The NoSleep Podcast - S21 Ep17: NoSleep Podcast S21E17

Episode Date: August 25, 2024

It's Episode 17 of Season 21. Ride the Sleepless Express into tales about ruinous revenge."Burnt Biscuits and Gravy" written by Alison Thayer (Story starts around 00:03:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio, Lynette - Sarah Thomas, Peter - Atticus Jackson, Rose - Nikolle Doolin, Josie - Nichole Goodnight, Meg - Erin Lillis, Henry - Jesse Cornett, Officer #1 - Dan Zappulla, Officer #2 - Graham Rowat, Guard - David Cummings"Carnival Love" written by Liz Mayers (Story starts around 00:24:40)Produced by: David CummingsCast: The Amazing Umberto - David Cummings"Memory's End" written by Rima Chaddha Mycynek (Story starts around 00:35:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Alex - Mary Murphy, Detective Morris - Allonté Barakat, Mandy - Rima Chaddha Mycynek, Greg Palmer - Graham Rowat, Dr. Ramos - Sarah Thomas, Mother - Erin Lillis"The Well" written by Caleb James K. (Story starts around 00:53:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Reagen Tacker, Theodore - Matthew Bradford, Glenn - Dan Zappulla, Unknown Man - Xalavier Nelson Jr., Unknown Woman - Danielle McRae, Unknown Woman 2 - Wafiyyah White"I Don't Believe in Ghosts" written by Liam Moran (Story starts around 01:09:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Jake - Jeff Clement, Uncle Dave - Jesse Cornett"Moira and Ellie" written by Marisca Pichette (Story starts around 01:49:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jenna - Danielle McRae, Radha - Rima Chaddha Mycynek, Matilda - Wafiyyah White, Moira - Nichole Goodnight, Mom - Nikolle DoolinThis 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.Trade Coffee - Trade Coffee is a specialty coffee marketplace that matches customers with the best coffees from local roasters across the country. Give Trade a try and see how you can make better coffee at home. Youíll get a free bag of coffee, or more, when you subscribe to one of their plans at drinktrade.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Rima Chaddha MycynekClick here to learn more about Marisca PichetteExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Carnival Love" 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. You're 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. Let's face it, you don't have to be alive for many years before someone does something bad to you. Something that really gets under your skin. Something that the kids these days call someone doing you dirty. And how do you respond?

We all like to believe we're mature, responsible adults who will either A, ignore the issue, B, forgive the person, or C, plot your revenge for such a grievous offense. If you're a big C, I mean, you're the one who would choose option C, then you'll feel right at home with this episode. Because revenge is such a relatable concept for horror stories. We've all fantasized about seeing the offending persons suffer horribly for their actions against us. Perhaps that's why Stephen King wrote Carrie and why Po wrote The Cask of Amontiato. And while it's not quite considered horror, Shakespeare wrote about diabolical revenge in Othello. The notion of a wronged person finally enacting their revenge in terrible ways is a staple of horror.

On this episode, we're here to serve you a cold dish, or at least to share tales in which people are not too pleased to realize their actions have consequences, and they have to suffer them greatly. And so, as the great Alfred Hitchcock once said, Revenge is sweet and not fattening. So, bonapete. And now, the train is ready to depart. Your journey into the darkness begins now. In our first tale, we sit down for some breakfast. So does Peter.

He's lucky that his doting wife makes him breakfast each and every morning. But in this tale, shared with us by author Alison Thayer, we learn that Peter's luck isn't as good as it sounds because, well, breakfast isn't that good. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Sarah Thomas, Atticus Jackson, Nicole Doolin, Nicole Goodnight, Erin Lillis, Jesse Cornett, Dan Zapula, and Graham Rowett. So be grateful when someone tries, even if they do serve you, burnt biscuits and gravy. Trudges down the narrow staircase to the old farmhouse kitchen.

Thin rays of early morning light filter through the small window above the copper sink. The smell of buttermilk tinges the air. God, he used to love that smell. He sits at the worn wooden table, his eyes on his wife. She's wearing her favorite baby blue dress, and her Auburn curls are caught up in a ponytail. No matter when he comes down for breakfast, she's always stirring the gravy.

He scabbed over burn on his left arm itches. That was from day three, when he tried to take the wooden spoon away from her. Good morning, darling. Lynette grabs a pot holder and opens the oven door. A waft of smoke billows out. like it does every morning. She pulls out the pan, waving her free hand to clear the smoke.

She glances at Peter, her bottom lip trembling. I made your favorite, biscuits and gravy. Oh, but I'm afraid I burned the biscuits. It's okay, Lynette. They'll still taste good. It's a lie. He knows what happens if he complains about the biscuits. Blood still weeps through the bandage,

covering the stump of his pinky finger. That was day seven. Lynette places two biscuits and a heaping scoop of gravy on a plate and sets it before him. The gravy covers both biscuits. Just how you like it. Thank you. Lynette expects gratitude for her hard work.

The yellowing bruise on his cheek is from day 11, when he didn't say thank you. Anything for you. you, honey? She sits across from him and puts her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her hand. She watches him, expectantly, a smile on her face. Peter picks up his fork and knife and cuts a piece of burnt gravy-covered biscuit. It tastes like cardboard in his mouth, but he forces himself to swallow. They're delicious. He tries to sound enthusiastic, but it's the 13th day in row that he's eaten burnt biscuits and gravy. He has a new plan. Tonight, he's not coming home

after work. The roadway in is only 15 minutes away at the corner of Perkins and Maine. It'll be the first night since they got married six years ago that he's been away from home overnight. This will break the pattern. It has to. Peter forces down the last of the biscuits and gravy. On day one, he refused to eat them, and Lynette shoved them in his mouth while he choked. Now, he eats them all. Thank you for the biscuits and gravy. I better head to work. His wife stands, comes around, and kisses him on the cheek.

Her lips feel like something dead washed up from the sea. Have a good day at the store. I love you, Peter. Peter shivers and represses the urge to scrub at his cheek. I love you too. His voice sounds forced, but Lynette doesn't seem to notice. He leaves the house as quickly as he can without seeming rude. Lynette doesn't like it when he's rude.

Peter wakes up on day 14 and cracks open his eyes. The clock reads 617 and the room is still semi-dark. But there's no mistaking the shadows and angles of his cheap hotel room. He breathes a sigh of relief. The hotel has a free buffet breakfast, and he's never looked forward to rubbery scrambled eggs and cheap cereal as much as he does that morning. He gets up, showers, shaves,

and puts on the clean clothes he packed in a small duffel the day before. Peter packs his bag and leaves his room, whistling a little tune. He gets on the elevator and pushes the button for the main floor. It's as if a weight has been lifted from his chest. The elevator shutters to a stop and the doors swing open. He steps out into the dim farmhouse kitchen. Lynette is stirring the gravy. She turns and smiles at him.

Good morning, darling. Peter spins around, desperately reaching for the elevator doors. But there's no elevator, just the stairs to their bedroom. He spins away and rushes for the front door, though he knows he can't escape the kitchen, the breakfast that awaits. A knock sounds on the door just as he yanks it open. Lynette's friend Rose stumbles forward into Peter and quickly jerks away. Sorry, I didn't know you were there. He glances toward the kitchen, but Lynette is gone.

Rose frowns and follows his gaze. Josie and Meg stand behind her. Also frowning. Peter tries to act like he usually does around these three women, rude and a bit bored. Well, if it ain't the three amigas, to what do I owe the pleasure? We're here to see Lynette,

and we're not taking no for an answer. Rose says and pushes past him. The two other women follow. All of them hollering... Lynette. Lynette, are you here, honey? One of them heads upstairs. These three annoying women showed up on day four, asking to see Lynette.

He told them she was visiting her mom and shut the door in their faces. They were always filling Lynette's head with ideas about equality, independence, and other feminist crap. If they were real friends, they'd have encouraged Lynette to be an obedient wife. This time, he's glad they're here. They are his ticket out of this house. Look anywhere you like. She's not home.

Josie comes back down the stairs, shaking her head. She's not up there. I told you. She's at her mother's. Meg's eyes narrow. She's been at her mother's house for two weeks? Yep. Why doesn't she answer her phone?

Peter shrugs. Maybe she doesn't want to talk to you. The three women exchange glances. When's she coming back? Peter's been thinking about what to tell people when they ask about Lynette. Well, that's the thing. I don't know if she's ever coming back. He drops his eyes, shakes his head.

You see, we had a big fight, and she left me. It's not easy playing sheepish with these three, but he does his best. Oh, it's about damn time. The way you keep her out here in the middle of nowhere, isolated from all her friends and family. That's not a very nice thing to say. I let you visit, don't I? You don't let us do anything.

We come whether you like it or not. I need to get to work. How about I see you ladies out of my house? He walks them to the door, holding his breath as he steps across the threshold. It works. He's outside. He walks them to Rose's pickup truck and holds the passenger door open,

for Meg and Josie. He hates these women. But today, they've saved him from his 14th serving of burnt biscuits and gravy, so he's feeling charitable. Rose backs out and heads down the lane, kicking up dust in the early morning light as the women drive back to the main road.

Peter turns and walks to the old barn where he parks his Ford, thinking about where he'll grab breakfast on his way to the hardware store. Maybe flapjacks at Mel's Diner. His mouth waters at the thought. He opens the door to the barn and steps into the dim farmhouse kitchen. Lynette is stirring the gravy.

Good morning, darling. Peter wants to turn around and run, but there's no point. He stumbles to the table and sits down while Lynette prepares his plate of burnt biscuits and gravy. He takes the first bite and tries to swallow, But he just chokes on the blackened food. It's been 14 days of burnt biscuits and gravy for Christ's sake. How much can one man take? He spits it out.

I can't. I just can't eat it. Please, Lynette, can I have something else for breakfast? Just this one morning. Lynette's cheeks redden and before he knows what's happening, she's by his side. She grabs his fork and raises. her hand high. She brings her arm down hard and fast, staking his hand to the table with a fork.

Peter screams as fiery pain radiates through his entire hand and up his arm. He tries to pull back, but Lynette holds the fork in place, tethering him to the table. Lynette's blue eyes are wide, and tears streamed down her face. I try, and I try, and it's never enough for you, is it? Now eat your biscuits and grits! She pulls the fork out with a jerk and sets it next to his plate, blood staining the tines. She turns back to the stove to stir the now congealing gravy. Would you like seconds?

She smiles over her shoulder, tears still sparkling on her now pale cheeks. No. No, no. Peter wraps his throbbing, bleeding hand in his napes, His stomach cramps from the pain, and he eyes his breakfast with loathing. But he has no choice. He picks up his bloody fork and wipes the times on his pant legs so Lynette won't see. He quickly shovels his biscuits and gravy into his mouth, forcing himself to swallow.

He understands now what he must do. Peter's shift at the hardware store ends at 5 p.m. He signs out and gets a basket to do a little shopping. His boss Henry watches with a furrowed brow as Peter struggles to hold the basket with his injured hand, a blood-stained washcloth wrapped and nodded around the wounds. You sure you're okay. It's at least the fourth time he's asked that day.

I'm fine. Just a little clumsy lately, you saw. The irony of this excuse is not lost on Peter. He had heard Lynette use it dozens of times. He picks up some kerosene in matches. Hey, Henry, do we sell sage? Sage? Yeah, you know, the plant? Does this look like a grocery store?

No, not the cooking kind, like for burning. What you want with that new age stuff? You got me or not? Of course not. You've worked here for three years. think you'd know if we had sage or not. I guess so. Well, this will have to do.

Peter carries his basket to the counter. Henry shakes his head, but rings up the items without any further questions. Thanks, Henry. See you tomorrow. Peter turns and heads out the door. Time to go find some dinner. It's about half past seven by the time Peter pulls up to the farmhouse. his belly full of shepherd's pie and beer. The pie wasn't as good as Lynette's.

He already misses her cooking, burnt biscuits notwithstanding. But what's done is done. It's late fall, and the land is bare and gray in the shadows of dusk. The windows of the house are all dark. Lynette doesn't bother him in the evenings. He's got the place to himself until morning. But he doesn't go in. The house doesn't feel like his own anymore, no matter the time of day.

That's about to change. Peter grabs his bag of supplies from the hardware store and heads to the barn to get his shovel. The night is quiet and still, the only sound the occasional whisper of crow's wings as a straggler heads for its roost. He walks around back, where he dumps their broken-down appliances and old furniture.

He grabs hold of their old washing machine and tries to move it, but the metal cuts into his wounds. He lets go, holding his hand to his chest in pain. He had the use of both hands when he dragged it here two weeks ago. He puts his back against the machine and shoves. It moves about a foot. He continues to shove until he slid it about five feet, uncovering loose soil.

He grabs the shovel and winces as the handle chafes against his bloody palm. This is going to hurt. But it's worth it. It's time to get rid of Lynette for good. The dirt is easier to dig up than it was two weeks ago when the earth was hard-packed, but it's still hell on his injured hand. In a few minutes, he's sweating, and his palm and his pinky are bleeding again. The pile of dirt grows.

By the time he hits the body, it's completely dark outside. P-you, Lynette, you stink! He didn't think to bring a flashlight, but never mind. In a few minutes, he'll have a bonfire going that'll be plenty bright. In the meantime, the light on his cell phone will do. Peter clambers out of the hole. Don't you worry about that nun, honey? I'm going to fix it up so you don't ever smell bad again.

He gets the kerosene from the bag and pops it open. He shines his meager light into the hole he's dug. Lynette is looking worse for the wear. Her hair is still matted with blood where she hit her head when she fell, but now her face and limbs are bloated, and she looks like she's got a bad sunburn. He shakes his head. Why'd you have to go and burn the biscuits?

It's not my fault you're so clumsy and hit your head. I didn't even smack you that hard. Peter sprinkles the kerosene up and down her body. It soaks into her peasant. tail blue dress darkening it to a midnight blue. When the can is empty, he throws it into the hole with his dead wife and lights a match. Goodbye, Lynette. I'll never eat your burnt biscuits and gravy again.

He throws in the match and the fire spreads up and down her body. Peter jumps back as flames shoot up from the hole with a whoosh. A bright light blinds Peter. Mr. Lynch. Peter shields his eyes and turns, the matchbox still in one hand. Two cops are approaching. What's wrong, officers? Someone reported your wife missing, asked that we follow up with us.

Jesus Christ! The other officer is pointing a flashlight into the burning hole. Lynette's body is outlined in fire. The first officer pulls out his gun. Hold it right there, Mr. Lynch. Put your hands in the air. Peter drops the matchbox and raises his hands. The officers roughly turn him around and cuff him.

Peter Lynch, you are under arrest for the murder of Lynette Lynch. You have the right to remain silent. The rest of what the officer says melds with the sound of the crackling fire. Peter just can't focus on it. All he can think is, at least he won't have to eat burnt biscuits and gravy in jail. It's six in the morning by the time that. they stop interrogating him. Peter told them over and over again that Lynette's death was just an accident, but they were all hung up on why he felt the need to bury her and burn her if it was just an

accident. They don't understand. He buried her because he knew how it would look, even though it was her own fault she was dead. And the reason for burning her? He explained it was the best way to get rid of a ghost. When they all stared at him like he was crazy, He told them they could Google it themselves. A guard takes him to a cell with a solid metal door. A cot is visible through a small barred window. He's so tired that he'll finally be able to get some sleep. He'll explain it all again later.

The guard opens the door. In you go. Peter steps into the dim farmhouse kitchen. Lynette is stirring the gravy. She turns and smiles at him. Good morning, darling. It can be fun to spend some time on the midway. The rides, the not remotely good for you, food, the sideshows.

But do you ever stop to think about the people who work there? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Liz Mayers, we meet someone who performs in the side show and we'll learn how painful it can be to have your heart broken. It will be my pleasure to perform this tale for you. So, enjoy the performances, but don't overlook those who experience carnival love. Carlos jabbed his long, shiny sword into my chest. I'd only confronted him to talk it over, man to man.

Now this. Screams came from all directions. Some muffled, some scared, some thrilled. It made it hard to think. This close, he wasn't even that good looking. An unkempt three musketeer at best. Irrelevant and tired. He needed to reinvent.

But the mean in his eyes said he could slash me ear to ear. He could slice the skin of my muscular chest and pierce my heart. He could dress me like a rabbit. With both hands, I grabbed the blade, yanked it to my right, and Carlos stumbled toward me and fell to the ground. As I suspected, the blade like him was dull. Ah, some sword-swallower. My wife's lover was a fraud.

Now, I admit, his blade was longer than mine, but no question, I had far more talent. We had far more talent. Ursula and I had been in this traveling carnival for 15 years. The amazing Humberto, the supreme knife thrower of the universe, and his temptress Ursula. We drew the crowds and filled the tent. She'd been hinting she was tired of the life, tired of taking all the risks. I suppose when she said, fuck this life I want out,

It was more than a hint. We'd never had an accident, but she'd been right. How long before I slice off her ear, or gouge her butt, or take off a limb while she keeps spinning on the wheel, splattering blood on the crowd? I told her, if I mistrow and kill her, it'd be worse for me. No, no, she dreamed of spending her evenings watching TV and going to sleep early. We're getting into our 40s, and she said it's hard to stay fit on funnel cake and corn dogs.

She just went up a size on her skimpy costume, and she cried for two days. Ah, I hadn't listened. Now she'd taken up with Carlos, and Carlos had just bolted. Oh, the coward. I loved Ursula. Without her, our knife-throwing act would be dead. Without her, I had no future after the carnival either. I chased after Carlos through the crowded midway and under the enormous swinging pirate ship.

The whooping of the riders rose and receded as the ship swung back and forth. The early evening crowd parted for us, and people pointed and laughed like we were an act. Carlos darted into the spookiest haunted house. Even in the darkness, blitzed by mechanical mummies, flying tarantulas, and a demonic laugh track, he couldn't lose me. We emerged near the Ferris wheel and the steaming sausage booth where he turned to see if I was still pursuing him. Somehow I lost him near the Tiltowirl, but I kept on running and searching. I wasn't sure what I'd do when I found him. He deserved a gut punch and more.

but one thing about the carny is that to ruin one act ruins all acts. We all needed the crowds and the money, so I had to think on it. I wanted Ursula, but how could I convince her? And how could I keep them apart? I returned to the Ferris wheel, where all the carnival paths crossed and cut through a long line of teenagers waiting for kettle corn. There he was, leaning against the beating. up cotton candy booth. He saw me and took off. I ran after him. We circled and circled the carnival.

He was trying to wear me out. Then I heard it. The shrill, off-pitch melody that would make me punch drunk. Oh, but I kept going after him anyway. Oh, I realized it too late. He'd led me there. Carlos hopped on a bobbing camel and smirked. I fell to the ground, 20 feet from the merrigo round. I saw double and triple. I gagged like I might vomit. The ugly noise of the calliope surrounded me and made me cuckoo. I was falling apart fast.

The carousel's music was kryptonite to my ears. No one knew but Ursula. and she'd betrayed me. I'd never perform again if they found out. I'd be a risk, an unstable knife-thrower, one who inexplicably breaks down from the best-known music on the circuit.

And they'd never stop playing that mind-altering noise. Ursula had always protected me from the Calliope. Was it only chance it happened like this today, that Carlos and I were here? Had they been planning to ruin me? Oh, Ursula, how could you? I needed Ursula more than he did. I loved Ursula.

She was my woman. Yes, yes, I'd be better. I'd love her more. We'd take off. That was it. That was it. I'd take her away from all this to a new life.

Oh, what an idiot. She was ready for a safe life, and the sword-swallower was a safe bet, and he'd make her safe too. Oh, how have I not seen it? I had to keep her for good. I lifted my head and glared at Carlos riding the camel. I swallowed hard. I was weaker than a half-dead squashed bug, but I had managed to stick my fingers in both I knew what to do. I pulled it all together and got up. I wobbled back to our trailer, gaining strength from the watermelon snow cone. I slurped on the way.

I found Ursula. I set it all out for her. He had two choices. She could make sure Carlos' performance later that night was his sharpest ever by secretly preparing his swords, Like she prepared my knives. I had no choice. Since our performance followed his,

if Ursula didn't take option one, it would be her skin. I've never experienced it, so I can only imagine how bizarre and unsettling it must be to have amnesia. Not being able to remember things as basic as your name. Simply awful. But in this tale, shared with us by author Rima Chathamysinic, we meet Alex, a woman struggling for her identity.

Making matters worse, the police need her help in solving a perplexing case. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Alonte Bericette, Rima Chathamysinic, Graham Rowett, Sarah Thomas, and Aaron Lillis. So don't forget, I mean literally. Don't forget. You don't want to experience memories end. Another day, another morning waking to the sight of a water spot, slowly browning on the ceiling above my hospital bed. I've been here a week, and I still don't know who I am. No one has come to claim me, and no one seems to recognize me. A few days ago, I asked the doctors and nurses to give me a temporary name. anything to replace the patient and miss.

They settled on Alex Doe, better than Jane, I guess. I begin each day by scribbling my thoughts into a journal, hoping that someday soon I'll be able to pull a memory from all the fog. This morning as I began to write, I was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. A nurse I like, Mandy, was there to check on me. How are you feeling today, Alex? Her smile was warm and reassuring as always.

I shrugged, staring at the blank pages of my journal. Same as yesterday, I suppose. Mandy patted my hand gently and went on to check my vitals. You're getting better every day. Don't worry. Sometimes it takes time for the memories to come back. We'll figure it out. Detective Morris is here to see you.

Are you feeling up to check? chatting with him? Detective Morris has arrived at my bedside every day since I woke up. He seems kind, and he's very careful with me, like I'm a glass ornament he doesn't want to break. I nodded to Mandy. Sure, that's fine. Mandy called to the doorway. Come in, Detective. I'll leave you two to talk, but please, Alex is tired. Don't stay too long. Detective Morris gave Mandy a polite nod as he walked in, passing her in the doorway. She doesn't like me very much, does she? Doesn't seem like it, no.

Okay, well, I swear I'll keep it short. But I do need to talk to you, Alex. First off, I'm sorry, but we don't have any news for you yet. How are you feeling today? Are you okay? All things considered. I'm okay, I guess. What else could I say?

Do you remember anything yet, Alex? Even images that flashed into your mind or dreams you've had might help us find out who you are and what happened. Anything? I shook my head. Nothing. The detective's gaze lingered on me for a moment before. he continued. Listen, we've been keeping something from you because you were in a very fragile state when you were first admitted.

But I think it's time to let you know in case it helps you remember something. There's no easy way to say this. Have you heard of the lipstick killer? He's been in the headlines for years now, but never caught. I think so. Maybe. I felt a growing sense of unease. The phrase lipstick killer knocked around in my mind.

Aside from being scary, I knew it was familiar, but I couldn't quite grasp the memory. He's a suspected serial killer. I know the name sounds ridiculous, but it's what the news channels came up with. I'll spare you the details, but each of his victims has been found with a cheek-to-cheek smile drawn on her face. You matched the description of his other victims. Brunette, tall, blue eyes, athletic build. You found you in a man unconscious in a fire at an abandoned house, remember? You had head trauma, which explains your memory loss.

He hasn't woken up yet. He's not doing well. But he added his idea on him. Does the name Greg Palmer? I mean anything to you? I blinked the name triggering something deep within my foggy mind. I, I'm not sure. Who is Greg Palmer?

His sister was the Lipsick Killers' first victim, about five years ago. We had no reason to suspect him at the time, but we, well, there's no easy way to say this. We think that he tried to hurt you. And we think that he might be the lipstick. killer. We don't yet know for sure because the killer is never left a surviving victim. I shouldn't be telling you this, but between us, Alex, there's just too much here to be coincidence. My heart raced as the detective's words sank in. Greg Palmer, a man whose name somehow echoed in my fragmented mind, apparently tried to kill me and was a prime suspect in a series of

gruesome murders, including his own sisters. And I, Alex, only because I can't remember my own name, Doe, was the only survivor. Not being able to remember who this man was, or what happened to me made me want to scream. I felt determination wash over me. I want to see him. No way. I shouldn't have even told you this. It goes against every rule in the book. I just, I feel. I feel. like you're so close, Alex, so close to remembering. I could show you a photo. Would that help? No, I need to see him in the flesh.

I have to, Detective. I'm sorry, Alex. My hands are tired. Over the next week, Detective Morris continued his daily visits, and I persisted in my request to see Greg Palmer in his hospital bed. The detective finally relented. Okay, Alex. You can see him.

I pulled some strings, and it will be safe anyway because he hasn't woken up. I think he has about a 50-50 shot at this point. But don't worry, I will be there, and so will the officer guarding him. Are you sure about this? Yes, I'm sure. Take me to him. All right. I'll ask the nurse to get you into a wheelchair, and we'll bring you down into his room. Know that we can turn back at any time.

You don't have to see him. I'll be fine, detective. I was determined. I needed my memories to come back, and it was possible that seeing Greg would help me. When we entered the dimly lit room where Greg lay in a coma, a flood of memories poured in. I started to gasp.

My head was spinning. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't breathe. Alex, are you okay? Mandy stepped between us. That's enough, detective. We have to get this patient back to her room right away and have the doctor see her. This was too much too soon.

She's in a very weak in condition. We should never have allowed this. Everything went black. I woke up in my hospital bed with a doctor standing over me. Alex? I'm Dr. Ramos. You fainted, but your vitals seem fine now. Are you feeling okay?

I think so. I just felt very woozy, but I'm okay now. Really? I wanted to get the doctor out of my room so that I could be alone to think. All right, well, you seem okay. Your nurse will be in to check on you later, but just hit the call button should you need anything. Once the doctor left, my mind raced with images of my past. I remembered my mother. I could have been her twin. I remember her never allowing my stepdad to see her in the morning

until she had applied a full face of makeup, including a perfect powder of blood-red lipstick. You have to be beautiful for your man, dear. That's something I've learned with your stepfather. Stay beautiful, and the man in your life will never look at anyone else. I remember my mother ignoring my cries for help when I was 12, and my stepfather began hurting me. I remember her smiling ghoulishly at me with those same red lips.

You must be confused, dear. You can't go around saying such disgusting lies. I remember how badly I heard inside and how she mashed her lipstick to my face, drawing an awful clownish grin. She kept telling me to just smile whenever I would try to tell her about my stepfather. Just smile whenever we would go out or whenever someone would come to visit. Just smile whenever the pain became too much to bear. Don't be so dramatic. Just smile, dear. Just smile!

And so eventually, I would wear her lipstick and practice the most genuine seeming smiles I could muster. The girl who stared back at me in the mirror even looked happy, except for in her eyes. Still, I forced myself to smile. My mind turned to thoughts of Greg Palmer. His face twisted with anguish and anger as he confronted me after years of searching for his sister's killer. He found me while I was out for a jog of all things. I ducked into an old abandoned house I had often seen during my runs in the woods.

It was overgrown and falling apart, but it was big and seemed like my bed. best bet. Greg chased me in, but I lost him pretty quickly. I was hiding in an Eve's closet in a second-floor bedroom behind some old boxes. Get out here! I know who you are. You know what? Forget it. I'll get you out. I prepared for this. I've got a lighter and some lighter fluid. Ready to come out now? I didn't respond. No? No? Okay, I warned you. I didn't believe that Greg would do it. But soon I heard the cracks and pops of a roaring fire.

The old wood caught easily. And it wasn't long before the house was bursting into a blaze. I tried to get out from where I was hiding, but I saw Greg there at the top of the stairs. It's been five years. Five years since I lost my sweet sister, Dana. You took her from me, and you're not going to get out of here alive.

I don't know what you mean. Why are you chasing me? I'll call the police. Oh, cut the crap! I've been watching you. I saw you the night my sister's body was found. You were with the search crew, but where everyone else was upset,

you were grinning. You had this horrible red lipstick on your face, and you were just there, smiling. I made my way through the crowd to talk to you, but by the time I could get past the swarm, you were gone. Then when the next killing happened, I joined the search that time and I saw you again. Nobody believed me, but I saw you. More of the house was engulfed in flames.

Both Greg and I were coughing. It was getting hard to breathe. You're crazy. It wasn't me. We need to get out of here. Shut up! Greg pulled a tube of lipstick out of his pocket. You see this? This was my sisters.

I always told myself that when I found her killer, I'd get my revenge and do to them what they did to her. And that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to choke the life out of you, and I'm going to draw a big smile on your face for all the goddamn world to see. He jammed the lipstick back into his pocket and pulled out a knife as he moved toward me.

I wanted to scream for help, But before I could say anything else, the floor began to give way beneath us. And that's all I remember from before waking in the hospital. That tube of lipstick was all too familiar. It was my mother's old brand, the very one she had used. The one I had used since I was 12. And the memories it conjured were far from innocent. As I stared at the lipstick, trembling with dread and revelation.

I recalled meeting Dina Palmer or freshman year of college, how we became fast friends, and how one night she had blacked out at a party and the worst things had happened to her. She confessed this to me one night as we walked in the woods near our dorm. She was understandably upset, but I consoled her and gave her a tube of my lipstick. I always kept some on hand.

I told her that I knew it was hard, but that she could still have a pretty smile. Dana became angry with me, and we fought. She yelled and screamed and she pulled my hair. But in the end, she was smiling. It was such a pretty smile. I wanted all the sad girls to have pretty smiles. Pretty smiles for a beautiful world. I had selected the perfect shade for each of them,

and when I strangled those girls, I knew those smiles would be there forever, even as the light left their eyes. The words of my mother echoed in my mind, her voice dripping with sweet malice. Just smile, dear, just smile! The more I remembered, the more the dread slipped away. The smile I had won.

worn for years. The one I had been forced to perfect as a child was now etched onto my own face. In a moment of clarity, I forced myself to look solemn again and maintain my composure. A nurse could come into my room at any time, and I needed to hide the truth that had clawed its way back into my consciousness. I wanted them to keep believing that Greg was the lipstick killer. I needed them too. The story was perfect that way. He basically gift-wrapped himself for me, carrying lipstick and a knife into the house. As a day's past, I bided my time, pretending to still be weak and disoriented since painting. I couldn't let anyone suspect my true intentions, or that I remembered who I was. Each night, I waited for the perfect. I was. I couldn't let anyone suspect my true intentions, or that I remember

who I was. Each night, I waited for the perfect moment to strike. After the last nurse came to check on me, and the hospital quieted down, I snuck out to watch the guard outside of Greg's room as he fought to stay awake. Finally, the perfect night presented itself. The guard was snoring, blissfully unaware, and the halls were empty. I grabbed the pillow from my bed and crept toward Greg's room. I remembered his pain as he confronted me. That delicious pain, almost as delicious as a pain as sister felt, when I wrapped my hands around her throat to stop her screaming.

I felt electric with adrenaline. The guard was deep asleep, but he could wake. at any second, and I knew this was my only chance. I couldn't hesitate. I lifted the pillow. Greg Palmer would forever be remembered as the lipstick killer. And in the morning when Detective Morris comes to tell me the news, I'll just smile. If you believed there was treasure buried somewhere on your property, would you go looking for it? How low would you go? Well, in this tale, Shared with us by author Caleb James Kaye, we learn about two brothers who went deep to see if they could solve an age-old family mystery, and all we have left are some of their files to figure out just what went on down there.

Performing this tale are Reagan Tacker, Matthew Bradford, Dan Zabula, Zolivir Nelson Jr., Danielle McCray, and Wafia White. So stick to digging for a treasure chest. It's safer than going down the well. On August 13, 2019, popular YouTube travel vlogger Theodore Teddy Cheston went missing beneath the property of his late father Charles David Cheston. Mr. Theodore Cheston had decided to explore an out-of-use well on the family farm. He never returned to the surface. Records show that there was previous planning for this excursion described in a journal belonging to Mr. Cheston, which was found in the guest bedroom of his father.

home five days after Theodore was first reported missing. Theodore and his brother, Glenn Ronald Cheston, were staying in the home for a few weeks as they settled the details of their father's will. Glenn Cheston is now presumably the only surviving member of the Cheston family. According to the most recent entries in Theodore's journal, the two brothers wanted to solve an old family legend before they sold the property. The legend had been passed down through the generations, and the two brothers, when they were young boys, were told that there was a secret passageway at the bottom of the well. The story goes that

the passageway was created as a means to help runaway slaves escape to the north. Theodore and his brother believed that the passageway, or tunnel, existed and ran beneath the property, ending somewhere beneath the neighboring farm. There were also ideas of money or gold having been hidden in the passageway, but Theodore didn't seem to take those notions as seriously as his brother. According to Glenn Cheston, Theodore did take the proper precautions for the exploration itself, bringing with him a flashlight, a backpack with general survivor gear, and his cell phone. And, as an avid rock climber, he used the appropriate gear to descend into the well, but that process had not been documented in writing nor through video footage.

Below are the transcripts from the phone recordings that were salvaged from Theodore's mobile cloud service. These transcripts have been released to us from the imaginary mobile phone company, via order of the Jackson County Sheriff's Office. The audio recordings were extracted from the video files recorded from the cloud, but many of the video files themselves were corrupted, and much of the video footage was either unsavageable outside of the audio or heavily distorted. And while Theodore had used a GoPro camera to record throughout his excursion,

that footage has been lost with him. These audio recordings and few video clips are all that remain of Mr. Cheston's Journey Underground. File number one starts with only the audio working. It begins abruptly with Theodore yelling. I'm at the bottom. What do you see? Not much. What?

I said not much. Just some dirt and... Everything all right down there? Teddy. Teddy, can you hear me? Teddy, talk to me, man. Holy shit. The tunnel's real.

What was that? The tunnel. It's real. You're sure. shitting me. There's a mechanical click, and the video finally cuts in to reveal a wall of wet stone. Theodore's hand can be seen feeling around a dark opening, then the video cuts to black. The audio continues uninterrupted. I'm going in. I don't think that's a good idea. I'm just going in a little. What? A little, a little. I'm just going in a little. Be careful, damn it. The whole thing might

collapse on you. What was that? I said, be careful. I'm careful like a fox, Chico. What? I'll be careful. Be back before you know it. Water sloshes around for a few seconds, then there's a scraping of what might be metal against a rock

that lasts for around one minute. This is most likely Theodore's gear grinding against the entrance to the tunnel as he squeezes through. Glenn hollers something in the background, but his voice is too muffled to make the words out. Theodore narrates as he makes his way into the tunnel. Holy hell, this is much bigger than I'd ever imagined. I mean, from what I can tell, the width of the tunnel is about four feet wide.

The height, I'd say maybe five feet. I'm crouching down, but can walk okay like this. Besides the sound of Theodore's breathing, there is a faint whistling, perhaps air pushing through the entrance behind it. The entrance is a small hole that was blocked by a big rock. The rock was wet and slippery with green algae, but I managed to jam the end of a carabiner into the seal for leverage and pry it loose. The hole, it's barely three feet by three feet.

Had a hell of a time squeezing through. I'm going to go a little further inside. My GoPro's recording, but even with a flashlight, it's way too dark to see anything down here. To be on the safe side, I'm also using my phone to record to my cloud as backup. Don't need a replay of what happened in that cave in Utah. Still pissed I lost that GoPro. Surprisingly, the walls and ceiling are all stone, and it's also much hotter than I thought it would be. Why the hell is it so hot?

I can't believe how long this tunnel is. The light can't even put a dent in this darkness. I couldn't imagine how terrifying it would have been to walk through here with a damn torch, or worse, in total darkness. Do you guys think you could do it? Let me know down in the comments. Okay, I've walked maybe 50 yards, and as much as I want to explore this, this more, I need to go back. Look, I hate to disappoint you all, but this is a pretty major fine. I'm going to need a few other people down here with me if I want to be safe. I mean, the tunnel

looks pretty sturdy, but I have no clue how long this goes or where it ends. The last thing I want to do is get myself stuck somewhere without anyone around to pull me out. Man, it's so damn hot in here. That's not normal. There's no thermal vents or anything like that known in this area. This means there could be an underground coal fire radiation dump, or God no, but. to what else. I'm not fucking around with any of that. There's a brief shuffling, followed by footsteps that last for several minutes. The footsteps go on for much longer than they did previously. Either I'm slow as shit, or I'm losing my mind. I swear I should have made it back to the entrance already. Fuck, there's no way I've walked this far. At this point, the video cuts back in.

Theodore is moving quickly, and he continues to pick up speed until he's running. The dark stone walls pass by in a blur. This goes on for a little over a minute before he slows to a stop. After several moments of labored breathing, he begins walking again. Oh, fuck me. The first file comes to an end. The second file starts up and the timestamp reveals that 27 minutes have passed between recordings. The video cuts in and out rapidly. The clip is brief and the footage is of Theodore speaking to the camera. No visible parts of the tunnel are in the shot. Okay, okay, trying not to panic here. I tried calling my brother, but of course, there's no service in this God-forsaken tunnel of bullshit. My texts won't go through, and even in the 911

emergency shit isn't working, so yeah, I'm legit fucked. I don't know what's happening. I went back the way I came. The only way, this doesn't make any fucking sense. I've been down here for, what, like a half hour, longer? I don't know. I'm sure Glenn called for help already. So, yeah, I guess I should wait right here. I can't keep walking like this. It's too damn hot. And why is it so quiet? I've been in a lot of caves and tunnels and shit, but it never anywhere this quiet.

What the fuck? The second file ends in under two minutes. When the third file begins, the timestamp reveals that over three hours have passed. Theodore's voice is hoarse and his breathing is erratic. The video cuts in and out more sporadically. than the previous two files. I can't. I can't even.

A loud crash echoes in the distance, followed by a deafening wail of anguish. Theodore can be heard running away from the sound. He runs for several minutes before slowing. The video cuts in here to reveal Theodore's face, dripping with perspiration and with what might be tears running down his cheeks. The video cuts out again. It's back.

I don't know. It's back. I think it's scared on my flashlight. with the batteries, I die. I'm dying. It's so hot. I'm almost out of water. Another crash rings out, followed by a terrible screech.

Theodore runs again. This time it only lasts for 20 seconds before he stops with a loud thud. He lets out a painful groan. What the fuck? A wall? The tunnel is... Fuck, I'm at a dead end. The video cuts in for only a few seconds.

Even when paused, it's impossible to make a moment. make out what the camera is seen. There are what appear to be eyes glowing in the blackness at the very end of the light's range. Then a shadow moves right as the video cuts back out. What do you want from me? What are you? The audio and video cut out here, but the recording file continues for another 17 minutes. Despite the best efforts of all involved, the recovery team was unable to reclaim the audio or video of these lost 17 minutes.

No known technical issue with the file has surfaced, leaving the team at a loss as to why these 17 minutes are blank. The prevailing theory is that the heat and or moisture of the tunnel somehow affected Theodore's phone camera and microphone, thus corrupting the physical act of recording, but not the saved cloud file itself. But that doesn't explain the video cutting in and out in the first file before he entered the tunnel, nor does it explain the following files. The fourth file starts with the timestamp said 11 minutes after the third file had ended. The camera is on the ground, and the stone wall and wet floor of the tunnel make up most of the frame. In the top left corner of the video, a small portion of the walkway is visible.

During this portion, it's impossible to tell if the audio is working, as everything is silent. Three minutes pass like this, and then the file ends. The timestamp on the fifth file begins 52 minutes after the end. of the previous one. There is no functioning video footage for this file. Him, always him. Always, always him. Two sets of footsteps echo throughout the tunnel. The first set of footsteps clearly belongs to Theodore. The second set, heavier and more pronounced, trails close behind. You could leave if you wanted to. We all could.

A sudden gasp of air causes the microphone to hiss loudly for several seconds. It's like there's a voice talking beneath. the hissing. Yeah. A minute of silence passes. Yeah. The sixth file begins less than two minutes after file five ends. Most peculiarly, there is a grain equality to this footage and the audio is distorted. Stranger still, Mr. Cheston appears to be fine and goes about documenting his exploration

as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened previously. This tunnel, it has a very earthy smell to it. It's not unpleasant or musky, more like fresh dirt. It's a bit chilly, but that's to be expected. What I wasn't expecting is how smooth and... The audio distorts heavily here, and the video flickers in and out of color as the sound finally goes mute. Theodore continues walking down the tunnel,

presumably narrating while doing so. Then the audio suddenly kicks back in. Is my best guess how they dug through it? Just imagine digging something like this with the limited tools available at the timing. I mean, it would have been a damn nightmare. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if there are a lot of bodies buried within these walls. Like all those bones I saw when I explore the Paris catacombs. If you haven't checked that video out yet, you can hink the link above.

Anyway, at least I expected to see a bunch of dead people in the catacombs. That's one of the reasons they're so infamous. But this tunnel, though, I don't know, man. Something just feels different. It feels, well, off. I mean, I've only been here for a few minutes, but it seems like it's been hours. For the next 14 minutes,

Theodore walks silently through the tunnel. His pace never changes, and his breath remains steady. There are no discernible changes to the tunnel either. It's as if he's walking through the same stretch of tunnel in an endless loop. File 6 ends with Theodore still walking straight ahead, but File 7 begins in a startling fashion. It shows Theodore walking forward through the tunnel,

but it's being recorded from behind by an unseen person using his phone while following him. You can hear heavy breathing from the person recording, but Theodore doesn't acknowledge the person's presence. He simply marches forward as if he's in a trance. File 7 cuts to black in less than a minute. Unfortunately, files 8 and 9 are corrupted and unable to open. Number 8 doesn't have a thumbnail, but number 9 does.

Its thumbnail is a close-up image of Theodore's face, which appears to be covered in either blood or dirt. The quality of the thumbnail is too poor to enlarge the image to determine the substance. File 10 starts with what seems to be a black screen and the sound of a man sobbing. When the video engineers adjusted the brightness on the video, a grainy outline of Theodore comes into focus. He's rocking in the fetal position in a corner. I just want to go home, please.

I just want to go home. He repeats the phrase over a dozen times while crying into his arms. Then a loud bang rings out and Theodore snaps his head to attention. The file cuts off there. The video for File 11 doesn't work, but the audio is clear throughout. For around one minute, the heavily accented voice of a man speaks, presumably to Theodore. But Theodore's voice is never heard in this file. The man speaks slowly, and his voice is harsh.

The stars above shine on earth, but not in hell. No stars shine here And not only wicked man in hell There be no wicked man down here But if evil you looking for Evil you find No righteous man build this tunnel The devil

Be the work of the devil Skin white as snow So black as snow soul black as tar of the devil. He built this tunnel. We just die here over and over, over and over, over and over. The video image is clear in File 12, but there is no audio. Theodore nor anyone else is shown on screen.

Most of the frame is made up of a stone wall, but if you zoom in on the left side of the frame, there is what looks to be a sliver of light shining through an unseen crack or opening. Multiple times during the 14-minute clip, you can make out tiny rocks and dust being blown to the right from where the light is coming from. The most accepted theory at the time of viewing

was that the phone had been set right near the entrance of the tunnel at the bottom of the well. The true horror of Theodore's fate is made more evident in File 13. The video starts with him running through the tunnel. His heavy footfalls echo throughout, and multiple voices call out from behind, the sound of their footsteps closing in on him as it runs away. You stay with us, die with us, over and over, over, over and over. Over and over. Never free in hell.

At this point, with his pursuers sounding as if they are directly behind him, Theodore runs into a dead end and falls on the ground. The phone spins as it falls and lands on its side, most likely propped up against the wall and faces Theodore's unconscious body. Only now, the man's face is gone, and he's sporting a ragged beard and scraggly long hair. Our best experts have no working theories on how this could be possible, as Theodore wasn't in the tunnel for more than a day and was clean-shaven with short, neat hair when he'd entered the well on the morning of August 13th, 2019.

Rescue crews attempted to find Theodore on August 14, 2019, at the behest of his brother. But when they repelled down into the well, they found no entrance to a tunnel. The well was partially full of water, which looked to not have been disturbed for a long time, as reported by the leader of the rescue team. After the cloud data was recovered, a salvage team was called in to inspect the well. They used a 3D imaging sensor device that allowed them to see if there were any subterranean structures connected to the well, they came up empty. During the following months, many different groups of scientists, archaeologists, and salvage crews dug around the well site, but all failed to report any significant findings. It was as if Theodore Cheston had simply vanished. If it weren't

for the audio and video recordings recovered, there would be no clues as to what had happened to him. As of October 1st, 2020, the fate of Theodore Teddy Cheston is still a mystery. 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 Jesse.

Makavoy and Ashley McAnally. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless. The nosleeppodcast.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.