The NoSleep Podcast - S19 Ep7: NoSleep Podcast S19E07

Episode Date: March 19, 2023

It’s Episode 07 of Season 19. We ponder weak and weary with tales about lonesome lore.“Alone” written by Edgar Allan Poe (Story starts around 00:03:45) Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jake Benson“The Calm Room” written by Ashley Edens (Story starts around 00:06:00)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Harriet – Ilana Charnelle, Voice – Erika Sanderson“Red Flags” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 00:48:25)TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Mr. Donaldson – Mike DelGaudio, Mallory – Jessica McEvoy, Latanya – Danielle McRae, Rory – Elie Hirschman, Brandon = Matthew Bradford, Abigail – Nichole Goodnight, Andres – Atticus Jackson, Luke – Jeff Clement, Mrs. Perry – Erin Lillis“Forgotten” written by Ash Phoenix (Story starts around 01:16:20) Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – James Cleveland“The Zoo” written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 01:42:25)TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Alistair – David Ault, Fleur Orwell – Ash Millman, Sandra – Penny Scott-Andrews, The Kid – Erika SandersonThis 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.ShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Keep growing your business all year long with ShipStation. Use promo code NOSLEEP today at shipstation.com to sign up for your FREE 60-day trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Edgar Allan Poe from author Rene RehnClick here to learn more about Ashley EdensClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaClick here to learn more about Ash PhoenixClick here to learn more about Gemma AmorExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Zoo” illustration courtesy of Emily CannonAudio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. The works of Edgar Allan Poe reside in the public domain. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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And now, if you're lonesome tonight, it's the perfect time for horror. 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 our sleepless tales for you in store,

and the terror shall be lived for the no-sleep. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. When we reflect on the life of Edgar Allan Poe, we can't help but understand him as a man whose mental health caused him many struggles. It may be easy to think of his tales of gothic horror as being common for the era, but he was, in fact, rather unique for his time, unique in the sense that his humanity and struggles were made clear in his works. Now today, there's a greater acceptance of mental health issues, yet, of course, there is still a stigma attached to them. Imagine then how it was back in Poe's day. Any admittance of something like depression,

which was quaintly termed as melancholy, was seen as a character flaw, certainly not something a man could admit to without being dismissed as being weak and effective. So for Poe to express himself, through his characters and poems, as someone struggling with issues of despair, sadness, and isolation,

well, it was rather singular for its time. It may give us an added sense of admiration for the man who blazed trails in other areas to include him as a person steeped in self-awareness and introspection. In this episode, we feature tales in which people are dealing with their own introspection and isolation. And so, to begin the episode, we're going to feature one of Poe's most expressive lyric poems. It tells of a man struggling with what he feels is something only he is dealing with. A darkness born in the mind.

Depression, no doubt exacerbated by alcoholism. A man with no one to turn to him. to. Jake Benson shall perform the poem for us. So let's hear Poe's plaintive cry, his desperate desire to not be isolated, to have someone to share his burdens with, to simply not be alone. From childhood's hour I have not been, as others were, I have not seen, as others saw I could not bring my passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken, my sorrow I could not awaken, my heart to joy at the same tone and all I loved, I loved alone. Then, in my childhood in the dawn of a most stormy life was drawn, from every

depth of good and ill, the mystery which binds me still, from the torrent or the fountain, from the red cliff of the mountain, from the sun that round me rolled in its autumn tint of gold, from the lightning in the sky as it passed me flying by, from the thunder and the storm and the cloud that took the form, when the rest of heaven was blue of a demon in my view. When we consider the idea of someone being punished, short of physical torture, there seems to be few things worse than solitary confinement, being forced to live completely alone in a small space. But in this tale, shared with us by author Ashley Edens, we meet a woman who lives simply in a plain room. It should be a tiresome, lonely, monotonous existence, so we can't help but wonder why

she doesn't seem to mind at all. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Elena Charnell, and Erica Sanderson. So if you have to spend time with yourself, I suppose there are worse places to be than in the calm room. She lived a quiet existence. Lonely, some may say. But she didn't mind. I didn't mind. She spoke softly aloud,

the words quickly consumed by the still air. She sat in the antique wooden rocking chair, gently tipping forward and back. The old wood made barely a squeak in the room. The room was simple speckled linoleum floors and plain beige walls. Her eyes glanced at the chipped-block letters above her bed. H-A-R-R-I-E-T.

Did that name belong to her? She couldn't remember. She wasn't sure how long she had been here. She couldn't remember a time before. Aside from the letters, once a brilliant red, now dingy, more wood than paint. The only other ornamentation in the room was a large framed painting on the wall. It was an image of her, she imagined. She couldn't be sure as no mirror hung in this room.

And she had no prior memories, but that answer felt right. The young painted woman had wavy blonde hair past her shoulders, a red ribbon tied near the base of a low-hanging loose ponytail. She had round blue eyes. Two blue. Artistic license, she supposed. A faint smile rested upon her lips. Mona Lisa's sister, she thought.

The woman in the painting wore a full-length navy dress with long sleeves. She sat upon a wooden chair before a blank background. A plain girl for a plain room. Her moments blended together. Some may say monotonous, but she didn't mind. I didn't mind. She spoke a little louder. The words hung in the air a little longer.

No clock was present and the room lacked any windows. Time seemed imaginary. She felt as though she had always existed in the calm room. She awoke every morning and used the modest bathroom. One corner of the room contained a toilet and a pedestal sink. They always remained clean though she never scrubbed them. The corner lacked a shower, but it did contain two porcelain basins she could utilize for washing, and a simple shelf housed several washcloths and towels.

Some days she cleaned her body. Most days she did not wash her hair. She placed the used linens on the lip of the basins. They were always gone the next morning and her supply was never in need. Beside her bed was a worn three-drawer dresser. Inside it contained two pairs of tan underwear and brassiers in the top drawer. Two blouses, one white, one blue, in the second drawer. Two shapeless long skirts, blue and white, in the third drawer. Every night she wore a white and blue gown. She placed her dirty clothing in one of the basins. As with everything else in the room, upon the next day the used items disappeared. After toileting and dressing every morning, she stood next to the meal delivery slot. It was a rectangular opening above the floor, where the trim would be if the room had

any trim. It was maybe six inches tall and just wide enough for a food tray to slip through. She thought the meal slot was at the base of a door, but there were no discernible edges near it. In fact, there were no discernible edges for a doorway in the whole room. But there must be. Breakfast was usually sugared oatmeal in a glass of milk. but sometimes it was eggs, sunny side up or toast. She got up from the rocking chair and moved towards the vacant sloth. A blanket of black rested on the other side. She crouched down to look closer when a tray emerged abruptly.

The hard plastic, a faded muddy green. Sugared oatmeal. She returned to her rocking chair and ate quietly. Efficiently. After finishing her meal, she returned to the opening and set the tray onto the floor. floor, giving it a little push. It scooted seamlessly away. This was how her days went. She presumed it was many days, but she couldn't be sure. She sat in the rocking chair watching the painting, waiting for meals and sleep. She was gently rocking on day 10 or 10,000 when she realized

the picture was different. It was no longer the woman. The painting now featured a girl with similar features. She was young, probably not yet a teenager. The girl's eyes locked with hers. Was this the same person? She thought it must be. The girl wore the same clothing and sat properly in the same chair as the painting's previous occupant. She watched it all day, participating in a never-ending staring contest. She always lost. The painting stayed the same in its different way. A tray with baked chicken and a baked potato presented itself at the food slot. She walked to her calmly and ate her plain dinner. The painting remained unchanged, and she dressed herself in the nightgown. She rocked until she felt tired enough, and then she laid down to sleep.

The night passed by peacefully. She awoke some time later, presumably morning, and completed her A.M. cares. The familiar scoge of plastic against ground greeted her. She walked over to find a splotchy tan tray with a glass of water, dark brown cereal and a large round fruit. A wisp of steam hovered above the cereal bowl. She cocked her head halfway to her shoulder and picked up the tray. She carried it noiselessly over to the chair and sat with it in her lap. She inhaled the swirly mist. It was a chocolate cereal, similar to her. to oatmeal. She picked up the pairing knife and sliced down the center of the yellow orange fruit. Pink, citrusy segments filled the insides, a drop of juice squirting her face. She gazed up

at the painting. Today the girl was there, still young, but she was no longer sitting in the wooden chair. She was standing outside in a patch of shaggy grass, clad in jean shorts and a baggy blue shirt displaying a black lab. A wide smile spread across her face. Almost just though she were caught in a laugh. Blonde hair hung in two braids on either side of her head, falling past her shoulders. Her blue eyes more vibrant than ever. In the background, a large white house with an open front porch was visible. She set the fruit back down on the tray. She placed the tray on the floor and approached the painting. She brought a hand up to the canvas but stopped herself from touching it. Her fingertips halting just out of reach. The happy girl did not move. She inhaled deeply before

the painting and thought maybe she could smell a hint of dewy grass and a country breeze. A waft of flowers in gravel dust. But in a moment, it was gone. The aroma of stale air, cooling cereal, and unscented soap filled her nostrils. She sighed and sat back down, eating this new meal with interest. The creamy cereal coated her tongue. It was not too sweet or decadent. She dug a spoon into the grapefruit and squinted her eyes instinctively at the tartness. As she was eating, one thought permeated her brain.

Home. I like this breakfast. She finished eating and continued on with her day. At lunchtime, the tray slid in with such force it nearly hit her toes. She had been standing beside her bed smoothing out the wrinkles. Her body had been carrying out this activity, but she had been lost in the painting. She figured it must mean something. But of what she was not certain.

The aggressive entrance of the trace startled her out of the trance, and she looked down to see a lunchmeat sandwich on white bread, cut diagonally, In place of water there was a silver-colored pouch with a small straw. An array of fruits was pictured on the front of the drink. She lifted the tray and returned to her chair. As she sat down and started to eat this typical, but slightly different meal, a sound crackled above her. It was the sound of speakers coming to life.

A fuzzy drone filled the room for a few moments before transitioning to music. She was not acquainted with the tune, but it was fast-paced, and several female voices sung about love and pleasant times. It made her think of dancing. She watched the painting while she listened, and it remained unchanged. But the smile on the girl felt so fitting for the sound. When she finished eating, the music faded away. Throughout the rest of the day, little pockets of fuzz and static would occur, typically when she was lost in thought. But she wasn't really lost in thought, because that would imply she understood enough to form ideas.

She was really lost in herself. The radio sounds always snapped her to attention, and then dissipated cruelly, providing no further information. She didn't sleep as well that night. Restlessly, she turned and flopped frequently. The sound of a dog barking, full and deep pitched, a large dog, mingled in her health. mingled in her half-conscious mind. It felt both near and distant at the same time, loud but hazy. A few times she awoke completely, certain she'd actually felt the dog barking in the room,

urgently communicating something. But upon opening her eyes, she found nothing amiss. In the morning, she was tired. Her eyelids sluggishly opening and closing many times before her body moved. She didn't have to get up, she supposed, but, but it felt like the right thing to do. It struck her as she was washing her face that her sleep was filled with dreams.

They were undefined and blurry, but also seemed tangible somehow. She considered this as she pulled the white shirt over her head. At the meal slot she waited, not anxious, but not calm. Some amount of time later, a blue and gray tray emerged from the dark slit near the floor. Two slices of toast resided on a small plate.

The crunchy bread felt freshly popped, eager. A glass of milk and a small bowl of jelly sat beside it. She breathed out wearily. It was not a new food, but at least it wasn't sugared oatmeal. She picked it up and returned to her chair. She sat down and began spreading the purple substance across the toast when she glanced up at the painting. There were more people. Her hand stopped.

The knife frozen at a 45-degree angle. when had it changed She was certain it had looked the same when she got out of bed a short time ago Today the girl gazed at her happily Still on the verge of laughter Left of her was a man Probably in his forties With sandy hair

Dark eyes and a beard His expression did not match the girl's enthusiasm But he appeared content nonetheless He wore jeans and a plaid button-down shirt To the right of the girl was a woman with long chestnut hair and a warm smile. She wore jeans as well, paired with a gray sleeveless shirt. She guessed the woman to be a handful of years younger than the man. In front of the woman, another young child was visible. A little girl, possibly five years, maybe younger,

looked at something off-camera. She was dressed in a pink and white polka-dotch shirt with purple shorts. Her hair matching in color to the first girl hung in a mess of curls around her head. A stuffed panda bear was wrapped tightly in her arms. While initially she believed the older daughter in the painting to be the youthful version of the original painted woman, who may or may not be she, she did not possess any strong feelings for these other people. She finished spreading her toast and ate her meal stoically. She spent most of the day in contemplation, rocking at a slightly heightened pace. Around dinner time she presumed, a soft thump sounded behind her, and curiously, but not startled.

She turned to see the word above her bed now say, Ariet. She walked over and gently picked up the H. It was smooth in her hand, which interested her as she knew the letters were severely chipped. She realized the peeling paint was gone. The wooden piece now freshly coated in red. She lifted it to her nostrils. despite the recent renewal it did not smell of paint. The words banana boat and Doritos popped in her mind.

She climbed on the bed cautiously and lifted the letter to hang it in place. As she set it against the wall, the nail fell out, pinging against the floor. She attempted again, placing the nail back in the wall and hanging the letter. But they both fell, clattering to the floor. The recognizable sound of her dinner tray arriving signaled her. She rushed to the food slot and pushed the brown and yellow tray with the baked chicken and a bowl of creamy soup aside. Excuse me? Can you help me?

She thought she felt a presence, like someone standing on the other side of a door. One of the letters fell, and I need help. She kneeled down low, her face sideways against the ground. The slot remained a dark void. She listened for any movement. Delicately she moved her hand through the opening. Like a plant, creeping from the darkness in search for sun.

Can you hear me? Please, I need your help. Strange things have been happening in here. Can you please help me? Silence answered her request. So she began to pull her hand back in when something grabbed onto her fiercely. Horrified, she pulled backwards trying to free herself.

The thing on the other side squeezed her hand tighter and began to creep further past her wrist onto her forearm. A graying hand with dirt-encrusted jagged fingernails emerging from the meal slot. She screamed unabashedly, the most noise she'd made since she resided in this room. She wriggled and pulled, but the hand continued to move. The fingers clawing their way forward until reaching her upper arm. Once there, the fingers encircled her bicep, penetrating the fabric and piercing her skin viciously. She could feel wetness leaking through the shirt.

Little dark splotches materializing, growing as they seeped into the cloth. The hand yanked her arm powerfully, dragging it through the food slot and cramming her shoulder against the wall. It continued to yank, and at once it ended. Frantically, she tugged her arm back to her body and fumbled backwards across the floor, reaching the foot of her bed with a thud, a sniveling mess of tears and panicked breaths. She watched the dark opening. It remained still and innocuous, all the terror of what she experienced gone. She didn't eat dinner that evening.

The crowded tray sat far away from her against the wall. The aroma of cold broccoli cheese soup and chicken hung in the air. She had no desire to go near that meal slot again. She held the red h in her right hand, thumbing the smooth surface while rubbing her upper arm with her left hand. soothingly. Her arm did not sustain any lingering damage. The skin torn in the attack was unblemished. The deep red stain saturating her blouse dissipated, almost as though it had never happened. She rocked in the chair for hours. She imagined it was ours. She believed

sleep would never overwhelm her body. She awoke with a start to disembarking sometime later. She found herself slouched in the chair, her neck resting against her shoulder, a harsh zinging pulsing through it. She was also acutely aware of ringing in her ears. They tingled and were painful. Internally groaning, she readjusted in the darkened room. The room grew shadowy in the evening, but never reached a blackness of pitch. Sitting forward, she slowly worked to stand when she glanced at the painting. They were closer.

A group of people huddled near the front of the painting, watched her as though through a window. Her blood ran cold. Three of them stood up front, crowded together, most of their features obscured by the shadows of the room. In the distance behind the people stood another figure. She could feel the eyes peering at her, peeling away her safety,

unsure of what to do she watched them back, hoping to gain some clarity. As her eyes acclimated to the shade in which they remained, she thought she could ascertain some details. One was a man. He was rugged and older. His facial hair mostly gray. Two were women, one significantly older than the other. The older woman's hair was cropped short and was dark. The younger woman had lighter hair and bright shiny lips. All three of them wore worried expressions. And although they were frozen in paint, she felt the intensity of their stairs. She wasn't alone in this room. The figure in the background was dark and obscure.

She wasn't sure, but it appeared to be draped in a black garment. She blinked and the painting remained the same, but the figure was much closer. She still couldn't see a face. But beneath the black clothes, two feet, were visible. Two feet that were weathered and gray and dirty. She blinked again and it was right behind the group. Its shadowy arms draped around their shoulders like a comforting hug. She shuddered, and then jumped when a loud sound startled her from behind. She turned around to see the H block and A block had fallen onto the bed and floor. She walked over to gather them when she realized

she had been holding the letter H when she fell asleep. It felt strange, but not as worrisome as the painting. She set them aside on her dresser, not bothering to attempt to re-hang the wall decorations. When she turned back to look at the painting, she found a blank white canvas. Feeling relieved, the tranquility had returned, she decided to lay back down until the light returned.

When she awoke, it was raining. Fat wet droplets plunked against her feet. face. They were mind-numbingly fresh. One water drip fell against the tip of her nose and trailed into her nostril. She climbed out of bed in amazement. She was thankful for a joyous surprise. The droplets were warm and nostalgic. After it ended, she went to change her clothing. Inside, she found only a bathing suit spread wide across the drawer. It was a bright peasant. It was a bright peasant. pink one piece with two orange stripes running diagonally across the middle. She considered it briefly and then slammed the drawer shut and flung open the others.

They were both empty. She opened the top drawer again and the suit remained. Apprehensively, she reached her hand into the drawer to touch it. A thunderous splash rocked the room as her fingers made contact. She grabbed the dresser to stabilize herself. Water drenched her hair and clothes. It coated her face like a mask. She shook out her arms and rubbed her palms against her pinched eyes.

When she opened her eyes, she realized the room felt different, distinctly pressurized. She backed away from the swim garment, pushing at her ears. She looked to the painting and gasped. What hung on the wall was no longer a painting. A body of water thrashed and rolled within the frame. A window to some underwater world. It was violent and alive. The first movement ever displayed on the canvas, despite all the recent images.

She watched, both mystified and frightened, and moved closer despite the unbearable discomfort in her head. The water was murky, more green than blue. She thought maybe she saw something moving within the haze. She stood before the painting now, not more than a foot away. Yes, indeed, there was something moving, paddling about in the water. Its movement is stark contrast to the water currents. Something long and narrow and beige. Suddenly a darkness emerged from the bottom, floating upwards.

It reached its gray fingers spread wide like pointy predators from the deep. Black cloth billowed around it. The excess material pulled back towards muddier depths. The fingers hovered momentarily around the beige form before pouncing. It snarled decaying. hand latched around it and yanked. The frame became a blur. A fiery burst exploded in her chest.

The pain in her ears intensified even more, and the barking returned. The sound, though muffled, seemed to bounce off every wall and reverberate. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped, and air wouldn't fill her lungs. Her throbbing head now grew woozy, and she realized this might be the end.

She stumbled against the wall and slid her arms out, searching for the frame. When her fingers found the wood, wet and slick, she used the last of her energy to pull. She felt to give way and they both crashed to the ground. She whimpered as the fog cleared in her mind. She realized the pain in her head and chest had dissipated and she inhaled deeply,

taking many long and thankful breaths. She then noticed she couldn't move. Her left arm was almost entirely pinned beneath the frame. She tried to wriggle it out, but the weight of the frame was excessive. She grasped the frame with her right hand, pushing it while trying to pull back her left arm, but it wouldn't budge. Over and over, she tried, her guttural cry piercing the room. Her body was drenched once more, but this time slick with sweat.

She paused to rest. Her eyes closed just moments when she heard the beeping. She glanced around and saw that behind where the painting had hung, there was an opening. A large square doorway of sorts. It looked through to another room. Lying in a bed was a woman. Her long blonde hair strewn over the pillows she rested upon. Several machines surrounding her were attached, monitoring her vitals.

One of them softly beeped at regular intervals. A few people surrounded her, the ones from the painting. They once again were huddled together. At her bedside they wore somber faces, lined with wrinkles and red with tear stains. She watched in awe and knew she needed to go to them. She needed to get to that doorway. She pulled and pushed, kicked, lifted everything she could think of. Deep down she knew it was in vain, and she washed as one big,

by one, the people approached the sleeping woman. The man kissed her forehead and rubbed her shoulder. The older woman brushed aside a piece of hair and kissed her cheek. The younger woman held the sleeping woman's right hand with both of hers. Her own right hand tingled as a loving warmth spread up through her arm. Tears grew heavy under her eyelids as she remembered. Their family lived out in the country in that old white house. She loved her family and home, and like any big sister, she delighted in teasing Lenora about it being haunted. The settling grains are the restless

moans of the spirits. She teased her until Lenora started seeing the old woman. Then it stopped being fun. And then Lenora stopped talking. Daddy and mom were stressed out, she knew. Tense with worry over Lenora's development.

The school wanted them to consult with specialists and Lenora started seeing the school counselor every day. She was so thankful when summer break arrived. One day her parents decided they needed a beach day. So they loaded up the Subaru and piled in. Mom even let them bring sushi, their black lab.

Originally called Theo, her parents let her rename him sushi after discovering it was the one table scrap he wouldn't eat the week they brought him home. They made the short drive to Needles Beach and ate sandwiches in the shelter and played sand volleyball. Later that afternoon, she wanted to swim, and Daddy reminded her not to go out too far. She bounced around in the shallow water,

calling out to her parents to come chase her. Daddy acquiesced and pulled off his t-shirt as he jogged down the beach. Lenora played at the shoreline with Mom. Daddy was in the water moving closer, hollering like a monster. She giggled and bounced father out into the lake. Suddenly, sushi was barking, loud and brash over the whales of Lenora.

Mom called out to Daddy to come help. Lenora had been bit by something and was swelling up. She watched as Daddy circled back to the beach, bouncing up and down in the waves. The water brushed her earlobes and she realized she had gone too far. She pushed forward, thinking she would go to ask Lenora if she wanted to build a sandcastle when it grabbed her. Her head was yanked below the surface, water piercing her nostrils.

She thrashed back to the sandcastle. surface sputtering and trying to scream. The sound of barking rang in her ears, but she could only gasp and splash as the force around her ankle pulled her down again. Water filled her ears, pressure pounding inside her head. Her legs thrust back and forth fitfully in the darkness. She popped up again amidst the waves, coughing and spitting out the earthy, dirty water. Need to swim to them. She saw her family through her dripping eyelashes. Mom and Daddy, soothing Lenore at the shoreline, sushi running up and down the beach barking. He was barking at her.

She kicked off, trying to return to the beach. But it grabbed once more, pulling her down with such ferocity she couldn't scramble back to the surface. She clawed at the water above her, but her lungs burned badly, and the muffled barking was fading away. As she slid deeper into the darkness. Harriet! She cried out into the room, spluttering and hiccuping, feeling drowned not by water this time, but emotion. The experience in the water was the last thing she remembered before her existence in this room.

How long had she been trapped inside herself? Harriet rubbed her arm across her face, tears and mucus smearing her shirt and cheek. She was determined. If she could free her arm, she knew she could go back through that door. way and see her family again. She shouted and cursed, pushing up on the frame with all of her strength. It was so impossibly heavy.

But she remembered hearing about those stories of women lifting cars to save children, and she prayed for a dose of supernatural strength right now. She needed her family. And through willpower or some sort of divine intervention, it was moving. It was lifting up and lifted up enough to slide her arms.

arm out, and she pulled free and scrambled to her feet. She ran to the doorway where the view of her family surrounded her unconscious body. She touched her hand to it, expecting to slip her fingers into the real world. It was solid and cold, like her bedroom wall at home in the winter. The house was so old, most of the walls weren't insulated. She moved her hands over the image frantically. This was supposed to take her home. Harriet scraped her hands at the wall.

feeling like sushi pawing at the sliding glass door. Her fingers growing raw and painful. She slammed her fists against the hospital scene, angry and vindictive. It was a trap, just like everything else in this place. Slowly the image began to fade, leaving behind an unremarkable beige wall. Harriet screamed and slid to the ground, her back resting against the wall.

Through red-rimmed eyes, she noticed the picture frame across the room. It's still sad angled from when she'd lifted it. One half of the frame rays defying gravity. An unpleasant tingle ran down her spine. All at once, all of the letters spelling her name flew off the wall. She threw her arms up to shield herself. They clattered to the floor all around her.

On the ground, the pieces now turned black and withered. She picked up the eye that landed next to her foot. and it crumbled into her palm. From above, the staticy crackle of speakers cut through the heavy quiet of the room. For a moment, they just fizzled and snapped, filling the air with an uncomfortable strain. Then a raspy voice barely audible over the fuzz whispered. Harriet swallowed hard, a sick feeling now accompanying the tingling that spread throughout her body. The raised side of the picture frame now began to move, slowly lifting high.

wider, widening the angle. It looks like a mouse. The thought struck her, and then two hands reached out from the opening. Two dirty gray hands that seemed to reach up from below, from some imaginary hole beneath the painting. They landed awkwardly on the ground, arms bent severely in unnatural positions. A torso draped in a dark black cloak emerged afterwards, followed by gray deadened legs and feet.

The soul's crusty with old dry dirt. It stirred jerkily, its joints popping and snapping as it straightened its limbs. Then it began to move, walking towards her out of rhythm, its body twitching and cracking. Harriet sat frozen against the wall, knowing she had run out of moves. The air grew shallow as the creature approached, and Harriet found herself once again struggling to breathe. Muddy footprints trailed behind the figure, despite it being dry.

It stopped a few feet before her and threw back the hood of the cloak. An old woman glared at her with penetrating bright blue eyes. Then the old woman lunged. After that last story, I think there might be good reasons to remain entirely alone. no old ladies necessary. But let's take a quick break to discuss a different kind of loneliness, the loneliness of seeing your online business site full of lonely abandoned shopping carts.

That's why you should turn to Ship Station. If there's one thing that can drive away customers and have them abandon their shopping carts, it's high shipping costs. Yes, free and fast shipping is the norm these days, and it can be hard for smaller e-commerce businesses to compete. So keep yourself competitive with shipping. When you use Shipstation, you can lower shipping costs, make returns easy, and keep your customers happy.

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Use promo code No Sleep, today at Shipstation.com to sign up for your free 60-day trial. That's Shipstation.com promo code No Sleep. sleep. Now let's get back to the show and face a disturbing all-to-real horror. Here's a fun fact about me. My father, sister, and niece are, or were, teachers. How can we not admire people who strive to teach and train up young people? But these days, schools can be perilous places to be, and teachers don't seem to have much to shield them from all manner of threats. And in this tale, shared with us by author Marcus Demanda. We meet a teacher struggling with guilt.

Guilt born from an event that happens all too frequently in this day and age, most tragically in schools. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Jessica McAvoy, Danielle McCray, Ellie Hirschman, Matthew Bradford, Nicole Goodnight, Atticus Jackson, Jeff Clement, and Aaron Lillis. So if you live through the unimaginable, You can't be so hard on yourself.

Hindsight can be brutal, but not everyone can see the red flags. Friday, seventh period. Last class before the freedom bell. One final hizade of finish off what had been a hell of a long week. And they came, smiling and in good spirits for the most part. Some of them hailed me from the doorway. From Latanya, currently running for next year's class president. Afternoon, Mr. Dee.

Happy Friday. I winked at her, surreptitiously foot-nudging my workbag out of sight and under my desk. Salutation, Madam President. I haven't won yet. She tried to fight down a grin and failed. Elections next week? Like my chances? Unsure. Just covering my bases in case you do.

From Rory, my resident smart ass, and amiable enough kid who'd had the misfortune of being born without a filter. Hey, I'm Mr. Donaldson. Anything not boring on the schedule today? Let's see. I held up my plan clipboard and pretended to check it. Wednesday, fun. Thursday, fun. Friday.

Oh, pure misery today. Have a seat and suffer through it, Bucco. André stopped in the doorway and stood stone stiff to salute me on the way in. I returned the salute, still sitting. Mallory, who carried her backpack with her everywhere, instead of using her locker, didn't quite look at me, but offered a finger wave. She was my composition protege, and also the archetypal Stillwaters Run Deep kind of student. She didn't talk much, unless she actually had something to say.

Hi, Mallory! I called out to her, loud and proud. Most of the time, this got a sheepish behind-the-hand laugh out of her. But not today. Today it was an eye roll, which was rare, but not unheard of. Then she just went to her seat and started setting out her things as the rest of the class filed in behind her. Luke, who still wore a mask but always lowered it to talk. Michelle, who walked while reading a book everywhere she went, somehow never bumped into things.

That was what it was like almost every day for my Pollyanna, too good to be true seventh period. They were my 11th grade AP students. They tended to take things more seriously than, say, my Gen Ed 10th graders, who didn't understand any mode of locomotion other than stampede. Most of my end-of-the-day crowd was college-bound, staring down their impending adulthood and making their preliminary choices about where to send their applications next year. They were so good I didn't have to monitor them coming in.

And I didn't. Not for long, anyway. Instead, my eyes fixed on that final stack of papers I hadn't been able to get to during the day, not with everything else breathing down my neck. It was May. Testing season. We were short on subs, high-on-es-all-one. on teacher absenteeism, and those of us who reported to work had to cover for those home on

quarantine, and also for those who evidently saved all their personally for Fridays. Planning periods were next to non-existent. Evaluating student writing took not only time, but also focus, effort, and quiet. I've often said that the ideal job assignment would be teaching English, but grading math. Never had the words rung more true than now. Don't misunderstand me. Generally, I quite enjoyed reading student writing, but the dreaded 11th grade end-of-the-year research paper was a horrific soul-sucking slog for students and also the bane of my existence. And there they lay on top of my workbag, still unread after taking them home yesterday afternoon,

a stack of ten formal reports. The other students had submitted theirs electronically. Each one three to five pages long, not counting cover page in bibliography, most of them in those fancy see-through plastic covers, and have an annoying habit of slipping off and turning the whole mountain into a disorganized paper landslide. Staple, I told the kids every year, just one staple in the corner will do you. Please. Even better, if you just email them to me or upload them into canvas. But this was one of those projects that high-maintenance parents tended to me. meddle in. And there's just no reasoning with them. Anyway, the grading rubric for these included

evaluation of their thesis statements, support, MLA citations, sentence structure, paragraph organization, and grammar. And it got a standalone grade in the permanent record, not unlike the impending standardized tests. When the stakes were that high, a teacher really had to get the grade just right. And so, I had taken them home with me, not just last night, but every night for the past two weeks. In education, we called that Taking Your Work for a Ride, and we've all been guilty of it. My grace period for getting them done was just about up, not only with admin and my department head, but also with the kids themselves. They asked about them every day now, and it was hard to blame them. I zipped open

my work bag and slid them inside, just atop a few days' worth of unread notes from my comment and suggestion box. I'd been better about keeping up with those. Not great, but better. As for the kids, they were already busy with their Friday free write, scribbling away in their composition books without needing to be told,

or letting their laptops boot up without me having to prompt them, awaiting the roll call and attendance question. I let them keep scribbling for a few minutes while I set up. It was another SOL review day, and we'd be revisiting our academic vocabulary from the poetry unit With an online trivia game I'd written into the quizzes platform last night before bed,

just had to call up the join code on my end and projected onto the board. A whisper from the nearest student desk. Are you done yet? That was Mallory, she of the almost perpetually silent disposition. I matched her volume. Almost. And that was a lie. But if I got them done tonight, then maybe I could make it the truth and weigh.

By this point, I pretty much had to trudge through them all tonight. Takes time. I read... Every word we write. I know. Have you read mine? Her eyes were pleading. She worried so much. And she, of all people, had absolutely no cause for concern. She was the best writer in the room, bar none. At 17, she was a better writer than I was. I couldn't count the number of times I had encouraged her,

practically begged her to send off one of her poems or short story. for publication, at least to the student magazine. Thank you, Mr. Donaldson, she said on the last occasion. No, they don't know me, they wouldn't take it. I'd gotten guidance involved, spoken to her parents, to everyone I could think of. But, bottom line, they couldn't make her do anything. And yet, just my approbation had seemed somehow enough for her. She almost looked happy.

And she was meticulous, so detail-oriented in everything that she had. did, but it was painful to watch. Even a simple research paper, even this all-important research paper, would be nothing to her. It was beneath her. Her eyes, seeking mind, hoping for something, anything. I leaned forward, lowering my voice even more. Mallory, it was brilliant. Detailed feedback tomorrow, okay? And conspiratorily, don't tell anyone, right? It was a cowardly move on my part. It was completely unprofessional. And it was another lie. But come tomorrow, that lie would become truth. I had that much faith in her. I'd read her paper tonight, first thing, and it would be every bit as brilliant as I already had proclaimed it. I waited for her reaction. Five seconds later,

she faced forward, closed her composition book, and stared straight ahead. Right. Kids and adults occupy two different worlds. Those worlds intersect at various points, certain places, like school, for instance, but that doesn't change the fact. Just as students have no idea what their teachers are actually like outside the classroom, teachers have no real idea what's going on in the lives of the students. We only hear a fraction of what they say to each other,

but it's still more than most. It's a trite old cliche only because it's the truth. Kids can be cruel. Teachers know this because they're closer to that world kids share only with each other than anyone else, including their parents. we see them do shit parents would never believe. Kids can be monsters without knowing it, same as adults in their lives.

Because kindness is a decision. Cruelty, on the other hand, is a temptation that good people fight down over and over again until doing so becomes something akin to muscle memory. Kindness can be difficult. It has to be taught, whereas cruelty is more than easy, more than human nature. Often enough, it's a reflex. and sometimes you can never take it back. Side note, English teachers have an even clearer window into the lives of their students than other teachers have,

when they actually read their students writing, that is. I summon the entry code from the quizzes platform. Before putting it up on the board, I first displayed my attendance question of the day. Name something you can't live without. It's a holdover from the year we taught virtually over Canvas and Zoom. The original idea had been to make sure the half of my students who only checked in behind darkened screens were not only present, but thinking. I still had the whole list of those old questions. Would have been ashamed to waste them I thought at the time.

Also, there was the added benefit of being able to cite them as relationship builders on my annual self-eval. And they were. Kids liked to know their interests and opinions mattered. I let them think about it for 30 seconds, then dove right in. Brandon? Tacos? Appreciative laughter, but I didn't wait for it to subside. This was just roll call, and I didn't want to lose too much instructional time to it.

Abigail? My family. I made sure to smile, but didn't slow down. Latania. My phone. Just being real, Mr. D. Word. Andres?

Stacey. He answered without hesitation and winked at her from across the room. This would have caused instant uproar in any of my other classes. Here, more laugh. laughing, some mock gagging, but nothing out of control. Andres and Stacey were a well-known item, hence their separation on the seating chart. Stacey, instantly pink in the cheeks, crumpled a blank sheet of paper into a wad and managed a perfect hit right to the cheek from four desks away.

Normally, I'd have addressed that pretty quickly. One doesn't want to encourage chaos, but on this occasion it was hard to blame the perpetrator. Anyway, Andres didn't object. Moving along, then. Luke? He lowered his mask. to his free right. Here.

Kids were allowed to do that. Responses to these questions were strictly optional, although most played along. Rory. My heart. He placed his hand over his chest, batting his eyes. Also, my lungs, my brain, blood pressure, the air we breathe. Mallory. She looked up from her composition book, but fixed her eyes on no one.

My friends. A slight pause here. I couldn't help it. I rarely saw Mallory with anyone. She sat by herself in the cafeteria. And again, Rory spoke up, perhaps dissatisfied with the lack of feedback his response had received. I didn't know Mallory had any friends. The reaction was predictable.

Some nervous laughter. A few gasps, general mutterings of disapproval, if not outright condemnation. That comment, even coming from Rory had been beyond careless. It had been deliberately hurtful, borderline hateful. I'd have to act on it immediately. That shit was not going to for. fly in my class. I didn't have time. I swear to God I didn't. I tried. I really did. I jammed my finger at the door, glaring at him. Out. On his face, I saw the realization take hold, the understanding that he

had gone too far. In my periphery, I also saw Mallory lean to the side and zip open her backpack. She sighed, but said nothing. And I, well, I just thought she was going for her laptop charger. It was the end of the day and these school-issued pieces of junk only had so much battery life. Mr. Donaldson, I'm sorry. That was bad. You can just step out into the hall right now, Rory. You and I are going to have a private conversation. Go. Rory started for the door, but he stopped and turned to Mallory.

I'm sorry, Mallory. I'm such an idiot. I didn't mean... Neither he nor I realized what she was holding in her hand as she rose to her feet. or if we did we failed to process the reality of it. The seconds passed too quickly. Everything went too fast, no time to do anything. No one managed so much as a preemptory scream before she raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.

Three shots in rapid succession. The first took Rory in his side. His shirt fluttered a fresh tear over his ribcage, before the second punched another small hole in the first. the center of his chest. The shots were hardly loud at all, and if Mallory was surprised by the weapons recoil, I saw no evidence of it. She'd fired a gun before. Rory was still on his feet, seeming to blink more from stupefied shock than actual pain, when the third shot took him in the forehead, just over his right eye. Wordlessly, he dropped. Only then did the screaming start,

but it came from everyone, except me, I think. I was still rapid. my head around what had just happened, when all throughout the room kids upended their desk and surged for the narrow doorway. All but Luke, he turned his head to Mallory, wailing in paralyzed terror as she trained the pistol on him and fired again. The shot took him low in the cheekbone, dislodging his mask and causing that one blue eye to instantly droop in its socket. Finally, and way, way too late, I scrambled out of my rolling chair. I intended to literally dive over my desk and tackle her. She had her back to me at present.

And if she killed me, so what? I wasn't sure I wanted to survive after what I'd just seen. But my knee buckled, just as it always did these days when I got up from sitting too quickly without bracing myself. I dropped and let out a cry of my own. What the fuck? The fuck is happening here. Why? I heard the crash of bodies against the closed door,

the collision of students against an insubes. immovable wall of polished wood that might as well have been solid steel. Side note, school doors are strong these days, security and all that. They lock automatically. Not that it could, couldn't undo the lock with a quick twist of two fingers, but for that to happen, the whole lot of them would have to stand back and let someone do it. They'd have to think. Twice more, I heard the report of the gun. By the time I hauled myself up and off the floor, I'd also heard it clatter to the floor. I got to her before anyone else realized that she'd disarmed herself. I saw then that her piece was a small six-shooter, maybe a 38, I don't know, too small, but I couldn't be sure. I didn't know guns.

The barrel still smoked, but she'd fired it out, fired it empty. And I was on top of her, holding her down by the wrists, keeping them spread. Then, thank God, I did hear the door open, and the kids bolt through it. At first, they're screaming diminished with distance, but I knew. it wouldn't take long for those cries to spread across the whole building and collective lamentation. And there at the open doorway, Le Andres, face down, a whole oozing smoke from the middle of his back. And Latanya, still alive, crawling to the doorframe and using it to drag herself into the hall. There was no smoke coming off of her, but a spreading Roarshack smear of blood blossomed over where her left kidney would be. She made no sound other than her breathing, which sounded labored and wet.

I looked down on Mallory. Her eyes were clamped shut, her lips trembled, tears ran down both of her cheeks. I was tempted to strike her. But I was tempted, hard. I could say that I needed to incapacitate her to make sure she was good and subdued before letting her go. God only knew when the police would arrive here. He did mean it. Every word, I warrant them.

All of them. Stop. Instead, I stood from her, swept up the wretched gun from the floor, and stagger lurched my way to Latanya. The police did arrive quickly, far more quickly than I would have guessed. By the time I'd slammed my palm against the emergency call button just by the door, several parents of my students already knew what had happened. Just the magic of text messaging, I guess. The classrooms adjacent to mine had apparently heard the shots and gone full lockdown by the time I had Latanya on her feet.

None of her classmates were anywhere to be seen, probably already behind one of those closed doors with the black strip of construction paper velcroed over the thin windows. The voice of Miss Perry, the administration secretary, came over the PA. I knew what she was going to announce before she announced it. She got some of the script wrong, mixed up two of the emergency protocols, and utterly failed at speaking in a a calm and neutral tone of voice. Better late than never, but then her voice clicked off. Hard to blame her. She wasn't the principal. Mallory's rampage must have caught Mr. Kranick away from his desk. The halls echoed with cries muffled behind locked doors. A few shouts, a single scream as word got out, as it spread like slow fire that quickly died. Then,

silence. Then, distantly, but steadily growing in volume, Sirens With Latanya under my arm and with my feet now more or less firmly under me, she and I were probably the first ones out of the building. We had complete freedom of movement as far as the deserted halls were concerned, at least until the police intercepted us by the front entrance. We hadn't had to worry about facing down any particular threat, as Mallory's still warm gun was jammed down the front pocket of my khakis.

In the days to come, local media would label me a hero for getting Latania outside so fast. for helping her into the ambulance myself, and for immobilizing Mallory. It's all bullshit. It would have been bullshit even had I never learned about all the signs I missed prior to the attack, the retaliation. I already knew enough about what really happened to stay away from TV, from any reporters, from anywhere. Mallory had fired every bullet in her gun. I had accomplished fucking zero when it came to protecting my kids.

Rory, Andres, and Luke had been murdered on my watch. And when a full week later I visited Latanya in the hospital, I also learned that because of me, she'd lost one of her kidneys. There I was, after receiving tearful and grateful hugs from both of her parents, sitting bedside with her, crying like a fool when she smiled at me. I should drop out of the running. No one will stand a chance against me now. after getting shot, not fair to the others.

She was still in recovery from her surgery, and yet she was making smart-ass small talk about the SCA election. Making jokes. Unbelievable. But I had to say something. Don't you dare, I told her, taking her hand. You take that win. You deserve it. And if everyone wants you to have it now because of this, you have to deliver for them.

Her smile never faded. She nodded. She understood. Maybe she agreed. And that might have been the last good thing I ever did in that job. I know it's over. What I didn't know that day was that for me, for selfish reasons, the worst was still yet to come. School didn't reopen for the remainder of that year, although our seniors were given the opportunities to take their final tests and walk for graduation in alternate locations. My classroom, and the hallway outside of it were a crime scene. I didn't have access to any of my personal shit for... I don't even know at this point. It wasn't like I was in hurry to get in there and retrieve any of it. I don't know if there ever was an SCA election. Kind of lost track of things at a certain point.

In the meantime, Mallory was national news. She was to be tried as an adult, so her name and picture were right out there all the time. There was no avoiding it, not without swearing off not only television, but also the entire internet. I won't get into it all, but by now everyone knows the drill. She became the story.

Rory, Andreas, Luke, and even Latania, or only the supporting cast of that story, were props. Mallory, for reasons I still don't understand, never brought my name up, not even once. At least she hasn't so far, although she has every right to. But that's okay. Fuck it. I'm about to blow the whistle on my side. I've got nothing better to do.

By the time I eventually recovered my work bag from school, I'd already read and provided feedback on the 18 papers I'd received electronically from my Pollyanna, too good to be true seventh period. I'd read every word that every one of my AP 11th grade students had written, just as promised. And if I'd been a bit generous in the grading, I don't think anyone will fault me for that. Those submissions had included Rory and Luke.

and even though I doubted very much their parents would have logged into canvas to see their grades on the week of their funerals, I just didn't have it in me to give a C or a B to a dead kid. It wasn't easy reading them, hearing their voices in my head as their words scrolled by. Strictly speaking, I didn't have to do it at all. I didn't have to do anything. I was told in no uncertain terms that I had the remainder of the school year off. No responsibilities whatsoever other than self-care. and, if I felt up to it, eventually preparing myself for the year to come.

Everyone from admin on down would understand if I didn't. I got it from the front office. It was the only thing I wanted, if want is the right word. Closer to say that it was a half-finished job that needed closure. Of all the kids who'd been forever changed by my last attendance question, there remained still a Tanya's paper. Worse, I still had Andres on my list. there was still Mallory. The bag remained closed on my drive home from school. I didn't open it until I was back in my

apartment, where I sat it on the dinner table and put it off only long enough to pour myself a stiff drink. I've been doing that a lot lately, but so what? I needed it. I set the papers in front of me and found, rather to my surprise, the papers from my comment box right underneath them. I've forgotten about those. There were four of them. All of them from Mallory. She'd signed and dated each one, something that I'd asked everyone to do when submitting feedback, but which few of them bothered to remember. May 3rd. Have you read my paper yet? Mallory. May 7th. It's okay if you want to talk about it. I didn't mean anything bad, Mallory. May 11th. Still nothing?

I'm sorry, Mr. Donaldson. I know I took a chance here. I'm really nervous. Mallory. May 12th. Am I in trouble? Mallory. It didn't matter what her paper was about.

That's what I told myself as I went through them in reverse order of submission, going from top to bottom. I kept repeating that thought as I smiled and cried my way through Latanya's essential question, was George Washington a truly great president? She'd been stuck for a topic, reluctant to use the one I found for her in a quick Google search. Was George Washington a great general? Because she'd wanted the question to be uniquely hers. And I keep repeating that lie through the paper Andres had written too, how synthesizers turned heavy metal into pop. Because whatever Mallory had chosen to write about couldn't matter. By the time I got to it,

It had become an exercise in self-preservation. Mallory's topic doesn't matter. That's all. I shouldn't even read the fucking thing. There's no point. Mallory's topic doesn't matter. She's a murderer now. That's all.

End of story. It does not fucking matter. It didn't make much sense either, finding her paper at the very bottom of the pile. She hadn't been the first to turn hers in. I saw her put it in the submission tray after Andres, and before Latanya. But hadn't she lifted a few of the papers up before sliding hers in? Why had she done that?

But now, looking at the cover page, I knew. I understood. Why do kids kill? I didn't take it to the police at first. It wouldn't have made any difference in terms of personal outcomes as they relate to me, you understand. But it probably would have been the right thing to do. They'd want that. document as undisturbed as possible. It was evidence. Or I could have burned it. Doing so might have saved me,

I guess. Might have even kept my job if I wanted it. But no, I was already past that point. Nor did I want to be saved anymore. I didn't deserve it. Instead, I read Mallory's paper, every word. Way too late for it to matter. In it, She referenced several school shootings of the past, identifying many of the most notorious young perpetrators by name. I won't do that here. But she found common threads. The first one? Bullying.

And after that, before going on to the next one, she wrote simply this. They won't stop. They'll never leave me alone. Then she went on to talk about the personal lives of the killers before they hit the breaking point, which led to her second common thread, alienation. After that section, before the final one, she wrote, You're the only one I trust. I'm all alone in the world.

The final page of her paper detailed what she believed was the final common thread, a tipping point of the mind, a mental and emotional collapse that leads to the final fatal event, identified under the heading, Surrender. She provided several examples, all from reliable sources. Each one cited with meticulous accuracy in her footnotes and bibliography. She ended the paper with these words.

There was nothing else. She had reached out to me, first in the paper, then in my comment box. And finally, in person on the very day she had packed a gun into her book bag and brought it with her to seventh period. She'd given me every opportunity to stop her. She wanted to be stopped. She gave me every opportunity. And I missed them. I missed them all.

I want to die. 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 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.