The NoSleep Podcast - S20: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 16

Episode Date: April 21, 2024

We’re sleeplessly decomposing as Season 21 approaches. Enjoy a bite of Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 16.“Norwegian Standoff” written by Bryan Leavelle (Story starts around 00:02:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Minaís Voice – Nichole Goodnight, Master – David Ault“The Stages of Monster Grief: A Guide for Middle-Aged Vampires” written by Carina Bissett (Story starts around 00:16:40)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin“Dogteeth” written by Gene Kendall (Story starts around 00:25:35)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Elmore Gibbs – Peter Lewis, Anna – Sarah Thomas, Wulff J‰ger – Jeff Clement, Bar Patron – Matthew Bradford, Hotel Employee – Atticus Jackson, Preppie – David AultThis 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 Carina BissettClick here to learn more about Gene Kendall Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio 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.

Sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 16. I'm your host, David Cummings. When it comes to Decompositions, that is, the act of decomposing, it's hard not to think of one of the world's oldest and most spoken of horror monsters, the Vampier. For millennia, cultures that go back to the dawn of human history have told tales about undead creatures which, attack and feast on the essence of the living.

The legends of vampires have changed over the years. In modern times, they're often depicted as suave and sexy gentlemen, pale yet alluring, ready to sweep a virginal woman off her feet as they seduce her to open up to them, allowing them to slip inside of her with their gleaming hard. Is it getting hot in here? But the legend of the lusty vampire wasn't always the way they were depicted. In early descriptions of the monsters, they wore shrouds over their bloated and ruddy bodies. This fits more closely with the idea of a vampire being dead

and their body going through the stages of, yes, you guessed it, decomposition. And so on this volume of Sleepless Decompositions, we have three tales which visit the legend of those creatures, who use their wiles and their teeth to do more than merely seduce. You can count on these stories being rather biting. So, dear friends, join us and brace yourself for these sleepless decompositions. In our first tale, we travel way up north to an archipelago in the Arctic Ocean known as Svalbard, Norway. A man is trapped in a cabin, but it's not just the wintry weather confining him to this space.

As we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Brian Lavelle, there is something outside his door scratching, hoping to be let in, and the man will do anything to prevent that happening. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Nicole Goodnight, and David Alt. So when faced with the endless night, do whatever you can to avoid a Norwegian standoff. December 10th, Swalbart. It's been three weeks now that I've been locked in here with that thing scratching at my door. I regret injuring it with my 30-0-6 as it dragged my partner off, screaming into the night.

It's now as much stuck out there as I am stuck in here. My food supply is dwindling, and I am this creature's only. only shot at a meal for miles around. It came here expecting easy prey, but now we're both engaged in a standoff. Can this thing starve to death? I'm starting to think the answer's no. When was it that it snatched poor young Sophie as she tried to escape and fed noisily on her body for hours?

Twelve, fourteen days ago? I can't remember. Luckily, I think I have the supplies to stay put for another two months, even if that means a languishing and starvation for most of that time. There are at least another six weeks that I have to survive before the sunlight returns. Well, I might have a chance to escape. That is, of course, if that thing is what I think it is, the stories I've read about them are true.

So far at least, one of the legends seems to match reality. It looks unwilling to break into this shoddy cabin, even though it is obviously strong enough to shatter any of the many single-paned windows through which it hungrily glares at me. It begs me to let it in. And using the voices of people I love, it berates me for hours, apologizes and pleads for mercy,

trying everything it can to persuade me. Right now, it's using the voice that upsets me most, the one of my daughter, Mina. Dad, why won't you let me in? It's freezing out here. Is what Mom said about you wishing I was never born true? Please, don't let me die. I'm sorry I have been such.

a burden on you. I promise I'll be a better daughter. There's a single thought that keeps me hopeful that I might make it home. If this one characteristic is accurate, that it can't enter this shelter without my invitation, maybe the others are too. Maybe it can't stand the sunlight. If so, once those glorious golden rays finally find Norway after this wretched polar winter, it'll be forced to seek shelter or die. I know that the darkness is what people usually fear. They used to think. that's all the monsters are. An allegory for a human phobia of the ordinary predators that thrive in the night. But I'm now most afraid of daylight. It's coming, and this torture continuing on despite it,

well into the thaw, while the flowers bloom and the grass grows tall. The worst thing I can imagine is these terrible voices against the soundscape of spring songbirds and snow sliding off the roof, accompanied by the smell of warming soil as light streaks through cracks in the cabin walls. Utter hopelessness. My greatest wish is that you are the monster I think you are. God fucking damn it, that sounds insane. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would ever hope I was being hunted by a vampire.

December 25th. Hell. Merry Christmas. It's been 15 days since I last wrote in this journal. Something horrifying. started to develop immediately after finishing that previous, oddly, hopeful entry. I've been too afraid to describe the ordeal in writing, praying that these events are only in my imagination. Like a person with a toothache who refuses to call the dentist, I have procrastinated.

But now the data I've collected suggests something awful is happening to me. I said before that I hoped this creature was a vampire, but I forgot about a crucial characteristic these monsters frequently possess. the ability to control minds. For the first few weeks, I could easily ignore its begging, but lately I'm afraid it's finding a way to weasel inside my head. Strange how it can enter a mind without asking, and yet still requires a permission slip to smash through a window.

Anyway, each black morning I wake up standing in front of the door and staring at the doorknob. At first I wrote it off as sleepwalking, somehow brought on by severe hunger and stress. Still, I couldn't help but notice that every time I came to, it looked like I was slightly closer to the door than the previous day. I started carrying a piece of chalk in my pocket and making a mark on the wooden floor just in front of my toes every morning. There are now nine marks on the floor. These increments are regularly spaced and happen every day. I segmented the distance remaining between where I awoke this morning and the...

the door based on the average distance between markings 1 through 9. This allows me to see how many more mornings there are before I unwittingly let this animal inside. Eight days left. I've gathered all my food and put it under the bed against the wall furthest from the door. I spend all my time just sitting here and trying not to fall asleep, attempting to ignore the constant shrieks and beckoning of my family and friends from the darkness. If my math is correct, There's no way I can make it to the next seasonal sunrise, but I can't give up.

All I can do now is hope this predator loses interest, or someone comes to my rescue. January 2nd. The end. There is space for one more mark on the floor. It is over. I'm so sorry, Mina. I hung in there as long as possible. I considered blowing my brains out days ago, but I just couldn't do it.

Tomorrow morning I will likely meet the thing, unless I'm saved by some miracle. Is it weird that even though I know I will die soon, I'm still pleased that my predictions were correct, down to the last marker? The last few nights I was concerned that the intensity of the mind control would increase to more than usual. But, my friends, we have found a linear relationship between the amount of time spent under the influence of mind control and the intensity of the phenomenon. Maybe they can use this as an exciting example for teaching regression models in college courses someday. I know this is idiotic, but this thought comforts me as I lay here writing for the last time, by the light of my last candle. Well, I have plenty of candles left, but this is the last one I will ever set aflame, the last words I will commit to paper. The final few breaths of this doomed organism.

Goodbye. Wonderful. Cruel. Beautiful. Beautiful. Observeld. I love you, Mina. January 3rd. Why didn't I kill myself when I had the chance? Today I woke up writhing in a pool of my own blood. I overlooked another characteristic of vampires and didn't even consider that there are worse things they can do to me than kill me. They can make me one of them. them. Oh, God, it's inside now, sitting on the bed, staring, smiling, laughing at me. My hunger pains have changed to those of a different kind that I'm used to, and there's an intense throbbing soreness in my neck from where it inserted its long, needle-like canines. As it turns out, the slow inching towards the door night after night was just a mind game,

like a sadistic kid snipping off the leg of a frog to see what it would do. It was merely toying with its newfound Renfield and could have coerced me into allowing him inside that very first day if it wanted. This creature is...

It spent days searching my mind and it saw everything. It knows my village. The seclusion of this cabin. How easily I could convince trusting villagers to come out here with me. It knows of Mina. It likes it here.

It sees opportunities in me and has made it clear that if I refuse to serve, to bring it fresh, warm bodies, it will head straight for my mina. I'm such a coward. Look at that moron that was writing last night, drooling over his stupid, childish little experiment. What horrible last words! Proud of his idiotic math,

and totally ignorant of the possible, unforeseen conclusions to this horror story. So confident and comfortable that he knew exactly how it all would end. Smug, asshole! Now I don't even know how to kill myself. This thing probably knew as soon as it invaded my thoughts that I was the perfect, soft-handed, pitiful weakling it needed to guarantee itself a life of relative ease for a little while. Eventually the village will notice the soon to be.

mounting number of missing people, and that I was the last person that many of them were seen with. What will the creature do with me once I'm found out? Maybe if I'm an obedient servant, he will take me with him to the next town. Further away from Mina. Mina, I think her from this nightmare, even if I can only do it for a short while. Even if it means a victim a day, it would be worth it. I will feed the whole goddamn world to this monster before I let it have Mina. It told me that it's time to stop writing and start working. It promised me a few sips at the jugular of whoever I bring back if I'm a good boy. I'm horrified that this does not disgust me,

that it is actually just the motivation I need to begin the harvest. My master understands me better than I do. At least I finally get to leave this musty old building. At least I'm not dead. What am I, anyway? There are numerous windows in this cabin, and my master must have sensed that I was concerned about what we would do when the sunlight returned. He got up, walked over, and crouched next to me.

He gently started running his long, white fingers through my hair. That part is just a man. Let's face it, we're all getting older. And I don't need to tell you ladies that the pressure is on to look your best, no matter how many candles are on your birthday cake. It's unfair, but that's just the way our society is. Perhaps that's why the eternal youth of the undead is so appealing. We'll learn about that from author Karina Beset.

And if I may, this story and many others are featured in Karina's new book titled Dead Girl Driving and Other Devastations. It's out now. Check the show notes for a link to learn more. You see, it's not just the young and nubile lasses that face Nospharatu's bite. Even women in their mature years have to deal with their new existence. Performing this tale is Nicole Doolin. So pay heed to this just in case you find it helpful. We present The Stages of Monster Grief, a guide for middle-aged vampires.

Ladies, you may have dreamed of a day when you no longer have to age gracefully, or are forced into obscurity by a wardrobe filled with basic neutrals. You look in the mirror only to be confronted with sagging skin, pebbled cellulite, and wrinkles and places you never expected. You start to wonder if you'll be old and alone forever. A little bit of blood is worth the price to drink at the fountain of youth, isn't it? One. Denial And then it happens.

Some figure seduces you from the shadows, and you fall lovingly into their arms with your throat-beared by a torn turtleneck. You think you've beaten the odds. Only, death is never as romantic as it is in the movies, and rebirth is downright disgusting. That $200 cut in color is reduced to a dirt-matted mop, and your nails are broken from digging your way out of a shallow grave.

Don't even get started on the state of your skin. And they say mud makes a magical facial. Call bullshit on that one. You blow it off. Decide you were slipped to Mickey. And some teenage asshat buried your passed-out body in a mound of moldy leaves as a joke. No prince charming dressed like Bella Lagosi.

No sexy interlude behind the cocktail line. lounge. No throb of the forbidden. You refuse to acknowledge the truth. So you rub at the bruise on your neck and search through the closet for an even higher collar to hide the arterial bloom. The next day you call in sick. After all, you've been working at the college wearing your nicest smile for 20 fucking years. Don't you deserve some time off for good behavior? You've never acted on the impulse to feel a student just because they are a monster in the classroom. But no one has ever thanked you, not once. Screw that.

When you wake up, the day has disappeared, and September's harvest moon squats low on the horizon. You've been eating vegan in an attempt to lose belly fat and to reduce cholesterol, but all you can think about is a nice, juicy, Seat steak, rare. And why shouldn't you treat yourself? You only live once, right? Two. Anger. Okay, so maybe you didn't make it to the restaurant on your walk from campus to downtown.

And those belligerent fret boys probably had it coming anyway. Back at home, you take a shower and toss your blood-soaked clothes in the bin. No more beige for you. From here on out, you will only wear velvet and lace, cut seductively to show off the new you. But when you look in the mirror, nothing has changed. That crepey skin is still visible on your neck. Your breasts sag without the support of an underwire. And the cellulite on your thighs appears even more dimpled than it did before.

You go out the next night looking for answers from your vampire progenitor. You figure they have some explaining to do. Why can you see yourself in a mirror? Better yet, where's the goddamn fountain of youth? You wouldn't have wanted the cursed blessing if you knew that you'd have to spend the rest of your presumably immortal days alone at the resting age of 55. What kind of sick fuck would damn you to that particular purgatory?

Three, depression. You think about walking outside and ending it all with a little vitamin D. But you've never liked the sun, skin cancer and all of that. You didn't wear wide-brimmed hats, long sleeves, and your weight in SPF-100 for 30 years to go out in a blaze of glory.

Instead, you go on a binge of boys and booze. It could be worse. Four. Acceptance. You invest in corsets, light your home with kids. Candles. Still, it takes some time to let go of modern perceptions of youth and beauty. Even though you know from experienced, there's more to life than that. After all, you can deadlift a family sedan. You've gotten

out of the academic grind with a few well-placed casualties and snapshots of your new, I don't give a fuck, stylings turned you into an Instagram hit. Sure, those pictures are mistakenly titled, sexy at 60, but whatever. It doesn't take long before your memoir is sold as fiction for six figures, and you start the popular blog, so you want to write a vampire novel? In between readings and convention appearances, you stalked the streets looking for one of your own kind, even though you never found the vampire who turned you,

or any other vampire for that matter, you crave a companion. So, when you see the foxy woman astride a black beast of a motorcycle, silver hair streaming out behind her, you act on impulse. You pretend you didn't notice it was a full moon, or that the howls dogging her trail sounded like wolves. It's your nature, after all, you tell yourself as you dig a shallow grave with a broken fender. You tell yourself that she'll love you forever even as you push the dirt over her drained body.

She'll forget her lover with the moon-bright eyes. She'll forget the spat that scent her far from her pack. Your blood will triumph. You're sure of it. But when she rises, the silver-haired woman looks right through you. She stumbles away and leaves you behind to stare at an empty hole filled with nothing more than moonlight and frost. Over the distant sounds of traffic and sirens, a wolf howls. Five, betrayal.

Overhead, January's Wolf Moon watches with an amused grin. The silver-haired woman breaks into a lope. You don't need a magic mirror to tell you how this will play out. The movies are full of stories about romantic triangles and unrequited love. If nothing else, You'll no longer be alone. You gather your cape and follow. In our final tale, we venture into the seediest neighborhood in the city.

Well, us and Elmore Gibbs. You see, Gibbs is something of a bounty hunter, and he's not there to mess around. And in this tale, shared with us by author, Gene Kendall, his plans get changed when he has an encounter with a rather important, Teenage Runaway. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Sarah Thomas, Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, Atticus Jackson, and David Alt.

So remember, sometimes the bite is worse than the bark, especially if they have dog teeth. Father once accused me of lacking one wit of common sense. I'm proving that departed saint correct this evening, strolling. through the discipleship district and radiating a vibe that invites little more than trouble. So be it. I have no one to blame but myself for ending up here, soft footing through the seedyous neighborhood in this city. Were I given to poetry, I might posit some elytic ruminations on how the winds blowing through this neighborhood are moving like a demonic force. Touching each soul with the warm breath of malevolence.

Truth is, it's just ordinary damn wind, but these streets do carry something with them. Notes of blood, nauseating incense, sinful laughter that slinks out of dark alleyways. A suitable backdrop for the couples passing by in their shiny kink out of dark alleyways. outfits. Far more lust than love present in their dark eyes. I stand out like a thumb that's lost its fight with a hammer. No one in a five-mile radius of here is wearing a brown suede jacket, flannel button up and jeans, I promise you. It just isn't the style of the locals. Us normal folk of the world started calling them dog teeth. after they writhed out of the underground, now outright brash in announcing their presence.

Their preferred term would be disciples. Of who or what they ain't telling. A few years of conflict between these pallid ghouls and all the decent, tanned people of the city resulted in the establishment of the discipleship district. They have their own corner of the city, pushed up as far north as districting could allow. A comfortable distance from both the docks and the tall glass buildings that house all those urban professionals. You can still find a preppy or a tourist in discipleship, though, hoping to indulge a fetish or simply engage in some freak watching. A chance he passed down.

and it often ends violently. No official sanction declares these streets off-limit to police, but all honest souls realize the odds of spotting flashing blue lights around here are minimal. I'm fully aware of all this, and yet here I go, wandering these streets armed with not but a 1320 single mark K-bar. It's tucked against my hip, sticking close like a... a loyal puppy. Admittedly, it's a lovely blade,

well-balanced and only negligibly dulled after years of service. But not much protection for what I know I'll find here in discipleship. As I amble towards another one of Wien Street's endless gin mills, my path nearly crosses with a young dog-tooth couple all dolled up in their matching leather outfits.

They've already been served to capacity at some other, establishment. But why let that stop a fine bar crawl? She has her ivory white hand tucked into his back pocket. He has his right hand situated someplace far more provocative. A pause by the front door. Exchange a look with the male. Dog-tooth lore says they carry some kind of psychic ability. Just one of a dozen reasons why they creep us out so severe. But it's not as if he'd need any telepathy to pick up the aura I aminate this evening. There's a shift in his stance, a twinkle in those obsidian eyes that hints he's open to giving a tired old man what he wants.

Fucking help you, mate. Then there's the flash of his pearly white canines that gets my hopes all kinds of up. Unfortunate, though, how fast the act dissolves once he catches my hand moving to my hip. Seems he might be more of a lover than a fighter. He gives his lady a squeeze and the two of them enter the establishment, walking past as if I wasn't worth their bother. The bar has a nosferatu theme, playing up an old legend that connects dog teeth to the undead creatures of folklore.

They've always sworn this is untrue. Used to claim it was damned offensive, actually, but even the dimmest of individuals would have to suspect. And here they are today, outright boasting about it. I cross my arms and sulk like a kid discovering a barren tree on Christmas morning. A doubt flutters by has me questioning this whole scheme. Not a serious enough one to send me back home, however. Merely one that leaves me standing still on this sidewalk, inhaling the night sense.

I'm almost pleased to feel the sensation of goose flesh popping on my arm. Confirms I'm still human enough to experience that visceral sense of disgust. Some movement at the door snaps me out of this funk. A dog tooth, sporting neck tats, a chained nose piercing, and double mohawks, is stumbling out, dancing with imaginary spirits. There's a possibility my movement in his direction. The hip check that sends him to the pavement is more than an accident. He lands heavy, lands face first. Hey, man, what's your deal?

He wipes blood from his lip. Those marauder eyes flick upward, and I offer a response that carries no remorse. It's a disappointment, though, don't even get a decent look at his canines before the recognition sets on his face. You're shitting me. Gibbs. Oh, man, no way.

He staggers back onto his wobbly feet and shuffles backwards. Nope, not tonight, man. Grab the skunk, pull him close and tell him it is tonight, has to be tonight. He's already scuttling his merry way into the street, however, keeping more of an eye on me than the traffic. He has to dodge a speeding Mercedes or two, but he's soon safe on the other side. Good for him. Me, though. Well, now I've been denied twice.

And I got a morose suspicion the next encounter will be my official strikeout. There's honking down the street coming from one of those shiny black coops so popular in this neighborhood. I suspect there's an accident, some confrontation between adrenaline-amped dog teeth that might give me the action I desire. I hoof it over there in less than 20 seconds and spot yet another disappointing. The vehicle's occupied by a girl, maybe not even 20, who's laying her fist on the hooter in impotent frustration. Her lovely coop, it seems, is officially crapped out on her. That plume of smoke wafting from beneath the hood is my big hint. I'm ready to turn back to bump into a few more drunken disorderlies.

When I hear the Coops drive her side door pop open, the girl steps out onto the sidewalk, wiping a tear with the back of her bald-up fist. She's wearing an oversized hoodie and athletic shorts dressed like she's headed for bed. Clashes hard against the polished and studded outfits that surround her. The girl takes a moment to collect herself, maybe draw up some courage, and then scope out her. environs. Those good Sumeritan types, you're not likely to find them in the discipleship. I watched the girl turn to the onlookers, desperate for help. The first one scoffs at her. The second laughs. For reasons unknown, I'm approaching the young dog tooth with both hands

in my pockets. Flicking my eyes to a car, I ask. You've been cleaning the condenser? Making sure you're The coolant is nice and topped up. She's exasperated, scared, doesn't appreciate my grand humor. I hate to tell you, but I think you're stuck. I say, in a tone bordering on friendly. And I doubt you'll have any luck asking this crowd for help. Chivalrous instinct, a reason that has me doing this.

The girl has the same black hair and blood. Mudless skin is any other dog tooth. No way I'm telling her anything she doesn't already know. She's amongst her own people. But there's real hurt in her eyes, a hopelessness in her body language. Qualities I wouldn't normally associate with dog teeth. It was so close to getting out of here.

She eyes her surroundings with disgust. I can't say if she's talking to me or her... Could be she's a master manipulator. That she's playing her con like a black widow, and I'm the unfortunate fly that's been drawn into her web. Even if this is the case, that means the petite thing is giving me precisely what I want. You got a name, miss? Her sad, dark eyes turn to mine. Anna, I'm sorry to be bothering you.

Mr. Gibbs Elmore Gibbs I tell her with a dip of my chin I make sure to say this clearly to make certain she knows who she's talking to

there's a second before the recognition sets on her face Oh She turns to the car and looks back at me I guess you're here on a job Not tonight Anna She's a small thing

not even coming up to my shoulders. Most of these dog teeth have a long, lanky anatomy, like they're made out of aluminum wire. You have a phone to call for help? It's been shut off. I was going to buy a new one, I guess a cheap one, after I got out of town.

Likely no mechanic isn't on my resume, girl. Don't think there's much I could do to help you out here. She agrees, nods with those big, sad eyes closed. I'm clearing my throat and repositioning myself, easing my stance. I'm going to tell myself this might still be a trap, and I've already chosen to be the fly tonight. But if you need a phone to borrow, I could offer mine. It might be older than you are, but it'll still catch a signal.

A self-conscious grin. creases her face, and I unclip the mobile from my belt. As I hand it to her, I advise that we move away from this crowded street. Easy to imagine there are hunters about, too many rapacious glances for anyone's comfort. I stay close to Anna as we step discreetly to a side street that separates two of the bars. In the lonely alleyway, she makes a call to a garage that's already closed. for the night. Her second call doesn't pick up. The third shop answers

and is rather courteous and professional until she brings up the discipleship district. I overhear his voice on the phone, telling her with no hesitation that Tomlinson auto repair does not service that area. Thanks for the phone. She hands me back, the mobile.

Guess I should have counted on that, given my luck. tonight. And really, I couldn't have paid those people much of anything anyway. There's noise from the nearby streets still. Fevered howls and depraved laughter escaping those gin joints. Agitated profanities from the motorist's inconvenienced by Anna's abandoned car. She gives a look to both directions like she doesn't know which way to turn.

Some emergency Beckoning you away from the city this fine evening Anna fills in her lungs And gives herself a moment Before answering More like, tonight's my best shot And I'd be a total idiot not to take it I suppose life's full of disappointments

But I'm gonna confess I don't understand why you're so uneasy here Among your own kind Not everyone's so deep, deeply into... What's the word? Tribalism? It sounds right.

Could be. I'm not so attracted to the blood and depravity. Some of us figured out a long time ago that they don't belong here. Some of us have been waiting for their chance, waiting anxiously, to get the heck out.

I keep moving toward the facing street. It used to be Roosevelt Street until the dog teeth renamed it Blasco. Another strip of bars and joy houses. She follows. So you're not alone in their feeling, Anna. I know you don't want to believe that. Given your past with us.

Everyone carries the past with them. And they'd be a fool not to respect what they've learned along the way. What certain individuals have chosen to show them? The baggy sleeves of her sweatshirt cross over. and hug her chest. But if you're not here on a job, why would you go to discipleship of all places? I thought tonight it might be the place that could give me what I need.

Probably half the people on that street wouldn't mind separating your head from your neck. Wind blows those raven locks into her face. With a burst of defiance, she flicks the errant strands out of her eyes. You're over here. for a fight, aren't you? Why? Nothing good on the TV.

You know how it is now. All the garbage they produce. That's what you do, isn't it? When you're in some bad funk, you perk yourself up coming into discipleship and knocking dog teeth around. Maybe Anna here's owed some honesty. Maybe I've grown tired, plain coy. No, not quite. You came here looking for some reaction, though.

Elmore Gibbs has to know he can't stay anonymous in discipleship. Look, I'm not some creature of myth, Anna. I'm made up of flesh and blood and hubris and all that other nonsense. My hands are still in my pockets, and I notice my shoulders shifting, like some idiot teenager having an awkward conversation with his father. Some days, I can't. It bad news. I don't know how to process.

And coming here helps? Don't think there's much of a difference between helping and hurting at this point. A tiny grunt of confusion leaves a dark lips. After a weighty silence, she asks. What kind of bad news are we talking about? Ever go to the doctor and hear something you didn't like? Maybe. I wonder, though, if dog teeth even have.

physicians. I'd always assumed some kind of demonic voodoo priests instead. Irrelevant now, I guess. You ever tell the doctor your symptoms and all he can give you in return is a shake of his head and a doleful look

of regret? Anna can't think of an answer. She bobs her neck back and forth and then moves a few steps ahead of me. There's a shift in her bearing like she's just caught sight. of something out there on Blascoe Street.

Something she didn't like. Listen, I'm not out to ruin your fun. Assuming you'd take advice from a dog tooth like me, I'd suggest you try some other therapy. She's trying to sound chipper and reassuring, comes across more nervous instead. Thanks for your help. I'll try to figure something out.

She breaks on her head, pulling her hoodie even lower and sprinting off into the street. I catch up, though. I get a grip on her right arm. And his face is panicked, a little too white even for a dog tooth. With my free hand, I fish a crinkly bill out of my pocket. Here, I slip the cash into her icy palm. There should be a bus over on Kostic Boulevard within the hour. You know the way?

She nod, after spending a second, working something out in her mind. Then she pounces up on her sneakers and gives me a kiss on the cheek. She hurries along, all hooded up, without a look back. I stand in the midst of Blasco and take in the sights, questioning what spooked the girl. It's not as crowded as Wien Street, but there's a healthy assortment of drunks embarrassing themselves on the sidewalk. None are taken off Anna's way, something I note with gratitude. There is, however, a lone figure leaning over the Schaumburg Hotel's wooden gallery, clad in a black suit with a wine-red collared shirt.

Kind of outfit you just as easily find on a big city's side. sophisticate or a hired killer. He's got a bottle of champagne in hand, but nothing in his body language reads as tipsy. The mystery man is watching, keeping his eye on the street, watching with what looks like a predator's grin. At least from this older gentleman's perspective, tired eyes playing tricks, paranoia, or maybe Elmore. Gibbs has developed some instincts over his misspent years.

I watch as the hunter scans the streets, looks the way of poor departing Anna, and then heads back inside. And he does it with a bounce to his step. I snake my way past the traffic of automobiles and assorted drunkards and reach the Schaumburg's lobby. Suppose there's still the possibility this is part of an elaborate scheme, then I'm walking into a well-crafted trap.

But I'll remind myself again that I have no problem with this. The Schaumburg's a known place for humans and dog teeth to mingle in peace. I spot a few tanned ones milling about the lobby, some noticeably strung out. A few purchased from street corners and others standing obediently behind. their dog-tooth companions. Those tend to be the rich kids with daddy issues, the ones who can't get their rocks off through conventional means, I've heard. Well, maybe they think their life of privilege requires some twisted form of penance.

They give me predictable stairs as I make my way through the open space, dark, ambient lighting, Ivy creepers winding up brick walls, and an enigmatic scent of leather, clove buds, and lilies that's meant to chase all the normies away. I'm looking out for my mystery friend when I feel two taps against my shoulder. He doesn't notice my grip on the K-bar as I turn to face him. It's an employee dressed in that ludicrous, formal yet fatal look you'll always find. in the more respectable dog-tooth joints. Silk suit and tie with a studded neck choker. Sir, do you have a reservation for this evening?

No reason to give him an answer, so I don't. Having released my grip on the blade, I keep moving through the lobby, curious if my friend has made his way down yet. I hear, dangles. steps following. Sir, only guests and their companions are allowed at the Schaumburg. I mutter two syllables that might sound like, uh-huh, as I brush past. As possible, I maneuver my elbow in such a way it knocks the dainty one over.

There's some offended chatter in the background as I spot the elevator bank and pick up my steps. An elevator arrives right at this moment as luck would have it. As the bell gives its ding, doors open and I spot that familiar figure from the gallery. His sable hair is shaped like Caesars, and his build indicates he's just as much a warrior. Expression on his mug shows he wasn't expecting to find me here. Guess he thought he could saunter on out. and do his dark business without any hassles. His lip curls. You?

I flashed the K-bar and give him a push back into the elevator. Yes, it is. As his body slams against the back wall, tell me, friend, am I getting in the way of something you got planned? I don't have time for this, Gibbs. Let me go and I might let you leave here without any missing limbs. He's indifferent to the blade I've pressed against his neck. There is a special kind of hate in his voice,

indicates he knows me by way of more than reputation. We had some occasion to break bread or break bad in the past, pal. The odium on his face shifts a bit. Suggests that perhaps his ego has been bruised. Wolfiaga. Six years back, you chased after me to collect some horseshit bounty. Left me in the hospital with a broken jaw. I guess they do have doctors, after all.

Been doing this for too long. I tell Wolf, keeping the blades steady. Starting to lose track of all these cherished encounters. He doesn't answer with words. It just moves faster than I expected. and drives my armed hand away from his neck. I nearly catch the K-bar in my eye. Still have a grip on it, though,

and I slash downward and rip a piece of his suit jacket. We tumbled out of the elevator, whacking against some of the indignant guests. That's when I get greedy, take an aim at his chest. I have stupidly left myself open for his right hand to nab my arm, as his body slides out of the way.

He's got both hands on my wrist before I can reorient, jerking me forward and then planting his healed boot into my left shin. Wolf's a bit too ravenous this time, attempting to hammer on my back with both fists. I, astonishingly, managed to pivot out of his way and spear his right side of the moment those fists connect with the moral fist. Stich, guys, get some deufle! Oh, those canines are out now, jutting out between some sizes and by cuspids. Again, dog teeth swear they're not vampires, but even if they can't create undead slaves,

all accounts state those chomper's hurt like hell. I remove my blade and debate, taking a better shot at his neck. That's when a strange pair of hands grips my shoulders, pulls me away from the rockers. Some quick fits of pain, register, not even a second later, and I gather it's the sensation of several feet connecting with my aged body. Those guests, the preppy human ones, seem vexed. I've interrupted their fun. The sensation of their loafers and oxford's pounding against my ribs gets their point of drops, I guess.

Causing trouble, harassing a disciple. The nerve. I tend to roll away. I keep my eyes on, Wolf. I'm guessing now I blacked out for a moment there. Once the preppy's confused me for a soccer ball, because Wolf is already racing past the doors and into that cold night. One of those enthusiastic feet lands close enough to my free hand for me to get a grip.

I flip the sap head over and grunt some satisfaction. He's a broad-shouldered young man who lands with a thick enough thud, inspiring the rabble to take a few steps back. I stagger upward, brandishing the K-bar. I'm not looking to slice my own kind. Not that I'm thrilled sharing a species with you lot. I take a cautious step backward towards. the door. The preppies keep their distance and I only end up bumping into a potted plant as I

walk astern out of the Schaumburg lobby. I check the sidewalk both ways and wolf's nowhere to be found. As a trickle on my chin, I know his blood even before I wipe and inspect the back of my hand. Guess I'm lucky as he leaves only a minimal smear across my knuckles. That ache in my ribs, though, is going to stick around like a hit song. Silly old man complaining about lingering aches two weeks from now when I wasn't planning on surviving past this very night. No, this isn't the time for those deep thoughts. I've set out on a course of action,

and it's best for everyone if I play it through. I return the cabar to its sheath, fish another crinkly bill out of my wallet. There's a dog-tooth human couple headed for the Schaumburg. I ask the human, a sprightly female in her late teens, who seems more determined to upset her parents than revel in any dark desires if she's seen anyone matching Wolf's description. Her dog-tooth boyfriend tries to bug off. I grip her forearm and add a crumpled Grant to that Jackson. It had mean the world to a weary old man if you could help.

She tells me in her childlike, nimble voice that he went east. I'm out of my thanks and race along with throbbing bones. Maybe Wolf took off so fast because he suspected he was given an irritable goat precisely what he wanted. Maybe said goat was preventing Wolf from engaging in some, nastiness with poor Anna, and that's why he bolted. Maybe both. I tell myself again to stop thinking so much and keep moving.

East would be the direction of Caustic Boulevard, where I'd sent Anna to catch the bus. Poofing it in that direction, I hit the intersection where Costic intersects with Ackerman. A few figures linger around the bus stop. There might as well be ants to my ancient eyes. But none seemed to match Anna's height or body language. Over to my right, I eye Ackerman Street. Specifically, the community gardens located less than a block from the intersection and separated from the sidewalk by an ornamental steel fence.

I tell myself I'm hearing muffled cries in that direction. I also tell myself I'm not hearing a thing that my mind's playing tricks concocting excuses for me to keep living out of fool's death wish. Regardless, I shift my wobbling dog trot in the direction of those gardens. No gin joints or teddy bars on Ackerman. Meaning there's no audience to observe

this fatigued old cook scale that imposing fence. No one to watch him fall twice while doing it. I'm eventually able to clamber over the top, though, and manage a somewhat graceful descent onto the grass. Turns out my ears and mind weren't concocting fairy tales. I do hear a voice, a young lady's, all panicked and muffled. Sometimes the neighboring crickets are kicking up a louder ruckus, but I soon pinpoint the source of those cries. On a raised area of grassy land is the garden's main attraction, an imposing bronze sculpture. surrounded by black velvet petunia and other gothic flowers.

It's a monument to an unnamed female, one reported to be a divine figure amongst the dog teeth. A light affixed to the sculpture's base illuminates two additional figures, animated ones. It's wolf, now manhandling Anna. He's torn off a piece of his fancy collared shirt and shoved it into her mouth. Anna? Remove the K-bar and approach the sculpture with furious steps. Leave her be, you rat-eyed shithel. Rage flares across his sallow face.

This doesn't concern you, old man. Pressing his forearm tight against Anna's throat, he adds. So piss off while you can still move. While his eyes are trained on me, Anna sees her shot and presses her heel hard into wolf's toes. Hurts hard enough for him to temporarily lose his grip. She manages to get not even six inches away before he nabs her again. He only has one hand on her, though, and she isn't giving up the fight. Gives me an opportunity to barrel in and collide into wolf with my...

my good shoulder. A rat-eyed one that uses his grip and stumbles backward, almost connecting with the sculpture's marble base. Go, girl. I point towards the street. Run! She can't talk, thanks to the gag, and her face doesn't give me any kind of an answer.

I have to pray she does the smart thing as I quickly lose sight of the girl. Wolves recovered faster than I anticipated, running from an angle and taking a mighty swing. I'm just right, rattling my molars and causing me to see even more stars than the sky has to offer. I taste some blood, spit, some unkind words, and then stagger back. I'm making him think he gave me the blow of a lifetime, not much acting on my part. He dives in with the sloppy move I'd anticipated, enabling me to skewer his right on. He screams. I grunt and then he get caught up in an awkward race.

I've got half of you with that sculpture now, and I'm sorely pissed off at how badly it's distracting me. Mystery Idol is standing proud, wavy locks immaculately positioned. over her shoulders as she cradles a magnificent thick-billed raven and overlooks her city, waves a smoke frame her body, and in her feet to the hands of her servants, desperate for even the most fleeing of contact. It's like she has this look on her face, haughty, superior, but pleased too. Like I've given her a show, and she wants me to know she's getting a kick out of it. Some hypnotic sensation begins to swirl about, telling me I'm lucky for this opportunity to please her. It's an honor, I should know, to be born with such low station to have found myself in her company, sacrificing my body for her amusement.

I snap out of this sickening trance when a noise, a moist, squish escapes wolf's lips. Dog teeth guns make a certain sound when they release those formidable chompers. Wolf has those canines out now, in his mouth's position too damned close to my neck. He sinks those fangs into my flesh, and I howl. I don't know how long it takes me to realize he missed my carotid. Could be he missed on purpose. He missed on purpose, that he's enjoying the affair and wants to draw it out. Maybe to please our bronze goddess up there.

I make the call to remove my blade and offer wolf a fast elbow to his groin as a parted gift. He dances backward, so I lunge, aiming this time for his throat. All that pain has to be sublimated, used. to augment the adrenaline and keep blood pumping through this tired, foolish body. I catch a glimpse of wolf's bloody smile as I dive. It's the kind that implies your opponent just ate something remarkably dumb. He eludes my cabot, avoids it by less than a cat's whisker, I swear,

and lands a solid grip on my right wrist. A talented bastard then uses my momentum to twirl me around, sends my body westward when he maintains that grip. On my elbow, it practically snaps in two, and that blade lands somewhere in the dark. I end up on my back, with wolf's shoe leather stomping my chest like it's a bug he wants dead. Ribs snap in rhythmic succession. Panicked, I make a grab for the nearer. leg and heave. Wolf's balance goes wobbly, but he doesn't tumble until I'm somehow able to roll over

while keeping that leg as my prize. His face collides against that marble base, makes a hard, wet sound that maybe leaves me too proud. The spotlight amplifies glimmers of spit and something long and sturdy flying from his mouth, well, poor wolf lost one of his canines. Imagine that. My arm wails in agony as I grab for the tooth. He's too punched drunk to offer much resistance when I kneel over his body and press knees down on his shoulder. Sorry, pal, but I guess this wasn't your night. There's a pulse of recognition on his face when he realizes what's coming next.

A face I've seen so many times. I'd drive the canine tooth, all five inches of it into his right eye. Keep going until it penetrates his brain. It wasn't mine, neither. The adrenaline peters out not so long after, and I flop over. for pains exploding all over, but that isn't my concern. Concern. Wasn't I asking for this?

There's a quavering sensation in my chest, followed by a tightness that clenches tauter than a fist. The light-headed, too. There might be seeing things. A blurry figure is coming into the light. Gibbs. Gibbs. Can you hear me?

It's Anna. Or some woozy delusion that's taken her form. Hey, Gibbs. Look at me. Look. Can you see this? She spread her index and middle fingers apart, directing them at her eyes, then pointing them back towards mine.

Yeah, girl. I see you. I lean leftward, cough up some red, and the body screams again. I don't know if you're real or not, but two fingers, sure. I see that. You didn't have to do any of this. I sense her body shifting, leaning closer to mine. I'm worried about you Gibbs.

This is the kind of foolishness I was looking for tonight. The warrior's death, huh? I hear the derision in her voice. All over a back. Roll both shoulders back onto the marble. Her face is hovering above, smeared white paint melding into the evening sky. Better than months of pointless treatments. Better than colostomy bags and those awful little gowns with the peek-a-boo bags.

It offends my sense of modesty, you see. Her head bobs over in the direction of wolf's lifeless form. Guess I shouldn't gripe about your foolishness. What sucks, though, is that wolf won't be the last. Who'd want you? Dead. She brushes a dangling strand of hair out of her alabaster face. Listen, Gibbs.

I'm just a teenage rebel. In your culture, that means naval piercings and tiny skirts. In mine, it means. things like white magic, mystical prayer, and ecstatic visions. And they'd kill you over that? She would. Yeah. Heck, there's no wood here. No hypothetical. My chest is tight as a Scotsman. My nerves are aflame.

But still I find the gumption to ask. She. Anna gestures towards that wicked sculpture. In this lady, she's your queen, Anna's face breaks. I never call her that. That enough, I have to call her mom. I don't know if my face is too swollen to transmit my surprise, but I do gurgle out some expression of shock. Anna has that scrap of Wolf's shirt. Still, she's using it now to wipe the blood from my cheeks.

Wolf Drago. me here for a reason, you know. It's not as if she deigns to visit us in person that often, but here, through this. Her free hand again gestures towards the sculpture. She has her eyes. Sure. Makes sense. The statement's more sarcastic than I'd intended.

Anna studies my mess of a face for a moment, then she sighs and takes both my cheeks in her hands. What are you... Hush! Stay still. Her palms feel like they just left an oven. A sensation rushes through them. A portent of some empathetic, soothing, forgiving. I know I don't deserve it, but a voice tells me to shut up and accept it anyway.

I'm brought up in this glow for several moments. Just happy to have a tiny cardness and presence on this big flood. I'm a floating mud ball. Before I realize the pain's easing from my muscles. No tightness in my chest either. The release of a burden, nothing but inexpressible relief. The stars are twinkling, but so's the light in Annie's eyes. I couldn't say which is more beautiful.

She pulls back and studies my pupils for a second to ensure I'm okay. And she turns away with an embarrassed smile. I'm able to hoist myself halfway up. I notice Anna's gaze is turned back to her mother. Above my head in the sculpture's direction. That here, right under her eyes. Nice way to piss the lady off. Has returned to mine, a flicker of a grin on her lips.

Didn't even occur to me. Right. I say, with a bigger smile. Massaging my muscles, still in disbelief, I say. I feel, Anna, I feel better. I tell her this, because it's true. Didn't expect to see her face suddenly grow solemn. You have to understand, Gibbs.

I can't understand, Gipps. do what's eventually coming anyway. Her eyes shift away from mine. Can't save you from what that doctor told you. You can't make me as exuberant and youthful as you are, darling? Bodies break down. It's a natural process. And the end can only be delayed for so long.

Ultimately, we have no control over that. What you can control Gibbs. Tone now is. dare I say it scolding Is how you react to it You saying I'm a fool Looking for an exit like this She stands

Offers a hand up And you disagree? I take her hand Which is chilly once again What I think is There's a teenage rebel Who isn't as independent And Teflon as she'd thought

What I think is she could use some protection And a broken down bruiser Without a whole lot else going on Without too many days left to mark off on his calendar I think he could put those days to good use Her eyes bounce northwarded She's considering it at least I place a hand on her shoulder

And give a fatherly squeeze Very least That broken down a bruiser could teach you some things about basic engine maintenance. As the coffin closes and once again the undead return to their slumber, we thank you for joining us here at the No Sleep Podcast for our sleepless decompositions. Join us next week and be fully braced for Volume 17. The No Sleep podcast is presented by creating, of Reason Media.

The musical composer is Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. Please visit the nosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show, along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our dark tales. This audio program is copyright 2024 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.