The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep18: NoSleep Podcast S19E18

Episode Date: June 4, 2023

It’s Episode 18 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about menacing mementos.“At Death’s Door” written by K.G. Lewis (Story starts around 00:03:40)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Father – Graham Rowat, Mother – Mary Murphy“There Was Something in My House, and It Wanted My Son” written by Tyler Collins (Story starts around 00:27:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Nick – Dan Zappulla, Brenden – Elie Hirschman, Melinda – Erin Lillis, Voice – Jeff Clement“The Toy Chest” written by Matthew Moyer (Story starts around 00:59:45)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Sammi – Nichole Goodnight, Eric – Kyle Akers, Ivan – Matthew Bradford, Dara – Katabelle Ansari, Creature – Atticus Jackson“A Mother’s Love” written by Paul Kordich (Story starts around 01:39:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett, Peyton – Danielle McRae, John – David Cummings, Tina – Mary Murphy, Mrs. Wazniak – Nikolle Doolin, Anna – Katabelle Ansari, Officer Marks – Atticus Jackson, Man – Jeff ClementClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Toy Chest” illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio 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.

In the dark shadows of the Rue Morg, to the rhythm of the stolen tell-tale 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 in. Our sleepless tales for you in store, and the terror shall be lifted. Raise yourself for the no sleep. To the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. What are you afraid of?

It's a question worth considering. It might be the big things which come to mind. Fear of dying, fear of losing what you love most, or the fear of no more No Sleep podcast, you know, the really serious fears that chill the blood of everyone. Or it could be smaller things which might seem trivial. Fear of spiders, fear of the dark, or the fear of dentists and their evil metal tools that drill into your bones and cause untold agony that... Well, you get the point.

But when all is said and done, most fears can be lumped into the biggest, baddest, granddaddy of all fears, the fear of the unknown. And while this overlying fear might seem huge, it can manifest in some of the smallest, simplest places. You don't need to be Schrodinger to understand how unsettling it can be to possess some. something as simple as a box. But if that box is locked and you can't find out what's inside, well, that might instill in you a sense of fear. And of course, there are many horror stories which feature things like locked boxes, chests, toys, etc. All of which end up causing much horror and tragedy when what's really inside of them gets revealed or released. In this episode, we feature tales of this nature, seemingly innocent items which contain something that causes

immeasurable harm. And long before Brad Pitt asked his heartfelt question of what's in the box, our friend Eddie, sorry, that's Edgar Allan Poe to you, wrote a tale about an oblong box which he titled The Oblong Box. In the tale, the narrator is aboard a ship headed up the east coast of the U.S. On board is an old schoolmate with his family, and his friend insists on traveling with the eponymous oblong box which contains, well, I won't spoil it. But here again we find a disturbing tale which teases us with what's in the box and how the unknowing is unsettling. So let's try to get inside and shed light on the unknown, even if the light reveals nothing but darkness. And now our tales come to you upon a midnight dreary. Best not to ponder them while weak and weary.

In our first tale, we meet a woman who's visiting her stepmother who recently had a stroke. After going through something so traumatic, her stepmom wants to share something with her. But in this tale, shared with us by author K. G. Lewis, the daughter learns that what's being shared isn't sentimental. It's horrifying. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Graham Rowett, and Mary Murphy. So don't keep secrets to yourself if they're not. They're so important, especially if you're at death's door. How is she?

I asked my father when he stepped out into the hall. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger before softly replying. She's resting. My stepmother, Evelyn, had suffered a massive stroke the previous week and was just discharged from the hospital earlier that morning. My father, who was a retired family practitioner, had insisted on bringing her home so he He could care for her in an environment that he thought was better suited to her recovery. Is it okay if I go in and sit with her for a while?

I'd stopped by on my way home from work to check on her and to see how my father was doing. I think she'd like that. Just don't expect too much out of her. I gave him a thin-lipped smile and nodded my head, letting him know that I understood what my stepmother had gone through and that she was never going to be the same because of it. I was just about to make myself something to eat. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the kitchen.

Do you want something? I can make spaghetti. You always like my spaghetti. That's not necessary, Dad. I didn't want him to go through the trouble. He'd already had a long day and didn't need to worry about making dinner for me. There's no trouble, honestly. I could use the distraction.

Plus, it's been ages since you stopped by. Okay. Dinner did sound good. But only if you're making garlic bread, too. I pointed my finger at him and smiled. Deal. He returned the smile. And you better have plenty of parmesan cheese.

Well then. He reached his hand into the pocket of his pants and withdrew his car keys. I guess I better get to the store. You don't have to do that, Dad. I was going to have to go anyway. I haven't been grocery shopping all week. That was understandable, considering he'd spent most of that time at the hospital with my stepmom. I can go instead.

I'll go. You should go spend some time with your mom. He gestured at the bedroom door. Even though Evelyn didn't give birth to me, she was mom to me. She treated me like I was her own, and if I'm honest, I've always felt closer to her than I did to my father. I have no memories of my biological mother. She died when I was only three. I've seen old family photos of the two of us together, but all I see when I look at them is some stranger with a child that looks like. me. As far as I was concerned, Evelyn was my real mom. Okay, I agreed. Glad that my dad hadn't

accepted my offer. I didn't really want to run out to the store, but I would have if he'd wanted me to. Hurry back. I'm starving. That wasn't a lie. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until we started talking about food. He responded by pretending to walk in slow motion, something he'd often do when I was younger and being annoyingly impatient about something. Not funny, Dad. I waited until he disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall, before turning to face the door to the spare bedroom where my stepmother had been confined to.

The stroke had left her paralyzed on the left side, rendering her bed-reddened for the rest of her life. The neurologist at the hospital had tried to talk my father into admitting her into a special care facility, but my father refused to listen, insisting. that he could care for her better at home. That's why the spare bedroom had been set up to resemble a hospital room. I knocked softly on the door before pushing it open. Mom? I peeked my head into the room to see if she was awake. When my stepmother turned her head and saw me in the doorway, the right side of her mouth turned up into a smile, while the left

side remained frozen in place. She reached her right hand out to me, beckoning me to enter the room. I walked over and took her outstretched hand in mine, unable to keep my eyes from watering up. Hi, Mom. She squeezed my hand in response before letting go and pointing at the bedside table. She tried to speak, but I couldn't understand what she was saying. The words came out garbled like she had a mouthful of ice. Do you want some water? I asked, thinking she was pointing at the glass on the table.

She shook her head. The tablet? I picked up the electronic device and held it out to her. Besides the glass, it was the only thing on the table she could be pointing at. She nodded. After taking the device from me, she placed it on her lap and turned it on. My father had given it to her so she could use the text-to-speech app that was on it to communicate with us. Where's your dad?

My stepmother looked up at me as the electronic voice of the tablet asked the question she had typed into the app. He went to the store. to get stuff for dinner. She started typing on the tablet again before I finished talking, her fingers tapping loudly at the screen with urgency. I have to show you something. Okay. I didn't like the way she was looking at me. Whatever it was she wanted to show me, I could tell that it wasn't going to be something good. She stared at me for a few moments, studying my face. As she looked at me, a single tear welled up in her right eye before rolling down her cheek. What's wrong, Mom? I didn't like the uneasy feeling that was settling over me. My stepmother wiped her cheek off with the back of her hand and then returned her attention to the tablet.

Remember that music box I bought? Yeah, I remember. She'd bought it a few weeks ago at a garage sale I'd made her stop at while we were on our way to eat lunch. I'd recently become addicted to vintage clothing and was always hoping to find something unique at one of those sales. I hadn't found anything that day, but she had. What about it? There was a key to the master bedroom in it. A key to the master bedroom? She must have been confused because none of the interior doors in the house had locks that required keys. And even if one of them did, the key to it wouldn't be in some antique music box that belonged to someone who'd never stepped foot into our house. My stepmother sighed in frustration and began typing a new message. I'm not crazy.

My stepmother glared at me as it delivered her message. The intensity of her gaze made me uncomfortable, forcing me to look away. When I did, I happened to look over at the screen displaying all of her vital signs. Her pulse was rising fast, and that wasn't a good thing at her condition. Where's the key now? I asked, trying to placate her in an effort to bring her pulse down. I was hoping she'd calmed down if I acted as if I believed her. She shrugged and then began typing on the tablet.

I cast a glance at the screen showing her vitals and was happy to see that her pulse had stopped rising. I don't know. When did you last see it? I assumed it was a product of her imagination, some sort of false memory caused by the stroke and that there never was a key. When this happened? She gestured at herself, referring to the day she had the stroke. Before I could reply, a look of clear. came over her features before she looked back down at the tablet and began typing again.

Check the hall. I think I dropped it. If she had dropped the key in the hall, I'm sure my father would have found it by now. Please look. Okay, I'll see if I can find it. I didn't notice anything on the floor when I was out there talking to my father and didn't really expect to find anything when I went back. But I'd said I'd look, so I was going to look. I shut the bedroom door behind me after stepping out into the hall, not wanting my stepmother to see my half-ass attempt at looking for her imaginary key. I looked to the left, towards the

front of the house, and then to the right where the hall ended. It was empty, except for the little accent table that was against the wall next to the door to the master bedroom. It was one of those tables that had a low shelf on the bottom of it, which was currently holding a small potted plant. Nothing, I thought to myself after confirming that there was no key in the hall. You didn't check under the table, a voice inside my head pointed out. I can see under the table from here, I countered. Not completely, the voice replied. I hated how easy it was for the voice inside my head to guilt trip me into action.

Fine, I'll look under the table. I walked over and got down on my hands and knees so I could. peer into the dark corners beneath the table. As I suspected, I didn't see anything underneath it. Nothing, I said out loud, as if that would keep the voice inside my head from speaking up again. I reached up and placed my hand on top of the accent table to study myself as I got to my feet again. As I did so, it caused the table to rock a little, sending something clattering onto the bottom shelf. When I looked down to see what it was, I saw a long. large iron key lying on the shelf next to the plant. It must have been trapped between the table

and the wall, becoming dislodged when I made the table move. The dull gray key was covered in nicks and scratches and was almost as long as my hand. On the head of it was a flattened skull, covered in decorative billagery. The bits on the other end of it were fashioned to look like teeth. She wasn't lying. There really was a key. The key was a key. The key was a key was a little. The key was a cold to the touch, much colder than I thought it should be. But that didn't deter me from leaning over and picking it up. Something shifted in the corner of my field of vision as soon as the key was in my hand. I turned my head and gasped, shocked to see that the once white door of the master bedroom was now solid black. What the? The color of the door wasn't the only thing that

changed. The knob was also different. The shiny metallic one had been reported. The shiny metallic one had been replaced with an oblong ivory one that looked like a piece of polished bone. Beneath it was a keyhole. Surprised by what I was seeing, I let the key slide out of my hand and fall onto the carpeted floor. As soon as it left my hand, the door returned to normal. What the heck is going on here? I looked down at the key, then back up at the door. Either I was going crazy, or there was something extremely off about that key. This must be what my stepmother wanted to show me. To confirm my suspicions, I reached out and wrapped my hand around the key and picked it up.

As soon as my fingers closed around it, the black door returned. With the key in hand, I rushed back into my stepmother's room. I found it, I declared, holding up the key as I spoke. A look of relief came over her face when she saw the concern etched on mine. She quickly typed out a message on her tablet. You see the door, don't you? I nodded vigorously. I see it.

What the heck is it doing there? Without taking my eyes off of her, I used the key to gesture at the black door across the hall. I waited as she typed out a short reply. Open it. What? I hadn't expected her to say that. Hurry.

Before your father gets home. Did you open it? I turned to glance at the door. door. When I looked back at her, she was nodding her head. What did you see? She started typing on the tablet. You need to see it for yourself. I'm not sure that's a good idea. I gestured at her frail form lying in the bed. Look what happened to you? She was holding the key when she had the stroke. That meant she must have opened the door and seen something terrible enough to trigger a near-fatal physical response in her body.

That did not sound like something I wanted to see. The conditions for the stroke were already there. It was just an unfortunate coincidence that it happened at that moment. When I didn't respond, she began typing again. I wouldn't ask this of you if it weren't important. I don't understand why you can't just tell me what you saw. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she typed out her response. Because I need you to tell me that I'm not crazy and that what I saw behind that door

was real. Please. I took a deep breath and then exhaled it with a shuddering sigh. Okay. I looked from her to the door. I'll do it. As I walked out into the hall, my stepmother typed out another message on the tablet. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that I love you. I love you too, I replied without turning around. Her words wait heavily upon me as I reached out my trembling hand, sliding the key into the lock and turning it. The latch clicked, and the door began to creak open on its own. Surprised by the movement, I released my hold on the key. The door didn't disappear this time. Once it was opened, I assumed it became visible whether you were holding the key or not. I stood on the threshold of the room. Hello? I didn't know what to expect as I

peered into the semi-darkness beyond the doorway. From what I could see, it looked like the room was set up as you would expect a master bedroom to be set up, albeit one from the 70s or 80s. The carpet on the floor was a bit shaggier than the one that was in the house now, and was also a hideous shade of orange. The furniture was just as ugly. The dresser and matching nightstands were blocky and looked like they were coated in some kind of bow-wood paneling, as did the oversight headboard of the bed. But the worst thing was the floral printed comforter on the bed. It looked like someone had vomited flower petals all over it. As far as I could tell, there wasn't anybody inside. Despite my dislike of the room's decor, there was an air of familiarity to it

that prompted me to take a step inside. The lights suddenly brightened, and a woman appeared in the bed. She was sitting propped up on some pillows reading a book. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm I suddenly felt like an intruder, but the woman didn't acknowledge my presence. She just kept on reading her book. I took a couple of steps closer to her and waved my hands to see if she would notice me. She didn't. She can't see me. When the woman lowered the book and looked toward the bedroom door, I gasped. Now that I could clearly see her face, I recognized her. Mom? She was my mother. the woman who had given birth to me. Her hair was different, but her face looked the same way it had in all of the photos I'd seen of her.

I followed her gaze to the man who had just entered the room. Dad? He was a lot younger looking, but it was definitely my dad. I stepped out of his way when he came around the bed and set a glass of water on the nightstand closest to my mother, holding out his hand. I brought you your sleeping pills. You didn't have to do that.

My mother reached out to take the pills, which she popped into her mouth before grabbing the glass and swallowing them with a drink of water. I stood there in the corner of the room, watching the rest of the scene play out in front of me. What happened next made me sick to my stomach, but I didn't leave the room. I stayed until the scene reset itself, with my mother sitting up in bed, reading a book. I couldn't bear to watch it again, so I ran out of the room and slammed the door shut behind me. When I did, the key fell out of the lock and onto the carpeted floor. I picked it up and dragged myself into my stepmother's room. When she saw my face, she held her good arm out to me, beckoning me to come to her.

I walked over and collapsed onto her, sobbing uncontrollably. He killed her! The images of him giving her the sleeping pills and then smothering her with one of her pillows kept playing over and over again in my mind. I could feel my step. stepmother nod her head against mine, signaling to me that she too had seen the same thing. Why? It was a rhetorical question, a thought spoken out loud as I tried to make sense of what I'd witnessed.

She responded by holding me tighter. She held me like that until we heard the motor of the garage door opener come to life. I pulled away from her and looked towards the front of the house. Dad's home. My stepmother picked up the tablet and typed out a message. Don't leave me here with him. I won't. I promised, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

It was a promise I intended to keep. I just didn't know how yet. I'll be right back. I walked down the hall towards the kitchen where the door to the garage was. As I walked, I realized I still had the key clutched in my hand. Having no other place to put it at the moment, I slipped it into the back pocket of my pants. As much as it sickened me, I had to protect. that everything was fine with my father until I figured out what to do. That meant I had to go help

him bring groceries in like I normally would. When I walked out into the garage, the big door was still up, giving me an open view of the neighbor's house. When I saw the black door where their front door should be, I froze. I knew what I'd find behind it if I opened it. Death, four deaths, to be exact. I was still living at home with my father and stepmother when it happened. There was a gag of asleep in the house, which led to the family of four succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning. You okay? You look like you saw a ghost. I'm fine. I pulled my eyes away from the neighbor's house to look at him. Just tired. You and me both, kiddo. He smiled as he made his way to the trunk of the car to retrieve the groceries.

I followed behind him, picking up the remaining bags that he left behind. When I turned to walk back into the house, I happened to glance back over at the neighbor's house just as one of their kids was walking up onto the porch. I watched as the kid seemingly walked right through the black door as if it weren't there. That gave me a crazy idea. Hey, Dad? I said after we deposited our bags onto the kitchen counter, I have something I need to show you. Can it wait until after dinner? He wiggled the box of pasta he'd just taken out of the grocery bag. I'm pretty hungry. I don't think it can. It's kind of important. He studied my face for a moment, trying to read my thoughts. Okay. He set the box of pasta on the counter. Show me. I led him down the hall to the door of the master

bedroom. Along the way, he stopped to close the door to the room my stepmother was in. We don't need her getting upset, not after what she's been through. Oh, the irony of that statement. Without saying a word, I pulled the key out of my back pocket and used it to open the black door, stepping aside as it swung open. With the key in the lock, I hoped we would both be able to see it. My father's eyes grew wide as he stared at the strange door. How the hell did you do that? If you think that is cool, just wait until you see what's inside. I gestured into the darkened room as I forced a smile to my lips.

He reached out and touched the side of the door closest to him, assuring himself that it was real. Seriously, how did you do this? I'll explain everything afterward. I don't want to spoil the surprise before you've seen it. What surprise? If you want to know, you have to go and see for yourself. I motioned to the room again, while trying my best not to sound too anxious. He took a step towards the room, but stopped.

This isn't working. I need to try a different approach. Mom and I worked very hard to put the surprise together for you, so you better not ruin it. His features softened. You shouldn't have let her do that. She needs to rest. She wanted to do something nice for you, for taking care of her.

Okay. He finally relented and stepped into the room. As soon as he was clear of the door, I reached into the room and grabbed the handle. Sorry, Dad. I pulled the door closed and quickly removed the key. I will never forget the look of surprise on his face when he saw the woman that he'd murdered. My mother, sitting in the bed, reading her book.

I backed away from the door until I bumped into the wall behind me. When I couldn't go any further, I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor with my knees hugged up against my chest, crying into my jeans. Are you certain he can't get out? I'm not certain about anything anymore. but I'm pretty sure he can't get out. I looked over to where the key was sitting on the bedside table. Not without that. What are you going to do with it?

I'd been thinking about that ever since I told my stepmother about how I locked my dad in the room, trapping him inside where he'd have to watch what he'd done over and over until the day he died. I'll be right back. I left to go grab something from the living room. When I returned, I was holding the antique music box my house. stepmother had bought at that garage sale. After taking a seat on the edge of her bed, I opened the box, found the hidden compartment where the key was once hidden, and returned it to its hiding place. You know, I said, closing the box and turning it over in my hand. I never really liked this thing.

I just said I did because you liked it. My stepmother smiled as she typed something onto the tablet. I only bought it because I thought you liked it. I returned her smile. Slightly amused at how that worked out. Maybe we can sell it. Have a garage sale of our own and get your money back. I think that sounds like a great idea. When a couple is going through a divorce, it can be natural for a young child to act out in strange ways.

Sometimes they project their feelings onto an object or toy. And in this tale, shared with us by author Tyler Collins, we meet a man who is watching his marriage fall apart, at the same time his son is convinced that they're something wrong with his favorite sock monkey. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Ellie Hirschman, Aaron Lillis, and Jeff Clement. So let's have the man share this strange tale with us as he explains, there was something in my house and it wanted my son. Dad. I sat up in bed, covered in sweat. I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye, lingering in the

dark. It ran toward me, grabbing me around my neck. I'm scared. Brendan trembled as he embraced me. Oh, what time is it? My phone read 3.30 a.m. In his bedroom, he pointed at his build a bear sock monkey. It was one of his top-tier toys, the one he kept on the dresser segregated and above all others. It lay on the floor. He asked me my name. I asked why it was on the floor. I hit it before I ran to your room. He was talking to you, huh? He was, Dad.

Oh, I believe you. Brendan was relieved. I sat down on his bed. When I was a kid, I used to have these dreams. I padded the bed next to me. He sat down. Every night when I was a kid, this man tried to get in my window. Brendan's eyes widened.

But I'd wake up, look around, and see. see that the man wasn't there. I'd check all the scary places, my closet, under my bed, the windows, but nothing was there. Are you sure? Dreams can feel very real, but don't take my word for it. Go check all the scary places. He checked the closet. Nothing there? He checked under the bed. Nothing there. He looked at me, smiling. Nothing in here anywhere. He would always light up when we sang the Nothing in There song. Most of the time, he'd go right to sleep. I tucked him in, left the room open a crack.

I got back in bed and reflexively scooted close to my wife, Melinda. She scooted away. In my sleepy days, I had gone into autopilot, forgetting the last few weeks. I don't want to paint her as cruel. I deserved this distance. We had agreed that we would stay together until the end of the school year, and then I get my own place so Brendan could get used to the situation. I laid on my side of the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think, waiting for my alarm. I got home from work early the next day.

Melinda was waiting on the couch. She had my favorite red dress on, her purse around her arm. She stood up as I came in and passed me on her way to the front door. She didn't look at me, I didn't look at her. The door slammed closed behind me. The bartender was a nice girl, redhead, just like Melinda now that I think of it. My type for sure. She was working through college, sociology or something like that. Alyssa was her name.

It might have been the stress or that I was turning 38, or I was just a bad person. I really don't know what got into me that night. I just felt... lonely, even with everyone around me. I'd thought that maybe I'd be able to keep it a secret, get my confidence back, feel like I did in my 20s, when I thought I had everything. The encounters started out great. Gradually, that loneliness crept back into me like the itsy-bitsy spider. Try to flush the bastard out, but he just climbs right back up the spout.

It was like whether I was home or at the cheap hotel Alyssa and I frequented. I wasn't capable of feeling whole. Melinda caught on. It was obvious. If you plan on sheeting on your wife, shower at the hotel, instead of showering when you get home every night. That night, Brendan and I ate at the kitchen table. Stouffer's lasagna. Nothing says winning dad like Stouffer's lasagna.

Brendan glanced at Melinda's empty chair. I thought I'd better change the subject before he'd. started asking hard questions. I went with the tried and true dad question. What'd you do at school today? Nothing. As expected. I had a counter to this move, though.

Nothing. Okay. Which teacher is the nothing teacher? What kind of test do they have in nothing class? A smirk flashed across his face. Dad. Okay, but I just want to know something. I let the suspense.

set in. I could see his eyes about to roll, a grimace growing on his face. Does nothing have a career path or anything, or can you become a nothing-aught? He rolled his eyes, sighed, hitting his head on the back of the chair. Checkmate. I ate a bite, satisfied with my work. Ice broken, now everything was going to go back to normal. No awkward silences or hard questions. Not at all. I looked up from my food, Brendan's eyes were locked on me. Are you and mom gonna break up? Fuck. I would have rather him tell me he'd gotten some girl pregnant

or that he'd killed a man in Reno just to watch him die. I'd like to say that I sat him down on my knee, had a heart to heart. Explained that sometimes life is complicated, but that everyone would be okay and he would see me as often as he wanted. What I said instead was, Uh, it's, uh, um, how can I, have you, um, have you, um, why don't you bring this up with mom? Perfect.

Kill two birds with one stone. Piss off my already furious wife and alienate my child and imbue him with the fundamental inability to communicate. We ate the rest of dinner in silence. Melinda came home around nine. She spent the next two hours in Brendan's room talking to him. I went and passed out on the couch. The bed had become too cold a place lately. She could have it.

I woke up sweating again. The AC was struggling to keep it under 77 degrees. I turned the AC off, tried to give it a break in case it froze over. I headed to the kitchen to start opening windows. Something moved. Behind me. close behind me. I whipped around.

Nothing there. Must be my tired brain. I continued into the kitchen, opened the window. My neck prickled as the cool breeze washed over me. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. It was dark. The lamp in the living room had just clicked off by itself,

while nobody was in there. You got the picture. picture. So I was like, WTF. I stood perfectly still, like a rabbit sensing a house cat nearby, ready to GTFO. Nothing moved. I stood like that for a good minute. The house was still, the way it always was when the AC was off. I decided I was being silly. I'd just go turn the lamp back on, pretend like nothing happened, then we'd all live happily ever after. I walked back to the living room, switched on the lamp, and then whipped around like a madman. No demons or creepy dolls or hefalumps.

I knew at that point I was just being crazy. I was tired, and why shouldn't I have been? My marriage was failing. I was sleeping on that shitty couch. I opened the living room window, tossed the covers down to the floor. I laid down, letting the breeze pass over me. I closed my eyes. W. T. F. I opened my eyes. I was in the dark. I jumped up, my fists in front of me like a pugilist. I said to the monsters in the dark. They didn't say anything back.

Brendan, if that is you, good job, buddy. You got me. But if you touch me in this dark room, you were grounded. Still nothing from the dark. I breathed. deep. The lamp is on the fritz. It's just on the fritz. I walked toward the lamp. I leaned over to turn the lamp switch. Then a brilliant pain shot through me. I reflexively grabbed my foot and felt hot blood pouring from the back of my ankle. Jesus on the cross! What the fucking hell? I flicked on the light, looking around for the culprit. Nothing was there. My nice kitchen knife was on the floor. My nice kitchen knife was on the floor, still rocking back and forth, my blood edging the blade. I tried to move my foot forward, but the pain stopped me. The cut on my ankle was deep.

I heard something move, in the hallway toward the bedrooms. I turned to see it, a shadow standing in the hallway. What the fuck! It took off down the hall toward Brendan's room. I heard a door open and slam. I limped to the hall. Melinda's door came open. What's all the commotion? Something's here. She saw the blood trail behind me.

What the hell, Nick? What is going on? I didn't respond. Instead, I burst into Brendan's room, frantically looking for the figure. There was nothing there. I limped to the bed, feeling the carpet absorb my blood with every step. What's going on, Dad? Go to your mom.

He did. I threw up the bed skirt and leaned over. I must have misjudged my foot injury because my head ended up colliding with the floor. I toppled to the floor, now rolling in my own blood. My family gasped. They're so dramatic. I got to my feet again after seeing there was nothing under the bed. I walked to the windows and checked they were locked.

They were. Nick, what happened? I ignored her, opening the closet and looking inside. Nothing there either. I scanned the room. Everything was in place. Daddy? Nick!

Stars were forming at the edges of my vision. I looked at Brendan's dresser right before I passed out. At his sock monkey, slightly askew, slightly askew. I woke up in the hospital. I was fine, but I'd lost some blood. My Achilles tendon had been cut nearly straight through. Melinda came in to give me sour slash concerned looks every once in a while. Brendan came in to hug me and to talk to me about his Minecraft houses and some Roblox stuff I didn't

understand. I stayed two days and they discharged me with a pair of crutches and a boot, loads of fun. Back at home, I would trudge around the house like a sad ghost. I think Melinda was starting to take pity on me. She would quietly set ibuprofen and a glass of water on the coffee table when she left for work in the mornings. Though she would put it on the far side of the table, so I'd have to stretch all the way across to get it. We had the police come to the house and investigate. We made a report, but nothing came of it.

We live in a small town, and somehow word had gotten around that we were divorcing. So the cops, Fred Durham and Stacey Weeks, asked in hushed tones, You think he's a danger to himself, Melinda? Melinda assured them I was a danger to myself, but not in the way they were thinking, and they dropped it. I started having dreams about that night as well, something sitting in the hallway, staring. I can't move, then.

The light turns off. I'd wake up sweating to see the AC was struggling again. It only happened on nights that I had those dreams. Melinda had the AC guys out, and they said the unit was fine. Topped off the Frion and charged us $200. One night, maybe a week later, I woke up to whispering. It was hot again, sweltering. I crept, or really limped, down the hall to the source of the sound, Brendan's bedroom.

But what if I'm afraid to go? Nothing to be afraid of. I listened closer. People will miss me. I fell into the door trying to lean too hard. I just played it off like I meant to do that and open the door. Brendan jumped. He was cross-legged on his bed with his sock monkey opposite him.

Is someone in here? No, I'm just playing. I was suspicious, but I checked around the room and no one was there. Okay, well, go to sleep, buddy. You have school in the morning. Okay, Dad. He laid down to sleep. I'm right down the hall if you need me.

I started to walk out, leaving the door open a crack. Can you close it, Dad? That was weird. Uh, sure. I closed it. I went and checked every window in the house. I had no idea what was happening in my house, and no one believed me about the tiny man that had broken in and cut me with my own knife.

Nobody. If I brought it up, Melinda just looked concerned, like, will I have to commit him concerned? I made sure all the doors were locked, checked the garage for vulnerabilities there. I checked outside Brendan's window for signs of intrusion. Nothing. Everything looked fine. Maybe I was losing my mind. That night, I dreamt of the figure again. It was in the living room, standing in a sliver of I heard a sound like steam coming out of a pipe. Then I realized it was hissing at me. Hissing.

Then the light went out and I woke up. The next day while Melinda and Brendan were out, I searched Brendan's room. His sock monkey was back on his dresser. His bed was made. I checked the windows on the inside for marks of intrusion. The thin layer of dust on the window locks was intact. They had not been opened in a year or more. I eyed the sock monkey as I walked around the room.

It sat motionless. I didn't know why, but it made me uncomfortable now. Something about its little black eyes. Nothing was out of place. I checked the house. Also nothing out of place. Somehow, something had cut me with my own knife. or maybe not.

Had the prospect of divorce of losing control of my comfortable life caused me to go crazy? Was I certifiable? Had I gone all Amy Winehouse? I watched TV and tried to let it go. Property Brothers was on. Those twins sure know how to build a house. The rest of the day, I ignored the feeling of being watched. Melinda and Brendan filtered into the house at 3 and 3.30.

I tried to help with dinner, but got shooed out. We had a very awkward dinner at the table together, the first time since two months ago when our problems started. Brendan and Melinda watched TV until about 9.30 while I hung out on the other couch, reading. They headed off to bed shortly after. I took my place on the big couch. Indiana Jones was on, so I checked it out. Indy had just gotten into the temple at the beginning of the movie, followed Goode. closely by his assistant, Satipo.

Indy was picking up the idol and replacing it with the bag of sand when I noticed someone lingering at the threshold between the hallway and living room. My first thought was, it's back. I sat still waiting for it to move. It did move. It was wearing Melinda's long shirt she wore to bed. I looked over. Melinda burst into the room.

She sat down on the couch next to. me, crossed her legs, bold as brass as my dad used to say. But that was Melinda. One time we were just out of high school at a little bar off the interstate. I'm a clumsy drunk, so I spilled a cor's light on this big guy's even bigger girlfriend. I don't fight, so when the dude comes running up on me, I flinch and back up. Melinda, though, she was in his face in an instant like a chihuahua. The dude didn't want any from her. And, let me. left us alone to drink and dance. She sat there, the blue light bathing her.

When was the last time we'd sat down to watch a movie together? Sure, we went to the movies, but Brendan sat between us. We weren't close to each other, and we were focused on him and not us. That's how parents were supposed to be, right? Sacrificing themselves for their children? I love this scene. Yeah. Something I would have said in high school.

Yeah. What does that even mean? In high school, I was aloof, not because I didn't have opinions or thoughts, but because saying the wrong thing could be unpopular, the worst sin you can commit in high school. So I said things like, yeah, or cool, or hmm, because there's no risk there, no complex interactions. Melinda and I had met at a party, my friend Zach's house party, our senior year. When I'd given her the same lines like yeah or cool, she wouldn't accept them. She would say, is all you have to say, yeah or cool? Are you some kind of mute or something? She could get me talking.

And when she did, I realized I couldn't shut up. I had so much to say. We talked all night that first night. Melinda sighed, looking at the TV. It could have just helped them across. In the movie, Satipo had just betrayed Indy, stealing the idol for himself, but was immediately killed by a spike trap outside the door. I paused a moment as Indy grabbed the idol back, and the boulder started to chase him.

If he hadn't betrayed him, he'd still be alive. Would have been so easy, too. Just throw Indy the rope. I had to say something other than, yeah. Uh, the boulder in this scene weighed over 200 pounds, so it could have easily crushed cast and crew. I don't know why that's what came to mind, but it was. Melinda actually smiled.

We sat in silence as the movie glided on. I kept glancing over at her without turning my head. Was this a trick? Was she about to tell me she got a lawyer that I'd better lawyer up to? I watched the movie in silence, trying to figure out her possible motives. Then I began to glance not so covertly at it. her. The way her hair flowed down her back. The way that big t-shirt fit her. I don't deserve her. Those thoughts came rolling back in like thunder clouds. I had broken the vows that we said to each other

those 15 years ago. In good times and in bad. I had to ask. The tension was unbearable. She should have been spitting in my face, slapping me, anything. But instead, she was... She was... What? What's going? Did you love her, Nick? She was still staring at the TV. Ice water in my veins. This was the first time she'd talked about it in two weeks.

I breathed in. No. She sat there, still staring at the TV. Then she got up and walked away. Just like that. I was baffled. She stopped just short of the hall and turned toward me. You coming to bed?

She walked off before I could answer. Nothing personal, Indy. I said shutting the TV off. That night we slept with a gulf between us, but it was a step up from the couch. I woke up with her leg over me. The house was sweltering again. I could literally see steam in the air.

I got out of bed, checked the thermostat. The digital readout was black. No amount of jiggling or jostling was enough to get it going again. I went back down the hall to tell Melinda that we needed to get those AC guys back out. I stopped short of my bedroom. Brendan's door was wide open. Brendan wasn't in bed. He wasn't in the bathroom either, the only reason he would not be in his bed at this hour.

I woke up, Melinda, told her the situation. We split duties. I checked the backyard while she checked the garage. We met back up inside. All exterior doors were locked. He couldn't have gone outside. There was only one place we hadn't checked. I threw open the basement door and was immediately hit by a smell like rust and rot had a baby.

A pulsing red light filled the gloom below. I flipped the light switch. No light came on. That wasn't good. Get the bat, Melinda. I didn't keep a gun. Melinda nodded and snuck back upstairs, disappearing into the light. the hall. I continued my descent. Something was moving around down there, scratching and shuffling.

It didn't seem to notice me. I'd completely forgotten about the creaky stare. Immediately, the shuffling stopped. Shit. I know you're down there. I have a gun. Don't make me use it. Nothing responded. I turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs. The light was cast from the right, a little alcove down there. I could see a small figure on the ground. Brendan's figure. His breaths were fast and short. Brendan!

I ran toward him. Something swung down from the rafters and slammed into my chest. Something heavy. I fell backwards, hitting my head on the bottom stair. Blood welled under my head. I looked up to see my attacker, the tiny dark shape that had cut me. The thing I'd been seeing in my dreams.

It came forward out of the shadow. The crimson light threw its features into stark relief. Brendan's sock monkey toy. I laughed out loud. Maybe I was certifiable. It hissed, standing between Brendan and me. I started to get up. It jumped at me again like a snake warning a predator to keep its distance.

Sock monkey or no, it was between me and my child. I grabbed the stair rail and hauled myself to my feet. The toy was on me in an instant. It was heavier than it should be. Dense. I fell back into the stairwell grappling with the thing. It wrapped its little cloth arm around my wrist, squeezing. Its other arm reached from my face.

Its grip was like a boa constrictor. Sinewy muscle rippled beneath the fur. My muscles ached from the strain. my bones creaked like an old house. I slammed it into the wall, throwing up a cloud of dust. One time, two times, three. The coil only tightened. I couldn't hold its other arm back anymore.

It pushed my head down, wrapping both arms around my neck. I could hear the thing grunting with the effort like a worked-up cat. My arms flailed wildly, grasping at the arm around my neck. I grabbed at its legs. It kicked my hand away, jamming my thumb. The sock monkey's dead eyes stared into mine. My face tingled. My vision narrowed.

A thought occurred. I'm going to be killed by a sock monkey. Is that the kind of thing they put in an obituary? The sound came loud and clear through the static in my ears. Then the monkey was flying, its arms ripped away from my neck. leaving brushburns from the cloth. I gasped for breath. Melinda stepped over me, the aluminum bat in her hand.

The monkey leaped up from the ground toward Melinda. She knocked it out of the air. It hit the ground with a sickening thud. The bat followed, landing right on its head. I scrambled to my feet. Melinda continued her assault, smashing the thing as it shook in agony. Dark liquid was spreading across. crossed the monkey's cloth, pooling on the floor. It hissed and squealed. I walked over and picked up

Brendan. He was out cold. Melinda was losing her mind on the doll. It had long since stopped moving. I put my hand on her shoulder. It's dead, Melinda. She stopped hitting it. Let the bat clank to the floor. She was crying, so I started crying. I couldn't help it. I couldn't think it. I couldn't think of anything clever to say, so I said, do we like call the cops now or something? Melinda laughed. Something moved on the floor. We both snapped to attention. The sock monkey had drug itself into a bank of shadow. It was wriggling, shivering. The cloth opened up at the back and something black squeezed itself out, like a parasitic worm escaping a preying mantis in those videos. It was starfish like, but slick and muscular.

It had no discernible head, but there was a mouth in its torso. It hissed at us again. Melinda reached down and grabbed the bat. It jumped at her, deftly dodging the bat as it swung, grabbing her around the neck. I ran at it. It clouded me across the head with one of its limbs, almost knocking me over. Melinda yelled, trying to fight the thing. It had wrapped itself around a rafter and was pulling her toe.

toward it like an octopus with its prey. It was headed toward the source of that red light. She struggled against its grip, but it was too strong. It pulled her around the corner behind a rack of paint cans. I ran around the rack just in time to see Melinda, the bat, and the creature disappear into a tear in the wall. When I say tear, I mean like a gash the type of person would get if they got cut with glass. The tear closed before I could reach it.

The last I ever saw of Melinda was her wide-eyed stare as she was pulled into the wall. Then all that was left was a jagged line where the tear had been. Things are a bit hazy after that. I remember hacking through that wall with the claw side of my hammer. I broke through into the dirt behind the brick wall. Groundwater came flushing through. Brendan woke up a little after daybreak. He found me in a puddle near the wall.

We were both brought to the hospital to be evaluated. I had lacerations and a blown blood vessel in my eye. I didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. I couldn't let Brendan see that, though. When he asked me how I was, I would just say, All right, buddy, all right. I should have asked how he was.

He'd just lost his mom and that. that wasn't fair to him. The investigation into Melinda's disappearance went cold a year later. No leads. I was the prime suspect. I never told anyone what really happened. Instead, I said it was an intruder. Nobody would have believed it anyway. The only blood in the basement was a streak where Melinda had beat the creature with that bat. DNA from the blood was inconclusive. That's all they'd tell me. Eventually, they stopped interrogating us, and the subject was dropped. Brendan refused to talk about that night.

When the psychologists brought it up, he'd shut down. He only opened up about the events from the week before, never of that night, how he got down to the basement. He said the monkey told him it had a place for him to go, a place where he would feel better. Other children were there, and they'd love to have a playmate. He said the monkey called the tariff. in the wall, the scar. He said he was scared to go, but the monkey insisted, that's it.

Those are the only details he has ever given about the events. He doesn't talk much now, just observes. I don't know where Melinda is now, but I like to imagine she's still out there somewhere, that she killed that thing. I'll never know. I'll just never know. tales 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

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