The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep10: NoSleep Podcast S21E10

Episode Date: July 7, 2024

It’s Episode 10 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about captive casualties.“Stakes” written by R.H. Berry (Story starts around 00:04:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Dylan – Atticus Jackson, Homeowner – Erin Lillis“The Spot” written by Olivier Zangao (Story starts around 00:22:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Reagen Tacker“Within the Temple of Battered Bones” written by Jackson Arthur (Story starts around 00:26:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Tyler Mathews – Matthew Bradford, Constance Morel – Wafiyyah White“Paper Cut” written by Bryan Fagan (Story starts around 01:18:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Michael – AllontÈ Barakat, Steph – Kristen DiMercurio“The Mad Dr. Klingenbeck” written by John J. Hardic (Story starts around 01:49:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Dr. Klingenbeck – David CummingsThis 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 the Earworm audio drama musical.Click here to learn more about Jackson ArthurClick here to learn more about Bryan FaganExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Stakes” illustration courtesy of Krys HookuhAudio 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.

All aboard. Tickets, please. Find your seats. The train will be departing shortly. Your aboard, the sleepless Express. A direct journey into the darkness of the night. There are no sleeping cars available on this train. On this journey, you will experience the horrors found within

the dark landscapes and endless black tunnels, you will hear things which will leave you frightened and disturbed. And remember, there will be no stops until the very end of the life. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome aboard the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your conductor, David Cummings. rolls along, you might have noticed other travelers in the rail car with you. Do they bother you? Are they sitting too close to you, making too much noise, putting their feet where they don't belong? If so, you should speak with the conductor, although I'm not sure he has much power over those creatures. Regardless, I'll bet situations like that make you wish you could be a little more

isolated, right? Well, don't be so quick to want some alone time. Loneliness can be difficult for most people. We are social creatures, after all, and no matter how much social anxiety you might have, it is important for us to spend time with our fellow humans. But what if you find yourself forced to be with someone else, someone you don't know, someone who is, well, to put it nicely, insisting on you being with them? I dare say, the idea of being kidnapped or abducted is a topic ripe for horror stories. Yes, being stuck with someone or something, which you'd very much like to get away from. And speaking of things like that, I want to share an earworm with you. You know, a song that gets stuck in your brain that you can't shake off. Only this time the earworm is coming to us in the

form of a ghostly audio drama musical brought to you by our friends at the Shadows at the Door podcast. The Earworm Musical will be launching in February of 2025, and they have just launched a Kickstarter to fund this exciting project. Jeffrey Troughton can't sleep. Music bleeds through the walls at all hours interrupting his paranormal studies, but something has crawled its way from the other side, a sinister earworm eager to sink its hooks into the right host. As Jeffrey's weary, yet curious mind is hoisted into the darkness. Will he surface from the shadows? Or will he be cursed to play second fiddle within his own soul? And who will be next? Featuring many familiar voices, including our own David Alt, Erica Sanderson, and Ilana Charnel. This atmospheric one-act audio drama

musical is filled with pleasing terrors, immersive sound design, and a bewitching score of nine original songs. Brought to you by the award-winning team behind Shadows at the Door, the podcast, and award-winning hip-hop artist Paul Alboro, aka Professor Elemental. Earworm will take your breath away. Check the show notes for the link to their Kickstarter page and consider backing this project to get an earworm of your own. And so, be they earworms or people who have chosen to attach themselves to you, or the

other way around, it can be deeply unsettling to find yourself decidedly un-alone. And on this episode, we feature tales that can quite literally be considered captivating. So come join us. It's so much more fun than being alone. And now, the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we meet Dylan, a man who is down on his luck and looking for some quick and easy cash. Perhaps a bit of home burglary could help his finances. But in this tale, shared with us by author R.H. Berry, he doesn't take into account the home's security system.

And in this home, the system is most definitely secure. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Atticus Jackson, and Eniress Jackson, and a very much. Aaron Lillis. So if you risk some B&E to get your money, be aware that the risk is high, along with the stakes. It was too nice of a house to elude a robbery forever. It wasn't like Dylan was going in half-cocked. He'd scope the place out for a few days and knew damn well what he was getting into. The homeowner, an overwhelmingly average middle-aged woman, was meticulous in setting up her security system every night. But Dylan combed the forested premises for cameras and didn't think there were any. This place was far enough out from civilization to give him that tentative sense of

security. The confidence stirring up his common sense until the crowbar in his hands felt like a skeleton key of solid gold. Police wouldn't get here in time if he tripped the alarm. Dylan's rental car idled in its improvised parking spot. A dirt patch large enough to snaked the two-door vehicle through the cedars. Good distance from the road, so it wouldn't be seen by anyone on a late-night drive and fairly close to the house if he wound up needing to make a run for it.

Strange. He'd started these stakeouts in despair and desperation, facing bankruptcy and eviction. Now, he was almost excited. Damp Soil cushioned his steps. Dylan had the forethought to pick up a pair of boots to throw away once he was done here, maybe even burn, lest any prince be traced back to him. He had over large fabric grocery bags hanging off his shoulder, big enough to carry electronics

or other valuables he could pawn. He wielded the crowbar like a weapon against his own poverty. No lights but that from the silvery moon. Thank God there weren't many clouds. Dylan took deep breaths through his balaclava, calming, slow, keeping himself from jumping at every shadow. There were so many shadows. So many that look like hands stretching out towards him from high branches. So many shapes that could be bodies, but were really just tree trunks. Dylan crouched once he was clear of the trees,

circling the property to get to the side with the large windows that opened inwards. The screen barely an obstacle when he could simply tear through it. He split the stiff mesh with one end of the crowbar. Getting the window to open was going to be the only trick. He didn't want to alert the homeowner with the noise. But if he did, fuck it. With his heart pounding up against his eardrums from where it sat in his throat, with his adrenaline punting him to a dizzying high,

he could handle a single scared woman. He pushed the hooked end of the crowbar into the crevice between the windows. His breath caught with the air. When it popped open with relative ease, they weren't latched closed. Dylan stared into the gray-black cast of the living room while he processed. It felt too easy, and he had to make sure there wasn't going to be a second alarm set up somewhere. It would have a light on it, most likely. A little blinking thing or something.

Dylan had to poke his head through, his eyes steadily adjusting until he could confidently identify every shape. No security panel. Acceptable risk, then. Dylan tucked the crowbar into one of his bags and clambered over the windowsill, placing a gloved hand firmly on the surface while he lowered his feet to the floor. He was going to track mud. He felt in a logical, fleeting flesh of guilt for the cleanup. Ridiculous. He was robbing her.

It was a large flat screen television mounted on the wall, too large to consider stealing, and the same went for her impressive sound system. There were tall speakers in every corner of the room. The bookcase was disorganized, but gave most of his attention to the carefully hewn ivory knickknacks on one of the shelves. Ivory was costly. That was a good start.

Dylan didn't spend much time inspecting the stuff he grabbed, though he did note there were a lot of skinny, abstract sculptures. He all but swept the entire shelf with one arm into the first back. only thinking belatedly to be gentler, quieter. He could break this stuff if he was careless. Stupid. Maybe some of these books were rare, or the Blu-Rays. He took as many of the latter as he could get into his bag.

They might sell pretty well, even if they weren't new releases or limited editions. When he squinted, he could tell that the crucifixes on the wall were gold, or maybe gold-plated. Those went into a separate bag to avoid. avoid crushing the ivory with their heft. He'd hoped for more of the ivory stuff, honestly, more jewelry. Hidden cash would be the best thing. A wallet.

He needed to find the front hall closet or a coat rack. Dylan felt his way along the wall, ghosting fingertips over the light switch to avoid turning it on, and started mapping out the first floor. It proved to be an intuitive process, at least. Dylan hadn't spent so much time looking at the exterior to get it. lost within the simple layout. The homeowner had a covered boot rack not far from her front door, with receipts and outerwear thrown thoughtlessly on top. In rifling through the mess, Dylan's heart did a small flip upon finding the tanned leathery wallet, wads of it, tucked into the folds.

Dylan dropped the entire thing into the bag. He wouldn't use any of the credit cards in there. That could be traced. But maybe the wallet itself was also worth sort of. something, if it was real leather. This alone could pay a few of Dylan's bills, probably, but not his rent, nor would it give him a safety net to fall back on if times remained tough. You'd only go upstairs if the kitchen and dining room didn't have anything of interest. That felt like a legitimate line to draw in the sand. It wasn't like he could go up into the bedroom without waking her up, and that was where her jewelry probably was, shame. The ear-eaking pump of his pulse almost covered the creaking noise,

but Dylan caught himself on the way to the dining room, trying to watch his steps as though he could identify weak floorboards by limited sight. Things were going so damn well he wouldn't compromise his success that way. Careful, quick. Maybe he could leave soon. There was a cabinet in the dining room and another bit of ivory on the table. A shallow bowl by the looks of it, subtle cracks glinting when he turned it in his hand. He'd been filled in with gold.

A quick look at the cabinet confirmed that she had similar dishes on display. Fucking jackpot. Dylan slid open the glass and started gathering up every bowl. Weird that there were only bowls and so much thicker than they needed to be. Like someone had assumed the tusks they were fashioning would shatter if they thinned it past. past a quarter of an inch. He slowed when he reached the sixth of those bowls, turning it over in his hand.

It was tough to tell through his gloves, but were these ivory? Dylan drew back carefully from the cabinet, unease coming on in an abrupt wave. He couldn't quite place what was weird about these, but the back of his brain protested putting this one into the bag with the ivory sculptures and similar dishware. Something cold and wet clamped down over his face, and all he could see was obstructed. A cord pulled taut around his neck before he'd even processed dropping the bowl.

A sweet, alcoholic scent clogging up his airways. He wrestled at the cloth bag, mind blank with panic. But his consciousness slipped from him like the receding tide, blitz his palms open. The pain courses up through the corded muscles of his arms. His spread legs jerk, pure reflex, pulling at the rough rope around each ankle. Dylan slowly puts the pieces of his situation together, but only what brought him to the white-lit room with a tiled ceiling. That's the extent of his capabilities.

Because he hurts. Holy fuck does he hurt. There are soft clinking noises and a wet panting, but he can't see what's making the noise. Can't move his head. Someone must have funneled wet concrete through his ear canal for the disorienting weight of it. He groans. His dry mouth can't produce a comprehensible sound.

Oh, darn, you're awake. Dylan's mouth flaps open and closed like a caught fish as the homeowner leans over him, adjusting her square glasses. She's wearing a flowery green apron flecked with old spatters of dark brown and fresh crimson. He's awake, Bernard. She has a mallet in her hands, bouncing it idly against his palm. Dylan rasps at her, head lolling to one side. There's a wooden stake through his hand.

Even with his weak vocal cords, Dylan's scream rips out of him from the pit of his chest. It's promptly muffled as the woman starts stuffing a dishcloth into his mouth, fingers working it halfway down his trachea. He can barely breathe. He tries to squirm but finds himself weak as his nerves flare and tell him not to move. He's going to die. Dylan didn't consider that as a possibility somehow, but it's clear and unavoidable.

He might not even mind dying if it means the pain will stop. He expects the woman to knock him out again, but she doesn't bother. She whistles to herself tuneless but jaunty as she wanders around him in and out of his field of vision. There are more snorting, snarling sounds. Little patience, hon. Don't want him making a fuss when he sees you coming, do we? Dylan blinks rapidly. His eyes sting and water.

He can't make enough noise to even beg for his life. He wants to tell her he never meant to hurt anyone. or that he has kids. Both lies, but there has to be something he can say to appeal to her mercy. Women are supposed to be more tender-hearted, less prone to violence. He believed that once, and he prays to a God he's never believed in before that it's true now. The whistling picks up again. She returns after minutes, or in eternity, and watches Dylan cry feeble tears. You must be so confused.

She brushes his hair back in a maternal fashion, fussing with a little curl. Thought I lived alone, didn't you? I've got my Bernard to feed, you see. He's got particular tastes. Feed. Dylan knows it will only bring pain to thrash, but the word taps into a visceral animal panic. He's never been more willing to put himself through searing hell

if he can just tear free. He'll take off his hands at the wrist if it means he can run back to his car. He doesn't even know how he'll drive it. It doesn't fucking matter. His thought process spreads down spiderwebs, glimpsing every potential future his imagination can come up with.

And he can't see a single one in which he survives without destroying his hands as he yanks them right up through the stakes. The woman tries to shush him. Oh, come now. Don't be selfish. Everyone wants to die for a good cause now, don't they? You see, Bernard just doesn't eat if it's not still living. Dylan is choking on his own screams.

He hopes it's to his death. You'll be a real work of art, too. She bustles away. You've got a pretty big head. Oh, not that I'm trying to insult you, dear. I actually mean it as a compliment. I got bit by the crafting bug, you see. I just adore making these little ashtrays or candy dishes,

but a proper-sized skull? You can do so much with those, did you know? That mallets in one hand, a couple of stakes in the other. I don't want you to have to watch this. Her words drip with sympathy she can't possibly feel. I'll make this quick now. Try not to move your head. Dylan sees the point of the first splintered wooden stake approaching the soft lens of his cornea.

It's nonsensical, but when he shuts his eyes, he thinks for just an instant that he's saved himself from what's to come. The point digs into his thin, breakable eyelid. The mallet strikes the top with a gentle, twap. He sees white, then red, and the color of torture, something that transcends. sends identification while he screeches for the release of death. He can't tell the difference between one breaking eye and the other. His entire face burning as blood and thick clots of vitreous humor trailed down around the shells of his ears.

Much better! He has no idea how he's still aware of what's happening, but would do anything, fucking anything to make it stop. Anything. Anything. Please. Soup's on, Bernard. The clink of rattling chains,

the jangle as they hit the floor. Blunt human teeth bury themselves in his calf. And things finally go black. Sometimes a person can attach themselves to your fate without you even knowing it. Your life might hang in the balance of someone without you having the slightest clue. And in this tale, shared with us by author Olivier Zhangau,

we meet a man who seems to be able to predict someone's terrible fate and will soon learn how he knows. Performing this tale is Reagan Tacker. So mind where you go walking. You never know if you're going to be standing on the spot. I shudder as I walk over the spot. It's involuntary. and I can't help it. It's always been that way. It's no different than any other spot,

just the same old boring concrete as every other sidewalk. It's just an odd feeling knowing that someone is about to die here. It's not a premonition or a sixth sense. I just know that someone is about to take their last breath while walking directly over this spot. The feeling slowly fades as I make my way further down the road to the hotel I checked into the day before, clutching the rest of the sandwich I had just had for breakfast. It's nearly checkout time and I want to leave punctually. The room isn't too bad, I suppose, but I want to get out of here as soon as possible. The thoughts I was just having creep their way back into my head as I opened the side door and take the stairs to my room on the seventh floor. I know it's going to be a man,

slightly overweight, medium build, around 50. I can't confess to knowing anything more than that, though. Is he a good person? What was his life like until now? Will he be leaving a grieving wife and kids behind? I suppose those are all questions I'll never get answers to. Not that it really matters. It's all the same in the end.

It's dark as I enter the room. Having the blinds drawn closed, it's no wonder, of course. I pull the blind slightly open and blink a couple times as the light overpowers me. From here, I have a perfect view of that spot. It's strange to think I keep getting that same feeling after so many years. With a quick shake, I pull myself back into the present, finished screwing on the silencer. I feel a slight breeze on my face as I open the window just wide enough

and position myself away from it as to not be seen. but with a clear view of the spot. It's deathly still as a man matching the pictures perfectly, slightly overweight, medium build, about 50 walks into view. Through my scope, I watch my target unassumingly make his way to the spot. I breathe inward and hold it as my finger finds the trigger. When a person is abducted, they can only hope there's a chance to be released. Perhaps a ransom note is sent out.

Perhaps the police know how to track down the kidnapper. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jackson Arthur, we meet a person who has experience abducting people, and his reasons for doing so don't bode well for anyone he captures. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Matthew Bradford, and Wafia White. So perhaps there's a divine reason for your fate, at least if you're within the temple of battered bones. Fallen leaves crunched and crumbled beneath our feet,

causing unseen animals and insects to scurry away. I heard them shuffling off into the darkness, fleeing from the two approaching strangers. Their scabbering sounds echoing to the woods. Taking a moment, I glanced through the treetops. Beyond the bony branches I could see the sky It was a clear night And the stars were crisp and bright

The full moon granted us plenty of light to see our way Away from the cities Away from the towns Away from all of the man-made light bulbs and fake suns A person could better appreciate how beautiful the heavens were And beneath the unadulterated sky and clear heavens. A person could really find freedom.

A freedom to truly be themselves, to be whatever form of vile, despicable creature they wanted to embrace. The man walking in front of me, Bob or Bert, or something that rhymed with dog, stumbled over a discarded branch and fell onto his knees.

Through the cloth gagged, I heard his muffled sobbing, which sounded more like choked. and crying. Get back on your feet. The clock is ticking, and the Reaper waits for no one. The man didn't get up. Instead, he knelt there motionless. His head bowed, possibly in some prayer, to whatever God might intervene. Jokes on him. Real gods care nothing for mercy or salvation. As long as they received their occasional pound of flesh, they wouldn't notice if the world burned. They might eventually piss down from their mountain tops

And put out the smoldering ruins of society But I doubted it The man screamed against the mouthful of fabric Which caused him to wretch and heave Nothing came up luckily Or he might have choked on it Get back on your feet I don't have time for this bullshit

My fingers wrapped tighter around the piece of metal rebe bar that I held. Rather than swing the thick piece of steel, I put a little electronic box from my coat pocket. My thumb hovered over the red button for a second or two, when the man still refused to rise. I pressed it. The shock collar hugging the man's neck produced a quick jolt. He jerked, but still wouldn't stand. Turning the dial on the device, I maxed out the power. Another jolt through the collar Finally forced the man to his feet Adapoy

Now get moving My dad May he rest in hell Getting skull-fucked for eternity Occasionally used the shock collar on me too Whenever he was too tired or drunk To swing a belt At the time I hated him for it

But he was teaching me a lesson Showing me the raw power of pain Pain Pain was brutal and honest. It was a basic language spoken to people on a primal level, like a beautiful painting or melancholic song. Growing up, my father regularly took his pound of flesh from me until I was old enough to show him all that I had learned.

I'll never forget that day, because that was the day I realized that even gods could feel pain. My old man actually seemed surprised, once I finally strapped the collar around his neck. And when he felt the almighty sting, the piss and blood flowed like the most sensual wine. I gave Burt, a sharp shove, and we started moving again. There wasn't any logical path or direction to follow through the woods,

but I knew the way. Like the sacred words of Led Zeppelin, we were headed over the hills and far away, On our way to the houses of the Holy, where we would buy our stairway to heaven. After scaling a shallow implying, we came to a steep drop in the land. At the bottom, where the earth leveled out again,

I could see the mouth of the cave. The entrance was filled with an impenetrable darkness, like a black hole or portal into some abyss. The sight always gave me chills. Ancient people once viewed cave openings as gateways into the underworld. Places where the lands of the living and the dead connected, strange and otherworldly things were supposedly possible at those intersections. Thankfully, strange and otherworldly was exactly what I was after.

Without speaking, I pointed to the cave and made it clear where we were headed. There was a brief hesitation, but I didn't. didn't have to shock the man again. He appeared to have learned his lesson. Reluctantly, I put the control to the collar away. I could still reach it quickly, if me to be, but I thought that Bill, or Bob, might start behaving like a good dog. As we approached the mouth of the cave, a stale, foul wind met us there, coming from deep within. It was filled with the stench of rot and decay, a putrid odor that I found most pleasing. Some smells like stinky cheese, gasoline, and a skunked piss

could tickle the nose hairs of certain people in just the right way. Death was my stinky cheese. Inhaling a long breath, I let the combination of putrid decomposition, hopeless despair and detestable intentions, wash over my tingling taste palettes. It tasted better than a spoonful of ice cream or a glass of top-shelf bourbon.

For the first time in years, I thought of Tyler Matthews. It had been Halloween night, 25 years ago. My dad had been passed out drunk since that afternoon, so I decided to go out and look for some free candy. I didn't have a costume. So I pulled some of my father's dirtiest, most soiled clothes from the hamper and grabbed an empty bottle of PBR from the coffee table. With my black hair purposely disheveled, I went trick-or-treating as my old man.

Pissing myself would have completed the look, but I didn't have that level of commitment. You pathetic little nothing. I grunted in my best dad voice. Fuck you looking at, you little aunt. I'll step on you, you little fucking aunt. Grab me another beer. Addaboy. Having one of my dad's old belts wrapped loosely around my waist, gave me a sense of authority.

Like the worn leather and dried blood filled me with an unexpected power. On that side of the belt, I walked with my shoulders high and chest puffed out. I stood on the shoulders of giants and a lot. peered down at the scattering ants. It would be someone else's turn on the whipping post, forced to cower beneath the swinging leather. Someone else. Not me.

Not that night. After trick-or-treating for nearly an hour, my plastic shopping bag half full with sweets, I found myself at the edge of town, where the houses were sparse and further apart. The night was almost over, and the massive herd of sugar-hirt. happy kids had seemingly vanished. As I strolled along those quiet streets, I eventually saw

another kid. Someone else was alone, like me. The other kid, a young boy, noticed me too, and rushed over. Have you seen my mom? A nearby streetlight reflected in his tears. I can't find her. I'm not sure. I quickly surveyed the area, realizing that we were completely alone. Either trick-or-treating was over, or everyone had run out of candy, because the few people that had been outside were gone. Sidewalks and porches had been abandoned. Homes were a little darker than before.

The night was coming to a close. With Halloween nearly done, I could still feel the mountain of pent-up energy. in my chest. I wasn't ready for it to be over. I wasn't ready to give back the belt yet. Where did you see her last? Um, I don't know. I don't know. She was right behind me. I couldn't be sure if I knew the boy, because most of his features were hidden beneath the greatest Batman costume that I had ever seen. It was a full suit with a cape and cowl. It even came with a gold utility belt, shiny and void of blood. It was expensive and clean and powerful, something only loving parents would buy their son.

A black cloth bag was gripped tightly by the boy, a golden Batman symbol sewn into its side. The bag was full and bulging at the seams, overly stuffed with loads of sweet goodies. My own bag, a plastic monstrosity from the local grocery store, seemed silly by comparison. I think I just saw someone over there. I pointed toward a house that was still being put together. Let's go. It might be your mom. Is it her? Relief set into the boy's eyes.

You really think so? It might be It might be her No, I'm sure it is I'm sure it's her Thank you I was so scary It'll be okay

I patted him briefly on the shoulder I'll take care of you Okay Now let's go As we walk toward the construction site I noticed the boy eyeing my clothes belt and beer bottle even though his face was mostly obscured, something that resembling pity touched his expression.

Thank you. When we reached the partially built home, there wasn't anyone there. Are you sure she was here? Mom? Mom! Yeah. I abruptly pointed toward the rear of the sight. I think I just saw someone back there.

There's someone back there, I swear. We left the sidewalk and made our way around the side, the boy walking a couple of steps ahead. Away from the lights of the street, the darkness of the night formed crevices that appeared bottomless, endless. My free hand touched my dad's belt. It wasn't shiny or clean, but it was far more powerful than the boys. I didn't take it off, though, because I could. do better than my old man. Hitting someone in the head with a bottle wasn't like in the movies. It didn't explode into a million shards of glass. When I struck the boy in the back of his skull,

the bottle never even cracked. The boy stumbled and flailed, blood seeping through the fresh gash in his cowl. And it was a beautiful sight. But there was something missing. Instead of a sharp, breaking sound, the impact had been dull and hollow. Empty. The power that I had expected wasn't there, so I quickly discarded the bottle and plucked a twisted

piece of steel from a pile of construction scraps. Rushing at the boy, I hit him again, much harder, and the vibration of steel against bone was everything that I had dreamed. Why do you get to have a mom?

Why do you get to have a mom? to be Batman. The boy crumbled to the ground and rolled onto his back. In a flash, I was standing over him. The steel bar raised above my head. His eyes were wide and wild, but they had a glossy quality. His mouth opened as if to scream, but I brought the metal down too quickly, fracturing his jaw before he could make a sound.

Little fucking ant! I hit him again, cracking his... his eye socket. Outta boy! After shattering every inch of the boy's skull, I felt like the most powerful being that had ever existed. I had broken Batman, filled his flawless cowl with flowing blood and battered bones.

But I couldn't stick around to admire my work. Once I was sure that the boy was dead, I snatched his bag of candy from the ground, adding his loot to my own. After retrieving my dad's beer bottle, I quickly ran away, disappearing into the ether like a phantom. The boy had been all over the news for the following month or so. Tyler Matthews, nine years old. They called it a horrific act, a tragedy unparalleled.

For me, though, it was an awakening. I had found my calling, my purpose. With an act of sheer will, a little ant like me had shaken the entire ant hill to its foundation. My hometown was never the same after that. But fuck them. I would have stepped on every single one of them if I had the chance. Our body unexpectedly halted a foot inside the cave, pulling me from my fond memory. Keep going.

We're almost there. The man's shoulders went limp, as if he'd suddenly fallen asleep. I knew better, though. He wasn't sleeping. He had finally given up. Grabbing the thick chain that bound his wrists, I guided the broken man along, like a ripe heifer being led to slaughter. We walked another hundred yards or so,

our footsteps creating a storm of echoes that bounced back and forth along the rocks over and over, spiraling and growing around us, until the noise was maddening. Through the madness, we marched onward, until a familiar sight appeared in the distance, a dancing and shifting illumination. Pulling the man along, we followed the fluid glow, until ultimately entering into a large, oval cavern, hanging from the coarse wall or twelve, burning torches, which created a halo of light and shadow, filling the space with the illusion of motion.

A stifled gasp caught in the man's lungs as his sight adjusted. Alongside the twelve torches were twelve naked corpses, hanging like marionettes from the rock wall, all their wrists bound with the same thick chain as him. With pure blunt force, every bone had been... twisted and distorted, making it nearly impossible to discern male from female. Decaying flesh and muscle and meat hung from their battered broken bodies. The fresher ones still pulsated with juicy, hungry insects that thrived and flourished within the carnage. Perfect. Beneath their dangling feet, twelve distinct sigils were vaguely visible within the torchlight. Each one had been next

into the rock with patience and precision. It had been crucial to get every little detail exactly right. Every line and curve had to be flawless. My temple was nearly complete, but would it be enough to please them? Catching me in a days, as I admired my sacrifice and hard work, Bill or Bob, desperately struck me. with bound hands, hitting me hard on the side of the face. A thin, hot line formed across my cheek, and stars briefly filled my vision. As I stumbled a step backward, he turned to run. Even if it was fruitless,

I couldn't help but admire the man's Muxi. If I hadn't been so quick to reach the control for the collar, he might have gotten further away. swiftly I mashed the red button, sending a jolt of instant pain into the man's throat. The shock caused him to stumble, providing me an opportunity to swing the rebar. The piece of metal connected with his right knee, and echoes of the shattering bone filled the cavern. The man's voice would have joined the echoes, creating a chorus of pain, but the gag contained the screaming. Even with his knee broken, the man kept running, but he immediately crumpled to the dirt when his leg ultimately gave out.

Cocking back the rebar, I hit him again, cracking a couple of his ribs. With one final strike to the back of his skull, I put the man to sleep. I didn't hit him hard enough to kill because I needed Buck or Brandon to breathe for a little bit longer. The timing of his death was another factor that had to be exactly right. It was like a dance. One misstep or wrong move would ruin the whole thing. Lifting the man's body like a baby, I carried him to the center of the cavern, and then dropped him back to the dirt.

With a flick of my foot, I rolled him fully onto his back, so that his slack face could admire the stalactites above. Tyler Matthews That name popped into my mind for a second Murdering the boy in the Batman costume all those years ago Had been the first step in an incredible journey It briefly allowed a tiny nothing boy To feel like the most powerful being alive

So I killed again And again and again I was like an end addict chasing their first high. Over time, the killing was no longer enough. I needed more, more power, more control. I wasn't a true God, not yet. Another name popped into my head. Constance Morell. Constance Morel wasn't the final step in my journey to Godhood, but she might have been the most important one so far, and she most certainly was one of the most difficult steps for me to maneuver,

mainly because she'd been nearly impossible to find. The self-titled voodoo priestess had retreated from the world, ran away from society, and hadn't been seen in many years. I tracked her down, though, leaving a trail of beaten, broken bodies along the way. I had been determined, highly focused, and no one who got in my way had been left standing, or in one piece. The swamp had been fully alive the night I finally caught up to Constance. A cacophony of singing insects filled the air like moving electricity, their buzzing and chirping rolling through in waves.

The wings of unseen bats fluttered all around, darting back in the air. Starting back and forth, gathering mouthfuls of buzzing insects with each pass. Large bodies consistently broke the surface of the nearby water, hulking shadows that rolled and then swam away. Among the many sounds of the swamp, the high-pitched screaming emanating from the small cabin was the most animalistic. As I shattered another of Constance's fingers, She filled her tiny home with the sweet song of pain.

Where is it? Tell me and I'll stop. Constance was small and much older than I'd expected. Her frail form and bony edges exacerbated by the active fireplace. Her hair was an entanglement of black and silver strands, which fell under her narrow shoulders and hunched back. But the woman was far tougher than she looked. It had been easy to physically overpower her, to strap her down in a chair.

But the voodoo priestess wasn't talking, no matter how many bones I broke. Where is the book? I know you have it. Give it to me. Constance sneered and then spat a wad of blood in my face. Some of it entering into my mouth, falling upon my tongue. I tasted the essence of her life. Let it caress my taste buds. and then swallowed. I brought the two-foot strip of rebar down onto the other hand to that. Directly across the knuckles, and she howled like a banshee when they fractured.

This can stop at any time. You just have to tell me where you've hidden the tenet mortum. Constance laughed, showing me her crimson-covered teeth. Her dark face was glistening with sweat and uncontrollable tears, but her brown eyes were unwavering, unfaltering in their glare. Such a big book for such a small man. What you're gonna do with a book so big, small man? Small.

I stooped down, getting nose to nose with her. Do I look small to you? You look teeny tiny. A smirk touched her lips. Teeny. With my free hand, I grabbed hold of her throat and squeezed, making sure to focus the pressure on a windpipe. Without access to air, the arrogant expression on her face was quickly replaced with wide-eyed fear. Her mouth began opening and closing like a fish on dry land, but I wouldn't have permit her a single breath.

Her arms struggled against the chains, but they failed to break free. The muscles of her narrow neck tightened, and she tried to twist away from my grasp. I saw it as a challenge, though, and gripped her throat even tighter. Small now. Without air, she couldn't answer, but that was fine. She didn't need to. I choked her to the brink of passing out, and then abruptly let go. Taking a step back, I watched with pride as Constance heaved and gasped.

Where is the tenant mortum? When you give it to me, I will go away. If you don't tell me where it is, I will beat you to death. Tear this place apart at the seams and find it anyway. So, make it easy on yourself and tell me. The tenet mortum is of the original power. Passed down and hidden from the sins of man for generations. It is a tomb of death, and there is no place for it in this world.

But it cannot be destroyed by any mortal means. So it must be kept safe, safe from small men like you. You can't keep it from me. It's mine by right, mine by destiny. No, it is not. And it is not here. So you have wasted your time beating and helpless, old woman. I know that it's here somewhere.

I can feel it. I can feel it calling to me. It wants my anger. It wants my rage. You lie. I ducked down again. As I met her glare with my own, I recalled my victims, visualizing their face.

their bodies, and how they looked after I was through with them. I drew forth the insatiable hunger that drove me to break and murder, and I showed it to Constance. I allowed her to see the darkness, to witness its raw desire. She would not deny my fate. She couldn't. My purpose was clear, and the gods were calling me to them. Who was she to stand in my way?

startled by what she had seen Constance quickly pulled her eyes away and lowered her head Her lips started moving But her voice was too low to hear At first I thought that she was praying To whatever gods that she believed would save her However, when I bent in closer

I realized my mistake The flames in the fireplace behind me Which had been low burning erupted in a blazing fury, throwing a wall of heat into my backside. Candles had been placed haphazedly throughout the living room area of the cabin, scattered across tables and window soles, and they sprung to life as well. Like an inflamed beacon, the inside of the cabin glowed brighter and brighter. I threw up my hand to shield my eyes, but I couldn't take my sight from Constance,

who was still mumbling too low. for me to hear clearly. Something large slammed into the nearest window. Reluctantly I turned my head away from Constance. A large black bird had flown into the glass, broke

its neck, and was slowly sliding toward the ground, leaving a crimson smear in its wake. Within a second of the first bird, another bird impacted the same window, and then another, and another. The buzzing of insects

was no longer background noise. It was a swarm of chaos that was drawing closer and closer to the cabin. I peered through the blood-soaked window and shifted my eyes to the others. Even in the dark of night, I could see the black cloud of insects,

large and small and in-between, circling the cabin. Splashing. I heard splashing, followed by a multitude of growls from what I immediately assumed to a gator. Constance was calling the swamp to her aid, and my time was running on fast.

I had to silence her voice, or she would silence me. I gripped the rebar harder than I ever had before and swung with all my strength, striking Constance across the side of her skull. The old fragile skin tore open as her head whipped violently to the left. Blood poured down the side of her face, some of it running into her right eye. Constance's voice had stopped, but I wasn't taking any chances. I hit her again even harder, making sure to strike the same spot. The flesh of the temple tore even deeper, revealing crimson and white, blood and bone.

Her neck bent awkwardly. the top of her spine pushed to its limb. I kept swinging, aiming every attack at the same spot of her skull, caving the side of her head further and further, until finally the top of her spine broke at the bend. With a crack of bone, Constance went limp. As she died, the swamp fell silent, and the candles went out. The fireplace returned to its normal, boring state of low,

burning logs. After I caught my breath, I started searching the cabin for the tenant mortum. It took a while, but I eventually found the ancient grimoire underneath a loose floorboard along the right side of the fireplace. When I lifted the weathered book from its hiding spot, I could feel not only its dense weight, but its immense age. No one was exactly sure when the book had been created, but the Tenet Morton was easily one of the oldest grimoires in existence. The Egyptian Book of the Dead and the Unholy Necronomicon were infants compared to what I was holding in my hands. I could feel that power and wisdom pouring into me. For several seconds I turned it over and over in my hands, marveling at it.

The cover and binding of the Tenet Morton was a solid. black, a black so deep that it almost had a three-dimensional quality, as if it wasn't a book, but an endless abyss. There wasn't any writing on the outside of the grimoire either. Not a single word disturbed the perfect darkness. Briefly, I flipped through the worn parchment, feeling the coarse texture beneath my fingertips. The pages were bent and wrinkled by age and use, but the black writing, the words and symbols were perfectly legible. Using the end of my rebar, I stirred the dull flames of the fireplace, exciting them, enticing them to burn hotter.

Slowly I pulled and twisted free the largest log, letting it fall onto the cabin's floor. The fire was hungry and spread the moment it made contact. Giving Constance Morel a final glance, I exited the burning cabin and disappeared into the swamp. Using the tip of the rebar, I carved 12 different sigils into the hard dirt around the man's unconscious body, the same ones that I etched into the cave wall. I took my time, drawing each line and curve with accuracy and care.

After drawing each signal, I spoke a single word. despair, destruction, greed, gluttony, loneliness, madness, denial, hatred, sacrifice, stagnation, inevitability. Gripping the piece of metal tight in both hands, I held it high above the unconscious man and began to call out the gods of death. Secur, Morgan, Don, and Mananan Veer Paradeante, the first twelve deaths are yours Bringing the rebar down with all my strength I heard the man's skull crunch

His eyes shot open, wide with panic, yet glossy with fleeting thought They began to dart around, confused and unsure of what was happening His eyes then fluttered for several seconds Before finally falling shut again As his conscious mind slipped away His bound hands reached out toward me Begging me to stop But the act felt robotic and subconscious

His life was nearly gone And the reptile brain was making one last plea for mercy Anubis Osiris Secker and Nephthys Thial Ila-Alaman! The first twelve deaths are yours. The rebar fell even harder,

creating a spider web across the man's forehead, allowing crimson fluids to seep through the crevices. As blood poured into his nasal passages, his breathing became raspy and shallow. Muscle spasms suddenly seized him, contorting his body, causing his arms and legs to tilt. Titan and flail.

Hades, Thanatos, Keras and Melanoi, Erzotai Prost, Time, Pross. The first twelve deaths are yours. In a frenzy of blows, I bombarded every inch of the man's body with solid steel, until I became too tired to lift my arms. The spasms and flailing ceased as his breathing slowed, dramatic. falling lower and lower until he was barely pulling a whisper of air into his punctured lungs. The man was gone, but his body held on for nearly another minute, this death. I said, as the man took his last, blood-filled gasp, hools of blood formed beneath and around

the man's body, but the ground refused to take it, like water refused oil. Twelve crimson lines began stretching out from the pools of blood, like narrow tentacles, writhing and crawling across the dirt floor. One by one, each of the twelve tentacles reached the twelve sigils, and slowly filled in the precise markings with dark crimson. Bringing the rebar close to my face, I admired the basic yet powerful rod of steel. The piece of metal was almost elegant in its simplicity, masking its true potential with a design that was pure and honest. Dark bits of blood, both old and fresh, spotted the side of the shaft.

The larger bits pooled beneath its steel ribs. I could see tiny, nearly microscopic nicks and dense in the metal. Wounds formed when the bones had fought back. The rebar was truth, an incorruptible force of nature, and I would soon be just as powerful as that simple shaft of steel. Dragging its jagged tip across the palm of my left hand, I cut just deep enough to draw a shallow line of blood. Prodiont Spiritus Lapsorum! Prodient comestores damnatorom! Surgiet cuiree sanguineum meum.

Surgeat veni, Mors, optote. Mors, subiachie warrantate mee. Mors, now kexie! Bowling my hand into a fist, I clasped down onto the fresh wound, forcing a thin trickle of blood to fall from my palm. Several small droplets dripped onto the beaten man's butchered abdomen, splotches of living blood mixing with the recently dead. A second later,

An invisible wave of energy extinguished the burning torches, abruptly plunging the cavern into absolute darkness. All of my senses were instantly washed away, and I was floating in a sea of nothingness, neither alive nor dead, but in between. Everything that I was, past, present, and future, instantly nullified within that chasm of emptiness. I swam in the great black void,

that separated the living and the dead, but I wasn't just inside of it. I had become part of it as well. It was my master, and I was its servant. A single torch abruptly relit, and its light pulled me back to the land of the living. The torch's single flame emitted a shallow, yellow orb by which I could see the dead man hanging from the wall next to it. My pulse quickened with the memory of the man's brutal bludgeoning. He hadn't been my first kill, but he'd been the first of the twelve, which made him very special. A slight shiver of pleasure rose from my toes and into the rest of my body, as I recalled how easy it had been to grab the man during an early morning jog.

The pleasure plateaued into the centers of my brain when I fondly remembered how hard I had beat him. At first, it seemed to be a trick of the light, an illusion created by the glow of the flame shifting across the rotting corpse, was the dead man moving, wiggling, shimmying. The movements suddenly grew broader and more drastic, like the slithering of an agitated snake, until the entire body was spasming and jerking. He writhed and twisted his battered bones, as if fighting again. against the chain by which he hung, his ruptured eyes peering at me. Another torch ignited, revealing the second man on the wall. That corpse immediately began to thrash and flail, too, as if repeatedly struck with a cattle prod or shock collar at max voltage.

One by one, all twelve torches caught fire, revealing a floundering corpse hanging by its side. All around me, the bodies danced and danced, like marionettes, their strings pulled by a demented puppet master. As they danced their maddening dance, their battered bones popped and cracked, while their flesh made slapping sounds against the rock wall. And when their dance appeared to be peeking in its lunacy and hysteria, the chains that bound them broke, and they simultaneously fell to the dirt floor. the cavern. Their bodies were too badly wrecked to hold their weight, so they crumbled like slabs of butchered meat to the dirt. Yet they began to move in my direction, crawling and dragging their rotting forms across the ground, their bones grinding and rubbing, their entrails dragging limply

behind them. The circle of death closed in around me as, like spiders, with broken limbs, they pulled and heaved themselves, inch by inch, until they were nearly upon me. But then they stopped. The chorus of battered bones silencing, for nearly a minute I could hear my own breathing and nothing else. My attention shifted back and forth between the corpses, as I wondered what they were waiting for. Their spoiled eyeballs stared up at me. unblinking, unmoving. The sea of stench that flooded my nose was overwhelming, even for me. My entire life I've believed myself to be beyond the grasp of real fear.

However, standing at the center of all that death, I felt the touch of something foreign, a sensation that could only have been dread. Had I done something wrong? The ritual seemed to have gone. perfectly. But what if it hadn't? What if I'd messed something up? I'd spent two years researching, prepping, planning, and executing so that nothing would go wrong. I slaved over every detail, every kill. What if I missed something? Should I have spent more time getting things right?

My mind retraced every step, but couldn't find a single mistake in my execution. Decay. I said, citing the first siguel again. To my surprise, one of the corpses placed a shattered hand onto that symbol, causing it to glow of bright crimson. So I continued. Despair. Destruction. Greed. Blotteny.

Loneliness. Madness. Denial. Hatred. sacrifice, stagnation, inevitability. After each word, another corpse reacted and another sidel lit up, until all twelve were glowing. It was working. The gods of the underworld were welcoming me into their circle. I would no longer be as simple to do chase the deaths of others,

only to be left behind once the killing was done. I would no longer need to find a satisfaction with one measly murder at a time. I would be death itself until the end of eternity. When the final symbol lit, I heard a low groaning sound coming from directly below me.

The dead man beneath me, Dave or Bert or Doug, Unexpectedly wretched, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. There was something in his throat. Something bulging against his windpipe, fighting to break free. Curiously, I watched the bulge move upward. Within the darkness of his gaping mouth, a blue light began taking shape. The light grew brighter and brighter, until eventually a shimmering orb rose from between the dead.

man's dislocated jaws. The orb was as much liquid as light. It continued to rise into the air before hovering level with my chest. The colors of the orb silently rolled and crashed into itself like the bluest waves of the most serene, most magnificent ocean. I'd never seen anything so beautiful. If love actually existed, it would love actually existed. It would look like that. I reached forward, eager to grab hold of the orb. The desire to possess it was overwhelming, like nothing that I have ever felt. It would be mine, and there would be many more to come. My hand never reached the orb, though, because a roar of hissing and snarling suddenly poured forth from the twelve rotting gods. Their intense displeasure startling me, from the

sounds they were making, the gods were no longer pleased with what I was doing. That foreign feeling touched me once more, fear or dread, or whatever. But why? What had I done wrong? Slowly, I advanced my hand an inch closer to the orb and was immediately bombarded with wordless bawling and howling, a venomous discharge that shook me down deep. What was happening? My mind reeled and rolled as I internally searched for some kind of answer. And then I had an unexpected epiphany, a realization so obvious, so clear that it should have never been overlooked. Gods were selfish, arrogant, and I was surrounded by twelve of them. I had brought them forth, but I could not fully control them. My ritual would only go so far. At some point, their true nature,

would take over. The orb was exposed and ripe for the taking, but I wasn't the only one who felt its draw. They felt it too, and gods don't share. Until I possessed my first orb, I wasn't one of them yet, and I'd come too far to fail. Thrusting my hand quickly toward the orb, I tried to take it, but I wasn't fast enough. An onslaught of fractal of fractal. captured hands were upon me in an instant, and they were stronger than I thought possible. The twelve corpses started grappling my lower body, nearly pulling me down, seemingly reinvigorated by the holy and undeniable pull of the orb. Restrained, I continued reaching toward the orb with my empty hand, but my body was being pulled backward and away from it. With my other hand,

I started to wildly swing the rebar. There was a hard crack as the steel. connected with a skull, followed by a shrill screech of outrage. How could some simple man deny the gods their bounty? Would the fragile mortal dare defy them? Oh, I would do more than simply defy them. Once I possessed the orb, I would drink in the waves, like forbidden nectar, and then spit the leftover juices in their faces. Swinging the rebar even harder, I struck it.

I struck out at anything within reach. Fuck you! The orb floated just beyond my fingertips. I will have it! I will be a god! I was so close, but there were too many, and they were too strong. My hand would never reach it, I admitted. Pulling my arm back, I doubled my grip on the rebar and continued swinging.

By that point, corpses were climbing, and it was difficult to strike them with much force. I tried. Damn it, I fucking tried. I beat and bashed whatever flesh and bone that I could, no matter how awkward the angle. They were gods, but the bodies they inhabited were weak, vulnerable. If I could break them into enough pieces, maybe I could get free.

The orb must have felt our collective need, because its glow grew brighter and brighter. The blue waves became more animated as well, crashing and pummeling harder and harder against themselves. It wanted to be possessed, I realized. As much as we desired it, it desired us as well. It was the natural course of things, yin and yang, life and death. One of us had to take the orb into the great black void and across to whatever underworld existed beyond. There was only one question.

Would it be the old gods or the new? Finding more strength and determination deep within myself, I attacked with increased vigor, not like the mortal that I was, but like the supreme being I was destined to become. In the end, I would be the last one remaining, and I would no longer need to stand on the shoulders of any giant. Because I would be one of those titans glaring down at the scared ants, scattering around my feet.

The train pulls into the terminal. We ask that you gather what's left of your sanity and depart the train. Thank you for traveling with us on the sleepless Express. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by... Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy and Ashley McAnally. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit

sleepless.com to learn about the sleepless sanctuary. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content. for the dark hours, all for only one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep podcast, we thank you for traveling the rails with us for our 21st season.