The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep3: NoSleep Podcast S20E03

Episode Date: October 15, 2023

It’s Episode 03 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about occupational hazards.“Late Arrival” written by James McLindon (Story starts around 00:03:00)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Clerk – Jessica McEvoy, Guest – Kristen DiMercurio“Strange Rain” written by Patrick C Greene (Story starts around 00:17:25)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – David Cummings, Randolph – Graham Rowat, Seaton – Jesse Cornett, Lonnie – Jeff Clement, Linda – Wafiyyah White, Tilda – Nikolle Doolin, Millie – Mary Murphy“Inspiration” written by Harley Carnell (Story starts around 00:45:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Calvin – James Cleveland, Amy – Erika Sanderson, Olivia – Penny Scott-Andrews, Devon – David Ault, Tim – Jake Benson“The Egg Delivery Man Is Here” written by Chiaro Obscuro (Story starts around 01:03:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Caller – Mike DelGaudio, Narrator – Nichole Goodnight“734 Walnut Lane” written by Kris West (Story starts around 01:23:00)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Linsay Rousseau, Wally – Atticus Jackson, Voices – Erin LillisThis episode is sponsored by:Microdose - Being healthy doesn't have to be boring. Real fruit gummies infused with entry-level doses of THC, so you can feel just the right amount of good. Visit microdose.com and use code NOSLEEP to get free shipping & 30% off your first orderShipStation - ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. Keep growing your business all year long with ShipStation. Use promo code NOSLEEP today at shipstation.com to sign up for your FREE 60-day trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Egg Delivery Man Is Here” illustration courtesy of Emily CannonAudio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

From our earliest days, we've gathered around the fire for warmth and comfort. But beyond the light of the dying embers, there is the darkness. And it's in the darkness of the night where we find ourselves, waiting, yearning for the dawn to banish our fears. But our campfire holds more than firelight. 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 well it's the middle of october we've just enjoyed a friday the thirteenth during the halloween month and overall the festive frights of the season are burrowing deeper under our flesh. So while you're working on your Halloween costumes

finishing touches, and yes, I have no doubt your take on a Barbenheimer-themed costume is going to be smashing. I'll bet you still have some time to enjoy all the horrors available to us. By the time you're hearing this, you'll be able to watch the Netflix series The Fall of the House of Usher. Poe, Flanagan, Siegel, Sloyan, why it's practically a series boring. from the No Sleep Podcast family. And it's currently sitting in a rotten tomatoes rating of over 90% positive. So make sure you usher yourself in front of your screens to enjoy all the bloody good fun. And in this episode, we delve in details about very relatable terrors.

The kinds of nightmarish situations most of us find ourselves in almost daily. Who needs to hear about supernatural horrors or murderous stalkers when we get to to experience our own workplaces and our co-workers. I'll pause while you recover from the shock of even thinking about them. Yes, dealing with those who work with us, and some who should be working for us, can be horrifying. I can relate. The guy who runs this company is a real asshole.

So, make sure you're fully braced for these occupational hazards. Now the sun has set. The fire glows bright. Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet a woman who really just wants to sleep. Wait, what? On this podcast? Well, okay, it's understandable. She's had a long day of travel,

has arrived at her hotel, and just wants to get checked in. But in this tale, shared with us by author James MacLinden, the clerk at the hotel is new at the job, and there's some questions about the woman's reservation. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy and Kristen D. Macquario. So you might want to start looking for hotels with the automated self-check-in systems if you're going to be a late arrival. Welcome to the Marriott, Downtown, East Little Italy Airport Convention Center Hotel and Resort.

Yeah, hi, reservation for DeCarlo? Oh, I hope you notified us you'd be a late arrival, Mr. Carlo, because otherwise, after 9 p.m., you'll give my room away unless I've asked you to hold it for late arrival. Don't worry. I called in when I missed my connection. Phew. All righty-roon, then, Mr. Carlo. Let me pull that right up. And I'd like something high up. That should be in my profile. I'll do my best, but we're going to be totally full tonight. Oh, whatever. I just need my room. Can't I find you? Where could you be? Wow.

Wow, that's pretty good. You guys really do it up big for Halloween, don't you? Uh? Oh, yeah. Alan, my supervisor. He loves all the scary decorations. No, I meant the scream. That was, like, so realistic.

I'm sorry, what? The scream? It was amazing. What scream? What scream? You're sure you called it in for a late arrival? Yes, I'm sure, because I had nothing else to do at O'Hare for six frickin hours. So where is your reservation?

Come out, come out wherever you are, a little reservation. You really can't find it? No, I'm sure it's in here. I'm still learning the reservations program. Alan, my supervisor, gets so mean and yelly when I can't find something. He calls me Betty McBatface, because he says I'm blind as a bat. I think I frustrate him a little. But I'm going to find you, don't you worry?

Is he maybe around to ask? You heard that, didn't you? That's a recording, right? Hear what now? That's screaming. What do you mean what? Sorry. When I'm looking for a reservation, I try to get totally locked into our reservations program.

Because if I'm not focused, I get distracted super easy. And if I mess up, Alan calls me Sally McSpacey Face and really yells, so... You sure it's under DeCarlo? D, I, C, A... Capital C. Capital C! Maybe that's it. All righty roon.

Come on. You must have heard that, right? Just one second. Okay. Sorry. What now? That scream again. You had to have heard that. Sorry. Reservation program. All locked in. So... Can you, like, spell your whole last name for me? It's De Carlo. D-I-C-R-L-O. Tina DeC-D-C-C-R-L-O. Do you really not? have it. You didn't maybe make it for the Marriott Downtown Northwest Ingleook City Zoo Hotel, did you?

Alan says that happens all the time, and I have to remember to ask. No, I'm going to a convention at the convention center, so I made it for the Marriott Convention Center. Well, but for the Marriott Downtown, East Little Italy Airport Convention Center Hotel and Resort? Or the Marriott, downtown, Southeast Chinatown, Seaport Convention Center Hotel. Holy God. No, I'm sorry, But Alan says that happens all the time, too, and I have to remember to ask. He says the drivers just plug Marriott Convention Center Hotel into their Uber apps, and sometimes ours pops up and sometimes the other. And then, boom, here you are at the wrong hotel.

I am not at the wrong hotel. Well, all right, Eeroon, then, don't you worry? I'm going to find your little res. That's hotel lingo for reservation. For reservation, I know. Oh, M.G. Do you work in a hotel, too? No, I'm just not a foe. I'm good with words. Please just check me in.

Sure, sure. Let me get back to this because if I don't find your res, you'll be, well... I'll be what? Sleeping in the lobby? No, not really. Well, maybe. Probably, actually, because all the hotels in town are booked solid for this convention. Well, then you damn well better find it. God, how hard can it be to look up a stupid name? I'm so sorry. I'm still really new, and I'm supposed to be getting trained on the front desk,

but Alan got hauled away to the ballroom level, and I'd love to hear all on my own, and I'm really doing the best. Oh, wow, okay. Hey, hey, I'm sorry, really. That was the exhaustion talking. It's been a long day of delays and airport food and all I have wanted for the last 10 hours are my pajamas and room service, you know? Yeah, that sounds nice.

I'm really sorry. I just don't do well with criticism. No, no, no, it's fine, really. We'll figure this out. Thanks. I wish Alan was nice like you, instead of all his yells and calling me Chrissy McCryface. Just give me one more chance.

Sure, sure. Take your time. Thanks. Okay. You-hoo, little reservation. Stop hiding on me. Oh, my God. Right?

Right. Thank God you finally heard it. I thought I was going crazy. I'll bet you stuck in a space, didn't you? I'll bet you're a Sarah McSpace face, because that would explain, like, everything. I'm a what? A Sarah McSpace face.

That's Alan's name for them. Whoa, whoa, what do you even talking about? I've been searching for D-I-C-C, but maybe you put in D-I-Space capital C. Like Allen says, some people do with D-I and D-E and MC names. He calls them Sarah McSpaceface. You did. You totally did. But here you are. All right, T-Roon!

Forget my reservation. What about all this show? Screaming. We've got to do something. Screaming? Yes, the screaming. Oh, I bet I know what you heard. What is it? Is it okay? Alan said some of the principles of the opera company are staying here this week.

They've been practicing in one of the ballrooms because of the acoustics and whatnot, but I don't even hear them anymore. That didn't sound like Puccini. Do the opera singers make the lights go out too? They went out? Didn't your computer shut off? backup system. Alan says the power company has been working on the substation this week,

and every so often there's a really short power outage. He calls them... I don't give a flying fly... I don't care what Alan calls them. Just check me in. Okay. Okay, so what is that? They're just setting up the ballrooms for tomorrow.

Is a queen-sized bed okay? Yeah, whatever. I'm pretty sure you don't set up a ballroom with a chainsaw. That's the powerback. They're shampooing the carpeting. You can't believe how much people spill. It's so gross. That is not a power back.

That's a chainsaw. Why would anyone have a chainsaw in a ballroom, silly? I don't know. But it sounds like a man was murdered up there, dragged across the room, and is now being cut into pieces to dispose of his body. Why do you know so much about murder? I don't know anything about murder.

murder, but I do know enough about inductive reasoning to know that I may have just heard someone getting killed and chopped up, which you would too if you weren't such a fucking moron. What? What did you call me? A moron. Okay, I'm sorry, but my God. That's what Alan McAngry Face called me. Millie McMoron face. He has a mean name for everyone. And he didn't even see all my other qualities, my other abilities. So I had to show him my abilities. And now I guess I have to show you, too, Tina. Say hi to Alan McSari face for me.

Marriott, Downtown, East Little Italy, Airport Convention Center, Hotel, and Resort. Oh, well, actually, we're totally booked for tonight. But there is this one room I thought was being held for a late arrival. But it turns out that arrival, she's actually just, well, late. She's a Tina Mc2 late face. That's what my old supervisor Alan used to call them. So, do you want her room? You do?

All righty, Rune. We've all heard about unethical and unscrupulous people with jobs like politicians. and lawyers, and you'll even find people like that who work in real estate. And in this tale, shared with us by author Patrick C. Green, we meet a realtor who has found a shady way to buy property cheap, thanks to the dark arts. Performing this tale with me are Graham Rowett, Jesse Cornett, Jeff Clement, Wafia White, Nicole Doolan, and Mary Murphy. So if you're looking to buy land, you'd best check the weather. You don't want to get caught in the strange rain.

Though pleased with himself and his unorthodox business acumen, Randolph Stuyvesant, nonetheless, made a grand performance of grimacing at the stench. Looking at the mess, he felt a giddiness, like falling headlong into safe waters. It was horrid, all right, but not his problem. In fact, it was the benefit the affliction of the... offered that brought him out of his comfy cold con enhanced office to Seton Cormorans, 70 acres of pumpkin fields and goat pens. Good afternoon, sirs.

Randolph held his tie to his mouth and nose as he assayed a half-wave, half-slude toward the farmer and his look-alike son, Lonnie. Neither man returned the gesture. If the bandanas were pulled away from their lower faces, Randolph knew he would see scowls. A strip of pinkish flesh, quickly turning gray, squished under Randolph's shoe, raising a wave of revulsion in his veal-filled stomach. Seton and son wove their way through the disgusting, gory ground cover with deftness,

as one would expect of farmers, and stopped to wait for Randolph 20 feet from the front porch. Boy, this is something. Never seen anything like it. Haven't you now? Do you say you had the sheriff come out? Well, them in the health department. I called the news again, but they don't care no more.

Lonnie gestured broadly. Everybody thinks we're throwing all this shit out here, for attention or God knows why. Seton raised his hand to calm his son. You got any theories, Mr. Stuyvesant? Randolph shrugged and shook his head, glad for the pure silk tie covering his mouth, fearing he might. subconsciously smile as he had in previous similar exchanges. Not a clue.

Sweat pooled in Randolph's perfectly groomed hair, threatening to stream down into his eyes, which would then sting, forcing him to wipe them. This would make him look weak compared to the two lanky croppers, who remain dry as desert bones under the naked sun. Despite his present advantage, Randolph Stuyvesant did not ever wish to appear weak. Last time it took nearly three days to clean up all this, whatever the hell it is. We'll have to dig a big hole and bury it. And we tried to burn it the first time.

And folks a mile away complained about the stink. Heaven help us. Randolph lamented with a shake of his head, hoping his eyes did not show his delight. He turned to survey the damage again, tilting his head to release the drop of sweat. And go ahead and try that. Praying don't work for us, but maybe you're more righteous. Son. Seton raised his silencing hand again.

It ain't natural, is it, Mr. Stuyvesant? Stuyvesant shook his head vigorously. I don't know what it is. The farmers narrowed their eyes at him. Of course he won't have lost interest, just because the land is cursed or whatever that. hell is going on here? I'd certainly still be willing to buy the property, Mr. Cormoran, if that's what you mean. Randolph looked out at the uncountable thousands of strips of rotting raw meat that marred

the farming property and the flies hovering near to scout for birthing ground. I bet you would, you son of a bitch. The elder Seton didn't wave Lonnie down this time. I don't have a clue how you pulled this off, sir, unless you've got any end. with the devil himself. But I know you've done it before, and I know you won't stop. What are you implying, Mr. Cormoran?

Why, that sounds like slow. No need to get all legal. You win. I'll sell you the whole goddamn farm. Oh. Well, I'm sad that it's come to that for you. I'll need that check right away. I'm losing money on this place by the minute.

You do understand. understand that given these unpredictable circumstances, I'll have to spend a lot of money to get the land inspected and cleared, and I'll have to sit on it for a while, so it looks like the neat rain phenomenon has stopped. Are you lowering your offer, Mr. Storversant? It is considerably less valuable under the... How much, God damn it! I can give you a third of the original sub. A third! Lonnie yanked his handkerchief away and tossed it onto a clump of the fallen flesh strips.

God damn it! He stomped into the house and slammed the door. The elder Cormoran maintained composure, resolved. Fine. Can you ride the check right now? Randolph whistled a lively medley of sitcom themes as he walked past his underlings in their cubicles and stepped into his luxurious office, fully a third of the single-story building's floor space at the far end. He called in Linda, his secretary.

She entered only partially, leaving the door open. Well, I got us that Cormoran farm finally. Congratulations, sir. Her icy tone meant nothing to Randolph. Want to get a room and celebrate? No, sir. Oh. Randolph did not hide.

hide his disappointment. Still got religion? Never did, Mr. Stuyvesant. I just decided... Your family. Yada yada. Okay, let me know when you get past that. Now be so kind as to get me Tilba Saxon on the phone, please. The, um, which?

Randolph smirked. I thought you didn't want to know. Yes, sir. Linda sidestepped out, depriving Randolph of the customary leer upon her backside that always preceded one of the three disgusting exclamations the realty magnet had on standby. A minute later, he picked up the receiver, as he always did when speaking with Tilda, to ensure no one heard her end of the conversation. This was unlike his customary speakerphone conversations, for which he liked to leave his office door cracked so his

agents could hear how it was done, the deal-making and manipulating. With the Hill Witch, a different protocol was appropriate. Tella! This is... As with Linda, Randolph did not trouble himself over her cool tone. I'm happy to announce great success. Tell me something, Mr. Starvison. What was it? The rain.

Don't you know? This is important. Flesh. Strips of meat, I guess. What condition was it in? Well, it was stinky. Rotten? You don't know what kind of meat it could be? I'm no butcher.

It's nothing I recognize. Grayish and slimy. Why? I was trying for fish. Sounds like they weren't fully formed. I gotta tell you, that was pretty horrific. Better than the previous reign of frogs. I was thinking I wish to hell I knew how you pulled that off.

Randolph stared out his window at the walnut tree that made dappled shadows in the late evening. He shivered at the thought. of being safe at home when a sudden disgusting downpour of dead animals or some other weird matter fell. The authorities all stonewalled, poor Seton. It was brilliant. He waited for her to celebrate with him, but she did not. I'm looking at a couple other big properties at the other end of the county, so maybe we can collaborate again soon. Not for some time, Mr. Starvison.

What? Why not? We should wait a few weeks for the portals to heal before I tear them open again. It's a... Not even for double the cash? Randolph knew that while Tilda was a powerful witch, she was not business savvy. She had major expenses up on her land as well. You don't understand. The instability of...

This is a time is money, business, Miss Saxon. His sudden formality would create a sense of distance between them, pressuring her to a seed. It was a tactic he had polished and used hundreds of times in his career as a realtor. I can't take a chance on someone else scooping up this property. Any more than you would want one of these countless, local, uneducated hillbilly witches taking over your duties,

just because you get a case of cold feet. He waited a moment for this to settle. Then... It's not a prosperous time for you. What, magic types, I guess? I'm in contact with a few who need money more than you do. No. The conditions are too delicate.

Any other witch couldn't know how to... Randolph cut her off with braying laughter this time. Then it's your civic responsibility, isn't it, old girl? You don't know... Plain God, etc. Save it. I already said I'd pay double. The line was silent for longer than Randolph was patient.

You there? Tilda? I'll perform the ritual, Mr. Stuyvesant. But then, never again. And I'll see to it that no one else will either. If you say so, old gal, I'll be sending you the coordinates. He phoned his next target, a tobacco farm outside of Raleigh, run by a pair of brothers named Houghton, the latest in a family line that dated all the way back to early settlers. The fact of this heritage would guarantee a hard sell, Stuyvesant realized, but with the power of the strange reins he commissioned from the witch, he could once again accelerate the process. Nobody ever believed the farmers when they called agricultural authorities, much less law enforcement, to declare their land, and only theirs was under

deluge by hundreds of thousands of frogs, or boulder-sized hailstones capable of smashing heavy machinery, or, as with Seton Cormoran's pumpkin farm, innumerable strips of rotting meat. A rain he had requested to be nothing less than disgusting as a response to Seton's resounding response of, fuck you, to his initial offer. Fuck who, good, sir? Local farmers had a word-of-mouth network. The Houtons would know of the skyfalls, and they would know of Randolph. The mere suggestion that they might suffer a similar fate was likely to speed this and future negotiations along quite nicely.

There was no answer at the farm's business number or either of the Houghton brothers' landlines. Randolph hung around the office after hours, politely and uncomfortably rebuffed yet again by Linda in his invitations to an after-hours desk clearing session to call the Houghton's numbers again every ten minutes for two hours. When his stomach growled at him around 7.15, Randolph decided he would just drive out to the Houghton farm the next day, Saturday or not. It was best to do it face-to-face. Vailed threats worked best that way. And if no one came to the door, he'd have an official offer prepared and dropped copies in the mailbox and under the door. Home then, and a good night's sleep before the next big score. Home for Randolph was an earlier business conquest, a spacious former vegetable farm he

had acquired without the benefit of sorcery, long before he learned of the powerful witch Matilda and her sky falls. Yet Randolph had obtained the property through no less questionable means. A few payments to the right county inspectors and the hapless growers were out on their ears, the land his at a fraction of the value. The field, which had once been rows of corn, tomatoes, carrots, and potatoes, made for a perfect backyard driving range, so often a delight to his real clients, real estate investment moguls who casually bought and sold the properties of struggling owners like monopoly pieces. Teddy Bear, the Rottweiler Randolph had bought to guard his ill-gotten home, greeted him with a huffing dog smile, but nothing more.

more. The Big Pop had grown accustomed to being ignored by his master. His wife, Millie, a rising club singer before Randolph conned her away from the scene, would be settled in bed with her Alison Dixon novel by now, nursing a Nutrislim, turning pages every two minutes or so, and occasionally humming a Barbara Streisand medley in a tragically perfect key. Randolph parked, got out, and went inside, not any more inclined to go upstairs and say hello to his wife than he ever had these past 15 years. He went to his study, a spare bedroom where he logged on to various real estate and pornographic websites to search for new conquests. Forty-five minutes later, a light shower began to patter at his window. Randolph, not beneath enjoying the soothing rhythm of a mild

storm, settled back into his office chair and closed his eyes. He smiled to himself, thinking of sweet, voluptuous secretary Linda, and that one time she had given in to his advances, when encouraged by Randolph's troubling news of her unaccounted hours. Linda, like so many, was entrapped by her own ignorance of financial matters, leaving her ripe for predation. The rain's gentle pelting suddenly grew louder. Randolph frowned that Millie didn't finish. She always finished her sentences, some kind of fucking singer thing. He pushed up from his desk and went to the window. With very little light from his low watt desk lamp making its way outside, he could barely discern the silvery drops. This caused Randolph to frown with derision. The temperature hadn't fallen below 80 degrees

in many days. She was cut off by a sudden shrill yelp from outside. Teddy Bear. He'll go in his doghouse and be fine. I know, I know. Randolph trudged to the front door as the downfall grew more intense, harder by the drop. Randolph reached for the knob, just as Teddy Bear cried out again, closer. Randolph reached for the screen door latch.

He didn't hear the rest. The glass door exploded inward and something barreled through. Randolph was knocked on his back, left breathless by the massive invading form. Teddy bear, soaking wet, crying keening high notes of distress. The hundred-pound canine pushed off him and dashed off into the darkened house. Randolph rolled to his side to post himself up on his elbow. Still breathless, he couldn't answer, Millie. Hell, he could barely even hear her over the fucking stupid.

storm. He saw a trail of blood spatters on the hardwood floor leading into the shadows of the living room where teddy bear whined. The rain pounded with a density, a rigidity that was deafening. Another discordant shattering of glass rose from outside. His car windshield. Damn it! Randolph got to his feet, intending to flip on the front door light to see how big the hailstones were. A massive crash from the kitchen startled him. Then a car. A massive crash from the kitchen startled him, then a cry and a troubled groan from Teddy Bear. Randolph spun to Go-Chak, slipping on the puddle of blood and rainwater trailed by the dog. Randolph kept from falling this time, though his string of curses were suitable for a real ass-buster. Randolph switched on the kitchen

light, finding cleaning products, and a bag of sponges strewn back from the cabinet under the sink. Teddy Bear's soggy head, hung low, slunk back into the tiny recess. Teddy, what did you do, dog? He realized he was shouting at nearly full volume over the sound of the rain. Teddy eased his snout out, dropping something onto the floor. A five-inch nail glossed with his blood. The sound of shattering glass repeated, maybe from his study. Then another pain in the living room.

Millie called out at the full height of her powerful voice. Randolph went to the coat closet and grabbed an umbrella. I'm going to put the cars in the garage. Ignoring her, Randolph slipped into his old outdoor sneakers and popped open the umbrella. Goddamn insurance better move fast on this shit. His insurance agent, Glenn, a man as weasily as Randolph himself, would surely tighten his whole face with a grim nod and pronounce, If you'd made some effort to shelter the cars, I might be able to help you, old pal. Get fucked with a hammer, Glenn.

Randolph opened the screen door and dashed outside. The umbrella trembled in his hand, the force of the rain crushing down on it. A sharp pain bloomed in his foot. He fell to his butt, exposing his legs to the rain and an instant dozen more ballistic stings. For some reason, the underside of his umbrella looked like a pin cushion. He thought of the object teddy bear had dropped. The rain was nails. And it was an absolute deluge.

As Randolph scrambled to his feet, the umbrella succumbed, tearing to shreds and allowing four, five, eight of the falling spikes to plunge into his shoulders and back. Screaming in pain, Randolph darted back inside. He pulled the inner door shut, slipping and falling against the wall, driving a trio of nails an inch deeper. He sucked in a deep breath to gather resolve, then started yanking the nails out as fast as he could, crying out with each extraction.

Twelve were out and pinging on the floor before it dawned on him. This was Matilda's work. Fucking bitch! This shit can't last forever! Randolph had learned enough from Matilda that he knew spells, especially baneful ones, exacted a price from the caster. A storm of fucking nails would deplete her quickly, especially after the recent meat fall.

As soon as it lets up, I'm coming to stuff every goddamn one of these down your bitch throat, witch. Randolph distracted himself with the image of fulfilling this threat as he continued excruciatingly removing nails from his legs and shoulders, even as the metallic pounding rose by several decibels, battering his eardrums as hard as it battered the roof. If Millie called to him now, he'd never hear it. But he did hear it, in a scream from the top of her considerable vocal range.

More glass shattered, wood splintered. From outside came the nerve-shreading screech of metal-piercing metal. Randolph couldn't have run up the stairs if he wanted to. The roof was crumbling. The rain had battered through the housetop like a troop of invading berserkers to continue its assault on the upper floor. Randolph marveled grimly at the first nail that blasted through. This was not a four-inch roofing nail, like those which had punctured teddy bear and him.

This was a railroad spike, six inches long and an inch thick, shining, fresh from the foundry of whatever cosmic, carmic world, the witch's magic plundered. The attic crashed in, splintering the floor of anything. There was nowhere to go except Teddy Bear. The dog had the right idea, hiding under the heavy stainless steel sink. But there wasn't room for two. The mutt would have to go. Maneuvering as fast as his bleeding legs would carry him, Randolph darted toward the kitchen,

refusing to look at the spiky points appearing in the ceiling above him. He could already hear the big bolts pinging off the stainless steel sink and teddy bear underneath it, yelping in terror. By the time Randolph made it to the kitchen threshold, the spikes had given way to wedges, the kind his father had used to split thick oak logs into quarters, eight-pound missiles unhindered by the ceiling. They punched right through. As Randolph lunged to grab the cabinet handle, a wedge bulleted into the floor beside him. Big as he was, Teddy Bear had shrunk himself enough that Randolph had to lie on his stomach and reach deep for the dog's collar.

Damn you, you mongrel! As he stretched his legs back, a sickening pain exploded. A wedge buried to the hilt in his left leg. He was pinned to the floor, inches from sanctuary. Then, impact at his right knee. But not pain, only a strange lightness. Knee was separated from calf, a clean cut that made a messy wound. a messy wound. The din rose yet again. In the darkness under the sink, Teddy Bear shivered and

blinked regarding his master with helpless empathy. Randolph twisted to deal with the pinning wedge, removing his head from under the sink just in time to accept the last of the wedges as it drilled through his skull into the kitchen floor, never slowing as it continued down to the basement. In the immediate aftermath, quiet, save for the steady cracking and creaking of ruined lumber, teddy bear crawled out of his well-chosen sanctuary, to lick and lament his unmoving master. If you do, or ever have, worked in an office, you'll know what it's like to be friendly with some of your coworkers, as well as working with some people who are just plain weird. And in this tale, shared with us by author Harley Carnell, some office workers stay late one day to discuss the writing project of another colleague, which is rather disturbing.

Performing this tale are James Cleveland, Erica Sanderson, Penny Scott Andrews, David Alt, and Jake Benson. So try to be patient with challenging coworkers. You might just find your their source of inspiration. Thanks everyone for coming and for staying late. Well, as much as we all love you, Calvin, it's Friday night, so this had better be good. Trust me, you'll all want to hear this. There were five of us in the conference room. Me, Amy, Olivia, Devon and Tim, the entirety of our office, minus our line manager, Sarah, and Paul.

We shared our floor with two other companies. Through the windows of the conference room, I could see the employees of the other firms leaving. soon we would be the only people left, with the exception of the cleaner who I could see cleaning just outside the conference room door. I placed a file folder in the middle of the table. As some of you might know, Paul is a writer, or wannabe one at any rate. When I first started here, before I knew what he was like, I tried to talk to him, and he told me that that's what his degree was in, creative writing. Like the rest of you, I've not really spoken to him. much since, but I'd always see him at lunch times typing away at things that clearly weren't work-related.

Because he told me about his degree, I assumed it was probably something to do with his writing. So I got curious. Before I continue, I just want to get it out of the way that I know that this probably doesn't look that good on me. We can maybe get into that later, but for now, I think that you're going to want to be more concerned about what's in this folder than what I and just in a in my defense kind of way the guy never talks we don't know anything about him so i just thought it'd be interesting to see what kind of things he was writing so i went into his staff folder to see if he stored any of his writing there when i looked there was a bunch of stories and i read some of them Olivia gave a shocked smile

You actually did that Devon shook his head and laughed It's proper out of order Even I wouldn't have done something like that mate Come on, what did I say guys Do you think you'd be able to see it? See what? That you access the file

I know it's on the shared drive But it might say that you were the last person you viewed it When you did it on your login Oh shit. I didn't think of that. Amy was quick to reassure me. Don't worry though. I mean, even if it does, you'd only find out if you checked it. I think you have to hover over the file to see you accessed it last. It's not as if it really prominent or anything. Hmm, I hope not. I guess I'll have to worry about that later. I paused for a few seconds, sinking this through. Then I shook my head and carried on talking.

To get back to the main point and the reason I asked, you all here. I read his stories and, well, it's kind of concerning, particularly the one I have in this folder. The story is about a shy, lonely guy who works as an assistant in an insurance office. He doesn't have any friends, doesn't talk to anyone and generally doesn't have a good life. He hates his colleagues and they hate him. And long story short, he ends up killing all of them. After I said this, the room went silent. I imagine that none of them cared about the ethics or practicalities of how I'd seen the story now. Instead, everyone looked deeply troubled by what I'd just said. The silence was eventually broken by Devon.

Jesus, I always knew the guy was a freak, but I didn't realize it was that mental. Do you have to talk about him like that? How else should I talk about him? Did you ever think that maybe calling him a freak and saying that he's mental is the reason and he doesn't exactly have the best opinion of us? He's sitting there at lunch, munching on his bag of carrots, while fantasising about murdering all of us. What am I supposed to say? And anyway, you've changed your tune, haven't you?

Do you remember the other day? You went to the staff room to make your pot noodle, and when you saw he was in there, you turned back around and mouth fuck's sake to me, because you'd have to be in there with him for like 30 seconds? Olivia laughed and smiled a little sheepishly. Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that. Pot noodles take a long time.

You've got to put the water in, then wait a few minutes, and then stir them, and then wait again, and that's all after you've had to wait for the kettle to boil in the first place. If I'd been in there with them, it'd have been almost five minutes altogether, not 30 seconds. Amy looked at me. Was this story he wrote definitely about us? You said it was set in an insurance company and obviously that's not what we do. What makes you think it's about us? Did he use any of our names?

That's the thing, Amy, and it's the reason I wanted you all here. I wasn't sure if it was about us and I wanted to see what you all thought. The thing is, I don't really know anything about writing, but I have heard that thing, write about what you know. Maybe that's what he was doing. His plan was just to write a story about a killer. and he set it in an office because that's where he happens to work.

And it's probably not as if he's going out to pubs or restaurants or anything when he's not here. Other than his house, this is probably the only place he goes, so it makes sense that he'd set his story in an office. Well, that could be right. I don't know anything about writing either, but I do read a lot and you'll often have writers setting stories in places that they work in or used to work. Exactly, but the thing I was thinking was, I stopped speaking. The cleaner had been previously cleaning the desks just outside the conference room and had now moved on to the door.

He had begun dusting or wiping the handle and had been loud enough to derail me. Excuse me, excuse me, do you have to do that now? Tim smirked. Yeah, he's definitely going to hear you through the door in his hoodie. It's ridiculous. We're trying to work here. So is he, though. Yeah, but can't he do it another time?

He has a home to go to as well, you know. He's probably got to do other floors after this one. He can't just wait for us to finish. And look, he's stopped doing the door now. It's only the carpet. We won't be able to hear him. Tim leaned forward. I think I'm with Calvin this one.

He's just a bloody cleaner. Yeah, we might not be in here doing actual work, but he didn't know that. As far as he's concerned, this is some important meeting. He should wait for us to finish. Just carry on, please, Calvin. Fine. So the thing about Paul's story is that, like I said, it might just happen to be set in an office. And to answer your other question, Amy, no, he doesn't use any of our names. But it's certain things about the story that got me wondering. Some of the descriptions. Take this, for example. I'm not going to get into the plot or anything, but there's this bit from the start. I picked up the file folder and opened it. I scanned down the first page with my finger looking for the mark I'd made. I found it. And then, started reading. The decision to select Sally as the office receptionist had always perplexed me.

If a receptionist or office manager or executive or whichever faux aggrandizing designation you garlanded the role with was supposed to be a welcoming presence, a representation of our company, then what did Sally signify? That we were dull, drab and pedestrian, that to walk into our office was to be embroiled in a maelstrom of mediocrity? although perhaps that was precisely the intention. It was an attempt at transparency and honesty. Rather than being a misrepresentative facade,

Sally accurately conveyed to visitors just what level of drudgery and misery they should expect when stepping into our little workplace. Amy put her hands up in the air. Hey, what the fuck? Now, Amy, this might not necessarily be about you. Every office has a receptionist and... Office manager.

Right. office manager. But every office has one, and so with his fictional one, it doesn't necessarily mean that the office manager in the story is based on you. Amy folded her arms, looking almost petulant. Well, guess not. Besides, can't be about me. I am welcoming. I am nice. I know that if I walked into an office for an interview or whatever and saw me at reception, I think good things about the company. She paused. And anyway, if you was having a go at me, that'd be totally uncalled for. What have I ever done to him? Olivia put her hand on Amy's arm.

To be fair, Ames, when Sarah asked you to do the stock cupboard audit with him the other day, you did say you'd rather impale yourself with a rusty spike. We all laughed at this, including Amy at her own joke. Forgot I said that. There was a small pause as she continued to marinate in her joke. But anyway, he didn't hear it. I don't know, Amy. He was only on the other side of the room and you've not exactly got an indoor voice.

Oh shit. Do you think he did hear it then? She hesitated for a few seconds. Well, even if he did, so what? I would rather impale myself than have to do the inventory with him. He's a weirdo. Why would any of you want to have to spend a whole hour with him? Let Lonen in confined space like that.

Devon crossed his arms and nodded. Especially after this. Like, even if the story isn't about us, it doesn't matter. I've always thought there has to be something wrong with you if you're writing all that kind of horror stuff. What kind of fucked up shit has to go through your head if you're sitting down and making up stories about killers or whatever it is? Hold on a second.

What did he say about me? Well, as I've been saying, Tim, we don't necessarily know that these characters are... What did he say? Okay, fine. there are these two characters in the story that I was thinking could be argued to have a passing resemblance to you, Tim, and also you, Devin. At the sound of his name, Devin jerked his head in my direction like a dog being called for dinner. I say that because they're described as being big guys who go to the gym and all that kind of stuff, and are probably what you'd call stereotypically alpha kind of men.

I turned the document a few pages and then skimmed the paragraphs to find the passage I was thinking of. When I found it, I cleared my throat and began reading. Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, the three stooges, all intelligent people who masqueraded as stupid for comic effect. Dom and Wayne, two genuinely stupid people whose only comedy came from their obliviousness to their own idiocy. With arms that didn't reach their sides, heads inflated with both steroids and their own egos, and no visible necks to speak of. They lumbered around our office as if weighed down by sand.

our very own Tweedledum and Tweedledee, these two idiots were inexplicably entrusted with senior roles in the sales team. Their positions made me ponder which members of the board that they were the progeny of, as some kind of grotesque nepotism would be the only explanation as to why these two morons, who I imagined would struggle to sell water to a straggler in a desert, were entrusted if with such important or indeed any roles. A little shit. Devin stood up quickly, scraped.

wiping his chair behind him as if Paul had still been in the office and he was going out to look for him. But remembering that Paul had gone home, he sat back down again. He muttered, Frick, to himself as a kind of consolation. Again, we don't know that these characters are based on you. After all, those guys work in sales. Tim, you're in the finance team and Devin, you... Um... What is it you do again, Devin? I'm an executive administrative communication analyst.

No, wait, executive communication, administrative, analyst. Right, okay, and what is that exactly? I don't really know if I'm being honest. Devon gave a chuckle and a self-deprecating smile. I've never really known. I'm just given tasks and I do them. We all laughed. Devon's response had diluted the tension in the room and the air felt a little lighter. Amy rubbed Devin's shoulder.

Oh, we'd all be lost without you, Dev. To be honest, guys, it goes on like this. The story lists a bunch of characters and why the narrator thinks they're all stupid or annoying and so on. There's a couple of incidents with them being rude to him or not wanting to be around him. He gets more and more isolated, more and more angry, and then the story ends with him killing them all.

How does he describe himself? Because I'm guessing that the main character's meant to be a representation of him, isn't it? Well, from the way the character describes himself in the narration, He's this, I guess, unappreciated or unrecognized genius or whatever you call it. He's the only intelligent one in the office while all his colleagues are stupid and beneath him. There's this one bit in the story where he has this really good idea that will help increase the company's profits. He tells everyone, but they're too stupid to understand his idea, so he keeps on getting shot down. At one point, he even gets a disciplinary from his boss for mentioning it so much.

And this is what I'm saying when I say, we can't just necessarily assume. that he's writing about us. Paul might well think that we're all a bunch of idiots. I can't speak for that, but the whole thing about having the great idea and telling everyone about it never happened in real life. Well, I hope that character isn't what he thinks of himself. Tim shook his head.

It can't be that fucking smart if he's still an admin assistant after however long he's been here. Six years. You were here when he started, weren't you? Olivia nodded. She looked almost solemn as if she were admitting some shameful secret. I'm the only one left. Devon turned to face me.

Wait a sec. What about you? Sorry? What did he say about you in the story? You've done all of us, so now that's your turn? All right, fair enough. I picked up the file and looked through it again, finding the requisite passage. As I said, when I first started here, I tried to be nice to Paul. I didn't know what he was like then, and I tried to make an effort with him.

I'd ask about his weekend, if he'd watch the football, what he was doing on his next holiday, all that kind of stuff. I gave up in the end, you know what trying to talk to him's like. Blood out of a fucking stone. But I did try, and it's for that reason I think this character might be based on me. Alan hid behind a veneer of neutrality, but the varnish of this veneer dulled when exposed to the daylight of his duplicity. At least the others were honest and openly displaying their dislike of me.

Alan sided with the others while pretending to be on my sense. side, a wolf in a sheepish smile, howling about me when he thought my back was sufficiently turned. In that sense, he was the most repugnant of them all. Devon laughed and folded his arms. Oh shit. That's what you get for being nice to the little fucker. Yeah, well, if that character is based on me, at least I can feel less bad about stopping talking to him. So, what do you think we should do, Kelvin? Fucking cleaner. Tim was looking outside. We all turned to see what he was. referring to. When we looked out of the door, we could see that all the lights in the main office had been turned off. They probably have to do it when they finish a floor, energy-saving thing. It doesn't matter anyway.

We're all in here. Yeah, but when we leave to get our coats, it'll be dark. Well, I'm sorry the cleaner didn't let not mildly inconveniencing us get in the way of doing his job. But anyway, Calvin, what are we going to do? That's the main reason I've wanted you guys here. First of all, I wasn't actually sure what we could do moving forward. If we take it to Sarah or to HR, I'll have to admit that I went and found the file. Especially if there's some kind of record of who accessed it, like you said, Amy. I'm even wondering if looking in someone's folder might be the sort of thing that could get you a disciplinary.

No offence and all that, but that sounds like more of a you problem, to be honest, mate. If we're actually in any sort of danger from this lunatic, then you potentially getting into a... a bit of troubles the least of our concerns. Thanks for the support, Dev. But I guess that's another question. Are we actually in danger? I mean, yes, he's written the story. Yes, it's completely mental.

But does it actually mean anything? It could just be a kind of sick fantasy. Like I said, it could just be him writing about what he knows and then adding in the horrory bits to make the story interesting. It might even be a good thing, a way for him to vent and get those sorts of thoughts out of his system. Like when they say you should write a letter to someone you're annoyed with but not send it. I don't know.

Even if the characters aren't based on us, it's still about guy in an office killing all the people he works with. Don't know how comfortable I'd be working with someone who wrote things like that. Olivia, who was sitting next to me, turned to face me directly. Calvin, let's say for a moment we take you getting in trouble out of the equation. Say he'd just put it up online or something and you'd happen to read it. What did you do then? I thought about this for a few seconds and then sighed. That's the thing.

I'd be tempted to say that straight away I'd show it to Sarah. Then I have this image in my head of me showing it to her and her just laughing, saying she's too busy for it and that it doesn't mean anything. Or her calling Paul into her office and him being shocked that anyone would ever think that he meant to do the things that were in the story. That it was obviously just a story and didn't mean anything. Now, I agree with you, Dev, that you probably have to be pretty sick kind of person to write all that horror stuff, but loads of people do, and it's not as if they're all going around killing people. I just keep on thinking that I could be making a big deal out of this, and it could all mean nothing.

Nah, fuck that. Tim sat up a little in his chair. I'm not just going to sit around and wait for that lunatic to snap one day. If he's really got nothing to hide, then he can tell it to Sarah or HR. Although, if I'm being honest, I'm not sure what he'd actually say. Oh, yeah. I often like to write little fantasies where I butcher all my colleagues. It's just something I do in my free time. We all laughed at this, except for Amy.

In the past minute or so, a look of concern had been growing on her face. It was clear she was thinking about something. This now crescendoed into a look of outright fear. She slowly turned to face me from across the table. Are you all right? Hearing the concern in my own voice, everyone turned to look at her. I was just thinking about something. Do you guys remember a few weeks ago when I had to come in early to test the new software?

Everyone nodded. I was in every day at 7 o'clock, and every time I was, so with the cleaners. They were usually finished by the time I'd arrived, so I've probably been here since about 5 or 6. And the few times I've been in early in the past, the cleaners have been in two. And when I say cleaners, I mean cleaners. There's always more than one. The cleaners never come in in the afternoon. We've all worked late before.

When have you ever seen a cleaner at this time? And one on their own. There was an uncomfortable silence as the import of what Amy said hit us in varying degrees. Um, Kelvin. In Paul's story, how exactly does this guy kill his colleagues? I didn't answer. I had one, but couldn't speak. My face felt both flushed and cold at the same time.

Calvin? Devin spoke in a voice that was a strange mix. of authority and fear. I began speaking. My voice hesitant and unsure. One afternoon, he sends them an email asking them to meet him in the conference room. While they wait in there, he locks them in, he turns all the lights off in the rest of the office, and then, before I could finish, Devon had leapt out of his seat, slamming it against the wall.

He ran to the door and yanked the handle a few times. Then he turned to face us. It's locked. 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.

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