The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep18: NoSleep Podcast S20E18

Episode Date: February 11, 2024

It’s Episode 18 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire for tales about awful artists.“Fade” written by Maria C. Steinmetz (Story starts around 00:03:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Marie Westbrook, You – Jeff Clement“The Mortuary in Memphis” written Miguel Alejandro Marquez (Story starts around 00:17:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: The Poet – Peter Lewis, Narrator – Danielle McRae, Sister Maria – Mary Murphy“The Picture by Lisa B.” written by Riel Rosehill (Story starts around 00:34:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Jake Benson, Lisa B. – Ash Millman, Lisa’s Boyfriend – David Ault“Real Art Always Has a Price” written by René Rehn (Story starts around 00:52:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Mathew – Kyle AkersAbigail – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Friend – Jeff Clement“Still Shot” written by Dominic Breeze (Story starts around 01:09:25)Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson“The Muse” written by Jonathan T. Price (Story starts around 01:18:40)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Kurt – Jesse Cornett, Bernard – Graham Rowat, Librarian – Erin Lillis, Mel – Nikolle Doolin, Frank – Mike DelGaudio, Jay – Dan Zappulla, College Girl – Sarah Thomas, Office Woman – Mary Murphy, Mr. Nelson – Matthew BradfordThis 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 teamClick here to learn more about Maria C. SteinmetzClick here to learn more about Riel Rosehill Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Still Shot” illustration courtesy of JörnAudio 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 poet painter filmmaker musician photographer writer writer if a person adopts

one of these labels for themselves, then they could also be considered under the wider term of artist. Yes, the world of art is a broad one. You could add to that list crafts like actor, singer, sculptor, illustrator, oh, the list can seem endless. The desire we humans have to create, to express through art goes back to prehistoric times. In fact, I dare say it's rare to find any person at any time in human history who hasn't, on levels small or large, express themselves in some way through an artistic outlet. If you sing in the shower, doodle on a page, snap a photo of a sunset, write a short verse, no matter how good you think it is, you have created art. Artistic expression is a part of the human essence. And just like all

things which make us human, this expression can be twisted and deformed into dark and diabolical ends. Yes, horror can be found in art. Some would say that creating horror is an art unto itself. I tend to agree. On this episode, we delve into the world of artists. People who express themselves in ways that might not find them ending up in galleries or museums, but can definitely find themselves topics of horror podcasts. So focus the lens, mix the paint, tune that instrument. It's time to indulge in the art of horror. And now the sun has set. The fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the artness of the night. In our first tale, we delve into the world of filmmaking. These days with inexpensive digital cameras and editing software, creating movies is within reach of even the most

amateur of directors. But in this tale, shared with us by author Maria C. Steinmetz, we meet an actress who finds herself the subject of said film, and this film would definitely be in the horror genre. Performing this tale are Marie Westbrook and Jeff Clement. So pay attention to the transitions when editing, especially when you choose to fade. Fade in, struggling, thrashing, my white dress turning translucent as the water soaks in. Your hands around my throat are cold but firm. Can you see my face through the inches of murky water? Is the shot clear?

I certainly hope so, my love, because for this scene, you only get one take. You scouted a perfect location. The reed choked pond, lined by weeping willows, lends a sense of atmosphere to the shot, especially with that lone, stark white sycamore hovering on the edge of the frame. A compliment to my pure white dress. Now waterlogged and limp. You truly thought of everything. My struggle's slow.

A last gasp sends up air bubbles that nearly obscure my face. But that's okay. there's something artistic to their pattern. My flailing fingers find your wrists. I dig my nails into your skin, but you only press your thumbs harder against my trachea. That's the proper word for windpipe, I love. Did you know that?

I was a nursing student. I'd been studying for my anatomy final that day in the library. When you dropped into the seat beside me with your tousseled hair and cheeky grin, you leaned your muscular arms. arms on the table and told me, I looked like a girl in a movie. How many times I wonder now, as water floods my lungs, have you used that line? I don't doubt you'll use it again. The fight leaves me. My fingers slip off your wrist and drop into the water with a soft splash,

sending ripples spreading across the surface of the pond. My eyes fix on yours. It's a good thing the camera only sees your back, my love, because your expression is flat, empty, as gray and dull as the heavy clouds that frame your shaggy hair. The cloudiness works well, of course. You won't even need a filter to create proper lighting. Did you check the forecast hoping for an overcast day, or was this simply a happy accident? That's what I called meeting you at first to my friends, especially in the beginning when you were so sweet, taking me out to dinner, to the movies, a concert, even to an amusement park where you won me that stuffed tiger.

Cleshy, but I soaked it in. And you kept the camera rolling even then, wanting to capture a relation, you said. You always had a flare for the dramatic, and your acting then was flawless. You swept my feet, Right out from under me. Now, of course, I have to wonder.

Was it merely a happy accident our meeting? Or were you watching me? That wasn't the first late night I spent in the campus library. It was only the first where we actually spoke. And I'd felt the creeping sensation of eyes on the back of my neck before. But no one was ever there. Where did you hide, my love? Why didn't I see you before?

My muscles. The last tiny bubble of air parts my lips. I suspect my eyes are as empty as yours. Your hands tighten, almost a spasm of their own. They stay wrapped around my neck for several infinite moments. Waves lap against the muddy bank. A hawk drifts above the trees. Its wings sharply outlined against the bland gray sky. The sun has given up on trying to break through. Finally, shaking. You rise. Your clothes sag. Dripping, sending more ripples shivering across the water. Breathing heavily, you turn to face the camera and I wonder what expression you force onto your face. Is it sadness? Grief? Remorse or regret? A combination of them all.

You are, after all, an excellent actor, my love. Whatever expression you make, you hold it for a count of five. Then mumble to yourself. You reach forward, press the button, and the red light blinks out. You exhale. A breeze ruffles the willows and makes the reed sway. Goosebums rise on your muscular arms. Those arms that held me so tenderly the night we filmed the love scene. I'm sure people will believe it was real.

I did. I wasn't even acting, since you didn't tell me about the camera until afterwards. I was shocked, but you explained that you need a genuine emotion. Don't worry, baby, I'll take care of everything in the editing, you assured me. It'll be tasteful, and I had to accept that. I even admitted once I saw the footage that came out beautifully. It's authentic, you said as you stared awestruck at the screen. That's the essence of my art.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that this scene too required authenticity. You muse that you may still need another shot And so you leave me hovering a few inches below the surface While you run to your tent to go over the footage The generator hums as you boot up your equipment I can picture you sitting hunched over your laptop Fingers trembling with excitement as you pull up the recording I drift just above the mud

Strands of hair float against my cheek brush my shoulders My feet rest on the bank And the air on my toes Is colder than the water My body is still Heart Lungs Blood

All of it is at rest I would like to rest too To glide away from my empty body Into whatever comes after this life But anger Pins my soul to the ground You promised It's just a movie, you said

You looked me in the eye and told me It's only for the film, babe. Don't worry. I guess really you weren't even lying. To you, that's all it was. You did it for the film. For your art. Like the pond, the trees, the clouds. I was simply a necessary piece playing my assigned role.

And when you show this at all the film festivals, what will you say when they ask you what happened to the girl? She left. I suppose you could respond. No, I haven't seen her since we finished film. I guess that's not a lie either. To you, I am replaceable. You can always find another girl, sweet and pretty and suckered in by your big dreams.

What will you do to her, I wonder? Suffocate her with a pillow. Strike her with your car. Beat her with a bat. Huck her to pieces. All in the name of your art. No. Fury flashes through my listless veins.

No more amates my limbs. Rage propels me upward. I've lain here long enough for rigamortes to begin settling over my muscles and joints, so I rise stiffly. It takes immense effort to move my sluggish legs to step out of the pond. But determination thrusts me forward. I am drawn to the warm yellow glow falling from your open tent flap. Your voice carries through the dark,

Evening Air. That's perfect. Oh, yes. Shit, that's incredible. Love it. Absolutely fucking love it. The thrill of your voice grates against my blue-tinged skin like stone on glass. I hate you.

When I step through the tent flap gives me a surge of pleasure. The cigarette drops from your open mouth. I don't think you even notice it burning through your jeans. All the blood drains from your face, leaving a pasty hue like damp chalk. Beads of sweat erupt on your brow and your eyes. There's emotion in them now. I stand still, savoring every moment, as the footage of me gasping, struggling, soundlessly pleading, plays behind you.

Then you scream. High-pitched, horrified like a pig as the axe rising. I take a step forward. You fall to your knees, dropping right onto your own cigarette and clasp your hands. Words tumble from your lips, but they're meaningless to me. Death doesn't acknowledge, please. I lock my hands around your wrists and drag you to your feet. You struggle.

Thrash, try to resist, but you are no match for my rage-fueled strength. You blubber as I jerk you. toward the pond. Perhaps you can appreciate an ending that recalls the beginning. With this in mind, I try to say, you look like a boy in a movie, but my vocal cords are stiff and swollen from your hands clenched around my throat. All that comes out in a raspy croak or the words, I didn't realize it was possible for you to be even more terrified, my love. But that dark spot spreading down your leg suggest otherwise. I throw you in the pond. The ripples become waves crashing against the shore. I climb on top of you. Lock numb fingers around your throat and clench. Your pulse hammers against my

clammy skin. You grasp my arms, nails opening scratches in my water softened skin. But there's no more blood to pull from me, my love. You squeeze my wrists, bubbles framing your faces as you continue to plead, but all that comes out are garbled gloves. If only the camera we're running now, our performance would win every award. After all, it's completely authentic. What a shame that this scene will only ever be witnessed by you and me. Your struggle slow, your chest hitches, eyes widening as you realize you're inhaling water into your lungs, as you feel the burn deep in your body as you too are forced to give in to the inevitable pressure. Your eyes meet mine one final time and infinity stretches between us. The light leaves your eyes. Your fingers slip off my wrist and

splash into the icy water as we fade out. Humans have long sought to express complex emotions through art. And when it comes to love and passion, poetry is often used. But in this tale, shared with us by author Miguel Alejandro Marquez, we learn of a man who use the poetry of horror to share some much darker emotions, poetry which wasn't shared during his lifetime. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Danielle McCray, and Mary Murphy. So perhaps it's fitting that such a grave topic be shared from the mortuary in Memphis. The following is a collection of letters and documents found by my family, all of which are addressed to my great, great, great, grandfather.

None are dated. None are properly signed. It can be assumed that they were written by someone after his time at the University of Memphis, due to the context of the letters. The writer of the letters is assumed to be from a colleague or class. The last mate of my ancestor. The last and most crucial document to this mystery is from a nun who knew the writer. And the train of events that led to this.

Here is the series of letters in their entirety. I has returned. My life has entered a darkness that I believe I will never come back from. As you remember, I had dreamt of being a poet since childhood. But now all I do is rest. sight Byron and Keats at taverns, trying to impress people I despise. I have spent my inheritance on absinthe and think of nothing but my past. My goddamn past!

You may be asking what has triggered this, this melancholy. I have taken a new position as warden of a churchyard. The abandoned abbey beside the mausoleum is now where I write. drink. It is this town's dead house, a mortuary in the heart of Memphis. This will serve as hospice until my fortune returns again. I am what is called a dead ringer. I am the one who listens to the bells of the dead. At burial a piece of string is wrapped around a corpse's toe. That piece of string is connected to a bell. That bell is rung once the poor devil knows of the predicament that they are in. Why do they do this, you may ask? Well, some dead people are not

truly dead. There come times in which accidents, deadly accidents, occur, such as the accidental burial of the living. There are such cases from time to time in which drunks, the ill, and other poor folk fall into deep sleep and are unfortunately buried alive by their loved ones. My job is to save them. I am like Raphael from Tobit, except I save souls instead of taking them. I do not think much of my new duties.

No bells have been wrung. I smell of wax from the candles I carry and the lime are poured onto the corpses. My situation reminds me much of the parable of the prodigal son, but I have no additional inheritance, no farm to return to, and no prized calf to slaughter for my return. I only have these letters in the writings of Keats and Lord Byron. No older brother or blessed father awaits my return. I do not expect this job to be exciting, such as encountering grave robbers or an end. anything of that sort. Oh, paupers and prostitutes are buried here, not poets and pompadores such as ourselves.

Please pray that my situation gets better. Your friend, the elegist turned grave-digger. Friend, I had my first encounter last night. You won't believe it's witchery. It happened at the late hour of the night. I had come home from a drunken stupor, as always, and made myself sober by dunking my head into the Abbey's Fountain. Maybe the poor devil died of fright once he realized the predicament he was in, since when I arrived at the mausoleum, the body was stiff, dead, truly dead. I had to check his bell to see why it had rung, but it had quickly stopped. I spent a whole hour inspecting the yard, trying to see if it was. unsettled. What an odd predicament. I do not believe that during the history of this profession

that this has occurred. What a conundrum crafted exclusively for me. Maybe it is caused by my habitual drinking, or me eating late into the night. It is said that drink causes tinnitus. The nun who hired my services must suspect something, suspect my drunkenness. I highly doubt she isn't interested in my comings and goings. You know, I am highly attracted to her. She is a thing of beauty, but she will never be mine. She belongs to Christ. I don't know why she wouldn't want freedom from such shackles.

Why would she bury herself in such a thing? Ah, but what is freedom, if not the search for shackles? We all find our own eventually. Maybe she knows of this place is. peculiarness. I anticipate the ringing happening again, as it is my profession, and I will prepare for its return. Your friend, the haughty idolist. My dear friend, she was not dead. She was in a state of drunkenness, drunkenness by Jove, by God. I will tell you about the matter. Yesterday, all the bells rang in unison before stopping. Once they stop,

only a singular bell could be faintly heard. Her bell, the newest addition to the mortuary. I opened her coffin as quickly as I could. She lunged at me and grabbed hold of my collar. She screamed at me and asked why I did not hear her. I did not hear her. My God. Why did I not hear her?

The police have made a thorough inspection of the premises. They have inspected every corpse, every two, and crevice of this damned place, just as I have. They have no clue as to what has caused my previous claims, the ringing of the bells. They state that Memphis's nature is to have powerful winds, but I do not believe them. This has not been the cause of drink or nature or of my eccentricities. This is the work of something more. God knows that I have committed every sin, but I am not known for slothfulness or malpractice. Yes, I must admit of my absence of thought at university,

but this is something else, about an hour, the 11th hour, and there is nothing I can do to make it stop. I've been at my post for only a week's time, but now I am fully aware of its irregularity. I have checked every coffin, every sarcophagus, and every mausoleum to no avail. The ringing will happen. regardless at the 11th hour.

I drink prior to stand the insanity. You may be wondering what I am stating, dear old friend. Well, demons. Demons from hell have enveloped this town. I am sure of it. They have taken the form of these bells, the dreaded bells. I have spent last week's wages on news. Bells, new bells that cannot, will not falter.

But the ringing will happen regardless. The Poltergeists will have their way with the bells. I do not expect you to understand, brother, but the insanity of noise. It will wash over me again. It is inevitable. God damn me if I fail again. Your friend, the man. Mad man.

Friend, my mania has calmed down. You must forgive my writings. Your lack of response is concerning, to say the least, but I understand. I will pay no mind to the rudeness. I too would not understand the predicament if it was told to me. I eagerly await your response. I have not encountered any phenomena, but something else has replaced it. A woman from my past, a monument of beauty has come to my poor stead.

Her corpse, that is. My beloved is dead. Died during childbirth. That man from university, the callous one, the fickle one, made her his bride. Very few came to the funeral. I was one of the few in attendance. I took much care into the preparation of her course. corpse. I spent the remainder of the day under a cherry tree watching the procession and eventually

the very somber burial. I did not drink that night in order to honor her. No bells were rung. Your friend, the mourner. Friend, I must write hastily before the thoughts leave my head. Hastily, very hastily, I opened her coffin. The coffin of the woman, the woman who I once loved, she laid dead. Nothing knew had changed. Her beauty remained the same, even in death, but by God new scratch marks lined the walls like the scratches of before. I tell you, even under Rigamortis, her beauty was still there, but there was something different about her face. Her eyes, her eyes had opened.

The sown skin had peeled and her radiant green eyes stared right at me. They were like green maelstroms. My God, what if she was awake? What if my drunkenness has gotten the better of me? No matter how these premonitions have occurred, I cannot take this any longer. I did not tell you before, but I tried to end my suffering, but the bells had stopped. me. I was to hang myself right beside Christ, as I knew of his pain, the pain of being forsaken. It was the 11th hour. The bells were loud and immediately drew my attention. I quickly jumped

off the Abbey's altar and made my way to her corpse. Was she dead before I came to her aid? Maybe she was pounding, thrashing at the coffin. Maybe she called my name. I know now. that she calls my name. Her specter entered the abbey by the end of the night, right while I was taking drink in order to calm my nerves. She disappears before I can make an acquaintance. Her green radiance enveloped the room before shuddering away. Why didn't I make her my bride?

If I had, we both would not have to incur such damnation. Please, bond to my son. letters, I cannot handle your silence, nor the sound of these bells. Your friend, the suicidal poet, their silence. Please respond soon. Believe I have fully gone mad. The next letter is the last found. I chose to spend the remainder of yesterday under the sedation of absence. Tomorrow, I will do the same. I cannot listen to the bells. The bells of people I cannot save. The bells sing in waves, echoing around the park, all of them chanting in unison. The silence. The end of their crescendo. A letter from Sister Maria, caretaker of the Abbey and its souls, days after the events.

To whom it may concern, I will. be sending this document in addition to the past letter addressed to you. It is the last document and letter written by your acquaintance. The following document was found tucked away in the breast pocket of the poet. He was buried shortly after the letter was written. The letter was found in his study next to the rest of the other written ramblings. The day after the burial, the corpse's was found ringing at the 11th hour, but quickly stop soon, much to the dismay of the police and the Abbey's current dead ringer. The man was not alive at the time of its ringing, as checked by the authorities. The poet was buried alive. His drunkenness probably mistaken for

death. He used the candles and the pen and paper always kept by him to write the last document. They have concluded that he must have died of... ride while inside the coffin. I must write hastily. I have no time. The candle will be extinguished in a short while. No one can hear my bell. I have been tugging with my toe for half a day. I will die here.

They cannot hear me or they refuse to hear me. They know of the lives I haven't saved. They know that I have. deserve to be here. That was all that was written. I pray for his soul from time to time. I hope you do too. From what we know, the letters of the poet were kept away for some time.

His work, sadly, was hidden away in the abbey before being later destroyed by the building's demolition. The only proof of his existence are these ramblings. His letters of academia. And his body, which is still kept in the same mausoleum, and the same coffin he was buried alive in. When it comes to painting, we often use vaunted language to express things like, The Artist Has Brought This Subject to Life on the Canvas. With portraits in particular, we look to the artist to bring that spark to their subject. But in this tale, shared with us by author Riel Rose Hill,

We meet not only the artist, but also the man she has painted, and dare I say, she truly has brought him to life. Performing this tale are Jake Benson, Ash Millman, and David Alt. So if you find yourself drawn deeply into a painting, check the author's name to see if it's The Picture by Lisa B. Brushstrokes brought me to life. Sensual touches of a soft, tip on my wet skin, coloring in my mind, filling me up with memories, awakening my senses to the passion forming my shape under delicate caresses on the canvas, creating my small world and me within. I felt the yearning for me in every little touch, a hurricane of feelings staring at the flicks of a brush. From the start, I was wanted. From before I was, I was a fantasy. I was a fantasy.

see. The paint was still glistening half dry on the canvas when I first opened my eyes, taking my first breath of the damp air heavy with the smell of fresh paint, tasted the thick chemical flavor in my mouth and felt the coldness of the slimy rug, creamy with paint beneath my feet. I stood by a window, looking out of it and seeing for the first time. My sight was a little blurry as my eyes were drying up to the world, but I was in no rush to see clearly. I knew where I was, home, in my big house on the top of the hill. It was the first time I existed in it, yet I knew it was mine.

I knew the number of floors, the rooms behind every door and what had been exiled to the attic or the basement. I knew the books on the shelves and the words on their yellowed pages, the warmth of the fireplace, the colour of the walls and the softness of the carpets. I knew my bed and its cold sheets standing empty, not shared with anyone. I knew myself, too, and I knew that I was just how I was supposed to be, not a strand of hair falling in the wrong place, not a freckle out of line. Full lips, toned arms, I was nothing less than everything the artist wanted me to be, temptation to yield to.

I knew my garden outside. The trees scorched by lightning on the hillside and their brave new shoots sprouting towards the sky from their charred bases. The sky that stretched above, overcast with motionless, unchanging clouds threatening storm. I knew everything about my world and how at the bottom of the hill outside my gates it simply came to an end. It was a sudden drop to nothing. Not black, not a gap. It simply just wasn't. anymore. It was what you might imagine emptiness to look like without something to contain it,

a chasm of void, an abyss, something you can't see or grasp that makes you feel you've gone blind or falling when you dare to look at it. I suppose I must have looked at it before, but like the rest of the details of my small world, it was something I knew of, but was not part of my view. Strange how I knew each strand of grass in my sloping guise. under my window and the unsettling end to my world that gaped beyond the fence, yet what I saw through the glass was different. It showed no grassy hillside beneath, no burnt trees and no gate at the bottom, not even the abyss. My window looked to its other side.

Instead of my estate and instead of the nothingness that crept on the horizon, I looked at another small world, the inside of a messy, chaotic room. As the pain dried, the rug softened and warmed up beneath my feet, and the foul taste of chemicals disappeared off my tongue. My vision cleared, and I was able to observe the peculiar room outside my window. It wasn't part of my world, and it wasn't anything like the rooms in my grand mansion. Its floor was covered with newspaper, stained with splashes of paint, and clustered with pallets, paints, brushes and canvases, and a big pile of clothes were thrown into one corner.

In the middle stood an unmade bed with a girl in it. Lying on her back in her short pleated skirt and black thigh-high stockings, she watched the clouds pass through the skylight above. She watched them for hours before she reached toward the ceiling with her fishnet gloved hand, as if to catch a cloud, before finally sitting up and getting off the bed. Her short hair was a mix of purple and black, her face a canvas to smudged eyeliner pencil and streaks of furrow. paint. She came all the way to the edge of my world, and as we looked at each other through my

window, and I felt the feelings that painted me, I knew I met the artist who had brought me to life. Only, she didn't know that she had. It took time to realize that though she knew me and looked my way, she couldn't see me, not like I could see her. Even when she talked to me, she couldn't hear my answers. This meant I could say anything in reply. Why can't I meet a man like you? She sighed, swiping on her phone. I'm right here, I said, as I wanted to meet her too. Despite my memories, I was the only one in my world, and it was a lonely life filled with the intense wants and needs that created it, driving me insane with no room to explore them. You'd be worth dying for. She looked at me with shining eyes.

I knew I was. Those memories you gave me, we could try them all together. I suggested, but she didn't hear me. In fact, if you killed me, I'd thank you. She bit her nail and I was overcome with tingles. Come, I'll show you to the basement. I was so excited until she turned and left the room. She never listened.

When she painted me, she poured into me the knowledge of myself and my universe, and whilst I knew her feelings for me, I knew nothing of her life outside the little room. Her world was foreign to me. I did not even know her name. And when she was not in the room, that world stood still. Frozen in time apart from the changing light and the shadows and the clouds I gazed at through her skylight. A habit I picked up from her. Many hours a day or even at night, just waiting for her return. There was something addictive in watching her in her home. The way she sat on the floor, painting dark pictures, haunted houses and monsters, red paint like blood splashing across the room and onto her legs, her bare feet left lovely crimson footprints on the floor. Her breath steamed up the window as I moved closer and put my hand on the cold glass, my fingers drawing clear lines, sliding over the condensation. I wanted to see more.

I wanted to be there. One evening after she washed the paint off her body, instead of her worn t-shirt she usually wore to bed, she reached for lingerie of black lace and a little black dress. Again, I stepped closer, placing my hand on the glass, watching curiously, my skin becoming hotter, my heart beating faster as I saw her painter lips the color of blood and tired choker around her neck.

There was something irresistible about her. her flushed cheeks the way her eyes shone with anticipation looking at her reflection in the mirror. Come here, I whispered, hypnotised. But when she looked at me, she just smiled. I hope he'll be a little bit like you. Then she put on her Doc Martins and left me behind to burn. I paced up and down for hours, jumping to the window as soon as I heard her push down the door handle. Hey, I exclaimed in delight.

Her enticing chuckle as she stumbled through the door had me burning with desire one minute and anger the next. When she fell into bed with another man, a stranger right in front of my eyes, I stepped back, staring at them in horror, forgetting how to breathe. Why? Why would she want anyone else but me? This could not be happening.

But it was. I wanted to gouge my eyes out. I wanted to go deaf. I wanted to scream the roof off. But I could not stop myself going back to the window to watch. Even after I tore down the wallpaper and broke everything that could be broken within my bedroom walls, shaking with jealousy and grinding my teeth, I helplessly watched the naked bodies entangled on the bed.

I hate you. I hate you. I hissed, then screamed again, as loud as I could. But they were in a different world from mine. where my voice couldn't reach. In the morning, they left, but not before subjecting me to witnessing another session, when I attempted setting my house on fire in protest.

It didn't work, and I was left alone again, in the ruins of my bedroom with nothing to look at but torn pillows, burnt curtains, and the damaged books on the floor I had been throwing at the walls. I walked to the window again, to peer through her skylight, raising my eyes to the clouds to cool my head. But I only saw them in the,

floating shapes I hope to soothe myself with. One mistake. It was only one mistake on her part and maybe I would have been able to forgive that. But he came back again. Returning time and time again for more of what should have been mine. The new man frequented the room every few days, even learning her name was a stolen kiss from his lips. Lisa. Lisa B., as she signed it on her paintings, which he read, touching the letters on the corner of my world with his bony fingers topped with chipped nail polish, standing right by my window, oblivious to the death stare I gave him with my arms crossed. Is it someone in that window?

Oh, this painting gives me the creeps. He shuddered. I raised my chin with a grimace. So I was creepy. Had he not looked at his own face, at that excuse. for a haircut. I turned to my cracked mirror to confirm I was the epitome of beauty and raised my middle finger towards the window, as long as Lisa was on my side. Yeah, that was kind of the vibe I was going for. She grinned at him, showing the gap between her front teeth. What? I grabbed

onto the window sill. That was a lie. That was a lie I could not accept. She loved me, and she was willing to lie about it to that man. I glared at them, brood. Somehow I would find a way to show them what creepy meant. One evening when he came to invade my space again, whilst Lisa was in the shower getting ready for their date, he stood in front of my window, absent-mindedly placing his hand on it. I didn't know what came over me, but I yanked it open. I've never done so before.

But it did open, and grabbing his hand quickly, I put my foot against the wall pulling hard. We both exclaimed in surprise as he toppled, over me, falling through my window. Pinned to the floor, but I was ready to fight. Until trying to push him off, I realized a man not made of paint was a heavy mass. I didn't know what would come next, and a rush of panic washed over me. For the first time in my life I was scared, and I almost, just almost begged for mercy,

though he probably didn't have time enough to even think of hurting me. Then his expression changed. I couldn't have guessed that my world would affect him, as he was my own. very first guessed, but it was clear as day. This place was a temple to my worship, the walls and the very air soaked up and radiated the want for me. I recognized that new, shiny look in his eyes, and remembered I was above all a fantasy. A laugh forced its way up my throat. I couldn't stop, bursting in hysterical laughter, lying under the man Lisa betrayed me with, who probably felt like he forgot something. But it was too unimportant.

to dwell on, in light of the promising situation at hand as he pushed himself up and sat on me. Her face he wore was of confusion and lust. It was time to paint new memories of my own. My stomach was hurting from the laughter. I knew I could open the window after that, and I did every time Lisa decided to betray me and invite someone over. The look on her face when she walked into the room to see them gone, but their shoes left behind. was priceless. I started to enjoy the game,

especially when I managed to snatch them before they had the chance to get into her bed and ruin my day. I never had so much fun in my life. I beamed at her as she stood by my window, watching, but still unable to see. I wondered how far I could take it, grinning as my hand gripped

that first one's hair whilst he was loving me on his knees. His shoes were still in Lisa's room, tossed into a corner with a gritty, collection of new pairs in various sizes. Glancing down, I slid my hand onto the man's face and looked into his eyes, robbed of memories and full of pleasure. I never bothered to pick up on his name when he was with Lisa, and he didn't know what it was anymore. Would you also thank me if I killed you? I smiled at him, and he practically melted. I kept him so far,

for he taught me of the window. But as far as I was concerned, he had had his reward and more. The rest, I could not be bothered to keep alive longer than a few hours, but we always had a little fun, inspired by the memories I came to existence with. We painted new ones with their bright crimson blood. One day, police officers entered the room. They bagged up the shoes and coats and a few jeans,

shirts and boxer shorts, and asked all sorts of questions, leaving Lisa white and trembling. I listened whilst her ex-lover was giving me a massage. I could not relax into it. Enough, I said, and he obediently dropped his hands. Lisa already felt like something was wrong. Those officers confirmed it. Seven missing people, all last seen by her in her bedroom.

It's true I could not have cared less about what happened to her after what she had put me through. But I worried what would happen to me in my world if she was forever gone and someone else took that room. I had to act fast. Maybe I could take my home somewhere else. Glancing back at the man behind me, I wondered if it was time to discard him. I didn't know if it was a good idea to leave him alone, as I was unsure of whether he would stay put. But I also had no idea when I would get the chance to snatch up another human for my entertainment, given the circumstances. Besides, got used

to his stupid face. Maybe he'd be useful. That night, when Lisa was asleep, I opened the window and for the first time stepped out onto the window sill. The cold wind of the abyss chilled me to the bone as I waited there trying to calm my breathing. Below there was my grassy hill, but all I saw was the gaping void standing between our worlds. All I had to do was jump. Taking a deep breath I leapt out of my second floor window. My feet hit the ground almost immediately. It was much closer than I thought.

Lisa stirred. My world hung on the wall behind me. I finally got to see it from the other side, the Gothic gate, the burnt trees, and my great house on the hill, with only my small window lit, and a dark silhouette in it that wasn't me. Be good.

I kissed my fingers and briefly pressed them onto the small window on the painting. I'll be back soon. I smiled, thinking it should be easy enough to take the frame. somewhere safe. Maybe I could also take the artist. Quietly, I walked to her bed and leaning over her. I pressed my hand over her mouth as I switched on the lights. I think you know me. I said with a smile on my lips, watching the fright I gave her grow into pure terror as she recognized me.

We knew, Lisa and I, we knew this all wasn't my fault, and I was surprised to see how scared she looked, Considering she knew me, but it wouldn't have been much fun otherwise. Maybe she knew that too, for she knew everything as well as I. Of those memories I didn't make for myself and what was hidden in my attic and my basement. She was right to be scared. I just thought she would be more excited. Well, she would have to get into it. I wasn't going to rush this one, although I could barely hold myself back.

grinning, I leaned in to whisper in her ear. When we're done, remember to thank you. 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 present. by Creative Reason Media.

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all for only one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for joining us around the campfire for our 20th season. This audio program is copyright 2023 and 24 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media.