The NoSleep Podcast - S22 Ep17: NoSleep Podcast S22E17

Episode Date: April 6, 2025

It's Episode 17 of Season 22. The voices are calling with tales about reaping grimly."First Heat" written by B.A. Ries (Story starts around 00:03:35)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Claudius MooreCast: Peter - Dan Zappulla, Goggles - Graham Rowat, Roger - Jeff Clement, Anthony - Kyle Akers, Allison - Nichole Goodnight, Coach - Erin Lillis, Announcer - Jesse Cornett"Handholder" written by Lisel Jones (Story starts around 00:26:25)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Chantal - Mary Murphy, Miss Ursula - Danielle McRae, Nurse - Kyle Akers"We Contain Multitudes" written by Andrew Kozma (Story starts around 00:46:40)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator - Sarah Thomas, George - Jesse Cornett, Ricky - Jeff Clement"Mrs. Trent's Machine" written by John Beardify (Story starts around 01:06:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Eli - Allonté Barakat, Mother - Kristen DiMercurio, Father - Graham Rowat, Mrs. Trent - Danielle McRae, Emily Buell - Erin Lillis, Girl - Nichole Goodnight"It Fell with the Night" written by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 01:40:10)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Linsay Rousseau, Jackson - Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by:Quince - Get cozy in Quince's high-quality wardrobe essentials highlighted by quality, sustainability, and affordability. Go to Quince.com/nosleep to get free shipping and a 365-day return period.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Lisel JonesClick here to learn more about Andrew KozmaClick here to learn more about Manen LysetExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"HandHolder" illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerAudio program ©2025 - 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.

call you back. The phone is ringing. Message from an unknown caller. Recognizable. One message is clear. Death can come for you. Any place. It's your best.

Welcome to our sleepless show. I'm your host and educator, Dr. Cummings. Why do I give myself the fraudulent title of Doctor, you ask? Because, despite not actually having a Doctorate degree, I am going to educate you with a mind-blowing fact. It's regarding horror, and the fact is this. Horror is very closely tied to fear. Thus endeth the lesson.

Now, with that fact established, we need to examine the things which cause fear in people, and at the top of the list, undoubtedly, is the fear of death. And these days it might feel like the risk of death is everywhere. Taking a shower, lightning will strike your house, run through the pipes, and electrify you. You're dead. Driving to your favorite chicken farm? A bridge collapses on your car on the way there.

You're dead. Or if you make it to the farm, you contract bird flu. You're dead. Want to get away on a luxury vacation? at the White Lotus, yeah, you dead. The potential for your demise is omnipresent. The Grim Reaper is waiting around every corner. So then, now imagine that not only do you have to deal with all the very real and tangible causes of death surrounding you,

you have to contend with all the supernatural ways death can be visited upon you. There are plenty of things not of this natural world that would like nothing more than to see you devoid of life. And the best thing about that, they make for great horror stories. And so, dear sleepless listener, this episode is poised to present you with tales of people trying to be death-defying, because they're faced with all manner of things which want to harm them, and, dare I say, kill them to death. If only some of them had the courtesy to call you ahead of time. Oh, and speaking of, do you dare pick up your first?

phone and listen to the voices calling to you. In our first tale, we meet a young man ready to race in a swim meet. That is, until a thunderstorm rolls through. Thunder and lightning may be great for horror, but they're not good for outdoor swimming. And in this tale, shared with us by author B. A. Reese, it was during the delay that the young man learned of a legend about the pool, A tale like the pool, which is quite deep. Performing this tale are Danza Pula, Graham Rowett, Jeff Clement, Kyle Acres, Nicole Goodnight, Aaron Lillis, and Jesse Cornett. So get on your marks and get set, because it's time for the first heat.

The announcement came promptly after we sensed the distant rumble. Attention all swimmers. attention to all swimmers, due to another nearby lightning strike, the competition is delayed by 20 minutes. Goggles let out an annoyed moan. I'd given him that nickname because I didn't know his real name, and because he'd insisted thus far on wearing his oversized goggles for the duration of the weight. I finally decided to ask him about it. You ever going to take those off?

It's been nearly an hour already. It can't be comfortable keeping them on like that. What's it to you, county boy? I shrugged. Goggles, Anthony, and Roger made up the rest of my heat, and they were friends with one another. If I picked a fight, they'd back each other up, so I tried not to escalate things further. That didn't stop Roger from whining about me. God damn it, how long are we stuck here with this bumpkin?

A long time, I bet. A very long time. This caused Anthony to speak up for the first time in a while. Give him a break, guys. We're all in the first heat anyway. We've got nothing act tough about. He was right. In swimming, each age group is divided into heats of competitors who all race at once.

The number of swimmers in a heat varies based on the number of lanes in the pool. In the case of the pool used for this regional tournament, 10. The last heat was where all the... The excitement happened, as it contained the fastest swimmers. The first heat was the opposite, as it typically consisted of those who swam slowly, as well as competitors who had gotten themselves disqualified for breaking the rules in previous competitions. The first heat was notable, too, in that it was the only one that had an irregular number of people.

If there were 73 swimmers in an age group at this pool, the first heat would include only three, versus an even ten for each of the remaining heats. The worst fear of any slow swimmer like myself was to be the solo competitor in Heat 1. Goggles, Anthony and Roger, who I figured all attended one of the private schools nearby, displayed a preppy hostility towards me, but at least their presence ensured that I wasn't alone.

We bore all the signs of a first heat, from being only four in number to lacking the lean physiques of the, the better swimmers, half of us being too scrawny and small, and the other half leaning too far in the other direction. Normally, our humiliation was brief. Within 15 minutes, we'd soared into heats in the gymnasium, walked to the various waiting stations throughout the facility, and end up on a diving board poised to jump into the indoor pool. The race, a 50-meter breaststroke, would be over in no time, and then this miserable weekend would be one step closer to ending.

Today, however, lightning had kept us stuck in the corridor where we waited just outside the pool room. I normally experienced nervous jitters a few minutes before a race, but all I felt now, after so much waiting, was tedium and boredom. Roger, perhaps realizing he'd let a full minute pass without complaining about something, spoke up again. Why do they even delay for lightning when it's an indoor pool we're going to be swimming in? It's just a stupid government rule. The lightning can't hurt us indoors, even in the water. But there's some local safety code that makes them have to wait anyway. Oh, this is so boring. We're stuck here forever with absolutely nothing to do.

Maybe they'll just cancel the race. Surely they have to do that eventually. This prompted a sneer from Roger. You'd like that, wouldn't you? It's the only way you won't place dead last. He and goggles snickered. Like Anthony said, we're all in last place already by being in the first heat. There are nine heats that are faster than us. Do you really care about finishing in 91st place versus 94th?

At least we'll finish it all. "'Goggles approached where I sat such that he towered over me. "'You'll probably flounder and grab on to the lane rope "'until someone comes to rescue you. "'And instead of it being one of the hot lifeguards, "'it'll be that old coach who led us here who gives you CPR. "'I jumped to my feet. "'Even if the odds weren't in my favor,

"'I wasn't going to let them keep tormenting me without fighting back. "'The door at the opposite side of the hallway opened, "'and as a familiar figure entered, My sister Allison, six years my senior and an event volunteer, unwittingly broke up a potential scuffle. Goggles retreated and sat against the wall with Roger and Anthony. One of them, I don't know who, let out a few cat-calling whistlers, which Allison thankfully ignored. Hey, Peter, are you doing okay? I nodded.

I was worried about you. Is there no staff person here? I shook my head. Some coach was here for a little while, but he left and hasn't come back yet. I see. Well, I know you can look after yourself, but please, don't hesitate to come find me if anything comes up. I know you must be bored out of your mind. Yeah, of course I'm bored. I wish this would wrap up already.

These delays are killing me. It's a nightmare. I know, but I have a feeling things will be moving along shortly. I'll be watching whenever the races resume, and I'll be cheering for you, little champ. You're going to do great, all right? Thanks. I watched as she made her way back to the gymnasium. Little champ.

She won't be cheering when she sees how badly you lose. Fuck off. Again, it was Anthony who stood up for me. Go easy on him. Why do you keep sticking up for this guy? Because he has enough to worry about already. When it's our turn to race, I get the feeling Nick's going to be in the pool, waiting.

If Peter's as slow as we think he is, he won't be climbing out the other side. What? Who's Nick? Oh, he doesn't know the legend. Goggle's response sounded forced, even improvisational. Oh, right, the legend. I'm not falling for whatever bullshit you're about to make up. To my surprise, Anthony joined in.

You don't have to believe it if you don't want to, but ignore it at your own risk. I'm confident that I can out swim, Nick. You, though, I'm not so sure about. Roger took a step towards me. You see, Nick haunts the pool. He's been there ever since he died in it 30 years ago on this same day, at this same meat. He was the only swimmer in the first heat. He was nervous about swimming alone in front of so many people.

Let me guess. He jumped in the water, forgot how to swim, drowned, and somehow the hundreds of people present, including all the lifeguards, didn't notice on time to save him. You really think I'm dumb enough to believe a story like that? Anthony shook his head solemnly. I wish we were making the story up.

A lot of people would still be alive if we were. were. I remained unconvinced, to put it mildly, but there was a sincerity to Anthony that made me wonder if there could be a grain of truth to what he was saying. Maybe some unfortunate kid really had died, and they were just inventing the rest of the story around that fact. You see, it wasn't that simple. Lightning had delayed the meat for over an hour. Nick sat right where we are now, shaking and shivering the whole time. Little did he know that while he waited, there was a miscommunication among the pool staff.

One of them got the word that the meat was canceled due to the bad weather and started draining the pool. Meanwhile, there was an electrical short in the overhead lighting system. It was a disaster waiting to happen. When the announcement was made that 20 minutes had passed since the last strike and that the competition would resume,

the audience was allowed to return, just as Nick was led to a diving board. A few people noticed that something was wrong. The pool wasn't empty. It takes time to drain, but it wasn't nearly as full as it was before. But their cries were ignored. It wasn't a situation anyone expected, or that the parents and staff were trained to deal with.

Nick took his position on the diving board. He saw among the flickering lights that there was water below, but in his eagerness to get the diving board, his eagerness to get the race over with, he didn't comprehend that there was much less water than there should be, less than there needed to be. One of the lifeguards realized what was wrong and cried out for the race to be called off. She ran towards Nick to stop him from jumping. She didn't get to him in time. The buzzer rang and poor Nick hurtled forward. He fell through the air a few moments longer than usual before crashing into the water. It wasn't enough to slow him.

not much at least his head slammed into the concrete below the whole crowd screamed when the lights returned and revealed his body which had floated to the shallow surface according to some witnesses his skull fractured open and some of his brains spilled out to this day nick's spirit remains in that pool he gets lonely there so sometimes he causes the lights to go out in the darkness he pulls the lowest boy from his age group in the competition down with him. By the time the lifeguards notice, it's too late, and he's taken another victim to join him in haunting this place forever. If that were true, this place would have been closed down for good ages ago.

Nick isn't greedy. He only takes someone every once in a while. In the 30 years since this happened, only a few kids have died. The last one was a decade ago. In the long silence that followed, I thought about what I had. heard. These guys were just trying to scare me, right? But I found it hard to believe that Anthony had conjured up such a detailed story out of thin air. I jolted upright as another announcement resounded through the room. Attention, all swimmers. Attention, all swimmers. 20 minutes have passed

without incident. And the competition has resumed. Goggles, Roger, and Anthony were laughing. To my embarrassment, I realized that my reaction to the announcement had given away how tense Anthony's story had made me. We got you so scared. You scaredy cat. No, no, I just didn't expect... I can't believe you fell for that stupid story. I guess county kids really are as dumb as the dirt they grow their corn in. Anthony, again, was more.

sympathetic than his friends. Don't worry. I made that whole story up. You've got nothing to worry about. Of course. I didn't believe it. The poolside door opened. The coach who'd led us to our waiting station over an hour ago emerged.

Come on, this way. I followed her inside. As with any crowded indoor pool, the noise that echoed through the room, splashes, announcements, and the chatter and cheers of the crowds. that was slowly making its way back to the bleachers, formed a loud, blurry cacophony.

The room was also a lot dimmer than I remembered, with some of the overhead lights flickering on and off irregularly. The announcer's voice blasted through the speaker system. Heat one, take your position. I hesitated. I thought about Anthony's story and how the lights had technical issues just before Nick jumped. But that had to be just a coincidence.

Right? The coach pushed me along. Come on now, son. Let's get this little heat over with. The crowd cheered as I put on my goggles and carefully climbed onto the diving board. I was in one of the center lanes. I looked to my left and to my right and saw, to my surprise, that no one else was standing with me.

Where had goggles, Roger, and Anthony gone? The race will begin in three, two. I looked down. There was water, but was there the right amount? I got little more than a glimpse. Before all at once, the ceiling lights turned off. One! Come on, kid.

There's no light. I should wait until I can see. The clock's running now. I'm not letting you delay this entire race. There's nine heats behind you, waiting to go. I turned my head back to the coach, and for a brief moment, discerned in the darkness the black silhouettes of three shadowy figures immediately behind me. I heard laughter, and I felt a force against my back. An eternity passed in the moments that followed. I flew awkwardly through the air.

my form all wrong until I hit the water. I panicked at the thought that my head was about to smash into the hard pool floor. Instead, my body slowed a few feet from the bottom. I realized, to my incredible relief, that the pool was full. I wasn't in any danger. Sure, my time would be terrible, and I'd likely be disqualified for not swimming in proper form, but I wasn't in any danger. I kicked at the water and began to climb to the surface.

That's when I felt an intense force around my neck. It was an arm. It was soggy and worn, and it pulled me downwards. I found myself at the bottom of the pool, held in place by the figure that had grabbed me. I turned my face to see goggles, grinning widely. Only, he was missing many of his teeth and much of his skin, and his skull was split open, revealing patches of a gray, spongy substance underneath. I squirmed and tried to pull him off, but he continued to hold me in place.

I needed desperately to breathe, but I couldn't tear him off of me. Two more faces appeared, but when they swim closer, I realized they didn't belong to lifeguards like I'd hoped. The lifeguards probably couldn't even see that I was down here. Instead, it was Anthony and Roger. Their skin was tattered and stained a murky brown, and they hovered above me in the water. I managed to pry goggles off me, but before I could get anywhere, Anthony and Roger reached out and pushed me back against the floor. The world above me turned to shadow.

I felt myself fade into unconsciousness. My last memory, real or hallucinatory, was of goggles, whispering one word into my ear. I woke up, gasping and coughing up water. Allison sat over me, her clothes soaking wet. Thank God, Peter, I thought I lost you. The lights had turned back on. I could tell that we were on the surface next. to the pool. My sister must have dived in and dragged me out. I learned later that I'd stopped

breathing, but started again after she performed chest compressions on me. I can't believe they didn't call off the race with the lights out and nobody could see you were in trouble. Why'd you jump? I took a moment to catch my breath. They shoved me in. Who shoved you in? That coach? And how the heck did you get stuck at the bottom of the pool anyways? No, it was the other kids in my heat. They helped me down. My answers continued to only prompt more questions from Allison. What other kids?

You were the only one in your heat. You've been alone the last hour. I didn't know what to say to that, nor did I know what to say when the doctor Allison brought me to asked me about the abrasions and handprints on my body. or when I saw the pictures from the old news reports about the other accidents at the facility. It's been 12 years. Of course, nobody listened to my warnings or believed my ghost stories.

The facility stayed in operation until a few weeks ago. The official story behind its closure was that the building was so outdated that it needed to be demolished and completely rebuilt. I think it has more to do with the fact. that another kid drowned in its pool last spring. A few days ago, I found a grainy video of its destruction on a local news channel's website. In the corner of the footage, away from the smoke and debris of the collapsed building, I noticed something unusual. Four figures, dressed only in swim gear, walking along a dirt road.

I don't know exactly where that road. leads. I just know that it stretches onward for a long, long time in a direction far away from town. We live in a world where we're constantly seeing beautiful, talented people all over social media doing enviable things. Is it any wonder why most of us lack confidence and self-esteem when comparing ourselves to the perfect people?

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Lacelle Jones, we meet Chantel. She's always been a nervous woman lacking confidence. Her only saving grace was finding someone who would always be there for her to give her courage. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Danielle McCray, and Kyle Akers. So you don't ever have to feel alone if you can find yourself a handholder. I never had much confidence as a little girl. Things that seemed to come naturally to others, like meeting new people and speaking in groups,

scared me, made me want to shrink into a tiny dot somewhere quiet and dark. Teachers weren't especially sympathetic. One in particular, Miss Ursula, was pretty harsh, always picking on me to answer questions in class. I suppose it could have been her way of trying to prize me out of my shell, that it just made me more self-conscious. She had a tradition that at the end of the school year,

her class would put on a talent show. I dreaded it for months. Add zero talent. To be fair, she sensed my concern and helped me out with what she called an easy, untaxing piece. I was to read out, not even recite from memory,

a short poem she'd chosen. The prospects still terrified me, though, and rehearsals went badly. I'd clam up, stammer, blush, drop the book, sometimes all at once. I guess Miss Ursula tried to be encouraging in her own way, but I could tell I wasn't improving as she'd hoped. After my second try at the final rehearsal, she shook her head, eyes brimming with pity.

I don't know how you'll cope with life if you don't pluck up, Chantal. Nobody's going to hold your hand forever. I sobbed myself to sleep that night. That phrase, nobody's going to hold your hand forever, hounded me. It wasn't just the message that I badly needed to grow up that stung. The words were packed with a profound aloneness. I wish there was someone who would hold my hand forever, always be there to reassure, to guide.

The afternoon of the talent show was as nerve shredding as I'd feared. I trembled as my classmates happily sung, danced, even acted out comic sketches, aed written. I was partly in awe, partly envious, but mainly terrified. It was torturous, like some cruel ancient rite, a spotlight that made the gifted shine but cremated non-entities. As a performance before mine neared its end, everything from my stomach to my brain bristled and fizzed.

I so wanted someone to take me away or help me. I don't know why, but as I stood shaking at the stage's edge, I reached my right hand out to my side, just a little, in case anyone noticed, but enough to invite. I gasped quietly as something touched my fingertips. Soft pads slid into my sweaty palm.

My tremors heightened, but I didn't dare look, was determined not to scream as what felt like a cushiony hand grasped mine. Then, as if a silent bell rang in my head, my doubts and the sounds in the hall faded, I glanced down, but didn't see anything other than my own hand, despite the holding sensation. The girl on stage finished and pushed past. The invisible hand gave a tub towards the platform. I resisted, but a soft murmuring in my ear soothed away the impulse. It had no discernible words, but its tone, soothing and maternal, melted my fears.

A warmth flowed up my arm, spreading peaceful, rosy light through my chest and head. Almost without thinking, I strode on stage, took my place at the microphone, and looked at the audience. Fear flared momentarily. But the hand gave mine a squeeze, and something at the back of the room stole my attention. I'm not sure what. Barely aware of the hand dissolving and its murmuring pating, I opened the book and began to read. From childhood's hour, I have not been. As others were, I have not seen.

As others saw, I could not bring my passions from a common spring. I can't say my performance was a nod. out, that a star was born, but it was competent and I was comfortable. For me, that was a huge leap, and the experience left an afterglow of confidence that stayed with me as I started high school. I hadn't blossomed into a party animal or anything, but my meekness had definitely receded. Sadly, the pressures of teenage life grew to counter that. Exams, friendships, hormones, they all swarmed and nibbled at the sense of security I was gaining. Over time, I told myself that the handholder experience had just been the imaginings of my nervous, childish mind.

I hadn't felt a need to try again until I suffered a panic attack before an important exam I'd barely prepared for. As I sat at the desk, I stopped trying to block fear, let it flood me to a point where I verged on fleeing the room. Pleading internally, I subtly reached out. The touch of fingertips on mine sent relief as well as shock up my arm, followed by that calming warmth. As the spongy fingers moved into my hand, I flicked my eyes down and briefly saw something. Smooth, grayish lilac, more like a plastic glove than a bare hand.

I blinked and it vanished, but its holding remained. I exhaled. Let it lift my hand to the desktop. Quiet murmuring reminded me of things I didn't realize I'd learnt, and my hand was guided. My exam results weren't fantastic, but I did better than expected, and much better than I deserved.

Other challenges came my way, and more and more often I'd meet them with the hand-holders' help. It didn't always come when I reached out, though, seemed to have its own rules about which situations were worthy. Despite that, it got me through tough times. I scoured the Internet, even libraries, to see if anyone had similar experiences, but found nothing. I couldn't work out why it didn't always assist

and began to examine it closer when it did. I came to wish I hadn't. The more familiar I got with the hand, the surer I became it wasn't actually a hand, that the wrinkless shape that I occasionally glimpsed was just a cover or prosthetic, artificial, bone-like. It moved unnaturally, rotated in ways a hand attached to an arm couldn't. Sometimes I could feel something smaller move inside it,

nobly and serpentine. An image of a thing resembling a chicken's clawed foot sprung to mind once as it gripped. The experience started to be tinged with fear, but I was also kind of dependent. Discretely reaching out my hand in stressful times had become almost a reflex. I called on its help to graduate. Above average but not stellar grades got me into an average but not stellar university, which led to, you guessed it, a good but not great job.

My fledgling career in marketing was fine, but not. not what I really wanted. I still relied on the handholder for interviews, presentations and stuff like that, but became kind of disillusioned. I suppose I should have been more grateful, but would it hurt to give me more? One evening I was browsing ads

and spotted one for a great-looking job, as glamorous as my niche got, plus a chance to move on to something dreamier. The application asked for a pitch, in addition to the usual resume details. Five hundred words to stand out from the crowd. This was my chance. I noodled on a notepad app, but came up blank.

I glared at my laptop, drummed my fingers against it. I hadn't reached for the hand holder for a while, but this was exactly the kind of thing it ought to help with. I raised my hand and waited. Nothing. I stretched further. Beckon gently. Still nothing.

Come on, please. Something brushed against my fingertips. Then nothing. My soul sank. For fuck's sake, help me. As I clawed space, my nail scratched something, but it pulled away. Don't play with me. I swiped repeatedly.

Sure I could catch it if only I moved the right way. reach the right spot. A touch on my palm, those soft fingertips. I snatched. The handholder tried to get away, but I gripped tighter. It struggled, strained, felt like the thing inside its padded cover might slip out. I squeezed harder and it jerked fiercely, almost yanking me out my chair. My laptop slid off my legs and crashed to the floor.

Angry. I clutched full force. It cracked like a trotting cockroach, warm goo oozing over my palm. I opened my hand. It was empty. I shook my fingers to rid them of imagined ick. Fucking useless.

I threw myself back in the chair and clenched my fist. A moist mass spasmed in my hand again, but I resisted the urge to let go and held. Sharp gunk-coated fragments twitched like eels, accompanied by wounded wines. I raised my fist to eye-level. Slowly, shakily, I shifted my thumb. The whimpering intensified as I peered through the gap formed by my curled forefinger. I almost rubbed my eye in disbelief.

Inside my closed hand was a cavern, a huge dark cave dripping with more. moisture. A stone slab lay in the middle. Something convulsed on it. A blurry mess swirling like entrails in a mortuary drain. Broken twig-like finger bones. A torn tongue. I wrenched my head away as an oyster of a ruined eyeball rolled to look into mine. My palm was empty when I opened it with a breathless scream. I swore that night would be the last time I reached for the handholder. However, it wasn't the last time it would reach for me. It started with light taps on my fingertips at random times when I was alone. I thought, I hoped, I was just imagining, but I got permer, evolved into rugs, scratches,

pinches. It felt hurt, angry. It only happened when my fingers were extended, so I tried making a habit of keeping them closed, thumb-tucked-in-palm. But maintaining that's harder than you'd think. Much harder. It affected my life, made me depressed, aimless at work and with acquaintances. Sickeningly, I sometimes even found myself reaching out, mindlessly seeking help from the thing that tormented me, only to be surprised. snap back to my senses as sharp nails stabbed my fingers,

or yanked so violently that the bones were nearly pulled from joints. I had no idea how to stop it. Nobody was going to help me through this. It ruined my sleep, and when I dropped off, I'd jolt awake, checking if my hand was safely closed. But just like you can't hold your breath forever, you've eventually got to open your fist.

One warm evening I'd fallen asleep in my backyard. I woke, shocked to find my hand lulling over the recliner's arm. Had something touched it? Instinctively, I tried to close my fingers but was blocked. As I retried, the holder squeezed and coiled. It felt disjointed, prickly, barely hand-shaped anymore. I scrambled up, but the handholder pulled me down to the ground, forced my arm above my head. It dragged me away from home, crazed alien screeches jabbering in my head.

It drew my arm between the bars of the wooden fence, then my shoulder slammed into them. Ruthlessly, the handholder kept heaving, forcing my head and body through the cracking bars. Friction burns branding my skin. I was hauled into the woodland behind my house. As ever, nobody came to my rescue. My body surged through a carpet of rotting leaves and jagged sticks as a handholder's jabbering became hysterical, enraged. Hittinic hair how much pain it inflicted as it crashed me into trees,

tore me over stones. I clawed the ground with my free head. and beat, but couldn't stop the incessant charge. I looked ahead and cried. The approaching territory looked vague, insubstantial, as if glanced in peripheral vision. A towering cliff, I'm sure, didn't belong in the woods. At its base, the mouth of a cave,

the cave which held that stone slab. It looked like an altar, a stage. The handholder slowed as we got closer, and I was overwhelmed by that abyssal aloneness I thought I'd lost forever. It was as if all the confidence, however false, however hollow, it gifted me was being reclaimed. Its tugging subsided, and I stumbled to my feet as it led me into the cave. As my eyes adjusted to darkness,

a different sensation pulsed up my mouth. arm. Boren memory streamed into my mind's eye. This place had meaning for the hand holder, or whatever, whoever it used to be. I saw a young arm held down on the slab by gnarled hands. Sensations of being surrounded, tongue-tied by fear, ostracized. The stone blade rising and hacking the wrist. Something snaky, spine-like being stretched and pulled from the bleeding stump. Its head, a cluster of clasping claws. Normal vision returned and I dug my heels into the rubbly ground. I knew something beyond fear would happen if I let myself be taken to the slab.

But the handholder wrenched me forwards, buckling my ankles. It was too strong. If only I hadn't opened my hand to it. I realized I couldn't resist its pull, but maybe if I closed my hand, I could escape. I tried bending my fingers, but it blocked me. The chattering grew furious, and it yanked me down, pebbles scattering over my face as I was dragged closer to the slab.

I tried pulling free again, but couldn't. Closing my fingers in my only hope. So I reached my free hand towards them and got hold. I braced myself and crushed. Agony shot up my arm as I forced my ditches inwards, inches away from the slab. Bone snaps and curled screeches filled the air as I pressed and pushed. With a final crunch, my right hand in its contents crumpled. I slipped free of the handholder's grip.

left alone as darkness closed in. Glad to see her joining us at last. I blinked and saw a nurse looking down in an airy room. How did I get here? I winced as my body stung all over. One of your neighbors heard you yell, eventually found you unconscious in the woods. You're very lucky to have someone who cares.

I didn't have the energy to question, and my eyes fluttered shut. I'll go get the doctor, while you're awake. She's got several things she needs to ask you. Despite the pain and confusion, I felt relief. My ordeal with the handholder was over. But as my head sunk into the pillow, I felt a tap on my fingertips. Mangled fingers crawled over mine.

And a wordless voice growled in my ear. It still wanted to hold my hand. would forever. I gasped, tried to close my fingers before it took cold, but couldn't. I turned to look. My forearm was clad in plaster.

It covered my hand, stretching my palm wide open. Splints fixed my fingers straight and outstretched. When you don't want ambiance, a cool vibe, or fancy drinks, You head to a bar like Poison Girl. That name tells you all you need to know about this particular dive bar. And as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Cosma,

one regular at the Poison Girl takes an interest in a man who frequents the bar, and she starts to figure out what he's up to. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Jesse Cornett, and Jeff Clement. So do your shots and get out of there. The place is crowded enough because we contain multitudes. I first noticed George Slovenia hitting on women at Poison Girl, my neighborhood bar. Poison Girl wasn't a big cattle call kind of place you could get lost in. And it wasn't expensive either, where you paid your money to be seen and left alone.

It was a dive, or it wanted to be, or it pretended to be. which made its local flavor that of an expensive whiskey you'd poured the night before, but never finished. Those who didn't like the atmosphere never came back, returning to the ever-changing storefronts of Midtown or Washington. Those who did like the atmosphere, they never left. George had the sort of attractiveness that puts hooks in your eyes. I didn't usually swing that way towards prettiness with an edge. But even so, I couldn't keep my attention from straying back to him. He was the brightest thing in the dimly lip bar, his entire personality, the too bright whiteness of a fresh snapped bone. From all the way down the long-crowded bar,

I could hear his seductive whisper. And though he aimed his efforts at just one woman, every ear in the place was tuned to his lelting drawl. Honestly, Poison Girl isn't the place to go for a one-night stand. The bar is all regulars and the occasional loss. soul. Even on weekends, the people from the suburbs have all been here before. This is their city place, there slightly out of my comfort zone. Everyone knows everyone else's name, or at least fakes a passing familiarity. But on that night, George unneringly homed in on one of the few lost souls there, a woman named Regina who was evolving into a regular. Your eyes are buried. No one's ever told you that before, have they?

She shook her head. Her berry eyes fixed on her chewed-up fingernails. He covered those chewed-up nails with his hands, and it was like they suddenly didn't exist, as though her hands had become the ideal version of themselves. Ricky, the red-haired bartender, was washing glasses in the sink on my end of the bar. No one ever told her that because it's a stupid thing to say.

What kind of berries even? I laughed quietly in agreement, but I understood what George was doing. Sure, it seemed crass and overblown to others. But under that gaze, with eyes so intense they burned straight through your skin to your core, it reveals the child like you, hiding in the center of your grown-up body. The one that always dreamed this could happen. It didn't matter that her eyes were nothing like berries, but more like baker's chocolate.

and she knew it. Those sort of compliments work to remake you in someone else's eyes, which remolds you in your own head, your self-image painted anew by another's brush. It's hard not to glory at finding yourself in someone else's dreams, especially if you're lost. And Regina was lost. George's compliments overwhelmed her,

even if she didn't believe half the things he said. As she leaned into him, I could hear her thinking to herself, that the truth is overrated, that sometimes all we want, all we need, is a little fantasy. Happy hour ended,

and with its ending, the sun went down, poison girl darkening into the very back of a public library, the shelves forgotten, the books rarely touched. The bar began to hum with more than just the downtown office drones

having their after-work drink, and the service industry crowd pre-gaming themselves for a night full of self-centered customers, who barely register waiters and bartenders as human. College students, stay-at-home moms and dads freed by the coming home of their partners, professional drinkers, nine-to-five blue-collers. All the added noise meant I couldn't overhear how George was seducing Regina anymore,

but I kept my eye on them as their body language grew increasingly cursive. A suited man sat next to me and spayed some Bukowski on the bar top, then pretended to ignore me. I played along. drifting my eyes into his orbit until he broke the silence too casually. Fifteen minutes later, I looked up from the conversation and George and Regina were gone, vanished into the brighter night. Regina had moved to Houston from New Jersey, which she described as a black hole of the soul

powered by the soulless. There, she worked for day traders in New York City, cleaning their mansions in the Jersey suburbs. In Houston, she took all the money not. as she learned on the sly from them. Her employers treating her as a sounding board for all their plots and plans, dismissing her either because she was a woman

or because she was the hired help. She didn't know and didn't care. Not anymore. And she made bank in her new city. But she'd left her family and friends behind. Good riddance to all of them, she'd say before taking her first shot of the evening. That shot was a different cheap whiskey each time.

Though she could buy much better quality stuff now, she wanted to remember what it was like when the worst was all she could afford. She didn't let anyone buy her drinks, and before George, the attention of most men had as much hold on her as fog. I never saw Regina again. George became a semi-regular at Poison Girl, even though no one encouraged him. The worst thing to happen to someone at a neighborhood bar

is for everyone to leave you alone. and George might as well have been on a deserted island. The bartenders took his order, served his drink, accepted his payment with the bare minimum of conversation. All of his quips, every attempt at conversation, received the standard grunt and nod. Regulars circled together if he came near, like a herd blocking off a predator.

Some even broke that rule of standard bar friendliness. Like when Alejandro bought a round for everyone on the night of his bachelor party, then pointed to where George sat at the middle of the bar, a moat of empty space around him, and yelled, Except him! No one paid attention to George. In fact, everyone actively tried not to pay attention to him.

But I watched him. I studied him. For me, he was like a frozen river on the verge of shattering into motion. I couldn't look away for fear I'd missed someone else dropping through the ice into the cold depths below. I didn't have long to wait. Two weeks after Regina, I entered Poison Girl to find George huddled around another woman.

From her short, spiked black hair, I knew it was Lynn, a regular who'd slid backwards into being a lost soul. His arm was around her shoulder in an awkward way, but one that undeniably declared, this is mine to everyone watching. And since everyone was already used to ignoring George, Lynn was ignored as well, people rolling their eyes at her, muttering, he's her problem now.

Even Sarah, the kindest bartender, made only the vaguest gesture towards asking if Lynn was okay, since Lynn had insulted her last week when she'd had one too many vodka sodas. So I was the only one who saw him press the limits of propriety with his free hand under the bar top and witnessed her flush of excitement at his daring, even if she thought it was a little gross as well. She didn't drink too much. He didn't try and get her drunk. They talked about politics, bemoaning the state of the world and the people who let it get to this point,

raking their eyes over the rest of the bar as though we were at fault. He played Lynn differently than he had Regina, honing in on the small things that made her feel like he cared, like he was the only one who truly understood her. His attention was that of a lover, the perfect friend, except twisted so once he screwed himself into your life, removing him would rip out your most vital organs in the process. But even if Lynn recognized that now,

and I could see if she did, and the way she pressed her shoulder into him instead of drawing away, the allure of his unconditional, for now, approval, was too much to resist. She could say no at any point, she told herself. She could quit any time she wanted. wanted to. Lynn was a biology teacher at Lanier Middle School, and she loved her job. Had been, a biology teacher, I should say, because her leaving school was what began this downward spiral. Though teaching science was what she'd always dreamed of doing, once she was in the classroom,

she only lasted three years before the focus on tests and testing and state-approved textbooks which were clearly anti-science and fighting between administration. and teachers, and arguments with parents unhappy with their child's grades, finally got to her. Lynn grew up in a large family in the new little Saigon on the west side of town. Every adult pushing their kids to get a great education, all the kids studying hard for the teachers who were venerated as saints. Now Lynn babysat the kids of her brothers and sisters to make ends meet,

lived at home with her parents, couldn't escape their disappointment over her failure. Instead of trying for another teaching job, she returned to her second love, painting. In her room at night, she sketched out the landscapes of her dreams and watercolors, then hid the finished paintings in her closet behind all of her abandoned teacher wear. Near midnight, pleasantly aglow, Lynn left with George. Her carefully spiked hair must from his hand running through it, her sleeveless leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. At the swinging front doors, just after kicking them open with her used dark Martins, she glanced back.

Her eyes skated over me and over everything else, like she was sketching the scene in her brain. I never saw Lynn again. The regulars figured she'd moved out to San Francisco like she'd always wanted to, or followed her friend Brittany to Portland. But two days after leaving with Lynn, George returned with his, I don't care if you ignore me grin. His skin smooth and his hair sleek. He was just as trim as he always was. His face and narrow blade. His jaw a tad too large but not unattractive.

But he sat like a contented cat who'd done something it knew it shouldn't have done, but doesn't regret, and not only because it'll never be caught. Years later, long after the cat's dead, you'll move the couch to find the remains of the chihuahua the next-door neighbors thought had ran away. You gave them commiseration beers on that very couch. And now the betrayal feels like it's yours, instead of your cats. George Slovenia knew everyone by now, but was a friend of no one's.

He drank a loan, nursing loan stars for hours at a time. And though he left large tips, the money was tainted. Some bartenders wouldn't touch his dollar bills. Others gave those dollars back to other customers as soon as they could, using the money as change. They always washed their hands. What was wrong with George? That was the question no one seemed to be able to answer. He smelled slightly off, one woman would say. A group of guys exclaimed that when he played pinball, he talked to the machine like it was an ex. When he drank his beers, he held the bottles by the tip with just thumb and forefinger,

and acted like that was classy. He'd buy tamales from Jose the Tomole. He'd buy tamales from Jose the Molly Guy and eat all 16 by himself and afterwards wouldn't need a napkin. The bar as a whole decided George was just wrong, the generic definition of. I knew what the problem was. He was trying too hard. And if you try too hard to fit in, then you never will. But the women George brought to Poison Girl never knew him long enough to spot his personality straining at the seams. One night stands, all of them. Even the ones who'd been hanging out in the bar long enough to know of him, he starts talking to them and they think,

Oh, he's different than everyone said. And maybe I've just never given him a chance. They're fascinated by how he watches their face and lips, actually listening to what they say. And then they go out that door and never come back. Rainie was a tattoo artist from the east side of Houston, who came to Poison Girl to drink out. side of her neighborhood. She stayed away from all the local tattoo artists because she didn't want

drama and because she didn't want to start trouble with her ex and her son's father, who was a tattoo artist as well as insanely jealous. In each of her designs, she'd leave a piece of herself, a bit of what she'd seen that day, a shriveled leaf, a cicada shell. Every Sunday, she'd call her father and talk for hours, giving him all the emotional support she could since he was taking care of her mother who was in the throes of early onset Alzheimer's. Kaylee worked in the front of a high-end restaurant in River Oaks. Her hometown was out in West Texas, a city she never named because she was sure no one would recognize it. She left her family and her pass behind, but you could see who she was in the

fragility of her smile, and the way she lingered on the last letter when writing down a name on the wait list. Two younger sisters were back in that city she never named, and she drank her fears for them when she could, because she couldn't do anything else. Jalissa ran fundraising for a local politician. She also took care of their social media accounts, which meant when she walked into Poison Girl at the end of the day, her thin body folded up onto a barstool like winter clothing being packed away for the summer. Every vile reply she'd read, every outburst of hatred,

it poured back out of her in the way she ripped the cardboard beer coasters into smaller and smaller shreds. Harriet took no shit from anyone and gave shit only to those who deserved it. Margarita only drank her namesake, which she saw as something of a penance for being a bartender with a drink for a name. Wendy tipped the homeless man outside the bar's entrance, both on the way in and on the way out.

Whether because she was generous or forgetful, no one ever knew. After they left with George, we never saw them again. George was good at picking out women who the world outside Poison Girl's doors wouldn't miss. But Poison Girl missed those women, even if the regulars believed they'd all found better lives

or more exciting jobs, rather than something worse. No one wanted to jump to conclusions. No one wanted to worry. But I knew they were gone, and who they'd gone with. It was incredibly easy to turn myself into the kind of woman who attracted George's ever-roving eye. He didn't have a physical type, so much as an aura, and with a little extra eyeliner and a messy unraveling of my braided hair,

I made myself into the me who'd attract a man like him. When he walked into the bar that night, his eyes locked on me so immediately, he stumbled over a couple putting away their IDs. As most people do with George, they pulled back without complaint, not wanting to prolong their contact any longer than necessary. He stumbled,

because he'd let his hunger take control. What he usually kept tightly leashed was apparent from his every movement, like the smell of rotten meat. He dropped into the seat next to me, and that is the first time since he opened the door to the bar that I looked at him.

I've never seen you in here before. With your beauty, I certainly would have noticed. I nodded, but it wasn't my beauty, he noticed. Now that he was close, he read what kind of woman I was. How best to get inside my defenses. He waved a hand at Ricky, who gave me a look asking if I wanted him to run the guy off. But I shook my head.

A willing for the lady. Neat. His instincts weren't all wrong. I touched his shoulder. I couldn't, really. I insist. Ricky brought him a lone star and set the willet before me. I took a sip, but it did nothing to alleviate my thirst.

We chatted about the bar, and he pretended to be friends with everyone in there because he suspected someone social was more likely to get me to open up. He told me what I already knew about the bar, the neighborhood. And when he started in on the disco ball and how it had been up there for ten straight years, when in fact it was only recently hung, I interrupted him. You're doing this all wrong. What? A slur was evident in his voice that was not from the beer.

Even though I was the cause of his slur and felt the same intoxication, I managed to keep my voice level and clear. You're too obvious. You pick on the walking wounded, but don't act wounded yourself. You're play acting rather than being. His eyes sharpened. This wasn't the way he wanted this to go, but he was too confident to second-guess himself.

Another will it? You know that's what both of us don't want. My hand on his thigh set his body into motion. His torso split open, teeth and raw flesh slopping forward to envelop my entire arm. I caught myself on the edge of the bar and pulled myself out of reach just in time. Honestly shocked he'd lost so much control. His eyes fractured into a rainbow of colors as he pulled himself together. His form's so flimsy and weak I had to hold him up as I led him to a

a darker corner in the back of the bar, where we could stand together and look like we were making out. And though I was starving, the hunger he couldn't control raging through me as well, I put my hands to either side of his head and whispered in his ear, you should have taken those who pray on their own, you idiot. Those who nobody will miss because no one ever liked them. The ones everyone's glad to see gone. Only at that moment did he realize that we were the same kind of. kind of monster, though really, we weren't the same at all. My head opened to absorb his. My torso unfolded to circle his own. My legs split, and the rows of needle teeth inside latched onto his flesh before he could do the same. And then he was inside me. Afterwards, I tidied my

lipstick nonchalantly, but no one was even paying attention. Already, George's memories were taking up space in my head, followed by those of all the women he'd eaten. I will give each one of his victims their due, remembering their lives and loves and losses, as if they were mine. For months ahead, my dreams will be theirs. As for George, I'd chewed through his memories at once and buried their remains deep. Ricky raised an eyebrow when I returned to my seat at the bar, Sands George. George got a call about a dying relative, I told him. It was an emergency, he said. He had to go.

Ricky poured shots of whiskey for himself and me. To George, having had to go. We toasted and downed the shots. And with just a little more whiskey to aid in the digestion, George will never be back. Cell signals are lost, but we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls were becoming from inside your house.

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