and pushed it. I yelled for the nurse who rushed in and seemed surprised. surprised I was awake. He checked my vatiles and turned to get the doctor.

No. Nurse, please. Help. Do you? I looked over at the old man who stared back at me with the emptiest eyes I'd ever seen. Yes? I'm sorry? Him. That there.

Appointed. The nurse looked across the room and then back at me. Sir, just... Stay calm. I'll be right back. The nurse returned with the doctor a few minutes later. The doctor asked me questions, told me I'd been electrocuted, and was lucky I didn't go into cardiac arrest.

She said a few other things, but I had a hard time listening. Still staring at Stephen. I asked if electrocution made you see things. The doctor said hallucination wasn't typical, but she'd consult a neurologist colleague to be sure. When they left, Stephen spoke again. Why, Elroy? What do you mean?

I was still not ready to accept this was real. Why'd you do it? You knew it wouldn't be enough. I struggled to comprehend and called the nurse again. Begging for more pain meds. I noticed for the first time that my fingers and hand were bandaged and robin. I started to remember details. Flashes of the execution room.

Feeling myself pulled toward the chair. That mouth inside, driving me forward. I shuddered and tried to drive the images from my head. I tried to ignore Stephen. who was walking the room silently, and I tried to ignore the red blot on his chest, pulsing like a heartbeat. That night I couldn't sleep, kept pacing, muttering to himself in a constant stream of confusion and subdued agony. He quieted down when the sun came up, but was back on the bed, staring at the floor. It wasn't my fault.

You deserved it, didn't he? I just did my job. You know that ain't what we're talking about. I felt the mouth inside thrashed to life so violently. It scared me. Stephen turned to me, expressionless, and disappeared. I was discharged after a couple of days. I convinced myself it had all been in my head.

Even though the neurologist said hallucinations weren't likely. But when I made it home and opened the door, I heard a voice. Took it. He was sitting at the table flipping through the pages of his Bible. I meant for you to take it. My heart raced. I don't know if you're real or not, but I can't help you. That's not.

Then help me. I can't do this. I'm not you. I'm not some fucking psycho who eats people. What the hell do I do? Stephen ignored me and continued turning pages, stopping to trace a passage with a blistered finger. No matter.

Isn't real. I slapped the side of my head despite a monstrous headache. Out! Get out! The faint trail of smoke rose from Stephen's mouth. as he whispered a verse from the book of Jeremiah. We're found. I shouted something incoherent.

My voice cracking. I felt a panic taken over. Was it really, Stephen? Was I going crazy? I couldn't do it. This wasn't me. This wasn't my need. Was it?

I ruffled through drawers, cabinets, empty bottles everywhere. Not a whiskey or beer inside. And I ran to the garage. Hesitated. And then lugged a dusty box from underneath a pile of tape cans and oil rags. I pulled a dirty, sealed mason jar from inside, and farted open. A gault, the clear liquid.

Fumes enveloping my head and a toxic burn coating my throat. I let up and coughed brutally before taking the number. I went back inside and found a pack of cigarettes. I lit one and took a long drag. Stephen was still there. Anything. I took another deep drag and held it in as long as I could. I clenched my eyes and clapped my hands over my ears.

Nor make any baldness between your eyes for the dead. I finally let the breath out and took another gulp from the jar. My head was spinning. I nearly dropped the jar splashing the pages of the book. I set it on the table and grabbed the Bible. You and your goddamn book can both burn in hell. A red flame burst across the pages. For an instant,

I thought I saw the scarlet blood on Stephen's chest mimic the fire's movements. I ran to the garage and threw the burning book onto the concrete. Watching it long enough to see it reduced to ash. I went back, hoping to see Stephen gone. But he was still at the table, and he was still reading it. The Bible sat in front of him, just as before. I stumbled forward Not possible

Was that a soul I took a desperate mouthful from the jar And spit it onto the book Tearing it away Lighting it again I dropped it on the table And watched it burn Fire

Caught other drops of liquid It started to spread A red stream shot across the table Climed the jar And went mad at the mouth As the book burned Stephen's face started to change. The blisters swelled and popped, sizzling as they spilled onto his blackening cheeks.

Smoke poured from his nose and mouth, and every hair on his face and head curled into ash. The stench was unholy. I watched in horror, as Stephen reached for the Bible and continued to read. The flames engulfing his hands, in pain. Age after page. Eters, no flesh. The blood on Stephen's chest morphed. The blood gushing with frenetic energy.

For the first time, one of the shapes looked familiar, briefly. Formed a set of horns or antlers, before twisting into a chaotic splotch. I stood, mesmerized as it continued to change. The dying horse. The devil hanging from a tree. A fountain of blood. At last I saw a mouth. A mouth I'd never seen before but knew instantly.

I looked back up at Stephen, whose face was so badly burnt, he was no longer recognizable. With that occult word, it was suddenly lost. I couldn't think. I was the mouth on Stephen's burning chest. I was hunger and sin was the dark glory of unspeakable appetite. Stephen held out his arm and pulled up the charred remnant of his sleeve. He exposed the only part not yet entirely burned. A fleshy knot of forearm just below the elbow.

I could only obey. I reached out. My own arms touching the flames, but there was no pain. I drove my face in and dug my teeth deeply, a gushing of that bit hard and tore, twisting my neck and ripping the flesh down to nerve and bone. I leaned back slowly and chewed. Was ecstasy?

It was certainty, transcendence, beyond imagination. With every bite I felt deeper, the venomous pleasure, And then, and then a light flickered. The pool emptied. Dark smoke drifted into the vision. And I was wrenched back into myself.

I opened my eyes. Stephen's face had burned so completely that the charred skin started to slough off. Underneath was raw and red. But it was no longer Stephen's face. Someone else stared at me through the smoke. What was I seen? My brain flailed at the unreality of it, with the primitive terror of a wounded animal.

I watched my dead father's zombie movements. I mirrored him involuntarily. Haw cocked his head, cocked my head. Paul spit, and I spit the flesh dropping. from my mouth. Paul looked down at the red blood on his chest, and I looked down and saw the same blot. Paul held him his arm, and I held up my own.

He disappeared, and I couldn't follow. I saw what the blood was coming from. It wasn't Stevens or my father's arm not eaten. A gaping wound on my own forearm led zealously, and threw an artery. I stumbled toward the kitchen to get something. Anything to stop the bleeding. The butt's too deep, too thick.

The flames had grown. Suddenly, I noticed the walls, the ceiling. Still gripping my arm, but feeling myself slip away. The last thing I saw was Paul striding calmly through the smoke, holding the mason jar filled with red flames. The blood on his chest had grown and soaked into his arms and legs. He looked down at the prison suit. He bit it me.

He shook his head. Taking one last drink. Your fire. Hope you survived our terrifying tales. Join us again next week, if you dare. The No Sleep Podcast Hour is presented by WNSP, in conjunction with creative reason media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

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