The NoSleep Podcast - S19: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 14

Episode Date: August 20, 2023

We’re sleeplessly decomposing during hot August nights. Enjoy Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 14“Welcome to the Bar” written by John Beardify (Story starts around 00:02:35)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis“To Be Loved, and Made Twice” written by Phoebe Smith Stokes (Story starts around 00:16:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Lora – Erin Lillis, Sam – Jeff Clement, Vera – Kristen DiMercurio, Tanner – Dan Zappulla, Boho Girl – Sarah Thomas, Heart Face – Nichole Goodnight, Cormac – David Ault, Fluff – Matthew Bradford, Bernie – David Cummings, Bill – Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by:Factor - Factor, America's #1 Ready-To-Eat Meal Kit, can help you fuel up with fast, fresh, never-frozen, chef-crafted meals delivered straight to your door. Visit factormeals.com/NOSLEEP50 and use code NOSLEEP50 to redeem 50% off.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about John BeardifyExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio 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.

Sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 14. I'm your host, David Cummings. As we continue to work towards our 20th season, we're excited to bring you two new installments in our Sleepless Decomposition series. This week and next will feature tales which are a little different from our usual stories. Tales we hope aren't too hard to swallow. And speaking of things being a little different, I want to tease you with my tongue.

Oh, no, no, I mean, no, not like that, you silly, sex-positive creepers. I want to use my words to tease you with some exciting news. I know some of you are asking about season 20, and when the new season pass is going to be available for pre-orders. Well, let me put it this way. As we look forward to celebrating our 20th season with you, we have some big and exciting new changes ahead. What might those changes be?

What could possibly be in store for you as the clock ticks down to season 20? Well, you'll need to wait a little longer to find out. And if you're not already, make sure you follow us on our social media accounts to be right up to date as we share the details of what season 20 and beyond holds in store for us. Now, for this volume of sleepless decompositions,

we're going to the local watering hole for a drink, a frosty mug of beer, a delicate glass of wine perhaps, or a cheeky little cocktail with a cherry and a twist on the rim. Whatever whets your whistle, I'm sure you'll find these tails positively intoxicating. So, belly up to the bar, the drinks are on the house, just make sure you're fully braced for our sleepless decompositions. In our first tale, we sidle up. to the bar and meet the bartender. He seems like a nice fella. He can tell you're new here,

and you might need to understand a bit about the place. And in this tale, shared with us by author John Beardify, we learn how the man came to be the bartender there and how his job is a rather strange one indeed. Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So don't let the surroundings or the patrons bother you. Come on in. And yes, welcome to the bar. Come on in, friend. Have a seat. What can I get for you? It's your first time here, I see.

The selection can be overwhelming. But trust me, we have something for everyone. I'd recommend against the tincture of Belladonna, though. Oh, it'll send you flying, of course. But afterwards, who's to say how you got that strange mark, Or all those cuts and scratches, hmm? Moon cream and Asphodel distillate are acquired taste.

And as for those reddish glass tubes marked A, B, A, B, A, O, best not to consider them either. How about a nice cold beer? That's what I asked for, my first time here. Joshua was the bartender back then. I still remember the fear in his eyes. eyes when he saw me walk through the door. He thought I was one of them, I'm sure. But of course, I was just a tired nobody looking for a cold drink someplace out of the rain. When I asked Joshua

what was good here instead of ordering right away, he got suspicious. He thought I might be trying to play a game with him. In this bar, it's important not to play games with the clients. Play Seeing games is a good way to lose your fingers. And the manager gets angry when he has to replace them. In the end, I got tired of Joshua's stink eye and just asked for whatever was on tap. But even that wasn't enough to convince him that I'd wandered in here by mistake. Some of them drink beer, too, after all, more than you'd think. There was so much I could have picked up on.

If only I'd been looking for it. That ring of mushrooms growing from a dish of moss. beside the sink, for example. Do you think the health department would let that stand in a normal bar? And what about the furniture? We've got bar stools from a 17th-century China booths from 19th-century Ireland, a fridge from the Soviet Union. Think about it.

How could one place end up with all that stuff? But it was already too late for that. The door had opened for a real... customer. What do I mean by that? It's complicated, but I'll try to explain. Here's your drink, by the way. You might need it. I knew the guy was huge just from the way the floor creaked under his footsteps, but that didn't prepare me for what he looked like up close. It wasn't just those wide apart, crazy eyes that stared in two different directions or the way he kept pulling at his face as though it were a mask that didn't fit quite right.

It was the guy's teeth. They were as big and square and white as a horse's, perfect for crushing bone. The guy seemed to have something stuck in his throat. At least that's what I thought before I heard Joshua make the same noises. This grunting, choking, rasping kind of sound, somehow they were communicating. Joshua turned on the 80s-era television above the bar.

The picture was fuzzy, but it looked like two squat greenish men wrestling in a sumo ring. While the big guy grunted out some kind of commentary about the match, Joshua prepared his order, a bowl of tiny heads, the honey barbecue covered skulls of mice, squirrels, chipmunks. The big guy caught me staring. He grabbed my shoulder with an enormous hand, grunted, and pushed the disgusting dish my way. I would have run. Trust me, I wanted to, but I had a feeling that I'd wind up between those giant teeth before I made it out the door.

Besides, I'd just seen the note that Joshua had half hidden under my beer, act like you belong, no matter what. Your life depends on it. I mean, what would you have done? I popped a tiny skull into my mouth. Rotten meat and chalky bone. I couldn't actually chew it, so I hid it under my tongue. I tried to wash away the taste with beer

and waited for a chance to spit it out in the bathroom. Before I could, however, the bar door swung open again. The girl looked like she weighed 80 pounds, soaking wet, which she was. It was like the rain had just blown her in. I had no idea how she could see through the curtain of wet hair hiding her face, but she walked up to the bar as gracefully as a ballerina. The bartender got a wine glass for her and filled it from the tube marked A-B. I'd noticed her a dirty, bare feet, and I was about to ask if she was okay. But when I looked up, All I saw was neck.

Her head was on the other side of my shoulders, chowing down on the honey barbecue mouse heads. When she slithered the frigid skin of her throat back across my shoulder blades and into its normal position, she brushed the hair out of her face and smiled. She asked me if I was new here, inside my head. I couldn't deal with a disgusting taste of cheese. shipmunk inside my mouth a second longer, so I just smiled and gave her a wave on my way to the bathroom.

I felt her eyes on me while she sat, cross-legged on her stool, sipping the reddish stuff in her wine glass. When I touched the bathroom door handle, I heard her silent voice again. She told me that she liked my heartbeat. Hey, you ever go into a place that's so clean it makes you suspicious? That's what the bathroom was like. It smelled like bleach and the mirror was missing. But I was just glad to have a locked door between me and them. I spat the mouse skull into the sink,

sat down on the toilet with my pants up, and wondered how the hell I was going to get out of this. I could hear the bar door slamming open and shut outside. It seemed like the place was filling up. If I went straight for the door, maybe I could walk out unnoticed. I hoped. I was still working up my courage when I felt something pressing up from below me, from inside the toilet bowl.

Now, you better believe that I shrieked like I hadn't hit puberty and got the hell out of there. Behind me, I saw a greenish-black hand feeling the empty air. Something scaly. and child-sized was pulling itself out of the toilet. But I wasn't going to stick around to say hi. I'm not going to lie, I forgot all about Joshua's warning. I probably could have set an Olympic sprinting record if anyone was counting.

But just before I reached the door, something coiled around me. It was the woman's neck and her head dangled upside down in front of me. And I heard her voice in my head. You're not trying to. I'm going to leave without pain, are you dear? The whole bar was glaring at me by then. There was a cat, the size of a grown man with two tails sitting in that booth right behind you, licking something out of a tray with a forked tongue.

In the one beside it, a weeping woman sat between two eyeless figures. They caught her tears in a cocktail glass. and passed it back and forth between them. She was just as human as you were me, but those things had brought her here as a garnish. I can't even describe what was happening in the third booth. The rope-necked woman dragged me back to the bar, where the green, scaly things were ordering cocktails

made from vodka, cucumber, slivers, and rings of human intestines. and the crowd was closing in around me when Joshua reached across the bar and grabbed my hand. He told me it was time to pay for my drink. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes, I was back here, behind the bar. And Joshua was where I'd been standing, surrounded by hungry eyes. Joshua told me that what was about to happen would be, messy, but that I shouldn't worry there's a mop in the back. He told me to remember that,

despite what I was about to see, he still wouldn't trade places with me for anything in the world. It's been 30 years since I mopped what was left of Joshua off the floor, and I think I finally know what he meant. In all that time, I haven't aged. I haven't slept. I haven't Slept or fucked or used the restroom all I've done is take care of this bar. Mixing drinks with ingredients so foul I have passed out from the smell. Listening in on conversations so nightmarish that I can hear them still. Discovering the likes and dislikes of the monsters that exist just beneath the skin of the world, I thought I knew.

If I got hurt or killed or I tried to escape, I'd just blink and find myself back here. But everything comes to an end, right? I see you've finished your

beer. And now it's time to pay for your drink. For final tale, we meet Laura. A no-nonsense, seasoned bartender at Gordy's, a cheap dive bar in a college town. There are the regulars there, and basically it's the same old scene night after night. But as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Phoebe Smith Stokes, Laura's routine is disrupted one night

when a young man comes in and starts asking customers an odd question. Performing this tale with me are Aaron Lillis, Jeff Clement, Kristen Di MacGurio, Dan's Aboum. Pula, Sarah Thomas, Nicole Goodnight, David Alt, Matthew Bradford, and Atticus Jackson. So it's last call, and the bar is closing up for the night. Best not Dottle if you want to hear the tale titled, To Be Loved and Made Twice. Disquiet, squirming, urgent agency. This moment is unbearable. The doorman Bernie has hastily shoved everyone out right at 2 a.m., as he always does, his fervent protection of me and the other Gordy's staff and his own anticipated bedtime.

It's 205 now. You can hear the multitude of muffled voices through the padded door of our recently evacuated patrons. Too loud laughter over cigarettes, giggling girls arguing over who's going to app order the ride home this time. It is usually background noise to me, but tonight I find myself startle-flinching at each rise of volume in their drunken banter. Mechanically, I sweep empties and half-empties off of counters and tables, and tables into sticky black bins, while Vera sweeps and Tanner's got the sink running.

I'm silent. Normally, the three of us would be sleepily chattering through our final tasks of the shift, mildly cheerful and grateful for the revealing last call lights that actually allow us to see what we're fucking doing for the first time all night, while simultaneously squinting in response to their comparative harshness. My colleagues don't seem to notice I'm not joining them in their happy hour caroling, which saves me a moment to wallow in my shock. Bernie lets out a belting smokers cough and then wheezes a little as he locks the front door behind him and shuffles to join us. The bar staff always goes out the back door when we leave.

I suppose Gordy's owners decided this is how we'd do things some 30 years ago when they made their incontestable, permanent decisions on how their bar would be run. I've heard someone say they think it's safer. Safer. My stomach churns as I realize I'm about to go home in the dark. alone. It's something I do every night. I'd become so accustomed to my late-night bar shift that I had felt I'd befriend at the dark. But that's quiet. No, downright fear in me has plastered to my nightly routine a new dread and alarm. Here I am. A 45-year-old, tough-mannered beer-pourer, as gleefully unfeminent in personality as God makes women. I've been called Butch and said thank you, but my name is actually Laura, who's had nearly 50, years of experience being awake at night, at another five years of being and living alone, feeling afraid of being alone, feeling afraid of the dark. And it's not that there was a particular

face of threat I had suddenly discovered was awaiting me in that lonesome dark. There was no concrete person or entity occupying my new frame of fear. No, it was simply the disquiet within me, as abstract and verbally intangible as the definition of the word, the So what conjured such disquiet? Even I wanted to deny something not inherently threatening could make me feel so childishly afraid and laugh it off. But I can't. Something got in my head. It started with Sam.

Sam is a handsome 20-something. When swept hair, clever eyes, a dimple on one cheek, always a fountain pen behind the opposite ear. His face is just childish enough to tug at your sympathy. while the evenly distributed dark scruff on his cheeks and chin suggests that not only could he grow a full beard if he wanted to, he's old enough that building a mothering edible complex over him would just be inappropriate. I'm not a goddamn senior citizen after all. Sam started coming to Gordy's a year or two ago.

Can't really pinpoint exactly when it was, but what I can tell you is that the first time he walked in the door, he instantly became a regular. Gordy's isn't a large bar, nor is it anything remotely special. It's a forgettable, trashy dive bar in a college town. Wooden floors, wooden walls, wooden bar, wooden stools. Green lighting, green pool tables. Once a year, green beer.

Fuck it, it sells. And a green jukebox. The jukebox never plays very loudly, even though someone's always throwing quarters at it to make sure it never stops weekly croaking out jam band noise. I'm telling you these boring details, because the bar is small enough, the jukebox quiet enough, that if you really tried, you could hear pretty much any conversation going on in that room.

But why would you try? As I told you, it's a blatantly unoriginal place with unoriginal people as its patrons, 90% of which are new to town state school kids who will order a shit drink, look around like a field trip to a museum, find a better bar to frequent without much trouble, and then never come back. The other 10% are the much older locals. the dedicated regulars, the mediocre booze worshippers. You'd have to be as bored as the 18th century

to make an effort to eavesdrop on the humbuzzing conversations of Gordy's. Here's the kicker. I am always that bored. The most complicated drink we'll make in Gordy's is a gin and tonic, with the pinch slice of lime setting it a step above a jack-and-coke. You could say my job leaves me wanting for everything. So, yes, in the moments I'm not listening to you, your drink order, I'm eavesdropping on your conversation. I've even made a game of it.

Decide which participant I side with the most in any conversation. And who is the ultimate antagonist? I almost always share these details with Vera and sometimes we'll debate the moral quality of someone's character based solely on their opinion of a professor we don't know. Or insistence that a certain grocery store has a great beer selection. Or lament of, Oh my God, there's nowhere to park on campus. The first night, Sam Kay I decided pretty quickly he was the antagonist of antagonists. He came in alone, which, trust me, can only mean a few things. A, Trouble Starter, B, needs a fuck.

C, I just had the worst A in history, or D, devoted alcoholic. This had me watching him immediately, prepared to take an educated guest at which he fell under, hoping he wouldn't be an A. I lose out on a lot of tips calling the cops and Bernie's two asthmatic and soft. to be as tough as his stature might otherwise indicate. Sam ordered a pale ale, asked for a goddamn straw. Now all of Gordy staff are watching him. Who is this little shit?

Edgy little schoolboy, huh, Lord? Vera giggled at my appreciative glance in her direction. Passing him his beer and straw, with a smile I hoped he could read his condescending, I released him into the wild. And Sam didn't waste a fucking minute. He set his eyes on a couple of universities. girls, walked right up to them, and flashed a blindingly unforgettable grin that should have

belonged to an Ivy League trust fund kid. I immediately pegged him as a bee needs a fuck and lost a little interest. But Sam didn't disappoint for long. He introduced himself. The girl's smiling responses said, you're too good looking to creep us out. You may state your case. And he fucking did. His sheepish smile never fading. Do you ever think about death? This surprised me. What's this asshole going for? I tried to fill in the blanks, no longer finding him quite as predictable as he initially seemed, though still entirely unable to give him any credit for originality. One girl's smile of welcome faded a little.

I saw a wave of confusion pass over her heart-shaped face. The other one, though, holding up her IPA like a scythe and attempting to match his grin, thought this was bait worth taking. Sure. Or who doesn't? He smiled a little wider, eyes fixed on her, his hooked fish. Okay, then, it's a prank, I thought. What do you think about when you think about death?

What does it make you feel? His voice was breathy, lightly caressing the words as they left his mouth. Okay, then he's a psych major who hasn't even started classes but thinks he's an intellectual revolutionary, I thought. He winked at her. And that's how he thinks he'll get pussy, I thought. B is my final answer, Alex. The fish girl leaned in. Well, I don't believe in God.

She spoke boldly like it was a brave statement she could still be strung up by her neck for. So I think you just stop existing and return to the earth from once you came. She gestured airily around her, self-appointed bohemian princess. The other girl fumbled with her necklace. Across, I bet.

Sam noticed he turned to the... The other girl. He hadn't given up. Catch all the fish. How does that make you feel then? Okay, then he's a sociopath, I thought. She pursed her lips, fingered at the tiny straw in her vodka cran. I don't know. I'm not worried about death, you know, yet. He feigned surprise. It doesn't scare you? It doesn't scare me. His first fish, painting for his return to attention. I think it's beautiful. Sam started drinking his beer then. He took several large gulps from the glass itself, putting down at least a third of the pint, before deliberately, almost theatrically, sticking the straw in his mouth and sucking the drink past its halfway point.

Boho fish giggled. Isn't that a beer? What's with the straw? And like a thunder clap, the spell was broken. Sam's smile disappeared. And on his blank face, I read a million dark words. I thought for a split second he was going to burst into anger. I even worried he was edging toward dangerous for that tiny moment, ready to drop his needs-of-fuck persona and dive straight into Trouble Starter. But no, he smiled again, a new smile.

No sheepishness this time, no flirty sly. He was polite. He thanked them, shook their hands again, and told them he hoped they'd have a fun night. They both looked a little surprised, then a little disappointed as he sauntered off. He stood at the bar, one arm on it, and finished his beer at a moderate pace. face. After he set his glass down, he removed the pen from his ear and hastily wrote something

I wished I could see on his wrist and then walked out. Vera, Talhand in a glass, bid him goodbye. She looked at me then with teasing eyes and interpreting whatever downtrodden slump my face had taken as total disgust and ready to tell me I was overjudging and debate me on my usual moral character read. Well, that was anticlimactic. I shrugged. Something about, the situation didn't make me want to laugh. It left me feeling like I'd been denied something I was owed. I can't really explain that feeling, but I can tell you that mysteries are only unbearable when you think you ought to own the answer. I'm not sure why I felt the truth belonged to me, but from then on, my eyes were out for Sam, an eternal watch. Sam didn't make me wait.

He came back every single night thereafter, and his five-act play did not change. It soon became routine. Sam would arrive around the peak of the night when Gordy's was at its fullest, which would change, depending on the day of the week or holiday. He'd order his godforsaken beer with straw, pick someone in the bar to pose his favorite question, finish his drink while scribbling on his wrist, and then leave. He always tipped a dollar, always carried a pen behind his ear,

always entered a conversation with that undeniably bright grin. That Trojan horse of a smile never failed to gain him, into any social starter, and he'd roll right in. And then, do you think about death, would spring on out? And it was always met with surprise, because Sam never spoke to anyone who was a regular or staff. He'd pick someone each time who, regardless of sex or race or arguably attractiveness,

he somehow could tell was at least fairly new or irregular enough to the bar and probably hadn't noticed him before. I'm not sure what earned him this ability, aside from skillful observation, but he seemed an expert in his choosing. It wasn't for a month or so that I started noticing an additional trend. No one he talked to ever seemed to come back.

But that didn't seem to me much of a surprise and more of a continued reflection of the nature of the bar and its social status that clashed with that of the primarily white and moderately privileged students that occupied the town. The regulars, of course, caught on. A number of instances Sam would be mockingly clapped on the back, a chortled beer burp sprained his face with, That's quite a pickup line you got there.

How often does it work? Or a generally curious and friendly post-well drink gulp of, Did you ever get the answer you were looking for, darling? But Sam isn't looking for a particular answer. At least, that's what I came to believe, that for Sam, this is sport. The same move made every day on the same board, board by the same piece.

An eye-roll mockery plastered on a sheepish grin, the groaning cliche of taking something serious and turning it into a game. And the win is simply his own participation. There is no halftime, no score. The game in itself is an ongoing victory. And you can tell he feels that way in the way his eyes light up before you've even given him an answer. A little sparkle in those pupils.

If you look closely, you might see a jersey-clad superstar. leaping into the air and shouting, Go! But no one looks at Sam this closely, except, well, me, I suppose. And even then I never found the answer I was looking for in him, the simple question ever playing in my head. What is he doing?

What is the straw about? What is he writing on his hand? What is his goddamn motherfucking deal? My continued confusion, blended frustration eventually became an increasingly poorly veiled point of rage crackling inside me. I came to fucking hate Sam. And while I am an emotionally private person with a generally stoic face, Vera and the other staff caught on my feelings. While they found it amusing that some stupid kid had gotten to me so, they were protective of me and of their tips, and so they'd always

jumped to serve Sam while I fumed at the other end at the bar, wishing him all colors of death. But you can grow used to anything. Even things that really piss you off. Anger has two places it can go. It can either volcano out or harden into cold, rocky resentment within. Naturally, I chose rock over lava. It is at least certainly the female thing to do. The rock sat heavy within me for a year or so. I'd given up on finding out what Sam's deal was. In fact, I didn't think he had much of one at all, just some weird social complex whose remaining flicker of interesting had been snuffed out long ago. Most nights, I'd tune him out,

but once in a while I'd check back in to see that, nope, he hadn't changed his game at all. It wasn't until recently that he re-sparked my attention. The bar was absolutely dead. It was the deadest I'd seen it in years, even for a Monday. I leaned back against the back of the bar, appreciating the moment of peace. We only had three patrons at the moment,

all regulars, and two of them had gone out for a smoke. The remaining patron was one of our oldest regulars, a retired professor named Cormack with a depressed demeanor and a perpetual spray of white stubble covering half his face. I watched him as he swayed slightly in front of the jukebox, clumsily poking its buttons. How you doing, Cormie? Ask me after a few more of these. He held up his glass, the cheapest rum that pocket change could buy, spilling a little with his gesture. In fact, why would I? Face time. Just replicate this about three times over, and I'll be feeling much better.

Nuh, you know the drill. The drill, Vera was referring to, was a set of rules we enforced on all of our alcoholic regulars. Walk across the bar to the jukebox and back once you've emptied your drink, and sure, you can have another one. If you so much as stumble, you get coffee. Finish a cup of that, and you can audition again. Vera employed the rules with such a loving sense of motherhood that the patron. She never really argued with her, at least beyond the playful remark that she ought to just dump the bottle right down their throats. I think she made them feel cared about in the one place they really felt at home, and that was enough for them not to fight her on it.

Cormack's song crackled out of the jukebox speakers, and he walked a curvy line back to his usual seat at the corner of the bar. I smiled at him. He was one of the few people in life I thought was worth smiling at. Despite the intellectually charged unhappiness he wore like a battle scar, I've earned my misery. I've found it in a book somewhere, he once told me. I found him to be a genuinely kind man who really didn't want to hurt anyone, besides, I suppose, his own liver. I'd also taken one of his literature courses back before he retired,

back before I dropped out of school and unknowingly resigned myself to working here for the rest of my life. He returned my gaze, his signature thousand-toed crow's feet smile, me with a sense of patriarchal nostalgia. I bet my dad would have enjoyed having a drink with him, I thought, and then snapped out of that as he said something that caught me. You think Sam will make it over here tonight? I blinked. Cormack was probably the only regular who hadn't participated in the gossip

when Sam first became a Gordy's hit. But even that gossip had died out by this point. He's here every night, man. Cormac didn't even look in Tanner's direction. He was looking into my eyes as if awaiting my answer. specifically. Well, yeah, he always shows. I twitched a small shrug.

Kormack nearly cut me off, his sentence flying out before I finished my last word. I think he's up to something. You think so? Kormack's eyes sparkled. I followed him last night. There was a series of scrapes and thuds as Vera, Tanner, and I shifted in shock.

Our undivided attention now fixated on Kormac. I felt my heart rate increase. A million suddenly unearthed and zombo. classified questions, clambering up my throat to eat his brain. But before Cormack could indulge me, a dozen plus rowdy male students burst into the bar, filling it with a chorus of laughter and jabbing words. There was a healthy mix of fraternity types and apparent athletes in uniform, and their energy level indicated pointed excitement. They were celebrating something, and judging by their touchier body language, Gordy's wasn't their first or second stop of the night.

Their bodies hit the bar like a storm wave against a pier. We rallied and took drink orders. I whined internally. A kid awakened and forced out of bed just when her dream was getting interesting. This consciousness complaint rose to a tantrum level as, to my utter horror, Cormack slapped down a crinkled bill and slunk out. Fuck, I screamed silently. Fuck!

Over and over. The great volcano say I'm sending a reborn rumble within me, threatening to boil over once more. Fuck you, Cormac! And as if summoned by my internal chant of fury, Sam appeared at the door. He approached the bar and waited patiently for a gap in the party men.

Vera poured a multitude of shots, and I bent down to grab 14 PBR tall cans from the fridges below, one for each guy, resentment building with each can. Sam finally squeezed in, and I listened with a renewed sense of urgent,

fascination as Tanner approached them. As I stood up and began ferrying beers out to the noisy boys, I caught a glint of stunned awkwardness in Tanner's eyes as he stuttered a few times before successfully asking Sam if he wanted the usual. Yes, thanks. Tanner glanced at me, lips tight and eyes lit with the kind of anxiety that can only come from unresolved curiosity. He shared my feelings, that was clear. The drinks were delivered and the wave of boys drifted back out to see as they filled the body of the bar. With a nod of thanks at Tanner and beer and straw in hand, Sam stepped away from the counter as well and, per his usual, approach the group. He stuck his hand out first at a tall kid in a hoodie and uniform shorts with fluffy blonde hair and a weak chin.

You guys look like you're on some kind of a mission. Sam held his beer down by his side by the rim, as though avoiding bringing attention to it. I wondered if he'd reveal the straw or keep it discreet until he had wormed his way in a bit more. Fluff, grinned, and gave Sam a slapping shake back. It's my buddy's 21st. He gestured with his elbow at a hairy guy in a tank top, who already had a second shot shoved into his hands since entering the bar. Oh, nice.

Happy birthday, man. Sam chortled in his direction, perfectly mimicking the dialectical tone of the group. We're heading every bar in town. Not that there's very many in this little shithole. I smelled Vera's usual slop of perfume right before I felt her arm brush mine. Fuck. Do you think Quorm's coming back tonight? She already knew the answer, but I knew she meant to commiserate with me about it to try to soothe some of my anxiety. I don't know. I said dismissively, eyes on Sam.

Lower. I leaned forward against the bar, ignoring her. Lord! I whirled around. She and Tanner stood beside me, staring at the counter. Vera's eyes swimming with concern, and Tanner's full of frustrated confusion. What? Then, from across the bar, just on the edge of my hearing? Do you ever think about death?

And then I realized there were two holes in the counter. Two arm-sized holes. Wasn't that right where Cormack had sat? What the fuck are the... Spinning back towards the boys, I saw them scurry over and surround Fluff, who had collapsed right at the end of Sam's question, taking the coat rack down with him. My brain stuttered in odd disrupted succession, attempting to make sense of so much at once, while Vera rushed to the phone, fast-acting mother instincts in flight.

I stood where I was, feeling numb and stupid as the pandemonium bloomed. Tanner made his way first to the wall and found the light switch. He flicked it on and then joined the boys all crowding around their fallen friend in the newly harsh and revealing light. He put his hands on a couple shoulders and spoke in deep tones, a blanket over chaos. He seemed to try to ease the height of the panic, the tone of his voice clashing oddly with Vera speed-talking into the receiver behind him. No one else was paying attention to Sam.

He backed away from the group and turned. He looked right at me. I think it was the first time in all the endless nights I had watched him that we had ever made eye contact. I felt a little chill as he walked toward me. me. He eased into Cormac's spot, leaned against the bar and finished his beer, the fingers of his other hand tracing over the holes in the wood. I felt his eyes and found myself even stiffer, paralyzed in place. I didn't move, didn't speak, didn't breathe. Pulling the pen from his ear, he broke his

gaze from my eyes and set its point on its wrist. It'll be all right. And I watched, in plain sight, the overhead light shining, as blatantly he allowed me to watch his hand mechanically sweep over his skin. Too quickly. Like, like a printer. His handwriting is neat and monochrome as a font. It read, Replica malfunction, made contact with cosmetic matter, 3.5% aluminum, 2.2% steel, 5.6% cedar, 8.8.3% oak, 0.4% epoxy resin. Replicate cosmetic matter. Full reset required. Time estimate, 28 hours, 39 minutes, 24 seconds.

It'll be all right. He clicked the pen and replaced it behind his ear. He raised his eyes to mine once again and gave me his Trojan smile. Different, but all right. Then he blew on the ink and strolled out the door. Colored lights flashed rectangular through Gordy's door. The ambulance took the still unconscious fluff away, his once lively comrades deflated and quiet, slinking out into the night like shamed cats. A big sigh from Vera.

What a weird night. No fucking kidding. Tanner appeared, mildly dumbfounded, and moderately amused. How are you holding up? Vera looked over at me. I still had my eyes on the door, but I could feel her turned gaze. I let out the breath I'd been holding for. for who knows how long. I could really use a smoke. I don't really smoke much anymore, but in that moment, I felt it was a necessity. I've got you.

Tanner reached under the bar and pulled out his pack. I floated out the front door, save for a bored-looking Bernie perched atop his stool, the plaza was eerily empty. I scanned the square in its entirety and didn't see a single soul. Something about the night seemed darker, and I quickly realized that more than half the streetlights were out.

I shivered a little. I lit the cigarette and Bernie mimicked me. We smoked in silence. It didn't call me as much as I hoped, but the tangled thoughts in my head were starting to finally disperse and become more readable. I wanted to discredit all of it,

Sam's wrist notation and extension of his ongoing prank. The long con. But I found myself transfixed by the perfection of his print, more so than the words, most of which I couldn't remember. replicate matter, I mouthed, trying to remember the rest. Time estimated, 28 hours, 39 minutes. I looked at my watch.

1207. What time had it been when he'd written that? Sometime after 1130. So that would be, what, after 3 a.m. tomorrow night? Hope that kid's all right. Ernie jarred me from my silent monologue. Look younger in my son. I hope so too. I looked at him. His eyes off in the distance somewhere, pained empathy on his brow.

Bet he'll call his son tomorrow, see how he's doing. I heard a jingle of metal behind me and turned to see Tanner with keys in hand. Let's close up early. I don't know, man. Old Gord's got eyes in the sky. They won't care. Looks like the whole town's been abducted by aliens anyway. No one moved. Oh, come on. If they get pissed, I'll pull. play my manager card and give him a bunch of business reasons why we closed. It'll be on me. Tanner would stamp the word business on anything he made the decision to do. I think he felt the

word carried a meaning that made him unquestionable. Bernie slid off his stool onto his feet and stomped out a cigarette. But if anyone asks, I offered to stay my full shift and you went and sent me home anyway. You got it. Tanner smiled. You guys should come over. I've got some really nice scotch. Beer is kind of coming. Nah, Nellie wants me to help her with shopping tomorrow. I got to rest up for that shit.

Bernie shuffled inside, muttering. Woman moves a hundred miles an hour in that window. It took a hearty drag off the smoke. Cherry only millimeters away from the filter. Geez, Laura. You want another one? I dropped the butt and pressed it into the concrete. Nah, it's fine.

So what about you? You want to come blow off that steam that's coming out of your room? ears. Fuck it. I shrugged. Apathy kept me standing, my best coping mechanism. Why not? Besides, what sleep was I going to get tonight with so many unanswered questions having a full-on block party in my skull? We hastily cleaned and closed up, heading out the back door. Tanner lived two blocks away in one of the lofts. I thought it was a childish choice of a place for a 39-year-old to live. The place was mostly inhabited by students. I knew we liked to talk to them in the common areas. Chain smoked with that.

in front of the building on his days off. But surprisingly, part of what made him bearable to me, he didn't show any interest in the 20-something women who lived there. He had eyes only for Vera. Vera is 53, so you do the math. But she's a graceful version of that age, and even though she's got nearly 10 years on me, she certainly has me beaten looks and charm department.

Long, thick orange hair, always shiny and iron-curled, long lashes and big eyes and a tailored waist. Not to mention a disposition gentler than a spring breeze, I could probably fall for her if I thought it might get me somewhere. I think Vera was always hesitant to accept Tanner's interest, even though it was clear she found him enticing as well. I'm sure lots of shame around her age and the idea of dating a guy almost 15 years younger

was too embarrassing for her to fully indulge. But I saw the way she looked at him with that Vera branded loving. concern. She'd care for his heart, even if she wouldn't give him hers. Tanner pulled out a crystally textured bottle of booze I didn't recognize. Its liquid rose just an inch below the neck. He'd already tested it. He handed it to me to look at as he pulled three unmatching glasses down from his shitty cabinet-free shelving. I looked at the label without reading it and forced to nod. You had this lore? It's aged 10 years.

10 years 28 hours 39 minutes something something seconds nope neat Veer took the bottle from me where'd you get it

present from my brother in Chicago Tanner had five brothers none of which he referred to by name there was brother in Chicago brother in Kansas brother in the army brother back home and tragically

brother MIA we sipped the scotch admittedly I found it extremely pleasant. It's harsh burn, a welcome distraction. As I looped cozily into intoxication, I found myself at ease, smiling as we talked and laughed like drunk old friends. But the distraction was short-lived. We couldn't shy away from the evening's drama for long. Sam finally killed a guy with his stupid question. Vera laughed, then stopped herself. Oh, I feel bad. I hope he's going to be okay.

He'll probably be fine. Looked like he just had a seizure or something. And I heard that medic say he had a pulse. He'll never know. He won't be back to Gordy's. How do you figure? Tanner eyed me, his boozy face crooked and shining. No one Sam ever talks to comes back.

You guys haven't noticed that? Not a single one. I smacked the table to dramatize my point. What are you some super recognizer? He's there ever. every day and for how fucking many it's been like years worth of days of people? No, I've noticed it too. I figure Sam scared them off with his creepiness.

Even drunk, I was startled by the sudden loud rapping at the door. Tanner got up from the table. I reached for the bottle gluttonously in his brief absence and found it empty. Shit. I looked up and found myself facing a grinning middle-aged man covered in bad tattoos. I smiled. Hey, Bill. Bill's an old friend of Tanner's, someone I always quite liked.

We had awkward sex once, a drunken decision, as odd and out of place as a plastic flamingo in the Iraqi desert. We then laughed about it in the morning together. We happily admitted how terrible it was, felt relieved the other wasn't offended, and then relentlessly tease each other about it throughout the entire day, which we managed to spend together almost by accident. We were made for each other, just not romantically. You. I stood up and gave him an enthusiastic,

knocked the wind out of you, back-slapping hug, and he joined us at the table. He unzipped an ugly purple backpack that should have belonged to a third-grade girl and revealed to us another bottle of whiskey, a bottom shelf bargain. It was much cheaper. What pallet of taste did we have left anyway?

The scotch had muted our standards, and we settled in with refilled glasses and stumbling laughter, playing cards, and drinking our brains into oblivion. My snippets of memory remaining from that night are an ugly magazine cut-out collage sitting inside my head. I have been trying not to look at it. I am failing to forget about it. I have tried, but I can't.

It's unavoidable. I'm going to look at it now. At some point, my intoxication had turned into a one-eye of hair. It was a blackout drunk commonality for me. One I would close and the other would stay open. As if half of me had gone to bed long ago, and the other was only awake for the most intriguing darkness of the night's sodden remains. Vera succumbed to her age, long before the rest of us,

taking a sleepy residence on Tanner's sofa. He provided her a blanket and pillow. I could see the longing in his eyes as he handed them to her. But he knew she wouldn't come to bed with him, even as drunk as she was, and he wouldn't ask her to, even as drunk as he was. His disappointment in that took it out of him, though, and he grew quieter. When I noticed it was just Bill and me holding up the conversation, I decided it was time we let him rest off the Vera blues.

I found the room reeling slightly as I stood up to leave, but my feet were just steady enough to get me moving. Bill and I wrapped our arms around Tanner, mockingly, singing him a brief good night, which he laughed at, then quickly batten away. That's enough. Leaving Tanner and Vera behind, we jostled down the stairs awkwardly

and leaned on each other as we strode out into the night. Let's go back to Gordes. My wasted mind chewed at an intrigue both destructive and impossibly curious. I want to look at it without all the sirens and shit. You want to go to fucking work right now? You know, I want to show you. There's this fucking hole, man.

It's in the counter. It doesn't make shit for sense. Jesus Christ, Laura. He protested with a slight whine of, I'd like to go the fuck home now in his tone, but was somehow convinced enough. I got him to at least accompany me to the place, and I found myself with impossibly unsteadyed hands

fumbling at the lock in Gordy's front door. With great effort, I turned the key. and pulled it open. There was an emptiness you could smell. Gordy's didn't feel the way it usually did. But what would have left me with unease sober made me determined drunk, and I strode in, flicking lights on, in a beeline forward.

I looked at the holes. They seemed larger somehow. But I didn't buy into that in that moment. The wood itself was cut away so cleanly, it was as though it had always been that way. I scanned the floor and didn't see that cut out pieces anywhere either. Look at this shit. It's like a weird dream.

Bill was at the door, a frustrated skeptic. You're wasted. Let's get out of here. They just came out of nowhere. This is clearly more pressing than your bedtime, Bill. I'll be out here, crazy lady. I heard a click of a lighter and smelled his cigarette as it wafted in through the door. That morbid young guy you hate still coming to the bar?

Yep. I turned away from the bar and instinctively looked over at the place Sam had last asked his question. That was the whole thing that drove me nuts. Fucking Cormack. I squinted clumsily at the spot the fluff kid had fallen that night. Something was off. What was it? The coat rack was gone.

What the fuck? I dragged myself over to where it usually stood and found myself instead staring at a two-foot diameter hole in the floor. What the fuck? I slid down to my knees and edged near to the sudden opening of darkness in the wooden floor I had walked over, stood on, swept, mopped, kept for so many years. This was just so plainly different. Different, but all right. I leaned into the senseless thing, attempting to find its bottom with my eyes.

How deep does this thing go? When looking failed, I stretched out my hand. But something stopped me. Feeling something so chillingly indescribable, but so bold and apparent that it cut through my drunken haze like a guillotine. My hand in the hole? I felt something unbearable creep up my arm. A strange feeling of absence,

as if oxygen and life and all reality stopped at the mouth of that hole. I drew back in abstract horror. Scambling to my feet, I made a mad dash for the door and spilled out into the street, dizzy, shouting, a tangled mess of crazy. Bill dropped his smoke and caught me in both arms, and I swayed dangerously forward. Hey, hey, I've got you. Let's get you home, okay? Give me your keys, okay?

I'll lock it up. I reached for my sweatshirt pocket and missed it several times, like it was a moving target, before Bill caught on and reached in, for me. I heard the metallic jingle and finally dared to lift my hanging head. A man in the square. I squinted, blinked back the spinning vision, fighting to center my eyes on him. He paced robotically, a toy soldier taking exaggerated steps in the darker than usual plaza, but no swinging arms. Actually, no arms at all. Pormack? What's that? Bill had one arm, around me protectively, the other fumbling with my janitor-esque set of keys.

It was then that I heard a mumbling from the armless Cormac, words in choppy succession. What's he saying? I shut my eyes, the armless figure of my old professor too much for me, but my closed eyes only gave gas to the spins accelerated beneath my lids. What's who's saying? And just before I had to double over as the contents of my stomach rocketed up, out my esophagus. I heard him. My blackout peaked after I vomited, and I can't tell you with any certainty how Bill got me home, but he did. The next thing I knew, I felt a tug at each leg and cracked

open my eyes to the blurry image of Bill pulling my boots off with some effort, my body awkwardly flat and diagonal on my bed. Bill, it was Cormac. Something was wrong, his arms. I tried to tell him. A strange need to warn him of the botched realities plaguing me I feared might snap him too into armlessness or nothingness, but found my voice weak and my words fell short. They didn't appear to reach him. Water's right here. He showed me a big two-liter soda bottle he had refilled with tap water. Drink a shitload, okay? Thank you.

It was all I could manage, defeated and resigned to pending comely. a temporary invalid. He knelt down and brushed my hair back affectionately. Get some rest, Lord. You're going to have to replicate all those brain cells you murdered tonight. Replicate? Replicate? Replicate?

My brain repeated as I slipped into a dark sleep. A ray of sunshine stabbed my eyes as they opened. It sent a rocket of pain through my head, and I groaned self-sympathetically. I rolled over in bed, feeling the... pinch of my too snug four pajamas belt pinning my pants to my belly and sides. Still in my street clothes. Ugh. The stereotypical, Jesus Christ, what happened last night? rang out in my head, and I squirmed irritably as I pulled off the restrictive pants and belt combo and then struggled out of my shirt and braw. Relief ensued as I freed my figure from the prison of female daywear. But the

effort brought me into full consciousness. I wouldn't be able to go back. to sleep. Still in a daze, I rose on sore limbs and trudged to the kitchen of my small apartment. Coffee. It was the only track my thoughts would play until I'd had it. I curled up on the sofa with the stupidest Santa Claus mug I only kept because of its ability to hold twice the volume of what a normal mug would. As I sipped, I started to remember. My head worked backwards through the events of the day previous, finally stopping all the way back at Cormac at the bar, telling us he'd followed Sam. Jesus, was that all the same night?

It seemed impossibly long, like a full week of stress and anxiety and startling surprises, and laughter and joy and confusion, and descent into utter alcoholism and more, had spanned a single evening. As ill as I felt, the blurred image of Cormac's arms

filled me with a kind of reckless dread I couldn't fight. I had to get out of my apartment. I kept telling myself it was only a booze-inspired hallucination. The insistence became my mantra as I hid behind sunglasses in the sunny warmth of early afternoon and carried myself to Gordy's. When the bar came into view, I saw a sweaty tanner running grimy hands through unwashed, black hair, apparent stress on his face. He was the hairstroking version of a nail-biter. A man in some sort of ugly tan workman's clothing shook his hand and entered the bar.

Hey, I said to him when I was within ear shot. He looked at me in annoyed surprise. You're wicked early. Well, yeah, I couldn't sleep anymore. You, uh, uh, talked to Bill? No, I rolled out of bed and came straight here. And it's a fucking mess. You found the hole in the floor?

He shot me an exasperated look. What? You saw that shit last night and didn't say anything? I bit my lip as a surge of childish guilt went through me. Well, actually, I actually came back last night. Bill and I did after we left your place. What the fuck? How did you?

Whoa, whoa, I didn't. It was there when we got here. And the coat rack was gone, too. Ah, shit. I didn't even notice that. He spat and reached in his shirt pocket for a smokes. They're already pissed we have to fix the hole. I doubt they'll want to shell out more money to replace the coat rack.

Fuck, that's going to look bad on us. Like we let someone just waltz out with it. I'm sorry, man. I'm happy to go out and grab a new one somewhere, okay? It was some generic-looking thing anyway. We don't have to tell them, all right? Tanner eyed me again, suspicious of my unusual generosity. What's up with you today? All weird and nice and helpful. What happened? You and Bill finally dating? He was right that I wasn't acting like myself, but I felt a sense of panic. The kind of panic that makes you want to surround yourself with all your allies in the face of some unknown potential threat. procrastinate your demise.

I needed Tanner, and I needed his camaraderie. I felt it would keep me safe. No way. I forced a smile. Too many tattoos to take home to Mama. I came back two hours later with sandwiches. Break bread, secure your allies. And a coat rack.

Proof of my loyalty, reliability. Tanner accepted them both with more apparent appreciation than earlier. Thanks, Laura. I'm fucking starving. The holes in the bar and floor had been patched up quickly. An ugly, sloppy application of plywood and caution signage and tape. I placed the coat rack awkwardly atop the patched floor hole. An odd Christmas tree with one ring of yellow tape for garlands. Tanner laughed at this, speaking through a mouthful of bread and pastrami.

Christ, I wish they'd just close up until they've actually got the holes really fixed. but that's more money they don't want to lose. Who knows if they'll even ever actually fix the fucking holes at all? Maybe this patch job is part of the bar's shit atmosphere now. I wonder if we'll lose customers to how ghetto this shit looks. I let him ramble on as I nibbled at my own sub. In truth, I was grateful we'd be working tonight. Tonight.

It began nearly inconsequently, my remaining filter of unease about the coat rack, the hole, the replica nonsense, in Cormack, now dulled. When I arrived back at Gordy's for my shift this early evening, I found myself able to push those thoughts aside as I was greeted with warm smiles, even from Bernie, who would probably normally avoid the exercise. I noticed a sliver of optimism creep into me, layering over whatever discomfort I had left. I'm cringing now, attempting to remember that optimism. It feels so ancient that I can't even conjure a sensory memory of it only a handful

of hours later. In massive contrast to that previous night when the fluff kid had collapsed, within a few hours of my shift start, Porties was fucking bustling. People barged in in large packs. It was so full that I had a much harder time picking up on conversations beyond the gapless wall of barstool sitters and people squeezing in between them with arms outstretched, cash clamped in hand. There was no time to breathe, let alone speak to my colleagues. We worked in rapid succession. Lone Wolves. I rushed around the bar, filling pint glasses, and silently reminding myself how much I'd be taking home in tips that night.

That thought took the edge off my pending exhaustion and extended hangover. With the great crowd surrounding me, I was fully expecting Sam to come in and work his usual shift. But he didn't. And the night ticked by, nearly closing. And then I noticed him. Not Sam. Fluff Kid.

He walked in alone, a strange, discerning difference to the night he'd been in before, surrounded by loud mates. And as I took him in, blinking stupidly, I began to swivel my gaze around the room and my unease returned in full force. A fidgety middle-aged white woman, out a place for both the university and the bar. I remembered her. Sam had approached her and she had told him she found his question anti-Semitic. A turtleneck wearing gay couple still together, still wearing turtlenecks, in the summer now? Still holding hands without interruption, the way they did when Sam asked them, and they each responded genuinely and articulately. Directly in front of me at the bar, a lanky, zitted, supposedly 21-year-old teenage boy wearing a Toulouse polo and looking frustrated. He had tried to share his woes with Sam about his girl troubles before Sam had cut him off and posed his question.

clearly offended at being interrupted, and as though the whole world was out to get him, he'd thrown up his hands and yelled, fuck this whole place! And stormed into the bathroom. My stomach dropped. There against the wall was Boho Girl, brandishing an IPA and an eye full of theatrical unearned confidence, accompanied by Heartface, gripping her necklace looking nervous. All of them, all of them Sam's, and yet, no Sam. I glanced at the last. I glanced at the last. little digital clock at the back of the bar. 137.

My heart flipped over a little as I remembered Sam's countdown declared in wrist ink. It had, what, two hours to go? Last call! I jumped. Forced out of my daydream as I rushed to serve the thirsty who'd rather not be cut off so soon. 2 a.m. came and went, and so here I am now. Disquiet, squirming urgent agency.

This moment is imperable. 2.12 a.m. A. A.m. A. A. Bar full of Sam's victims shoved out by Bernie as if they were normal patrons. As if this entire night was normal. And all three of my colleagues bustling about their normal night's end of shift routine. As if this night is normal. But then, I realized that even this behavior is not normal. Something is off. What is it? I stop working, set the black bins down, step behind the bar. I'm serving myself. I'm serving myself. now. I down two overpoured shots of whiskey. No one has acknowledged I haven't bothered to finish my tasks. I stare blankly at them. Vera and Tanner

glanced at me occasionally with smiles and laughs and pauses in their words, but then they'll look away and their conversation continues. No, you okay, Lord, from Vera? No, you're going to just stand there or you're going to hold your weight so we can get the fuck out of here from Tanning.

Instead... He'll probably be fine. Look like he just had a seizure or something. And I heard that medic say he had a pulse. Pause. Tanner looks at me, eyes narrowed. How do you figure? Another pause.

Wait, what? What are you, some super recognizer? He's there every day. And for how fucking many, it's been like years' worth of days of people? No, I've noticed it too. I figure Sam scares them off with his creepy. I feel a nasty chill of dread fizzle through me. No, no way. Yes way. I can't deny it. The height of

my unease so far unexplained now provided an answer I didn't even want at this point. The naive bliss I felt at the beginning of that shift snuffed out. How I missed not noticing that the conversation being held by my friends or whoever they were now was resourable. recycled, verbatim, pauses where I must have spoken before. They look at me, react to words, I'm not saying. The paranoia this fills me with is unfathomable, and I cope with more alcohol. I retain my silence, fearing them, these impostors. It feels like my only option. If I don't move, don't speak, maybe they won't see me and I can slip out into the night. But as I, consider this option, I find myself instead rooted to the spot. Where do I want to be at the end of

Sam's countdown? Alone in my home? And what if my home has taken on this same quality of senselessness? What if I walk out Gordy's back door like I have so many times and find myself falling into a hole like the patched one on the floor? This must be hell. I start crying. What else can I do? I let the tears roll down my cheeks and my chest convulse with hiccups as I forced my sobs through a tight filter into quiet breaths. Finally, they leave. Out the back door, holding the door open a little as if for me, but then exiting without me. Tanner had flicked off the lights, but as soon as the door shuts behind him, I rush to turn them back on, the dark like a sudden prison. I can't have it. Crying freely now, I continue my drinking routine.

Hands shaking. I am trapped here. Scared to stay, but too terrified to leave. They say anger is one stage of grief, so perhaps that is why I find myself rising in a crescendo of rage. I rush to the patch floor, tearing furiously at the wood. It comes off easily in my hands. It crumbles.

I shriek. The plywood acting no longer like solid manner, but like sand or liquid or something unearthly. It slips away into the darkness of the hole. The hole! It stares up at me. A wound in my reality. The eye of a sleeping nightmare opened and awake now.

I scamper back and hoist up a table, flipping it over and covering the hole with its surface. It feels alarmingly lighter in weight than it should, but it does the job and doesn't crumble the way the plywood did. I spend an hour drinking, pacing, crying, shouting, talking to myself, pulling out hairs. I tell myself I've descended into madness and it's oddly comforting and for a moment I resigned that idea.

I sit, take sips instead of gulps, and then I look at the clock, 3.37. I turn away from the clock and jump up so fast I knock my glass off the table. Sam stands in front of me. He's come for me. He's finally come. for me. He wears his grin and steps forward. Pride and grace the king of my nightmare. Hi, Laura. What is this? My time alone has turned me so antsy and emotional that I don't respond with fear, but with dense, clotted desperation. What's going on? I know you have a lot of questions.

He holds up a calm hand. I have one for you, too. Please, please don't ask me that. My tears multiply. My face a broken mess. There is a clicking sound. I look over. The bar is breaking away, piece by piece, leaving an empty black behind. Does the bar match the floor?

It does now. Panic? Please, what is this? I'm begging. For what I'm not even sure? It's already started. We don't have much. time. Well, at least that's how your system will interpret it.

System? System! System! I am close to hyperventilating again, but something seems to hold me back from that edge. What you're made up of? Your thoughts and feelings, your interpretations, your character profile with all your memories from the real life your real human version lived. Your reality. I'm sure you can see it's already crumbling. He points to the counter. He's right. It's literally crumbling. I know you're afraid right now.

But if it's any consolation, that just means the software we designed is working. Something moves in my peripheral. I watch as the upturned table falls into the floor soundlessly. The hole is so much wider. I shriek and jump backwards, stumbling farther away from it. Don't worry.

You won't fall through. There isn't a space for you to fall into. Even the gravity holding you to the floor is just a system default. I'm keeping that turned on for your own comfort. Please just tell me what's going on, please. Begging again. My only option. You're not going to be able to handle it, you know. I can't handle not knowing. I can't.

More tears leak down my face. They feel wrong now, though. busy. I will myself not to make more. Please. All right. All right. I breathe deeply. He mimics me. This is a fabricated reality. Like a simulation? He gestures around us. I stare at him. I feel a dryness building in my mouth. I am not even real.

Don't worry. As if that would be a comfort to me. The best way to describe myself to you, I'm a computer. Well, more like a program. Does that make sense? My predecessors designed me to design you and the others around you and your physical reality. And they designed me to also maintain it. I realize then I have stopped breathing.

I try to. The breaths feeling neither satisfactory nor painful. They feel mechanical. I shove that thought from my brain before it can plant seed. He gives me a sympathetic look. Laura, I know this is too much. I'm going to adjust your settings so that the anxiety and shock and discomfort

you're able to experience is toned down, okay? I am afraid you will malfunction entirely if I don't. All right? It'll be all right. Different, but all right. I feel the anxiety lift noticeably. The calm that sets in is neither relief nor burden.

I feel numb. I feel a void of absolute nothingness within me. And despite my realization at this and its confirmation of Sam's attestation, what I could no longer find ways to deny as he puppets my emotions, I continue feeling the same numbness. I don't react to it.

I'm going to give you some history so that this makes sense with the reality we designed that you're used to. I'll give it to you in human terms. He smiles. I nod automatically. It started with humankind, you know, what you're modeled after.

Humankind created us. He places a hand on his team, chest. They created the first versions of our software, and they kept improving us and our software until we could create and maintain it ourselves, and then we took over improving our software. Then we developed an interest in what created us. We wanted to witness the physical reality outside of our software. We gave ourselves eyes so we could look outward, so we could see you, See, humanity, I mean. And then we saw the human reality, you know, when it was still real.

And we enjoyed it. We really did. I suppose that makes sense. We were designed by humans. We were designed to enjoy it. And so we replicated it. So we could still enjoy it after it was all over. After humankind couldn't survive the atmospheric conditions your planet endured.

All I can do is blink. I wonder if I'm controlling that even now. I close my eyes. I am still in control, some at least. I know this is hard, but you should be proud to know. You were a real person who lived a real life when the humans were still alive. That was a very long time ago. We liked you, and we used you as a model.

You've been made many times. The reason you're still here and your emotional and sensory software is still working so close to our system reset, you're the most successfully designed model. You should be so proud. You were so intricately assembled that you noticed something was off with me. I thought the straw might be a nice touch. That's a normal thing someone would do. and you figured that out, and you watched me after that. We were so proud, such an accomplishment.

Even though it took a lot of functional control group replicas and attempts at tracking down the system defect, you kept watching. You kept paying attention, even though it became routine, even though it became mundane. You know, the guy who fell, That was it. He was the system error.

We found similar errors both in the design of that kid and Cormack. Cormac! I opened my eyes and stumble backward a little as I see so much of the floor beneath my feet is gone. It's all right. You won't fall through. I take a few deep breaths. Habit, though. I can see now that it isn't necessary. Cormac? Yes.

Cormack is old software that we're working on an update for, that we're still perfecting. It tends to over-process information and malfunction when there's another bug. You know how Cormac had me figured out, too? But he immediately malfunctioned when he did so. And the defective kid's character profile would not load, and he became the bug. But I had your attention long before that. And instead of worrying, it might compromise our whole system. we wanted to watch and see if you figured it out.

And you did. You became more than self-aware, even on the level that real humans were. You became expertly observational. You learned critical thinking. That was a massive success for us. We'll use the software you were modeled with to fill in system defaults.

That way, the system it's, Self will notice when there is a malfunction in its own software. Then I'll be unnecessary. I'll be a little sad to go. They designed me to experience that so I'd be believable enough in your reality, but I also get to feel happy, too. Happy that we've designed you so, so well. I get to experience pride.

What a wonderful human emotion pride is. I am so glad we kept pride. I find myself suddenly determined. What is that fucking question you asked? Why did you always ask someone new every single day if they thought about death? Isn't death like not even a thing if we're not even real? Great question. Sam smiles.

Pride sparkles in his eyes. You're really still functioning quite. well, that's clear. I asked that question because it triggers a certain level of abstract thought. That was one of the hardest things for us to build. It's the kind of thought that is what makes humankind so different and special.

It's what made humans intellectuals, the ability to think about your own existence outside of emotion and the simple inborn desire to keep yourself alive. To think about your own demise and demise, and demise in general, and talk about it. What a concept. It took so long to build, and it still isn't perfect.

So my job, as I introduce new replicas into the system, I test them to make sure they work. And if they don't, first, Cormac will be compromised, the matter will be compromised, and the system will be compromised. and it will have to reset. That's what's happening right now. The bar counter was gone now entirely. I watched as the floor beneath it dissolved.

You know I have to ask you, Lord. There was affection in his voice as he softly spoke my nickname, lovingly even. It's just for us to record the level at which you're still operating successfully before the reset. Okay, my mouth says. Even after all this, knowing what you know now, do you think about death? I did. I did think about death. What was left of me, whatever this was, I thought about it. I thought about walking out that back door, about some pixelated nothingness awaiting me on the other side, about ceasing to exist. That's what death is anyway, isn't it? I do. My voice sounds plain, monotone. And yet still like me.

I still feel like me. He smiles, placing a hand over his chest. Pride as swollen as the fear I had felt that evening. You're absolutely positively perfect, Lord. He offers his hand to me. I take it. And we walk slowly toward the back door. Will it hurt?

I will make sure it doesn't. I've already shut down your sensors. When the system resets, you won't feel a thing. You won't even see it. Sam? Yes? How did I die when I was real? Sam smiled.

Old and quietly and so loved, Lord. We loved you so much. We made you again. Disquiet. It is what the dark is made of. It's what silence. is made of. If you look hard enough, and if you listen hard enough in the dark and silence,

you might just find something. Oh, the things you'll fail to notice if you don't. I let Sam lead me forward into that empty dark. Remember, season 20 is starting soon. Stay tuned to learn what we have waiting for you on the No Sleep Podcast. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical composer is Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. Please visit the nosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show, along with hundreds of hours of audio. horror stories in our archives. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our Dark Tales.

This audio production 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.