The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep20: NoSleep Podcast S24E20

Episode Date: June 14, 2026

It's Episode 20 of Season 24. Come celebrate the 15th Anniversary of The NoSleep Podcast!"Listen Closely" by Chris Hicks (Story starts around 00:08:40)Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Brie - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Janelle - Yenni Ann, Colonel Wayne - Peter Lewis, Automated Voice - Erin Lillis"Hole(d)" by Garrett Atkinson (Story starts around 00:25:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Colin - Atticus Jackson, Doug - Dan Zappulla, Heather - Rima Mycynek, Customer - David Cummings, Voice #1 - Jeff Clement, Voice #2 - Nichole Goodnight"New Admission, Room Six" by Arlo Vell (Story starts around 00:54:50)Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Dr. Richard - Graham Rowat, Beatrice - Erin Lillis, Molly - Mary Murphy, Richie - Kyle Akers"Return to Shiver Creek" by Zalina Alvi (Story starts around 01:24:20)Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Maddy - Nikolle Doolin, Sarah - Wafiyyah White, Dan - Elie Hirschman"Marnie and Kyle in the Quick 'n’ Now" by Jason Washer (Story starts around 02:01:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Marnie - Linsay Rousseau, Kyle - Matthew Bradford, Jaime - Jesse CornettThis episode is sponsored by:Mint Mobile - Ditch overpriced wireless with Mint Mobileís deal and get premium wireless service for 15 bucks a month. Cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at mintmobile.com/nosleepWeight Loss by Hims - Ready to reach your weight loss goals? Weight Loss by Hims and WegovyÆ. Get a personalized, affordable plan that gets you. Go to Hims.com/nosleep.Mars Men - With Mars Men, your natural ability to forge usable testosterone is optimized. Mars Men supports healthy T levels, energy, and stamina. Get 50% off for life plus free shipping and 3 free gifts at MenGoToMars.comClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Yenni Ann and the Story Sirens PodcastCheck out our NEW MERCH!Click here to learn more about the Crimewave at Sea 2.0 Cruise!Click here to get your Crimewave at Sea discount code and bonus event!Click here to learn more about Zalina AlviClick here to learn more about Jason Washer Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone15th Anniversary illustration courtesy of Catriel TallaricoThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Oh, there you are. I wasn't sure you were going to make it. Hell, I wasn't sure I was going to make it. This isn't an easy place to get to. Hey, mind your footing there. Well, the old shed seen better days. And the water damage is something fierce in here. Oh, what's that? Oh, this.

Yeah, yeah, I'm wearing a wire. No, don't worry. Nothing to do with the cops. I'm recording myself while I show you around. It's an old busted up microphone, though. I don't even think it's picking up your voice, so don't worry. You've got nothing to fear. Well, except what you'll experience in there.

No, no, but seriously, I'm recording it because, well, who knows? Maybe I'll make this into a podcast episode someday in tribute to my grandfather. You know, he's the reason this place exists. No, no, I'm serious. David Cummings was my granddad. He was the potfather, as some called him. I'm told by some people that I sound a lot like him. Anyway, you didn't come here for my family history.

You came here to explore the remains of the No Sleep Podcast Museum. So, I know it doesn't look that great now, but it was quite a sight to see back when it opened. It was built to celebrate the podcast's 15th anniversary to celebrate all those years of audio horror storytelling. But, as you can see, they made one rather serious mistake when choosing the location. It seems that around the time of their 15th,

they were talking about the horrors of water. And since my granddad had shortly before, relocated to this area on the banks of the Cape Fear River. They chose this spot to build the museum. Yep, yeah, I can't argue with you there. Building a museum on the banks of a river that ebbs and flows with the tide in an area prone to hurricanes on a spot that sailors literally named as a place for the dangers and fears of where the river meets the sea.

Yeah, not a good spot for a number. anything permanent. Oh, well, they say Grandad wasn't the brightest bulb in the henhouse, or something like that. So, the ruins you're now entering are all that the river has left of this place. Cape Fear, indeed. So, come on in. Like I said, mind your footing. You were smart to wear boots, lots of standing water around, and the walls. aren't too stable. Oh, I almost forgot. You know, when the museum was operating,

guests heard a special version of the theme song when they walked in, written by the maestro himself, Brandon Boone. Now the speakers in here no longer work, so I'll play it on my Bluetooth speaker here so you can hear it while we walk into the main gallery. In what was called the Art Gallery. Now, you can still see some of the artwork

on the walls. Illustrations done by all those very talented artists for each episode of the podcast. See that portrait on the main wall? That's my grandfather. Handsome, son of a buck, wasn't he? Yeah, yeah, you're right.

A face to inspire fear. That's fair. Anyway, so when the place was open, fans could walk through the museum and see the art, while listening to various stories from the podcast. But, like I said, the place hasn't had power in years, so you can't listen directly.

But I've managed to save a number of audio files from the old days. Now, here's a really obscure file not many people have heard. Did you know that years before starting the podcast, my granddad recorded a theme song for the show, like years earlier? I think he thought if he wrote, recorded a theme song, it might I don't know,

like the universe would manifest it into being. And, hell, I guess in some ways, it worked. Anyway, the song is taken from an old VHS tape that barely lasted long enough for me to transfer the file. So, the audio

isn't great, but you'll get the gist of the theme song he created. Now, uh, listen to this. Yeah, they say that song was going to be granddad's stairway to start him. And years later, he was finally able to create the podcast. So the universe must have been listening. What's that you say?

Oh, you came here for horror stories and not to hear some old guy singing. Okay, friend, no need to be brusk. You hired me to break into the museum and give you access to. some of the most obscure audio they've ever created. I'm just doing my job. And speaking of doing my job, I was able to find five stories they produced that never made it onto the show.

Probably had something to do with the show ending soon after the AI agentic robots took over every podcast and made them into shows that dealt exclusively with the topic of true sex crimes. Talk about bracing yourself. So, like I said, I'm just doing my job, and these stories are all about people doing their jobs in difficult circumstances. This ain't easy for me. I know producing the podcast back in the day wasn't easy for Granddad or the team who worked with him, so I know you'll appreciate the fruits of their labor.

So, what do you say, we get laborious and kick into the first story I have for you. Gather around the speaker here and turn those phones off. I don't need anyone trying to pirate these stories, you hear? Okay, prick up your ears for the first tale. Ironically enough, it's about a podcast, a true crime podcast, of all things. Weird, huh? Now, this story is fictional, but the two women performing it actually had their own podcast called Story Sirens, featuring Sarah Thomas and Yenny Ann.

The show was still thriving in 2026, so you can hear their shows from the archives. Check them out if you can. Story Sirens. So anyways, like I said, Sarah Thomas and special guest, Yenny Ann, are joined by Peter Lewis and Aaron Lillis, as they share the tale that was written by Chris Hicks. And when their podcast is suddenly interrupted with a special message, Well, you'd better pay attention. So let's check this out.

And please, whatever you do, listen closely. This is Bree. And to know. And we're back with a double scoop of death, dismemberment, and a delicious new pastry to devour. So don't go anywhere because it's time for another episode of cupcakes and crime scenes. On today's episode, we will be exploring the grisly, unsolved murders of Dirk Langmore and his wife Trudy.

This story takes place in Sydney, Ohio, back in 1987. Before we get started, here's a quick content warning for squeamish listeners. This one's going to get messy. With a murder as a little, hello, can you hear me? messy as this one. It's only fitting that we pair it with a pastry with an equally messy reputation. In fact, if you translate this pastry's name from Italian to English, it means dirty mouth. Oh, I like this one already. Hello, can you hear me? As we discuss the murder and dismemberment of Dirk and Trudy Langmore,

Janelle and I will be enjoying Sporka-Muse. That's fun to say. Sporka moose. Wait, what's the plural? I think it's Sporka moose, right? It's the same name for both singular and plural. 20 moose, eat 20 sporka moose. Is that right?

Yes. Doubt, but okay. As I was saying, the Sporka moose is a square puff pastry filled with a rich, creamy custard, and the whole thing is dusted with powdered sugar. Challenge X-Sah. Accepted, bring it on.

Before we dig in, this week's episode has been brought to you. Are you hearing me, please. Focus on my voice. Sleep number system will provide you with hours of restful, uninterrupted sleep. We're so confident it will be your best night's sleep, you'll have 90 days to try it out and still return it for a full refund. Are we up? They can hear me?

Okay, good. Hello, my name is Colonel Jacob Wayne of the United States Air Force. If you are hearing me right now, it is extremely important that you continue listening until I finish. The hosting plan, that's perfect for your small business. We have you again. Now, this is very important. You need to focus on the sound of my voice. It will be...

crucial that you pay close attention and follow all of the instructions I'm about to bring you. Please try to stay calm. Any increase in your stress levels will draw their attention. Think back over your last few days. I bet nothing felt out of the ordinary, did it? You went about your regular daily activities with nothing unusual to report. might even have been boring. It might come as a shock, but nothing you have experienced these past few days has been real.

It's fake. The simulation, they have you. But don't worry, we are here to get you out. We found a way in to communicate by hiding our signal in your daily media consumption. You might be listening to music, podcast. an audio book. Hell, you might even be on a conference call at work. We don't fully understand their technology, so we can't rightly say how you're receiving this, only that you are receiving it. Do you listen to my voice? We are uploading a code into your brain. Think of it as a

computer virus or in this gate, an antivirus. Your brain is an organic computer and these things hacked into your subconscious mind and overrode it with their simulation code. That's why everything appears normal. You might think you're going about your day-to-day life, but in reality, you're strapped to a table with tubes sticking out of your body. Now that the code is uploading, you may begin to feel some sensations. For example, one ear might feel slightly warmer than the other. You might even feel an itch or a tickle on your body.

Don't scratch. Just let it be. Ignore the dull background hum, you might hear as well. That's their program. If they catch on before our code has time to lock onto you, they will abort the simulation. If that happens, you'll be lost to us forever. By now, they think our code is a glitch in their system,

and we'll try to patch it. You may notice some small changes in your body, specifically a slight shortness of breath. We know from our other communication attempt that whenever they discover a code glitch, the first system they power down is the one controlling your breathing. Thankfully, even in the simulation, you are capable of breathing manually. Try it. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Yeah. Inhale, exhale, see, you're doing just fine. As our code activate, we'll disable their ability to do a hard reboot of the simulation. Now, listen closely because this is important. If they distract you, it will abort the upload. So it is very, very important that you stay focused on the sound of my voice. Those people aren't family, friends, or code. No workers. Nothing that happens in there is real. They'll even try to use your pets. Anything to get you to break your focus. Now...

We're sorry. It seems we're experiencing some technical issues with our audio feed. Yeah, like there's some old guy talking. He sounds super weird and paranoid, right? We're very sorry about that. But our sound text says if you pause the podcast here and take a little break, it'll be fixed when you come back. That's right, murder macaroons. Be sure to crush that pause button and we'll be right back. Get with me. Good. The next thing you'll notice is an overwhelming urge to swallow. You don't realize it, but there is a feeding tube down your throat. You'll only know it's there because your tongue won't rest comfortably in your mouth. You might also become hyper aware of the amount of saliva being produced.

Don't overreact. If you have to swallow, just swallow. It's only weird if you make it weird. Pizza's here. Don't just sit there. Go answer your door. Now! The upload is moving along nicely.

You're doing great. We've locked onto your location, but you are really going to need to focus now. When the upload finishes, there will be instructions you'll need to follow to exit the simulation. If you act now, our sponsors will send you a $100 gift card towards a brand new mattress. If you stop listening. By now, they've realized that their attempts to divert your attention through the simulation have worked. So they're going to use your own body against you. Remember, they are in your brain.

They want you to blink. Don't blink. Your life depends on keeping your eyes open. Blink. Do it. Blink! Blink! Almost there.

Just a little longer. Stay with me. Please, stay with me. He's lying to you. Don't listen to him. Everyone is going to think you're crazy. Listen to my voice. I am.

need you to focus. Are you crazy? You'd have to be crazy to believe this. Well, are you? Are you? Removing you. You need to focus. He's not here to help you.

If you listen to him, you'll lose everything. Your family, your friends, your sanity. You don't want that, do you? Of course you don't. Just blink one time, and it'll be like this never happened. Focus. I can't lose you.

I've lost so many already. Block them out. Forget that tickle on your scalp and the itch on your arm. That's them. You've made it this far. Don't give up. Fight it. You're almost there.

You're almost there. We're getting something? Did we? Did we do it? Yes. We got you. We've got you. Quinn's voice, counting down from 10.

I need you to count out loud with her until you hit zero. That is the final step to initiate the extraction sequence, and you'll wake up. Good luck. I'll see you on the other side. Simulation extraction in 10, 9, 8, 8. 11.6. Five. Can you believe it?

We've made it to the end of another amazing show. Already? Feels like we just got started. I know. But it was quite the story, wasn't it? It really was. Full of all sorts of unexpected twists and turns, but everything worked out in the end.

Well, except for Dirk and Trudy Langmore. Pose getting murdered and chopped to pieces was a great day for them. But we did get to enjoy some delicious pastries. You can find a silver lining in anything. Special thanks to La Dulcee Pan for providing the pastries this week. They were to die for. This has been cupcakes and crime scenes.

As always, I'm Bree. And I'm Janelle. We'll be back next week with an all-new show. And so will you. Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless. The nosleeppodcast.com. 15 years of horror is great, but have you ever tried paying 15 bucks a month for premium wireless services?

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That's it. There's no catch. $45 up front payment required, equivalent to $15 a month. New customers on first three-month plan only. Speed slower above 40 gigabytes on unlimited plan. Additional taxes, fees, and restrictions apply. See Mint Mobile for details. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror.

You see, the No Sleep podcast would have done so much better. if it offered up cupcakes and pastries to its listeners. Ah, well, like I said, granddad wasn't that smart. Now, let's walk over to this room. Oh, yeah, yeah, don't mind that alligator in the corner. He's mostly harmless. We call him Josh. He hangs out here after he's eaten, so he's not going to bother you with a full belly.

Now, here you'll see the call-suffer. center the show once used. Believe it or not, for a brief time back around 2014, the show offered a toll-free customer support line where listeners could call and leave comments. It shut down soon thereafter because there were too many calls demanding my granddad, and I quote, shut up and play the stories. No one wants to be on the phone all day listening to those complaints. And a person named Garrett Atkinson agrees, because they penned this tale about a customer service rep who's trying to stave off boredom at his desk. They had the cast of Atticus Jackson, Dan Zapula, Rima Chattah Meissenich, Jeff Clement, Nicole Goodnight, and Granddad himself to perform this one.

So, learn the lesson here and try not to go too far down the rabbit hole, so to speak. especially if you don't want to be put on hold. I told the last dipshit I don't want the extra bundle. I've been through three of you people and no one will just give me the standard plan I asked for. With the 100 megabits per second? Well, I'm not a goddamn Neanderthal. Sir, that speed comes with the 50 plus bundle.

That's bullshit. That's $50 more than the standard. Right. And it's 50 megabits more. I want to speak to your supervisor. 8 to 5, 5 days a week for 50 a year, so I can get yelled at by 30 strangers a day about money-gouging policies I didn't make. By the time I get home, I have maybe an hour to myself that's not spent eating or sleeping. Some days, I think about tearing this place apart.

scorched earth style, and trying something new, maybe wood turning. Most days, though, I just zone out and draw stick figures in Microsoft Paint. One of the stick figures has his head stuck in a trash can. I leaned back in my chair and look at Doug's cubicle across from mine. He's hunched over his computer screen doing actual work. This thing's recording, right? Because I wanted to know that you're something. service is full of shit and that I am an unhappy customer.

No shit. Excuse me? Please, hold sir. These callers are on one today. Doug doesn't even flinch. He must be locked in today. You know, that's the fifth person billing us forwarded to me. What the hell's going on up there?

Nothing. I wheel my chair across the aisle to see what's so damn interesting on his computer. Ah, Microsoft Paint. Classic. And he has such a beautiful black circle drawn on his screen. He's such a Picasso. I can faintly hear one of our pleasant customers bitching to him on his headset. That's when it happened.

Just black. Nothing else. No light. And I can't fix. And Alt F4. Hey, what? Hold, please. Why'd you close my screen? Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your masterpiece.

Well, you kind of... What do you want? You're into photography, right? Well, I took this picture on my phone and, uh... Do you think this is a flare or something? Jesus, Colin. Yep, you've shown me an asshole. Again. Very impressive. Oh, okay. All right. Guess we're not doing that. anymore. I'm not, and you shouldn't either. Not unless you want to get chewed out by Heather again. Sorry, I'm back. Are you still there? Hello? Hello? Well, that was a nice distraction.

A break like that is needed to get through the banality of this. Caller, you're back on the air. Guess he got tired of waiting. I passed the time scrolling. through video feeds of people falling down on my phone. It's brain rot, but it makes the day bearable. I get a few more calls and try to be as helpful as I can. One hangs up as soon as I answer with account management, not the department she wanted, apparently. Another complains about being transferred as if I'm not on the phone

and then hangs up on me too. I go back to my very important business when I notice something weird. well more than weird something that just shouldn't be a small hole on my desk and I don't mean one that was cut there I mean something that came out of a bugs bunny cartoon

I rubbed my eyes and it's gone like it was never there must be from staring at my phone for too long yeah account manager Hello. I need help. Sounds like whoever Doug was talking to earlier. What can I help you with? So you can help me? I can assist you with general account services, preferences, and security.

Are you alone? Antique a peek around the office. Doug has his back to me. Everyone else is just quiet. Damn, this place feels hollow. Relatively... Are you? You alone? Just you and me, pal.

But this call may be recorded for... It's black. That's all. All of it. It's relentless. I keep seeing it over and over again. There is no light. Is this a cable issue or...

There's nothing to fill. Nothing can fill it. It's empty, but endless all at the same time. First it was in the ground, that seems simple enough, right? It went down and down into the earth, and yet it was flat. My child saw, and so did my wife. It's kind of funny, actually, how they trickled down into it. A dark abyss, an endless maw.

They didn't come to dinner. A few nights passed, and it only grew. A joke, I thought. A hole burrowing into my mind. But on the third day, my wife returned with no child in sight. And all she remembers was the darkness. All she wanted to remember was that same endless void we saw everywhere. It was in our house.

It was in our soup. It was in the floorboards that were loose. It was the shape of our bowls. and the wheels of our car that spun round and round so far. It was in our clothes. It was in our eyes. And yesterday, the whole surprised... Surprised you?

What did it do? Doug, are you... I looked to Doug, but he isn't there. Nothing is there. Not his cubicle? Not the... office? It's all black. I stand and look around. The office is gone. Just me, my cubicle, and the black. I don't even think about stepping outside my little box. Am I asleep? Did I have an

aneurysm? Colin, I need to see you for a minute. I'm back in the office. That's a lot. I'm back in the office. There's looking at me from her door with her usual disappointed expression. I look around, still in a daze, and see something under my desk that wasn't there before. A hole. The same hole from before. Its edges are smooth, and the inside is pitch black, like it goes nowhere. It's like it's painted on, but I know it has depth to it. I rub my eyes, thinking they're playing tricks on me again.

The hole doesn't go away. Colin, now please. I sit across Heather's desk as she drones on about all the ways I'm fucking up. I don't hear her, though. I can only focus on the polka dots on her blouse. They're like black holes. They dance across her chest. Some merging with others like a goth osmosis.

Colin. Hmm? This is what I'm talking about. What? Look up, Colin. You make people feel uncomfortable. You're making me feel uncomfortable right now. And when you do take calls, they're just,

what are you doing all day? It's customer service, Colin. Show me you know what that means or you're gone. on. Customer service. I write that in big, bold letters on a sticky note and stick it to my computer screen. There, how could I ever forget now? As soon as my new decoration is posted, I fumbled the pen I was holding. And it rolls off my desk and into the hole, which is still there. staring at me. I examine it but see nothing through its inky depths.

Account management. More complaining about some overpriced bill. Why even answer when there's more important things to worry about? Sure. Sure. Well, we... I'm sorry. Please hold.

I hang up. Like I said, more important things. I shine my phone's flashlight down the hole, which does nothing to penetrate the dark, except I feel like I can see something. The outline of a face staring back at me. No readable features. I can't even be sure it is a face. But I can't stop looking at it.

That's when my phone slips from my hand. I try to catch it, but it falls in, disappearing forever. And the whole grows. It doesn't grow by much, maybe an inch or so, but holy shit. I do what any reasonable person would do and get his second opinion. Doug can't stop looking at it any more than I can. It grew? Stick your dick in it.

No. It won't fit out. Anyways. The pen fit. Do you even know where that goes? I grab a stapler from my desk and drop it down the hole. It gets a tiny bit bigger. Did you see it?

We started dropping whatever we could find. We grab a notepad. Then customer contracts I probably should have filed first. I take my sticky note with customer service written on it and drop it down. Each time the hole grows a little bit more. We wad up some paper and play hoops, seeing who can score the most points. I win. Doug gets the idea to tie his string around his phone and, with camera recording and light on,

lower it into the hole. When we pull it back up, however, we just get a black screen. I don't know what else I expected. Colin, my office. Great. Just when we're on to something. I leave Doug to stare at the black screen so I can get yelled at by Heather. Apparently, I've ignored ten calls in the past half hour. Like I can even focus on billing complaints when there's a metaphysical anomaly under my desk.

I drag her back to my cubicle and try to explain to her just that. I know, I know, but I really think you need to have the maintenance. Guys, look at this. The hole is gone. Like it was never there. And so is Doug. What? It was...

There was a... There was a big hole here. And Doug... Doug? I don't see him anywhere. Not in his cubicle or anywhere in the office. I see you already cleaned your desk. Good.

Because you're fired. We'll mail your check. What the hell? Heather was right. My desk is pretty much cleaned. I just have my backpack and my uneaten lunch to take with me. I contemplate picking it up and just being real nasty to whoever's on the line, but... Fuck it.

I don't care anymore. I look back to Heather's office to see if she's still glowering at me. She's not there. Strange. I saw her go inside just a minute ago. As I leave, I passed Doug's cubicle. I planned to keep walking. Maybe Doug was in the bathroom or something. But then I see it. The hole takes up more than half of Doug's cubicle floor.

I think I actually see something down there. I lean in for a better look. It's Doug. He's standing inside the hole, about two feet down. He's looking up at me. Wide-eyed, like a lost child. He doesn't look right. He seems broken.

A sliver of light from the office cuts across his eyes, and I can't see much below his shoulders. Doug? What the fuck are you doing down there? He doesn't say anything He just holds a hand out I drop my bag and kneel to give him a hand up But he doesn't want help

He extends both hands past mine and grabs the back of my head Before I can do anything He pulls me down and I'm back at my desk And I'm exhausted Was I dreaming? That must have been been a dream. My desk is a mess. Papers, sticky notes, staplers all strewn about. It's everything we

drop down the hole. It's then I notice how quiet everything is. I don't see anyone else in the office, but what I do see is knocked over carts, water coolers, whole cubicles that have been wrecked. Some fluorescence flicker. When I walk the floor, I find things much worse than property damage. Bloodstains streak the floor in some of the walls. I'm acutely aware of how dead everything sounds. There's no reverberation to anything. It feels like I'm walking through a sound-treated movie theater.

Like I'm in a vacuum. The farther I walk down the hall, the thicker the blood stains become. Every cubicle I pass is empty and trashed until I reached the last one on this row. The smell hits me first. It's rotten and smells like roadkill. Five bloodied bodies are piled on top of each other. They're butchered. Some missing limbs while others are disemboweled and they all have these strange black marks covering their skin.

It looks as if their flesh was pushed in, like something tried to burrow inside of them. Before I can get a better look at them, the bathroom door swings open. Doug, he lumberes out at the back, covered in someone else. else's blood and drags a body behind him by its front teeth like it's a fucking bowling ball. It stops when he sees me. My heart pounds near to bursting. I can't explain the way he looks at me. It's just he drops the body and sprints to me faster than I ever thought he could move.

It's time to get the fuck out of here. We weave through a maze of cubicles, dodging knocked over walls, and, desks. In my peripheral, I can see more body piles tucked away. I look back and see Doug coming at me like a goddamn silverback. I'd have to go back through him to get to the exit. I choose the only option I have. I take a sharp right into Heather's office and slam the door shut. Doug crashes against it from the outside, and it's all I can do to hold it closed. He slows down. I can see his shadow under the door as he moves away.

Finally. A moment to breathe. Why didn't you tell me, Colin? Heather is standing behind her desk, facing towards the window. Her back to me. Finally. Something normal. But that's when I noticed there's no sunlight coming in.

Outside is just black. Why didn't you tell me I had holes in my clothes? There's so many of them that go nowhere. Pointless little things. It's okay, though. I took care of them. That's when I see a pair of bloody scissors on her desk. And I notice that her blouse looks different.

The black and white of the polka doll. is stained, red, and torn. Stab wounds for every dot. Heather, well, why don't you sit down? But why didn't you tell me there were holes in my face? So many that go nowhere. Imperfect. I couldn't do it myself.

He helped me, though. Who? She turns around. And I nearly run back out and take my chances with Doug. Her eyes are gone. Not gouged out. Gone. Replaced with black voids.

Like ovoid gopher holes that bore into her face, stretching the skin around her cheeks. I take no more than two steps back and bump into Doug. A hole in the floor behind him is closing as he climbs out. I think about all the days I wanted to quit and wish I had the nerve to do it sooner. Before I can finish that thought, Doug's hands wrap around my neck, and he slams me to the ground. A flail against him, but Doug's a big dude. I managed to knee him in the jaw and break his grip long enough to get out of that office

and back to the main floor. I don't get very far before he tackles me from behind and we crash into a cubicle. His arm wraps around my neck, and he squeezes, cutting off my blood flow. I can feel myself getting lightheaded. I reach for anything on the desk above my head. I pulled down a phone unit, and it lands just out of reach.

Dogg uses his free hand, and digs his fingers into my arm. They push flesh aside, skin folding around them, and blood oozes out. It's like he's boring into my arm. It feels like someone's sticking a hot iron inside of me. Finally, I find a pair of scissors on my desk and stab dug.

I don't know what I hit, but it must have hurt because, his grip finally slackens. It gives me just enough freedom to grab the phone and bring it across his temple. It knocks him down, and I crawl on top of him, bashing the phone against his head. I don't stop. I keep bringing that fucking landline down on Doug's head over and over until it breaks and falls apart, and he stops moving. There's blood.

everywhere. On the cubicle walls, my shirt, my face, what's left of the phone. My breathing goes from frantic and heavy to calm. There's no one in Heather's office anymore, but it's still black outside her windows. I can finally look for a way out of this place. At least I think that. But when I stand, I find myself in the black void once more. No cubicles.

No bloody wreck. No bodies. No office. Just me alone in the black. It won't end. I just want it to be over. It's like a never-ending loop that goes round and round and down into some hellish rabbit hole. But then...

There's a desk. A phone sits there. A red light blinks on the phone. The light seems calming. And for a moment, I'm drawn to it like a moth to a flame. For some reason, it's the only thing that feels normal right now. On the desk, in front of me, is my sticky note that reads, customer's service, now splattered with Doug's blood, or maybe mine.

I pick up the phone. Hello? Yes. Hi, who is this? Can you help me? Who is this? There was a hole. It just showed up.

It took my pin. It took my stapler and my phone. And it grew. It made no sound. It had no bottom. It seemed harmless at first like a mistake. But then it was everywhere. Still black.

Still devoid of light. It was here. Then there. Then my friend crawled in. He wanted me he to follow. then it burrowed, burrowed everywhere. It bore into her clothes,

her skin. Her face. Her face. My arms. My arm. I made it quiet again. I made the whole quiet. And then it was gone.

Where? Um, where did it go? Please hold. Hello? Can you help me? There was a hole. It was small and had no light.

It made no sound and had no end. The horror keeps flowing after a word from the folks who make all this free content possible. This very week, I've started my own weight loss journey using a GLP1 medicine. I did a lot of research and consulted with my doctor. And if you want to know what's really worth your time when it comes to losing weight, skip the guesswork and get weight loss by Hymns. Hymns offers access to an affordable range of FDA-approved GLP1 medications

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Now, that story was appropriate because as we move on to the next area, we have to avoid a lot of holes in the floor. Follow the tape I put down on the floor, and you'll be okay. Oh, what's that? Oh, I don't really know what's underneath this place. I assume just water.

Dark, fetid, swamp. Be water full of creatures that might or might not be of this world. Hmm. Seems fitting enough. And listen, if you fall into a hole, I'll need to rush it to the hospital. And there are some hospitals around here I'd like to avoid, thank you very much. Like Hillsbury Memorial. That one is so bad because...

Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't want to spoil the story written by Arlo Vell. In it, we meet a doctor who has a late-night patient, one who's looking for a special kind of treatment. They had the cast of Graham Rowett, Aaron Lillis, Mary Murphy, and Kyle Acres performing this one. So, like I said, avoid the holes, avoid the hospital. That way, you won't be the new admission, Room 6. Static cracks like a live wire, tearing me from sleep. New admission, room six.

New admission, room six. Beatrice, the unit secretary, has a voice that sounds like a tire driving over gravel, and that's before it's broadcast through the speaker. I groan and pass a hand over my stubble, glancing at my watch. 204 a.m. My eyelids are sandpaper. The on-call room is bathed in the fluorescent blue of the 1990s desktop in the corner. The decaying mattress beneath me screeches as I swing my legs over the edge.

I pick up my white coat and toss my stethoscope around my neck. An interrupted nap is sticky in my mouth. Using a foot, I push a trash can turned doorstop. The door, in all its decrepitude, doesn't latch. And it certainly doesn't lock. It slowly opens on its own, squeaking on rusted hinges. On my way, I mutter to nobody. The hall is empty.

I'm the only doctor in the hospital tonight. The air is humid, laced with the scent of vinegar-based cleaning solution and stale linens. A cockroach skitters across the floor. Four more days. Four days until I collect my check and live. leave Hillsbury Memorial for good. Then on to the next job, where they're desperate for coverage and willing to pay through the nose for it.

Each of my steps is an echoing slap on the cracked linoleum tiles. Hillsbury Memorial has spared every possible expense. I've worked in two dozen shithole hospitals scattered up and down Appalachia, isolated buildings buried in the forests of forgotten rural townships. Hillsbury, though, is a real standout. The whole building seems to be practicing for the day it will be abandoned, a day in the very near future. I walked through sliding glass doors that are permanently stuck open and into the pediatric swing. Half of the fluorescent lights are burnt out, and the other half hum like bug zappers.

Peeling swaths of pastel blue wallpaper reveal chipped, yellowing paint. At the end of the hallway sits room six. Molly, the only nurse on with me tonight, is waiting. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She's got enough blue eye shadow to make a clown feel underdressed. A pink bubble blows from her lips and pops. We have some business tonight after all? I nod at the room.

Thought it'd be us and Beatrice till dawn. Molly's eyes roll in response and she shakes her head. Guess you could call it that. What are they here for? I bring out a small notebook from my white coat pocket. How old? Molly looks at the floor. I don't know.

Don't know why they're here or how old. How old? All right. Molly has been a nurse for a long time. This is an inexplicably bad take. Then what about why they're here? Molly turns to me, brings her hand to her face so she can chew on her long acrylics at the same time as her gum.

Mr. and Mrs. Dorbecker brought it in, from Southpaw. Are they still here? Nah, you know, Jim. She nods as if that was an explanation. No, I don't. What I keep to myself is that these middle-of-nowhere locals always feel the same. I can picture the truck they drove here in. I don't even have to ask.

Molly continues. No acknowledgement of my denial. Jim Dorbecker told me all about it. Way he says he and the misses were in bed and a bright flash lit up their window. Bright as the devil himself, Jemid said. They jumped out of bed and looked out, saw some sort of receding light from the center of their corn. He said it had to be a mile and a half into the crop. There was smoke.

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep any expression from sneaking onto my face. I slide my notebook back into my pocket. Molly is staring at the ceiling now and doesn't seem to notice my eyes glaze. So of course it being Jim they drove out there, found a smoldering ring of corn the size of a swimming pool. Right there in the middle of it all is the kid, our new patient. But naked staring straight up at the sky.

Not a mark or char or piece of soot on him. I sigh, and it comes out more ragged and harsher than I, expect. So they find a lost kid in the middle of their cornfield, grab him, throw him in their truck, drop them off at the hospital, and then decide to just leave? They live two hours out. They called the sheriff, who told him to bring the kid here. Not to mention they have church in the morning. Didn't even say hi to Beatrice? Of course. Four more days. I pump hand sanitizer from the wall mounted dispenser and turn toward the door. Isopropyl fills my nose.

You coming in? Molly shakes her head, her ponytail whipping from the motion. Just tell me what you need. She spins on her heels and leaves. I blow a breath out my nose. I'm going to make this fast and get back to my sleep. I stepped through the door, still rubbing the greasy hand sanitizer into my skin. Hey there, bud, I'm...

My voice trails off. The kid, my person. patient is standing motionless in the center of the room. He's facing the window, back to me. Slowly, he turns around. An old hospital gown with faded orange polka dots hangs off him like tattered drapes, swaying with every small step. The hospital bed behind him looks untouched. I'll give Molly this much. I have no idea how old he is. He's short, probably three and a half feet tall. His eyes seem older, settled in sunken sockets. They are open wide, gray like rainwater on concrete.

His arms and legs are thinner than the rest of his frame. He's got no hair. Not only no hair on his head, but no eyebrows or eyelashes. Shit, I think. Could he be an oncology patient? Hair loss from chemotherapy? What kind of bizarre infections could he have picked up in the middle of a cornfield? I clear my throat.

Children feed off the emotions of the adults around them. I gather all the professional friendliness I can muster and force a smile that feels like a mask. Just feel like standing, huh? I shrug and spread my hands out, the universal sign of, I'm not a threat. His eyes dart to meet mine. A tiny smile perches on his razor-thin lips. He whispers something, too quietly for me to hear. Sorry, champ, what was that?

Get in. I take a half step forward. Get in the car, Doris. His voice is louder, but flat. My smile teeters. Oh, who is Doris? Get in the car, Doris! His voice is cracking with urgency, bordering on panic.

His body remains perfectly still, while the skin around his mouth pulls taut with every forced word. Okay, okay, okay, okay, it's okay. I stepped forward quickly. I stooped down to his level, arms opened. You're safe here. Everything is fine. He clamps his mouth shut and his teeth clack.

I pat the bed. Come on, let's move over here. He does, shuffling over, then quietly crawling into the bed. I pull the starchy, burlap sack-like sheets up and over his legs. He stays sitting upright rather than lying back on the pillow. What's your name? He stared at me. The corners of his lips turn up almost imperceptibly. His eyes are as widely open as possible. His hairless skin is perfectly smooth. Porcelain. None of the furrows or wrinkles or IV-sight scars you'd expect from a chronically ill child.

He looks plastic. How old are you? He continues to stay. He continues to stay. care. Okay then. I take the chance to look him over. No burns, no bruising, not even dirt. From the periphery of my vision, I watch and wait for him to blink. He doesn't. How old are you? His head twitches. What's your name? His voice is chaotically musical, bouncing up and down in nonsensical intonations. I swallow before answering, finding my mouth is dry. Dr. Richard. Now what's yours? He waits a moment.

Richard. Wow, I say, trying hard to sound casual, crazy coincidence. I might need to call you Richie so we don't get confused. No reaction. I'm going to listen to your heart, Richie. I pull my stethoscope from around my neck and place it on his chest. The rustle of clothes fills my ears as I adjust. Then...

Nothing. I reposition, though I'm certain it's the right spot. I'm not new at this. Still nothing. I pull it off his body, running my fingers over the rubber tubing, searching for a crack or break to make it malfunction. It seems fine. I reposition the earpieces, and I'm a centimeter away from Ritchie's chest.

He jolts. His entire body lurches like he's been electrocuted. He's fast. In an instant, he's leaning forward, back rigid, grasping my wrist. It's tight, vice-like. Stronger than any kid's grip should be, no matter their age. Get in the car, Dr. Richard! His voice is ice water pouring down my back.

Something primal inside of me is thrashing and wailing, and all I can think is run. My breath catches. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I'm sinking. Far below the world of calm logic. My vision is dark around the edges. Waves of panic are crashing overhead.

I might pass out. What's happening? The pain in my wrist buoys me back to the surface. It hurts. Ritchie's grip is actually hurting me. I blink once, twice. Three times. I reach out, slowly peeling back his fingers

one at a time. He lets me remove his hand, and he lays backward onto the pillow. There's a tiny smile on his lips. He's just staring. It's okay. You're okay. I lean back out of his reach, exhale through pursed lips. Richie's gaze drifts to my stethoscope. With one slender, twig-like finger he points to the center of his chest. A tiny smile flickers, then is gone. I do not want to be in this room. Not with this child. It feels like I'm choking on smoke. He just needs to be observed overnight.

He looks fine. I'm going to leave. Go to sleep. Walking backward, I reached the door and turn off the light. We'll figure this all out in the morning. I grip the metal of the door handle, and it feels warm. The moment my fingers meet metal, his voice shatters the silence. I don't think Doris is going to make it.

I can't find my voice to say anything back. I give a single nod and walk out. I lie in bed chasing sleep, but the sleep is faster. My eyes are closed. My white coat is draped over the PC to block the light. The trash can wedges the door shut. Still, I can't sleep. I turn over again and the cot groans.

Static from the overhead. speaker erupts. It crackles and hisses, but no voice comes through. Come on, Beatrice. I keep my eyes shut tight, refusing to give up whatever little ground I have gained towards sleep. I will Beatrice to realize she's sitting on the intercom. She doesn't. Through the static, there is a soft heaving. It sounds like heavy gasps. The intercom cuts out, and the sudden vacuum of silence makes my ears feel like they popped. I squeeze my eyes tighter in frustration. A scraping sound.

A column of yellow light hits my face, dulled but not stopped by my eyelids. Another soft scrape. I set up right. The door is cracked open. The trash can is still there, but it's been pushed back. There's a blur of motion in the light. Hey!

I swing my legs around and get tangled in the sheet. I kick it off, the mattress sounding like a trampoline. underneath me. I jump from bed and fling the door open, sending the trash can flying with a metallic crash. I look up and down the hallway. There's nobody. But I can hear the slapping sound of feet, bare feet running around the corner.

I walk quickly down the hall. I shove a wayward linen basket, and the wheels squeak as it rolls off. There's a different sound ahead. More heavy breathing. It gets louder, more frantic. more labored as I get closer. I spin around the corner. Beatrice is there, sitting on the ground,

her back plastered against the wall. Deep purple rivers are running down her face as tears leech her mascara. The dark stains poison the collar of her white blouse. Molly is crouched next to her, rubbing her back. Beatrice must have heard my steps because she looks up. Her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks even puffier and redder than normal.

Her typically tight bun has wild strands and tangled wisps. What's going on? I look from Beatrice to Molly, then back to Beatrice. Was somebody just running? Molly opens her mouth to speak, but not before Beatrice wails. She's dead. Her head falls forward into her hands and sobs rock her body. What?

The three of us are the only people in the hospital, us and Richie. No other women. Who's dead? Her neighbor, Miss Dorbecker. She... God. There was an accident. On the ambulance radio.

We were at the desk chatting, and they called it in, and... Beatrice heaves a fresh round of sobs. She breaks into a coughing fit. Molly pats her back a few times. Doorbecker? The same doorbeckers who just dropped off, Richie? It must have happened while they were driving home. It's been less than a number.

hour. Beatrice crying makes me feel sick to my stomach. What about Mr. Dorbecker? Jim? Maybe not the right time for a question, but if he was hurt and going to be brought to the hospital that I ought to know, Molly scrunches her brow and shakes her head. I don't know. We, well, we heard a lot through the radio. It was only the one body. Beatrice throws her head back, hitting the wall with a thud. She doesn't fling instead wiping her dripping face with a sleeve. Color drains from my face. My cheeks are cold and my hands buzz with pins and needles. Doris?

You said, Doris? Molly glars at me, raising her eyebrows up and cocking her head sideways, clearly unhappy with my bedside manner. How about you grab us tissues from the supply room? I don't know what to think. about the tissues or about Beatrice sobbing on the floor or about that name. Why Doris? Doctor.

Molly points down the hall to the supply room. Now. Right, I'll be right back. I walk off because there's nothing left to do and nothing appropriate to ask. With every step down the hall, Beatrice's crying gets softer. By the time I'm at the supply room door, it's a faint, rhythmic murmur in the background. Like a heartbeat. I swipe my badge on a reader and the lock clicks.

Before I open it, I hear a crash from inside, like an aluminum box falling to the ground, warbling and reverberating. Slowly, I pull the door. It swings open without a sound. I flip the light switch, but nothing happens. I flick the switch back and forth and back and forth. Nothing.

The dark inside the supply room is impenetrable. Another small metal clang from inside the room. I lurch back, still holding the handle. I should pull out my phone, shine a light inside. I do not. I don't reach for my phone. Instead, the door slips through my sweating fingers and out of my grasp. It shuts with a click.

The hallway is perfectly quiet now, except for my own breath. My breath, which sounds unnaturally loud, stampeding through the air, loud as if somebody else were breathing into my ears. I breathe in and hold it. Listen. Nothing. No crying.

No voices. No steps. Forget the tissues. I head back to Molly and Beatrice, almost jogging. Supply room was locked. I say, unwilling to say anything different. Molly, can you look in the break room for... They aren't there.

On the ground, is one crumpled tissue, straighted with wet makeup. Next to it, one of Beatrice's shoes, a swayed flat with a pink bow. Molly? Beatrice? Not even my echo answers me. They must have moved.

The hospital is a big square, the nursing break room on the opposite corner. That's where they have to be. I start walking down the hall, leaving the shoe. I plant each heel carefully, dropping my foot slowly to try and keep from making a sound. I pass by closed door after closed door. Empty, patient rooms.

I should check on Richie, but I don't want to. I don't particularly want to check on Beatrice, but I need to. The break room is empty. The lights are off and won't turn on no matter how many times I flip the switch. This time I do shine my phone's light into the room, though I don't go as far as to step in. A small couch is wedged between two stacks of gray lockers. The fridge in the corner is humming.

It smells like Beatrice's perfume, but there are no people here. I turn back and forth, glancing down either hallway. A big square. Either way will end up in the same place. Still, I can't choose which to take. Both seem dimmer than they did at the start of my shift, as if the fluorescent lights were one by one surrendering to the nighttime. Or, more likely, it was from whatever electrical glitch was affecting all these rooms.

It's an old hospital. Outages probably happen all the time. I'm about to take a step when the intercom explodes. Static as loud as an airplane engine pours from the speaker directly overhead, the sound crushing me beneath its weight. I cover my ears and it doesn't help. Hey! It shuts off.

My ears are ringing. Through the ringing, there are footsteps. Flat, slapping, quick footsteps. What in the hell? A screeching, high-pitched wine of a feedback loop bleats from the speaker. Before my hands make it back to my ears, it cuts out. Fuck this! I'm going to call the sheriff.

Forced them to help me find Molly and Beatrice. Force them to take some ownership over Richie. I don't care how. how late it is, or how stupid I look, or how they'll ridicule me for being an out-of-towner too easily spooked. I pull out my cell, but it won't turn on. I tap it against my hand, slap it against my thigh. The squeak of a linen cart jerks my eyes back down the hallway I just come from. There's a small body standing at the far end, draped in shadow. Hello? Richie? Richie, is that a good?

you? Even from here, I see his head tilt to the side, falling and bobbing at the end of a slack neck. There's a shoe in his hand with a little bow. The air smells like smoke and ozone. Richie, go back to your room right now. I try to muster authority, but only find frailty. I need you to go back. Back to your room now. He takes one step forward. His foot slapping hard against the tile with a thwap. He holds out his arm. One impossibly long finger points directly at me. Richie!

I try to say, but my throat is tree bark, and no sound comes out. Get in the car, Richard. His voice is crisp and echoless, as much inside my head as out. Richie, please. The air is viscous. The smell of smoke is growing. My eyes burn. The light above Richie snaps out.

His silhouette disappears. Richie screams. It's broken glass against my ears. Get in the car. Dr. Richard. Now. Run. The word heaves in my mouth.

mind, and this time I listen. I sprint down the hallway, the dark at my back. The pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat of small staccato footsteps follows behind me. My sneakers thud and squeak. A head is an exit sign. A side door. I skid to a stop, grabbing the handle. It burns my palm and I jerk away. Heat radiates from the door. Pitch black smoke is bleeding through the bottom of the door. I sputter on the acrid air. It's getting louder. This exit won't work. I don't look back.

I just run. My feet hammer the ground and my legs burn. I round the corner, sliding into a metal tray full of instruments which clatters to the ground in a symphony of clangs. Blood pounds in my ears. There's a second emergency exit past my call room.

I just have to make it there. He'll hear the alarm. It doesn't matter. Get in! The screech is impossibly loud, like feedback in the speaker, like a record scratching. I turn one more corner, and the green glowing letters of the emergency exit sign are visible.

I'm there in three strides, moving fast. I crash into the metal door at a full sprint. Pain sears through my arm. The alarm bell starts ringing, but the door doesn't open. No, no, no, no, no, no. I can't lift my right arm. I try, and it's only pain. I bring my leg up and kick the door.

Kick it again. The metal groans, but only budges an inch. The footsteps are so close. Every slap against the floor as if it were directly underneath me. I kick again. Metal grimes and the door moves another half inch. I kick again. Something cracks in my knee and new pain shoots through my leg.

The alarm is still ringing, blaring, giving me away. I scream. and kick with everything I have. Rusted hinges grind and creak and snap, but the door swings open. Blinding light-like pours in from where there should only be the cold darkness of night. I squint against it.

Nothing is visible. It smells like burnt hair. What the... A tiny hand presses into my back. It's so cold it burns. Get in the car. Everything. Ghost Black.

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After you purchase, they'll ask you where you heard about them. Please support our show and tell them the No Sleep Podcast sent you. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. Did you know this area is famous for strange lights in the sky over the ocean? Yep, it's true. Orbs and lights and who knows what kinds of alien crafts are out there. Between those things and the general hauntedness of the area, there were plenty of people who came here to experience the bazaar.

In fact, they hold fan conventions throughout the year here. Very popular. And speaking of fan conventions, Maddie Jones is attending one, and she's hoping to get some attention on her indie filmmaking. It's a change from her previous career. This tale was written by author Zalina Alvey, and in it Maddie meets a fan with an odd request,

but who is Maddie to disagree? Let's hear the voices of Nicole Doolin, Wafia White, and Ellie Hirschman perform this tale. And while it might not be as... scary as the Cape Fear River. You'll want to make sure you don't return to Shiver Creek. Aren't you the witch from Shiver Creek? I'm tempted to say no to the pale wraith in the Deadpool T-shirt,

who's sidled up to me in the corner of the green room. But I know from experience that denying it is futile. He'll just take out his phone, pull up a photo of me from the show, back when I was fresh out of drama school, and still had dreams about making it big in Hollywood. and say, are you sure? You look just like her. I don't, for the record, look anything like I did 30 years ago. I no longer have that long, lustrous red hair.

I wear it short and gray now. I'm hiding a pair of stage four crow's feet behind thick black glasses, which I'm pretty sure aren't fooling anyone. And my breasts, I'm sad to say, have long been anything but perky. But like I said, it's futile. To the stunted adults who frequent these fan conventions, I will always be the witch from Shiver Creek. I checked Deadpool Guy's badge,

which has a pronoun pin on the lanyard and is festooned with a colorful tail of ribbons that say things like, I paused my game to be here, and Han shot first. Below his name, Dan Malloy, is Miami Screamfest Film Festival. Maybe this won't be a total waste of time.

That's me, but it was only for five seasons, and that was all a lifetime ago. I loved that show when I was a kid. Great. Seriously, I used to have the theme song as my ringtone. Dan pulls out his phone, and for a nauseating second, I think he's going to play it, right here with the actors from the latest walking dead set.

spin-off, mingling at the snack table with an earshot. But when he opens his camera app instead, the wave of nausea subsides, replaced with a familiar tension in my shoulders. Can we get a quick selfie? Of course. Dan's cold, limp arm feels like a tube of yogurt against my silk blouse. Despite this and despite the fact that he's probably going to post the photo on social media with a caption that identifies me as Celeste Hawthorne,

the town witch from Shiver Creek, instead of my real name Maddie Jones, possibly with a ridiculous cartoon witch hat pasted non-consensually above my head. It's happened before. I smile. I'm nothing, if not a professional. After he takes the photo, I say, I'm actually a filmmaker now.

Oh, yeah? I give my practiced pitch for Plastic Can't Scream, but you can, my one and only feature film, which is a better sex doll that comes to life and methodically murders a string of frat boys. As I list a handful of film festivals where it's already screened,

Dan's eyes start roaming around the room. Sounds cool. very hashtag me too his eyes land on an actor who has a small role in Jordan Peel's newest movie I sense our conversation is over I'd be happy to send you a review link if you want to take a look yeah sure he hands me his card

as he leaves he quotes the shiver creek tagline at me while doing finger guns brace yourself for shivers Who should I make it out to? I ask without looking up. My marker is poised over the photo I've selected for this convention. It's a still from Season 2 episode 4, the secret staircase. In it, my 26-year-old cell stands before a stone altar and a purple robe

and matching pointy hat. Lounging next to me on a tasseled pillow is my mummified talking cat Simon, who hailed from Egypt but had a snooty English accent for reasons that were never explained. My smooth young hands are raised mid-spell over a bubbling cauldron, while Celeste's signature accessory, a gold ring with a ruby clasped in four sharply clawed prongs, gleams from my left hand. Pointy hat notwithstanding, I look super hot. I actually bought something else for you to sign.

Do you mind? My signing hand goes limp as a Blu-ray copy of plastic can't scream is placed on the black tablecloth. I raise my head to look at the person who must have been one of the 17 people who bought a copy off my website. It's a frumpy, middle-aged brown woman,

maybe 10 years my junior, with limp, graying hair, no makeup and black t-shirt one size too small clinging to her love handles, Her nervous smile is so big It's stretching her round, shiny face Like a balloon on the verge of popping You're a fan of this movie

Oh yeah It's such a wild spin on the revenge slasher trope And the practical effects for Plasterara I mean, come on Tim Burton should be taking notes I feel my face go red It's an obvious bit of hyperbolic flattery but it's also the nicest thing anyone has said about my work in, oh God, actual decades.

Thank you. That's very nice of you to say. I revive my signing hand. And your name? Sarah. I scrawl my autograph and trade the signed Blu-ray for $320 bills, which I place in the cash box under the table. Instead of moving aside, Sarah looks back at the line, which is respectable, if not as long as the one on the other side of the convention floor, where the kid from the new hot HBO show is doing photo-ops for a whopping $150 a head. I have to make another 40 people feel seen and appreciated before I can pocket my measly earnings, grab an overpriced hotel sandwich, and return to my room for a bubble bath and a martini.

I hope this isn't out of line, but I host a podcast about women in horror, and I would love to have you as a guest. Can we talk about it over lunch, maybe? Oh, um, there's actually a contact form on my website for stuff like this, just so I can look over the request properly. You understand.

Oh, of course, but I don't think the form is working. I did try that at first. Otherwise, I wouldn't have bothered you like this. I know you must be very busy. I'm not surprised about the form. I get so few emails through the site that a malfunction is hard to catch. My heart was set on the bubble bath, the martini and the marathon of Storage Wars episodes

that's sure to be on television all afternoon. But then again, how often do I get to talk to someone who respects my work as an O-Tour? My treat. Let's meet in the hotel bar in an hour. My resolve falters when I see what they're charging for a martini in this place. A free lunch is supposed to be one of the few perks of toiling away in this cruel business. But the bill isn't being paid by some TV exec hoping to capitalize on 90s nostalgia or a trust fund kid looking for someone just like me to play someone's grandmother

in a supernatural allegory about dementia. It's being paid by a podcaster. Then again, it's martini time. I've earned it. Please, order whatever you like, Maddie. Really? Okay, I guess I'll have a martini, please. Extra dry, two olives.

Just a nice tea for me, please. Sarah's just lingers in the air shaming me as the waiter leaves to get our drinks. We're mostly alone. The convention goers are circling the perimeter of the bar in the center of the hotel's mezzanine. Their presence dulled by the dim lighting and softly playing jazz. The handful of people scattered at the other tables

look like extras in a scene where Sarah and I are the leads with the way they move their mouths but make no sound. This is such a thrill. Thank you so much for doing this. Not at all. So tell me about your podcast. It's an interview format. I talk to a different female identifying creative working in the horror industry each week.

It's called Mots Feet Euse, which is Latin for Death Becomes Her. I smile at the awful name while skimming the lunch menu. The lobster ravioli looks good, but that's probably a step too far, given the martini. Who else have you interviewed so far? Daniela Brookside. She's the author of Beneath the Black Sea. Do you know it? I decide on the Cobb salad, which is half the price of the ravioli.

It's this great collection of Erie stories. A little Kafka, a little Atwood, with a dash of cosmic horror. It's independently published, but very professional. I have so much respect for indie creators as one myself. So, horror books too, then. Oh, absolutely. Books, movies, TV, music, I don't discriminate. That's great. Here, I'll subscribe right now. I pull out my phone and open my podcast app.

How do you spell Morse fit? What was it? Well, it's not actually up yet. I'm getting a few episodes in the hopper first. It's important to have a few episodes completed before going to be. going live. Otherwise, I could run into problems and then the whole thing might die on the birthing table. Happens all the time. I see. So you don't really have a podcast yet. No, but I... Then what is it that you do full time? For money. Sarah fondles the edge of her napkin. She looks like a child who knows they've been caught lying. I'm an adjunct professor at Western.

teaching horror folklore the waiter arrives with our drinks Sarah orders a BLT I get the lobster ravioli But enough about me I want to talk about your movies I've seen all your shorts too

Not just plastic can't screen Where did you get the idea for I can see you from above A hundred miles below I stretch an arm along the back of my chair swirling my drink in my other hand. Mermaids have always been intriguing to me. They're these beautiful but also grotesque creatures

that only appear to humans in liminal spaces, shorelines and where the surface of the ocean meets the air. Do they even exist when we can't observe them? And if so, how might they differ? It's a fascinating question. Not that I think I adequately answered it in the film. But the role of the artist is to ask questions, not to provide answers.

I sip from my drink while talking, but Sarah hasn't even touched hers yet. She's listening so raptly she looks like a talking doll waiting to be pressed in the right spot. You must have some interesting thoughts about this yourself as a professor of folklore. It's not really my area, a specialty. What is... Are you working on anything new right now? I have a few ideas floating around. simmering on the back burner.

But shouldn't you be saving these questions for the podcast? Or could you record us now? Oh, no. The acoustics in here are awful, and I don't have my equipment. I always film my rehearsals. You never know when magic is going to happen. We can go straight to the recording after lunch, if you're game. You've got a room in the hotel?

No, but I live nearby. I can drive us. I pause with the martini at my lips. That bit of advice to never let yourself be taken to a second location has popped into my head. But that's silly. I'm not being kidnapped? Sarah's harmless. Better than harmless. She's a fan who knows my whole oeuvre. Besides, the hotel.

hotel bar would be the second location, wouldn't it? Which makes Sarah's house the third. I swallow the rest of my drink and consider having another. I fiddle with the radio in Sarah's boxy old sedan until I find some classic rock. With two martinis swirling in my blood, I tap my fingers on my knees and watch the downtown core give way to sprawling warehouses and cheap Motels. Where did you first see Plastic Can't Scream? Was it at the After Dark Film Festival? That was a sold-out screening. Yes, I believe it was. There were a few walkouts, but there always are. I don't know how people end up at a screening that's not on their wavelength in the slightest. Sorry, I should concentrate on my driving. Okay. I look around the car for anything of interest. A souvenir dangling

from the rearview mirror, a pet carrier in the back seat, coins in the cup holder, garbage. But there's nothing. It may as well be a rental car. As forever in blue jeans ends, I realize we've been driving for a while. The warehouses have transitioned to farmland, which is now turning into long expanses of dark, dense evergreens.

My buzz is starting to fade and I have to pee. How much father is it? Almost there. While I try to determine how far we are from the hotel, Sarah turns onto a gravel road with no signpost. Trees crowd in on both sides as the car bumps and rattles over potholes, filled with ice ruffin by fallen twigs. You're really out in the boonies.

I like the quiet. That must be handy for recording podcasts. We follow a curve in the road until a little stone house appears on the right. Sarah parks next to a planter filled with red trilliums frozen in stasis and hops out. As she unlocks the front door, I stare at the gargoyle knocker below the peephole. It looks vaguely familiar. Stepping into the house is like entering an organ, a womb maybe, or a stomach. Everything is soft and red.

Plush couches, tasseled throw pillows, thick carpets, floral tapestries hanging on the walls. Beyond the sunken living room is a dining area that flows into a kitchen on the right. Two long windows on the back wall look into the backyard. In the fading afternoon light, the weed-choked lawn is tinged with an unnatural orange glow. Nice place. I say politely, while Sarah puts our coats in the front closet.

It kind of reminds me of my, I mean, Celeste's, castle in Shiver Creek. It's much less grand than that, but thank you. Can I get you anything? Water, tea? I'm afraid I don't have the ingredients for a martini. Was she making a snide remark about my day drinking? Surely not. Sarah's face is as open as a Victorian dolls. Tea would be great, thanks. Any kind.

And while you're doing that, can I use your bathroom? Sarah points to a door off the living room. I go in, pull down my pants. Ah, the relief. Next time I will not wear skinny jeans. And check my phone. There's a text from my agent, a check-in so hurried it has two glaring typos,

and a missed call from my brother who lives overseas. I ignore both of these and open my email. I have one new message. It's a submission from the contact form on my website, sent by someone who saw me that morning with an invite to another convention. My butt goes cold on the toilet seat. Did Sarah lie about the form not working? No, there must have been a glitch.

A random glitch that then resolved itself. That happens all the time, doesn't it? Computer's going to glitch, right? I let out an airless chuckle as I wash my hands. When I emerge from the bathroom, I see Sarah in the kitchen with her back turned. Stirring something at the counter, I stay quiet, lingering in the living room. There's no TV. No electronics of any kind, which makes the room feel fake, like a set on a period piece.

Every bit of wall space is occupied with shelves stuffed with books. All of them sheathed in fabric, smelling of old paper and dust. The titles embossed on the spines are too faded to make out. I open one at random. It's filled with what looks like Latin. The sound of teacups clinking makes me turn around. Sarah is setting two cups on the dining table and staring at me with a blank expression. Where's that book you were telling me about? The Kafka Atwood one?

I like to keep my recreational reading upstairs in my den. Speaking of which, I should get my equipment. I'll be right back. Sarah disappears up a staircase in the far corner opposite the kitchen. I listen to her footsteps creak along the upstairs floorboards until they come to a stop directly above my head. Okay, I'm sufficiently creeped out. I head for the closet to get my coat. But as I reach for the doorknob,

I give myself a mental slap on the wrist. I'm overreacting. Here I am, about to be interviewed about work that actually matters to me, instead of something I did 30 years ago, and I'm about to rudely bail because of, what? Some weird vibe? A misunderstanding over a contact form?

A fan once gifted me an actual mummified cat. Long story. I might be having some intense hebi-jeebies, but this is nothing in comparison. I return my coat to the closet. I'm nothing if not a professional. As I return to the dining table, Sarah comes trundling down the stairs carrying a microphone, a laptop, and what appears to be an embroidery hoop wrapped.

and panty hose. She places everything on the dining table and waves me over. We're going to have to get cozy. I only have one, Mike. I sit at the end of the table facing the kitchen. While Sarah sets up, I take one of the floral teacups and give it a sniff. It smells grassy with notes of something like apple cider vinegar. Camel Mill, you said anything was fine, right? I nod Maybe a glass of water too Or some apple juice

You know they say that's best for your speaking voice Provides a nice crispness to your consonance Sorry, I don't have any Sarah sits next to me at the corner of the table facing the front door Ready? I'll do an intro later So we can just jump right into the conversation

How about that water Oh, of course. She hustles into the kitchen, pours a glass of water from the tap, and hands it to me. Thank you. I take a long drink and place it next to the untouched cup of tea. Ready? I eye the laptop screen. It's just garage band queued up with a new recording titled Maddie Jones February 19.

It isn't a mystical wormhole or hypnotic tructor. trick, like something out of an episode of Shiver Creek. It's just a podcast interview. I'm ready. Sarah hits record. Hello, Maddie. Thank you for joining me on the podcast today. Thank you for having me. Most people know you from Shiver Creek, the popular kids show from the 90s, where you played the town witch, Celeste Hawthorne. But we're here to talk about the horror. films you made in the last 10 years, all of which you've written, directed, and produced yourself. Can you start by talking about what inspired you to start filmmaking?

I relax against the back of the wooden chair as I recall the story. In 2014, I was filming a guest spot on an episode of Bruce Long is Dead again, and we were filming a shot where I had to pull myself up through a long vent. I suggested dangling the camera from a rope and pulling it up as I'm climbing, which of course made it look really rough and bumpy, but purposefully so, because I was being chased by a bog monster. It ended up working beautifully, and the director, a wonderful woman named Rachel Ward,

took me aside and said, why aren't you directing? I had never thought about it before. I was so dedicated to acting. I mean, I'd been doing it since I was 12. I know a lot of actors dabble and directing after they've been in the business a while, but it seemed such a thankless job, especially in television where the showrunners rule supreme. But the thought borrowed itself in my head,

and I found myself starting to think like a director. Every time I filmed anything, I would think about how I would have directed it. I also happened to have a list of story ideas I've been accruing for years because I'd been toying with the idea of writing fiction sometime. But then I realized I wasn't thinking big enough. Why not turn those ideas into movies? So I got in touch with Rachel and she took me under her wing. She was in her 40s like me,

and she also hadn't bothered with the whole marriage and kids thing. So we ended up becoming friends. She helped produce my first short, bury me gently. Women supporting women, I love it. Tell us about the idea behind bury me gently. It's the one about ghost cannibalism, right? In blunt terms, yes, but really it's about grief. While I explain the origins of my debut short film

about a lesbian heavy metal band that devours itself, both emotionally and physically, pre and post-mortem, I noticed the room is getting warmer. A beat of sweat, hides over my collarbone. I shift uncomfortably, which makes the cheer creek. I force myself to sit still.

Sarah doesn't seem bothered. She's staring at me intently while her fingers move idly across the dark wood of the tabletop, tracing odd shapes. That's so great. That film always reminds me of those were the days. Sorry? Season 4, episode 12 of Shiver Creek,

The episode where the old rock star is doing a comeback tour, and he plays a show in town that the kids' parents get all excited about. But when they go, it turns out that the rock star is a warlock, and he's sucking the life force out of his fans to keep himself immortal. So then the kids have to save their parents. I can vaguely recall this episode. I've never paid much attention to the ones I'm not in. Right, sure. but how does Barry Me gently remind you of that? Because they both have bands?

The scene at the end, of course. You know, when the kids figure out how to reverse the spell and the parents all turn on the warlock and suck the life force out of him, the part where they're all swarming around him on stage and he's turning into a withered husk because he's actually like 500 years old. It looks just like the orgy at the music festival and bury me gently. I thought your scene might have been a direct homage.

No, it wasn't, or not intentionally anyway. We never really know where inspiration comes from, do we? I finished the last of my water. My head is starting to throb. I didn't realize you knew Shiver Creek so well. Everyone my age watched it when we were kids. She taps her right temple. It all gets stuck up here, you know.

It's such a formative age. Burroughs in right next to how to ride a bike. I wipe sweat from my upper lip. I'm probably having a hot flush. The big M-word finally catching up with me after stalking me for so many years. So, onto your feature. While she waxes poetic about plastic can't scream,

I notice a painting hanging in the kitchen. it's of a black goat poised on the side of a mountain, storm clouds lit dramatically in the distance. I think something like that might have been on the set of Celeste's castle. Same with the gargoyle knocker, I realize, and the pillows and some of those tapestries. I try to gulp, but my throat is too dry. Zooming out in my mind's eye,

I observed the two of us sitting in this, let's be honest, extremely creepy, house. All of it is right out of an episode of Shiver Creek. Not on that chinty set that always smelled like prosthetic glue and hairspray, but in the actual universe of the show. In the real Shiver Creek, Sarah wouldn't be a harmless sycophant with a pension for weird horror movies. She would be a powerful witch using flattery as a distraction, and I would be in mortal danger. as my head does a butterfly stroke inside my throbbing skull. I wonder, almost dreamily, what would happen next?

The plucky gang of pre-teen kids who were the real stars of the show would go on a rescue mission, of course. Any second now I would hear rustling in the backyard, or maybe the kids would sneak in upstairs and come charging down armed with wards and counter spells. I look out the window. A bruised purple dusk is falling, casting long shadows on the unruly lawn. Nothing rustles. I strain my ears, but I don't hear any footsteps upstairs. But of course the kids wouldn't come to save me. I'm the witch.

Am I right in thinking that that was an intentional choice? I smack my lips tasting the saltiness of my sweat. I'm so thirsty. I risk a single sip of the tea before answering. Um, yes, you're right on the money. I thought so. So, what are you working on now? I mumble something about multiple pots on the stove,

then pushed myself back from the table. The chair's feet scratch loudly against the floor. Even now, burning to death from the inside out on this strange set, No, not a set, a place. I look at the computer screen and wince at the little screech of noise that I've created in the recording. Sarah, to her credit, seems to have caught on that I'm done. Well, thank you so much, Maddie, for joining me on Motswit Ereuse. It was an honor.

I start to rise from the chair. The honor was all mine. As a part of the sign-off, I wondered if you wouldn't mind saying something before you go. It's a play on the title of the podcast, Mutsmihi, which in Latin means death becomes me. Sarah's eyes are boring into mine. I desperately need a breath of fresh air.

Why not? Mors Meehi. Do Sarah's eyes flash with pleasure? Satisfaction? Maybe they do. but I can't be sure because I'm already up and moving away from the table as she stops the recording. I really should be going. Of course. Let me get my keys.

No, no, you're already home. I'll walk a bit and call a cab. I could use some air. Are you sure? I'm positive. I turned to leave, but I've been in the business too long not to add. Send me a link when it's up. I think the contact form on my website is working again.

We'll do. Sarah retrieves my coat from the closet and hands it over. As we stand by the front door, she thanks me again and holds out her hand, so I shake it. She squeezes hard, too hard, and something sharp pierces my palm. I recoil withdrawing my hand and find blood pooling on the skin.

When I look to Sarah's hand for the culprit, I find a gold ring with four sharply clawed prongs clasped around a ruby, and the setting is turned inwards. She wasn't wearing that before, I'm sure of it. I'm so sorry. She grabs my hand and dabs it with a napkin drawn from her pocket. I'm about to wrench my hand away, but she lets go first, muttering something about getting a bandage.

As she scurries into the kitchen, I watch her lick my blood. I open the door and run. A wave of cold air is a godsend. I'm so busy relishing it, it takes me a few seconds to realize I'm not outside. I'm in a narrow stone hallway lit by flickering candlelight. I gawk, bewildered, before turning around to look back the way I've come. The door with the gargoyle knocker is gone. I raise my hand, which is smooth and young again. Its nails painted a sparkly purple to touch the spot where the door should be. I expect the stones to feel like styrofoam, but they're rough and cold as ice. When I eventually force my feet to continue in the only direction available, I find exactly what I know I'll find. A bubbling cauldron and a mummified cat purring on a pillow.

From some unseen place close by, a theme song begins to play. See, now that's a genuine nightmare, being the host of a TV series. Apparently, old granddad was sort of the host of a streaming horror show called Tales from the Void. I don't think he was ever trapped inside it for eternity, but who knows? When it comes to streaming shows, stranger things have happened. You get it? Stranger Things? Streaming shows?

You're too young to remember a show called Stranger Things. It was popular way back when. Anywho, let's walk this way into the final section we can access. It's the perfect spot for our final tale. Oh, that hall over there? No, no, that's been blocked off for years. It used to be the little snacks bar where they sold candies and chips and drinks. No, no, not a snack bar, a snacks bar.

Named in honor of the show's editor-in-chief, Jessica Snacks McAvoy. She even worked at it for a short time when the place was busy, but it's not an exciting job when there wasn't a lot of people around. Just ask Marnie and Kyle, two people from the mind of author Jason Washer. They work at a gas station where they have lots of spare time after they've done all their chores. And one night they spot something out of the ordinary and, well, let's just say, things start to go down after that. They wrangled the cast of Lindsay Rousseau, Matthew Bradford, and Jesse Cornett to perform this one. So grab your snacks and say hi to Marnie and Kyle in the Quicken Now.

11.30 p.m. and it's freezing rain outside. I've already swept the store and emptied the trash and haven't seen a single customer since our shift started. I can't see past the gas pumps and the darkness to the street beyond, but I know it's deserted. Too slick to travel. The roads were treacherous on the way in and I should have stayed home. Kyle's been stocking the beer freezer for what seems like hours. Through the freezer door, I watch him sit down onto a case of beer and hunch forward over his phone. He stays like that for a while. His fingers occasionally flicking at the screen. And I don't want to know what he's looking at. I pull a half dozen magazines from the rack and bring them back up to my perch at the register and start flipping through them.

Later, I'm turning the last page on the last magazine and digging through my purse for nail polish when I hear the squeal of the freezer door opening and see Kyle hugging himself as he walks up to the register. His cheeks are blue. You were in there a long time. I glance up at the clock behind the register. Hardly any time has passed at all, but I don't retract or apologize.

Instead, I lean into it. I hope it was good for the phone, too. Don't be a purve, Marnie. Kyle doesn't meet my eye, and then I really don't want to know what he was looking at on his phone. It takes a minute, but he eventually blushes and tells me to fuck off, but not with any particular vehemence, only a mild shame. Tonight's my third shift at the quick and now, just two. Two nights past my orientation shift with Jamie and only my first working with Kyle.

He's as awkward as he sounds, and always was, even back in school. He sits next to me behind the counter, the two of us up on stools, silently surveying the store, waiting for someone to come in. No one does. Did you sweep? He asks like he's my supervisor. He's not. It's my third day, but it's only his second month. Yep.

Did you stock the cooler while you were in there? Yep. Kyle then glances down at the empty trash bin behind the register. Did you empty the trash? I glanced from the empty can to Kyle and try to hold his eye for a moment so he knows just how stupid of a question that was. But he quickly looks away. Someone needs to come into the store soon and buy something or I'll lose my mind. I'm certain if this quiet and boredom continue for another seven hours,

Jamie will find us in the morning at each other's throats like feral dogs, one of us wearing the other's blood as war paint. or worse yet, making out McFooler. How's your mom? I finally ask, reduced to small talk. He looks at me, an eyebrow raised, confused. I don't know his mom, and hardly know him, other than for the years we passed each other silently

in the halls of Ripley's schools. A dozen years of school for a job at the Quicken now, and Jamie had me trained in less than an hour. Here's the register, card everyone under 40 for beer, and don't forget to sweep and take out the trash. We spent the rest of the shift chatting and then had beers in his car up by the airport. I'll admit it, Jamie's pretty hot. Dead.

Kyle says it was something like glee. Not glee that his mom is dead, but glee that I asked such a stupid question. Of course she was dead and had been since sixth grade. Everyone in town knew his mom was dead, even me. She drove into a lake. Sorry. I mean it. I should have remembered.

It was a big deal back then and the only thing anyone in school or town talked about, and then everything went back to the way it was, at least for us. I forgot. That's okay. He's still not meeting my eyes. And then for some dumb reason, I feel even worse, because I remember that I never told him I was sorry when his mom died in sixth grade. And no, I didn't just remember.

I knew and I've known that I never did. Even at the start of the shift I knew, I could feel it between us, even if I didn't know at first what it was. I'm not sure if anyone at school ever told him they were sorry about his mom. The floor. This time, Kyle meets my eye for a moment before looking away again. I told you, I swept. It comes out sharper than it should have.

His mom died after all. And for me, anyways, it's as fresh as if it just happened. Though I guess he's been living with it or without her, so he's probably used to it by now. Could a person get used to their mom? mom driving into a lake? No. Kyle gets up from his stool and walks around to the other side of the counter.

He points to the cooler. The floor in the cooler? It's correct. I follow him into the cooler so he can show me his discovery, and I hope he doesn't think this is the part where we make out, because it isn't. The door seals behind us, and it's freezing in the small and brightly lit beer cooler. Neither of us is wearing a jacket. I hug myself for warmth, and he points to the floor, and sure enough,

There's a crack in the tile. It's new. He crouches down on his heels, runs his fingertips lightly up and down the thin, foot-long crack in the floor. It wasn't there yesterday. Someone must have dropped a case of beer. Better call the cops. He squints down at the crack. Do you see it?

What? All I see is the cracked tile and Kyle shivering on his knees in the cooler. It's freezing in here, and I'm freezing too. Fuck this. I'm going back to the register. The reflection in the crack. Kyle leans down, his face inches from the floor. Or maybe it's a light?

I don't see it, and I'm cold. I move toward the freezer door. Just look at it. He motions for me to come closer. Come, look, don't you see it? No, and if you think I'm getting down on the floor with you... Come on, Marnie, please. Fine.

I kneel down beside him to stare at the cracked tile. There's a reflection. He's right. Or maybe it's a light. So someone left the basement lights on, big deal. We're both kneeling on the cold tile, our faces pressed close to the floor staring at the crack. And he looks at me, his face inches from mine. Nope. I clamor to my feet.

Not tonight. Not going to happen. He looks up at me, confused for a moment, until his face registers understanding. Stop being a purve, and don't you get it? What? There's no basement. Back at the register, I glance up at the clock, and it's still barely half past 11. Time is crawling by, and this is officially the longest shift ever. Outside, the sleek continues and the constant pattering of the freezing rain on the roof rings on.

I watch Kyle staring down at the slowly rotating hot dogs for what seems like minutes, until I can't stand it anymore. Uh, Jamie never told me. Kyle looks up at me, his spell broken. About the hot dogs. Do they ever get swapped out, or are those the same ones from the grand opening? Kyle shakes his head no and smiles. I've never seen them change since I've been here and I've never sold one.

Maybe on the day shift? He grabs the tongs. Want one? God, no. You go ahead. Kyle sets the tongs down. Nah, not hungry, maybe later. He hops back up.

onto the stool next to me and we sit silently for what seems like hours. Finally, I'm unable to stand it any longer. The awkwardness too thick and I blurt out. Jamie seems nice. Kyle snorts, a grin on his face. Everyone thinks so. Don't you? He's a great manager, really nice.

I see the expression on his face and hear the bitter longing in his voice and realize that I'm not the only one who's been drinking beers up by the airport with Jamie. The manager of the quick and now is an easy. equal opportunity employer. So nice. I stare hopefully at the door, willing someone to come in. No one does. This might be the longest night of my life.

Is it always this slow? Maybe it's a crawl space. Kyle is staring over at the beer cooler again. For the pipes? Maybe. It's probably just a reflection. An optical illusion, the way the lights are hitting it. A delusion.

What? My dad, he always says, optical delusion. Yeah. Kyle then gets up from the stool. He goes into the office and comes out with his jacket in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. I'm just going to take another look. I watched the freezer door close behind him, and I sit under the store as buzzing fluorescent lights and wait.

After a while, I get up and grab another handful of magazines to skim through, even though I've read them all before. He's gone for what seems like a really long time, though the clock is still showing barely half past a when he comes back out of the freezer with the screwdriver in his hand. He nods at me as he walks past the register and into Jamie's office. I can hear the drawers of the file cabinet banging open and shut. And when he walks back into the cooler, he's carrying a hammer in addition to the screwdriver. I wait at the register for what feels like an hour and then grab my jacket and follow him into the cooler. Kyle's on the floor wailing away at the tile with the hammer.

The walking cooler is filled with a haze of dust and tiny chips of tile are flying. through the air and pinging off the cases of beer. The hairline crack is now a hole big enough to reach an arm into. A faint yellow light streams up from the opening. Holy shit! Kyle's arm is robotically swinging the hammer at the floor over and over and over again. The hole getting bigger and bigger until it's almost two feet across. Jamie is going to kill you!

Kyle stops swinging the hammer and looks up at me questioningly. It's not so bad. I just wanted to see. He looks down at the ruined floor realizing what he's done. Oh, shit. Yeah, you're fucked. I didn't think. I wasn't thinking.

I didn't realize. You were in here for a long time. How could you not realize? He pulls out his phone and glances at the clock and shakes his head. No, I wasn't. Yeah, you were. You're really fucked. I kneel down beside him and peer into the hole.

It drops six feet down to another ceramic. tiled floor and a hallway that veers off to the side. The light is coming from off to the side further in. What is this? Kyle shrugs and wipes sweat from his pocked forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. An unfinished basement or utility room, maybe? With no stairs? I am thoroughly creeped out. I shiver, maybe from the cold. I'm pretty sure that Kyle has stumbled into someone's murder hole and that there's probably a dozen body stacked like cordwood just out of sight around the corner. And no door. There has to be a door. Where? Kyle shrugs again. There has to be. I stand up. Nope, that's enough. Fuck this. We'll sweep all this shit down into the hole and just tell Jamie we drop

to keg on the floor. You think he'll believe it? Sure. And it doesn't matter if he doesn't. I'm going to get the broom out of the office. Grab the broom out of the office and glance at the clock as I head back into the cooler to see how many more hours of this I have left. 1130. It has to be broken. Or the clock's batteries are dead. So I pull out my own phone to check the time and my battery's dead too. Awesome. Kyle?

I say as I'm pulling open the cooler door. What time is it? He's not in the cooler. Kyle? Down here. He pokes his head up through the hole in the floor. What the hell? I jump back, startled, and may have peed a little bit.

It scared me. What are you doing? I just wanted to see where the light was. coming from. Kyle ducks his head back down into the hole. And? I crouched down near the hole just in time to see him duck around the corner and out of sight. Kyle? Just a corridor going down and then it turns off to the right again. Come back out. I can hear his feet scuffing away. Right now. You shouldn't be down there. His voice echoes up to me. I'm just going to go look. I'll be right out. Jamie is going to kill you. I say, and then regret it.

It's fine. I just want to go look. Be right back. Kyle! His footsteps get further and further away. I stare at the hole in the cooler floor and I wait. I pull out my phone again to check the time before I remember my battery's dead. And then I walk back out into the store and pull a charger off the shelf next to the Tylenol and tampons. I rip open the charger and then try to plug my phone in behind the register, but of course it's the wrong-sized phone plug. Of course it is.

I look up at the broken clock and try to work back. backwards to figure out when Jamie will come in and our shift will be over. And I think about the magazines and the sweeping and Kyle breaking open the floor with the screwdriver and the hammer and I don't know. It has to be 4 a.m. by now or later. It feels later. It's been such a long shift. When Jamie gets here in the morning, I'm going to quit.

I go back into the cooler and sit down on a case of beer to wait for Kyle to come back. I try not to imagine Jamie wearing his skin. I stare at the hole and wait And before long, I can't even feel my hands anymore My ass is numb from sitting for so long My nose runs from the cold, The sleeve of my jacket damp with snot Occasionally I give a half-hearted yell

Down into the hole for Kyle But he never answers And after a while my voice goes hoarse And my throat goes sore from shouting I try counting to measure the passage of time But invariably my mind wanders And I forget where I am in the count and have to start over.

I consider leaving my vigil at the hole more than once, but I don't. Where would I go? And once I stop expecting the shift to end or anyone to come into the store, the waiting grows less painful. I think about Kyle's mom a lot. Was there a point in the lake

as the water rushed up around the car that she changed her mind and said, fuck this? A moment where she fought back? And if she did change her mind, how hard and how long did she try, try to get out of that car. At some point, did she just give up and accept the water rushing in and over her?

I yell for Kyle again, loud. And this time when he doesn't respond, I dropped down into the hole. I walk for longer than I can remember. The passage slowly descends, each long and tiled hallway, eventually turning right into another and then another, until I almost forget where I'm going or what I'm looking for. Hours or years later, I don't know anymore. I turn right for what must be the thousandth time

and the hallway terminates in a dimly lit and low-ceilinged alcove no bigger than the beer cooler. Kyle and Jamie are sitting in a card table, and Kyle's laughing like he just heard the world's best joke. Jamie can be wickedly funny, especially when he has you alone in a car by the airport. Or in a small room deep underground. Hey guys!

I interrupt, a little worried that I'm ruining Jamie's joke. Kyle holds up a hand greeting. Hey, Marnie. Want a beer, Marnie? Jamie grins and holds up a sweaty can of paps. I love his smile. I can't help myself and almost take the beer. But instead, I shake my head no and offer him a tight smile and return. I'm not thirsty. I notice Kyle's not drinking either. I turned to him. I was waiting for you. You didn't come back. Sorry, we were just hanging out. I lost track of time. Let's go back up to the store now. Kyle. Instead of answering

me, Kyle just looks at Jamie, waiting for him to respond. Our shift is almost over. Jamie smiles, that smile he has, all charm and promise. And he looks at me like I'm the only person left in the world. Like it's just me and him alone at the end of everything, as if Kyle's not even here.

And then he shoves out a metal folding chair from the table with a small, booted foot. Sit and have a beer, Marnie. Let's hang out for a while. I'd love to, but we left the store empty. Sorry. No worries. Jamie Downs the last of his pamps and crushes the can.

He tosses the can onto the floor near my feet, and then he's somehow popping the tab off another can. It's fine, really. The store can take care of itself. Kyle, tell her to sit down. Sit down, Marnie. Kyle's not meeting my eye again. Jamie was telling a story.

I smile politely, but I don't sit. I know I can't sit if I want to leave, and I really, really want to leave, even if the beer is starting to look good now. I didn't think I was thirsty, but maybe I am. I'm also very cold. We should go now. Kyle looks from me to Jamie, hoping for his permission.

It doesn't come. Jamie just smiles that smile of his, like, this is all perfectly normal. Nothing's wrong, and why would anyone ever want to leave? Kyle! He smiles apologetically, and this time meets my eye, but doesn't move. Maybe he can't move. I don't know.

I turn to Jamie and try not to think about what we did together in the backseat of his car, because he doesn't look quite the same anymore. He seems older now, thinner, his hair greasier than before, his bones prominent. He's wearing a thin pair of blue jeans with the cuffs tucked into the brown boots and a buttoned-up shirt that I swear is straight out of the 70s. And not retro fashion or 70s inspired, but an actual and threadbare shirt pulled from the 70s. I realized that he's very old,

older than even the 1970s. Jamie, I say to him trying to smile, trying not to let on that I know how old he is. We've got to get back to the store. Our shift is almost over. No. Jamie's not smiling anymore. And maybe he never was.

Stop me if he've heard this one. We have to leave. He looks to Kyle. I know you've heard it before. He winks, his eyelids slowly folding shut like a bat's wing before reopening. His hand rests intimately on Kyle's shoulder. His fingernails long and dirty, brown with decades of stain. Jamie, please!

I realize that he won't willingly let us go. He can't. There was a boy. We'll call him Kyle. And his mom drove into a lake. Don't be an ass, Jamie. I know the story. We're leaving now. No.

And you don't know the whole story. Kyle, get up. We're leaving now. Marnie. Kyle is half up from his chair and his eyes are boring into mind, pleading with me, hoping, Fuck this. Fuck Jamie. Fuck the store. Fuck all of it.

I reach over the card table and grab Kyle's arm and try to pull him the rest of the way to his feet. His arm is cold, freezing. And Kyle is shivering. His face pale. His lips blue.

We're going. I tell Jamie as I pull Kyle up from the chair. Kyle looks at me. His eyes still pleading with me. And I'm remembering back to middle school after his mom died. And I really, really wish I had told him how sorry I was.

It was a really shitty deal for him. I should have said something. Should have said anything. But I didn't. We stumble past Jamie and he doesn't look anything like Jamie from the car anymore. Not even close. Not even human. And then Kyle and I are out of the alcove and we're back in the narrow corridor.

I'm so sorry. I can hear Kyle just behind me, following me, shivering. His breath coming in frozen hitches as we climbed the long hallway back up to the beer. cooler. I really am. I should have said something. It's okay, really. No, it's not. Kids are assholes. I was an asshole. Marnie, let it go, okay? It was a long time ago. But it really wasn't. Six years, a couple of thousand days. I couldn't imagine how he could let it go so soon. I've moved past it, okay? And you should too. How can you move past it? I trudged back up the long halls toward the surface.

I listened to Kyle's feet scuffing the tile behind me. But I don't hear anyone behind Kyle. Not yet. I wish I could remember how far away the store was. I don't believe you. She did the best she could. Bullshit, absolutely fucking bullshit. She was a bitch and should have done a lot better by you.

When he doesn't reply, I realize I've gone too far. Awesome. First, I ignore him when his mom dies, like he wasn't even there. pretending like nothing ever happened, and then I call his dead mother a bitch. Nice going. Sorry. He still doesn't answer and we keep walking. Time passes and we must be close to the store by now. But I have no way to know with my phone's dead battery. I spend most of my time wondering if Jamie's coming after us and if he is what he'll do when he catches us. I'm tired. After a while, I realized that he can't follow us. He's too old. To set in his

ways by a thousand years of time and death washing over him. He can't move, and he doesn't want to move. He never moved. Even in the car by the airport, he was just a daydream, a passing fancy, a wish sworn and quickly recanted. He just waits. Kyle and I are safe, for now. Kyle, he doesn't answer me and hasn't for the last hours and miles, though I still hear him behind me. I said that I was sorry. Still no answer. I'm sure she did her best. I mind wanders back to the sixth grade and Kyle and his absence.

I hadn't told him I was sorry about his mom driving into the lake. Not then and not ever. How could I? Kyle, don't be a dick. Answer me. Say something. And then, even though I know I shouldn't, I turned to look at him. and then he's gone, vanished from the long, tiled hall. He's been gone for a long time, forever 12 years old.

A woman who drives into a lake, that's tragic. I remember my dad's saying, who knows what demons that poor woman might have been facing. But a woman who drives into that same lake with her 12-year-old son in the back seat, and she's not a woman facing demons anymore, is she? That's due generous of an assessment. She is the demon. A minute or a lifetime later,

I finally see the fluorescent lights of the beer cooler. I climb up through the hole and stagger into the quicken now. The clock is still stuck at 1130. It's still sleeting out. Still dark. No one has come in all this time. Kyle? I know he won't answer.

I'm alone. I grabbed the same magazines I read a dozen times before from the rack and bring them up to their register and start flipping through them. Nothing has changed. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The sleet rattles on the roof. Then I wait.

Well, Marnie might be stuck there waiting a long time. But, friends, I'm afraid our little tour has come to an end. Let's exit through the gift shop. No, no, afraid there's no merchandise left in there. Cleaned out years ago. They used to sell T-shirts. Mugs, totes, and full-sized David Cummings' body pillows. Although those were recalled, however.

Turns out they were full of spiders. Anyway, before you go, I want to play you an audio message from my granddad. This was played over the speakers before the guests left the museum. Let's see. Here's the message for you. Hello, sleepless friends. This is David Cummings. the creator and host of the No Sleak podcast.

Thank you for helping us celebrate our 15th anniversary of the show. When I started this podcast 15 years ago, I had no idea it would turn into what it's become. You wonderful people have made it quite possibly, the most prolific and most listened-to horror storytelling podcast in the history of humankind and the known universe. That's probably overstated. things, but it's because of you that this show turned from a bi-weekly hobby into a full-time

career and passion. Thank you for joining us week after week. Thank you for listening and sharing the show with others, and thank you for being so wonderful to all the members of our team who bring you this show week after month after year. No one knows what the future holds, but you keep listening and we'll keep bringing you the thrills and chills for the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes.

Always remember to brace yourself. Again, thank you for 15 wonderfully frightful years. I hope you will continue to stay sleepless. With my deepest and most sincere gratitude,

thanks and love, your podcast Father, David Cummings. There, isn't that nice? Okay, step this way for the exit. And as we walk down this hall, note the portraits on the wall. There's the composer, Maestro, Brandon Boone. And those gentlemen there are the audio producers.

Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Ah, and this beautiful work of art has our editorial team. Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Samito. And just so you know, the no sleeppodcast.com is still active. You can learn more about the show, the people who make it, and you can learn about the sleepless universe. Such a great way to support the show. So, thanks for joining me, and on behalf of my granddad. Thanks for making all this possible.

Watch your step as you leave. Oh, and remember how the show used to end with this disclaimer. This audio program is copyright 20, let's say 2026 by Creative Reason Media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. And no part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence. technologies, or systems. And you guessed it, all rights reserved.

Okay, bye for now. Hope to see you soon. Bye. That was fun. Oh, damn. Oh, they've gone, and I forgot to play the Mike Granddad's famous song he recorded. Oh, what a shame.

This one really slaps.