The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep13: NoSleep Podcast S20E13

Episode Date: January 7, 2024

It's Episode 13 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about dark decisions."Here We Are Now" written by Stephanie Scissom (Story starts around 00:04:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Katy - Nichole Goodnight, Kolt - Mike DelGaudio, Ezra Magnum - Jesse Cornett, Therapist - Mary Murphy, Allison - Nikolle Doolin"Quarrel" written by M.J. Pack (Story starts around 00:31:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: David CummingsCast: Narrator - David Cummings"She'll Thank Me Later" written by Penny Tailsup (Story starts around 00:42:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Andy - Graham Rowat, Simone - Kristen DiMercurio, Father - Atticus Jackson, Mother - Mary Murphy"The Nowhere Hotel" written by David Casi (Story starts around 01:08:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Peter Lewis"Jesus Saves at the Tumbleweed Motel" written by Gabie Rivera (Story starts around 01:28:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Jessica McEvoy, Nana - Erin Lillis, Holly - Linsay Rousseau, The Man - Jeff Clement, Cousin Jonah - Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by:ZocDoc - Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today.Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Stephanie ScissomClick here to learn more about Penny TailsupExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"The Nowhere Hotel" illustration courtesy of Alia SynesthesiaAudio 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 a happy and healthy 2024 to you we hope you're back in the swing of things after a busy holiday season It's great to jump back into our 20th season of horror.

But we're also jumping into January, which is a month typically considered to be rather, well, blah, right? With most of our audience living in the northern hemisphere, that means a lot less sunlight, colder temperatures, and less time outside to refresh ourselves. You're also probably aware of the concept of Blue Monday, a no, not the song by New Order. We're led to believe it's the most depressing day of the year, despite it really just being a marketing tool to sell vacations to sunny spots. But the concept of Blue Monday persists, and many agree that January is a month when we feel especially run down, worn out, and sad.

It's a time of year when it's worth considering the dark side of dealing with the dark thoughts, doldrums, and depression this time of year can evoke. And since we deal in the currency of horror, it's not uncommon to face the reality of death. Think about it. Is there any horror story out there that doesn't, in some way, trace its way back to the concept of death? Ghost stories deal with people who have mostly died. Stockers and serial killer stories deal with people desperately trying not to die. Demons and dark spirits threaten a diabolical afterlife.

Death and the fear thereof is what drives our darkest nightmares. On the episode this week, we have stories which touch on the darkest. thoughts when people see death as something it can never truly be, a solution to a problem. The thoughts which can lead some people to consider extreme ways to release themselves from the dire pain and suffering their feeling. The idea of someone ending their own life is not a pleasant thought, and it's one our society often tries to sweep under the carpet. But we are talking about it more, and it's becoming more accepted to share our feelings of hopelessness that can bring about suicidal ideations. You know, over the years I have been told by quite a few listeners that this

podcast, the stories that we share, have helped them through the difficult times. Some have even told me the stories have helped them reconsider ending their lives. Horror is powerful like that. And if you are struggling in these ways, please know there is help. And please understand that if stories dealing with either suicide or its aftermath are ones that you probably should, shouldn't be hearing at this point in your life, then we encourage you to come back to this episode when you're in a better headspace. We'll be here for you, and we want you to stick around and enjoy these dark stories when they're right for you. So let's head into 2024 and make it a time of growth and improvement. And let's do it together, dear listeners, because

all this wouldn't be as good without you. And now the sun has set, the fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet Katie, a woman who lost her father when she was quite young. He was a rock star who took his own life and left her behind. But in this tale, shared with us by author Stephanie Schism, a new technology allows him back into Katie's life, and he's able to share details that shed new light on what he went through. Performing this tale, our Nicole Goodneigham,

Knight, Mike Delgado, Jesse Cornett, Mary Murphy, and Nicole Doolin. So when confronted with the events of the past, remind yourself of the present, because here we are now. Memories of my father were scattered, but warm. They didn't reconcile with the portrait the media painted of him. The sad withdrawn rock star who'd taken his own life at the age of 27, in my memories, he was laughing, happy. We'd had our own sign language. Mom had known some of the signs, but not all. We'd held secret, silly conventions that invariably ended with him signing, You're my favorite human.

For sure, at six years old, he'd been mine. He'd sung my bedtime stories instead of read them, let me paint his nails and style his hair. We'd held dance parties in our pajamas and eaten cookie dough straight from the tube. Then one rainy November night, he'd stuck a needle on his arm, injecting nearly four times the lethal amount of heroin in his veins. Everything had changed after that. My house was so quiet and cold without him.

My mother was never good at showing love, and sometimes I'd rebelled simply to make her react. I missed my father every day. The world had lost an artist, the voice of a generation. I had lost so much more. I was 23 when Magnum Enterprises broadcast their first resurrection, Walt Disney. The world reacted incredulously and violently. Some proclaimed it a hoax while others thought it was the beginning of the apocalypse. Everything we knew, everything before and after was changed.

Another of Magnum's resurrections, a Greek billionaire allowed himself to be subjected to a battery of public tests. The results were irrefutable. The technology existed that would defeat death, but the cost was unimaginable for most. In two years, I would inherit my portion of an estate that was valued at nearly a billion dollars, and I did not hesitate to pledge at all to get him back. I met with the head of Magnum Enterprises, who told me more about what to expect, though, a little about how they could make it happen. To be honest, I didn't care how they did it. He promised to return my father, complete with all his memories. He warned that, while any mental issues like depression and tendency towards addiction would still be present, because they're moderately to highly heritable,

perhaps they could be combated with foreknowledge and adjustment of environmental factors. While not exactly a clean slate, he would have a chance. I was older now, stronger, whatever demons he had to fight, I would fight alongside him. I had two major aspects. I had two major obstacles, however. The first was my mother. I didn't dare tell her what I was planning, for I knew she would not approve. I always wondered about my parents' relationship, if she had ever loved him, but with her it was hard to tell. She dated his former manager for the past 17 years, but they maintained different households and never mentioned marriage. My memory classified my parents' marriage as chaotic and angry, at least on her part. I remembered her yelling and raging until he retreated

and hid. My mother said once that she'd grown weary of his addictions and his inability to grow up, but they tried to make it work because of me. Although she'd never say it, I always suspected his death had been somewhat of a relief to her, and I resented her for that. She was a person who liked certainties and stability, and he could provide neither of those things. She lived well, and practically, with the wealth he'd left behind, and expected me to do the same. Money had never been a worry for me, but it had never been a prison either. I just wanted him back, and I didn't care if it left me penniless to do so. The other problem was DNA.

They needed a sample that was irrefutably and solely his, and after so many years, I had nothing. No hairbrush or toothbrush, and his body had been cremated and scattered. I asked my grandmother about his baby teeth or locks of hair, and she said they'd been lost long ago. Then it hit me. A few months before his suicide, he'd had his wisdom teeth removed. He'd kept them, brought them home to me in an alt-oids tin because he thought they looked weird and funny. We'd thrown them in a jar with my first baby teeth and forgotten them. My mother kept my baby things in a trunk in her attic, and I snuck up there one day while she was

grocery shopping to retrieve them. My hands shook when I poured them into my palm. Funny how those ugly, long-rooted teeth were the key to getting my heart's desire. I still don't know how it worked. I brought them his teeth and his money the day after my 25th birthday, and three months later, just as he'd promised, Ezra Magnum called me. To your father again. He met me at the airport in Denver and we drove to a gated facility outside of Boulder. During the ride, he braced me for what was to come. Colt is doing well, but as you can imagine, there's an adjustment period.

He's trying to process the fact that he's been dead for nearly 20 years and that the world is different now. Time has moved on and he has to catch up. There's a lot of discombobulation. This is when we like to bring in the loved ones, Because we feel that you, more than anyone, can help him adjust. You're invited to stay here with him until his team feels he's ready for the outside. Then you can take him home. The facility was nice, well-staffed, looking more like an expensive apartment building than a lab or hospital.

A smiling therapist met us at the door when Magnum rang the doorbell on apartment 405. Are you ready? She squeezed my hand in her smile widen. Wow, you look so much like him. As we walked through the kitchen, she said. He's really quiet, and there's still a lot of confusion. I'm sure Dr. Magnum told you to expect that. We will take it nice and slow.

I nodded, but I couldn't find words either. My heart slammed in my chest. Through an open doorway, I saw the back of his head. He sat on moving on a couch watching television. Would you like me to introduce you? I shook my head and walked into the living room, leaving them in the hallway. He never moved as I approached. His eyes remained glued to the television while his hands lay folded and still in his lap.

His profile took my breath away. The long, blonde hair and pale blue eyes? It was him. Really him? Though he looked so much smaller and frailer than I remembered. They dressed him in clothing he was comfortable in. Faded jeans, gray t-shirt covered with a blue and black flannel and converse. He was the age he'd been when he died.

I felt like a strange, beautiful dream. My eyes filled with tears and I squeaked out. Hi. Slowly he turned his head and looked at me. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face. He studied me for a long moment, then turned back to the television. I stood there on shaky legs unsure of what to do next. Then I saw his hand move.

Just a slight movement. But one that meant something to me. He signed, scared. I squeezed my eyes shut feeling the tears escaped down my cheek. We'd done those signs so much that it'd become habitual. I still did the same thing he'd just done reflexively. The doctors didn't know that. This was really my father, not a fake, not a clone.

I stepped in front of the TV and signed, Me Too. His breath expelled in a hiss and he looked at me with haunted eyes. Kit Kat? I couldn't speak. Could barely stand. I signed, Daddy. He launched himself at me and seized me in his arms. I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face against his flannel shirt.

The scent of him wrecked me, undefinable, long-forgotten, yet instantly recognizable and remembered. I sobbed, ugly, heaving, sobbing, soaking his shirt with my tears. I was crying for all we had lost, and all that had just been returned to us. My daddy was alive. I'm not sure how long we stood there clutching each other. He was crying as hard as I was, but he was smoothing my hair trying to comfort me. Maybe it's okay. It's okay.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. My God. Oh, let me look at you. He clutched my face in his hands and studied me like he was trying to memorize every detail. You look just like me. I hear that all the time. I bet your mom hates that. Where is she?

She doesn't know. She doesn't know about any of this. He blanked. Oh? Then he led me to the couch and we sat knee to knee, holding hands. I told him about my inheritance. He seemed staggered by the amount of it, and how I contacted Magnum Enterprises as soon as I'd seen that first broadcast.

You were just six. You spent all of that money, everything you had just to get me back? Why? I sign. You're my favorite human. He hopes. I got a breath and gave me another fierce hug. And your mind, too.

There were these, there were all these people around me. They wanted these things, and they were only happy when I gave them what they wanted. But not you. You were the first person in my whole life who really loved me.

And all you wanted was my time. And the only time I was really happy was when I was with you. Why did you leave me? The words burst out before I could stop them, horrifying me. I never meant to ask that because the last thing I wanted to do was guilt him. Instead of looking guilty, he looked confused. I can't remember what happened.

They didn't tell me. How did I die? I looked back toward the kitchen, but Dr. Magnum and the therapist were gone. I didn't know what to say, but I could not lie to him. you killed yourself heroin overdose enough that they were sure it wasn't accidental he shook his head slowly then more emphatically no no no no no no no that's that's that's not right i would have never left you alone with her with who mom he wanted an answer mom and uncle gregg said you'd been depressed there was a note Uncle Greg.

He frown. Wait, do you mean Greg Warren? I hesitated wishing Dr. Magnum was in here. I felt like I was handling this badly and I didn't want to do anything to upset him. But he was going to find out soon enough. Yes, he and Mom, they're together now. Not married, but they've been dating for years. The look on his face melted from astonishment to something else.

Realization. He took both my hands. Is we're shaking. Look, Katie, this is not what I want to be talking about. I want to know everything about you and your life, but I need to know what happened, at least what you think happened. I don't know how your relationship with your mother is or what you remember about our marriage. I remember arguments, her yelling, counting on the bathroom door while you locked yourself inside.

He told me that's where you'd go to get high. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. I never remembered seeing him angry before, not even when she railed at him. She said I blamed her. I gave a helpless shrug. Maybe I did. Our relationship isn't yelling and fighting. It's distant.

I'm very good at avoiding her and she's good at letting me. He looked defeated. I am so sorry, Katie. I never wanted your life to be like that. I wanted you to have the best child. childhood any kid could ask for. I was changing things, making plans to get out. I was buying this little house in Alabama on the Gulf of Mexico because you'd love the ocean. Mother never told me that. She didn't know about the house anyway. It wasn't going to be her home.

He leaned back against the cushions. The last time I saw Greg Warren. He was threatening to sue me. I was quitting the band, quitting music. You know, it just didn't make me happy anymore. I hated the new album, and I didn't want to release it. Euphoria? It was released posthumously.

It sold over 40 million copies worldwide. Instead of looking proud, he grimaced. I hated it. Commercial fluff. We'd become something I never wanted to. to be. Then I also told your mother I wanted a divorce. The only reason I was still there was you. But, and after Paris, I was done. And with the tapes, I had enough leverage to get custody. His eyes widen. You know, I need you to help me find someone. Liz Jessusb. She was your mother's

friend first, the lead singer of a band that opened up for us in that last tour. But, She found out what happened and she tried to help me. She can verify everything I'm about to tell you. I pulled out my phone and Googled the name. The first thing that appeared was a Wikipedia page. She was dead. Only a week after my father's death. Also a heroin overdose.

What? No, that's not true. She wasn't using either. Not for a long time. He looked like he was about to cry, so I said, Paris. Are you talking about right before? they said that was the first time you tried to kill yourself.

They told you that was a suicide attempt? Your mother drugged me. She said it was an accident, but we'd been arguing, and she put some of her pills in my whiskey. She said it was just to make me sleep so that I'd calm down and stop packing. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital. Maid had found me.

I covered for your mother, but I never trusted her again. I had thought for a couple of weeks that I was being followed and my garage was broken into. So I bought a gun, but she had that taken away from me. I think I remember that day. The police came. He nodded. You were crying and I was trying to get her to stop and when she wouldn't, I just went into the bedroom and locked the door. She told the police I had a gun and I was going to kill myself, but I never even touched it. Oh, and I wasn't high. My blood ran cold.

I knew my mother. She always thought two steps ahead, and it appeared she was trying to paint a very specific picture, setting up the final scene. My father wiped a hand down his face. She and Liz were close. Allison had told her some things, and then Liz started recording their conversations. She gave me the tapes, and I hid them in a tackle box in the crawl space under the house. You said there was a note. Do you know what it said?

I can do better than that. I tapped on my phone. Here, his suicide note had been published online. He scanned it, his lips moving as he read, then he looked at me. Oh, well, this whole first part, yeah, I wrote that, but it wasn't a suicide note. That was the note I wrote to the fans, explaining why I was quitting the music business. It had nothing to do with suicide. And that last part there?

Part about you and your mom? That's not my handwriting. There had been some debate about his note online, with some wondering why he talked so much about music and so little about us. Also, the shaky, bigger handwriting at the bottom did look different. But that was attributed to him already being high when he wrote it. Look, Katie, I really need you to believe me here. I was clean, and I did not kill myself.

The day you were born, my whole world changed. I was a father. Holy shit, it was terrifying. Who was I to try and take care of anyone? I was barely taking care of myself those days. That first time that I held you, I felt like you were judging me, staring at me with these big unblinking eyes.

It was the first relationship in my entire life that had permanence. I just married your mother, but even then, I'm not sure either. of us felt like it was going to last forever. People drifted in and out of my life, and that's just, you know, the way it was. Even my parents, I mean, I'd never known my father, and truthfully, I'd never known my mother either. Even though we lived in the same house until I left at 15. But I was not going to let us be like that.

We weren't. We aren't even now. They had you, you know, bundled up in the house. hospital, right? When your little hand had escaped from under the blanket, and I was trying to put it back under, and you grasped my finger. And I knew right then that no matter what I had gotten wrong in my life, that it was not going to be this. It was not going to be you. This was something I couldn't lose. I don't know what you've been told about me, but I swear this to you. I know. I know. I know. I Never used drugs after that day.

Not once. When I told you that you were my favorite human, I meant it. From the day you were born, you were the only thing that mattered to me. You still are. He was the only thing that mattered to me too, and I was enraged at the ones who'd stolen so much from us.

I could tell he was afraid, afraid of seeing her again, of confronting them. I didn't tell him I had no intention of letting him. I spent the weekend there, then left him a note that Monday morning before he woke, saying I had to run a few errands and that I'd be back soon. I didn't tell him that my business was in Los Angeles. I called my mother before I flew out to make sure she'd be home. She told me she had an interview with a local talk show that morning, but she'd be home that afternoon.

In all the excitement I hadn't even realized today was the 20th anniversary of my father's death. It seemed fitting somehow. I arrived at her place around noon. Before I went inside, I retrieved the tackle box from the crawl space. It was right where he said it would be. The tiny recorder still held the tape, but the batteries were dead. I rummaged through the kitchen drawer until I found a pair of AAAs. The tape still played.

I would have believed him even if it hadn't, but hearing it with my own ears only strengthened my resolve. I put the recorder in my purse and lay on my mother's bed to watch a behind-the-scenes special about my father on MTV while I waited. I was in some of the videos with him. In one of them, I was about three sitting on my bed with him and strumming a toy guitar while he sang a song he'd written for me. Katie did. My mother came in while it was playing. She glanced at the TV, laid her purse and phone on the nightstand, then brushed a kiss in the general direction of my ear.

Have you eaten lunch? It infuriated me that she could look at him, look at me, without so much as a hint of remorse. But I didn't show it. And not yet. I'm going to take a shower. Those studio lights made me sweat. When I get out, we'll order some Chinese.

Greg's not coming over? No, he's probably packing. He has a flight to Phoenix this evening. I watched her grab some clothes from her dresser, thinking about what dad had said about his own mother. How sad and telling that I felt so much more for a man that I hadn't seen in 20 years than I felt for the woman who'd been here my entire life. She'd just shut the bathroom door behind her when her phone lit up. I guess she still had it on mute from the interview. As expected, it was Greg, wanting to know if she'd made it home yet in how the interview had gone.

I decided to reply. Yes. Do you ever get tired of the lies? Immediately he replied, Have you been drinking? I texted back. Does it ever bother you what we did? It took a moment longer to respond this time. We did what we had to do.

Where is this coming from, Allison? Before I could reply, the phone showed an incoming call from Greg. I declined it, which he shouldn't perceive as particularly unusual. My mother detested talking on the phone. I texted, I miss him. From Greg. L. L. L. You have been drinking. You hated him. From me. Katie wants to resurrect him. The phone showed Greg is typing. Then, good thing she doesn't have a DNA sample. I was playing with fire. Hadn't thought this out, but it plunged in. I think she knows what we did. She hates me. He responded. She knows nothing. What the hell, Allison? I sent, it just want to tell her the truth. Make her understand. It was for her, too. Immediately he texted,

Don't tell her anything. I'm coming over. In the next room, I heard the shower shut off. Hurriedly, I stuck Mom's phone under a pillow. Greg only lived a couple of blocks away. I didn't have much time. She walked out of the bathroom, tallying her hair. I had Dad resurrected.

I've never seen anyone turn so white. She froze, her hand still clutching the towel. I used his wisdom teeth. She swayed and grabbed the doorframe. I pretended to be distraught instead of angry. He says you killed him and that he can prove it. He supposedly has tapes made by some girl named Liz that incriminate you. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Mother, say it isn't true. He was so angry, he said he's coming here. This wasn't how I planned it, but it fell into place perfectly. Downstairs we heard a door slam in the beep, beep, beep as someone disengaged the alarm pad. Mother panicked, scrambling for her phone. She dumped the contents of her purse on the floor and pawled through them. footsteps creaked on the stairs. Mama, he's going to kill you.

Where's your gun? She grabbed the gun from her nightstand and clicked off the safety. When Greg opened the door, she pumped two rounds into his chest. She screamed when she realized what she'd done and dropped the gun before scrambling over to him and hitting her knees. Blood gushed from his wounds and she tried to press her hands over them. She never even looked at me when I walked up beside her and fired a bullet into her temple. I might look just like my father, but I guess I was my mother's daughter as a woman. well. I didn't feel a thing as I cleaned my prints off the gun with her towel and placed it in

her bloody hand. Then I wiped my prints off her phone and laid it with the contents of her overturned purse. I took a bus halfway, then held a cab to take me to San Diego, where my house was, and where I'd flown into. I'd left my phone on the kitchen counter in case anyone bothered to ping it. I sent a few work emails, chatted with a neighbor, then packed a bag, and headed back to Boulder. I was back at my father's apartment by six, bearing a sackful of his favorite fast food, double cheeseburgers from McDonald's. They didn't find the bodies for two days. The police wrote it off exactly as I'd hoped,

a remorseful widow and her lover arguing on the 20th anniversary of her husband's death. Although I was sure they'd read the text message on my mother's phone, they never addressed it with me. I caught my father looking at me a few times. Mostly as we watched the news, but he didn't address it either. On the day we left Boulder, we had new names, new appearances and a new beginning. Because of our current age difference, we would live. his brother and sister. As far as the world was concerned, Colt Jacobs was dead, and Katie Jacobs was a

tragic afterthought. Let's get out of here. I said, pulling a baseball cap over his short dark hair, Alabama's waiting. One of the things that can make your life miserable is being in a fight with your spouse or romantic partner. When you're upset with each other, it's easy to find ways to keep the fight going rather than trying to fix things. And in this tale, shared with us, by author, M.J. Pack. We meet a couple going through their own unique struggle. Only one of them seems capable of doing something about it. Allow me to share this dark tale with you. So always try to work things out, even when in the midst of a quarrel. She makes coffee in silence with shaking hands. I want to tell her she hasn't added enough grounds. It won't be as strong as she

likes, but I don't. I'm cross with her, and she can drink weak coffee if she's going to be so stubborn. She hasn't spoken to me in a few days. Was it Monday or Tuesday, I last heard her voice? It's hard to remember when it feels like we're entombed together in the silence of this house. Her shuffled steps on the kitchen tile whisper like corpse wrappings against stone. I'm cross with her, and she's drinking her coffee alone in the living room. The television is off, and she stares at its blank face with a determination that frightens me. But still, I say nothing, because she is the one who stopped talking to me first. Yeah, we've been reduced to children fighting in the playground.

You hit me. You called me names. You took my doll. We are stupid children, and she is drinking her weak coffee in silence. I remember how beautiful she was in the beginning. inning, hair cut short but shiny, and I liked it that way. Bright smile, clear eyes, kind words. She touched me and I kissed her, and it was so good. We were, well, not teenagers, but we were not quite grown-ups, and things were so easy then. She's let her hair grow long, but she's not brushed it in a while. It tangles around her face in fierce knots, and her eyes are, they're dead, somehow. I don't know when this happened. I can't remember. She does not touch me anymore.

I watch as she sets down the coffee, only half empty on the coffee table. She moves to the bedroom and her feet make that ominous whisper, that corn stalks in autumn sound against the carpet. She bends to the piles of clothes on the floor and begins to sort the laundry. Her pile. My pile. Oh, she will not wash my clothes out of principle, and it makes me angry at her all over again. My socks and undershirts have started to smell, but she leaves them in their little heap and continues to sort. Her pile, my pile, what will be washed, what will stay here. She should wash my clothes. She is my wife. I know she's doing this on purpose, and I want very much to shout at her, to throw her.

throw the laundry basket across the room and end this childish display of pettiness. But I restrain myself. It's what she wants. I will not give her what she wants. She must learn this lesson on her own. She takes the pile, her pile of laundry into the basement to wash. Her motions are practiced, mechanical as she sets the cycle, opens the lid, dumps the clothes, pours the detergent.

I want to tell her the detergent goes in before the clothes. She will stain them irreparably, but she will not listen. She has stopped listening to me. I leave her in the basement. I can't watch her any longer as she stares, unblinking into the washer's innards as though it holds all the answers. Keeping the lid open that long is sure to do some kind of damage to the machinery, but I say nothing. I leave her there because I'm still cross with her, and she's starting to give me the creeps. She emerges sometime later.

She makes another weak pot of coffee. She sorts the mail. She makes more piles, hers and mine. I feel the anger twisted around my heart give way a little when she begins to cry. She's only opened two of the ten or so envelopes from her pile before burying her face. in her hands and weeping helplessly. I don't know if she's crying because of the male or because of the hopelessness of our situation, but I want to hold her either way, and yet I know I can't.

I want to say, it's your fault I'm trapped here. I want to hold her gently but firmly and tell her that I'm stuck in this house with her, and the only way I can leave is if she lets me go. knows this. Surely she must know this. She goes on crying. She wouldn't listen if I said it anyway. I love my wife, but she is selfish. She leaves the rest of the mail unopened and goes to the bedroom. I think for a moment that she's had a change of heart. Perhaps she will wash my clothes after all. But she emerges with the pistol I keep at the back of the closet and suddenly everything goes cold.

I want to tell her she can't do this. She doesn't understand. She won't go where I went. Suicides go somewhere else. And while I'm not quite sure where I am, I know she will not be with me. She has kept me here with her love. And without her, I don't know where I will go.

I want to stop her. I want to take the gun from her hands and kiss away her tears. I want to tell her she can live without me, however hard it may be, however painful, and though that this may seem like an answer, it is anything but. I want to tell her. She has stopped listening to me. The car accident was just over a month ago,

and yet she has talked to me. She talked to me every day that saw her alone in this house, since she left me in the graveyard for the last time. She listened for me to give her an answer, and just now, just today, she has stopped. She puts the gun to her head in silence with a shaking hand. I tell her no, and in the instant after she has pulled the trigger, I see it in her eyes. She has heard me only seconds too late. I watch as she crumbles, bloody hair, dead eyes, limp limbs.

I remember what she was like in the beginning. She cannot go where I have gone. I do not know where I am. She is not here with me. I love my wife, but she is selfish. I'm frightened and I'm cross with her. And her body is cooling next to the cup of wheat coffee on the table. And I...

I do not know where I will go. If your family is like many others, you know that person who's considered the black sheep of the family. Always causing drama and strife. Like Simone, the woman in this tale, shared with us by author Penny Tales Up. Simone's brother Andy has come over for dinner, and the scrumptious meal she prepares makes the evening very special indeed.

Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Kristen DeMcCurio, Atticus Jackson, and Mary Murphy. So try to help a family member when you can. Then you might be able to say, she'll thank me later. Everyone has that person in their life. A drama queen, or king, who makes everything about themselves, and blows everything out of proportion. If you're lucky, that person is a comfortable distance away. A friend of a friend, a cousin's roommate,

the neighbor three doors down. Someone you can usually avoid, at least most of the time. If you're unlucky, like I am, their family. For me, that person is my sister. Simone was always too emotional. I don't know where she got it. We had the same parents, and I can confidently say that her bad behavior,

wasn't tolerated or rewarded. In fact, it usually backfired. Simone never learned. The punishments only added fuel to the fire. To her, penalties were proof of abuse. Even minor inconveniences were met with such drama that I found her exhausting. It got to the point where, before she even opened her mouth, I'd find myself snapping, what now, Simone? Because there was always something. I honestly don't know how she lived like that. The perpetual veysal. victim. Personal accountability was a foreign concept. It was always someone else's fault. Simone blamed our parents, and when I was older, me for letting it happen. You almost admire the mental gymnastics it took to be forever blameless. Almost. As adults, we had the freedom to grow apart.

The choice was more mine than hers, because at first she would text, call, or email almost daily with a list of her latest grievances or silly dreams. Simone always wanted to be a chef, which I guess is a good job for someone so emotional. But I never tried her dishes because I didn't want to sit through dinner with her. I tolerated Simone at arm's length. It worked for a while. It wasn't as bad when I didn't have to live with her.

But eventually that too grew old and I blocked her on everything. It wasn't supposed to be forever, but it was such a relief that I, couldn't bring myself to open the floodgates again. After that, I only saw her at the family functions she was invited to, where I'd see I was still right about her. Simone was always shunted away in corners like a kicked puppy, waiting for me to feel sorry for her. Since she hadn't changed, I didn't feel bad for cutting her out. We'd gone years without seeing each other, even longer since speaking, but one day I received a letter

in the mail from her. Seeing her name on the envelope, I almost tossed it. But curiosity got the better of me. It was an invitation to dinner at her house the following week. Beneath the date and time, she'd written a small note to convince me. I've changed, she promised. Come see and be a family to me. I'll prove it.

If you come, I'll accept whatever happens. The publisher bought my cookbook. It'll be on shelves soon. Isn't it time you tried my cooking? I was skeptical of the claim, that she'd changed, not the cookbook. I imagined she'd paid some vanity publisher to get her book on shelves. I didn't care about that, except that I saw it for what it was, an excuse to invite me to dinner. The letter, handwritten, still seemed like a cry for attention.

Even so, I was intrigued by the proposition and agreed. I unblocked her number and called. It was the first time I'd ever called. Within a few rings, she picked up. Her voice caught me off guard with its suddenness and flatness, a greeting spoken with no inflection, no emotion. Simone? Yes.

I paused, half expecting her to continue, but she didn't. It's me. I got your letter. I was beginning to wonder if I'd regret my decision. I'll come to dinner. When I didn't say anything else, she spoke up again. Which annoyed me, because she was acting indifferent to the fact that I was giving her a chance. A chance she'd written me to ask for. But I'd be no better than she was if I let my annoyance show.

Yes, that's all. See you soon. I was oddly disappointed by the exchange, even a little unnerved. But it also gave me hope that she was right, that Simone had changed. For too long, I'd relegated her to more of an acquaintance than a sister. Someone I recognized, but didn't really know. Maybe she'd been changing all along, learning to control herself more and more as she matured. At Sunday dinner, I mentioned Simone to the rest of the family.

I was having my doubts and was curious what they thought, if she could really be better. Simone said she's publishing a cookbook. She invited me to dinner next week. I twisted noodles onto my fork. I'd been quiet up until then, oddly reflective. For some reason, I was dreading the dinner. Something didn't feel right, but I'd already agreed to go. Oh, was that what she was babbling about?

I said we'd try to make it, but she knows how busy we are. Mother didn't look up from her plate. She's so scrawny. I doubt her cooking is any good. By then my still twirling fork was choked with pasta. I took a bite and let the subject drop. The table grew lively again. I lost track of the conversation, only interjecting when prodded. Is everything all right, Andy?

I said I was fine, because I was fine. Trust Simone to get me into some kind of mood. I hated to think her emotional nature had rubbed off on me. I excused myself early and went home. still frustratingly reflective. I almost called Simone to cancel dinner, but decided that was almost cowardly. But how was it cowardly?

Why was I acting scared? No, it wasn't that I was afraid to go to dinner. I just didn't want to bother, dreading the theatrics that were sure to accompany it. Surely it would be dinner and a show. A show I had no interest in seeing. You don't care? You've always been the favorite. I could imagine the accusations so well I could hear them.

I could feel the headache that always followed, too, forming with the tell-tale tightening of my temples. Damn it, Simone. Always a pain. But I was going, and that was that. I had to set an example for her. I was the oldest. I had to be someone she could aspire to.

That meant no flaking. It meant tolerating whatever tantrum she decided to throw. And in the end, she said so her. herself. She'd accept whatever happened. It could be the definitive end of our relationship. A final, clean break. The week leading up to the dinner felt dragged out. Yet I still wished it was longer. Time was just slow enough to be uncomfortable, while still fast enough that I didn't feel prepared when the time came. I'd half hoped some dire emergency would pull me away, but the universe wasn't in a charitable mood. Simone's house was a shabby, white,

shack in the bad part of town. I'd never been there before, but I wasn't surprised by it. There was no driveway, only mud. I'd have to wash my car on the way home. Still, she did the best she could with what she had. I gave her some credit for the wide begonia planters that lined the walkway and the hanging baskets of bleeding hearts that swayed from the porch rafters. Flowers drew your eye away from the drab exterior of the place, if briefly. The doorbell was broken, so I knocked. There was no welcome, Matt. The wait was just a heartbeat too long,

just long enough that I wondered if she was coming. When I raised my fist to knock again, the door swung open. My sister didn't smile, just opened the door a little wider. I didn't think you'd come. I said I would. I stepped over the threshold. The floorboards creaked. My heart fluttered with the suddenness of the sound,

but I awkwardly laughed it off. Ha ha. You can leave your shoes on. I ignored that. I wasn't going to give her any ammunition by tracking mud across her floors. I took off my shoes, leaving them just outside the door.

Simone didn't say anything, gesturing for me to follow her down the hall. The house smelled of spices, and in spite of my doubts, my mouth began to water. My thoughts began to wander. I felt oddly nostalgic, though I'd never tried Simone's cooking. The walls were painted yellow, but were otherwise bare.

We reached the kitchen, no doubt the nicest room in the house. Simone grew her own herbs, little planters decorating every available surface. A large window let lots of light in, even through the thin threadbare curtains. There was a small eating nook in the corner tucked by the window. The surface of the pale wooden table had three place settings with plain ceramic dishes. Two of them were flipped upside down. Let's get this over with. Make yourself at home.

I hope you're hungry. Simone walked over to the fridge and pulled out a large bowl covered in plastic. I sat down, feeling a little cramped in the corner of that little booth. I pushed the table out slightly, giving myself more leg room. The dishes quivered on the table. table with the movement, but nothing fell. This is only the first course. My sister returned to place the serving bowl in the center of the table.

It was a salad with the greens cut rather square. For some reason, there was a blue-striped candle in the middle of the bowl, the kind you usually found on a birthday cake. Simone lit it, though it looked like it would tip over at any moment. I'd never seen a candle on a salad before, but figured there probably wasn't. and much you could do to make a salad interesting. My own take on a dandelion green salad. I call it birthday salad.

I expected her to sound boastful, like most chefs would be at the unveiling of a dish. But Simone just seemed, matter of fact, even bored. Dandelion? Like the weed that grows in my yard? I looked down into the bowl. I could see little bits of lemon, too. zest and a crumbly type of cheese.

I'm sure the rest of the ingredients were herbs, but I wasn't sure which ones. A salad trying too hard to be fancy, I thought, or a way to trick me into eating her lawn clippings. Try it before you judge. I grew most of the ingredients myself. So, lawn clippings with little bits from her garden. If you don't like it, we'll move on to the next course.

I shook my head, refusing to live. lose to a salad. My sister grabbed the tongs and served me. The candle tipped over in the process, the little flame sputtering out. Fortunately, the greens were too wet to catch on fire. Or maybe it was unfortunate. A fire would have been all the reason I needed to leave. I already tossed it in dressing. Like that made her decision to add a candle okay. She sat down across from me, folding her hands in her lap. I picked up the fork, spirit. a bite, but hesitated, letting it hover inches from my mouth. I could feel her eyes on me the whole time.

Suspicion crept into my thoughts. My sister had gone through a lot of trouble making a multi-course dinner. A dinner she wasn't eating, and without any of the sort of outbursts I'd come to expect from her. Was this what they called gaslighting? I felt like she was provoking me, even as she looked on passively, waiting for me to take that first bite. or refused to eat and leave the table.

Then she could accuse me of being too emotional, overreacting when I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong. Why'd you put a candle on it? Because it's birthday salad. Does it matter? I'm not expecting you to eat the candle. But why is it a birthday salad? My fork was still frozen in place.

I was stalling, and I think she knew it. Even so, she didn't even look annoyed. because I was thinking about a birthday when I made it. My 11th, at the park. Maybe you remember? I didn't, but decided not to admit it. I couldn't remember much about her birthdays, let alone any birthday in particular.

Pushing back the creeping paranoia, I took a bite. The fork was colder than I expected, which was strange because I hadn't noticed when it was in my hand. The salad was bitter and sour, the sodden greens heavier than they should have been, still somehow crunchy despite their wetness. I contemplated spitting it out. It wasn't to my taste, but I swallowed my pride than that first and only bite. My throat tightened as if rejecting it. I could feel that mouthful make its way down, yet that tightness only intensified and seemed to spread. Even my chest began to concesses.

strict. Have you ever heard the term cooking with love? Simone was watching me. I sat down the fork. I realized what was happening. I just didn't know why. I was trying not to cry. The urge seized me in its grip, a noose around my neck. She's trying to kill me. I couldn't answer, but Simone continued anyway. Well, I found out that you can cook with other feelings. too. You can put them in just about anything. Do you know which one I used in that salad? Poison! Two syllables shouldn't have been so hard. I hunched over the table, hyperventilating.

The pressure behind my eyes was so much that I have expected them to come flying out of their sockets. No. It might feel that way, but emotions aren't poisonous. Besides, it wouldn't be so bad if you'd just let yourself. cry. But you can't, right? That's probably because I couldn't either. Her words felt far away. I was focused inward, on the sharp pain pressing into my ocular cavity, filling my skull. It hurt. I felt like I wasn't breathing, even though the rapid rise and fall of my chest told me I was. The feeling of deep sadness had morphed into panic, a sensation I quickly tried to smother with anger. What the hell did you do?

I demanded, but the anger intended couldn't be wheezed out. Only the words. I just told you. I guess you're done with the salad. Are you ready for the next course? She reached across the table to take my plate. My mouth opened, trying to tell her no. But nothing came out.

When words failed me, I shook my head instead. Yes, you are. Don't be such a baby. It'll go away. in a minute. You only had a taste. I lived it. As she said this, the tightness was already beginning to lessen, though my cheeks were stinging and wet. I made enough for everyone, but you're the only one who came. Good thing I put all my disappointment in that salad were I to be feeling it too. Simone kept going like I hadn't refused, covering the salad and putting it away. I don't know what

you're trying to accomplish here. But drugging my food is going way too far! I was able to shout again, but she didn't even flinch. I didn't drug anything. I only put my feelings in the food. Now you can experience it and tell me how dramatic you think I am. Simone was still calm, too calm as she brought over another covered dish and set it in front of me. It's all in my new cookbook.

I have a signed a copy for you. You can take it home after dinner and see for yourself if you really don't believe me. I think you'll have some feelings about tonight. She actually did smile then, though there was something wrong about it. Maybe it was her eyes. I wouldn't even say they were cold, but they were... Something. It's important that you try it, just a bite.

You don't know what I've given up so I could share this with you. I don't care. I know, that's the problem. I'm trying to teach you empathy. If you still don't care by the end of the meal, I'll accept that. Our eyes locked. She looked at me expectantly. Simone didn't say a word, but I knew what she was waiting for.

I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. I wasn't playing this game. Fuck this. I stood. I already tried your nasty salad. Not sure why you thought I'd keep going after. that. Don't contact me again. Except that or don't. I expected her to cry or scream some insult or justification. But she didn't. Her blank stare almost made me feel ashamed of my own outburst,

but not enough to stay. Maybe on the outside she was calm, but this night was clearly about making me feel bad, or sick or dead, and I wasn't going to sit there and eat it. How stupid did she think I was. You might regret it. I won't. I stepped around her and headed back to the front door. My heart was racing. Fists clenched so hard my hands shook.

Simone followed me, watching me shove my shoes on and stomped towards the car. My shoes weren't even completely on. The heels flattening and nearly flying off with each step. I'd go home barefoot if it meant getting away from her. I gave you a real opportunity. I thought if you felt something, you'd understand. But you really can't, or won't, because then you'd feel bad. Can't have that.

It's easier when you can write me off instead. Keep talking. You're just proving me right. Acting all calm to trick me. But it was just another guilt trip that your life was so terrible. You didn't change it all. You didn't either. I didn't need to.

Her false calm was only making me angrier. Worse, it made me more afraid. Maybe she put a bit of anger and fear in that salad, too, if I believed any of that nonsense. I hastily put the car in reverse, hissing a curse through my teeth when my tires spun. Simone walked right up to the driver's side door, peering in at me. I must have been red-faced and practically frothing with rage. It was rage, wasn't it? The wheels continued to spin, sending mud.

in every direction, but she didn't move away. Don't be scared. Come inside, Andy. She spoke softly, sounding so reasonable for such a manipulative bitch. Finish dinner. I'll even pay for the toe. I promise it's not going to hurt you. It might even make you better. Fuck off! I turned off the engine, getting out of the car. I started digging into the mud with my bare hands, not caring that I was ruining my clothes in the process. I'd rather dig myself out than try another bite of her weird mind game of a meal. I didn't trust her. I didn't know what she was really up to,

and I wasn't going to gamble with my life. Simone didn't move, just watched for a while, but eventually went back inside. I thought about calling the police or getting an ambulance, but beside it against it. Making that kind of scene would make her feel like she won. Besides, I'd only eaten one bite. After fighting with the mud, I made it home. I tracked dirt on my floors all the way to the shower, where I washed off, clothes on. Another one of Simone's messes for me to clean up.

I was only surprised she found a way to make me bring it home. My sister had really outdone herself. When I went to bed, it was hard to sleep. I kept wondering about the dishes I'd left untouched. What were they? What she'd put in them? What the point of it all had been. I hated losing sleep over anything she did, but when I closed my eyes, that feeling came back. The closing of my chest and throat, the pressure behind my eyes, like I might cry myself to sleep. Maybe I did. I vowed I'd never forgive her.

But of course, she had to call me from the hospital a few days later, putting herself in a place where only a monster would ignore her. I almost hung up on her, but I knew it would make me look bad. I gritted my teeth and listened. It made me angry, but at the same time it was comforting. The obvious manipulation. That was the Simone I knew. Did you do it for attention?

I asked her, unable to help myself. I was still mad. No, it was an accident. I messed up, Andy. The pain helps me. me see that now. I had to call you before they gave me another dose of painkillers. Well, yeah, you did mess up. I felt my shoulders relax. Maybe she wasn't going to try and blame me for this after all. I took out too much. I thought if I showed any emotion at all,

you wouldn't come. I shouldn't have done that. I need to put some back. I need your help. I didn't know what she meant exactly, but felt my brow furrow. After that stunt you pulled? I could feel a chill sweep over me at the mere memory. I didn't mean to scare you, Andy. I'm sorry. Whatever. What do you need me to do exactly? Tell me, and I'll decide if I feel like it.

I didn't agree right away, still thinking this might be some kind of trap. Go to my house. Get my leftovers. I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could get a word out, she added, They aren't for you. I put so much of myself in those dishes that it's... not coming back like it normally does, so I need to eat them if I'm going to be myself again. Otherwise, I'm not sure I'll ever recover. Simone, you know how this sounds, right?

I hope you're not talking like that to the doctors. You're going to get yourself committed, and that'll make the whole family look bad. That's the only reason I didn't have you arrested. I know you believe me. You were scared, even if you won't admit it. But I'm not even asking you to believe me. Only bring the leftovers, please. Some of everything, as soon as you can, while I still care about it.

Fine. She told me where the spare key was hidden, and I found myself back at her house. There were deep trenches in the mud lot, reminding me of that night. I decided to park on the street, walking up slowly like I expected Simone to ambush me with a tray of her cooking. I fumbled through one of the hanging baskets, making a mess of the flowers before I managed to find the key. This time I left my shoes on, making a bee line for the fridge. Inside, I found stacks on stacks of Tupperware. All of them were labeled with emotions, sadness, jealousy, joy, anger, love, and relief. Too many to mention. I was intrigued. There were a lot to choose from.

It was like she really believed she had been cooking with feelings. It was like I've been believed her. But there was only one way to find out. I grabbed the dish labeled Relief, setting it on the counter. It was some kind of casserole. I'll only take a piece, I thought, if it's any good. Of course, I wasn't going to go for anything that might make me feel bad. I opened drawers until I found the silverware, fishing out a spoon and coming back for a little sample. The casserole was cold, but it felt warm when I put it in my mouth. A warmth that spread through me and relaxed muscles I hadn't realized were tense. A placebo effect, surely.

But the feeling was so fleeting that I found myself reaching for another bite. Then another, then another, until I was full and couldn't eat any more, despite wanting to. That's when I noticed her book, Cooking Your Feelings, Sitting on the Counter, an author's copy, since it hadn't hit shelves yet. Maybe it never would. I grabbed it, tucking it under my arm, and decided which dishes to bring. Only the good feelings, none of the bad ones. The rest? Well, I made an executive decision. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was the only one who knew what was best. Simone always let emotions get in the way. I didn't. She filled a whole fridge with her feelings.

It was strange to see something as abstract as emotion quantified like that. I doubt mine could fill even one shelf. I had a lot more self-control. I filled up a garbage bag with her sadness, anxiety, and jealousy. All the bad emotions. Who needs feelings like that? The bag was very heavy. Simone would be better off without them.

Besides, when she healed from her injuries, she wouldn't care. anymore. I was halfway to the hospital when I thought, maybe she didn't need the other emotions either. Maybe it was because I was curious. I kept thinking about trying some of the other dishes. That relief casserole had been tasty, much better than that bitter disappointment salad. Simone wanted me to try her cooking, and I was finally ready to grant her wish. Besides, she'd made it for me, hadn't she? The feelings didn't believe? The feelings didn't believe? long to her anymore. They were a gift. They were mine. But I was going to choose what I felt, and if she thought I'd choose to feel bad, she had another thing coming. Now that I knew she

wasn't messing with me, that her story about cooking with feelings had been true, I realized I liked her better this way, this calm, unemotional Simone. The sister I deserved, but never thought I'd have. I turned the car around. By the time I got home, I felt a little bad. She'd asked me to bring the leftovers, but I wasn't going to. Anyone else would give in to the whims of their sister, but you can't reward bad behavior. Sometimes you can't have your way, and it was time Simone learned that. She'd thank me later. Fortunately, my more uncomfortable feelings were short-lived, thanks to her cookbook. I'll never have to feel bad about anything again.

I took all those pesky feelings like fear, doubt, and guilt, and put them in a throwaway peanut butter and jelly sandwich. What? My sister's the chef. Not me. 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.

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