The NoSleep Podcast - S19: NoSleep Podcast S19 Summer Vacation 02

Episode Date: August 13, 2023

While we take a short summer vacation break, we’re featuring two stories from our Season Pass 19 episodes. Surf’s up! “The Zoo” written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 00:01:20) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Alistair – David Ault, Fleur Orwell – Ash Millman, Sandra – Penny Scott-Andrews, The Kid – Erika Sanderson “Honk Honk” written by Steven Wait (Story starts around 00:43:00) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Matt – Atticus Jackson, Sally – Sarah Thomas, TV Reporter – Matthew Bradford This episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp – This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Summer Vacation” illustration courtesy of Alexandra Cruz Audio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We're still enjoying our summer vacation at the beach. And for some reason, the kids on the beach keep trying to bury me in the sand. I know that can usually be fun, but they keep trying to bury me head first in the sand. Surely I can't look or smell that bad. And even though we're on vacation, it's a perfect time to remind our wonderful listeners, such as yourself, to consider helping us out by sharing our show with others. We recently released our big season 19 finale,

starring Kate Siegel and Samantha Sloyen. Letting friends or family know about that if they're not already listeners would be a big boost for us. And as always, anytime you can leave a five-star rating and a positive review on whichever podcast platform you listen on, that helps us tremendously. It's a quick and easy way to keep spreading a word about our sleepless brand of horror.

And we certainly do thank you for being such an asset. So the sun is shining, and it sure is bright, but brace yourself, because you're in for some frights. In our first tale, we meet a man who considers himself a psychic. But unlike the brash and bold so-called mediums who shout their services online for a hefty price, this man prefers to stay below the radar, only working when asked, especially when it's the police who need his services. And in this tale, shared with us by author Gemma Amour,

the man is called to a rather bizarre crime scene, a place where one would assume only animals could be the cause of such carnage. Performing this tale are David Alt, Ash Millman, Penny Scott Andrews, and Erica Sanderson. So if you want to spend the day seeing the exotic animals, remember one thing. are also considered animals, even if they don't live in the zoo. I knew I was in for a rough ride long before I saw how many people were camped outside the London City Zoo's main gates,

which were cordoned off by the time I pulled up in my brand-new Mercedes AMGG-G-T. I knew it because I felt a sense of dread building in my bones. Hard to describe, but that's the best I can do. My bones... on fire. Not in the same way that old women say their bones ache before it rains. More like my bones don't feel pain, but they are pain. I am made of it. The closer to the echo of a bad thing I get, like my skin is stretched across a scaffold of suffering. I felt it from several miles away this particular bone bad, so I knew I was letting myself in for something truly terrible this time.

I knew, and I went anyway. I chased the money, see? What else is they're worth chasing? Only charlatans claiming to be psychic chase glory. The best thing we can hope for is that someone takes us seriously that those we choose to open up to can discern between the genuine ones like me and the crackpot scumbags. who only pretend to have powers so they can soak up adulation and profit from the pain and suffering of others. The false ones are those who lap up the limelight, beg for attention however they can,

insert themselves into missing persons cases and the like uninvited. I don't operate like that. I'm a consultant, legitimate, payroll. I stay away until I'm invited, a bit like a vampire, I guess. I can't come into your house of pain until you specifically ask me to, until you invite me across the threshold. Even then, it's up to me as to whether or not I accept. A man at this stage in his career can, and should, pick and choose his clients carefully. That being said, I never turned down the Metropolitan Police when they came calling.

Money, see? They had it, despite what they told the world at large. Not many could afford my rates, which were calculated to accommodate not only my unique skill set, but my discretion and silence, which was more valuable than my abilities to some. In the belly of my car, a handcrafted 4.0-Liter V8 by turbo engines strained at the leash, making a noisy entrance, which was exactly the point I'd paid for the noise. I paid for all the extras, too, customized interior, painting. and stitched in red and black, the most aggressive colors I could think of. LED lighting, accessories coming out of every goddamn orifice.

Look at me, this car said. I fucking made it. I fucked a lot of women in that car. They seemed to like the leather interiors, the noise of the engine. Those seats had been deep cleaned more times than I cared to admit, even though I'd only had the car a few weeks. I parked a good distance away from the furorory, choosing a quiet spot on the street with no passing traffic. All those people milling about

meant scratches on my paintwork, and I couldn't be having that. I'd worked hard for this sexy, sleek, polished beast, a vehicle that finally fit the sort of person I was trying to be. Outwardly, at any rate. None of those idiots craning their necks trying to see into the crime scene would have any understanding of how hard exactly I worked for it, how much I did. How much I suffered. They didn't need to know either. I didn't need anyone's approval. I just needed my fat paycheck after the job was done. That was approval enough. I buffed a smudge off the bonnet of the murk as I passed, feeling genuine pride. People who grew up with money don't understand this sort of pride, the sort that comes with finally being able to afford something you've always been

told was out of reach. Not for people like you. Wealth is a privilege, they teach you, from the longest of ages. Well, fuck that. Wealth is a man's right. He just has to reach for it, as all. There must have been a hundred onlookers crowding around the taped-off area in front of the zoo as I approached. I almost turned around then. People made me itchy in large numbers, but that wasn't the reason. The undercurrent of something foul and fetid was the reason. It was overwhelming. My teeth vibrated. My bones sang furiously the closer I got. I pushed on through anyway, throwing dirty looks around like confetti. Go home, you fucking losers, my face said, but I kept my mouth shut.

I never understood rubbernecking. When something bad happens, my instinct is to run the other way, avoid seeing what I don't have to. The bone bad means I can sense chaos before I see it, so I choose not to. See it. I can't fathom why people do seek out violence deliberately, why onlookers slow down when they pass a car. accident, why would you want to see that? Wreckage, pain, blood? I suppose it's the same ancient gene that drew our ancestors to public executions or the Roman Coliseum. The whole world is a stage, and all the men and women merely play us even in death. I hate that. I used my elbows to get to

the front of the crush, drew some sharp breaths which quickly died when the recipients saw the badge. I brandished like a priest wielding a crucifix at an exorcism. It didn't match my suit, but I could live with that, for now. Maybe at some point I'd get a customized leather wallet embossed with my initials, perhaps, chrome trim, small compensation for having to put up with the shit I do. This close, the zoo gave off what I like to think of as a funky brain smell, which made no sense to anyone but me, but that was okay. I was used to nobody ever understanding what went on in my head. It was lonely, but simpler than trying to explain what being a psychic actually meant. I stepped over a fresh puddle of vomit near the ticket office,

squeezed through the turnstile and ducked beneath another line of fluttering tape, as the reporters and bystanders behind me jostled each other for a better view. How did they always know? I wondered. It was 8.30 in the morning. I never ceased to be surprised at how fine. the British press got hold of things, and how quickly they could mobilize in the hope of nabbing a scoop. Well, there wouldn't be one. This was an old-fashioned inner-city zoo, built by the Victorians with high surrounding greystone walls and a chunky wrought iron entrance gate

that, once closed, completely sealed the compound off from the outside world. I was thankful for this later. Fleur Orwell met me inside. Usually a nice normal, color, she was white as a sheet. My heart sank further when I saw this, which was saying something because it was already down by my screaming knees. Alistair. Flur. What? I trailed off, partly because of the pain, partly because I realized I couldn't hear or sense any animals, not a single one. But wasn't this a zoo? I swallowed my throat dry. What have we got? My voice sounded a good deal less competent than I would have liked. Your call was pretty cryptic.

God, my bones. My poor, poor bones, the pain got worse by the second. It was like a crushing fist. I steadied myself against a wall. Fleur looked at me with pity in her eyes. It wasn't the usual pity she held for the freak who saw things with his mind that no normal person should be able to see. Rather, it was a type of pity reserved for someone who had not yet seen what she was desperate to unsee. Fuck, I thought. It had to happen sooner or later. The few homicides I've been brought onto had been clean and easy as far as murder went.

One strangulation, one poisoning, one smothering with a pillow. Nothing too messy, not yet. Painful to be around, but not a bit like this. Fleur echoed my thoughts. I've never seen anything like this in my life before. I wondered if hers had been the vomit outside. Orwell was of strong stomach, usually a cool, collected detective who liked to take her time with things. It took a lot to ruffle her feathers.

I fervently wished that I hadn't eaten such a large breakfast. Fleur blinked at me. Are you wearing Armani again? At a time like this? I refused to feel sheepish. She shook her head. You're going to regret it. Show me.

We'll start with the bird enclosure. All right, I said, but it wasn't. Fleur shivered as she led me away from the main gates, around the ticket office and towards a large netted and fenced-off compound that traditionally housed flamingos. Access to it was via a system of metal and wire swing gates. The inner gate wouldn't release and open until the magnetized latch of the outer one was closed, to prevent the birds from escaping, I assumed.

Only once I was through the gates, there were no birds anyway. Not of the avian type, I mean. Instead, I found a half-dried-up concrete-bottomed lake coated with a brownish meniscus of algae. Around it, some tired landscaping, boulders that didn't come from ever, anywhere geographically nearby, scrubby grasses, bullrushes in the scummy water, pink feathers scattered everywhere like raggedy little blossoms, some natural, some not. No flamingos, though, not in the lake. Just two human bodies dead in the center positioned like a fucking water feature at a sculpture park. Their blood still dripped into the nasty water below.

Jesus. I covered my mouth with my hand. A sheet of white-hot panic slid over me. My bones were melting so badly I could barely walk straight. My knees semi-buckled. Fleur grabbed me just in time to stop my legs folding completely. What? What do you see? I couldn't reply. I couldn't speak. I just looked with wide, unbelieving eyes. The bodies were hoisted up about four feet into the body. air upon tall, crudely sharpened stakes inserted via the rectum, exiting through the victim's backs just between the shoulder blades, like meat, roughly thrust upon kebab sticks.

The stakes were painted dark pink, mimicking the pink of a flamingo's leg and bent backwards awkwardly in the middle at a realistically depicted raised ankle joint. To reinforce the illusion, one of each of the victim's legs was folded sharply and taped, ankle to buttock to imitate the stance of a flamingo standing on one leg, the other tucked safely beneath. Broad membranous appendages had been attached to the victim's feet, flappy webbed abominations fashioned from what later turned out to be surplus human skin from where we never found out, and sticks. Painted pink, of course. Both corpses, a man and woman in their 20s perhaps, hard to tell, all things considered,

were smothered in a thick, pasty glue that had dried hard and was decorated with thousands of carefully placed synthetic neon pink feathers. Decorative, frivolous. They ruffled as a light breeze swirled around the enclosure, disturbing the long curved beaks with bulbous tips that were bolted to the victim's heads. fashioned from wood meticulously painted and fully articulated, they flapped open, revealing two traumatized, slack-jawed faces beneath. I wobbled again, but kept my balance. The longer I looked, the more I wished I didn't see, both inside and outside of my mind. How long had this taken, I thought blurrely. I felt a seeping sense of ritual and craftsmanship.

The same feeling I associated with someone doing a jigsaw puzzle with laborious dedication or embroidering cross-stitch or painting a very detailed picture, tongue, poked out slightly in concentration. I sensed intense focus and pride. Not the pride I felt when I looked at my new car. No, instead a warped pride for a thing well made, for a thing created to exacting standards. Not for something earned, but for something. the creator hoped other people would appreciate. An image swam to me a childish, wounded shadow seeking approval.

Look at the Flamingo people, Mummy, a voice said, but I knew there was no mummy. Not for the abomination behind this scene. That was part of the root of it. Whoever we were looking for had been abandoned? I couldn't focus, a barrage of other people's thoughts and experience. experiences and memories assaulted me. They were alive when she did it. I was unable to help myself any longer. Tears ran down my face. I was awash with torment. My bones told me a story of splintering vertebrae, of ruptured skin, of inhuman strength, of immense intense suffering and

fear and trauma, and I couldn't help myself. I threw up. They had been alive when she'd speared them right through the middle. One had watched the other die in brutal, indescribable agony. Fleur neatly sidestepped the steaming puddle I made near her feet, poached eggs on toast with avocado and toasted pumpkin seeds, and wretched again herself as she caught a whiff. She'd already emptied herself earlier, so she managed to get control more quickly than I did. I saw flamingos flying free across the rooftops of a nearby housing estate. The perpetrator had set them free, presumably, along with all the other creatures. We need a profile. I shook my head. Not yet, I can't. The gate behind me swung open, a team of

white-suited forensics filed past, carefully maneuvering themselves around the lake. They had been waiting for me, I realized. They knew I liked to be one of the first on the scene. It reduced the risk of mental contamination. Too many chefs spoil the broth and all that. Too many threads of disgust and shock and revulsion to untangle. Make things messy. Put me on the scene before all of that, like a dog getting a scent when it's fresh. Although the all-pervading stink of the zoo would take years for me to shake off, I suspected. It wouldn't have mattered had I been first on the scene or last, not this time. The memories of what happened here were tattooed into my soul from the second I set foot in the place. Fleur gently steered me out of the enclosure.

I appreciated her patience. She needed what she needed from me, but I could only give her that once I touched one of the bodies, which I couldn't bring myself to do, not yet. I couldn't physically withstand the pain of contact. I was on the verge of fainting as it was. I felt a moment's relief as I left the Flamingo people behind until I realized the detective was ushering me towards another destination. There's more. Oh, so much more. It all blurred after a while. A nightmare there was no escape from.

Even when I left, I knew I'd have to see the zoo people every time I close my eyes. Like the poor small boy in the monkey enclosure. After that, I never ate a banana or even looked at one again, which was a shame because I'd always loved bananas. Great energy foods, especially for someone like me who burns calories three times as fast as a normal person. Or the skinny lad in the giant tortoise pen who lay completely crushed beneath the weight of a giant boulder, crudely painted like a shell, and dropped from what looked like a huge height square onto his back. His arms and legs and face stuck out around the edges, smeared with thick mud, now dried and caked to look like the old, wrinkled skin of the reptile he was meant to represent.

Blood and entrails seat into the soil around his splayed form. I could only assume that beneath the boulder he was pancaked, split wide open like a stepped on gooseberry. The overall effect was convincing he looked like a tortoise. Nobody could argue otherwise. In the butterfly pen, expertly flayed skin caught the light of an increasingly warm day in place of gossamer wings. And over in the sloth enclosure, an elderly gentleman's arms and legs had been dislocated at every possible joint, so they hung long and loose, and then bound at the ankles and wrists around the branch of a tree,

where he hung upside down like a pig carcass. Two long, curved and sharpened bones that looked like knives had been jammed into the backs of the man's hands to mimic sloth claws, three in each foot. He was zipped into a furry one piece with a hood drawn tight around his face to complete the absurd aesthetic. In the deer park, a whole family had been arranged in various servoid poses, held in place with wooden frames and synthetic fur and metal staples liberally applied. All of them were crowned with bloody antlers, daggered into their skulls with a force that was staggeringly brutal. There was more, but I stopped seeing it after a while. The brain can only deal with so much.

The last thing to break through the milky opaqueness of my gathering pain fog was the snake pit. Oh, the snake pit. A middle-aged woman rolled out like a soft clay log and stuffed into a thicket. thin membrane, sausage meat in sausage skin. Her mouth stretched wide and her eyes bulged above the matted fur of a dead rat, jammed halfway down her throat. Only the rodent's tail dangled out over the top of her swollen blue tongue.

The tongue had been snipped in the middle with shears or scissors to make a fork just like a snake tongue. Something about this last detail got to me so deeply I forgot my name. for a little while. Thankfully, I had Fleur to remind me. Alistair, I know this is a lot. I can't imagine what kind of pain you're going through right now, but we need a profile.

Profiles? We need... She scrubbed her hands through her hair. We fucking need something. I can't. I just... I staggered out of the snake pit, which was heated to tropical temperatures,

and sat down abruptly on the floor outside as the cooler. air hit me. I put my head between my knees. I felt like a snake myself. My bones had disintegrated. I was putty. I was molten. I would never know comfort ever again. Who are all these people? We don't know. We can't even begin to ID them until we have them back in a normal state. De-costumed, she meant. How is this even possible? Sounds and smells and other sensations came at me from all directions, a charging a herd of sensory bison. Fleur handed me a bottle of water.

It shouldn't be possible, but then neither should the things you're able to do be possible. I guess our definition of possibility needs a rethink. I raised my head a little, but continued to concentrate on my shoes. Flex of drying vomit marred the burnished leather. I itched to rub them away, but the... lacked the energy to do so. Sick had also splattered onto the neat creases of my Armani trousers, just like Orwell had known it would. I distantly thought about adding the dry cleaning bill to my final invoice. It would take a small army of people to do this many awful things to this many victims.

Her priorities were in the right place, but then she didn't have to deal with the reverb of the dead and dying in her mind, did she? But we've checked the security footage from all the cameras. There are a lot of cameras, I mean, state-of-the-art system installed last year. No dead zones in the zoo. Every inch covered, in high definition. I guess they take animal security seriously. And? Nothing.

Not a thing out of place. No activity beyond the animals. We were simply there one minute and then... Not. My nose started to bleed. I didn't even try to stem the flow. I let it drain down me a hot, vile trickle. I knew what it meant.

It meant I was reaching tolerance. There was only so much longer I'd be able to stay before suffering a brain hemorrhage. Nobody came or went that we could see during the night. Fleur handed me a fresh folded napkin. It was like she'd come prepared with an Alistair repair kit. Nobody climbed over the wall or broke in through the front gates or dropped in from the fucking sky like a parachuter. Nobody. It's... Impossible.

I said, no. Knowing that nothing was impossible, not really. The logistics of getting into the zoo aside, all of this, it had to be done off-site. And the bodies transported here, the costumes. She struggled for the correct word. The stuff used to turn the victims into animals, the fake feathers, for example, the glue. It had to have been done elsewhere. Forensics?

I was trying to find any excuse I could to avoid touching the bodies but was Running out of time and reasons. Forensics will comb every single inch of this place, but what are they going to find? Dozens of sets of fingerprints, hundreds of footprints, countless discarded hairs and fingernails and tissues and blobs of chewing gum and scraps of litter. And it's a zoo for fuck's sake. People in and out by the hundreds. Postmortems on the bodies will give us more, but that takes time.

And the scale of this, Alistair, the scale, it is deranged. It could happen again. The implication, whether or not it happened again, was now my responsibility. The strength it must have taken, that sheer force applied, the scope of violence. I am completely fucked. Completely. I may as well resign now this morning. We'll never solve this without you.

There is nothing to solve. Nobody came, nobody went. It's like someone clipped their fingers and manifested a... A human zoo. I threw up again. I felt better after the second time. Like vomiting relieved a little pressure somehow. Or maybe the physical sensation blotted out the pain of my bones momentarily.

Either way, it gave me ten minutes of breathing space. I stuffed the napkin into both nostrils and hoped it would be sufficient. What do you need from me? I said, knowing full well. A profile. There must be at least two, if not more people involved. Terrorism? Animal rights?

I gave the detective a flat look over the blood-soaked material. I think animal rights activists have basic moral limits, flare. Besides that, no. That doesn't feel right. The sense I get is not of anger, no rage, no lessons to teach, no organized sense of justice. What does feel right? I put my head back, opened my mouth, put my tongue out to taste the air.

Child's play. What? It feels like a kid playing. You know, little kids, how rough they can be. It feels like that. There's a lack of awareness of any wrongdoing, enthusiasm. Like it's a game. A game?

Two indignant spots of colour bloomed on Orwell's cheeks. A game of dolls or dress-up, you know? Let's play zoo. But that doesn't make any sense. How could a kid be responsible for this? I shrugged. You asked. I'm just telling you what I feel.

And the animals, the real ones, all missing, right? So far, which is also impossible in and of itself. You'd think we'd be overrun with reports of lions stalking the aisles of the supermarket, lemurs hanging off of fucking lampotes, fruit bats swarming the skies. But there has been nothing so far. It's quiet everywhere, beyond all the usual London bollocks. Not a single anomalous call. It's like all of Noah's sodding arc simply dissolved into thin air.

The point is, why, detective, why? Not where they are now, why they are missing. Set free, presumably. Why should that matter? Because, because it does. It fits. Creates an impression of impulsiveness, but also a backwards sort of. of compassion. Flur was silent for a long time, trying and failing to make sense of this.

Then she placed her hands on her hips. Well, can't put it off anymore. Which one are you going to touch? I thought about it. I knew I couldn't go back in the snake pit, not ever again. I opted for the deer family, for the father of the group, arranged like a stag rampant, thinking only of the physical injuries, which by comparison to the other zoo people were not as heinous, I felt it would be the easiest to bear because of this. I realized too late that only thinking about the physical pain and not the mental was idiotic. For he had not died alone, had he.

He had died with his children in front of him, his wife next to him. I hadn't considered that until it was far. far too late. I touched him, and the world ceased to exist. All that remained were things I lacked the capability and language to fully articulate. In the absence of language, my screens would have to do instead. I told Orwell, after I woke up in the hospital, that the sensations had been so strong I'd not been able to work up a profile. This was a lie, but I was an exceptional liar, and she bought it. Dejected, Fleur stayed with me until I checked out anyway.

The doctors, mystified, told me my symptoms resembled those of a man who had suffered a massive stroke. By the time they fed me this information, my vitals were back to normal, and there was nothing demonstrably wrong. Rather than stick around and suffer scrutiny, I discharged myself between check-up. up rounds. Fleur drove me home, told me not to fret about my new car, she'd had another officer take it back to my house for me already. That was the thing about Orwell. She cared, colleagues, victims. It made her a good detective because it made her tenacious. I felt bad about lying to her because I knew what it would do to her career. But some things, even for me, are bigger than prospects. Once the door to my parents,

The tenthouse was firmly closed on Detective Orwell, I scrambled to get down on paper what I'd seen in the few wretched, incandescently pained moments before I'd fainted in the deer enclosure. It was tough because I blacked out almost immediately after touching the stag man, but I gave it my best. I drew on a large sheet of baking paper. That was all I could find in a hurry. What I'd seen had not been easy to visualize, but I did my best. I drew a small child, curled up in the corner of a dark cluttered room. I drew an old house with a lamp post outside. I drew things I didn't fully understand, shapes and lines and patterns. I drew sticks and stones and bones.

I drew dolls and blood and entrails like sausagelings. I drew until my fingers were numb, and then I stopped. I took a shower, binned. my blood and vomit-stained suit and shoes, put on something softer, less formal, something that wouldn't intimidate a small child. I then ran the sketches I'd made through a reverse image search engine. I had to keep adding details and re-scanning, dredging up more features from my recollections slowly, like cognitive fishing. Bricks are deep red in colour, except around the window casements, which were a light cream. Trees lining the same.

street mottled bark distinctive leaves, a wrought iron fence surrounding the property with unusual detailing welded at intervals, a porch light with a fleur-de-lie depicted in cracked stained glass, terracotta mouldings on the columns holding up the porch, an old tarnished brass letterbox shaped like a gaping lion's mouth, a faded set of painted daisies on a peeling wooden door. I used the image engines, street view, and a variety of other online searches until eventually I got a hit. A red brick Edwardian Mansion block near Marlaban. I took the car. Finally, its horsepower had some function beyond mere peacocking. I found I suddenly no longer cared about the aesthetics, the gadgets, the expensiveness. I just wanted to get to where I was going and fast, and this car I'd coveted so much

was now just a tool to enable me to do so, because I had to get to the kid before she did it again. The Daisy Chain Children's Care Home was housed in a decaying mansion, the outlier in an otherwise affluent district I knew well, an eyesore to many, but for the kids inside a home of sorts. The door was opened eventually by a short, tired-looking woman in her late 60s. She had holes in her t-shirt and smudged mascara, a peeling sticky label with a tired cartoon Daisy motif on it, said, Sandra. I flashed my police badge at her,

fabricating a complaint phoned in by a concerned member of the public. Scared of repercussions, scared just in general, Sandra ushered me upstairs to the top level, the level just before the attic. It was stuffy and quiet and smelled damp. She's up here alone. I asked, knowing the answer. The care home manager looked at me with haunted eyes. I could see

shadows beneath them. She was terrified of the kid, I realized, with reason. She was abandoned. Left at the zoo by her mother when she was two years old. She was too young to have any memory of it, but... These things last, I said, knowing exactly how it felt. Years of rejection. because of what I could do. Because I'd been different. Backs turned, conversations cut short, relationships severed. It was why I liked money as much as I did. Money never let me down. Money never rejected me. We'd reached a small dingy door at the end of a hot, narrow corridor. It was locked. She gave me a key. Our hands touched and a bolt of fear transferred, cold, greasy. The woman was a coward. You can stay out here. I knew what needed to be done, didn't want any

interference, not that I thought she'd stop me. And I fully intended to go through with it before I saw the child. I fully intended to kill her, especially when I saw the things she'd made in that dark, cluttered room she had all to herself. I saw dolls fashioned from sticks and clay and fabric and skin and fur. I saw bones. I saw zoo people in miniature arranged just as they had been when I'd visited the zoo in person. The flamingos in the lake, the tortoise in his pen, the sloth on a tree, the snake, the deer family. I saw scissors and glue and feathers and stones. scraps of material and plastic and leather. I saw the city zoo's gates made from wire and plasticine. I saw the wall recreated with a ring of pebbles held in place with super glue.

I saw it all. She was a model maker, a zookeeper of sorts, a tiny demented murderer. I had every intention. She was a monster after all. someone who could make things in the musty recesses of a rotting house in the suburbs and somehow manifest those things onto or into real people, real locations. Like puppetry, only worse. Much, much worse. Because I don't think she knew that what she crafted here in the shadows was somehow enacted outside in true grisly proportions.

How could she have known? She never left the care home, the room. She was locked in here because nobody knew what else to do with her. She was lonely and dangerous, powerful, yet unfettered by the constraints of adult regulation. She was a nightmare waiting to be unleashed upon the world at large, and for that reason she had to be killed. Except when I saw her, my heart did something strange. It beat faster and deeper than it had for many years. I felt pity in my raw, sore bones.

She was scrawny and small like I'd been. Seated, cross-legged on the floor, she was making another zoo person. A kangaroo lady, there was a pouch with a tiny baby stuffed inside. She'd stitched a long, fat tail to the model who looked a lot like the care home manager, Sandra. Probably why the woman. had been so frightened. Subconsciously, she sensed it was her turn soon. That meant the victims in the zoo must be people the kid knew somehow. Perhaps an adoptive family that had sent her back. Relatives, teachers, other people in the system who had let her down, I didn't know,

and I didn't care. The kid looked up from her work slowly. She'd been fully absorbed. I saw the pink tip of her tongue poked out between her lips. Focus. This was a hobby for her. Craft, an innocent purse time. She found peace and solace and pride in what she was making. Her eyes met. A wall of latent grief and longing hit me like a bat to the head. Hope flared in her eyes. It was unbearable. It was enough to stop me doing what you. I'd meant to. Are you my new dad? I stood there, stripped down to a bare, piteous nub of a man.

My bones were now singing a symphony of a life about to change beyond all recall. But this time it was not bone bad, despite the circumstances. It was bone good, although nobody but the two of us would ever understand that. I was unable to answer right away. In our final tale, we meet a newly married couple on their way to a new town and a fresh start. It's a long drive, one boring enough to make them consider helping a hitchhiker they see along the way. But in this tale, shared with us by author Stephen Waite, the decision they make is questionable when they realize their rider can't or won't speak.

Oh, and did I mention the rider is just. dressed as a clown. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Sarah Thomas, and Matthew Bradford. So take your chances if you must, but if you're going to be dealing with hitchhikers, make sure you're prepared for the honk, honk. I honked the horn a few times.

Getting agitated, the longer I had to wait. I hollered at the open front door. Come on, babe. the road an hour ago. How much do you have left to go in the truck? Literally everything we own is already in here. It took a while, but I had managed to pack mine in Sally's entire lives into my half-ton truck. It looked like the Grinch's sleigh after stealing all the Christmas presents. You know we aren't on any schedule. She closed the door behind her and hopped down the front steps to the truck.

We get there when we get there. She tossed me three more bags of who knows what I somehow needed to make room for in the truck. Hey now, you didn't marry me a few weeks ago for my patience. No, I married you for your money. Oh, well, joke's on you, Missy. I got no money. In fact, I don't have a job either. You don't need to worry about that, babe.

This fresh start is exactly what we both need in this new town. I'm already set up with a nursing job at the hospital, and you'll find something, too. My grandmother is giving us her old farmhouse outside of town as a late wedding present. All it needs is some fixing up, which you can spend your days doing until you find a job. All towns need a good handyman, so I'm sure something will come along. Okay. But to do all that, we need to get there. so let's burn some rubber.

Onward, Captain. Sally kissed me on the cheek before jumping into the passenger seat. I fired up the truck and took one last look at our crappy city apartment before driving away. We hit the freeway, and before we knew it, we were on the open road to something better. Are we there yet? Nope, and if you ask that again, I will stop this car and unload you. We'd only been on the road for a few hours, but it feels. It felt like days already.

Does it usually take this long? I can't remember. I haven't been out here in so long. Well, the GPS shows we got six or so hours left. I don't remember it being this dull of a drive. There is literally nothing to look at. That's so boring. Well, that's what happens when you move your whole life to a small town.

You end up driving through a lot of nights. until you get there. I rubbed my tired eyes. I knew falling asleep at the wheel was likely not the best idea right now. Hey, look over there. Sally pointed to someone hitching for a ride. I'd never do that.

It's too scary. I mean, what if you pick the person up and they turn out to be an axe murderer or something? I'm pretty sure that guy didn't have an axe stashed away in the grocery bag he was holding. But tell me this, who's crazier? The hitchhiker or the person picking up said hitchhiker?

That's a good point. I mean, the hitcher could be a crazy axe murderer, but so could the person picking them off. One of them could be crazy or both could be crazy. Exactly. It's a pretty crazy risk for both people involved. So that's why we aren't picking up any hitchhikers along the way. Besides, we don't have any room left in this little truck of ours with all the stuff you made to cram in here.

Sally rolled her eyes and went back to staring out the window. Our conversation about hitchhiking managed to kill a bit of time and give us a couple of good laughs. But the trips seemed to be taking a lot longer than we initially thought. How mad would you be if I asked if we were there yet? Sally shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Not very, because we've been driving for a long time. We need a pit stop. Also, some gas.

That sign we passed said there was a gas station close. I say pit stop. Sound good? Yes, thank God. Our better spirits started to fade as the road fatigue hit us hard again. I could have sworn we were a lot closer to the gas station. I hoped we didn't pass by it at. accidentally. Sally had dozed off in the passenger seat and I was fighting my heart as not to do the same thing.

I struggled not to lose my focus when something odd caught my attention. I tapped Sally's leg to wake her up. Hey, what's that up ahead? She rubbed her eyes and sat up right in her seat. What? Where? What am I looking at? I pointed to the road ahead. Right there, coming up on the shoulder. Is that? Looks like a person, but... They're all red and yellow?

Is that another hitchhiker or something? Sally squinted her eyes to bring the mysterious thing into focus. The closer we got to it, the clearer it became. What we saw was probably the strangest thing you could see on the side of the road. We both stared out the past. You passed your window at a clown as we drove by. What in the hell would a clown be doing in the middle of nowhere? That is downright, freaky.

Oh, calm down you, baby. We both know you hate clowns. I'm sure there's some logical reason for him being out here. She turned herself around in her seat to look out the back window at the clown. Yeah, he's a lunatic. There's your axe murderer, Sally. Rubbed my leg. The big bad clown isn't going to get you.

Thanks. There's the gas station. I pulled us up to an open pump, and we both jumped out of the truck. We both felt like the long drive had wiped our brains clean of how to use our legs to walk. We took turns going into the washroom and then split up. I started gassing up the truck while Sally went inside to get some sun. snacks. I was trying to focus on filling up the truck, but I couldn't help staring at the clown just a few miles down the road. I had the uneasy feeling the clown was staring directly at me.

I finished filling up the truck as Sally returned with her hall. She had four big bottles of water and a bag stuffed with so many goodies. She should have gotten two bags to carry it all. I bought some snacks and drinks. It's scorching out today. My attention was, still focused on the clown. Sally waved her hand in front of my face. Earth to Matt. Hello. Anyone home?

Yeah. Sorry. Are he still staring at that clown? He keeps staring at me. It's creepy. He's probably wondering why the crazy guy at the gas pump won't stop staring at him. Thanks. It's just super weird, babe.

of all the things to see on the side of the road. Like I said before, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Maybe the guy is having the worst day ever. He's trying to get to some kid's birthday party, but his car broke down, and he can't get a lift because no one will pick up a clown. Why wouldn't the guy just come to the gas station and call a cab or something like that? He seems way too calm for a guy stranded on the highway in a humiliating clown suit. Maybe. He already did. And he's waiting for a clown car to come pick him up.

Those cars likely go so slow when they've got 20 or more clown stuffed in there weighing it down. Oh, you are so hilarious. Let it go. Crazy things happen all the time. All right, all right. I finished up with the truck. Do you think you have enough food? I poked at the bulging bag. Stop that! It's going to break!

Sally swatted my hand away, then jumped in the truck. She kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the dash and dug into the back of goodies. I climbed into the driver's seat. Do you want anything? I've pretty much covered every snack category a person might want. I fired up the engine. Surprise me. We pulled out of the gas station and we're back on the road.

I gave one last look in the rearview mirror, and I could have sworn I saw the clown waving at me. as we drove away. Hey, babe, wake up. I need you to double-check the GPS for me. We must be getting close now, eh? With her eyes still half-closed, Sally reached over and checked the GPS.

Yeah, we're getting closer. We should be there by late evening or a little earlier. Awesome. It feels like we're finally getting somewhere. Sally sat up in her seat and bent over as best she could to help stretch out her back. You want to break? from driving, I can take over and drive the last bit of this adventure.

Yeah, sure, I could use a break. I felt like my eyes were bugging out. Find a spot and pull over. We can switch. Hi-eye, Captain. I'll pull over up ahead and you can... I couldn't finish my sentence. A strange but familiar sight had caught my attention. Babe, what is that? Sally sat forward in her seat.

It looks like a pile of something on the ground, except... Oh, my God. It's red and yellow. That isn't what I think it is, is it? It almost looks like that clown again, except he looks like he's lying down or something? How could it be that clown again? There's no way he could have made it this far ahead of us. An unsettling feeling started growing in my sense.

stomach. The truck inched closer. And sure enough, my stomach was right. It is the clown again. And he looks like he's collapsed. You have to pull over. I hit the gas and the truck zoomed past the clown. No way. This has bad written all over it. He seriously looks like he's dead. It's a million degrees out and who knows how long he's been out there. Stop the truck. Fine. The truck tires squealed as I stomped on the brakes, bringing us to an abrupt stop. I put it in reverse and backed onto the shoulder of the road. Sally jumped out before the truck was even completely stopped. Call for help. I don't have any reception out here. Sally ignored my complaint and knelt down beside the clown.

She pulled down his collar and put her fingers on the clown's neck. I can't feel a pulse. The clown lay there completely motionless. There's nothing we can do. Leave them. We'll call for help as soon as we get a signal or find another gas station. I reached down and grabbed Sally's arm to pull her away from the clown. Sally yanked her arm away from me.

She put her hands on the clown's chest to do CPR when she was startled by the clown's body violently jerking. He jolted to life like an invisible lightning bolt struck his body and jumped started him. Matt, go grab some water from the truck. I hesitated for a second, but did his instruct him and brought a water bottle to Sally. The poor guy probably got heat stroke and passed out. She cracked open the water bottle and passed it to the clown. Or he's faking it.

And he managed to lure us into a trap so he can kill him. us. Once he's done murdering us, he'll just leave our bodies on the side of the road. Stop. The clown chugged the water in seconds and gave us both a look of gratitude. Why are you out here alone in this heat with no water or anything? The clown stared at her. Is there someone we can call for you? Or were you trying to get somewhere specific?

The clown continued to stare at her. I'm a nurse. I want to help you. I think you better come with us, and we can take you to the hospital. My eyes grew wide. I grabbed Sally by the arm again and let her away from the clown. No, we are not giving this guy a lift. This is insane, not to mention dangerous.

Don't you find this weird at all? Sally frowned. Do you think I'm stupid or something? Of course I think this is nuts. In fact, it's pretty bat-shit crazy. But guess what? This is real. It's happening.

And we have to help him. This is a bad idea. I get that. But he clearly can't stay here. He was unconscious for who knows how long and needs to be checked out at a hospital. Maybe he's disabled or has a medical condition. We don't know. I shook my head.

I hate when you get like this. You go into nurse mode and always want to help everyone. This could get us into serious trouble. I'm about ready to smack you. He needs help. What would happen if we left him here and saw that he was found dead on the news? What then? Would you be okay with that?

Because I wouldn't. Sally crossed her arms, giving me a stern look I knew all too well. I don't like this. It's the right thing to do. We're a couple hours from town. Once we get there, we can drop off Mr. Clown at the hospital, and then we're done with this craziness. Okay?

I knew I couldn't win this argument, especially when I knew she was right. Right, but we are not dropping him off at the hospital. He could just want to. her off. I say we drop him at the police station. We can explain this weird situation to him, and then the clown will be their problem. They can take him to the hospital or whatever. Deal? Sally gave a Victoria's smile. Deal. We walked back over to the clown who was still sitting on the ground. Sally crouched

down next to him. I think it would be good for you to come with us. We can get you some help. We can get you some help. Sound good? The clown didn't answer. Sally grabbed the clown by the hands and helped him up off the ground. There you go. Back on your feet. The clown stared at her. I don't mean to be rude, but you understand me, right? You can talk? She was startled when her question was answered by the sound of a horn echoing through the air. I raised an eyebrow. Did he just honk at us? Did he just honk at The clown smiled and honked the horn again. I think he just pulled that out of his bag. Sally gave me a confused look, then turned back to the clown.

Is this how you communicate? You have got to be fucking kidding me right now. This guy is a total psycho. The clown honked the horn twice. See, he agrees with me. I don't think he agrees with you. I'm pretty sure one honk means yes And two honks means no

Right? I cringed at the annoying sound I will ask you one more time Do you really want to take this guy with us? Yes! Now stop complaining and help me get him to the truck. I walked over to give Sally a hand Leading our new passenger to the truck.

She opened the door for the clown to get in But I shouted at both of them pointing to the clown's bag. Hey, you're not taking that into the back seat with you. I yanked the bag from the clown's hands and tossed it into the truck's box. If he's planning on killing us, I want to make things as difficult for him as possible. Sally shook her head. You want to tie him up also?

I'm sure we've got some rope packed somewhere. I walked away from the two of them shaking my head. I got in the truck and slammed the door. Sally climbed into the back seat next to the clown. I pulled the truck back onto the road. Now, her long, boring trip had just become a lot more exciting. Can you pass me the GPS for a second? Why?

Just pass it to me. I handed her to the GPS and watched her fiddle with it for a few seconds before turning the screen towards the clown. Could you show me on this map where exactly you were? came from or where you are going to? The clown pointed to the destination marker that was blinking on the screen. No, that's where we are going, him and me. She pointed to herself and me.

I want to know where you need to go. The clown gave Sally a familiar blank stare. You are wasting your time, my dear. It doesn't matter where the clown came from or where he's going because we are dropping him off at the police station. Yes, but it would be helpful if we could give the police a little more detail about him. She passed the GPS back to me. I think it would be better if we just didn't talk to him.

The less we all know about each other, the better. And I don't want to hear that stupid horn honking again. I glared at the clown in the rearview mirror. He smiled back at me and gave the horn a honk that made me cringe. It was going to be a long drive. I didn't pay much attention to how much time had passed. I was too focused on keeping an eye on the clown sitting in my back seat. I perked up in the driver's seat when I saw a sign saying we were about a half an hour from town.

It wouldn't be long until I could get rid of our unwanted passenger. I looked over my shoulder to tell Sally the good news, but I saw she was asleep with her head against the window. I smiled at the lovely side of her sleeping peacefully. My small moment of joy turned to anger when I noticed the clown had fallen asleep with his head on Sally's shoulder. I wanted to jerk the wheel or slam the brakes in hopes of moving the clown away from Sally. As those thoughts ran through my head,

I noticed the clown had moved on his own and was now awake. I wanted to say something, but... decided it wasn't worth it. Instead, I just stared at the clown in the rearview mirror. The clown started rummaging around in the back seat, which irritated me. What are you doing back there? Cut it out. Don't want to wake her up.

The clown ignored me and continued his search. I saw him stick his hand deep into one of his own pockets and pull something out. I couldn't make out exactly what it was, but the clown scooted. closer to Sally. Pointed something at her head. I looked back and saw the clown had a gun pressed to her temple. Fuck!

I hammered the brakes and stopped the truck in the middle of the road. Sally jolted awake. She turned to look at the clown who had a surprised expression on his face. The expression was quickly removed by my fist. What are you doing? He's got a gun!

I fired off another point. punch that landed square on the clown's bright red nose. The gun flew out of the clown's hand and fell to Sally's feet. She quickly picked it up before the clown could grab it. Look! It's just a water gun! I caught my breath. A what? Seriously! It's just a water gun!

Sally pulled the trigger to fire off a small squirt of water. I grabbed the clown's collar. It looks exactly like a real gun. That's because he painted it black. Why would you do that? Sally turned towards the battered clown who looked at both of us with a confused expression. Is this some kind of joke? The clown nodded and placed his hand over his mouth like he was trying to hide a laugh.

That is not funny at all. You scared us to death. This stupid thing could get you a little. into serious trouble. She waved the water gun in front of his face. Get the fuck. Out of my truck right now. The clown looked at us with a frown.

I'll drag you out if I have to. We all just need to calm down. I am calm, but this wacko has got to go. We tried to be nice, and look what happened. We can't exactly just let him wander around. That's clearly not a good idea for anyone. We are so close to town. Let's just get there, okay?

I took a deep breath. Fine. But the cops better lock him up when we do. The last stretch of the trip into town was a tense ride. I juggled looking at the road ahead and watching the clown behind me. Sally stayed in the back seat and kept her undivided attention on the clown. She made sure he behaved himself. I slowed the truck down as we finally made it into town.

I felt a slight relief that this craziness would be over soon. We followed the street signs and found our way to the police station. Sally partially remembered where to find it because her grandpa had been a cop in the town for years. After hours on the road and dealing with an unwanted passenger, the side of the police station gave us both a sense of relief. It was like finding a pool of. of water in the middle of the desert. I pulled the truck up to the front doors and wasted no time jumping out and grabbing the

clown's bag from the back. I threw it on the ground and got back into the truck. Sally got out and helped the clown slide out of the back seat and onto the sidewalk. She poked her head through the roll-down front passenger window. Aren't you coming inside? We can explain what's going on to the cops. Nope. This is your problem now.

mine. Seriously? They'll probably have questions about why he's beaten up. Take the water gun and show them. It won't take much convincing to get them to lock this guy up. All right, fine. I'll get this sorted out then. Sally took the clown by the arm to lead him inside the station. They moved a few steps away when the clown stopped and turned around. He walked back to the truck and stuck his head inside the open window as Sally had done. What? The clown smiled and waved goodbye to me. I resisted the urge to take another shot at the clown's red nose, tightening my grip on the wheel.

Fuck? The clown's smile disappeared. He lingered a moment, staring at me before turning around and walking back to join Sally. After a bit of time, Sally walked out of the station, clown free, and jumped into the truck. You're welcome, by the way, for dealing with all that. Are you done being a jerk now, or should I find another ride to take? I'm sorry, all right? This whole situation didn't sit well with me at all.

I didn't mean to be such a dick to you, but that asshole in the clown suit gave off a bad vibe. I know. And the police agreed with me that the whole situation was pretty wild. I explained everything. The water gun and... And they seemed pretty weirded out. The officer took down our info if they have any other questions. Okay.

I'm still sorry I got so freaked out and everything. It's okay. We did the right thing. Yes, I don't think Mr. Clown was all there, but it's over and done now. We got him help, and now we can be on our way. I leaned over to give her a kiss. I don't have to sleep outside tonight, will I? Sally met me the rest of the way and gave me a quick peck on the lips.

I'd never make you sleep outside. If you make me mad again, I'll just leave you on the side of the road. And I laughed and breathed a big sigh of relief. The crazy situation was finally over. We drove out of town and took the first right turn onto a dirt road. Then we made a left, followed by one more right before we finally made it to our new house. We pulled up to the front of the old farmhouse. We hopped out of the truck and stood side by side,

giving the place and the land a good look over. Sally gave me a big smile. This is our fresh start. Everything will be a lot better for us from now on. I put my arm around her. I believe you, my dear. Are you sure? Because you still look worried.

Let's start getting things unloaded. I'll feel better when we start making this place our home. I said, kissing her on the side of the head. We started to unload the truck. It was a challenge just figuring out how to unpack everything and not have it all toppled down on us. I carried in a bunch of boxes and set them down in the living room. It was the room located basically in the center of the house.

I hope that would make our unpacking a little easier by grouping everything in one spot. It took a bit of time, but we quickly emptied the truck. Too bad all that really accomplished was moving one mess from the truck to the living room floor. Sally grabbed the last couple of bags from the truck and plop them down inside. Are you buried alive somewhere in there? Getting there. I've got a surprise for you.

I found it in the truck. Close your eyes and hold out your hands. I did as I was told. I opened my eyes to see a balloon animal staring back at me. You have got to be joking. I'm so done with anything clown-related. I twisted the balloon animal until it popped. So I guess we won't be inviting the clown over for dinner once we get settled in, huh?

Really? And you were saying I was the one being a jerk. Okay, okay, no more clown talk, I promise. Good. Now, do you mind if I turn on the TV? I need some kind of background noise while we unpack. Go for it if you can get it working. It's late, so the only thing on will probably be the news.

I fiddled with the knobs of the TV and rolled my eyes when the only station I could find was the local news channel. The TV's noise filled the empty house as we kept unpacking. We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Sally began climbing over boxes. I'll grab that. It's probably grandma stopping by to check in on us. I continued to unpack when a breaking news report caught my attention. Thanks, Rod. I'm here on the scene at the police station where firefighters are trying their hardest to control this for Wosha's boys. We have reports of this fire being caused by a sudden explosion that claimed the lives of all those inside.

Now, multiple witnesses to this event claim one survivor was seen. team leaving the scene. They say, and I have double-checked, that a clown covered in blood was seen leaving the scene in this terrible accident. At this time it is not known what a clown has to do with all of this. We'll stay here on location to see if we can find out more details. Be back to you, right. I stood frozen in place, staring at the TV. I didn't snap back to focus until I heard Sally moving for the front door. I raced to try and stop her, but stumbled over some boxes in my panic.

Wait, don't answer the... Sally didn't hear me. The knocking on the door was getting louder. And she hurried to answer. She opened the door. And... ...have dispersed this night. Poetic works from darkness alight.

We leave you with this. 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

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