The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep24: NoSleep Podcast S19E24

Episode Date: July 16, 2023

It’s Episode 24 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about vicious visitors.“Kaleidoscope Eyes” written by Duncan Rivers (Story starts around 00:04:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson“A Monster Is Coming to Dinner” written by John Beardify (Story starts around 00:14:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Mother – Nikolle Doolin“Die Smiling” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 00:26:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Ritchie Englander – David Cummings, Evaline Grassley – Nichole Goodnight“Man on the Street” written by Josh Schlossberg (Story starts around 01:09:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Man – Jesse Cornett, Woman – Danielle McRae“The Dancer at the Red Door” written by Douglas Smith (Story starts around 01:25:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Alexander King – Peter Lewis, The Dancer – Sarah Thomas, Beroald – David Ault, Shelby – Jesse CornettThis episode is sponsored by:ZocDoc - Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Duncan RiversClick here to learn more about John BeardifyClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaClick here to learn more about Josh SchlossbergClick here to learn more about Douglas SmithExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Die Smiling” illustration courtesy of JörnAudio 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. Raise yourself for the no sleep. Come to the No Slate podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. Season 19 has reached its penultimate episode.

It feels like this season has flown by, like a raven being chased by a black cat. We sincerely hope you've enjoyed spending some time getting to know Edgar Allan Poe a bit better. His influence on the world of literature and poetry really can't be overstated. And even though season 19's Tell-tale heartbeat is slowly fading.

We still have plenty of excitement left for you. Here's what's happening for the remainder of this month. Next week, we're going to do something a little special. We're going to release an episode recorded at the Stanley Hotel last November during the Doctor Sleepless at the Stanley event. We'll have a number of original stories performed by the No Sleep Team, including another chapter from the Goat Valley Campground series, written especially for the live show.

and we'll also feature some stories in which we were joined live on stage by our special guests, Kate Siegel, Samantha Sloane, and Mike Flanagan. That really was such a fun event, and what a thrill to be on stage with those three wonderfully talented people. So that's No Sleep Live at the Stanley coming out the weekend of July 22nd. The following week will be the big season 19 finale. We have some great tales lined up for that one, including one very special. tale. Making her return to the No Sleep podcast is author C.K. Walker. She's written a story especially for our two main guest stars for the finale, the very same aforementioned Kate Siegel and Samantha

Sloyan. In the story, they play two sisters who, oh wait, no, no, no, I won't say anymore. Don't want to spoil anything for you. Suffice it to say that you won't want to miss this thrilling episode featuring Kate, Sam, and even a guest cameo by Mr. Kate Siegel himself, Mike Flanagan, the creator and director of the upcoming miniseries, The Fall of the House of Usher, based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe. I mean, dear God, can you feel the electricity generated by the synergy of all this? We have a live episode with Kate, Sam, and Mike, followed by the season finale featuring Kate, Sam, and Mike. And all this happens a scant few months, before the release of an Edgar Allan Poe-based miniseries by Mike,

featuring Kate and Sam and Mark Hamill and so many other great stars. I mean, this is all coming together to generate enough power to swing a huge pendulum over a pit which will undoubtedly slice all of us in half as the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe rises from his grave to send us all into the ground with him in a mass premature burial. I dare say the next two weeks, weeks are ones for which you'll want to fully brace yourself. But before all that, we have tales for you this week that feature strange visitors who

suddenly come at tapping, like someone gently rapping, wrapping at your chamber door. Only this, yet so much more. 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 man who has just met death. That's right, the grim reaper. But his appearance isn't what we usually think of when we picture death. And in this tale, shared with us by author Duncan Rivers,

the man prepares himself for his imminent demise as death comes to claim him. Strange that it's taking so long. Performing this tale is Atticus Jackson. So when your time has come, you might see the dark cloak and the scythe ready to claim you, or you might see kaleidoscope eyes. Death doesn't drape himself in a great black cloak or bare in hand a scythe, but he does have kaleidoscope eyes. They watch me from the edge of the woods while I whip the donkeys down every row.

I noticed them there right away, but I tell myself that if I ignore them, maybe they'll go away. I know this to be untrue, but it keeps me from sweating too much through the work. I'm set to die this day. That's what these eyes mean. He's just waiting for me to slip up, probably laughing to himself as the darkest of thoughts raced through my mind. By lunch, nothing's changed. I had hoped my death would come swift and unexpected in the morning so I could get it over with. Instead, I sip my rice pudding slowly, peering over my wife's shoulders every minute or so to make sure the eyes are still watching. She hasn't mentioned them yet, nor have the kids. But that's because they're meant for me, I assume.

When the donkeys and I finish the final row, the sun is already beginning to set. The kaleidoscope eyes are still watching, and I take one last good look around the field for anything that could do me in. I should feel relieved that nothing's gone awry just yet, but instead it strains my mind with anticipation as I make my way inside for supper. My biggest fear now is that my heart will give out from all the tension, but something tells me it won't come that easily. Is something wrong, my wife finally asks. when I haven't yet begun on my lamb chops. Staring out the window with the kaleidoscope eyes, I don't hear her question.

It's not until she kicks me under the table that I snap back and tell her that I'm fine. We put the kids to bed, and I spend a little longer giving each one a firm kiss on the forehead. I have no success in trying to fall asleep, which has never been a problem for me. My wife has been out for nearly an hour. But with thoughts of those eyes getting the better of me,

I get out from under the covers and make my way out of our bedroom. I stay quiet as I approach the fireplace, not wishing to wake the family as the clock approaches midnight. I start a fire, stoking it well, so it will still burn hardy for them when they wake. If I am to die tonight, as the eyes have indicated to me, I'd at least like to leave them one last warm embrace for the morning. I then light my lantern and make my way out into the night.

I march across the field with authority, straight towards the kaleidoscope eyes which stare at me, unblinking, just as they have all day. When I get close enough to the tree line, I hold my lantern up to the abyss and narrow my eyes at death. Well, are you having fun? I don't find out what death sounds like. He stays quiet as his eyes keep on flickering at me.

Without any better ideas, I step into the woods and approach him. No matter how far I walk into the brush, the eyes don't seem to get any closer. They recede further still into the dark of the wood, until after what feels like forever. I see them before me. I hold my lantern out now to be sure that what I'm seeing is true. And then I laugh to myself, harder than I can ever remember. I laugh until my belly aches. And then I collect myself and look at it again.

It is not eyes at all, but a double-ended gyrindol. Fastened to the side of a grand old oak tree. A small candle is lit on either side, set down in two chalises with tinted glass and slits, so the light can dance through. I wonder to myself who could be so waggish as to play a trick like this on me. Then I step back and admire the candles again. Without my lamplight to reveal the trickery, they do look more than anything like a set of death's own eyes.

Once I'm finished laughing over my day of consternation, I blow both the candles out and make the walk back towards my farm. Just like the way in, it takes a while for me to navigate back to my field. But within a minute I emerge into the open again. It's just as I'm delighting myself in the thought of telling my wife this story tomorrow, that I see the horror I left behind. Our house is lit up in flames, strands of fire reaching high into the night sky from out our windows, and smoke billowing out through every crack in the roof.

I know in an instant that it was my fire, the one I left behind that set the place of lays. I start to run towards my burning house, but I stop myself just before the front door. I'm too late to hear any of their screams. They're already gone. I know. A great, unfathed,

The breathable darkness rises up inside of me. And when I turn back to the tree line, I see them again. The kaleidoscope eyes. The ones I blew out, stare back at me still, unblinking. I take a deep breath, knowing it must be nearing midnight. Then I walk inside my burning house and let the flames take me. It's not uncommon for parents to tell their children to behave better because some special person is watching over them. Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, angels, kids are motivated to be good for goodness sake.

But in this tale, shared with us by author John Beardify, we meet a boy who was encouraged to be on his best behavior because of a certain dinner guest about to arrive. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement and Nicole Doolin. So forget about Santa's nice list. You'll want to be good for more important reasons when a monster is coming to dinner. A monster is coming to dinner tonight. You need to be on your best behavior. I was eight that summer,

and good manners weren't exactly one of my strong points. I nodded, but that wasn't good enough for my mother. She grabbed my shoulders, shook me, and looked into my eyes. I need you to really listen to me now, all right? I mean your absolute best behavior. Don't speak to the monster unless spoken to. Don't eat any of the monster's food. Don't follow the monster anywhere.

And call the monster, sir, nothing else. Understand? I didn't, not at all, but said that I did. Apparently satisfied my mother went off to work in the garden. I was left to my own devices. Those were usually my favorite moments of the day. I had the dark, empty house all to myself. There was no one to yell at me if I kicked a ball against the wall

or crawled around on the floor pretending to be a soldier behind enemy lines. That day, however, I was too troubled to enjoy any of my games. What would the monster look like? Why was the monster coming to dinner? Why were my parents acting so strange? The monster seemed to be everywhere. The twisted shadows cast by the garden trees looked like the monster's long fingers.

The wind that rattled the empty shed sounded like the monster's breaths. The dark, musty odor of the basement smelled like the monster's hair. And so on. My imagination ran wild. I didn't dare to look for weird bugs in the damp darkness beneath the patio, sure that I'd turn around and see the monster's jaws opening wide right behind me. I was afraid to close my eyes while I washed my hair, sure that if I did, I'd feel the monster's enormous hand to close around my scalp.

At sunset, my mother told me the monster would be here soon. We set up a table in the garden beneath the grapevines. We covered it with a tablecloth that looked. like a funeral sheet. My mother placed our few remaining wax candles at intervals along the table, while my father filled a chipped ceramic bowl with all the food we had left, a few carrots and a withered apple. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

My parents stood on either side of the table like two undertakers, lost in thought. Their faces were pale, grim masks. I felt hot and stupt. stuffy in my stiff formal clothes. There was an uneasy lump in my gut and I had to pee. I wiggled my foot in the dirt and wished that something, anything, would happen. When three heavy knocks came at the door, I wanted to take back my wish. It was the kind of knock that admits no doubt, the kind that says, I'm coming in one way or another.

My father let out a ragged breath and went to answer the door. My mother pinched my cheeks, combed my hair, and straightened out my clothes. She walked me down the hallway, which felt longer and darker than ever before. She pointed to a faded picture on the wall. Can you tell me who those two girls are? I answered immediately. My sisters. I couldn't remember the two girls in the photo.

Not the tall, curly-haired one hanging off of my father with her tongues sticking out, nor the short, serious one hiding from the camera behind my mother's dress. And do you know where they are now? I shook my head. One night like this one, the monster came to visit, and your sisters weren't on their best behavior. We haven't seen them since. Understand?

My mother forced me to list off her instructions, counting them one by one on my clean scrubbed fingers. Don't speak to the monster unless spoken to. Don't eat any of the monster's food. Don't follow the monster anywhere. Call the monster sir and nothing else. Unfamiliar footsteps lumbered down the hallway toward us. An unfamiliar voice boomed through the house. It was time.

I was confused at first. Why was my father talking to the monster? Why was my mother suddenly so nice? The monster had huge, hairy hands. It smelled like sulfur and dust and stood at least a head taller than my father. But otherwise, it seemed human to me. At least it did

until I looked into its eyes. They were hazel-colored and cheerful like my mother's, but there was something behind them, something wrong, something that made me think of an endlessly hungry beast wandering through cold and darkness somewhere far away. I shuddered. I could only stand with my mouth open in shock

when the monster tussled my hair, then asked me if I was studying hard and respecting my parents like a good boy. Mm-hmm. I mean, yes, sir. I saved myself at the last moment. The monster nodded approvingly and started talking to my father

with big words I didn't understand. Something about bridge aids and counterband. The monster, The monster slammed a huge sack onto the table we'd set up outside, took out a couple of bottles of something red with a smell that burned my nose, then poured a glass of it for each of us. Next came a hunk of preserved meat. My mouth watered as the monster cut it into slivers and placed them onto plates for us. My mother bit her lip and clenched her hands into fists. My father struggled to keep up his conversation with the monster,

but his eyes kept drifting to the food and drink. I knew how badly my father must have wanted it, because my stomach was rumbling too. The monster pushed a plate and glass toward me with a big, toothy smile. No scent was ever so sweet as those slivers of cured meat and hot, smelling ruby liquid. My parents looked at me with pleading eyes. Your best behavior.

Eat any of the monster's food. I rubbed my fingers together unconsciously. I was so, so hungry. The monster winked at me. The monster's eyes seemed to say, they won't dare stop you while I'm here. My eyes drifted back down to my plate. With a final, guilty look into my mother's eyes, I dug in.

It was the best thing I'd ever tasted. The drink burned my throat and made my head fuzzy, but even that felt good. Slice by slice, I filled my belly. With the drink humming in my veins, I could ignore my parents' pale, bitter, faces. Insects buzzed in the garden, stars twinkled behind the grapevines. The monster chomped and gaffod as midnight slipped by and a new day began. At some point I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember was the monster's hairy hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. It was time to leave, the monster said. I'd eaten here.

his food, and now it was time to go make more. Wouldn't I like that? I stood grogly as if in a dream, until my mother's hand shoved me back down into my chair. The atmosphere suddenly changed. It was as if a bolt of lightning had split the sky. The monster spun on my mother with a face contorted by rage, but she stood on her tiptoes until she could whisper into its ear.

The monster listened for a moment, then nodded. My father grabbed my hand and took me beneath the shadows of the porch. I didn't understand why he was leading me back into the house until I heard the rusty garden gate shriek open. He didn't want to watch my mother leaving with the monster. there was cold disappointment in the way he let go of my hand at the door to my bedroom, then drifted off into the darkness like a lonely ghost. Years later, I learned about the war that racked my country during my childhood

and the starvation that followed, as well as the bandit brigades who dealt in contraband and fed on human flesh. I was only a child when I met my first monster. But I was an adult before I understood that monsters are real. The past three years have taught us a lot about how we as a society can handle a global pandemic. Now imagine what will happen in the next 20-odd years when the next big pandemic hits one far deadlier. As we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Marcus Demanda, A group of elites have chosen to ride out the carnage in their own underground city,

safe and secure from the infected hordes on the surface. I join Graham Rowett and Nicole Goodnight in performing this tale. So don your masks, but not for the red death. This one will wipe that grin off your face, even when you die smiling. The music stops. The flashes of intermittent prismatic light blink out in favor of bright, continuous white. The glitter ball that hangs from the ceiling goes still,

and on the dance floor everyone freezes in place. All eyes turn to the intercom above the stage. At the tone, the time will be 11 p.m. The tone sounds, a single electronic chime that is a better-than-average representation of a clearly rung bell, one that would be small in size. It sound quite beautiful,

and inviting, unthreatening in any way, and yet the people do not move. The smiles beneath their masks, betrayed by the delighted little crinkles about the eyes, disappear. They wait. Their faces are anxious. Anticipation hovers about them and over them and among them, like an invisible, poisonous cloud, or perhaps an airborne virus. Gates one through seven remain secure. No, brinket. No, brinked. breaches have been detected. Fortifications remain strong. Air quality remains pure. The glittering city remains uncontaminated. Population. Zero infiltrators. They wait. One host. Richie Englander checks his panoray luminer watch as though it would show some other time than the one the voice of his own security system declares. And one thousand guests. It is 11 p.m.

all is well. For a moment, the room darkens. But then the brightly colored flashes of light flicker back to life. The band resumes playing, and the glitter ball recommenses its rotation. Under the blinking, shutter-shot party lights, the revelry kicks right back in as though there had been no pause in the first place, no trepidation, no fear that anything would be any different now than it had been for the past six months. I do not know what everyone's so worried about, why they always stop at the sound of that voice. It's only me, the same voice they've always heard, anonymously telling them the truth of their situation every hour on the hour. You would think they'd be used to me by now. They've lived with me for a long, long time. Anyway, they get over themselves soon enough. Tonight's a night for celebration.

Soon there will be champagne and cocktails. Later there will be games and conversation. Agreements will be struck, arrangements made. There'll be sex until the morning light, though none of them will see that light. No one in the glittering city has seen the sun in six months, and they don't miss it. Not down here, where heaven has been buried underground. No one throws a party like Richie Englander, and nowhere did he ever throw it better than in the glittering city he spent.

spent 20 years preparing in secret. He finished, seemingly, just in time, escaping all responsibility to his fellow man and cheating death in its moment of triumph. Here he now lives, making the most out of every meaningless day, drinking in the excesses of every debauchery known to the human experience. All while, on the outside, above ground, the world hastens swiftly to its end.

There's your typical alpha-numeric designation for this one, which is but the latest plague to have ravaged the world in this final age of the so-called dominion of man. But if there are any left to speak of it after it has run its course, they will remember it only as the grinning death. A cold irony, this symptom which is also the namesake of the virus. So many have taken to wearing masks these days, hiding their smile. It begins with the bleeding of the gums, then the separation of the teeth as the gumline expands,

and eventually cracks between the fissures where the roots of the teeth are anchored. This early stage, playfully referred to as the joke among the uninfected, is not fatal, but it does result in the contraction of the facial muscles. This, in turn, produces that final mask of hilarity. Rizus Sardanicus, as it is called in the site. scientific community, or just the rictus grin to the layperson. From there, the deterioration and the rot expand. The typical subject will spit out their own tongue

before the roof of the mouth and the lower jaw succumb to an increasingly rapid disintegration. The subject, if not otherwise killed, will generally still be alive at this point, provided they haven't choked to death on their own dislodged teeth. Typically, death comes with the eventual collapse of the skull, the interior collision of brain matter with what shards of bone and cartilage yet remain. All of this, from the first dribble of gum blood to the end of a person's life, takes roughly half an hour, a bit less with the elderly, the infirm, or the very young, perhaps as long as 40 minutes if the subject is hail and healthy and in the prime of life.

None of this troubled Richie Englander, as he had never witnessed this phenomenon of grotesquery in person. He knew of it from the first, naturally. He was a well-connected man, and had, in fact, been preparing for an outbreak such as this for some time. It was in the first year of the coronavirus, 20 years prior, that he'd had the foresight to begin battening down his proverbial hatches. He'd only begun growing his wealth at the time, associating himself. with and investing himself in businesses that thrived under quarantine. Buying out the local stores of their toilet paper before it occurred to anyone else that there might be a shortage, all while enjoying the luxury of a bidet in his private apartment, he thought a good joke at the time.

But it also became an inspiration. Makers of N95 masks, protective gloves and respirators, not to mention food delivery services and cable television networks, found themselves well financed by Richie Englander for 18 months or so. Technology that had to be both developed and deployed on the fly in order to conduct business and education from home, flourished under his watch and filled his already considerable coffers. As the money came in, our boy Richie found that purchasing land once leased to brick-and-mortar retail outlets could be accomplished at a fraction of the cost it would have once demanded. His ever-roving eye found itself fixated on an underground shopping mall in Northern Virginia.

Richie Englander, from the beginning, seemed to have an uncanny ability to see things before they happened. He got out of the quarantine business just before it ceased being so profitable. He redirected his financing to the reopening of America at just the right moment in time. He was a billionaire at 25 years old, and his keen eye for future developments was never wrong. Not then. He saw the coming waves of pestilence in his mind before they turned into reality. Well ahead of the final disaster, by slow degrees, he converted his underground city of commerce into an automated fortress.

The whole world knew his name, but not his purpose. They praised his philanthropy and advanced his charities. Richie Englander knew all of the best and most important people, but few, if any, knew him. And then one day, when he was still in his early 40s, Richie Englander, along with 1,000 of his favorite people, disappeared. Strange, people thought, that he should become a recluse in the first days of the grinning death, but they didn't make much of it. Viruses and their effects had become a way of life. No one understood how quick and how completely this final plague would wreak its devastation upon the world. No one, that is, but Richie Englander, who locked the doors of his underground city and never emerged from them again.

Let it not be said that he failed at any precaution, for his guests were selected far from the epicenter of the latest virus's origin, mostly from among the young and all of them in perfect health. The first he brought in were, by prearrangement, doctors, scientists, women and men who could confirm the later arrivals brought with them no threat of contagion. Those who followed were invited from the very highest echelons of society, many of them entrepreneurs like himself. But there were also movie stars, stage actors, musicians, comedians, magicians, pornographers. No form of entertainment was forgotten or neglected. In the glittering city, no pleasure of the senses was unavailable, no excess of hedonism out of reach. All of these, protected under an umbrella of the most technologically advanced security system on the planet, were within.

And I would know. I have been here the whole time. Under such security, granted such freedoms as well as their salvation from the grinning death, none balked at the only two rules that were non-negotiable. First, there were to be no families, no children. The glittering city was sufficiently provisioned for the 1,000 guests to live quite comfortably for 10 years. Time enough for the virus to run its course, but any increase in population would naturally fuck that up. Second, once a person was granted admittance, they were here for the duration.

For six months, Richie English. Englander and his guests have enjoyed every benefit of his foresight and preparation. Tonight, they celebrate the milestone at a masquerade ball well suited to the modern era. For the masks, every last one of them, are of the same essential make that most of the world wears in the hopes of survival. On the outside, people wear the masks, and still they die. In the glittering city, under the glitter ball in a grand concert hall of particular magnificent, the masks are unnecessary.

The revelers wear them rather as a joke, out of mockery for a world they have left behind. I walked the halls of the glittering city unaccompanied. No one knows that I'm here. I'm counted neither among the guests nor as an infiltrator. Why should I be? I'm the one in charge of the counting in this place, and if I should choose not to count myself,

who would be any the wiser? As for the host, I see him always, even when I am not near him, for I am every camera eye that never blinks in the underground. I see everything and every one all the time. These halls, all but the one where the masquerade thunders innocently on as the clock shows 1115, are empty. My passage goes unnoticed, the soft tread of my boots unheard in the dark. Those parts of the city that are at any time unoccupied go dark automatically, then light up again as people pass through them. The hall does not light up for me,

though I am quite real whensoever I wish to be, both in body and spirit. My boots are real, too, as well as the rest of my garments. The mask I draw forth from the inside of my jacket is real. It's design most carefully considered before I wove the thing into existence myself. The face that wears it, the mouth it covers, is as real as anyone's. I live and breathe. I am just not, strictly speaking, a person. So the halls do not light for me.

This particular hall, when illuminated, sparkles like sapphires, and the stained glass upon either wall shows sunny days and bright blue skies. Though behind them there is only dead concrete and earth-packed, so tightly that not even a worm could live in it, for this is the hall nearest to what had been the entrance into the city six months ago, and also the place where, nine and a half years from now, the people will think to exit back into the world with the grinning death, not but a dim memory to shadow their dreams.

They have it all planned out. And why not? There's no way for any of them to know that this place, their glittering city, should have drawn my attention long before Richie Englander had even finished it. Yet it did. Only now, as I pass from the first hall into the second, I find that I become bored. I would join the masquerade, make my own small contribution to the entertainment. The host, I dare say, will not be appreciative, but that is no concern of mine.

Richie Englander, as all secretly understand, though none will admit it, is an asshole. I can see him right now as I pass from the blue hall to the one that, when occupied, radiates a softer and less stark shade of plum, a hall which Richie has inaccurately dubbed the purple hall. I am not with him, as by now you understand, but I am on my way, traversing the length of the seven halls from east to west. Before I crash the party, as the saying goes, I shall pass from the so-called purple hall to the green hall, from the green hall to the orange hall, from the orange hall to the white hall,

from the white hall to the golden hall, and from there at last to Richie and his precious friends. But I never take my eyes from him. Not all of them, anyway. I have plenty of eyes to spare. I watch him as he approaches the stage, for at 11.20 the band steps down so that he might occupy the whole of the stage himself.

Two of my eyes track his progress, while two more track my own, making sure I don't make any missteps or trip over my own feet. I have my eyes on the world above as well. In the back of my mind, I can still see the people camped outside of an electrified cocoon that forms a dome over what used to be paid parking for the underground shopping mall, but now serves as the first layer of protection for the glittering city. People do test that cocoon from time to time. They have little better to do.

At 1125, even as Richie Englander comes to the mic stand, they test it. It is a small boy who draws the short straw this time. He gathers his breath and rushes it, perhaps preying the charge has been burned out of it by now. He leaps, presumably hoping for a chance. chance to climb the thing, and erupts in a flashing thunder cloud of blue and white light, yellow flame, and gray smoke. He never even screams. But a woman who might be his mother does, her open mouth a cavern of horror and grief. She doesn't know yet that her teeth already

bleed with the first onset of the grinning death, but those nearest to her notice immediately. They scatter like an expanding ring of flame at the base of a nuclear-exam. explosion. Once they are far enough away from her, they turn back around to gun her down. She never sees it coming. She sees only what's left of her child, sizzling like a bacon strip on the side of the still electrified cocoon, until, seconds later, she joins him in death. And all the while, 300 feet below them, Richie Englinder taps the live microphone, a sound that echoes across the whole of the seventh hall, which is lit with every color on the spectrum. Yet only one color is suited to the place.

All else is garish, unnecessary, overdone, and neglectful besides. How is it, I wonder, that you forgot to include a red hole, Richie? 1130. He's wearing a shimmering black robe with gold trim tonight, complete with a golden sash. Not the sort of thing one wears for damn. Maybe, but Richie doesn't dance. He observes.

He eats and drinks. He fornicates. And always, he talks. Good evening, my friends. Cheers from all assembled. Tonight he leaves his mask on, not wanting to encourage any to remove theirs. Again, this is not for safety, but rather for vanity's sake. For the masks are all gifts that he has had delivered to each individual apartment

only this morning, along with the invitations that were, in fact, a summons. Richie is nothing without his audience, and he's smart enough to know it. Are you having a good time tonight? Has everyone found a fuck, buddy? Their eyes crinkle at the corners, betraying their smiles. Their masks flutter with laughter. Among them are animal masks, faces from the nose down representing foxes and cats, orangutans, and eagles. There are spiderweb masks and masks of blue flame. There are flags and sports teams, woven patterns of color ranging from the beautiful to the bizarre. They are, each one, unique, and each seems to complement the wearer,

whether by virtue of their features or their attire. Richie's own mask is of black silk with a golden sun at its center. Though he is clean-shaven, he's let his straight black hair grow down to the shoulders, There are no barbers or hairdressers in the glittering city, as I now recall, sifting through my mental notes as I approached the Green Hall. Soon, if he can't already, he'll be able to tie it in a tail. How very rock star of you, Richie. He makes a short speech, then, talking about the six months, how they had accomplished the impossible, created a true safe haven from the apocalypse raging in the world above.

He raises a fist, and the people do likewise with a shout. He points to first this woman and then that one, then winks and beckons them both with the middle finger of either hand. They approach, one of them rather tentatively by the look of her. The crowd chuckles and hoots and whistles. But Richie isn't done addressing the crowd just yet. He speaks of them all, collectively, and of himself as the second chance. He promises them that, once they return to a world where the grinning death is no longer any threat,

mankind will once more be able to be fruitful and multiply, as the good book says. And the people laugh even harder. Then, to a final laugh, he abruptly ends. I need a drink. He hops back off the stage to much applause and adulation, and with a young woman hanging from each shoulder. The apartments where the residents of the glittering city go both to fuck and to sleep are farther underground than the seven halls. Not counting Richie's own expansive quarters, there are 499 of these.

No one lays claim to any of them. They are chosen quite randomly on any given night, and it's always a bit of a scramble, finding one, if you have not, yourself chosen a partner to lie with that evening. Yet they are all well-appointed. and few complain. At least, few do so very loudly, lest someone they do not trust, spread word of their discontent. But there are none occupying any of these as the time approaches 1145. The guests are rather right where they should be, just as Richie has placed them, partying in the seventh hall like

there is no tomorrow, as I pass from the green hall to the orange one. I adjust my mask, make sure the fit is good and snug, the better to showcase its design. I take off my gloves and pocket them. For what I have in mind, I will not need my gloves, but I will need my hands. Any news from the outside? The question on this occasion comes from a woman whose name used to be Evelyn Grassley. Few enough choose to remember that now. For six months, she has been only Eva. It needn't be said that she is quite pretty, for all who are. were invited into this gilded prison are beautiful. It is, however, noteworthy that her mask matches her hair of electric blue, and its design

is a Cheshire Cat grin that stretches from ear to ear, or in this case strapped to strap, and it is certainly not the mask that had been left outside of her door this morning. And that, I think, is the true reason Richie selected her, a woman he had already lain with before, the one at his other side, a fretful young woman named Rachel will be new to him. She at least had worn her given mask, a full moon seeming to set over a lake of black water. Richie stops at the bar and taps it with an impatient finger. He does not pay for his drink. No one pays for anything in the glittering city.

They simply ask for things, and most of the time they get them. Of course, Richie always gets whatever he wants. On this occasion, it is a Long Island iced tea, served to him by a man who, on the outside, had been a research chemist at work on vaccine adaptations to virus mutations. Only when Richie has his drink does he turn to his chosen partners for the evening. Uncharacteristically, rather than voicing his disapproval of Eva's mask, he chooses to answer her question. His answer is, of course, a lie. The outside does not concern me, Eva.

It doesn't concern any of us. She's either unaware of his disapproval or chooses to ignore it. Oh, Richie, there's no way you're not at least watching. You're the man who knows everything, right? And there it is, the tell of her smile, the crinkling at the corners of her eyes. But Richie's displeasure is most clearly writ upon his face now. And how would I do that? There are no televisions down here, Eva.

No radios, no cell phones. Every camera in our city, minus the perimeter, is turned inward. You know this. The more important question is, why are you such a nosy bitch? The tell of her smile melts away. Eva says nothing at first. Are you growing bored, Eva? Got a minor case of the cabin fever, do you?

Just six months in. She shakes her head no. Those smiling eyes now betray a hint of hurt. The tell is the hint of bloodshot that creeps into them. As for Rachel, she looks more uncomfortable than ever. She looks left and right as though seeking some escape. Yet she stays put. She has not been dismissed.

Ritchie's voice, if anything, grows quieter, the nastier he becomes. Do you miss someone, Eva? Your brother, maybe? Someone else? You wonder, perhaps, how the people on the outside are doing. You think, maybe, that the spread of the grinning death has somehow magically slowed, or even stalked altogether, while we've been down here? She shakes her head again. No, such a thought would be ridiculous. Do not ask if I am watching, Eva, for I do not give a fuck what is happening up there anymore, and neither should you. The death belongs only to them.

Down here we are safe. Is that not enough for you? You have your fucking life. Be happy with that. It isn't out of weakness that Eva remains silent, nor that she sheds an actual tear. It is instead a credit to her intelligence and to her considerable fortitude

that she comports herself thus. For it is a critical moment. She had wanted information, not ire. If she should rise up against Richie Englander, if she should be so foolish as to challenge this monster of a man, he would simply summon the others, and they would come. At a word, though they might secretly share Eva's misgivings, they would rip her apart with their bare hands. And so, she holds her tongue and allows the tears to fall. For the time is not yet right. Perhaps it will be, eventually. Ten years, as she must not. know in her heart are simply not doable under the megalomaniac that is Richie Englander.

Or maybe it is simply that I understand these things and must superimpose what I know upon her. It's not as though I can read her mind, yet I think with some surety that I am right. No one, except perhaps Ritchie himself, believes Eva a fool. I gave you a mask, Eva, and you wear this? He plucks a strap from her ear, making it drop from her mouth, which affects a tremble that confirms my suspicions. Oh, yes, Eva is definitely playing right now.

Eva Grassley was always an excellent actress. Fucking ruined my symmetry. Richie lowers his own mask to take a sip of his tea, then brings it up again. No consideration at all. Then his gaze falls upon Rachel. He studies her up and down. She stands there and waits, perhaps wondering if she too has pissed him off in some way.

Instead, his mood instantly brightens. His voice again becomes winsome, almost happy. You, on the other hand, look lovely tonight. At 1155, at the end of the night that marks Richie's six-month reprieve from a fate predestined, I find that I've had quite enough, just as I knew I would. From the start, I'd known the hour when my patience with this experiment would come to an end, and so it has. It is not, I reflect, something I completely understand.

But as I reach the end of the glittering city's Golden Hall, that of the currently dimmed lamplights and the admittedly impressive fountain of wishes, it is not for me to know everything. My decisions and my whims alike are part of a greater plan, I think, but I also believe with confidence that the means and the inspiration by which I carry out that plan are mine alone. And if I'm wrong about that, well, so what? I like my job. There aren't many who can say that. In my mind, I travel back through the circuitry of the security system. I find the control board and keypad to the electrified dome.

that protects the glittering city from the rest of the world. My fingers tap the air right in front of me, and far away I can see the required numerical combination appear on screen. Beyond the double doors in front of me, the band plays on. From that perimeter control board, I proceed thence to the lights, illuminating first the hall of sapphires, then the hall of plum. The glittering city can accommodate much more than merely 1,000 guests, and it wouldn't do to have the latecomers

fumble around in the dark. I like the hall of emeralds with its greenhouses and its gardens, proceeding thence to the fireplace hall of ruddy orange. I flip the switches that ignite the ensconced flames, a warmth that will spread throughout the city in less than ten minutes without setting any fires that would be dangerous. The hall of white light and ivory is next,

and perhaps the least interesting unto itself, as it serves mainly as a grand mess hall where all gather to eat at the appointed times. But when my focus returns to the hall in which I currently stand, coming back to myself, as it were, the fountain erupts to life under the hanging lamps, casting a golden light that is simultaneously beautiful and ludicrous. The fountain is, one might suggest, a monument to human vanity and excess, and the perfect expression of Richie Englander's innermost soul, gargantuan and pretty, and utterly devoid of any practical purpose,

a fountain of wishes doomed to die in its own waters. And—oh, my, the time. It's 1159. I wait out the final minute, then speak through the hourly security intercom, before making my grand entrance. Did I mention? I've made some adjustments to the lighting of the seventh hall.

One does what one can. At the tone, the time will be 12 a.m. Again, the revelers stop in place. The dancing stops. The music dies. And again, Richie Englander approaches the stage. One last hurrah before taking his two fuck buddies back to his personal quarters. The electronic chime sounds.

The people wait. They're uneasy. is not new, but this morning, though they do not yet know it, it is entirely justified. Neither Rachel nor Eva will be getting fucked by Ritchie Englander tonight. Gates one through seven are open. Murmuring from the gathered one thousand. What the hell? No breaches have been detected, but fortifications are down.

They turn to one another, worried, questioning. Eva turns to her host. Richie? Be quiet. Smile and look pretty. She withdraws from him. He makes no note of her as she backs away, then turns, then disappears into the crowd.

Richie has eyes neither for her nor for Rachel, who yet remains by his other side. He sees only the intercom, hears only the intercom, speaking impossibilities. The next message is, however, more hopeful. hopeful. Air quality remains pure. The glittering city remains uncontaminated. Population, zero infiltrators. A collective sigh of relief from the crowd. One host. I'll take care of it. Richie waves a hand as though he could dispel the collective disquietude by magic.

Just a glitch. Roman, get me a team back at Gate One. And 1001 guests. It's made. Midnight in the glittering city, and this party's just getting started. With that, I fling open the double doors and step inside. I do not speak as I stride into the seventh hall. It is enough for them to hear my voice when I speak through the intercom, though they shall never know that voice belongs to me. Richie shall not know.

For what I must now do in person, words are unnecessary. For some of them I deem my very presence. The manner in which I have chosen to present myself will be sufficient in terms of communication. They will know what I am and why I am here. They need understand no more than that. As I join their company, it is clear that they perceive I am the one of the 1001 guests.

I find that my welcome is no worse than I could have reasonably expected, for my mask is that of the grinning death. It is important that the revelers understand that it is a mask. Had they thought my visage genuine, they'd have scattered at once. And so I've made sure that the straps at either side are plainly visible. But it is otherwise most convincing. The rictus grin stretched wide to either side, the fissures and the gums, scarlet with fresh blood,

the pink teeth, the lips scabbed over and dripping. I do not draw all attention to myself in only an instant, but the rumor of my presence spreads quickly throughout the seventh hall until at length there seems to have arisen from within the gathered throng a continuing buzz of disappropriation and shock, and eventually of horror and disgust. But Ritchie's voice, amplified not only by virtue of the stage mic, but also with a gathering rage, conquers all.

Who the fuck are you? And how the fuck did you get in here? I turn to him. The people part on either side between us, allowing me a clear path to him. I stride towards him, undeterred, and without hurrying. Time is no longer a factor. And although I remain silent, as far as my mouth of flesh and blood is concerned,

the intercom updates the current situation. Gate one has been breached. Air quality has been compromised. The glittering city is contaminated. Population 25 infiltrators, one host, 1001 guests. They are too far away to be heard, but the pronouncement of their very existence sends a collective shudder of growing terror among the guests that is mostly expressed by turning heads, their continued murmuring, and the decision, by a small pack of them, to at once slam shut and then

barricade the double doors. Others swiftly join in the effort, and very soon they are upending tables to fortify their barrier, then piling chairs on it. Richie hardly notices. From within his robe, he draws forth a pistol and levels it straight at me as I close the distance between us. Fifty feet away, then 45, then 40. Somebody grab this freak show and get his fucking mask off! It's almost a scream.

equal parts terror and outrage. I want to know who this son of a bitch is before we hang his fucking corpse from the perimeter dome. Now Rachel, as though having taken her cue from Eva, abandons him as well, though she has, in truth, nowhere to go. And again, Richie hardly even notices. But a few of them, not many,

make a move to converge on me from either side. As they draw close, I simply reach out with either hand and tender a gentle caress across the cheek of the first two, one to my right, the other to my left. Their masks fall away, though my touch was soft and without so much as the hint of violence. They freeze in place and draw in breath as one. Then drop to their knees, hands over their mouths.

Richie fires his gun. The bullet passes through me. It makes a hole in my shirt, not only up front but through the back, then lodges itself squarely in the stomach of one who then also drops to his knees, wailing, the fingers over his stomach dripping fresh blood. I continue on towards Ritchie, 25 feet away. 20. The intercom again comes to life with a fresh update.

Gates one and two have been breached. Air quality has been compromised. The glittering city is contaminated. Population 129 infiltrators. One host, 1001 guests. Ah, they've made it from the blue hall to the green one. I can see them in my mind, many of them charging at a run, many more slowing to take in every wonder of the glittering city as they've passed through it.

But my eyes remain focused on Ritchie. To his credit, he discards his useless firearm and, walk straight up to me. Let it not be said that Richie Englander, whatever his other faults may be, is a coward. He reaches out to my face, to my mask, and yanks it down. The first mask, fluttering to my feet before it dissolves in mid-descent and dissipates to nothing, is replaced by a second. In this one, the lips have begun to go purple. A few of the teeth have dropped out. The Fissures in its gums have gone black with infection and rot. Richie, with a whale, tears that mask from me as well.

I do nothing to stop him. I thought this might happen. The third mask naturally shows stage three of the grinning death. The teeth are all gone now. The gums are broken in pieces. The jawline looks fit to break away at any second, leaving me with half a face. But before that happens, I lean in. as though for a kiss, holding Richie Englander at either side of his head.

But first, I draw in a deep breath and suck the mask off his lips and swallow it, straps and all. Then I kiss him. And my mask, which I spent many hours preparing for this moment, does not in any way impede the kiss I place upon him. Nor does it prevent or filter in any way the blood I drool into his mouth, my half-dislauged tongue spreading infection under his, and across the insides of his cheeks, the front of his teeth. It dances in Ritchie's mouth, like a convulsing snake, making sure that he is aware of exactly what I am doing to him,

of my intent, of what is happening to him at a cellular level even now, for it takes very little time for the grinning death to begin its work. Then, pushing him back from me in a grand gesture of dismissal, my arms thrown wide, I watch him drop to the floor, as though already dead. But he is not dead, for he soon rolls over to his side, wretching and gasping and howling in abhorrence. Those who might earlier caressed remain on their knees, hands over their mouths, the first evidence, the blood, wholing up between their fingers, almost like the man Richie had just shot.

Gates, 1 through 4, have been breached. Air quality has been compromised. The glittering city is contaminated. Population, 1,241 infiltrators, one host, 1001 guests. But the intercom is scarcely to be heard at this point. The 7th Hall fills with screams of lamentation and hysteria as the lights go out, then come back.

gone fully and completely red, a deep crimson rich with the shadows of scurrying people. They have nowhere to go, nowhere to escape to. The only disruption to the blanket of crimson and shadow is the glitter ball, which yet flashes a variety of refracted colors, creating an effect that is decidedly displeasing to the eye, so I will the massive sphere to drop. It explodes upon the floor like a glass grenade, scattering shards of crystal everywhere.

The middle of the floor empties, the 1,000 guests fanning out to the walls and corners, and to the barrier they had flung up so hurriedly but moments ago. It is all for nothing. I will not allow those doors to open again, until I am done. I visit the guests one at a time, whether stepping up to this one or dancing over to that one, whether running to take one by surprise or flying over the heads of several to descend on one from above.

All I wish is to touch every cheek to pass my fingers gently over each pair of lips. It is a tragedy and a shame that I must include both Eva and Rachel in this. None are to be excused. Already I can see Richie regaining his feet, though he bleeds freely from the mouth. He spits teeth onto the floor. The symptoms come quickly with the grinning death, though it will take half an hour or a bit more to fully claim the lot of them. And it is no mercy, I suppose,

that I have led the gathered campers outside of the perimeter dome to this place in the moment of its destruction. But then many of them had already been in close contact with the infected woman whom they'd gunned down earlier. It's not as though any of them are going to survive this, no matter what? There is only one thing in life that is inescapable, only one thing that is truly predestined.

And that thing, though it often wanders among you most cleverly disguised, is me. I can be anywhere, even in the circuitry of a subterranean security system that is supposed to be impenetrable. There's nothing to be afraid of, for there's nothing you can do. Fate, in the end, will have its way. And here is the proof. As the 1,000 guests of Richie Englander drop one at a time, but in quick succession,

each rigid with the despairing posture of their fall, faces contorted in smiles they will wear until their very flesh rots from their skulls. And as the infiltrators rush headlong to an acceleration of their own demise, they do not anticipate. For here they had always hoped to find salvation. There are more than 3,000. of these now. I can hear them through the walls. I do not reopen the double doors to the seventh hall. With the snap of a finger, I merely unlock them and disappear, leaving Richie's

beloved underground city to glitter in the dark until the lights burn themselves out with the passage of time. The blest 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 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. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.