The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep10: NoSleep Podcast S19E10

Episode Date: April 9, 2023

It’s Episode 10 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about corrupt corpses.“Annabel Lee” written by Edgar Allan Poe (Story starts around 00:04:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nichole Goodnight“The Wake of Her” written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:07:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla“Our House” written by Venezia Castro (Story starts around 00:29:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Ault“Three Days with Harold” written by Michael Lejeune (Story starts around 00:51:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat“The Corpse’s Gaze” written by Ghost Lady (Story starts around 01:10:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – David Cummings“The Flesh You Break” written by Gary Robbe (Story starts around 01:25:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Cal – Atticus Jackson, Bell – Jeff Clement, Becca – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Ley – Reagen Tacker, Maylyn – Mary Murphy, Maam – Erin LillisThis episode is sponsored by:Green Chef - Green Chef makes eating well easy with plans to fit every lifestyle. Whether youíre Keto, Paleo, Vegan, Vegetarian, Gluten-Free, or just looking to eat more balanced meals, Green Chef offers a range of recipes to suit your preferences. Go to greenchef.com/nosleep60 and use code nosleep60 to get 60% off plus free shipping!Seed - Promote better gut health with Seed's DS-01® Daily Synbiotic (both a prebiotic and probiotic in one). Visit seed.com/NOSLEEP and use code NOSLEEP to redeem 25% off your first month of Seed's DS-01Æ Daily Synbiotic. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Edgar Allan Poe from author Rene RehnClick here to learn more about S.H. CooperClick here to learn more about Venezia CastroClick here to learn more about Michael LejeuneClick here to learn more about Ghost LadyExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Wake of Her” illustration courtesy of Krys HookuhAudio program ©2023 – 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. The works of Edgar Allan Poe reside in the public domain. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The No Sleep Podcast covers creepy cadaverous corpses this week in an episode to die for. Let's hope those bodies get buried in an earth-friendly manner, because April is Earth-month, and our good friends at Green Chef have delicious ways to support Mother Nature. In honor of Earth Month, Green Chef meal kits are offering a collection of brand-new, limited-time-only recipes made with sustainable, earth-friendly ingredients all throughout the month of April. Think premium recipes featuring sustainably sourced seafood, organic proteins, produce, and eggs, and ingredients with a low-carbon footprint. And that's not the only way they're celebrating Mother Earth this April? They've partnered with one tree planted to plant trees in northern Thailand to combat food insecurity in vulnerable communities.

They'll plant one tree for every box sold. So welcome warmer weather with delicious, easy-to-follow recipes that support your healthy, lifestyle and taste good too. Try balanced, craveworthy meals fit for vegetarian, vegan, keto, protein-packed, Mediterranean, fast and fit, or gluten-free dietary preferences. And with Green Chef being owned by Hello Fresh, the choices for healthy living are abundant with their fantastic meal kits. All you have to do is go to greenchef.com slash no sleep 60. That's 6.0. And use code No Sleep 60 to get 60% off plus free shipping. Yes, that's right.

Go to greenchef.com slash no sleep 60 and use code no sleep 60 to get 60% off plus free shipping. And now we're dying to share this one with you. So let the bodies hit the floor. In the dark shadows of the Rue Morg. To the rhythm of the stolen telltale heart as the black cat swings upon the pendulum and the cask offers its sherry deep and dry. As you knock at our chamber door, we open and usher you our sleepless tales for you in store. And the terror shall be lifted.

Brace yourself for the no sleep. Welcome to the no sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. In the realm of horror, there are few sources. subjects dealt with more than that of death. Perhaps the most universal and profound human fear. Dealing with our own mortality is disturbing enough, but when you're forced to deal with the death of someone else,

especially their corpse, well, that's an even more profound and usually inconvenient trouble. If you have to deal with the death of someone you're not connected to in any appreciable way, then you usually just have to inform the authorities and let others handle it. But if the dead person is someone with whom you share a bond, then it's not just the body you have to deal with. You have to face your own loss, which, depending on the person, could be a bad thing or perhaps a relief. I dare say dealing with loss through death, whether it's couched in the context of horror or not, is something we can never fully avoid.

Consider a man whose work is so closely connected with death, Edgar Allan Poe. Be at his own death looming in his own death, looming in his own. his dark, brooding mind, or the death of those he loved, Poe wrote often of death. But it's his stories and poems of his own loss, his own lamented, loved ones, in which he truly plums the depths of why humanity fears death so profoundly. We'll begin this episode featuring a famous poem written by Poe, the last fully completed poem before his untimely death. In it, he writes of a woman he once loved, a woman taken from him tragically. He, as we all must do eventually, confronts death in the form of loss. Nicole Goodnight performs the poem for us. So let's visit that kingdom by the sea

and lament for the loss of Annabelle Lee. It was many and many a year ago in a kingdom by the sea that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee. And this maiden should she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea, but we loved with a love that was more than a love, I and my Annabelle Lee, with a love that the winged seraphs of heaven coveted her in me. And this was the reason that long ago, in this kingdom by the sea, a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabel Lee, so that her high-born kinsman came and bore her away from me. To shut her up in a sepulchre in this kingdom by the sea,

the angels not half so happy in heaven when envying her in me. Yes, that was the reason, as all men know in this kingdom by the sea, that the wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my Annabelle Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who are older than we, of many far wiser than we, And neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabelle.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabelle. And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabelle. And so all the night tide I lie down by the side of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride. In her sepulchre, there by the sea. in her tomb by the sounding sea. If you've ever been through a bad breakup, especially with someone who is extremely toxic, you know how tough it can be to end things.

You're never sure how they're going to respond or react. But in this tale, shared with us by author S.H. Cooper, we hear from a man who discovers how his ex reacted to the breakup. Let's just say she went to extremes. Performing this tale is Dan Zepula. So be strong when you know you have to do the right thing, but prepare yourself for when you wind up in the wake of her. Some people make pretty corpses.

She was not one of them. Eyes bulging, tongue swollen between blue lips, skin already ashen. Her gloves and puffy jacket have been stripped away and left lying on the ground to some feet away, leaving her arms bare to show off the black and blue blooms across her biceps. It was a nice touch, but then she'd always been meticulous in her planet. I'd known she was capable of some nasty mood swings and petty revenge.

It was a big part of the reason I'd broken up with her. I couldn't overlook or excuse her selfishness or the ways she lashed out anymore. After so long together, my rose-colored glasses shattered, and I had seen her for the manipulative, controlling woman she truly was. I had expected the phone calls and texts, the shifting of friendships. I wasn't even entirely surprised when the rumors started, and words like abusive began floating around. But this?

The zip tie was pulled so tight, it bit into the flesh beneath her chin. deep gouges raked down her throat from where she'd clawed at it, the mark of second thoughts or the last piece in her unhinged puzzle. Whatever they were, it all amounted to a final fuck you. As I sat numb in the snow beside her, I almost had to admire how carefully she'd set things in motion. Sewing the idea, she was the one who'd ended it and that she was afraid of me, with threads that hinted at stalking in a history of concealed violence. The bruises were kept subtle, just peeking out of short sleeves or glimpsed when her shirt

rode too high. We'd still lived together for a few weeks while she was looking for her own place, and she'd made sure to use it to her advantage. People I'd known for years stopped talking to me. I had to abandon all social media. I'd been called to HR at work. She'd covered all her bases, then swung for the fences. Congratulations, sweetheart, I thought, choking on a chuckle sob.

It's a home fucking run. The zip tie was one from my garage, extra long, used to hold pieces of my work-in-progress car together. A pair of my boots was discarded alongside her body, their prints having been tracked all over the site. She'd picked a secluded part of the woods behind my already remote house along a rarely used trail. I preferred it for my daily walks, a fact she'd been all too aware of.

Still, she'd left a note tacked to my door telling me to come find her on my usual route to end things once and for all. No part of me expected she meant this. She'd even used my shovel to dig her own grave. It was crude and shallow, the only part of her masterpiece she'd half-assed. But she'd known she wouldn't need to do more. I'd get the idea. And I did.

Go ahead. I could almost hear her taunting. Call the cops. Tell them this is a suicide. Let's see who they believe. Or, she'd left me down. dangling in her tightly woven web, caught between accusations and supposed evidence that I'd probably not yet fully discovered. I considered risking it. Surely there were signs, mistakes,

things that would exonerate me and paint her in the troubled light she deserved. But what if there weren't? Even if she hadn't been as thorough as she seemed, who would be willing to dig beneath the surface on my behalf? She'd always been so critical of women dishonestly co-opting abuse narratives, knowing how damaging it was to real survivors and their odds of achieving any protection or justice. She played the mouthpiece for whatever made her look the best, but caring about an issue ended where her own agenda began. And so, I dug. The frozen soil fought me, but I chipped away at it, feeling the weight of her glassy, endless stare on my back the entire time. Her laughter echoed alongside my shaking breath as I gave her exactly what she

wanted, the way I always had, until the breakup. I wasn't supposed to leave her. Nobody left her. And, as she was reminding me, she always had her way in the end. I went deep, until the ground nearly swallowed me, then rolled her in with her jacket and gloves. They fell across. her face, twisted into a grotesque gap, and were quickly followed by shovelfuls of dirt, until she was gone, replaced by earth and sweat and tears. It was dark by the time I finished burying her. I used brush to conceal the mound and collected the boots she'd taken from my house. Snow had begun to fall, and I stood there for a while, watching it further obscure my new,

terrible secret. She'd left more for me to discover at home. Specks of red dotted across the cabin walls and floor, clumps of hair, the bathroom door cracked as if someone had attempted to break it down. I could imagine her hurling her small frame against it as hard as she could until she achieved the desired effect. It made me sick. I just made it to the toilet in time to retch my horror into the,

the bowl. The remainder of the night was coated in bleach and swept into the fire pit out back. The flames offered no warmth. The silent woodlands no peace. I shivered uncontrollably, not a thought in my head, only a black hole of terrified hopelessness. Once the flames had had their fill and dimmed to embers, I snuffed them out and trudged inside to sit heavily on the edge of my bed in the dark, eyes glazed and unseeing. How could I sleep when she now lurked behind my lids? Her lips parted by her fat tongue and twisted into a grin. We'd shared this cabin, left to me by my father. We'd shared this bed. I'd given her five years of my life. You have no future without me in it, she'd said more

than once. I thought it was sweet, a promise she intended to stay with me regardless of whatever came our way. Now I saw the threat, and it was enough to force a desperate laugh from me. Once people realized she was missing, I'd be the first one they'd look at. How long would that be? How many days did I have left before the knock sounded upon my door? What would they find? even if they left empty-handed, the suspicion would always be there. No one would ever look at me the same again. In killing herself, she'd stolen my life. The snowfall outside surged into a blizzard that buffeted against my windows,

rattling their pains. And in each gust, I swear, her laughter swirled faintly around the house. With mourning came quiet, blessed at her. first, and I thought I'd managed to successfully ride out the storm. But just as the storm had, the silence grew, surrounding me until I felt compressed on all sides, crowded into a box or a grave. The heaviness of it sat atop my shoulders until I could feel the hum of it reverberating through me.

With a cry, I jumped up and paced the length of my room. Fists clenched into my hair, eyes dry and burning. I should have called the police, I thought, and almost went in search of my phone. They'll never believe me, another part of me replied. Why would I call them if I murdered her? Why would I hide the body if I was innocent? Round and round, the conflicting voices went until I ran from the room as if I could leave them behind.

Their arguing became two hammers beating against the inside of my skull, and I staggered. outside, hoping the cold would stun them into silence. I winced at the pale sun reflecting off the undisturbed blanket of snow, but plunging my bare feet into its icy depths had the desired effect, and I smiled bitterly, even as the shivering took hold. It'll be okay. I muttered out loud, arms crossed tight over my chest. I didn't do anything wrong.

She won't win this time. I won't let her. The word died on my lips. I narrowed my eyes, disbelieving and inched forward towards the nearest copse of trees that lined my property. As I got closer, my trembling hand rubbed back and forth over my mouth, and I shook my head in further denial. The wet glint that had first caught my attention was not frost upon the trunk as I had expected. Hoped. Tiny red strands wove themselves up.

up the tree in the cracks and crevices of the bark, like glistening veins that sprouted from the ground and had crawled upward, becoming one with their new host. Leaning in, chest heaving, I became aware of a steady, almost imperceptible thrumming that seemed to be emanating from within the tree. Tentatively, careful to avoid any of the strange red growths, I pressed my fingertips tips against the trunk. It was surprisingly almost pleasantly warm, and my hand relaxed further against it, until the bark pulsated against my palm. I reeled back, kicking up snow in my flurry to retreat, and stumbled to the house to lock myself inside again. I slumped to my knees in the entryway, my head clutched beneath my hands, and I screamed. Only the promise of beer got me up again.

I yanked open the fridge and downed the first can in a few desperate gulps. The second went slower, and I held on to it like a torch in the dark, as I sank into a chair at the table. My breathing slowed to its almost regular rate, and I leaned back, face tilted toward the ceiling. It was shock. I muttered to the empty kitchen, each sip of beer pushing another piece of reason into place. It was some kind of moss or fungus on the trees, and my imagination did the rest. This is what she, you would want. I bet you'd get a real kick out of it, wouldn't you?

I wagged a finger at the chair across from me with its stupid floral seat cushion where she used to sit. But I'm not playing your game. I hope you know you failed. I hope you spend an eternity burning in hell knowing it was for nothing. I finished my drink and slammed the can down on the table, feeling more clear-headed and guided by this vindictive streak. I prowled through the house again, looking for anything I might have missed. I crawled alongside furniture and found strategic spots of blood left underneath the sofa.

I hadn't noticed at the sight, but she must have sliced a hole in her jacket because I found bits of downs sprinkled beneath the radiator. In the garage, my zip ties had been left. sitting in the middle of my workbench, strewn messily to give the impression they'd been shaken from the bag in my rush to grab one. I moved from room to room as methodically as she had, trying to think like her, imagining where and how and why she might hide some tiny shred that could be used against me and wiping it all away.

After turning my home upside down and back again, I returned to the kitchen table with another beer and slouched in the chair without any sense of finality or victory that I'd expected. Now that my purpose was spent and I was left to drift in the wake of her, the dread I'd suppressed wriggled free of its cocoon and began to gnaw at the center of my belly. The clock ticked each second off in noisy, unrelenting succession. My foot tapped anxiously against the floor, an unconscious attempt to beat back the silence that was settling again. The beer was like bile on my tongue. I got up with a disgusting grumble and stood over the sink, emptying the can. The amber liquid whirlpooled around the drain,

its carbonated fizz becoming a hiss as it slid down the pipes. I dropped the can in the remaining puddle and rested my elbows on the sink edge. My face buried in my hands. A low, slow thump made me wrench my head up. At first I thought it might be my own heartbeat, but it was so deep and far too sluggish for the racing patter in my chest. I gripped the sink and stared out the window over it, eyes widening, the trees. I rubbed my face vigorously with both hands and looked again. I couldn't be certain, but they seemed closer.

They didn't flank the bird feeder like that. Did they? As I tried to convince myself it was just the snow playing tricks, I noticed their branches, already winter skeletal, seemed to curve inward at the middle instead of jutting skyward. I stepped back, swallowing the copper taste building at the back of my throat, and squeezed my eyes shut. I needed sleep.

I'd been awake for over twenty-five. four hours, and it was taking a toll. Instead of going straight to my bedroom, I detoured to the bathroom and rifled through the medicine cabinet for the bottle of cold medicine I kept there. The swig I took was long and generous, each swallow accompanied by the distant, unmistakable sound of a too slow heartbeat. In my room, I pulled my curtains shut and crawled into bed, wrapping myself tightly in my comforter. It didn't take long for the time. It didn't take long for the for the cold medicine to take effect, and I passed out with the thumping echoing in my ears. The meds could only hold off consciousness for so long, however, and I awoke with a raging

headache and cotton mouth. The sunset lit the borders of my curtains, and I reluctantly sat up, comforter still drawn around my shoulders. I sat hunched in the middle of my bed, disconnected, deflated, caught in a nightmare. I could have almost convinced my That was all it was, had the heartbeat not sounded. Steadyer, quicker, a more normal rhythm that came louder than before. I had to get away from it. From her. I didn't know or care where, too.

The only thing that mattered was escaping that terrible sound. The comforter slipped away as I scrambled out of bed and pulled on whatever clothes were closest. My keys and wallet were in their bowl by the door. my jacket on its hook, and after grabbing them all, I threw open the door. A thick line of trees, bark crevices snaked with stringy wet veins that glimmered into the light, now encircled my property, blocking off my driveway. Their branches bent like reaching arms toward the cabin.

I screamed and slammed the door, turning to sprint for the back. I didn't even need to open it. Through the window, I saw the circle was unbroken. In a last ditch effort to reach the outside, I dug into my jacket pocket for my phone. No service. I tried to dial 911 anyway, prepared to spill the entire sordid affair if it meant being free, but no matter how many times I hit the call button, it wouldn't connect. My stomach pitched downward to my feet, and I backed into the opposite wall.

my mouth flapping open but unable to make a sound. I slid to the floor, quivering knees hugged against my chest. The sun sank to the beat of that heart, and in the dark it strengthened. I could feel it pulsing in the walls against my back, beating beneath the floorboards, wherever I moved in the house, however I tried to cover or fill my ears. I heard it everywhere. all around, deep and steady. For hours, I endured its endless, hateful pounding,

until my body, my mind, vibrated with it. Each beat further fractured my thoughts, grinding them down until all that was left was, half to get out, have to get away. With teeth grinding together, I lurched upright and staggered to the front door. My fingers closed around the knob, and I froze, breathing ragged for long seconds, telling myself whatever was out there. I just had to push through.

Get away. I dragged the door open and stepped on to my porch. A delirious, strangled laugh bubbled from my throat. It was as if the whole forest had regrown around my house. trees pressed so close together there was no space to squeeze through them. Their trunks throbbed in time with the heartbeat, and their branches dipped low, pointing, all pointing. A single snow-laden path remained from my doorstep.

Taking it would lead me around my house into the woods to a rarely used trail where I liked to take my daily walks. To her. and I realized this could be the only outcome. She wouldn't accept any shade of defeat. She wouldn't let me go. It was what she'd wanted all along. She had to win.

This time, however, I wasn't going to let her. My lips curled back over my teeth in a wild grin and I ran back inside. Moments later, gasoline that I'd been stored. in my garage covered my floors and trailed out to the path, splashing across the nearest trees and over my legs and feet, as the pounding of her black heart crescendoed in every tree. Cracking their bark and shaking their branches, I reached into my jacket pocket again.

Coming out with a box of matches, I slid it open. If I was going to hell, it was going to be one of my. own making. No matter where it may happen, discovering a dead body isn't a pleasant experience. But if the body is found in the place where you live, it becomes exponentially worse. And in this tale, shared with us by author Venetia Castro, we meet a man who discovers the dead body of his landlord in their home, and his call to the police reveals that perhaps he knows

more about the body than he first lets on. Performing this tale, is David Alt. So when people die, they should have the courtesy to do it somewhere convenient. It's awfully rude to die in our house. Listen, listen carefully. There is a dead man in our house. 23 Robinson Road. Please send someone.

You'll have no trouble finding it. It's a big house. We'll wait. The lights are on downstairs. Just don't knock on the front door. Don't ring the bell, just come in through the side door on the left. It's open, and don't even bother to take your shoes off, we don't mind here. Before we moved, we had carpeted floors, and that was a real pain in the ass.

No matter how often you vacuum, they're always filthy. They stain easily absorb every smell with carpet. We would never have been able to get rid of this one. No, no, no, no. No. Let me open a window. Even the cold is better than this stench. You can tell he's been dead for a while. No need for ambulances with loud sirens or any of that. It's too late already.

Please, just don't make a big show. We share the house with a family and they will lose their shit if they hear about it. Just make sure you use the side door, hey? I'll stay right here, keep an eye on him. No one's going anywhere. Martin is still sleeping upstairs. He doesn't know yet. Oh, give me a second. I'll grab a. a chair from the kitchen. Yeah, how long do you think it'll take? I know you're supposed to stay with me until someone arrives, right? I've listened to some podcasts, but it shouldn't be long. Please tell me it won't be long. It smells really, really bad in here. I'm afraid the smell alone will wake everyone up. Look, this whole thing has been a nightmare. Oh, Jesus Christ, you fucking stinks. Yeah, I'll wait,

But I want you to know I'm not confessing to anything. I don't sound calm, right? I'm just past the panicking stage. I want that on record. He is our landlord, but I didn't know him very well. We met him a couple of times before we moved in, and only once a month since then. And this is a nice neighborhood. Things like this are not supposed to happen here.

No, no, I shouldn't say that. Now you think I'm an asshole. Of course they're not supposed to happen anywhere. But you know what I mean? It's this city. I've never known why it has such a good reputation. It's almost as expensive as New York or London, just less interesting. I never really understood the fuss around it.

We would hear about it all the time before coming here. They say there's no racism, it has great air quality, the roads are wide and the streets are clean. Oh, but only the ones where the tourists might go, or the ones by the waterfront where all those rich Asian immigrants live. Yeah, we moved here from up north, you see, and yes, the weather is nicer, but the living cost is ridiculous, and people here can be pretty shitty sometimes. We were very lucky to have found this place on this side of town. At least that's what we thought. You said someone's on the way already, right? And they have the right address.

23, yes, 2, 3, Robinson. Look, I'm sorry, I don't mind, I don't mind waiting. I just don't want to spend. too much time with him. There's something wrong with... With the body. And I'm why Martin's going to wake up before you get it out of our living room.

Yet Martin is my husband, by the way. I guess I should have told you that earlier. I just thought you guys are much faster. Have you been to the west side? There's always a police car waiting around the corner. We lived around there for a couple of months while I was still in college

and we'd still have to ride the bus through it on our way downtown from here. But I've seen... people, O-Ding in the middle of the street there. Young girls were their tits out smoking alone or surrounded by men drunk out of their minds, but never as high as the girl is. One night I was riding the bus down the high street, and this guy hopped on covered in blood. He was acting completely normal like he didn't realize the way he looked. People stared, but nobody did anything. He tried to pay the fare and all, but of course, we had to stop until the police arrived and escorted

him off the bus. In the meantime, he just... stood. There. So out of it, he didn't even look confused. He left the doors all bloody. We passed him on the next stop. He wasn't taken away. You'd think they'd take him to the hospital or have him arrested or something, but no. Where else could he go then? He was definitely homeless. Oh, that's the other thing. Don't even get me started on the housing crisis. Are you still listening? Do you hear that? Sirens? No, no. Some animal, I guess. a crow, probably. We have a pretty large garden, it opens onto a wooded area out back, and we often get deer jumping up the fence and chewing on our flowers.

There's nowhere to stop them. Those fuckers sure can jump high. And then you have to let them out. They're too stupid to leave on their own. You have to open the gate and shoe them out so they can find the way home. That's where I found him, him, him in the woods. Just the place to find a body, right? Not very original.

Yeah, I know. gonna think I'm lying. I'm not. You should see him. It's pretty dark in here, but you can still see how his clothes are covered in dirt? He was half buried the first time I found him. Oh, he's also missing a couple of fingers. They were yanked off. You can see the torn skin pulled and stretched like Toffee and there's not really any blood around the wound. I'm pretty sure he must have been dead when it happened. That'd explain it. Something dragged him in. here. Something must have. I don't say any signs of a struggle, but what do I know? You're the experts. Are you? Are you? Or are you just here to listen? I bet you're already analyzing everything I've said.

Do you believe me? Look, hear me out. It isn't me you have to worry about. I told you, we hardly knew him. Okay. I'll explain everything better once he's out of the house. I can't think straight with this smell. And I don't think you'd believe me. There's something really fucking weird going on here. I'd be lying if I said I'm not shitting my pants right now. I'll admit it. I don't care. And Martin will be waking up at any moment now.

He'll notice I'm gone and come down looking for me. I don't want him to see this mess. He hasn't been sleeping very well lately. I'm telling you, this whole thing has been a nightmare. The last couple of weeks have been really hard on both of us, but especially on him. When I found the body a couple of weeks ago, I recognized him right away. I recognised his clothes, very nice but ruined. Not just mud, there was blood too, on his clothes and on the side of his head.

He was so poorly concealed, it was like whoever killed him really wanted him to be found. The sooner, the better. And the body was so close to our side of the house, I was worried Martin and I would be blamed for it. It almost looked like we were being framed. The neighbours had been here for ages. They have small children. I'm sure it wasn't them. That's why I didn't immediately report it.

I panicked. I ran back home. I didn't tell Martin either. I'll show you the place where I found him if you want. Not that there's much there to see anymore, but I'll take you if it's any help. Maybe later when the officers get here, it'll be brighter and less cold outside. I went back outside that same afternoon to try to find the body again and call you from there. You know, pretend I had just stumbled upon it. I didn't lie. I was in shock. No one could have blamed me for it. And you know, I might have told the whole truth. I might have told the whole truth. I was. I didn't. I don't know. I was in shock. I was just stumbled upon it. I didn't. I don't know, I didn't know, I might have told the whole time. I was. I truth then. I had nothing to worry about. Yet there are reasons to suspect me. I know that. It wouldn't be too difficult to figure them out, but the truth is, I didn't kill him. I guess you can consider this an official statement if you're looking for one. You could find a motive, but never any evidence. I would never hurt someone like that. Anyway, none of this matters because there was nothing there when I went back. The earth looked a little bit loose at the spot where I remember seeing it, but the body was gone. I didn't look for it. I convinced myself. I'd imagined it.

It was very early in the morning when I first saw it. It was during my morning walk. I was tired. It was misty. I didn't take a very close look, and so I tried to convince myself I'd dreamt it. I didn't tell Martin anything that day, but somehow he still seemed to know. I might as well tell you now we were supposed to be moving out that week. At that point, our entire lives were spilling out of half-packed suitcases. I would catch Martin studying me from behind the open lid of his suitcase while he pretended to be searching for his toothpaste or his underwear. He became withdrawn. He'd get startled at the smallest sounds. When I came into a room or when I made any sudden movements, he seemed afraid of me. At first, I thought he was just worried because of the

eviction, but I knew it was more than that. I know him. We've been together for almost six years. We've been We only have each other. Even when we met, we knew right away that we could trust each other, that we were on the same team, you know? If he suspected anything, he should have told me. If he was hearing things, he has me. I would have understood. I'll always protect him. He knows that.

He doesn't have anyone else. His parents are dead. My parents are assholes. Whatever. We don't think much about it. Except that leaves us with nowhere to. go. We can't afford anywhere else, God damn it. It's hard. It's fucking hard. Look, are you still there? Are you listening to me? Do you, do you have a house? Do you own a fucking house? Huh? An apartment?

No, no, no, I didn't think so. Do you make enough money listening to people dying, talking to crazy people to live somewhere nice? I hope you live somewhere nice and never fucking try to kick you out for no reason. Oh yeah, they'll say it's not because of who you are. and how you live, but you know it is. That's always the reason. And now this fucker is lying dead in our living room, and I'm not saying I'm happy he's dead. I'm not, I'm not.

But maybe, maybe, maybe he deserved it. I didn't kill him, but it was a fucking dickhead. And the neighbours can go fuck themselves too. Look, I'm tired, and I'm scared. That fucking noise has been driving me crazy, and I'm venting to a stranger who I'm sure is. hoping I end up in jail, but no, no, you'll see. None of this is my fault. I'm still waiting for someone to come pick him up and until then you're stuck listening to me. And I haven't even told you

the worst part. Do you want to know how he got here? Yeah? Me too. Martin and I have been living in complete uncertainty for days. When I found the body, we were already supposed to be gone. That's why we'd already packed up, but we were still hoping to talk to our landlord one last time. Or at least, I think Martin was. I don't know what I was hoping for. To never see the man again, to be wrong about his spoiled clothes, to have imagined his head smashed open. I prayed he was alive. We expected him to come banging on our door any day when he noticed we hadn't left yet, fully intending to kick us out, and we were prepared to beg or to threaten him to do whatever it take to change his mind to convince him to let us stay, but he never showed up. I couldn't tell Martin

I suspected he wouldn't come back. And so Martin would stay awake all night, every night, looking at me from the opposite side of the bed when he thought I was asleep, looking at me like I might break down and confess at any moment. Going back to the west side would have been better, but we stayed. And we waited and waited, and waited, and I would tell myself that he come back to a Victor sooner or later. I think I would have preferred that. I began to hear a weird knocking sound coming from downstairs, not the door. It was a higher pitch, more like a wrapping, really. It would go up and down, like climbing up the wall on our side of the house. From our room on the second floor, it seems sometimes to come from under the bed, muffled, but more persistent.

I would press my ear against the mattress and ask Martin to do the same. I told him I thought we might have rats. He said he didn't hear anything and neither of us volunteered any solution. We aren't any more welcome here than the rats would be. But you hear it, don't you? You've been hearing it this whole time. Don't lie to me. I've been honest with you.

No bullshit. There's no bullshit here. Listen, okay. I'll show you. I'll shut up for a moment. Listen. Told you there's something wrong here. There is a dead man in our house.

He came crawling through the side door, dragged himself into our living room on his knees and fingerless hands. He has a key. I can show you the tracks of dirt he left. He trampled over our flower beds. You could hear him tapping on our walls, impatient, judgmental. You could hear him breathing behind us like he wants to kill.

us. He doesn't think we deserve to live. You can hear him groan and disgust at the way we choose to live our life. You will if you close your eyes. Yeah, close your eyes. Close your eyes. And imagine what it's like to feel the way he wants to press himself against you just to let you know he can. Yeah, don't worry. He's dead. Even when he was alive, he wouldn't actually do those things. Yeah, he was too smart for that. He never said anything homophobic. He was careful. He knew he couldn't assume, but he also knew the law and how to make it work for him. He owned us. He could snap his fingers and leave us homeless, and he tried. I know he always suspected Martin and I, something in the way we talk or the way we stand or just the fact that we rented a place together, even if it has

two rooms. And it's not like we hide who we are, we just don't flaunt it. We aren't kids anymore. Pride's no longer a performance. Martin's shy. And people don't need to know. We don't owe anyone an explanation. It shouldn't be a problem. We didn't expect it to be a problem. Not here. Not in a city that fucking reeks of marijuana and brags to the world about its affordable insurance and great health care. But we were wrong. We were obviously very wrong. We moved into this shit city where our salary hardly paid. for the commute to work, hoping to live like some normal fucking people. Then all it took was for the other tenants to see me kissing my husband in our house in our

garden. Damn it, you'd think we fucked in front of their children. That was all the excuse he needed. We made them uncomfortable. It was legal to evict us. Yeah, we looked into it. There's a loophole, something about shared spaces, something about renting only part of the house. There is nothing we could have done.

We were lucky he went missing. Too lucky. Yeah, I told you you'd find reasons to suspect me, but I'm telling you, I didn't kill him. I'd tell you if I had. I feel like you know me by now. Look, are they almost here? I think I can hear Martin upstairs. He's a very light sleeper, always getting up before me, sometimes even going for walks in the middle of the night when the insomnia hits too badly, and it has been getting worse, and can you blame him? The last thing he needs is to find a damned corpse when he comes downstairs. Our missing landlord, no less. He wouldn't be able to take it.

He's very sensitive. He doesn't even like horror movies. Do you hear it? The footsteps above us. He's coming in and out of the bathroom. He probably heard me talking and thinks I'm with someone. That's why he's getting ready.

He'll be here in a second. He has to put in his context. He won't let anyone see him wearing glasses. I know him. I know his steps like I know my own breathing. I know the way he walks. know he never leaves the door unlocked. That's why tonight, when that fucking sound woke me up again, and for once I opened my eyes to find Martin fast asleep, I didn't try to wake him up. I didn't know

there was something, someone moving downstairs. I should have known. The smell was already so bad in our room. I should have known that something dead had broken in. He came back to remind us, he owned the roof above our heads, the floors on which we step. He has an attachment to this place, the Lord of the Land, how fucking medieval was his existence anyway. I found him lying face up, unmoving, right here, right where he is now. I haven't touched him, you won't find my fingerprints on him. But I guess you don't believe he dragged himself inside either, do you? You don't strike me as a believer in that kind of stuff.

If you don't think I'm a liar, you think I'm crazy. You've been listening to me only to search for proof and to make sure I don't shoot myself the moments the cops arrive. Well, I'm neither. I'm not a liar, I'm not crazy, and I am not killing myself tonight. Oh, they're coming. I can hear them now. I said no sirens.

What are the sirens for? He's dead. He's been dead for days. I told you that. It's done. It's over. Look, I'll go with you. I'll answer all your questions.

You'll see I didn't do it. You're just making this worse than it needs to be. You're going to upset Martin. I told you he hasn't been feeling well lately. He's been having these panic attacks at night. It's bad. It's pretty bad. We've been saving up to get him some therapy.

It's not covered by our insurance. Look. He's coming. Martin! Martin, dear. I look, don't look. It's okay. Everything's fine.

Just go back upstairs. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hmm. Hmm. Look, for fuck's sake. Why did you have to take so long? He's very impressionable.

I told you I didn't want him to see. He doesn't even eat meat. He can't watch the news. He wouldn't hurt a mouse, not even a fly. He really wouldn't. Look, no, no, no, no, no, don't leave. now. You already know the full story. I told you everything. You know I'm innocent. Make sure they know. We'll move out. We'll find a new place. I just wanted this to be over. I hear footsteps outside.

Are you here? Are you with them? No need to bang on the door. It's open. I told you the door is open. The lights are on. Come in. You can take your shoes off or not. I mean, this is our house. We don't mind. We really don't mind. You know what I'd do if I found a dead body? I'd likely, I mean to say I would probably soil myself out of fright. And since there are much better ways to stay regular, it's the perfect time for a short break to talk about our intestinal health with the good folks at seed.

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Now let's get up close and personal as we return to the horror. They say desperate times call for desperate measures. And there might be no more desperate time than if you're a criminal on the run trying to to flee to your home country. And in this tale, shared with us by author Michael Lejeune, we learn of a man who has found a unique way out of his rather grave situation. Performing this tale is Graham Rowett. So try to relax and remind yourself this isn't a long journey. All you have to do is put up with three days with Harold. It was easy at first, reaching out and touching them. Yeah, He was dead, but they dressed him in the suit his daughter had given him.

A slick-looking three-piece with a red tie. Made him look almost normal. Probably one of those designer brands they make in New York City. It was smooth to the touch, starched and everything. I remember thinking that I'd never been dressed out well in my life. He'd come from there. New York or some other place in the States. Had money, too.

That's probably what got him killed. It doesn't matter if you have money after you die. You just lie there and rot in the box. Well, if you're lucky, that is. Some folks don't even get a box. Others get cremated. That's how I'd want to go, if I had a choice. Fire me up.

Two minutes out of this world and I'd want to be grilled like a summer hot dog till there's nothing left but ash. Nothing that even resembles a man. Too late for that now. I talked to this chick once who worked in a mortuary. She used to help move stiff to the place where they keep the oven. bodies and boxes, babies and buckets, that sort of thing. She said if you open the oven door when a body's getting baked at just the right time,

you see a burning skeleton. How about that? Just like in that comic with the Flaming Skull Guy. I could deal with being a fiery skeleton. In fact, I got some friends I'd like to sneak up behind like that. Give them a good scare. I caught the name stamped on the pine box in the 20 or so seconds they gave me before I crawled in there with them. Harold Schmidt.

The plain name fits for a plain dead body. I guess if he was still walking and talking, you could tell if his name fit him or not. But lying there in his box, happy face with that drawn-up smile, he looked about as plain as they come. I remember my heart jumping when they drove the nails in. I was in some sort of state of shock, I think. Wasn't thinking, clearly. I didn't even realize until they were loading the box onto the ship.

how stupid I'd been getting in facing the body. Crushed face to face with a corpse for three days. The plan was simple. I'd been drinking to its genius the night before. The guy's body was being shipped back to his home in the States for a high dollar funeral. It was three days in a box with a dead man, but it was also a way to get free. I had half the world looking for me. And though I fled to endless miles and changed my identity more times than I care to remember,

I was still a very wanted man. But not in America. Land of the free. My homeland. Sometimes I wonder why I ever left. But I was ready to start over. A new man. An American man.

I dreamed of it. I yearned. Sometimes I thought I'd even give up my long life as a thief. Yeah, it was what I was good at, but I could find something else. Some with a lower profile. It's funny you'd think of Joe. Pilfer's rich folks for a living would have about as lower profile as you can get, but it's not like that at all. Who knows? Maybe I could work my way up and get rich the honest way. Maybe that's

what Harold Schmidt did. I spent the majority of the first day trying to convince myself over again that the plan was a good one, but it was a tough swallow. I was in total darkness, clamped face down in a pine box meant for one on top of a stiff, close enough to kiss. He was kind of soft in the belly, which was good because I had a decent gut myself and needed the room. That worked out fine until I really relaxed, and the pressure on his belly made some god-awful smell come out of his mouth. It sounded a little like a tire leak, but it smelled terrible. Worse even than I'd have guessed a dead man's stomach would swell. They'd done some work on him before packing him up with me for shipping,

and prepping him to last three days in a warm cargo hold and still be somewhat workable by the stiff artists overseas. No doubt they'd try to make him look like he'd just keeled over an hour before the funeral, whenever that was going to be. The thing that struck me the most at first was the powder they dusted on him. Smelled like moth balls. Caught in my throat, made me hitch and swallow a few times, but I got used to it.

After catching a whiff of his insides, mottballs weren't all that bad. At first day, there wasn't much to report. You know how when you set out to waste a big chunk of time, your mind just wanders around and you keep trying not to think about how slowly time goes by? Because it just makes it go slower. That was like that.

I remembered stories. Tried to sleep, but couldn't. Worked my limbs a bit to ward off cramps. Mostly I just tried not to be there. My watch beeped. I'd said it to do that every night at midnight. I didn't have a light on it, so in the darkness of the box I couldn't keep track of time outside of the beeps. The first one took so long I thought I'd missed it, but it was so loud in the quiet of the ship's belly I knew I couldn't have.

I realized after that first beep that I'd been in the pine coffin for only roughly 20 hours. It felt like a week. Just after my watch beeped, I heard footsteps, and I saw a flashlight skim over the thin, between the boards. Some kind of watchman, I guessed, making his rounds through the ship's hold. I kept quiet. The second day I started dozing off, finally comfortable enough of the fact of my situation and exhausted enough that I couldn't stop myself from relaxing and lying fully on Harold. I was always careful not to rest my hands on his hands. It was too creepy. and watching the line between creepy and too goddamn creepy was about all I had left.

Besides, I only had to bend my arms at the elbow to put him elsewhere. Once I woke cheek to cheek with him and shrieked as I jerked my head away, knocking the back of it on the box. One of our faces had been clammy and my cheek stuck to his. What it peeled away, I had a layer of that sickly powder on my face. From that on, I couldn't tell if I smelled it on him or on me. I was the first time I had trouble telling the two of us apart. It wasn't the last.

Eventually, the same urges that compelled me to recoil from his body turned on me and became a damnable thorn in my side. I couldn't satisfy them. Couldn't retreat from this dead thing. I was pinned to him by the wooden box we shared, and I was pulled to him by gravity. The urge to flee threatened to drive me mad. I resolved to become more comfortable with him. the corpse. First, I reached my left hand forward and touched his. At least that was easy. His hand felt like anybody else's, save that it was hard, like an overcooked steak. I squeezed his fingers,

grabbed his wrist, and eventually held his hand like I used to hold my girl's hand back in high school. Susie, what a hot little devil she'd been. She was in a box like this somewhere, too. How weird it was. Holden hands with a dead stranger, but then he was already starting to feel like less of a stranger. I reached my left hand up and touched his face. My heart sank when I sensed his features, and my face flushed. It was so intimate. But what frightened me was, they were different than I remembered. I didn't really know what to expect, I suppose, but I was terrified when I found his smile so much bigger than it had.

looked right before they packed me up with him. So much wider. The skin was pulled tight. It does that when it dries out. I understand, but still, it chilled me. I felt his eyes, using a little pressure to search for the bump of his cornea underneath the closed lids. I couldn't find it, and instead my ring finger popped past his right eyelid and straight into the eye. I yanked my hand back and fumbled about his face. Finding on his cheek the curved oval of plastic they'd put behind his eyelids and make it bulge like there was still an eye behind it. Didn't know they did that until just then. I would drew my hand and done exploring.

When my finger had slipped in, it went deep into the empty socket where his eye must have sunk. And it touched something in there. Something soft at the bottom. I had the urge to wash my hands and chuckled to my eyes. When I get out of here, I thought I'm going to take three showers right in the row. The cramps were unavoidable by the end of the second day. I twisted and jerked about, trying to stop them, but I couldn't. How I longed to be free of a box.

My limbs went rigid over and over, agonizing pain returning again and again. I ate the small stash of crusty bread I brought with me and drank a little bottle of water as planned. I hoped that the small amount of nourishment might help alleviate the cramping, but it didn't help at all. I imagine my muscles drawn into tight wires, strung across my bones like piano strings, not so different from Harold's muscles. After my thrashing cramps, I noted that the corpse's right arm, opposite my left, was curved forward noticeably. I could no longer lift my own hand entirely off it, and if I relaxed, it fell beneath his. I thought maybe I'd knocked it loose, and I felt about his shoulder and elbow, but found no looseness.

That little knowledge on the subject of what a body does as it decays. It seems unlikely that the arm would rise against the pull of gravity, but I didn't really know. I was learning by experience. I remembered once as a child, finding the body of a frog out back behind my parents' house. It was only freshly dead, and it lay still on its back. with green legs spayed. I left it alone. But when I came back the next day, it had dried some, and its digits were curling in. The day after, the arms were curling too, like a tube of toothpaste. I sniffed about, suspecting that the body must stink horribly after all this time. How could I not

have noticed? Couldn't smell anything. Not even the powder that dusted him and me both. If the body was freaking, I'd just gotten used to it. Maybe the mothball powder was there to stop them from stinking too bad. That'd make sense. They had to know better than to ship a dead body in a warm cargo hold for three days and expect a decent-looking corpse to make it to the other side. Not without some kind of preservation method. But still, how much good can a coat and a powder do for a 200-pound slab of rotten meat in the suit? The beep marking the third day woke me from a dream. In it? I was a good I was in ancient Egypt, and as the Pharaoh's servants embalmed his body, they also embalmed me. His slave as part of his worldly positions to be locked into his crypt until his reawakening in the distant future.

He looked serene, utterly at peace with the process of removing his organs, including picking his brain out with long, hooked wires. It wasn't so easy for me, however, since I was still alive as they worked. No matter how much I tried to move, I couldn't, and they just kept working, focused and diligent. I roused carefully as the watchman's boots tapped by on the hard floor. I opened my eyes and looked for the light of his flashlight, but he didn't shine it on our box. After this day, I thought I should be unloaded from the vessel and sent to the mortuary, where the box would promptly be opened so that they could begin the work a painting herald up to look like he only just, died. At that moment, I'd run out of there and get myself hidden. I looked forward to the event

feverishly, aching to step back into the world from this black cage. My body didn't feel like my body anymore. I couldn't feel my legs for the most part, and I'd pissed myself a couple times. My arms were so sore from cramping that I could barely move them, and the strain on the back of my neck from hanging my head over the corpse's shoulder for three days was inhumanly painful. I longed to find my sanity again. For the time being, it was most certainly gone. Out of some desire to prepare myself to be unearthed, I reached for the edge of my shirt to tuck it down and straighten it. How strange that I would even care. Then I can scarcely account for any of my reason during that time. Sort of like how soldiers look back at the time in their life

when they were at war, the things they did. You don't even try to make sense of it. I remember reaching for my shirt because when I did, I noticed that the corpse's arm had moved again. Both of them had. They'd reached out and wrapped around me. I wriggled against them, beginning to pant in horror. They were more like stone hooks,

one on either side, holding on to me and refusing to let me go, like a bear hug from a statue. No, Harold, please. I have to go. I said in a forced calm, I could hear my own desperation beneath my voice. I suppressed the panic, trying to sound reasonable, placating. I can't stay. I'm really sorry. It's so weird to think about it. How I started talking to a corpse. As far as I could tell, he didn't listen. Harold, please let go. I have to leave. Harold, please.

I know I started screaming then, but when I remember it, it seems like I was hearing someone else. After a moment a useless writhing, I thrashed wildly against his grip, like a trapped animal trying to save its life. I shrieked and screamed at the edge of my lungs, and I shook the whole box with my shuddering.

I managed to slink my arms out. up and out of his dead clamp hug, and in panic I reached up and pressed against his face with my palm in a futile attempt to get away. His eyeless grin had grown, so much wider. It engulfed his entire face. I felt his lips. Now they peeled back, exposing teeth. What would have been gums before they'd turned to slime, and the sinewy edges of the bones of his nose, cheekbones, and chin. I was reminded of the exaggerated smile of a clown. The flesh of his face slipped sideways under the pressure of my hand toward his right ear, so I let go immediately.

As my quivering hands floated over the horrid, cackling smile left behind, the jaw fell open. Harold was laughing at me. With all my strength, I jerked side to side, screaming at Harold to let me go. At some point I met him. managed to flip the box all the way over on its back, and suddenly he and I were reversed. I now lay under his weight.

And what was more? Something soft, warm, and moist tumbled forth from his mouth and eyes, spilling over my face like clumps of grave dirt. I tried to scream, but when I opened my mouth I choked on the soft, rotting flesh. I smelled the same terrible smell I had smelled. smelled the first day when I pressed on his belly, but the taste was sweet, like sugar poured on spoiled milk. Then came the screams I remember best. It wasn't like the ones you see in movies, where the pretty girl opens her mouth wide and squeals with a big lung full of air,

or the deep bellows of the heroes as they tossed themselves into harm's way to save a dear friend from desperate fate. The sounds that came out of my mouth didn't come from my throat. They came from my soul, untempered and wretched, clawed out of me like the soil clutching hands as someone buried alive. I gasped and shrieked and gasped again and didn't stop. I begged the watchmen to come and free me. I was ready to give up my chance at freedom if that's what it would take to get me out of the pine box. Compared to it, a prison cell was a vast, luxurious sweet. All day I scream, or it seemed so.

I believe now that I fell unconscious for a time, because there are gaps in my memory of that last day. I do know that Harold's arms continued to embrace me further in a long, inescapable hug. He began to squeeze me to him, like a lover in a deep, passionate kiss. I squirmed and shook and thought. Before the third day ended with the short beep of my watch, I'd reached and passed the point of utter exhaustion.

I was dehydrated, starved, and half mad. When the watchman made his pass this time, I was ready. My head was cocked far to the side and upward, and I ignored the cramps that came from holding it there. The ones in my back where Harold held me were much worse. My eyes and ears were peeled. The moment I heard his boots knocking against the floor, I took a deep chest full of air.

and bellowed out for help. But nothing came. I'd screamed myself hoarse, then further to grunting screeches, and finally to silence. My throat could no longer produce a sound except the faint panting of my lungs as I tried to speak.

Thinking quickly, I clamped my mouth shut and pushed with my diaphragm. Force and air past my closed lips. I got nothing but spittle, and little sound. So I began to draw another breath for a harder try, and couldn't. Harold's grip was tighter, so much so that I couldn't get with the tiniest gasp of air into my lungs.

How could it be? Only a moment ago I'd drawn a full breath for my futile shout. Had I shrugged myself into a tighter grip? There was no time to think about it. The watchman was pasted. I had to work around it, fortunately for me. I had one last ace of my sleeve. My left arm was up and behind my head,

and though I had only a few inches of room, it was enough to knock upon the board just next to my face. I focused my eyes on the image of the flashlight bulb as it bobbed in and out of the tiny slit between slats, and I rapped upon the wood hard as I could. I heard the knocking sound, and it was beautiful. The flashlight passed and swung my way. Freedom. I could taste it, like fresh air in wide-open spaces. A joyful grin spread across my face, and sweet relief flooded my pain-racked body. Of all the ridiculous escapes I had made, this one would be foremost. A vision of myself many years in the future passed before my mind's eye. An old man reliving his adventures for his grandchildren. It would be a chilling tale.

The time Grandpa tried to flee the law in a coffin with a dead man, but the story wasn't over. Just as the light from the watchman began to wax with his approach, I felt my hand seized at unable to knock further. Confused, I twisted my head back to see Harold's arm, no longer wrapped around my chest. It was clamped down upon my wrist. He held me like an iron statue,

and watched as I writhed beneath him. The illumination from the watchman's flashlight flitted over Harold's ruined face, intently staring back at me with sockets that had no eyes, but were not empty. I don't remember how many moments passed in the dark then, but I do know that when I had the courage to try to move again,

the watchman was long gone. I sought respite in the idea that I could simply wait. Three days had passed after all, and they'd be unloading the ship any minute now. Perhaps I couldn't escape Harold myself, but before long the box would be pried open by men with hammers. They'd find me then, held in place by a dead thing in a suit. They'd free me. Even if I couldn't do it myself, they'd help me. They'd beat back Harold with their hammers if they had to.

But that fantasy dissolved into the pitch black that Harold. and I shared in the box, just as my other dreams of escape are dissolved. For when I finally tried to move again, I noticed the gentle touch of Harold's bare teeth upon my throat, and they were not gentle for long. ...have dispersed this night. Poetic works from darkness alight. We leave you with this a question on a theme. is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream

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 Ollie White

our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy Please visit the no sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for being a supportive season past member and for joining us within the exquisite horror of our reality. This audio program is copyright 2023 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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