The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep15: NoSleep Podcast S20E15

Episode Date: January 21, 2024

It’s Episode 15 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about trapped terror. “Slide” written by James O’Neill/LS Morrigan (Story starts around 00:02:45) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Matthew Bradford “Room for Rent” written by K.G. Lewis (Story starts around 00:14:10) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Maisy – Mary Murphy, Charlotte – Erin Lillis, Uber Driver – Atticus Jackson, Redhead – Sarah Thomas “Dollar Store Dilemma” written by Zachary Joseph (Story starts around 00:58:35) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Luna – Nichole Goodnight “Don’t Go There” written by Taylor Scott Schulenberg (Story starts around 01:11:55) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Linsay Rousseau, Sam Bergman – Atticus Jackson, Hathaway – Mike DelGaudio, Cowl Woman – Erin Lillis, 1st Patient – Jesse Cornett, 2nd Patient – Sarah Thomas, 3rd Patient – Graham Rowat, Teenager – Matthew Bradford “Into Dark Water” written by Jackson Arthur (Story starts around 01:46:20) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Liam – Jeff Clement, Rose – Jessica McEvoy This episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp – This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at betterhelp.com/nosleep and get on your way to being your best self. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about James OíNeill/LS Morrigan Click here to learn more about Jackson Arthur Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Don’t Go There” illustration courtesy of Krys Hookuh Audio program ©2024 – 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 when it comes to horror themes think about the scenarios you could find yourself in what setting what situation. What condition could you find yourself in that elicits the most fear and desperation?

I can think of one that makes my blood run cold, and I'll turn to someone who has been immortalized in legends and memes to explain what I'm referring to. Yes, Admiral Akbar from Return of the Jedi. It is indeed a trap. Being trapped is certainly a condition of nightmares. Think about how the concept of The concept of being trapped has been part of horror from its earliest days. Being buried alive. Being stuck in a confined space. Being locked in a cage.

Horrifying. But being trapped can also be more conceptual. Being trapped in a terrible relationship. Being trapped in a dead-end job. Being trapped in a club that only plays trap music. Yes, the horrors can be unending. On the episode this week, we have stories for you that can convey the horrors of being trapped.

So hold on to your freedom if you can. We'll let you go at the end of the episode. We promise. 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 boy who is trapped in a seemingly endless downward spiral,

one of his own choosing. But don't worry, he's just in. enjoying himself on the hotel pool's water slide. But in this tale, shared with us by authors James O'Neill and L.S. Morrigan, the boy discovers that the slide isn't as fun as he first imagined. Performing this tale is Matthew Bradford. So if you find yourself trapped like this, make sure you don't let things slide.

A thrilling terror cast in purple plastic dips and spirals. down, growling with the rushing water coursing through its twisted innards. Clad in sopping wet Superman trunks, I climb the slick steps of the tube slide. I imagine myself as a mountaineer scaling Everest, rather than a skinny nine-year-old playing in the basement pool of the Swan Point Hotel. For what might be the fifth time that day, I reached the top of the slide, clenching the hard plastic lip at the top of the tube with sweaty hands. My knuckles blanch as I begin the final count in my head. One, I take one last look at the pool below. A few kids my age splash each other relentlessly. They're piercing shrieks and cackles echoing off the tile walls. Across from them, some other boys

played chicken, gaffawing as they throw one another into the deep water beneath the slide exit. And off to the side, someone's mother laces in a cheap plastic lounge chair, a copy of Vanity Farris played across her chest. Two, I check and double check the slide exit. All, I'll call you. I'll clear. My left ankle still groans where I'd collided with an unwary slider a few hours before. With one foot edging past the safety of the steel platform, I squat down and loosen my grip from the top of the tube, finger by finger. Three, I inch forward, slowly but surely, until gravity trumps any lingering hesitation. The descent is gentle at first, then a rapid crescendo to terminal velocity. A void rises out of my stomach as I fly through the darkness, gap-toothed grin spreading

wide across my face as I let out a loud whoop. The walls reply in kind, a metallic imitation clambering down after me as I soar into the next bend at breakneck speed. My chest tightening as inertia flings my body up the side of the tube. In the rush of the ride, I lose all sense of space and time. There is only speed and terrified laughter. I rocket around hairpin turns and down sudden drops, waiting to be launched back into the bright fluorescence of open water. But the light never comes. Tepid water swallows me whole well before it should have. Caught off guard, I gasp and sputter, taking in mouthfuls of overly chlorinated water. I rubbed the burn out of my eyes, and I frantically search for an explanation for the sudden unexpected end to my ride. Darkness, plastic, no exit.

But that doesn't make any sense. The surface of the pool is at least a full foot below the exit of the slide. I throw tightens as I try to make sense of where I am. I mean, surely the waters couldn't have risen this high in a few seconds since I left the entrance of the slide. Could they? The sound of my own shallow, rapid breathing grows louder, multiplied by the walls surrounding me. Don't panic. Do not panic.

Over and over I repeat this mantra. It only makes me panic more. My hands probe beneath the water's surface for some indication that the exit isn't far off. Nothing but hard plastic. hesitant to dive head first into the depths below. I extend my right foot out to probe the black depths where my fingers cannot reach. Again, nothing. Maybe I can climb out.

I might not have descended all that far and the ominous waters below hide unknown depths. My fingers grope along the rigid walls that surround me, looking for anything I might use to pull myself up. I graze a seam in the plastic and grab hold with pruned fingers, sprawling my legs out against the wall to gain some sort of leverage. My bruised left ankle burns as it bears the weight of my body weight. My grip grows weak and falters, and in desperation I thrust my aching fingertips into the seam as far as they would go,

fingernails splitting against the hard plastic. With all the strength my scrawny arms can muster, I pull myself up the wall slowly, arduously, my head drawing even to my hands where they sink into the narrow seam. I slide my feet up along the wall, inch by inch, my leg shaking with the effort. Pacing myself once more, I reach up to find my next handhold, but all I find is more smooth, unyielding plastic. There must be something, the tiniest crack, a single bolt. I slat my hand against the wall in desperation, praying I will find some means to continue my ascent.

Before I can find anything, my left hand slips, nails scraping against the edge of the seam as I lose my grip. My fingernails rip back against the rigid plastic in a blinding flash of pain, and I plummet unceremoniously into the water. My precious inches of progress evaporating in an instant. I try to get back up, to climb the wall once more, but as I take hold of the seam and pull my entire, body screams and defiance, exhausted of its energy. The harsh echo of my voice rings from the walls around me, amplifying the sounds of my desperation tenfold onto my own years. I cry out again and again, but there is no answer in the all-encompassing blackness.

There is only the ringing in my ears. No strength left to try another climb. Nowhere to go, but down. With one last shaking breath, I slip under the water. The buoyancy of my full lungs makes advancing even an inch a tremendous effort. I test the uncertain depths with my toes as my hands push off the walls, driving my body down into the endless darkness. Anchoring each foot against opposite sides of the tube for traction,

I make my way deeper and deeper into the pitch black water, until my left foot slips and I lose my hold on the wall. bobbing back up to the surface. So I try again and again. Another fourth attempt, I make it pass a sharp bend in the tube, the urge to take a deep breath searing in my lungs. Heartened by this slight bit of progress, I push off the angled interior,

my toes grasping in the darkness for the exit. Instead, they find something soft and cold, like a mass of lumpy rubber. Had someone lost a pool toy in the slide. I push against the obstruction and it eeled slightly under my feet. My lungs feel as though they might burst in my chest, dizziness blurring my thoughts. If not for the object blocking my path, I might have lost all sense of direction as my head begins to spin from lack of oxygen. I need to keep moving. I poke the object again with my foot. I feel hair, human hair, thin, delicate strands,

tangling themselves between my toes. Bubbles cascade up and across my face as I let loose a yelp, jerking my foot away from the hair's eerie caress. Now completely out of air, I scramble up the sides of my plastic prison, trying to accelerate my rise back to the surface before my lungs cave in. Stabbing pains course through my hands as my injured fingernails scrape the plastic walls. Hot fear spills forth from the crotch of my swim trunks.

Help. Someone, anyone, please. Help. Someone, help. In my haste, I strike my head against the bend, sending stars shooting across my vision, but I press on, some primal instinct to survive rising with me to the surface. At last, I break the surface of the water and take greedy mouthfuls of the stale, humid air. A foul copper taste fills my mouth as warm tears streamed down my face.

I scream again and again. or reduced to gutteral animal sounds when my throat becomes too raw for words. The sound reverberates against the narrow tube, hurting my ears, but this is my last remaining chance. And once I can no longer scream through the pain, I fall silent, listening, straining to catch any answer to my desperate cries. And finally, there comes a reply. The excited whoop of the next slider echoes down the slide.

When your life starts a new chapter, you can be invigorated by finding a new place to live. And if you find yourself a place to live in an old Victorian home, well, that's even better. Like the woman in this tale, shared with us by author K.G. Lewis. She learns that her new place has many quirks, ones she's definitely going to have to get used to. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Aaron Lillis, Atticus Jackson, and Sarah. Thomas. So if you need a place to live, just let us know. We know of a very interesting room for rent. Need help with that? The Uber driver had noticed me struggling to pull my duffel bag out of his car.

Nope. I got it. Thanks so. The devil bag belonged to my father. He was going to be pissed once he realized I'd taken it. even more pissed when he realized I had no intention of returning home with it ever since my mother passed away my father expected me to do all the things she used to do like cook dinner and do the laundry and still keep up with my college courses i'd finally gotten fed up with his shit packed up everything i owned and left i'd planned my escape months ago and was just waiting until i finished my finals for the semester before leaving.

As luck would have it, I even found the perfect place to stay that morning. I took that as a sign I was doing the right thing. This place looks amazing. I looked up at the old Victorian home I'd been dropped off in front of as a Uber driver drove away. It was absolutely beautiful, but desperately in need of a new paint job. The paint was starting to peel or had completely weathered away in several places, showing the wood beneath. Folded up in the back pocket of my jeans was a classified section from the newspaper. Inside it, I found an ad for a room for rent at a

price I could actually afford. The ad had just come out that morning, so I was counting on it still being available. Normally, I would have called and asked about the room before traveling across town. But I couldn't. There was no place. phone number listed in the ad, just an address. The house wasn't exactly in the best part of town, but I didn't really have many options, not with the job I had lined up. If the room didn't pan out, I would fall back to my original plan of staying with my friend Heidi for a few weeks until I could find something else. My phone chimed as I stood there on the sidewalk. I dropped the duffel bag onto the ground and looked at my phone, seeing that I received a text from Heidi asking if I'd got in the

room. About to find out about it right now, I said out loud as I typed the same thing into the text box and sent it to her. A moment later, I snapped a picture of the front of the house and sent that to her as well. I received another text from Heidi that said, I think I saw that house in a horror movie, L-O-L. This was quickly followed by another one that said, I love it. We totally have to have a Halloween party there. I replied by sending two ghost emojis with a party popper emoji between them.

There won't be any parties if I don't get the room, though. I thought, slinging the duffel bag over my shoulder and making my way up the walk to the front door. The steps creaked in protest as I walked onto the porch and pushed the doorbell button that was next to the front door. While I waited for the owner to answer, I glanced over at the two rocking chairs sitting to the side of the door, facing the street. Both of them were covered in cobwebs and dead leaves from the trees that surrounded the property.

If I got the room, I intended to clean those chairs so I could sit outside and read a book or just watch the cars drive by. It would be nice to finally have some time to do the things I enjoyed instead of having to spend what little free time I had taking care of my dad. Maybe the doorbell doesn't work.

I didn't recall hearing it when I pressed the button, so I raised my fist and knocked on the front door as loudly as I could. There was no way I was going to leave here without talking to the owner first. If they weren't home, I was going to wipe off one of those rockers and sit there until they returned. Thankfully, I didn't have to do that. Shortly after I knocked, I heard footsteps and then the sound of a rusty hinge.

Instead of there being a peephole in the door, there was a little metal hatch that could be used to look outside. The sound of that being opened is what I heard. you? I gave a quick wave as I replied. Hi, my name is Maisie. I lifted the classified ad so she could see it. I'm here about the room for rent. I tried to sound upbeat and shipper while I answered her. Room for rent? This is 55 Sycamore way, right? I wondered if I had walked up to the wrong house. She turned away from the door, looking behind her at something in the house. Yes, this is 55 sycamore. She returned her attention to me.

She smiled, seemingly coming to her senses. Yes, I do have a room for rent. You'll have to forgive me. I'm a little scatterbrained in the mornings. She twirled her finger next to her head. my mom was the same way, especially during the last few months before she died. That made me feel a little sorry for the woman, especially if she lived in that big old house all by herself. Why don't you come inside, Maisie?

She unlocked the door and swung it open. And I'll give you the tour. I'm Charlotte. She extended her hand and forced a smile to her lips. It's nice to meet you. I took her hand and returned the smile. Likewise, before Charlotte shut the door, she poked her head outside and stood like that for a moment,

looking up and down the street. As she did that, the ceiling and the foyer creaked as though something heavy had just shifted on the floor above us. Charlotte jumped slightly and pulled herself back into the house, quickly shutting and locking the door behind her. When she saw me glance up at the ceiling, she said, It's an old house. If you stay here, you're going to have to get used to all the odd noises it makes.

I've always dreamed of living in a house like this. I was amazed at how beautiful the interior of the house was compared to the outside. I think I can handle that. We shall see. She led me into the nearest room. Charlotte seemed a little rough around the edges, but I sort of expected that from an older woman like her. In a way, she reminded me of my grandmother,

which allowed me to brush aside her abrasive demeanor. This is the living room. You can leave that in here if you like. She pointed out the duffel bag that was still slung over my shoulder. I set the bag on the floor and walked her the room, reaching my hand out to run my fingers along the velvet fabric of the antique couch. I felt like I'd stepped back in time. Everything in the room looked vintage.

I didn't see a modern item anywhere. Even the books on the bookcase looked old. Over there is the dining room. Charlotte pointed to the archway across the foyer. I don't use it very often. often for obvious reasons. A large oval table with a dozen chairs dominated the room. Do you live here alone?

I do. Her reply was curt, as she brushed past me and returned to the foyer. The kitchen is this way. Good, this is huge. The kitchen was as big as the living room, and similarly furnished with antiques, including a bunch of cast iron pots and pans hanging from a rack above an island, in the center of the room. This is where I usually eat.

She was standing next to a small breakfast table in the corner of the room that was bordered on two sides by several large windows, giving a nice view of the garden in the backyard. You, of course, are free to eat wherever you like. Charlotte was talking like the room was already mine. I smiled.

I'd probably just want to eat in here I turned my head towards the windows. The view is amazing. He used to think so, too. She sighed, letting her gaze linger on the backyard view for a moment. Speaking of eating, the pantry is always fully stocked. She walked over to a narrow door and opened it, revealing a room filled from floor to ceiling with all kinds of food.

You could feed an army with a army with a... all of that. I don't leave the house. She closed the door and crossed the kitchen again. Groceries are delivered once a month. Is there something special you want to add to the list? Just write it here. She gestured at a small chalkboard that was hanging on the wall.

I can buy my own groceries. She waved away the thought. Nonsense. As you said, there's enough food in there to feed an army. you're welcome to help yourself to any of it. The refrigerator is just as full. She nodded at the old appliance. Thanks.

Through there is the laundry room. Charlotte continued the tour, pointing at a door on the other side of the kitchen opposite the breakfast table. And through there. She moved her hand so that her finger was pointing at another door. Is the cellar. She fixed her eyes on mine.

You don't want to go down there. I try not to make a habit out of hanging out in cellars. I certainly hoped. She sounded serious. Let's go upstairs. She turned suddenly and walked out of the kitchen. I followed Charlotte up the stairs and onto the second floor landing, where she had stopped to wait for me.

There are four bedrooms up here. You can have whichever one you'd like. Which one is yours? currently staying in the one at the end of the hall. She gestured in that direction. It's a big house. I move from room to room for a change of scenery. I thought that was a bit weird at first.

But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. If she lived there by herself, why wouldn't she make use of all of the rooms? I'd probably do the same thing if I had that many rooms to choose from. Walk around. See which one you like the best. Charlotte began descending the steps. Come and find me downstairs when you're done. This must be the master bedroom. I thought upon walking into the first room.

It, like every other room in the house, was fully furnished with antique furniture, which included a solid wood four-post king bed with a canopy, along with matching nightstands, dresser, and wardrobe. When I walked into the attached bathroom, which was larger than my bedroom at home, I wasn't surprised to see that it didn't have a shower, just a large clothlet tub. I knew enough about old homes to know that showers weren't particularly popular at the time they were being built. This was a little disappointing to me. I preferred showers to baths, but not enough to allow it to dissuade me from wanting to stay there.

The rest of the bedrooms were similar, but everything about them was smaller. The bathroom in the hall was also similar to the master bathroom, just a bit more cramped feeling. I didn't go into the bedroom that the homeowner said she was staying in. To do so would have felt like an invasion of her privacy. Did you find one you liked? After returning to the first floor, I found Sharpe, in the laundry room, pulling clothes out of the ancient-looking dryer and putting them into a basket. I did. I really liked the one across from the stairs. As much as I would have liked to take the master bedroom, I thought that would have been inappropriate.

Then it's yours. If you like, you can grab some fresh sheets out of the linen closet and put them on the bed once you get settled. It's been a while since I've used that room. I think it's locked. I thought back on the only door I hadn't been able to open when I was walking around upstairs. That wasn't the linen closet. The only locked door you'll find up there is the one that leads to the attic. The linen closet is behind you. She nodded towards the door I was standing in front of.

Is the attic off limits too? Not exactly. You welcome to go up there once you find the key. But I doubt you find it all that interesting. It's just filled with a bunch of junk. You'll see. She picked up her basket of clean clothes and started to leave the laundry room. Why don't you take your bag up to your room and get settled?

About the room, what do you need for me? Do I have to pay a deposit or something? She stopped in the doorway looking back at me. Let me put this stuff away and then we can talk. In the meantime, why don't you make yourself at home? Okay. I would have preferred to know the specifics before settling in, but I guess that wasn't going to be the case.

She gave me another one of her thin-lipped smiles and walked away. Unable to decide what to do with myself, I elected to take Charlotte's advice and take my bag up to the room I'd chosen. When I made it to the second floor landing, I noticed that her bedroom door was closed. I didn't find that odd. What put me off was how easily she'd accepted me into her home, without knowing anything about me.

I could be robbing her blind right now, and she'd never know. Maybe she's not right in the head. The thought jumped into my mind, bringing with it the comment Charlotte had made when she first answered the door, about being scatterbraint. Maybe she's going senile. Doesn't matter. I pushed the thoughts away.

I needed the room. I didn't really want to have to live with Heidi and her boyfriend. Thinking of Heidi made me want to tell her the good news. After dropping the duffel bag onto the bed, I pulled out my phone and went to text her. No service, I said, reading the notification at the top of my screen. That's not cool. I'll text her later.

I put my phone on the dresser and decided to go ahead and unpack my stuff. I didn't bring much with me, meaning if I needed to leave, it wouldn't be too much of a bother to shove it all back into the duffel bag and go. When I was done, I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling until I dozed off. The early morning escape from home was catching up with me. I wasn't asleep for long before a loud noise woke me up. It sounded like someone loved. something down the stairs. I dragged myself out of bed and over to the railing that surrounded the

stairs so I could see what was going on. I had trouble comprehending what I saw. Standing in front of the open door was Charlotte. Next to her was a large suitcase, which she picked up before stepping out into the porch. Where are you going? I was already halfway down the steps. Charlotte turned. The look on her face told me she was surprised to see me. Going home! Now that I was closer to her, I could see that she was crying. I don't understand.

You will. It sounded like a warning. Before I could join her on the porch and get her to explain herself, the front door slammed shut on its own. I rushed over and tried to open it, but it was stuck and wouldn't budge. I checked it several times to see if it was locked. It wasn't.

Why won't you open? I grunted as I placed my foot against the wall for leverage and tried to pull the door open several times. All I succeeded in doing was wearing myself out. Exhausted. I slung to the floor. with my back against the door. That's when I heard the rest of the doors throughout the house slamming shut, one after the other. I got to my feet, thinking there was someone else in the

house with me. Unsurprisingly, there was no reply. Fuck this! I rushed over to the nearest window in the living room, intending to get out of the house by any means possible. I threw the curtains open, made sure the window was unlatched, and then tried to pull it open, but I couldn't. Like the door, it wouldn't budge. This is ridiculous. I tried the other window in the living room, but couldn't open it either. I am getting out of this house one way or another. Sitting on one of the end tables was a large glass ashtray. I grabbed it and returned to the window. Sorry, not sorry. I pulled my arm back and threw the ashtray at the glass.

Instead of crashing through the window like I thought it would, the ashtray bounced off the pane of glass and then fell to the floor. I'm trapped. The thought jumped into my head, but I refused to believe it. No longer caring if someone was in the house with me, I ran around the first floor searching for a way out. The first place I tried was a kitchen, where I'd seen a door that led outside to the backyard.

No luck there. I threw pots and pans at the windows surrounding the breakfast table, but they just bounced off. After trying everything I'd think of to escape the house from the first floor, I went up to the second floor, bringing a cast iron skillet along with me. When I made it to the top of the stairs, I noticed that all of the doors up there were closed.

All of them except for the one leading into Charlotte's bedroom. I raised a skillet over my head, ready to swing it if someone were to jump out at me, and slowly made my way over to the room I had chosen. If I could get inside, I'd be able to grab my phone where I'd left it on the dresser and maybe call for help. As far as I could tell, the house didn't have any landlines, not that I could find anyway. That meant my phone was likely the only one in the house.

Of course. I sighed when I couldn't get the doorknob to turn. Feeling like I had no other option, I walked down the hall to Charlotte's room and stood in the doorway. The only sign that she had been there was a cardboard box in the center of the bed. I walked into the room, set the skillet on the bed, and then pulled open the flaps of the box. Inside it was a note.

Beneath the note was a bunch of personal items that Charlotte had left behind, which amounted to a few articles of clothing, some cosmetics and various other toiletries. I picked up the note and read it. Keep what you want and put the rest in the attic. That was all it said. Put it in the attic yourself.

I started to walk out of the room. leaving the box on the bed. I didn't make it two steps before the bedroom door slammed shut in front of me, locking me inside. That was a second time in the past half hour I'd seen a door close by itself. It's in a haunted house.

If you had asked me if I believed in ghost before I stepped foot in that house, I would have given you an emphatic no, standing there alone in Charlotte's room. I was starting to rethink the subject. Be out! I hoped that whatever was listening would take pity on me and open the door. I knew it would be pointless to try and force my way out.

When it was clear that begging wasn't going to work, I sat on the bed, picked up the box, and set it on my lap so I could go through it, wanting to see what Charlotte had left behind. There was a slim chance something inside of it might help me get out of the room. As soon as I lifted the box off of the bed, The door swung open. When I sat the box back down, it closed again.

I guess I'm taking the box with me. Carrying the box with two hands, I was able to leave the room without incident. However, once I was in the hall, the bedroom door slammed shut behind me, while another door swung open. Behind the door that it opened was a narrow set of stairs. Take what you want and put the rest in the attic. That is what Charlotte's note had said. looked like I wasn't being given a choice in the matter.

I walked up the stairs and into the attic, not surprised to see it full of boxes. What surprised me was what I found when I got a little nosy and started going through a few of them. As far as I could tell, each box contained items that belonged to a different woman. And judging from the number of boxes, a lot of women had stayed in that house.

The further I went into the house, the older the contents of the boxes seem to be. Why are you showing me this? Unless, the more I thought about it, the more the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. This is my orientation. It had to be it. It all makes sense now.

I'm Charlotte's replacement. That's why she was acting so weird and why she tried to sneak out of here. She knew I was here to take her place and didn't want to say or do anything to keep that from happening. Bitch! I'd set Charlotte's box on the floor when I reached the attic. On my way back to the stairs, I kicked it,

knocking it over and spilling some of the contents. One of the items that fell out was a college ID card. I picked it up and examined it. The name on the card was Charlotte Morris. The picture showed a young blonde girl. about my age, who looked like she could be related to the Charlotte who had left me trapped inside the house. I knew it couldn't be her, though, because the ID had last year's date on it, probably her daughters. I tossed the ID back onto the floor with the rest of the stuff that had fallen out,

and then left the attic. When I made it back down to the second floor, I noticed that all of the doors were still closed. I tried to open a couple of them, but I couldn't. I could. I could. I could, I didn't. I was still locked out for some reason. What do you want for me? I threw my hands out and turned in a circle to address whoever or whatever was listening to me. In response came the rattling of pots and pans from the kitchen. I guess you want me to go down to the kitchen. All right, I'm here, I said.

Once I made it down the stairs and over to the archway leading into the kitchen, It didn't take me long to figure out what I was supposed to do. The cellar door was wide open. Just get it over with. I took a deep breath. Fine. I approached the doorway. The closer I got, the less I wanted to go down into the cellar.

Whatever was down there smelled like mildew, dust, and wet leather. It wasn't a pleasant smell. The sooner you go down there, the sooner you can come back up. The narrow staircase creaked as I began to descend the steps. When I was about halfway down, the cellar door gently swung closed. At least they didn't slam it this time. I wasn't able to see anything until I made it to the bottom of the stairs. As soon as I saw what was down there, I said,

and ran back up the stairs, pounding on the door to be led out. I got the point. I don't need to see anything else. the door didn't open after about 15 minutes of pleading I gave up and went back down into the cellar this is close enough I sat on the bottom step and forced myself to look over at the mummified bodies

that were lined up along the far wall there were 12 of them all of them were women some people get to leave I said thinking about Charlotte and some don't. Is that the point you wanted to make? The door remained closed.

As I looked closer at the bodies, I noticed that there appeared to be writing on the wall behind them, but I couldn't make out any of what it said from where I was. Maybe that's what it wants me to see. I got to my feet and slowly approached the line of bodies, squatting in front of them when I was close enough to read the writing. I will obey. Someone had written several times.

I'm sorry. Another had written. There were several more comments like that before I found the one that made me stop and think. It said, The house will provide when you abide. Near that, someone had written. The house always gets what it wants.

Don't fight. I said, returning to the bottom of the stairwell, and staring up at the door. That's why you made me come down here. You wanted me to see what would happen if I didn't cooperate. The door swung open. As soon as I returned to the kitchen, the first thing I did was find something to drink.

And I'm not talking about a glass of water. The kitchen really was fully stocked with everything I needed, which thankfully included a few bottles of vodka, the expensive kind. I grabbed the glass out of the cupboard. and took the bottle over to the breakfast table, where I sat down and poured myself a shot. When I finished that one, I poured a second.

I sat at the table, looking out at the backyard until the alcohol began to dull my senses. I may have been underage, but I was no lightweight. I spent a great deal of time going to parties after my mother died, trying to numb myself to the world. while I sat there mulling over my fate. The house opened all of the interior doors, except for the ones leading into the attic and the cellar.

Those two doors remained locked to me. The first thing I did when I realized I could roam around again was to go upstairs and retrieve my phone. The next thing I did was move all my stuff into the master bedroom. If I was going to be stuck there, I was going to be comfortable. I spent the rest of that first day looking for an escape route and someplace where my phone had service, without trying to be obvious that's what I was doing. I struck out on both counts.

The next week crawled by as I learned the rules of the house, which were very simple. Rule number one, I can't leave. I stopped trying to open the doors and the windows after the first few days. The house tolerated it a little bit, but if I started doing it excessively, it shut all of the doors in the house and then open the cellar door. That was a house's way of telling me to chill out,

or I could go spend some time with the other women who didn't follow the rules. I tried standing in front of the living room window once, waving my arms at anyone who drove by. But I quickly came to the conclusion that nobody out there could see me. I also discovered that every time I looked outside, the houses across the street from me looked different. It was like the house kept moving around.

Rule number two, I have to keep the house clean. The house did not like a slacker. If I didn't clean up after myself or keep the rest of the house in a state of cleanliness, that cellar door would creak open. Rule number three Don't try to hurt the house After about three months of living in the house by myself I was starting to go a little stir crazy

There wasn't much for me to do when I wasn't cleaning At the time, my top choices were to either read one of the books On the bookshelf in the living room Or stand at one of the windows and watch the people outside Trying to guess where in the world I was by their appearance While cooking dinner on the stove one day, I got the bright idea to start a fire in the house, hoping that the damage I caused might help me create an opening by which I could escape. That was a very bad idea.

I was able to start a small fire, but the house quickly intervened by removing all of the oxygen in the room, which extinguished the fire and left me gasping for air. Once I could breathe again, all of the doors in the house, The house slammed shut, and the cellar door swung open. I refused to go at first, but the house had plenty of tricks up its sleeve to get me to comply. First, it prevented my access to the pantry and the fridge. When that didn't it work, it cut off all of the power, leaving me cold and hungry. The only thing I was allowed to have was water from the tap.

I made it almost 24 hours before I gave in and went down into the cellar. The house kept me down there for the same amount of time that I had refused to go. When I emerged, I had learned my lesson, but the house didn't trust me to use the stove for quite a while after that. Shortly after that, I learned what it was that the house wanted for me. The morning it dawned on me. I was looking at myself in the mirror when I noticed that the bags under my eyes had gotten puffier.

I also noticed that the skin on my cheeks was starting to sag a bit. I had originally thought it was due to the weight I had gained from binge eating whatever the hell I wanted. But that wasn't it. You're starting to look like an old woman. I said to my reflection, and that's when it hit me. That comment reminded me of Charlotte.

specifically about how old she looked. That in turn reminded me of the college ID card I'd found in the attic, the one I thought had belonged to her daughter. That wasn't your daughter. I thought, that was you. If I was right, it meant that Charlotte was about my age when she moved into the house. And she must have moved in the previous year, since that was a year that was printed on her ID card.

It's taking our youth. I was sure that's what was happening. The house was feeding off of me, siphoning years off of my life to extend its own. And there wasn't anything I could do about it except try to survive. And that's exactly what I did. Over the next eight months, I changed my habits. If the house was shortening my lifespan, the only thing I could do was try to extend it by eating healthier foods and exercising.

That way, once I was out, I'd still have some life to look forward to. It was hard at times, and I did end up back in the cellar on a few more occasions, but I managed to keep myself together. The sound of knocking drew me out of my thoughts. I was sitting at the breakfast table, drinking a cup of coffee while watching a cardinal flit around the backyard when I heard it. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, which was something that had started happening a lot more often as my body got older.

The knocking sound came again. Louder this time. It was coming from the front door. I pushed myself up from the table, eliciting joltz. of pain from various joints in my body. As I shuffled up to the front door, the little metal latch swung open, allowing me to see outside.

Can I help you? The bubbly young redhead on the porch gave a wave of her hand. I'm here about your ad in the paper? Ad? I was confused for a moment as a sense of deja vu came over me. The room for rent?

She produced a folded-up newspaper from her purse. Oh, I forced a smile to my lips. That ad, you'll have to forgive me. The coffee hasn't kicked in yet. The door swung open, and for the first time in a year, I could feel the outside air on my face. With it came a flood of sense Threatened to bring tears to my eyes

It was almost time for me to go home Why don't you come inside and I'll give you the tour I said Stepping back so the girl could enter the house And 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.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours,

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