The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep10: NoSleep Podcast S20E10

Episode Date: December 10, 2023

It’s Episode 10 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about sinister revenge!“She’s Still So Angry” written by Barb Drysdale (Story starts around 00:03:05)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Joey Briggs – Matthew Bradford“Crown” written by Ray Tardigrade (Story starts around 00:26:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – James Cleveland“The Museum of Human Suffering” written by Dominic Breeze (Story starts around 00:48:24)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Ellery Sinclair - David Ault, James - Jake Benson, Francine - Erika Sanderson“Dispatch” written by J.R. Wilson (Story starts around 01:04:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Lily – Nichole Goodnight, Dispatcher – Mike DelGaudio, The Caller – Jeff Clement“The December Tapes” written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 01:14:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Phin – Kyle Akers, Libby – Sarah Thomas, Mom – Mary Murphy, Dad – Mike DelGaudio“What Friends Are For” written by Daniel Barnett (Story starts around 01:30:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Jess – Jessica McEvoy, Christina – Linsay Rousseau, Hector – Matthew Bradford, Peter – David Cummings, Miss Bartholomew – Erika Sanderson, Sandra – Mary MurphyThis 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.Uncommon Goods – Uncommon Goods is here to make your holiday shopping stress-free by scouring the globe for the most remarkable and truly unique gifts for everyone on your list. Visit uncommongoods.com/nosleep for 15% offClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Dominic BreezeClick here to learn more about S.H. Cooper Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The December Tapes” illustration courtesy of Emily CannonAudio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

From our earliest days, we've gathered around the fire for warmth and comfort. But beyond the light of the dying embers, there is the darkness. And it's in the darkness of the night where we find ourselves waiting, yearning for the dawn to banish our fears. But our campfire holds more than fireless. for with us you will hear the tales that make the nightmares engulf you and you dare not close your eyes brace yourself for the no sleep podcast welcome to the no sleep podcast i'm your host david cummings in december no matter what your religious beliefs are there's a very good chance you celebrate some

form of Christmas or holiday festivity, gathering together, eating yummy food, and exchanging gifts, traditions which are embraced by most during this time of year, and perhaps you have memories of December's past when you had that one very special present in mind, that one toy or item that you just knew Santa or someone in your family would bestow upon you. And you no doubt remember how it felt when you were betrayed, and you found yourself without the coveted present you were hoping for the crushing disappointment, the sense of loss and how unfair it all was. How could you not bring that Kaliko Telstar Pong game back in 76 when I asked you for it over and over Santa? How dare you...

Sorry, working through some long repressed issues there. But oh, how I hated that feeling. How I wanted to get back at someone for that disappointment. All of this is to say that it's probably... not uncommon to have memories like that when you felt ill-used and disappointed, when your thoughts may have turned to the subject of the stories this week, revenge. Yes, the stories involve revenge for wrongs just a bit more serious than overlooked Christmas presents, but the rage and resentment which drives people to seek vengeance is a powerful one. And as long as we're not

the ones facing someone's vengeance, I dare say it's a topic that makes for some deletious. maliciously dark horror. And now, the sun has set, the fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet a woman sharing a story from her hometown, recalling the days of small town socials, high school crushes, and when everything in life felt so very important. But in this tale, shared with us by author Barb Drysdale,

We learn about one young couple whose typical relationship drama ventured into an area that was anything but typical. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis and Matthew Bradford. So don't make the mistake of assuming some things aren't important. If you do, you may not understand why she's still so angry. I knew he was dead, but I didn't know she was still so angry. It is so cold in Beaver Creek that they give the temperature in seconds, not degrees. At 15 below, exposed skin will develop third degree frostbite in about 15 minutes. I wish we had the luxury of 15 whole minutes.

The temperatures here routinely dip to 40 below, and with even a tiny bit of wind, your hands will freeze solid in about a minute. Forget winter camping, snow shoeing, hiking, or any other. that other fun stuff, you go outside just to get from point A to point B, and if the wind picks up, you don't go outside at all. When I was a kid, we used to have community dances that we used to call social evenings, or socials for short. It was a fun way that a couple could raise money for their upcoming nuptials. Everyone would buy a ticket, which got them admission into the community dance hall, and a plate of dry cheese and crackers would be served at about midnight.

You paid for booze by the drink, and the more drunk we got, the more drinks you bought. And a popular couple could earn up to 15 grand to offset the cost of their wedding and honeymoon. One Saturday night, it was January 1st of 1974 for those who are a stickler for dates. We had a social for Jerry McIntosh and Teresa Rice. I had known them since the 10th grade and watch them get together, break up, and get back together again over the past seven years at least four or five times. Despite their teenage drama, they were a cute couple. Everyone thought they belonged together.

Those of us who were not hoping for a chance with Jerry were sad each time they broke up, and were again happy to see them get back together again. Those of us who took a swing at Jerry during those breakups were left sobbing into our pillows when the inevitable happened and Jerry and Teresa would make up. My gosh, Jerry was handsome. blonde hair, mutton-chop, sideburns, bell bottoms. Seems like a funny appearance nowadays, but back then, he was to die for.

Regudgingly, we all had to grant that Teresa was his match physically. She was a shy girl, however, and she went to great lengths to hide her knockout figure behind bulky sweaters. I remember shaking my head in wonderment when I caught a peek at her in the gym locker room after phys ed class. She had on five layers of clothing, bra, camisole, t-shirt, button-up shirt,

and a cardigan. So despite her being as attractive as she was, Jerry played the field when they were on a break, and Teresa stayed home and cried, gained and lost weight, and wilted until they reunited weeks or months later. I swear Jerry chose his conquest to satisfy some crazy,

list he had about betting every woman in every possible category. Maybe he had a scrapbook somewhere with all their pictures, mounted like butterflies. It was like he always knew he would marry Teresa, so he was trying to get in as much living as possible before he had to bite the bullet. In case you were wondering, I never fooled around with Jerry. Apparently nerds, geeks, and misfits were not on his list. I watched with fascination as time after time knew, girls thought that they were the one. I remember many, but one vividly stands out, especially given what happened at the social. We called her Hurricane Agnes, after the devastating storm that hit the states earlier that year. Agnes was in the ninth grade,

so even more naive than Jerry's usual conquests. I know a year doesn't seem like much when you're an adult, but at that age, it meant she was about a decade behind him in worldly experience. Just pretty enough to have some of the boys turn their heads when she walked into the room. Agnes had not yet had the way to the world crush her shoulders. She believed Jerry when he told her that she was the one. I don't think it occurred to her that he was anything but sincere. He took her virginity. She justified the giving of herself to him as necessary.

given they were faded to be together. I heard her say to her click as I passed by them in the lunchroom, We are in love. It's okay to do it when you're in love. He's taking me to meet his parents next week. Brown-eyed, voluptuous Agnes was flying way too close to the sun. I knew she'd get her wings burned. But what could I do? Who would have listened to me anyway?

We are all powerless to stop what is inevitable and merely waste our energy trying, better to observe and learn vicariously. As predicted, it was a no-brainer. Jerry got drunk one night, called Teresa, a booty call ensued, and they were back together. In the heat of the moment and before the condom went on, Jerry attempted to be a stand-up guy and phoned Agnes to break her heart, to sever whatever commitment had been implied between them, and pursue Teresa with a clean conscience. Also predictable, Agnes's eyes were puffy and red for weeks following the breakup.

There was a ton of crying. She lost about 15 pounds over the next six months, and she appeared to be inconsolable. Then, as the story typically goes with teenage romances like this, she met someone else over the summer. The new guy, who was from a neighboring high school, thought she was fresh fish and started paying all sorts of attention to her. With alarming speed, the smile returned to Agnes' even more svelte visage. We all forgot about it.

We thought Agnes forgot about it, too. What was not predictable was the middle part, the part that earned her the name Hurricane Agnes. The day after their breakup, Agnes was furious. I've never seen anyone so angry before or since. She was like a shark with only one thought in her head. to annihilate her target. Jerry was standing with his back to her in the hallway. She was quick and quiet, so he never saw it coming.

I know there is an expression, rip someone apart with your bare hands, but I've never seen anyone literally tried to do that. I hope I never see it again. Agnes launched on to Jerry and began ripping out his hair clump by clump. There is a sickening noise that is made when one person rips out another person's hair. Think about ripping a piece of Velcro off, another piece of Velcro.

That jagged, hair separating from the skin shredding type of sound? Oh, I'll never forget it. I don't know if you've ever thought about it, but the scalp is one of those body parts that bleeds a ton if it gets the slightest injury. Blood was splattered everywhere. It was like all the bluster and evil of that hurricane possessed Agnes. I really think she would have killed him if some teacher, I don't remember who, hadn't grabbed her and pulled her off him. The entire attack lasted less than a minute, but it seemed like it lasted for hours.

Nowadays, there would be charges, there would be juvenile detention and or therapy. In those days, there was a two-month suspension for Agnes. Jerry's father was mortified. How could his son have a girl beat the piss out of him? Needless to say, no one in the McIntosh household talked about it after that. It would have been too humiliating for Mr. McIntosh. No one even took Jerry to the hospital. If you look carefully, there's a tiny little scar by his eyebrow.

Most likely the remnant of a fingernail gouge. Agnes got to be homeschooled, although we didn't have a word for it back in those days. After her two-month suspension was over, she returned to school the following year. A little withdrawn at first. She came out of Rochelle when she found out she had acquired a sort of legendary status during her absence. There was talk she spent the entire two months in her room not allowed to leave. Others said her parents sent her to the Bahamas. Still, others said she stabbed someone at the drive-in movie theater in the spring

and spent the summer in juvenile detention. None of these stories were true. She was shipped off to her grandparents' house, read a lot, and mostly people left her alone. She had to work it out by herself, ruminating and fuming until, I presumed, she had let all the steam out. When she returned to school, she met someone new, and I remember his name, and everyone went on with their lives. More school, more breakups, more tearful reconciliations, and Agnes blended into obscurity. Fast forward, we're all semi-grown-ups. Word has it that Teresa got herself impregnated and Jerry, being a stand-up,

guy, asked her to marry him, we have a social. There, now you're all cut up. Everyone went. The jocks, the nerds, the preps, and yes, as you guessed, Agnes too. If they weren't such a popular couple, none of us would have risked going outside in the 40 degrees below zero weather. We had to bundle up, and each of us looked like a waddle of chubby penguins shuffling out to our cars. The coat room in the social hall was overflowing with hats, scar. heavy boots, parkas, etc. It was a hell of a time sorting what belonged to who at the end of the night. Teresa isn't even showing yet at the social.

In fact, she looks radiant. This is her night. She has waited for years for this moment. From all appearances, Teresa acts like a British royal on the night of her coronation. She is shining. I'm not kidding, literally shining. The wind outside began to blow. Really was quite the storm.

But for the moment we were drunk, we were happy, and we were unconcerned with how we'd all get home after the party was over. We were all three sheets to the wind, but Agnes looks drunker than Satan. She is riding that tiger to its hilt, and she's getting louder and louder. Jerry looks a bit scared. After all, she did beat the hide off him a couple years ago. Agnes's friends tried to escort her out of there, but when she resists, they begin to leave one by one. They don't want a scene. They thought that crazy broad was over it.

No one wanted to be associated with Hurricane Agnes if it was going to come ashore again. There was a moment when everything seemed to be going okay. But then, we noticed it. Agnes and Jerry were missing. Had they run off together for one final tryst? Seemed unlikely as they'd both not so much as exchanged a glance in the years following their mutually humiliating affair.

Then we noticed Territus. Lisa, her beautiful pink cashmere sweater covered in blood, making her look like she was wearing a ghoulish candy cane. She had an odd, twisted smile on her face and appeared to not know where she was. She kept asking, where's Jerry? Repeatedly to everyone she encountered, all of whom who recoiled at the sight of her, or the idea that she would infect them with the bloods, suit she was wearing. For a fleeting moment, I had a morbid thought. I've never seen her look more beautiful, but I quickly pushed it away. Everyone began to search for Jerry. What we found instead was Agnes. Poor, love-sick spurned Agnes, dead and straddling the toilet in the ladies' washroom.

There was one cut, clean and deep across her neck. Judging from the cold, popious amounts of blood which painted the flora sickly beetroot color, she bled out almost instantly. Someone called an ambulance. The ambulance brought the police. Teresa was taken away in handcuffs. Agnes's body was removed and transported to the morgue to be frozen in time to bury her later in the spring when the ground thawed.

The party was clearly over, but still Jerry was nowhere to be found. Everyone sorted through the pile of clothing in the coat room. to grab what they had and leave as quickly as they could. We'd all clearly had enough fun for the evening. Had someone stayed who was reasonably sober, they would have discovered that there was one coat left in the coat room. It belonged to Jerry. This was discovered the next day after it was already way too late.

We found him the next day, buried up to his waist in a snowbank. For the second time in two days, an ambulance was called, The call was not to save his life. He was long gone by then. No one could survive like that without a coat or hat on outside in that cold. We called the ambulance because we didn't know who else to call. He was about seven minutes north of the rec center. I'm surprised he lasted that long. A crowd had gathered by the time the ambulance arrived. Jerry's body was so blue and frozen-looking that I thought he would shatter. if they pulled them out of the snowbank too hard. We couldn't take our eyes off them. The story came out slowly over the following year, as there are never any secrets in a small town. There were a lot of disparate pieces,

and it took our small town cops a long time to piece them together. Witnesses were questioned and questioned again. Very slowly, we got an idea of what probably happened, but no one will ever know for sure. one of our neighbors, the Stockton's, finally came forward. For the first two years after they moved to that little house right across from the rec center, they had been griping about noise. Over the years, though, they appeared to resign themselves to the commotion

and had gotten used to every kind of strange and odd activity associated with our weekly revelries. At first, they probably didn't even remember seeing Jerry leave the social that night. Everyone paid more attention to their recollection of events on the night in question. However, after his corpse popsicle was discovered, there were always kids coming and going from that noisy rec center on Saturday nights. Besides, it was so snowy, he couldn't have been going far, they thought. Where Jerry was walking to, they did not know. But they do know he was headed away from the rec center and out of town.

They hadn't even realized he didn't have his coat on, visibility, being obscured, and they're only having given him half a glance. Other pieces started falling into place. Billy Briggs, Jerry's best friend, said Jerry told him he was going for cigarettes that night. He hadn't mentioned it during the initial interviews because he didn't think it was important. When questioned for a third time and asked to recount again his recollection of the entire evening, Billy thought Jerry was kidding. Are you crazy, man? It's a million degrees below zero out, and there is a cigarette machine.

downstairs, he later recalled, saying. Billy doesn't remember when he said this to Jerry. He doesn't remember if he saw Jerry after that, because, as I said, we were all drunk out of our minds. In testing the Went for Cigarettes hypothesis, we know Jerry was walking away from our tiny little main street and in the opposite direction from the gas station on the highway, that would be the only vendor still open that late on a Saturday night. Everyone knows that. He might have gotten lost in the storm.

It was so blustery, and he was so drunk. Two additional facts came to light that make everything fit together. Five packages of Export A cigarettes were found in the garbage on the night after the social. Export A was Jerry's favorite brand. Everyone knew he wouldn't smoke anything else. Agnes said she was leaving the rec center. She was drunk, she was heartbroken, and she was probably, about to be sick. Everyone heard her say it, including Teresa. Teresa saw Jerry leaving. There was a look

that flashed in her eyes. Concern? Maybe? I wasn't sure. But this is how I'm putting the pieces together. I might be wrong. I might be right. Does it really matter? Jerry left and Agnes said she was going to leave. Teresa witnessed both events. I can imagine her thought process. Wasn't it enough that I suffered that humiliation back in high school, and now, at my social, here they are at it again. I think she lost it, went into the bathroom, argued with Agnes, a fight ensued, and Teresa slit Agnes's throat. That explains the blood on Teresa's sweater and the bleeding and dead Agnes. I think Teresa checked out after her rage got the best of her. She didn't know where she was.

She didn't know where Jerry was. That explains just about everything. Except, of course, who bought and trashed the cigarettes? Could have been Agnes trying to get Jerry outside to confront him or throw herself at him one last time. Could have been Teresa. Had she really had enough after all these years? Cregnancy hormones couldn't have made the situation any better. I feel sorry for Agnes and Teresa.

But I can't say I'm all that unhappy Jerry's dead. He was not a stand-up guy. Not only did he cheat on poor Teresa, but he also broke countless girls' hearts. But I can tell you he did something worse. He rejected me. He made fun of me. I heard him laugh at me when I cried. He had sex with everyone at the school.

Why not me? Did he have to humiliate me for trying? I was so devastated when he not only saw. said no, but he carelessly destroyed my reputation all over school the next day. It was just one act of defiance. I'm no Hurricane Agnes, and I'm no crazy Teresa, after all. I'm just a normal person who was jealous that the guy who rejected me so many years ago didn't suffer at all.

He had his true love. He was getting married. And he was having a baby. I thought I was over it, but it all came flooding back when I saw the cigarettes. All I did was throw out some stupid cigarettes. I couldn't stand looking at those little green and white packages and thinking about my humiliation years before. The act was harmless, a momentary lapse, that's all.

Joey Briggs, one of the jocks back in our high school days, saw me throw out the cigarettes. I wasn't sure, at first, he didn't seem alarmed. I think he's finally put it together, though, as more and more facts of the story have arisen. Just yesterday, I was watching him talk to Officer Shelton. They didn't see me. Since my humiliation in high school, I've learned to blend in. Most people don't even notice me or remember that I was there. From my unobtrusive vantage point, I distinctly heard Joey say,

I'm sorry I didn't mention the cigarettes earlier, Officer Shelton. I knew she threw out the cigarettes, and I knew they had a brief incident back in the day, but I never put it together until now. I knew he was dead, but I didn't know she was still so angry. If you grew up experiencing the nightmare of being bullied, I'll bet you can recall thoughts of revenge swirling in your mind. How satisfying it would be to stand up to your bully and give them a taste of their own torment. But in this tale, shared with us by author Ray Tardagrade,

we meet a man who recalls his bully back in grade school and how revenge came from a rather unexpected source. Performing this tale is James Cleveland. So understand that sometimes life can be like a chess game, and you never quite know when your king will wear the crown. For as long as I've lived, I've loved playing chess. I played regularly as a kid. I was even good enough to win a couple of tournaments.

One of them had a payout of £5,000, a staggering amount of money for a 10-year-old. My mother only allowed me to spend 100 and put the rest in a savings account for when I was older. I bought so many trading cards. Unsurprisingly, for a chess-officionado, I didn't have any friends, but not because of the chess,

That was just a result of my isolation. The isolation itself was because of my mother. She was a dentist and a damn fine one. Graduated first in her class, married a sunny bird watcher who went on to become my father, and to die before I was old enough to know him, then settled into a small town with her infant child. She took over from an old quack who still recommended the doorknob method for rotten. teeth. Everyone went to my mum for their dental work. My schoolmate's parents loved her, and in turn,

they loved me and would invite me over to spend time with their own children, who, in turn, hated my guts. Children do not like the dentist, especially not 10-year-olds who are elbow-deep in sour candy and have no interest in brushing their teeth. My mom was in constant discussions with my classmates' parents about their hygiene, restrictions on sweets and the potential of braces in their adolescent futures. Everyone in my class feared the hooked instruments she would poke their rotten gums with. They feared her hovering, plaid face as it scrutinized their overbites. The strange calm that came over it as she filled their cavities.

They hated how she knew when they were lying to her, as if she could look into their memories of their bone-dry, toothbrushes. And so, they hated me. This, it might surprise you to hear, wasn't so bad. For every kid in school, my mother was a hated enemy. But she also had her hands in their mouths once every few months. She was the one with the needles, the laughing gas, the drill. They detested me, but in their minds, my mum cast a long shadow that they didn't dare step into. I was never pick for a team or invited to get up to mischief after school, nor considered a friend to anyone. But I had my chess, my books, and all the spare time in the world to enjoy them. All in all,

it was a happy existence, until Oscar came to school. Oscar was seven inches taller than me. He was a keen football player and excelled at English. He had two Labrador retrievers, and he suffered from my old asthma. He loathed me. Not for any particular reason, he'd only just moved to town and had never even met my mum, but hating me was just the thing people did. On any other child, it would have been of no consequence, but for one thing. Oscar's father was also a dentist. Worse, he operated out of the city in an entirely different town, but he did Oscar's teeth and himself. And so, Oscar wasn't afraid. Oscar not only had no reason to fear my mother, but his father never invoked so much as a frown in my classmates. He was full of smiles, glinting with a

gold mola that the other kids said made him look like a pirate. He'd pretend for them too. He was cordial, kind, and beloved by children and parents alike. He was also wealthy enough that Oscar's birthday parties were the talk of the school. The contents of the party bags considered coveted treasures, or so I heard. One day, not long after Oscar arrived, I was in the lunchroom. I was reading, thinking of nothing, I considered myself safe. Something wet collided with the back of my head with enough force to knock the glasses off my face and into my glass of water. A sour, milky smell enveloped my nostrils and I felt something lumpy trail down the back of my neck and into my shirt. If I concentrate, I can still feel those lumps against my fingers coming apart and leaving

stinking curds under my nails. Oscar was a few tables behind me. I remember his face, clear as day. I didn't have the presence of mine to cry or react. I was stunned. He was smiling. His fingers were wet with milk, and I realized that he'd soaked a piece of bread in his glass and hucked it at me. I don't remember what he called me. The memory changes whenever I come back to it. Something about chess, I think. It doesn't matter. The spell of protection my mother had woven around me for all my school years was broken.

Oscar was marched away to face his punishment, and the lunchroom erupted in conversation. My name sounded all around me. like the buzzing of so many flies. Then I was left alone with a cold trail of milk soaking into my shorts. After that, my days were reduced to a nightmare. Nobody was afraid anymore. On a good day, I could walk to school without being harassed and maybe get to class with my glasses still on my face. In that case, I wouldn't need to spend my lunch money buying them from whoever stole them and could get to the lunchroom early to find a table near the wall, where my back would be properly guarded.

There were not many good days. Every morning brought new humiliations, and I'd come home from school, rinse them mud, the urine, the food off of me, and sit in my room by myself. I bore my burden alone and in silence, trying to pretend that tomorrow wasn't coming. Two months into my waking hell,

a parent's nightmare and a dentist's dream came to pass. A new type of sour candy hit the market, one that came with trading cards. The advert featured a gang of CGI teams battling mecks with the power of sour pellets. There was a talking dog. The candies hit our school like a wave of head lice. Cards were traded during lunch and recess with the enthusiasm and the stakes of the New York Stock Exchange. Allied ships and grudges were forged from these deals, and who could and couldn't be traded with with a constantly shifting status quo

that became a binding law for anyone who wanted to stay in the game, except for me. The one constant was that I was never to be traded with for any reason. My interest quickly faded and the cards gathered dust on my windowsill, but for everyone else, the cards, and so the sweets were all that mattered. It wasn't long before this. cavity started. The most avid collectors came first, strapped to my mother's chair while she explored their rotting teeth with her hooks and drills. Their parents were harshly reprimanded, and most of them

stopped trading. Then came the serious cases, the kids who were sneaky enough to hide their cavities and their acrid breath, or those whose parents hadn't noticed a drop in brushing habits. Those children spent hours in the chair, alone with my mum peering over them, injecting their gums with numbing solution and then pulling their mouldy teeth out one by one. Sometimes I'd sit in the waiting room in the evenings, waiting for mum to finish her last appointment, and I would hear them crying. Then the unlucky student would be marched past me to the door, unable to look me in the eye. Sometimes they'd be shaking. Soon I noticed my walk to school was a little quieter. Not by much.

I still took a barrage of insults if I happened to pass anyone who recognised me, but they didn't tangle their legs in mine and send me flying into the bushes like before. And while my lunch period was still occasionally punctuated by a flying grape or a shoulder shove, nothing so horrible as the milk-soaked bread happened again. The fear had returned, albeit in small doses. My mother had taken their teeth, stabbed them in the gums, and reinforced her connection to their parents. Fear and hatred, just like before. I could live with that. Oscar couldn't. He'd amassed a following in his time at school, and I suppose that a cornerstone of it was taking shots at me.

When he noticed that my guard was down, he quickly sought to correct it. One Friday I was on my way home. It was autumn and the days were drawing in. Already the sky was a deep, dour grey, and the shadows were growing long enough to hide Oscar and his friends as they waited for me, just a few streets away from my house. When Oscar's fist collided with my teeth, I remember wondering why he'd aimed there, of all places.

Blood filled my mouth as my tongue was driven into my lower incisors, and it wasn't all mine. When he pulled away and I could see again, fresh blood was oozing from deep cuts in his knuckles. The next blow knocked me down and onto the concrete where the sharp stones tore deep into my knees. Oscar's friends followed with a stream of kicks and stumps, all aimed at my head and mouth. My skull was cracked and my hearing was busted for three days while the swelling went down. I only lost one tooth, a lateral incisor that was loose anyway.

For some reason, I felt proud of that. I still do. My mum was silent during our visit to the emergency room. She was quiet as they stitched me, as they cleaned the wounds, as they checked for a concussion. It was a loud silence, full of unspoken words and fraught emotion. Her answers to the doctors were monosyllabic, but sharp and loud, as if she were a kettle trying to hold in a jet of steam. I think, in a warped, self-hating way, I hope that not snitching would earn Oscar's respect. I think that on some level I wanted him to like me.

But my mother was a dentist and a damn fine one, and she knew how to pull teeth. With the full story in hand, she requested a meeting with Oscar's father, quietly without an embarrassing confrontation in our headteacher's office. He was to meet her at the surgery after hours. That was all she told me. She left me home alone that night. I had a pizza all to myself and no bedtime. Even when I asked, she just said to sleep when I was tired.

At first, like most kids, I was excited to have the run of the house. I thought I would stay up all night, maybe eat some sweets from the closely guarded pantry. But midnight came and went. The night became still and silent as the streetlights turned off outside. As the kids' shows ended and the late night pro-night. programs went on, full of faces I didn't know and jokes I didn't understand. I turned the volume down low so I could hear all the little house noises, the pipes, the floorboards, the dripping tap in the kitchen. Whenever I heard footsteps outside, I'd tasted copper on my tongue and my heart

fluttered like a rabbit. Then they'd pass, and I'd feel the yawning loneliness of the night enveloped me again. I don't know when I fell asleep. I woke up in bed. It was midday. I was in my pajamas and my door was open and I could smell bacon cooking downstairs. My mum was home and she was humming a song. She was in a chipper mood all day. She told me that she and Oscar's dad had talked long through the night. She said that they had come to an understanding and I wouldn't have any more trouble at school. I didn't press her.

I didn't want to know. She had some bruises on her neck. I didn't want to know about that either. I came back to school the following Monday. I walked alone, persuaded by my mother that I had nothing to fear. She was right. Nobody so much has looked at me funny. In the schoolyard, as we waited to be corralled into class, Oscar arrived, late and

distorted by his father. The energy that used to follow them both, the excitement that made them so popular, had gone flat. Nobody rushed to meet them. Nobody laughed. Nobody asked Oscar's dad to play pirate. Oscar's dad was like a different person. He didn't smile at me, at his son, or anyone. He kept his enamel white face pointed at his shoes. He didn't speak, he didn't laugh, he didn't look anywhere, but down. He left Oscar as soon as he'd joined the class. As he did, one of Oscar's friends started to cry. All through the day, Oscar barely said a word. He was so quiet that in English they had to take the register twice, because he answered so meekly when called. For a while, I wondered if he was just

sulking because he'd been found out for bullying me. His dad clearly took it very seriously. He seemed so distraught. But when I entered the bathroom during lunch to change the bandage on my knee, I ran right into Oscar. He was crying. He didn't stop when he saw me. Snot running down his face, eyes all red and puffy, hiccuping subs, erupting from his lips. I'll never forget it. He was shaking. He was shaking so hard. He stayed in the corner, even when I was. went into the stall, and he remained there as I washed my hands. I left quickly. It was only when I was back in the hallway, walking as fast as I could to be anywhere else, that I felt the tears on my cheeks and realized that I was crying too. Oscar's dad was there when we were picked up at the end of

the day. There was no warmth between them, no hug or a handhold, or even a word that passed. Oscar's mother looked like she'd been crying. It wasn't until my mum. It wasn't until my mum. mother arrived to pick me up that I understood why. As she walked into the school yard, not a hair out of place, Oscar's father gave a strangled gasp. I turned in time to see his mouth agape without a single tooth inside. I broke out in an anxious sweat. As my mom took my hand and walked me home, I felt it subside and rise up again like waves on the beach. Holding her hand felt like holding a live grenade. I didn't quite understand that feeling at the time, but I do now. Nobody bothered me after that. Oscar never said one word or looked me in the eye right

up until we left school. His father, after some time returned with a full set of porcelain teeth, but he would smile and treat the other kids just the same as he had before, but I was still never invited to Oscar's birthday parties. The rest of my school career passed with all the chaos and confusion of a standard adolescence. I even made some friends. friends. My mother died last year. It has been a long, long time since I felt afraid of her. I had all but forgotten the memory of that anxious walk home, the terror every time she met my gaze, even though she was smiling, even though there was nothing in her face but maternal affection. It was only a few months ago that I realized, while thinking back on that horrible time,

that those weren't bruises on her neck. The realization clicked into place and with it came an understanding of why there was no retaliation, no police. Why Oscar's dad kept his mouth firmly shut when she passed. I imagine he had some marks of his own, tucked beneath his shirt collar, carefully hidden from his son, from his wife. In her will, my mother left me a chest set. She kept promising me a special one when she died. in her later years she would laugh when she said it. I'm looking at it now.

The black side, 16 pieces strong are a dark green, mottled and wholly. Each piece designed around the pop-mark material. The pawns are all full of holes. The king's crown is the only complete tooth among them, forming a hat with four rotten spires. She saved every one from my classmates, every rotten mull that are worn down by sour sweets and moulded them into this. It smells of mouthwash and latex.

The white side is so bright I have to wince as it catches the overhead light. The pieces are cold to the touch and feel twice as heavy as the black ones. The king's crown is bright gold. The years haven't dulled its shine, not one bit. Oscar's father, smiling. one last time. When it comes to discovering all the ways humans have expressed art and creativity, we have museums which highlight paintings, sculptures, photography,

all the ways we create and express ourselves. But in this tale, shared with us by author Dominic Brees, we encounter a very different type of creativity, one which takes a strong stomach to experience. Performing this tale are David Alt, Jake Benson and Erica Sanderson. So stick to museums which feature art and artifacts, so much safer than visiting the Museum of Human Suffering.

Hello, hello, come on in. Yes, don't be shy, come on. Welcome. Good afternoon. Ticket for one, sir? Yes, please. A wonderful. This might sound like a silly question, but you are open, aren't she? Yes, yes, have no fear.

In fact, you've come at the perfect time. We've just this moment reopened after a short renovation period. That'll be six of the King's pounds and 66 of his shiniest pence. Nice to see you haven't hiked up the price, at least. Well, to be honest, the price was sort of a gimmick, but we're stuck with it now. My idea, unfortunately. I take it you've been here before? A couple of times, yes.

Oh, well, you're in for quite a treat, then. We have several new exhibits. If you're used to the design of the old museum, one or two of them might come as quite of a surprise, especially the ending, but I don't want to give anything away, of course. That sounds intriguing. One other small thing, sir, just before we get stuck in, would you be interested in trying our brand-new audio guide?

Don't worry, no, no, there's no hidden fee. As our first new customer, I can offer it to you completely free of charge. The audio guide was my wife's idea, you see. She's come up with so many of our best ones. My wife just loves the sound of my voice. Dramatic, she says. Melifluous. I think it's her way of telling me that I've a face for radio.

She's begged me over and over to record an audio tape for the tour, and I've finally conceded to her demands. Jelly Bean? Pardon me? Would you like a jelly bean, sir? I just love the red ones, don't you? Oh, okay. Thank you.

Good, good, excellent. Here, just to place the headphones. over your ears. That's it, and press the play button when you're standing in front of the first exhibit. It's all perfectly simple from that point on. Great. Thank you. Thank you, sir. And enjoy the tour.

So, my name is Ellery Sinclair. I'm the proprietor of this museum, and now, for the very first time, your own personal in-ear tour guide. Thank you for visiting and welcome to the Museum of Human Suffering. We begin our tour with a real crowd, pleaser. Standing at a mighty 10 feet tall and well over 15 feet in length, one can tell merely by looking at him that this bronze masterpiece was as much a work of theatre as a killing machine.

First used in AD 92, this replica brazen bull is cast in solid bronze and is an accurate representation of an original Roman design. Notice the hatch in the stomach. The victim, commonly a blasphemer or heretic, was forced into the beast and locked inside. A fire was then lighted beneath the belly and stoked or left to dwindle, depending on the tastes of the torturer and the appetites of the crowd, of course. The punishment of slow roasting was designed to replicate an eternity of suffering in hell.

Take a moment to listen. Those grisly sounds you can hear are approximations of what ancient spectators would have actually heard during the use of this terrifying device. The bronze head is fitted with a series of ingenious tubes and pipes that transform the screaming of the burning victim into the mournful bellows of a bull. Talk about having bad beef with someone. Moving on, in the display case to your left,

you'll see an actual medieval headvice. This interesting artifact is kindly on loan from the private collection of the Montiano family of Bucon. Recht. Discovered in a secret underground torture chamber in the early 20th century in Dragomerexti, this iron helmet was used by torturers to obtain confessions from enemies of the state, or coerce information from stubborn witnesses. The helmet was placed over the head of the victim, and the steel plate fitted snugly beneath the jaw. With each turn of the crank, the jawplate would close a little tighter, compressing the mandible towards the crown of the head, causing teeth to

shatter, the cranium to crack, and eventually the eyes to pop freely from the head like champagne corks. Originally, this head vice would have come complete with a small shelf, fitted over the bridge of the nose to catch the eyes as they came shooting out of the head. Well, it's certainly one way of having an eye-opening conversation. Now, as we proceed through into the next room, stop for a moment to examine the floor plans displayed on the wall to your immediate right. This detailed four-floor architectural drawing of H.H. Holmes' infamous murder castle is based upon eyewitness accounts and police records of the time. During the late 1800s, Holmes lured unsuspecting tourists into his so-called hotel during the Chicago World's Fair. Many of the rooms were

designed to allow a person only to enter. Once inside, there was no means of escape. Victims were killed in a variety of inventive ways. Popular myth of the time claimed that moving walls would close in to crush victims while they slept, that pitch-black rooms were fitted with deadly trap doors, and that gas lines were rooted into the guest's rooms and set ablaze to burn them alive. Let's all just be grateful that we live in a world where TripAdvisor is only a simple click away. As you move through the door and enter the next room, take a moment to look behind you. You might notice that like H. H. Holmes's murder castle, there is no means of retreat. Yes, where there was a door, now there is only smooth and impenetrable brick. But don't worry, I promise there are no

trap doors or moving walls, just keep moving forwards through the museum. And remember, James, there are no refunds. Behold the braking wheel. This innocent-looking cartwheel in the hands of a trained torturer is transformed into one of the most brutal and effective methods of inflicting pain ever conceived by man. Notice the hardened, steel-edged rim. The victim was bound and laid out on an uneven platform of upturned wooden boards, as you can see illustrated by our faithful demonstration dummy, Axel.

A torturer or torturers would lift the heavy wheel above their head and bring the edge smashing down repeatedly on the victim's arms and legs, breaking them in dozens of places. The twisted body of the live victim was then looped through the spokes of the wheel like a pretzel, and the wheel was mounted on a pole and hoisted upright so that the townsfolk could watch the victim die over the course of days or weeks. This creative punishment was devised by the Holy Roman Empire as an ironic comeuppance for highwaymen. I'm sure that they all really, wearily regretted their crimes. Now, if you'd been paying attention so far, you might have noticed that there is a direct correlation between the punishment of a crime and the crime itself.

Many people theorize that this correlation originates in the Bible, an eye for an eye and all that, but I believe that this desire predates the Bible. I mean, it must do if you really think about it. Revenge is as old as bipedal man or language itself. Of course, it's hard to understand how one person could possibly inflict such cruel. such pure hatred onto another human being. It's hard to imagine the pure inhumanity it must take to boil somebody alive and revel in their screams. To look into somebody's eyes while you turn the screw of the head vise again and again and again, driving their mandible up into their soft palate, hearing the enamel of their teeth shatter and the skull crack, delighting at the sight of their eyes bursting from their head.

until you have been wronged, that is, until you've had everything you love in this life ripped away from you, James. Then you can start to understand. What's going on? Now, as you pass willingly or unwillingly into the next chamber with no choice but to keep moving forward like a rat in a maze, you might be starting to wonder why you haven't yet come across another guest. why there are no mischievous children scampering about or teenagers bunking off from school.

Or perhaps you're wondering where Francine is. Fluff, as you so sweetly call her. This is usually around about the part of the museum where you find her, isn't it? Where you steal a furtive glance, chance a dangerous touch of the hand. Yes, you might have realised by now that this isn't your common or garden tour. No, this is really more of a person. personalized one-off event, uniquely crafted just for you, James. You see, although my wife is beautiful and charming and the originator of some of our very

best ideas, she is somewhat neglectful. She does have a terrible habit of just leaving her phone lying around any old place. She'll leave it on the table in restaurants while she uses the washroom. She'll leave it on the sofa at night while she scuttles off to the kitchen to pour yet another glass of wine. More than enough time for me to scroll through and read all those sweet-hearted messages. The hell is going on here? You see, James, I've worked in pain and misery for decades. I know of every conceivable punishment that one human being can inflict on another, since Homo erectus picked up his first rock and realized it would make an effective bludgeoning tool.

But reading those messages between you and my wife was crueler than any punishment I've ever known. I've read all of them, James. I've studied your history, you might say. I know that you've been coming here to meet illicitly with my wife. You've been here on four separate occasions now, haven't you? Jelly Bean? Okay, you made your point.

I know that you first met two years ago at a pottery class. I know that you clumsily introduced yourself to my wife by offering her a confection from a bag of sweets that she now uses so tenderly as a term of endearment for you. Francine took the class because she'd always wanted to feel wet clay in her hands to mould something with it. She wanted to create. Female instinct, I suppose. You see, I could never give her a child. I was so glad when she discovered the power to create something. something. Time and time again she went to that pottery class, but she didn't go there to feel

clay in her hands, did she, James? Let me out of here. Do you hear me right now? It took me months to suspect anything was going on. Like most men, I'm a little slow when it comes to reading the signs. When Francine fell pregnant, it was the happiest day of my life. A miracle, the doctors proclaimed. I even believed them for a while, until my darling boy was born with all that blonde hair, with that nose that no one quite recognized, with those unfamiliar green eyes that peered up at me boiling my very soul inside me as if it were trapped inside a brazen bull all of its own. Let me out. Let me the fuck out of here. I'm telling you all this, James, as there really is no choice now but for you to continue through the museum, helplessly drawn through the building

towards your final destination. Oh, you can stand there for an hour if you like, two, ten, it won't matter. Eventually you'll move on. Better to just get it over with. Oh, if you're thinking of calling for help, I really wouldn't bother. Perhaps Fluff told you a few facts about our museum in between nibbling on your earlole. Perhaps she mentioned that the museum is housed in a defunding in a defunct wing of the old Bakerloo line that's been out of use since 1963. Yes, we are deep underground and there is no chance of finding a signal.

Since you started the tour, I've closed off the museum to the general public. Yes, it's just the three of us now. We've got the whole place to ourselves. Move on, please, James. Move on through the museum. Don't be shy. Go through the next door.

Go to your love. What have you done? The means by which to punish a philandering woman is a commonly referenced subject throughout history. Yet another consequence of living in a patriarchal world, I suppose. Women are often treated more harshly for their indiscretions than their male counterparts. Stoning in ancient Persia, flagellation in Europe, death by soaring was an especially brutal punishment, typical during the turbulent Qing dynasty in China. No, no, don't worry, I'm not insane.

What have you done? Are you there yet, James? Do you see it? This next exhibit is the latest addition to my museum. Front scene? The Skoll's Bridal, first used in 16th century Scotland, was designed to keep troublesome women in their place. The metal headpiece was fitted to the head of the harlot or nagging fishwife,

and a steel plate was pressed down onto the tongue, making it impossible to speak. Notice the outlandish design. This flamboyant piece is an 18th century reproduction. The ugly gargoyle mask acted as both a representation of the hideous behavior of its wearer and was also designed to humiliate. Francine! Just hold on, just hold on while I try to get this thing off you.

In some of the more serious cases, as you can see in this display, the woman is pilloried by her neck and wrists, held in place for all to see. Townsfolk would take pleasure in crowding around, shouting insults, or throwing rotten vegetables at the Jezebel in question. Wait a second, it's almost... James! Christ, Francine, are you hurt?

Forget about me! The door! Try the door! Well, that's almost the tour over with. But what of the surprise ending I promised you? Did you think this was it? No, not quite. I always like to ensure my visitors get their monies worth every penny of it. Take a look around.

This last exhibition is a secret one. Oh, it might not be as flashy or immediately horrifying as any of the other displays, but it is my personal favourite. Have you worked it out yet? It's all around you. It won't open, Fadsey. The door won't open. Immurement, or living entombment, is one of the oldest and most

popular punishments in human history. There are records going all the way back to ancient Sumer of men and women walled up inside temples and left to rot. Talk about this! The simple beauty of immurement is that it prolongs the torture. It allows the interned to think on what they've done, to let the guilt and remorse grow and fester in their minds like a poisoned seed. The longest known survivor of so-called living entombment is nighing dead.

I'm very much hoping to raise that bar. And notice that I've left you both generous supplies of drinking water and your favorite food. Hundreds upon hundreds of packets of them. I'm sure you can both excuse the historical inaccuracy for the poetics of it all. Ellery, let us out right now. I anticipate that if you desire to. You could survive down there in that little room for many, many months oxygen permitting. Your wife thinks that you've gone fishing with a friend, doesn't she, James?

You've been going fishing a lot recently, haven't you? I know that no one will come here looking for you. For either of you. Not for a very long time. I wasn't lying when I said that the museum is undergoing refurbishment, but actually refurbishment begins tomorrow. A building crew will brick up this entire section of the museum with you and your darling fluff inside.

Romantic, in a sense, isn't it? You wanted to be with each other, you were desperate to be with each other. Well, you're welcome. Open the door! Over the fucking door! Please, Ellery! Now, now, there really is no use in screaming or banging or appealing to my sense of decency. I can't hear you. Nor can anyone else.

The walls are five feet thick and the doors are seven inches of reinforced iron. I wonder. long you'll survive. I really do hope it's a long, long time. All the while I'll be here welcoming guests into our newly refurbished museum. Little will they suspect that our greatest attraction is hidden only meters away from them. Alas, I'm sorry to say that our tour really has now come to an end, but you know what they say about all good things. I really do hope that you both enjoyed my little audio guide. I know that I thoroughly enjoyed record. You were right, Francine. This really has made a fine addition to our museum.

But then again, you always did come up with our very best ideas. The light of dawn approaches. Our tales must come to an end until the next time we gather. We'll keep the fire burning until you return. That is, if you dare to remain sleepless. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless. the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for only one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us around the campfire for our 20th season.

This audio program is copyright 2023 and 2024 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.