The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep22: NoSleep Podcast S19E22

Episode Date: July 2, 2023

It’s Episode 22 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about waking nightmares. “Dream-Land” written by Edgar Allan Poe (Story starts around 00:05:10) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla “Whistleblower” written by Autumn Bettinger (Story starts around 00:09:10) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced & scored by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett, Dana – Wafiyyah White, Emily – Mary Murphy, Will – Kyle Akers “Blind Spot” written by Larry Hinkle (Story starts around 00:18:20) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Erik – Atticus Jackson, Annie – Erin Lillis “Where the Soul Leaves the Mind” written by A.C. McAnelly (Story starts around 01:03:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Chapman – Graham Rowat “The Train Out of Tokyo” written by Abby Regler (Story starts around 01:25:00) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jake Benson “Behind the Scenes” written by David Farrow (Story starts around 01:40:50) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Matthew Bradford, Damon Knight – Peter Lewis “Head Games” written by K.G. Lewis (Story starts around 01:59:35) Produced & scored by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator – Linsay Rousseau, Referee – Jeff Clement, Nurse – Danielle McRae, Doctor – Kyle Akers, Mother – Nichole Goodnight Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to enter the “Dead Eleven” book giveaway contest Click here to purchase the novel “Dead Eleven” by Jimmy Juliano Click here to learn more about Autumn Bettinger Click here to learn more about Larry Hinkle Click here to learn more about David Farrow Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Behind the Scenes” illustration courtesy of Miggea Audio 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 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 in. Our sleepless tales for you in store, and the terror shall be lifted. and waste yourself for the no sleep. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. It's always exciting to see someone who has contributed to this podcast

achieving even greater levels of success. That's why I'm so happy to let you know about the new novel from author Jimmy Giuliano. Now, if you've listened to this podcast over the years, you'll likely recall many of Jimmy's stories. His ability to weave terrifying tales is evidence to. in such popular stories like The Red Light in the Warehouse, and Why I Didn't Shower for 21 Years. Those were from the very early days of the podcast.

Jimmy then went on to pen tales like The Mary Hillenbrand cassette, Uncle Jerry's Family Fun Zone, and Victor's VHS Vault, among many others. He really has crafted some of the creepiest stories we've ever had the pleasure of adapting to audio. Jimmy's first published novel is titled, Dead Eleven. I was lucky enough to get an advanced copy of it, and I can honestly say, I loved it. People often talk about books by using phrases like, couldn't put it down, and a real page turner. Well, in the case of Dead Eleven, those phrases are perfectly apt. The story drew me in from the first page and didn't release me from its icy grip until the very end. I highly

recommend this book. This horror debut is the perfect chilling read this summer. And the only thing better than reading Dead Eleven would be to win your own copy of it. Yes, we're excited to offer an exclusive book giveaway from Penguin Random House to our sleepless listeners. Now, what's it about you ask? Well, in Dead Eleven, a newcomer arrives on a creepy island where everyone has a strange obsession with the year 1994, and she finds herself pulled deeper and deeper into the bizarre community and their complicated rules. People magazine named it one of their must reads for the summer and said, Keep the lights on for this one.

Our sleepless listeners can enter to win a copy of the book at Bitley, that's b-it.l-l-y-slash-no-sleep-dead-11. All one word, no caps. Enter by July 9th to dive into this creepy read. That's bit.ly-slash-no-sleep dead 11. And as a Canadian, I'm obligated to say, sorry, eh, and inform you that this contest is open to U.S. residents only. And yes, some restrictions apply. So whether you win a copy or buy this great new novel, I hope you'll add Dead Eleven to your reading list.

Check the show notes for a link to the contest and where you can purchase your own copy of Dead Eleven by Jimmy Giuliano. Now, as you can imagine, on this podcast, the topic of sleep is a contentious one. Our goal is to keep you sleepless with our terrifying tales, but we also begrudgingly acknowledge that sleep, dreams, and nightmares are sources ripe for horror. When we become unconscious for hours at a time, all sorts of horrors can be visited upon us. In this episode, we have tales which feature people who awaken to find themselves in night, merish situations, people who would likely desire nothing more than to fall back into that unconsciousness. And for someone famous for crafting tales and poems which inspired sleepless nights,

our friend, Edgar Allan Poe, was seemingly rather fond of sleep and dreams. One of his poems tells the story of a person who enters a strange land, full of strange spirits and dark angels. Nothing is what it seems. And while most people would find this to be a night, Mayor, the person comes to the conclusion that this place is good for them. Let's listen to this poem performed by Danzapula. So don't get too sleepy. You'll likely want to avoid nodding off so you don't find yourself in, Dreamland. By a root obscure and lonely, haunted by ill angels only,

where an idolan named Knight, on a black throne reigns. upright. I have reached these lands, but newly, from an ultimate dim thuley, from a wild, weird climb that lieth sublime, out of space, out of time. Bottomless veils and boundless floods, and chasms and caves and tightened woods, with forms that no man can discover for the tears that drip all over. Mountains toppling evermore into seas without a shore, seas that restlessly aspire, surging unto skies of fire.

Lakes that endlessly outspread their lone waters lone and dead. Their still waters, still and chilly, with the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that, Thus outspread their lone waters lone and dead, Their sad waters, sad and chilly, With the snows of the lolling lily, By the mountains, near the river,

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, By the grey woods, by the swamp, Where the toad and the newt encamp, By the dismal tarns and pools, Where dwell the ghouls, by each spot the most unholy, in each nook most melancholy. There the traveler meets aghast, sheeted memories of the past, shrouded forms that start and sigh as they pass the wanderer by,

white-robed forms of friends long given, in agony to the earth and heaven. For the heart whose woes are legioners, tis a peaceful soothing region. For the spirit that walks in shadow, tis, oh, tis, an El Dorado. But the traveler, traveling through it may not, dare not openly view it. Never its mysteries are exposed to the weak human eye unclosed. So wills its king who hath forbid the uplifting of the fringed lid. And thus the sad soul that here passes

Beholds it, but through darkened glasses By a root obscure and lonely Haunted by ill angels only Where an idolan named knight On a black throne reigns upright I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thuley At the risk of sounding guilty, insomnia is a big problem these days.

Many people seek out all sorts of remedies so they can get a good night's sleep. But in this tale, shared with us by author Autumn Bettinger, we meet a journalist writing an expose on a pharmaceutical company which has created an intriguing cure for sleeplessness. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornette, Wafia White, Mary Murphy, and Kyle Akers. So if you want to go up against Big Pharma, you'd best be prepared for a fight. You'll soon realize it's not easy, being a whistleblower. Dana stirred.

She had been working late. Fingers dented from hours of clattering away at her laptop. She must have fallen asleep at her desk. The unforgiving slab of wood was cold against her cheek. She didn't want to wake up to her messy apartment, but she needed to finish the article. With a yawn, she blinked her eyes open, and... This was not her desk. The empty table in the boardroom of Coden Pharmaceuticals was as imposing as it was long.

She'd been here yesterday in this seat, thanking CEO Emily Coden for her time and expertise. After two years of working as her personal secretary, Dana had submitted her resignation. She had returned to her apartment. and pulled off the blue scarf Emily had given her as a parting gift, slipped out of her shoes, and sat down to type up her expose. Adrenaline coursing through her, Dana shoved her chair back from the table. The room was empty. Her shoes were on.

Her scarf was on. Everything was exactly as it had been. The midday light streamed through the large windows of the 40th floor. Wait. Dana blinked. She blinked again. One of the windows was gone. Wind licked through the opening where glass had been.

She stood up and edged cautiously towards it, vertigo swirling in her stomach as she extended a hand into open air. What the hell? Unnerved and disoriented, Dana yanked herself back. and stumbled towards the door, pulling it open. She ran through, and... She was back in the boardroom. The window was still missing, but this time she wasn't alone.

Will, from Human Resources, was sitting halfway up the table, staring at the space where a window used to be. Will? As he turned towards her, she felt another wave of vertigo. Will's cheek was ripped wide open. Blood and shredded muscle clung wetly to his neck. Severed tendons dangling. What the fuck?

Will narrowed his eyes. Blood bubbled from his cheek. I can write you up for that kind of language, you know. Dana backed herself against the wall, hand blindly searching for the door handle, never taking her eyes off of will. Sit down, Dana. Emily had walked through the door.

She wore the same cream-colored blouse and gray slacks as yesterday. She even reached out to feel Dana's scarf, just like she had done at their parting. As Emily's fingers played with the silk, Dana noticed they were thinner, longer, unnervingly disproportionate. The color looks beautiful on you. Dana's breathing sped up as she noticed Emily's teeth. They were smaller than she remembered sharper.

What's going on? Dana hated how obvious it sounded, how feeble. Emily took her seat at the head of the table. Will looked up, shuffling some blood-smeared papers. Sit. Dana darted for the door. It easily opened but led her right back into the room. She felt light-headed.

Sit down. From Will, a shrapnel of gums and enamel sprayed across the table. Dana reluctantly sat, rolling her chair away from Will's slowly disintegrating face. Will told me you are doing a little story about us. How did he? Doesn't matter. The point is, I'm glad you're writing about our new drug. It's going to change the world.

Emily's blonde hair ruffled in the wind. Emily, you're bribing homeless people to join your clinical trial. You're paying them to die. Emily shook her head. Not all of them. Some are still dreaming. Happy beautiful dreams. Panic pricked at Dana's palms at the back of her temples, clawing its way up her spine. Where am I?

You're in our lab. Emily smiled, showing more teeth than any mouth should have. Do you like that? Scarpe, it really is beautiful. When Will told me about your foray into investigative journalism, I laced it with our new truck. Will laughed, a rainfall of teeth clattering against the floor. Dana instinctively ripped the scarf from her neck, and with it, half her throat. She stared in horror as flesh and fabric fell together in a little.

wet tangle. It's a narcotic inhalant. It puts you to sleep, indefinitely. Dana pressed her hands to the hole in her neck, trying and failing to stem the flow of blood. We haven't been able to control whether the willing participants... Emily arched an eyebrow at Dana. Spend their remaining days in dreams or nightmares.

Emily watched Dana's blood pour. She clicked her teeth, all her teeth. There were so many teeth. Think of what it could do for people in hospice, Dana. For the terminally ill to die in a dream instead of suffering awake. Dana gurgled through a shower of vocal cords and veins. This isn't a dream. No, not really.

Emily's smile. widened until her lips began to break apart. I'm afraid you aren't one of the lucky ones. Dana managed to look past her own blood, past Emily, to the open sky. Beyond the boardroom, the world still seemed so real. She clung to the soft hum of the wind, to the distant honks of traffic down below.

She tried to remember what reality felt like. When you were a kid, do you remember hearing that if you died in a nightmare, you died in real life? Will spat chunks of something internal and weased out a chuckle. Want to see if that's true? Emily winked to Dana. Dana felt the air change as rain started falling outside. It smelled so clean, so inviting. She suddenly knew why there wasn't a window.

Good magic can be enthralling. You can be captivated by amazing sleight of hand and tricks, sorry, illusions. But an average magician can be much less entertaining. And in this tale, shared with us by author Larry Hinkle, we meet the amazing Eric, a mid-rate magician who finds himself, not the audience, in a captivated position. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson and Aaron Lillis. So stay alert and keep your eyes focused.

You don't want to miss anything in your blind spot. A dull ache. Somewhere near my left eye pulls me from my sleep. I open my eyes and gas. as a wave of nausea rolls over me. I close my eyes again and wait for it to pass. When I'm fairly certain I won't throw up, I try to rub my head, but my arms won't move.

I slowly reopen my eyes one at a time. The room isn't spinning quite as fast this time. The groan escapes me as I realize I'm ducted to a chair. Not again. How much did I drink last night? The last thing I remember is walking to my car after the show. The room had been half empty, just like the bottle waiting backstage. Turns out there's nothing magical about Monday night at an Omaha mall,

even for a magician whose best tricks were of the mental variety. Reading minds, guessing cards, that sort of thing. On the coasts, the crowds want bigger, weirder Chris Angel's shit. But here in the heartland, the rubs eat that meniless crap up. Of course, I'm pretty good at making things disappear, too. Vodka and oxy before the show, an occasional rabbit during, depending on the crowd. And on a good night, more vodka in the unmentionables of a fan or two afterward. On a bad night, just more vodka.

Clearly, it had not been a good night. While this wasn't the first time I'd awake and strapped to a chair, it was the first I couldn't remember enthusiastically agreeing to beforehand. The air is damped with a vague chemical smell. Dust moats dance in a beam of light coming from a window somewhere above and behind me, A basement? A dressing mirror leans against the wall in front of me. The picture it reflects is a far cry from my publicity poster.

A golf ball-sized knot above my left eye looks ready to burst. Feels like it too. My jacket and tie are gone. Blood and vomit ribbon down my shirt. A topographic map of pain and bodily fluids. An angry cut runs from my temple down to the corner of my mouth. That's going to leave a killer scar. Maybe I should rephrase that.

I try rocking the chair back and forth, then side to side, but the damn thing won't move. Who the hell fastens a chair to the floor? And why? Help! Shit. My skull feels like someone fucked. with an ice pick. The room spins again.

I ignore it. Hello? Is anyone there? I say it's softer this time. But the pain still makes my eyes water. Silence. Fuck it. I have to get out of here.

I'll deal with the headache later. Help. Don't waste your breath. A woman's voice. I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror before she disappears into the dark. Too afraid to move, I sit still and try to keep my wits about me. Unfortunately, my wits have a plan of their own and have gathered en masse in the vicinity of my sphincter. If she doesn't come back, don't be an idiot, I tell myself, of course she'll come back.

Why knock someone out and duct tape them to a chair and a cellar if all you're going to do is starve them to death? even by my showman standards. That's a lot of setup for such an anticlimactic payoff. What if she brings back someone bigger and batterer with a pension for power tools? Okay, that could be a problem. What if she wakes up the gimp? Even worse? What if I'm the gimp?

Maybe starving to death wouldn't be so bad after all. If I could just get a hand free, And it's a big if. Is there anything in the basement I could use? For the first time in my career, I regret not adding more escape tricks to my act. Now, look around. Patches of mold, spider of the cinder block walls. In the corner to my left are a few flattened cardboard boxes and a pile of clothes and shoes.

A handful of newspapers and magazines. scattered than the other. The mirror shows a large wooden cabinet about six feet directly behind me. Glass jars and bottles of various shapes and sizes line each shelf. I don't want to know what's floating in them. A low, painful groan breaks the silence. I whip my head from side to side but can't see anything. The effort makes me dizzy, and I close my eyes for a moment.

The sound of ragged wet breathing, sharp intakes of air in slow, flimmy exhalations, punctuated by the smell of rotten meat. It brings me closer to a panic, but I fight it down. Claws click across the cement floor as something paces in the darkness behind me. What's wrong with it? Has she tortured it? Isn't that how serial killers get their start? Should I call out to it? What if it tries to bite me?

I freeze. Unable to decide. The panting grows louder. It's the woman again. Has she been watching me all this time? What? She finally walks out to where I can see her. She opens a folding metal chair and sits down a few feet away.

I said, you woke Mancha. She snaps her fingers and whistles. Come on, Mancha. Come your boy. Meet the amazing Eric. The man with the magic eye. Muncha crawls out of the darkness. I scream.

Muncha. An average-sized beagle with short hair and floppy black ears gives me a puzzled look. His left eye has two pupils, where his right should be is an empty socket. His tail wags, while a second broken one spasms and twitches, tracing small, sad shapes in the dust. A fifth leg, shriveled and black, hangs uselessly from his side. Every inhalation through Mancha's nose is followed by a foul, wet outgrowth from a second mouth in his chest. This lower mouth is lined with rows of needle-like teeth.

My eyes bulge as Mancha shuffles closer. His useless second tail flopping behind him. He opens his mouths. As small in the mirrors the movements of the larger and licks my toes. It's all I can do to do. not scream again. After a few seconds, Moncha sets his head down atop

my foot and goes to sleep. Mancha seems to like you. That's good. What the hell's wrong with him? She bends down and rubs Mancha's head, ignoring my question. I know he's not much to look at these days, but he's still a good dog.

Good boy. The dog's important to her. Maybe I can use that. My catalogued details about her appearance as I would before reading. Searching for something, anything useful. She's average looking with a plain face. 30, maybe 35 years old. Mousy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Average height and weight. Short, unpolished fingernails. No jewelry. I know I've seen us somewhere before, but can't place where. An itch I can't scratch. It must be the knot on my head. Memory is one of the strongest tricks in my bag. And my recall for faces is usually impeccable.

Who are you? It doesn't matter who I am. Her voice is quiet. nondescript What matters is what I can do I flinch as she reaches over and brushes the hair back from my cut I'm sorry about that

you're a lot heavier than you look we dropped you down the last few steps you should join the gym that's a great idea if you let me go I promise I'll sign up as soon as I get home I'll even get myself a personal trainer I try to smile, but it feels toothy and forced.

I crushed my heart, but my hand. I shrug. Also, I don't hope to die. She smiles a sad, crooked smile that never touches her eyes. She leans forward and pats my knee. A gesture I might have considered friendly, even flirtatious, under different circumstances. Maybe we can talk about it after we're finished here. My heart jumps.

You mean you're not gonna kill me? Of course not. Why would you even think such a thing? I look around at the room, then down at my hands and feet. Fair enough. I can see where it's a little confusing. And what are you gonna do to me? She looks away. Is it going to hurt?

I hope not. Cold sweat runs down my back. What do you mean? She ignores my question. Have you ever thought about your blind spot, Eric? Technically, it's the point where the optic nerve enters your eyeball. Since it doesn't have any rods or cones that respond to light, any image that falls on that spot disappears from sight.

Hence the name blind spot. She shines a small flashlight into my left eye. then my right she clicks off the light and continues everyone with a properly functioning eyeball has one well two really since there's one in each eye I blink rapidly trying to clear the stars from my eyes

you also have a figurative blind spot where the things you don't pay attention to disappear the shadow passes over her face eye falling to that blind spot spot with most people, especially men like you. I try to look sorry. Don't worry, I'm used to it.

I know she's lying. I'm plain looking. I wear boring clothes. I'm the kind of girl you see, but never really see. I mean, how do you think I got you down here last night? Were you at my show? She pulls out of program. Don't you remember?

I was the only one. who stayed to get your autograph. I even asked you if you'd use the Balducci maneuver on your last card trick. You ignored my question and scribbled your name. She holds up the cover for me to see and reads the inscription. I'll be seeing you, the amazing Eric. And you dotted the eye in your name with a little cartoon eye. Cute.

I flashed my best showman's smile. Fewer teeth. More sincerity. I'm surprised your magic eye didn't warn you about me. She tosses the program to the floor. I hate to break it to you. But I don't really have a magic eye. It's just an act.

I know, Eric, I'm not an idiot. But I do. She taps the corner of her right eye. It's the same mousy shade of brown as her hair. Mine can't see into the future or read minds, but it can make things disappear. She laughs. I know it sounds crazy. No, it doesn't.

It doesn't? No. It sounds bad shit insane. Nobody can make something really disappear. Trust me. I know. This means. Makes her laugh even harder.

I can't take it any longer. Who are you? The veins in my neck pop as I strain against my palms. Where are we? What are you going to do to me? Well, aren't you just a little chatty-cathy all of a sudden? Her eyes narrow. To answer your first question, my name is Annie.

And I'm your number. number one fan. Oh, shit. Sorry, I'm just playing with you. She flashes a grin that's instantly forgettable. My name really is Annie, but I'd never heard of you until I saw your poster in the mall last week. And based on your act, someone would have to be crazy to be your fan. Your misdirection was pathetic.

Your card forces were beyond blatant. and your mind reading tricks were total amateur hour. I've seen Bettercraft at a five-year-old's birthday party. She walks behind me and squeezes my shoulders. To answer your second question, we're about 20 miles outside of Omaha on a small farm with no neighbors within earshot. That's why I don't care if you scream.

And as for what I'm going to do to you? She leans in and whispers I'm going to show you the world's greatest What are you talking about? Haven't you figured it out yet, Eric? I'm going to make you disappear.

With a renewed burst of energy, I try to free myself bouncing in my chair and straining against the tape until it cuts into my flesh. I try screaming. But stop when Munch's tiny mouth howls along. A high-pitched sound that cuts like a dentist's drill.

When I finish, Annie crosses back in front of me. Feel better? Not particularly. Well, then maybe some magic will cheer you up. Are you ready? Do I have a choice? Not really. Will you let me go after you show me your little trick?

Annie nods. Promise? Uh, yes. Then I guess I'm ready. Let's see it. Let's see it? She claps her hands. Oh, Eric, that's rich.

You could be rich if you let me go. I look around the basement. Well, at least a little better off than you are now. I might play the mall circuit. but I've stashed away a lot of cash over the years more than enough to get you off this farm I'll even give you a cut of my next tour

I don't need your money Eric but I do need a volunteer from the audience anyone I stare at her really she looks around the room then down at me looks like we have a volunteer right up here in the front what's your name sir

I don't answer Oh, a shy one. She places her hands under my chin and lifts my head. I refuse to meet her eyes. You're in for her real treat tonight, Eric. Because I'm going to break the number one rule of magic. Do you know what the number one rule of magic is? Never reveal the secret to a trick.

That's right. Never revealed a secret. But I'm going to make an exception. you. In fact, I'm going to tell you the secret to my trick before I even do it. Ready? The secret is. There is no secret. I can just look at something and make it disappear. No misdirection, no slight of hand. That's impossible. Remember when we talk about blind spots? It wasn't because I'm an optometry nerd. It was the setup for my trick. She takes a step back. If I look at something and move my head so it sits in my blind spot...

She turns her head slightly to the left. It disappears from my sight, just like it would for you. And when I look back... She straightens her head. It reappears. You with me? I nod. She pulls an apple from her pocket.

But... And this is a big butt, Eric. If I shut my eye when the object is in my blind spot and then look somewhere else when I open my eye again, poof! It disappears in real life. No way. Wait! I mean, obviously only part of the object has to actually be in my blind spot for it to work.

It's not like I can fit an entire car in there. She rolls her eyes. I'm not sure how it works. but I know it's what I concentrate on that matters. She jams the apple between my thighs. Here, you try. I stare at the apple. My eyes burn a hole in it.

I don't just want to make it disappear. I want to smash her face with it to make applesauce with her blood and snot. Can't do it, can you? Tied up like this. No. Well, I'm not going to untie you. But I'll show you how it's done.

Step one is taking this damn contact out. She pulls down her lower right eyelid and pinches the lens. Okay, that's better? She blinks several times in rapid succession, then looks at me. What do you think? The iris of her eye is tied. orange, with white stripes radiating outward from the center.

Her pupil is blacker than any I've ever seen. I can't tell in this light, but I think it might be rotating, like a prop from a hypnosis trick. Is that real? My mind drifts. It's beautiful. You flatter me. I can't stop staring at her eye.

Yes. Her pupil is definitely rotating. Annie snaps her fingers in front of my face. Pay attention, Eric, I need you to watch this, okay? She gets on her knees in front of me and places her hands on my thighs, then looks up at me and bats her eyes. Don't get any ideas. I know how guys like you think. I just want you to see me and the apple at the same time. No misdirection.

Fine. Hush! We need to concentrate on the apple or it won't work right. She stares at the apple. Her pupil spins faster. She takes a deep breath and turns her head a bit to the left and shuts her right eye. A breeze blows through the room. Is her a window open?

She counts to five under her breath and looks up at me and opens her eye. The apple disappear. My jaw drops. What the... You're trying to figure out how I did it, huh? She beams. I told you it's not a trick. The apple's really gone.

I try to cover my shop with a joke. You couldn't have set the apple on the table? Jesus. If your aim had been off just a little, you could have made my dick disappear. Your dick was safe, Eric. I told you, I have to really concentrate on the object. And that's an image I don't want in my head.

She shakes and disgust. I don't know how it works. It is magic, after all. But I know how to control it. So, has your eye always looked like that? I ask. I need to keep her talking. No.

She walks to the mirror and pools at her lower eyelid. Ironically, it started after a botched Lasic operation at the mall where I found you. Electrical surge. Want enough in the lawsuit to buy this farm. There's a life lesson for you. Don't trust your sight to a strip mall surgeon. She turns around and smiles. Now, where were we?

Finish it. I say, desperately try. to buy a little more time. What do you mean? Finish it. Finish the trick. So you made the apple disappear. Big deal. That's the easy part. A real magician could bring it back.

Oh, I never claimed to be a real magician. I said I could do magic. Big difference. She frowns. And I never said anything about bringing it back. You said you let me go after you made me disappear. If you can't bring the apple back, how are you going to bring me back? I never said I couldn't bring it back either.

But for this trick, you're going to bring the apple back. Is that what happened to Mancha? Did you send your dog to fetch an apple? And bring him back as a misshaping freak? Moncha looks up at the mention of his name. No offense, buddy. She gasps. Don't be shocked, Annie.

It wasn't hard to figure out. You made Moncha disappear, didn't you? And when you brought him back, he looked. Well... Sort of? I nod. I'm sorry, Annie. What happened?

Don't know. I told you. I have to really focus on something to make it disappear. But he started barking right as I was making some... She catches herself. Something disappear, and he broke my concentration. She wipes away a tear. He reappeared a few hours later, like everything else does.

I freeze. Everything else? All the jars behind you? Those are some of the other things I may disappear. I look in the mirror at the things floating in the jars. I can almost make out what they used to be, if I use my imagination. They're rodents, mostly, mice, rats, squirrels, few birds. They all came back wrong and dead.

Always dead. She looks down at Mancha I swear I didn't mean to make him disappear It just happened But he came back alive I didn't know why at first But eventually I figured it out It's because he's smarter than those other animals

It has to be right I bite my tongue She walks over to Manchin's bed Squads down and rubs his neck He looks awful now But inside, he's still the same sweet soul he's always been. Right, baby? She looks up at me.

I can see the anguish in her eyes. Well, in the left one at least. But he can't tell me what happened to him. And I can. That's why I picked you, Eric. If anyone can understand my powers, it's you. I know you're not a real magician, but you understand how magic works.

But I don't know anything about magical powers. Annie, my tricks are just tricks. There's no such thing as real magic. At least, that's what I thought up until a few minutes ago. I look at Mancha, then back at my captor. I smile. I think. Maybe I can help you.

Really? You'll help me? I'll try. I almost have her now. But you have to take the tape off me first. She jumps up and backs away from Mancha. Why would I do that? I keep my voice calm and level. Think about it, Annie.

What if there's something terrible over there? And I have to defend myself. How can I do that? If I'm duct tape to a chair. That won't happen. There's nothing over there that can hurt you. How do you know that, Annie? Did Mancha tell you? Oh, that's right.

Monsha can't tell you anything. Her eyes widen. I'm sorry, Annie. That was mean. But you can see my point, can't you? I'll tell you what happened to Monsha. I promise. But first, you have to cut this tape.

No, no, no, no, no, no! Any pieces back and forth. You're just trying to trick me. If I cut you loose, you'll just run away. You won't help me. Someone like you would never help someone like me on his own. I feel this situation slipping out of control. Someone like me.

Yes, someone like you. Her eye is glowing now. Someone who thinks they're better than everyone else. Someone who wouldn't give a woman like me the time of day if you weren't taped to a chair in my basement. That's not true, Annie. I nervously licked my lips and try not to stare at her eye. Of course it's true. You didn't even remember that I asked for your autograph last night.

I was the only person who did, and you didn't remember me. You're right. I didn't remember you. Not at first. My mind is racing, searching for the right words. But come on. I just woke up. I didn't know where it was or what happened to me. Plus, I have this nasty bump on my head. I was lucky I remembered my own name. But I remember you now. You do? Of course I do. You were the...

There. You liked all my tricks. You even laughed at my lame jokes. And when the show ended, you came up and got my autograph. I remember. I sigh. I'm back in control. What was I wearing? Shit. I'm sorry. What? I asked, what was I wearing? If you remember all that stuff about me, Surely you remember what I was wearing, don't you? Um... How about where I was sitting?

Do you remember that? Was I with anyone else, or was I there by myself? Do you remember any of that, or were you just lying to me, so I'll let you go? Annie, please calm down, and we can... I will not calm down! She kicks the folding chair across the room. You don't get to tell me to do anything. Anything.

You got that? Muncha's mouths bark in unison. The discordant sound that makes me wits. Jesus, what was I thinking? What did I ever think you would help me? You're such an idiot. She pulls at her hair. Shut up, Monsha.

Mommy can't concentrate. Muncha whimpers and crawls into the corner. Annie marches toward me and pokes my chest. Listen to me, Eric. You're going to help me. Fuck off. I'm not helping you do anything. She grabs me by the throat and pushes my head back. Yes, you are. Whether you want you or not, you, of all people, should appreciate my gift and what I can do with it. I'm special!

Don't you get it? She lets go of me and takes a step back. She looks at the piles of clothes in the corner. No, you're just like all the others. Others? You could come back totally fine, you know? You're smart, the smartest one yet. If you didn't have such a shitty attitude,

you probably would come back fine. But no, you have to be such a baby about it. She rubs her eyes like she's crying. Make me disappear? What? I'll tell you the same thing I told the others. If something bad happens to you, it's your fault. Not mine.

If you come back with eyes on your chest or a cock on your forehead, it's your fault. I spit in her face. She slaps me. You shouldn't have that math. She wipes the saliva from her cheek. Fuck you, Annie. Fuck me. Funny.

It looks like you're the one who's about to get fucked, Eric. She pushes my head back until my neck pops. Her pupil is rotating so fast now. It's as if I'm looking into a tornado. Am I still in your blind spot, Eric? Because you're about to be in mine. Her grip tightens. I'm going to make you disappear now.

And don't worry about the apple. It'll show up by itself in a few hours. You just pay attention so you can tell me what it's like over there when you come back. I need to know what happens to the things I make disappear. Do you think you can do that? She lets go of my neck. My head snaps forward. Well?

I squeeze my eyes shot and shake my head, trying not to cry. You can shut your eyes all you want, Eric. It won't make a difference. I can still see you. Mancha, say goodbye to Eric. Mancha's mouths yip in unison. I open my eyes and look up at her. Eddie, please.

You don't have to do this. She kisses me on the forehead, then leans back. turns her head and closes her eye orange light threatens to burn through her island an icy wind whips through the room blowing the newspaper clippings in a circle around near the ceiling the captain behind he shakes jars rattle against each other

one falls to the ground and shatters The smell of formaldehyde fills my nostrils as the room around me grows dark Trust me, Harry. It's for the best. This voice whispers out of the darkness. This night, poetic works from darkness alight. We leave you with this a question on a theme. Is all that we see or seem,

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 Sleep Podcast.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 Pass 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. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.