The NoSleep Podcast - S24 Ep25: NoSleep Podcast S24E25

Episode Date: July 19, 2026

It's Episode 25 - the Finale of Season 24. Enter the dark waters of the Cape Fear River as we present a tale about homebound trauma."Plink" by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 00:04:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Phil MichalskiCast: Jimmy - Peter Lewis, Father - David Cummings, Linda - Mary Murphy, Melissa - Jessica McEvoy, Mother - Nikolle Doolin, Dewey - Dan Zappulla, Andrew - Dan ZappullaThis episode is sponsored by:Indacloud - IndaCloud is a fully legal online cannabis dispensary for gummies, exotic flower, premium prerolls, Zero Sugar THC Sodas, Energy Gummies, and Extra Strength Sleep Gummies. If you're 21 or older, go to indacloud.co/nosleep to get 30% off your first order.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaCheck out our NEW MERCH! Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Plink" 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.

It's the No Sleep Podcasts season 24 finale. Thank you for joining us for this memorable full-length production. I'm David Cummings, the host and creator of the show. As we've reached the end of our 24th season, I want to thank everyone for making this a special time in the show's history. This has been the first season where the show has originated from the dark, dark waters of the Cape Fear River. There's something uniquely no sleep about a horror storytelling podcast having its home base

right on the banks of a river named Cape Fear. And we'll continue to make this our base for seasons to come. It's also been a special season in which we celebrated 15 years of the No Sleep podcast. And as we look to the future, we have to be a special season. plenty of opportunities for new and exciting changes while still celebrating the traditions of the past. The podcasting landscape has changed. We'll need to change and adapt to stay at the forefront of horror storytelling. Change can be exciting and challenging, but we're grateful that our listeners continue to join us during the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. For our season finale, we have an epic production of a story by Marcus Demanda.

This feature-length production has been produced by Phil Mikulski and features a musical score by Brandon Boone. And in order to present this tale to you in full, without interruptions, we are most grateful for the sponsor of this episode, Indecloud. Without them, we would not. be able to share all this content with our listeners absolutely free of charge. And with summer in full swing, I'm sure we're all relaxing and enjoying carefree days, right? Well, except summer days and long weekends can suddenly become full of things to do and busyness that leaves us feeling anything

but relaxed. That's exactly why people have been enjoying a more modern way to actually decompress lately. And that's where IndyCloud is making a difference. Indicloud is a fully legal online cannabis dispensary for gummies, exotic flour, premium pre-rolls, zero sugar THC sodas, energy gummies, and extra strength sleep gummies. Being sleepless for a living means that I occasionally need to enjoy some of Indy Cloud sleep gummies for a deep and refreshing sleep. And if you're looking for a bit of a lift during those sunny days. Indicloud has so many options for you. Low-dose options for staying functional in the heat.

THC sodas for smooth, cool, predictable relaxation, and pre-rolls for end-of-day decompression. If you're 21 or older, go to indecloud.com. That's dot-c-c-o-not.com. And for new customers, use code no sleep for 40% off your first order. That's Indicloud.com Code No Sleep.

For 40% off, shipped discreetly to your door, plus free shipping on orders over $50 and free gifts on qualifying orders. And please don't forget to fill out the quick survey when you order to support this show.

Enjoy responsibly, and a huge thanks to Indicloud. Not only for this special free episode, but also for helping everybody spend a little less time managing summer and a little more time enjoying it. In this tale, we meet Jimmy, portrayed by the inimitable Peter Lewis. Jimmy is living in a home that's been in his family for generations. With it comes a legacy of memories.

Some fond, some not so endearing. There is trauma in that house, trauma that has, isolated Jimmy in there for many years. And when the house itself seems to be conspiring against him, it will push Jimmy to extremes, as he seeks to stay in control of the routine he so desperately needs. Joining Peter in performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Doolin, Dan Zepula, and me.

So if you find the sound of dripping water to be annoying, you just have to describe the sound. Is it a drop? A plop? A patter? No, in this case, it's a plink. Here it comes again. Wait, for it, you'll hear it.

Close your eyes. Almost, almost. Picture me holding up a finger, huh? Just another moment or two. Right on time. I'm, as usual. That fucker's accurate to the microsecond. I haven't pinned down its source yet,

but I think I have an idea of what's going on. I abandon the ruined bedroom hall and start back downstairs to the main floor of the house. It comes every hour. You know, 12, 11, 11, 11, 2.11. You get the idea? It's 3.11 in the morning at present. I'd say you could set your watch

by this increasingly early. some phenomenon of mine. Maybe you could. As for me, my watch doesn't allow for that level of precision. It's mostly aesthetic, my watch. A pretty thing, but not good to the microsecond, like that abominable drip is. When the time draws close, I can see those microseconds in my mind.

It's like a digital readout. on the insides of my eyelids, one that advances impossibly fast until the minute ticks over from ten to eleven. The digits to the right of the decimal flash double zeros as the distant but unmistakable, blink echoes, like damnation through the whole fucking house. Oh, that's it? No big deal, right?

There won't be another drip for an hour, but then, you know, in another hour. it will be there, timely as taxes and more reliable than gorilla tape. And that ruins everything. I have no peace for the other 59 minutes and 59 seconds of every hour. And that is because you must understand this. I know it's coming. It occurs to me as I mull these things over. I do not need this watch I have. It's analog. It comes. It comes. It comes. cannot display to the microsecond, nor even to the hundredth of a second. It's accurate.

You know, it may understand these things in its endlessly repeating, self-winding, non-electrical mind. But if so, it cannot show it. I do have a cell phone, though I'm not sure why. And my brain keeps time better than that. It's regulated by the drip, you see. My sense of time recalibrates every hour. Also, I have clocks all over the house. There are two things an intruder would immediately notice

upon stepping onto the interior. Unwelcome, Matt, of my front foyer. It's alabaster marble streaked with jet, brings vanilla ice cream with swirls to mine, and both bear mentioning here. The second thing would be the four-foot-long oval mirror in the entryway by the coat closet. You always get a little something extra when you look into that thing.

But the first thing would be the hellish mahogany grandfather clock with the weighted steel pendulum. Now, that old bastard stands shadowy sentry between the dining room and the three carpeted steps leading down to my elaborately furnished entertainment center. When that mother goes off, the angry, discordant peels rattle the twenty-two-one, empty picture frames that fill the blank spaces of my walls. Never the mirror, though. The fucker never moves. But the picture frames, unencumbered by the ghosts and demons that inhabit the mirror, dance to grandfather's terrible tolling every time.

And it's not alone. That clock is the grandfather, right? I also have a clock on my fireplace mantle. There's an old-school twin bell alarm clock on my nightstand. There's the oven clock, the microwave clock, both digital with beeper alarms, and also a three-tiered glass cabinet bedecked with smaller clocks of silver and gold and many others besides. The larger ones are set to strike at varying hours,

and I wind or sat them all between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. each day. So, you see, it does not bother me when they strike the hour. That's what I have them for. That's what they're intended to do. The tolling of my clocks gives my life structure. It provides definition. But every time they do it, I have precisely 11 minutes until the next drip causes a momentary arrhythmia of the heart

before my left eye and right pinky finger twitch out of irresistible reflex. Those 59 minutes and 59 seconds between the ringing of the hours is my quiet time. It's sacred to me. Any noise made within that time can only come from me. This is my world, according to the vision with which I have created it. We're all the architects of our personal realities, and so I accept no judgment from anyone. Not that I need fear any. people may say that I'm, well, quirky, perhaps even a bit weird.

But if so, I haven't had to tolerate it for a long time. And a good thing, too. I've reached an age where I don't feel the need to put up with shit like that. And I keep a gun in the house. I do not recall exactly when it was that I realized the drip came on the 11s. It might have been three days ago. It might have been a week. Funny, all things considered that I should lose track of the days

when I'm adept as I am in minutes and hours. But I do. And it's all because of that wretched, foul and unspeakably annoying drip. The drip is an intruder. I cannot stop it. I can't even find it. Today, I have made it my mission to locate the source. Knowing when the drip will come should make that easy, right?

All I'd have to do is intercept it at the pre-programmed moment, right? Easy peasy. Let me take you back in time, say about three hours, and no worries we'll return to the present, eventually. So, midnight, hmm? Tough to tell, with all of the echo, it's a big house, this. But I suspected the drip was coming from the kitchen sink. So as the tolling of the morgue.

Monstrous four o'clock clanged out the 12th hour again, and again, and again rattling the frames. I found myself leaning over the kitchen counter. I positioned my neck at a decidedly awkward angle, the better to look up into the opening of the faucet. By the time the crash and clamor of old grandfather echoed off into memory, it might have been 1203. I didn't check my watch, to be sure, I had a thing. To confirm, I cannot miss this, I thought. Not even for a second. Even though eight minutes is a torturously long time to hold place in this position,

and even though I knew the drip was accurate to the microsecond and could not possibly come early, I did not move. But there was no hint of a coming plink, no slow swelling of an incoming drip, growing pregnant with its own weight, no presage of my hourly visitor whatsoever. I waited for it, counting seconds, whispering them aloud. Seeing the digital readout in my mind counting up,

first to 100, then to 200. I eventually gave in the temptation at 300 and checked my watch. It was 1210. But as I've said, my watch is analog, so I had no idea how close I was to the moment when... I missed it. And I didn't just fail to anticipate it to the micro-second. No, I missed it entirely.

The drip, you see, this time, had come from upstairs. Britch! I slammed my hand down on the steel rim of the sink. Eyes turned to the ceiling. I felt my left eye twitch in its socket, along with the inescapable panic that takes a bite out of your soul. When your heart holds completely still for 1.3 seconds, I was and remain completely unconcerned about anyone ever hearing any of my outbursts,

which do escape me from time to time. It's not like I have people in this house on a regular basis. Anyway, fuck! This shit, I was in. I had to get to the bottom of this. If there's one thing I've hated for all of my adult life, its half-finished jobs. True, it was past midnight.

I ought to have gone to bed. It wasn't like the drip wouldn't be there in the morning. Intellectually, I understood this. My mind acknowledged it. It was also true that I now had an hour before the drip would come again. Nevertheless, fueled in equal measure by irritation and frustration,

I abandoned the kitchen for the stairs leading up from the foyer. There are two baths, up there, my personal facilities as well as the guest bathroom, which I do keep fully stocked, more out of habit than for any reason that makes sense. That's where I went. If that dreadful blink had come from the bathroom that was mine, I'd have pinned it down long before. Oh, and the very notion of this unholy disruptor coming as close to me as my own private shitter.

Well, such a thought was intolerable, and so I did not entertain it. It had to be the guest bathroom, had to be. But there was another thought that slipped unbidden into my mind right then. If I took my time, if I was so stealthy and quiet that it took me most of the intervening hour to even get to the guest bathroom, well, then maybe the thing behind the drip would not hear me coming. Oh, that's crazy. I reminded myself there is nothing behind the drip but a faulty, pipe, and that's nothing a wrench won't fix. There is no thing behind the drip.

Like father always told you, there's nobody out to get you, Jimmy. I hear him in my mind sometimes. I really do. When he speaks, I feel my eardrums vibrate. So I know it's real. He's dead, but he's still here. There's no one after you, Jimmy. Which is normal. I mean, he's my father, right? He was a good father. No, he wasn't. Though he was very strict, he still looks out for me. When he died, he left his voice behind right here in the house.

I suppose his mind. As well, he gives me advice and checks on me. You've been behaving yourself, haven't you, Jimmy? At the foot of the stairs still undecided about my approach, I answered him. Yes, father. It was barely a breath. I did not worry about the drip hearing my father, but I did not wish for it to hear me. That's good, Jimmy. You're a man now.

I can't always be there to correct you. Something in my throat, caught. I know, father. What makes a man? Jimmy? Self-discipline, father. And have you been disciplining yourself, son? Yes, father. And I certainly had been. Where this very week, I let the guy who delivers my groceries step over the threshold and into the house. He only got the one foot in, but as father was careful to teach me, sometimes that's all it takes. Sure, young Gus had been bringing my bags to the door going on two years,

and he was hardly more than a kid. But he wasn't exactly a friend, much less family, was he? I'm still... I'm a bit unsteady from disciplining myself for that. That's a good son. Did you clean yourself afterward? Is my son squeaky clean? Yes, father.

The laceration across the underside of my foot had not entirely closed, and the bandages were likely overdue for a change. I did remember to use alcohol, then wipe down the razor, breaking in half, wrapped in toilet paper before throwing it away. Exactly as I'd been taught, and I didn't cut my thumb. Not once. You better not be lying. No, father. I'm an honest man.

What's troubling you? You fret like a woman. The truth is I fret a lot more than most of the women. I've met, but there was no point in the saying, so... There's a drip in the house, Father. There better not be for long. And don't you dare call a plumber? If you spend good money on a plumber, after all I've taught you...

No, Father, but I was hoping you could tell me where it's coming from. Silence. It was father's way of showing contempt or outright disgust. and he was right. How could I allow myself to be defeated by a fucking leaky pipe? Did I have to call on father for every little thing? Father? Yes?

Can't you, can't you hear it too? What do you think? You don't have this shit figured out yet? The only thing I can hear in this house is you. The only thing keeping me in this house is you, and you're not ready to run it yet. What's with all this tipito bullshit, Jimmy? What have I taught you?

Yeah, one does not approach a problem with stealth one attacks that shit. You've got to be assertive. I lurched up the stairs. My hand on the railing for support, making no further effort to stifle the noise as I went. I had little doubts. The gasped bathroom had the answer I was looking for. There was also a toolbox in the adjacent linen closet for when my guest turned out to be correct. Why do you call it the guest bathroom?

You know what it is. You don't have guests. Those words came as though I had thought them. They didn't vibrate my eardrums. And yet they hadn't come to me in my voice. The thought voice was much younger, though as familiar as fathers. It was scratchy, as though from dehydration. Same as I remembered it from childhood.

It was accusatory. and it belonged to a girl. Halfway up the stairs, I had to stop. I closed it to my eyes. Don't. It was the kid's bathroom. Don't you remember, Jimmy? But it wasn't like Father.

No, it was only a thought. Difficult to sift with any clarity, like an opaque jar whose contents weren't quite clear. Not now. I'm busy, okay? Why are you trying so hard to forget me, Jimmy? I'm not. I'm busy.

You hated me. You always did. It's okay. I understand. I drew in breath hard. I opened my eyes. Go away. Miraculously, she did.

And I continued on to my destination. The sink, marble, like the... The floor downstairs was bone dry. It looked like the faucet hadn't dripped out anything in days, never mind minutes ago. Everything seemed in perfect order, and only the wallpaper, fading and curled at the edges, betrayed the bathroom's age. I traced the graying outlines of Pooh Bear, Eor, Piglet, Roo, Kanga. The only one missing from the ensemble cast was Christopher Robin, and the adult. Adult me knew why.

The idea behind the wallpaper was that whatever kid or kids lived in this house stood or, you know, squatted in his place. This was our wallpaper. Or it was once upon a time. It was our world, meaning mine and my siblings. I brushed the thought aside. It was unhelpful, especially in the current. crisis, it was a distraction. I positioned myself under the faucet. I looked up right into it, and I waited, and waited. I no longer had any idea what time it was. Father, and Linda,

you were just talking to Linda. They'd shaken the inner workings of my near-flawless mental timer. I mean, all I had to do was check my watch, but that was, that was. would require me to break eye contact with the underside of the faucet, and so I resisted the temptation. God, what if I blinked at the wrong moment? I'd still know. I'd see the aftermath. There might even be a small splash I could feel. All I need to do is wait for it, wait for it, wait for it. Wait for it. Distant farther up? I came from the fucking attic. I pulled back trying to regulate my breathing, summoning every ounce of willpower I had to simply avoid screaming, and I failed.

Son of a bitch! This makes no sense. I heard it from right here. I heard it. Wait, suddenly I could smell it. It was right behind me like it had somehow sneaked up on me. I turned. The shower curtain was a perfect.

companion to the wallpaper, or it was once. Back in the day, you could clearly make out the trees of the hundred-acre wood and the stuffed animals peeking out from within them. The curtain, it was still clean, I'm not a slob, but it had faded to ghost trees and shadow animals. I tore the curtain back. There was no drip, but the tub, uh, tub was full. The water was murky, opaque, thick.

With old soap, it was pinkish in color, crimson swirls, twisting around floating soap scum, as though the bubble bath mix had been topped off with cherry syrup. The bathtub, it was filled with blood. And there was a child's finger floating in it. I reeled from it a hand over my mouth. Memory threatened, but I fought it back down. I've gotten very good at that. I took a moment to recover, but then I turned back to the tub.

I found it empty, bone dry, like the sink. What's the matter with me? I asked no one at all. finding my voice unaccountably weak. I should be angered by this. Oh, yes, and I was to the very soul. But this other feeling, this temptation to actually cry. No.

No. I would not. Father might hear. As though I had summoned him, he again spoke. This time I could almost see his father. face in the mirror over the sink when he did it. But not quite. In this mirror.

Unlike when I saw him in the mirror downstairs, he was a shadow or perhaps a shade, like the faded trees and stuffed animals of the hundred-acre wood. But his voice was as clear as wind chimes. Do you have a leak to fix you worthless piece of shit, or don't you? I got back on the job. Re-emerging back into the bedroom hall, staring up at the ceiling portal with the brass ring. I could not help but ask myself when exactly was the last time I'd ventured up into the attic.

I couldn't remember, but it must have been decades ago. No, I thought, unable to stop myself. You could, remember, if you wanted to. Where was that damned stick with the hook catch at the end of it? I could see it in my head. I saw it at least twice a week, though I hadn't had any need to actively seek it out in a very long time. Linen closet, yes.

I don't look at doors while I opened them. It's one of my quirks, I guess. Anyway, I put my hand on the knob. I rested my head against the folding wood of the closet door and listened. Not that I expected to hear anything. It's a habit of mine. I listened. I looked off to the side, and I drew the door open.

Nothing bad happened. Well, of course, nothing bad happened. And the draw hook was exactly where it always was, leaning up against the interior wall of the closet. As for the rest, apart from the aluminum toolbox, it was all towels and blankets and wash rags. The thing I was afraid of. It was a head

It was a fucking dog's head And he wrapped in a towel And stuffed into the back of its highest shelf It was white This big floppy ears You found it back and you Stop Don't you think about that shit

That's ancient history Doesn't matter No one ever found the dog It's not here anyway I reminded myself out loud, taking the stick and shutting the closet door, leaving the linens and towels where the dogs had used to be in place. These things, these images, hallucinations, phantoms, whatever. They're not a daily occurrence for me.

Most days I suffer none of that bullshit. They threatened on the regular. Oh, sure, yeah, you betcha. I'm on guard against them. every waking second of every day. But until recently, their fall manifestation had been rare. I used to have medications. I used to have to take them.

I took them every day. Usually I don't need my medication these days. I have it under control. I... Oh, you never needed it. My mind started. It was forced down your throat every time. you choked it down against your will.

You were a nosy, inconsiderate little fuck-all. And now you're seeing things, making things up. It's fucking sad. I'm not making things up. My brain protested out of reflex. These aren't hallucinations. You're not arguing with me, are you? Well, that pulled me up short.

No, father. It sounded like you were. I said it's because you can't hear it. I only wanted to explain. Don't go there. It was the same voice he used when he slid his belt through the loops. Right before he wrapped it around his hand and cracked it like a bullwhip. They're memories.

You, dumbass, those are your fucking memories. My mind, you see, is not always my friend. It's never my advocate. I could not afford to have these intrusive thoughts. They got in the way of my day. They wrecked my routine. So I did what I always did when my brain turned against me. I argued with it.

Not memories. I said aloud, making sure I could hear my own voice loud and clear. Not memories, never memories. You're not sentimental. You... I was my father's belt, all right. But he wasn't hitting me with it, not even in my hallucinations. Who the fuck are you talking about? What are these memories you're not having, son? Nothing. Father. Your memories! My brain continued to insist in spite of father's presence.

They're your memories. They're all you have left. No. I moaned whether to my rebellious inner self or to father. I'm not sure. People said things about father. People from the government used to ask questions. None of them understood the way it was.

Father wasn't a beater. He was a threatner. And that sound It was only the sound of leather against leather Nothing more Father only cracked the belt against itself He held it by the buckle in his right hand doubled over the sum of his left hand hooked into the loop

All he had to do to produce that terrible echoing crack Was to yank it taught Oh, but Father who was right next to me after all, who was having none of that. A threatener? As in one who talks shit but never follows through? Is that what you're calling me? It always made me flinch, though.

That sound of leather on leather, how the sound of it caused the very walls to emit fear, like an invisible gas. Also the cracking of father's belt. It never failed to alert everyone. how my siblings had hidden under their beds and prayed aloud thanking God that it wasn't them this time. Father, he could be scary when he was mad. He twitched like a tortured spider.

I cried out. Do I have your attention? I nodded. It was the only answer I was capable of. Tell me, Jimmy, does the window need cleaning? I bet it does. I bet you've let it sit there unattended for years. Tell me, son of mine.

Am I right? I poked my head up through the trap door. Light struggled to find its way into the attic. The one window at the end, which would normally look out over the front of the property, had yellowed over time and neglect. I clicked on an equal. grimed overhead light fixture casting the whole attic space into a nauseating shade of orange. Dust moats, the size of snowflakes, hovered and wafted through the stale dead air,

and a sheet of gray dust covered everything. That included a brass-bound wooden strong box under the window, long and more than deep enough to double as a child's coffin, not that it had ever been used as one. At least I didn't think it had. But lock hung loosely, the key jutting straight out of the keyhole. As for the window in question, yeah, it was pretty bad. Yes, father. I didn't add that he didn't need to tell me.

I did not live with this kind of filth. And had I but realized it had come to this, I would have rectified the situation long ago. Alas, though I should have predicted it, the thought never entered my head. and there's only so much one man can do. But, first, the drip. How in the living hell I might have a drip up here was anyone's guess yet? There it was.

A small, slowly spreading pond over the small rectangle floorboards at the attic center. There was another of these platforms, if that's the right word, I poked my head up through the trap door, and yet one more at the other end by the cirrhosis yellow glass of the only window. The rest was all oaken floor beams and fluffy pink insulation, so it was wise to watch one's step. 1.45. I had less than an hour before the next event, but that was all right. That

thin pool of water was a confession from the attic itself. Hey, it's me. It's your attic. I'm the ones been tormenting you. I smiled in spite of myself. I knew intellectually that this could not be real. I'd have to have a leak in the fucking roof for that to be true. And while I had to admit that such a thing was definitely possible, it had not rained outside for a week. But the water on the floor was so clear, so real, so right there.

I wasn't prepared to acknowledge the purpose. possibility of it being a mirage brought on by longing. At least not until I saw or didn't see the drip come down with my own eyes. But that would be a mirage too, I tried to explain to myself. Sadly, I'm not a terribly good listener. Father would agree, even when I only have myself to listen to. No, the thing I had to do was investigate. Once I was steady on my feet, I made the long step over the floor beams from the first platform of floorboards to the second. I had to be careful.

The pond was small, but then so was the platform. And the last thing I needed was to slip, fall through a solid foot of insulation, and maybe crack my head on one of the support beams on the way down, and then crash out, ten. or sew more feet back down onto the carpet of the bedroom hall. That'd be great. But no such misfortune befell, and I found myself standing over the little pond

with enough room to sit down in front of it, if I wanted. Above me, twin rows of cedar beams, not oak, supported the arched roof. The reason for this, as I knew from father, was that the roof had been specifically built to be moisture-resistant, Leaks were not permitted in this house, and father had been nothing if not a forward thinker. The pond at my feet was absolutely still, which was another oddity. Unless there was some slight imperceptible wearing of the wood, a flat surface like that should not collect the water in a neat little pond.

The water should be running, dripping off the sides of the platform into the insulation, and the beams above me were dry, they were even dusty, with hanging cobwebs in the corners. Hey. The voice was young, female, and vaguely familiar. It almost made me jump, which would have been a disaster given my location. But unlike my father's, this voice conveyed no anger. Quite the opposite, the voice was mildly surprised,

like it belonged to someone who hadn't expected to see me yet that was pleased by my arrival. That alone would have made it unlikely that the voice had belonged to my sister, Linda. Also, this new voice, it vibrated my eardrums, like fathers, so I knew I was really hearing it and not imagining it. It came from the water. I sat, criss-cross applesauce in front of it. I leaned forward. That isn't a pond. I thought, why did you think of the word pond? It's a puddle.

It might not even be water. It definitely didn't drip down from the ceiling. I repositioned myself leaning over it on all fours. I sniffed at it. Nothing unusual. Uh, hey, I said, back to it. You better not let her catch us here. She'll tell.

So familiar, I still couldn't place it. But the one thing I did know and I knew it beyond any doubt was who the voice was talking about. That would be Linda. Whoever this was knew enough about Linda to be wary of her, even though she was my younger sister. Who are you? I asked, feeling rather stupid but needing an answer. You don't remember me, Jimmy? I shook my head

And no, I'm sorry A long silence followed the admission You killed my memory Didn't you? I was already dead And you killed all that was left of me Again I shook my head

This time in mute denial I'm sorry, what You killed my memory Like you killed so many others No, that's not true I've never killed anyone. You killed the memory of me. I thought you liked me, Jimmy.

I kept shaking my head. I held my hands over my ears, but there was no good. The sound that vibrated my eardrums didn't originate from outside of my head. Real as the sound was, its epicenter was inside. And I knew it. I just didn't think of it in those terms when I could help it. When you're done forgetting, there will be nothing of you left. Good, I thought.

Maybe that's what I'm trying for. I don't know. I have no idea anymore. You'd be better off killing yourself. It's what you're already doing anyway. Oh, that got under my skin. It wasn't fair. Though it was tempting.

I quit. I have a gun in the drawer of my nightstand. I could go to my room. and eat a bullet right now. Is there what you want? No, Jimmy. That isn't what I want. What do you want, then?

Listen, I don't even know your fucking name. In a bad form. Dropping the F-bomb in a conversation with a girl who sounded 13 years old, maybe 14. But if the voice in my head sounded young, then maybe I knew her when I'd been young, too. If so, me swearing would be nothing new to her. As a kid, I never swore in front of my parents or teachers, but pretty much everyone else I knew got a regular earful. Yes, you do.

Touch the water, Jimmy. Please just tell me your name. You'll make yourself forget it again. I want to help you fix it, Jimmy. Then tell me your name. Fine. My name is Melissa. Now touch the fucking water.

I tapped the water with a tentative finger. Just like that, all in an instant, my world disappeared. It's a dream catcher. Her bright blue eyes glowed with recognition, but there was worry there, too. Something in the way her thin eyebrows drew closer over the bridge of her nose. The smile on her lips had straightened to an almost neutral expression. Jimmy, if this is your dad's, you should put it back.

Where? I answered, still smiling. He's got these hanging up all over the place, plus extra. I pulled this one out of a box in the attic. Then, tentatively, what's a dream catcher anyway? Embarrassing as it should have been, to ask the question, at 14, I felt that I should be the expert in matters of what. in my house. With Melissa Flores, nothing was ever embarrassing. She was smarter than me, but she was also kind. She didn't have a gram of judgment in her. She wasn't my girlfriend, but she was my best, friend.

Only, friend, my brain corrected me before I could stop it. Father better not find out about her. Also, I willfully reminded myself that's a big old, not yet. On the girlfriend, thing. You know, I kept meaning to ask her if we could be boyfriend and girlfriend. What my mom would have called going steady, even though I wasn't allowed to have a girlfriend until I was 16. Even then, father would have to approve. And that's why we were here, sitting together on either side of this dream catcher. It was an absolutely gorgeous summer day, warm enough that I was allowed to wear a t-shirt and shorts out of the house, and, at Melissa's behest, swimming trunks underneath,

I could see the strap of her suit under a lock of blonde hair draped over one bare shoulder of her baggy pink hello-kitty shirt. Behind her, we had the whole pond to ourselves. Back in the day, you know, when mom was still around, father sometimes brought me here to fish. It was on our property, though we couldn't see the house through the church. trees from here. I wasn't worried about father suddenly showing up. He hadn't taken me fishing since mom's death. I didn't worry about swimming with all those fish, and apparently Melissa wasn't fussed

over that either. But as for the object in question, to me, it looked like an abstract art project thrown together by a woodworker who had suddenly discovered twine. You hang it over your bed. It protects you from nightmares. Are the ones in my house don't work then? That caused her a smile to broaden further. God, I loved her face. That's only because you didn't understand its power. She gave my shoulder a playful shove.

Now that you do, it'll work. You're pretty sure of yourself. It's the power of suggestion. If you believe in it, you won't have nightmares. Yeah, I get the concept. I've never had a dream catcher before. I nodded to the one in her hand. Now you do.

Why wasn't I allowed to have a girlfriend? It wasn't fair. Lots of boys at school had girlfriends. One boy, I knew, even had a boyfriend, and everyone knew it. You better believe I never mentioned that at home. Thank you, Jimmy. Her voice was so sincere and so sweet that I could hardly stand it. Then, before I had any clue what was happening, she leaned forward and planted a kiss right on my lips.

I was so taken aback by this that for long seconds I could hardly do anything but sit there, wide-eyed, feeling of fresh blush, heat my cheeks. I'm afraid my lips must have felt like lifeless rubber to her. Had I but known she was going to come at me like that, I... Finally, I'm... I... You're welcome. Want to go steady? She gave a sly tilt of her head.

Had I told her that was my mother's phrase? I nodded, stupidly. I must have been grinning a mile wide. It's true that you're never really ready for when bad things happen in life, but the same is often true of good things. I never could have guessed the day was going to go like this. and as for father and his rules.

Well, I'd worry about that later. She reached over and took both of my hands in hers, making me feel as though a low voltage, none hurtful power switch, had been switched on in my palms. Excellent. She spoke as though she'd simply whittled down today's to-do list by one item. So, your dad keeps a box full of nothing.

other than extra dream catchers in your house? Yeah, in the attic. I flinched only a little, as I felt her pinky finger trace over the inside of my hand. Uh, but, but no, dad's got all kinds of junk in that big ass box. I haven't even been through most... Then she had me on my feet and still holding my right hand and without asking me first,

started walking directly towards my house. We need to investigate. Melissa, no, hold on. She kept leading me. Your dad's at work, right? Yes, that was true. He'd be gone all day, still. Yeah, but there's still my sister and the twins.

We're older, right? We'll sneak past him, tell him some bullshit. Send him outside to play hide and seek. Something. But you're not allowed in there, I wanted to say. Father likes to be ready for visitors, and he doesn't want me bringing home girls. Melissa knew of my siblings, but she hadn't met them yet.

Any of those plans might well have worked with Dewey and Andrew, who were only nine, but Linda was 12, and like me, had learned to be very cautious. She'd think on me, and later she would tell me it had been a matter of self-preservation. To be fair, she was the one who typically watched the twins, freeing me up, to spend whatever free time I had, much as I pleased. I'll give my little sis full credit there, but it's also how she wanted it. She'd always like being in charge, even more so since our, you know,

since we didn't have mom anymore. I didn't trust her. She didn't trust me either. But it's just, it's junk, Melissa, trust me. Too late, we have to see. Why? It's a secret attic box. I'm going to look in it.

It's a girl thing. We open forbidden boxes. You wouldn't understand. She was right. I didn't. She looked at me as though she expected me to laugh. And when I didn't, she continued leading us onward to the one place in the world that I escaped whenever possible. And because it was Melissa, because I was a fool, I let her.

Then it occurred to me. You know, the way that it sometimes does within dreams, that I wasn't really there. Not anymore, you know. Even as together we drew closer and closer to the house. Coming around the U-Bend of trees that enclosed the pond, we could see it. I sensed a rippling in my perception, an intuition that my hold on this moment was slipping. I thought I am not safe here. When my eyes next blinked out of reflex, I kept them shut.

No, Jimmy, we're not done yet. I could smell the musty attic all about me. I could feel the flakes of airborne dust drifting down, nesting in my hair like larvae seeking a place to hatch. This was my world and my reality, beckoning me back as though it was. Or a refuge. I knew better, but it still felt less perilous than the memory. I can't do this.

You have to. If I were to guess it was almost one in the morning, and my guess is, in matters of time, were rarely far off. There's a leak in the house. You know, I have to find it. I have to fix it. There is no leak in your house. There's a leak in your fucking head.

It was no good at trying to block her out. She wouldn't leave. And it's about time. I felt myself cracking. Why was she doing this? I thought you liked me. I did. It might have become love if we'd had a chance.

That was 25 years ago, Jimmy. I've waited a long time for this. Sit down. I sat feeling the familiar wood of the platform under me. Open your eyes. When I did, I found that I had returned to the attic of my house. Here I was on the center platform, criss-cross applesauce, surrounded by oak wood and insulation under a roof of cedar.

But there was no puddle. And the wood of the platform might have been freshly. cut, or at least cleaned. There were no floating dust moats, no cobwebs with trailing tendrils hanging in the corners. The insulation looked pinker. The air smelled cleaner.

And there, at the far end of the attic sat the strong box with the key jutting out from the lock. Above it, the window gleamed as though I had already attacked it with a gallon of windex. There stood Melissa, peering out over my front lawn.

The world looks different from up here. And as though I had never moved from where I remained seated on the middle platform, I was also by Melissa's side at the window. How strange it was, looking up at my younger self. I, who was the phantom here, I who was the intruder. I guess, the younger me, said. The current me watching it. In silence, couldn't help but wonder how Melissa saw the difference in this case, since she had

never stood in my front yard before. I wonder if the younger me was struggling with the same question. One thing's for sure, neither version of me would have asked that question aloud. Well, boyfriend, you're a buttload of conversation. She took my hand again. And there they go. I could only imagine she was referring to my sister. siblings, whether two or all three, I had no idea. Looks like we'd gone with the send them out to play

plan, which would work with Dewey and Andrew. As for Linda, maybe not so much. Come on. Melissa positioned us squarely in front of the strong box. You ready? I ought to have been. I'd gone through that box more than a few times, though never to the very bottom. There was a lot of junk in there. Just nervous, younger me, said, sounding rather feeble in the ears of older me. She turned the key. The lock was big enough you could hear the turning of the tumblers, but the lid of the box slid open in absolute silence.

Father would have been sure to have kept the hinges oiled, even if all he ever did was toss shit away in here. What? You got a body hidden in here or something? Something. Older me, thought. Something. Younger me, echoed. But then as though common sense would not be denied,

the younger me went on. You know, I'm more concerned about someone barging in on us. From where I said, I could not see into the box, only the two of us leaning over it under the clear light of the attic window. It's like you said. Your dad's working. You could come home early. It wasn't like.

and both older me and younger me knew it. Father was far more prone to come home late. There were times he didn't make it home until the next morning. Still, one had to concede that he could come home early, you know, anything is possible. Melissa pressed on, undaunted. Your two little brothers are off doing. What was it you sent them to do again?

Butterfly hunting. I looked kind of guilty about it. You know, father would not like two sons of his capering about catching butterflies. I could only imagine Linda's butterfly net had been on hand when younger me and Melissa had run into them. As a rule, Dewey and Andrew did anything that I, or especially Linda, told them to do. Lately, they did so without speaking. Cute as buttons, those two. She silenced me with a quick peck on the cheek.

Unsurprising since you're their older brother. Why don't they ever smile? I had no idea how to respond to that. Maybe a thanks for the compliment would have been the way to go. Not my area of expertise. And your grumpy kid sister is totally M-I-A. Melissa shrugged. It's too bad.

Probably needs an older sister figure. I can fix her. She is a sneak. What she needs is to keep her nose in her own business. That's me corrected. Melissa dove into the box with both hands, drawing five dream catchers forth from inside, and brandishing them like playing cards.

You worry way too much, Jimmy. You're the older brother. We're not doing anything wrong. Wrong to the world, and wrong, In this house are two very different things, older me thought. Also, we were so quiet getting that ladder down. I think I heard a fly fart. She set the dream catchers aside on the floor,

not before fanning her face with them, though, and dove in again. Much your old man got all those dream catchers hanging up all over the joint for anyway. What's he afraid of? Nothing. He likes them, that's all? If you say so. Then her hands emerged from the box again.

This time they came back with an empty glass Coca-Cola bottle. What's your dad got this for? Younger me shrugged. Older me imagined father telling me that the Coke bottle was the first thing he bought with the first money he earned as a kid, that, you know, had gotten it out of a stand-up vending machine with a built-in bottle opener. It might have been a real memory.

Or my brain might have created it, thinking it was the kind of thing father would say No clue. Melissa set it down with the dream catchers. Come on, lazy bones. I'm not doing this by myself. Younger me pitched in, and before long we'd drawn forth some old toy cars that looked like they came from gangster movies. A half-finished quilt that, I think, went into the box after my grandma died. A bunch of ancient baseball cards tucked into a notebook of plastic sheet protectors. God, Jimmy, your dad should sell this.

You got Reggie Jackson here. Tom Severs, Ron Guidry, Pete Rose. Holy Hall of Fame, Batman. This is Mickey Freaking Mantle. Younger me, he shrugged again. I guess he'd rather keep him. And never even look at them? Jimmy, you gotta be loaded to even think like that.

I thought your dad was only a doctor. A surgeon. Dude, this house, everything? That's, like, beyond surgeon money, I think. I'm sure it was. The family's always had money, though, and always been frugal with it. I knew that as a 14-year-old kid,

but did not say so. We should probably go. Get Walda Gittin's good, huh? Not until we've hit bottom. Melissa leaned in so far, only half her face was visible. This? What's this? She drew back, holding three medium-sized rectangular picture frames.

These are nice? Maybe they were. I haven't a clue what makes a good or bad picture frame. Ours were mostly polished steel, some with gold lining and quite heavy, so I'm sure they were expensive. She set them down, then went back in and drew out four or five smaller ones. Jeez, Jimmy, your dad sure has a lot of frames. Where are the pictures? We should go. If memory served, though in my case, memory is a very treacherous thing.

There were still a fair number of pictures hung up all throughout the house. But there weren't as many as there were when I was, oh, say, 11 years old or so. Hatert. She pushed objects around the... inside the box. Suddenly she froze in place. Jimmy, is this your mother? I never had a chance to answer. At that moment, a tremendous metallic clang shook the whole house. The clamor, though it only struck once was so great that I could feel its vibration where my ass met the wood of the platform. But neither Melissa nor my younger self seemed to notice. And indeed, my younger self,

Self had much bigger problems than random noises to deal with. You see, a head appeared at the trap door of the attic poking up through the floor and looking round with wide gray eyes, as though it were supported by nothing more than a loose spring. Lanky fair hair drooped over the shoulders of a pale blue nightgown. A smattering of cream-covered acne speckled her pale cheeks. Her eyes settled on Melissa. Oh, hey. Melissa stood, one hand still clutching a fistful of photographs.

You must be Linda. But the smile spreading across her face darkened as soon as my sister spoke. Her voice, scratchy as though from disuse, her tone accusatory she pointed. You're an intruder. Then she looked directly at me. And you? You are going to be in so... much trouble.

But the clang, painfully real and still bouncing off the walls, and inside the head of older me, was from the real world, from present day. Downstairs, grandfather had struck two in the morning. Accompanying him, the smaller clocks were all but drowned out, a faint tinkling or a mere afterthought under his dominion. In front of me, the puddle of wall. Water was again visible. But this time, as though it had only remembered to obey the laws of physics, at this exact instant, it was running, dripping off the edges of the platform.

I saw dust moats in the air cobwebs in the corner. The quality of light, too, suddenly changed, down to the fact that the window needed a very serious cleaning. Melissa and Linda flickered in place, and then... disappeared. Two-O-one. Ten minutes. I'm going to get you this time. The evidence, dripping off either side of the platform, was incontrovertible.

It was right in front of me, visible to the naked eye. I tried to pinpoint what must have been the puddles center, though that job became more difficult to more the water dispersed across the floorboards. Nevertheless, I made my mind. my best guess, and again turned my eyes up to the rafters to wait out the remaining time. No, don't do this. You're not this dumb. Whatever magic made the drip up here, it's gone. The drip will come from somewhere else this time.

This house is alive, and it's fucking with you. If I ever had any doubt of that assertion, that trip down the attic's memory well had cured it, This house has been in my family for generations. Such a long residency. They cannot be indefinitely maintained without consequence. People leave an imprint. They are the lifeblood of this old domicile of mine. The house reflects their moods and attitudes with perfect honesty.

It has become spiteful over time. I waited. If it didn't happen here, where it had obviously happened before, then there was no way to deduce where else I was supposed to be until I was told. So I counted the seconds. My eyes locked on beams of cedar wood that still ought to be dripping, and I felt the time bleed away. But still, my brain stubbornly insisted,

You can't really be sure of that. Maybe it isn't fucking with you. Maybe it's trying to help. Downstairs again. Son of a bitch! Leave me the hell alone already! He'll be home soon. You need to be ready.

It'll be you this time. That was Linda again. And whatever she was, she wasn't a real voice. Unlike father, unlike Melissa, Linda only came to me as thought. Even when both she and Melissa had been present in my memory, I could hear Melissa in my eardrums, not Linda. But why? No, father never hit.

He only cracked the belt. He never hit with it. And she didn't stop. Linda was as stubborn as little sisters came. You know how sorry I am, Jimmy. It was either you or it would have. have been someone else. Someone's always got to get it when daddy comes home. You understand. It could have been me. It could have been Dewey or Andrew. It didn't have to be anybody. You didn't have to tell.

There it is. That's a confession. No big deal if he didn't hit anybody, right? You didn't have to do it. I wouldn't have done that to you. It did have to be somebody. You don't Remember Daddy's rules. It was always somebody. I'd never have done that to you. Oh, but you did, Jimmy. More than once. Don't you remember?

No. No, I wouldn't have. I needed to be on my feet. I needed to... Clean the fucking window. Father called out from somewhere in the general direction of the strong box. It was like he...

was unaware of Linda's presence, though she and he both had invaded my mind together. It was like he thought we were the only ones here. Don't listen to him, Cheney. He can't hurt us anymore. But my eyes turned half against my own will to where I thought the real sounding voice of my father had come from. I found it less than three feet away in the insolation. that separated the second platform from the third. A careful person really could walk around here with no problem. A reckless person might... Son, you need to do as you're told.

That window is dirtier than a $5 whore, isn't it? Isn't it? The shape began to emerge from the insulation like a body made of cotton candy, only visible from the waist up. It was all cocooned in the stuff with a head at the top, gradually taking form. That head rocked right and left. It swiveled as though seeking me out, but it was blind.

What it would look like if that head wrought of attic insulation tried to open its eyes, well, I never learned. Chili! Linda shrieked in my brain, her raspy voice like stone being stuble. scraped on stone. Kill it, Jimmy. Chair that fucker apart. I scuttled forward on my knees.

I had no reason whatsoever to trust, Linda. It had never exactly had each other's backs before. However, it's also noteworthy that I'd never been threatened by my attic insulation before, and so it seemed like reasonable advice at the time. As soon as I was in range, I reached out with my open. right hand and took it full in its half-formed face and squeezed. Father's cotton-candy mouth opened wide, swallowing my fist whole. For seconds, I could feel the insides of his cotton-candy cheek against the back of my hand,

felt his cotton-candy tongue abrad against my wrist, and his cotton-candy teeth nibble my fingers. I grabbed him by the ear with my free hand and pulled, stretching his ear out from his head by six inches or more. Father's mouth disappeared from around my right hand, leaving it trapped in place, and it reopened in the middle of his half-formed forehead. You bastard, you're no son of mine. Did you know that? Did I ever tell you? I could tell from the start, bastard. To it, Chimmy!

Exercise is unholy ass. Free us once and for all. I drew in breath. Fuck! You! I pulled my right hand free, drawing a fistful of insulation with it, and unleashing a torrent of spiders and flies.

There must have been ensconced in the insulation for God only knew how long. They hit me in a blinding wave. My hands flailed out. and panic. When I made it to one knee, the floor gave beneath me way faster than it should have. It shouldn't have given at all. I'd made a misstep, and with a sickening crunch, I tumbled straight through the attic floor. The crunch, thankfully, was all drywall and not bone. For a time, I held on to one of the oaken beams that framed the attic insulation, feeling my feet dangling below me, kicking in empty space.

In that time, I could still make out the whole attic, but from this angle, you know, high level with the floor, it felt a lot like I was being swallowed whole by pink, fluffy quicksand. It got worse. The insulation all about me drew in and then pulled back out, a monster trying to breathe, only I was caught in its throat. The visage of my father in that insulation never fully integrated, but the stuff remained. tangibly, undeniably alive on every side of me. I had the unsettling sensation that it supported me.

I couldn't imagine why. Let me go. Then, gathering myself, summoning calm, trying for reason, I started again. I'll clean the window. Just let me go. Father, please. I can't do anything like this. A tendril of insulation encircled first one wrist and then the other.

Right in front of me it again gathered form and sat up. But this time it wasn't father. It was Melissa. Or so I judged by her size, by the near perfect replication of her straight shoulder-length hair, her almond-shaped eyes. The tendrils were her hands, holding me up, keeping me from falling. But her eyes never opened.

She was here, and like father she could not see. My hands clasped hers. Can you feel me, Jimmy? Yes, it was her. It was my Melissa. She sounded almost hopeful, but there were tears in her voice, too, though I could not see them. Yes, I lied.

What I could feel was the insulation, but it seemed like the right answer anyway. Can you see me? Yes. Also, debatable, but I assumed it was the desired response. But Melissa, why? Why are you here? The insulation tightened, cutting off my circulation. Why do you think, Jimmy?

Huh? I don't know. I answered with simple truth And also rising panic To see me Melissa Hey stop hey That hurts

I It's because I never left Jimmy I've been here the whole time Then she let my hands go I hardly got in a worthy scrabble Against the oaken beam I'd been holding fast Less than a minute ago

And this time I crashed straight through to the bedroom hall below, landing hard on my side, where ceiling debris and wisps of insulation rained down after me. That drop, at a glance, was maybe 12 feet, and I hadn't landed well. It would have been a lot worse if I hadn't been stopped partway down by the apparition of my first and only girlfriend. Yeah, I should probably count myself right. fortunate not to have cracked my head on one of the beams.

Still, at 39, landing on one's hip after a fall of 12 feet wouldn't have been much fun under the best of circumstances, and I was still nursing the foot injury from my self-discipline earlier. Thankfully, no one bothered me in the first moments after the fall. I guess it was a solid ten minutes before I trusted myself enough to attempt standing again. which I'm happy to say I could still manage. Ow! I could even walk, more or less.

But there is no doubt my right hip as well as the split on the underside of my right foot slowed me down in a big way. I looked up. The hole leading up to the attic was still bleeding, dust, insulation, and loose chips of drywall. It's a bigger job than the window, I thought. Gonna be expensive, too, unless I can fix it myself. In my current state, I didn't even trust myself to re-ascend a ladder, so instead I brushed myself off and checked the time.

2.50 a.m. Then, having no idea where the drip would come next, I limped back downstairs to the entry level of the house. And hey, we're almost back to the present, huh? We're getting there. A 308 in the morning. I have only to wait for it, and then follow it wherever it takes me. Father and Melissa are quiet.

Linda is quiet. I've never heard from my mother, and I rarely hear from the twins. In my mind, having seen the minute hand turn over to the eight, I start counting seconds. When I get to 180, it'll be time. To me, counting is an associative activity, not cognitive. I can focus on other things while I do it. There just isn't enough time for me to be properly positioned at the next potential source of the leak,

given that I don't know where that will be. Still, for shits and giggles, I make a guess at the big-ass laundry tub in the basement, since I haven't visited that part of the house yet today. That isn't a laundry tub, Jimmy. Linda? I wait. It sure sounded like her. It could have been my own overstrained imagination, though.

I can't imagine her being content with saying only one thing, regardless of how cryptic it is. But there's nothing more. I shake my head in an effort to clear it. Anyway, this is what the house wants. You see, to make me run, pell-mell all over the place, bad foot, be damned, and then show me I'm wrong. It's got a bad attitude, this house of mine family trait. It's 309.

Where was I? Ah, yes, family, uh, the twins. I try to envision them. In my mind's eye, I still see them at age nine or ten. They were identical. Well, with matching gray eyes, twin bowl cuts provided by father, you know, once mom was gone, and a shared pool of clothes. It was difficult to ascertain with any certainty which one you were talking to half the time. Andrew had a chipped tooth, which was helpful when he spoke.

The only problem was neither of them were very talkative. Ah, but here, this picture frame over the love seed, it used to be them. I think. I'm almost sure of it, in fact. It would have been a wide shot. Mom had a special camera for those. The picture that used to be here showed them on the carousel at the town fair. Unlike the other kids, they had ignored the faux reins.

Instead, they held on to the steel poles that impaled the horses and made them go up and down. 310. They weren't smiling in that picture. I remember it perfectly. because all the other kids in the background of the photograph they were having the time of their lives. But that's all, I remember. I have no context, nor have I the faintest recollection of what else may have transpired that day.

And now, unbidden, I recall that the last time I had seen the twins' smile was with that stupid white dog they loved so much. It wasn't our family dog. It had it simply turned up one day. It's a Samoyat. Andrew had said, the chip in his tooth contributing to an already pronounced lisp. How proud they had both been to learn the dog's breed. How that stupid Samoyat dog had made them smile.

But that was long before the carousel pick. In it, they had the same identical expression they almost always had. Like whatever it was they were doing, including having their picture taken on a carousel, all they wanted was for it to end. Father never used that camera, not even after Mother had gone, but Linda sometimes did. Linda had never been one to elicit smiles, but she did love that camera. After the picture had come down, Father had put a dream catcher up in its place. He'd done the same to Mother's former picture spaces.

It didn't matter who else was in any of those pictures, whether it was me or Linda or Father himself. When it was time to have a person's pictures taken down, the pictures disappeared, and dream catchers were hung over the empty frames. What's your old man afraid of? It's only a memory. It's not her voice. Good. I'd be happy for a break from those voices.

Soon I might even be tired. Maybe I can get some sleep for once. Eyes closed. I count down the final. seconds. I hold up my hand and lift a finger. And here we are. Back in the present at last, welcome. This time, the drip comes from farther down, probably from all the way down in the cellar. I sigh, muttering another curse to no one at all. Fuck! Or so it may seem, if any are watching, but I know better. The house itself is watching. It sees every. It sees

It has many eyes at its disposal, and unlike me, it never forgets. I could get there using the stairs down from the kitchen, but those are too narrow and too steep for my full confidence. If the wrong mood unexpectedly hit me with enough force, you know, I might throw myself down those stairs before I thought the decision through. It's best not to provide myself with that option, huh? So I make my way to the living room. There's a sliding glass door leading out onto the deck.

I'll take the stairs down from that, and around the side of the house is the cellar door, which used to be closed with a padlock, just like the one on the strong box. But I haven't kept that door padlocked in years. Where are you going? You have a window to clean. He hobble over to the foyer closet for a jacket.

Yes. Father, I got distracted when you attacked me. Attacked you? That's rich, you ungrateful little shit. Father, I don't understand. No, and you never did. You're that fucking slow. You confuse correction with violence.

You said I was no son of yours. You don't act like any son of mine, that's for sure. You need to fly right and see to your responsibilities if you're a true son of mine. I'm sorry, Father, I am still trying to pin down that leak. There was also an accident with the attic floor. A pause. Then his voice thick with slow, bubbling menace. What did you?

do to my house? It's more what your house is doing to me, I think, in my turn, which is as good as talking. When father's asking the questions, I'll fix it. Father, give me a chance to fix it. Is that an attitude I detect in your tone, boy? But that's the problem with thought, isn't it? By the time you tell yourself not to think it, you've already thought it. There must have been a time I was better at it.

Linda certainly was. But I cut off that, unhelpful train of thought as soon as it occurs to me. If I'm not careful, I'll summon her back into my head, too. Zipping up my jacket, I again answer loud as grandfather strikes the quarter hour, rattling the picture frames. No, sir, I mean I didn't mean to. I can't help it. You disciplined yourself earlier? Yes, father, I told you I did.

Did you clean up after? Yes, father. I am squeaky clean. Did you disinfect, or were you a complete fucking idiot? That's the worst part, disinfecting. The antibacterial soap isn't so bad nor the bandaging, but alcohol comes first. and stitching after that. Getting stitches is no big deal in the scheme of things,

but I am here to tell you, putting the stitches in yourself is no picnic. Yes, Father. Come where I can see you. The only place that works for that is right here in the entryway. The mirror hangs on a blank space of wall just inside the double front door, opposite the coat closet.

Oblong, four and a half feet long, bound in an elaborately wrought wooden frame that seems to have the unique superpower of repelling dust. This mirror is one of several objects in the house that I assiduously avoid whenever possible. This family artifact, like the grandfather clock farther in, is as old as the house itself, yet it's always looked brand new.

There is no member of the family, nor if you went back far enough, any visitor whose reflection has not been cast back by that mirror. It's the only place where I can still see Father as I remember him when he was alive. It's the only place where Father can see anything, and he needs someone to be standing in front of the mirror for the trick to work.

Father, please, there isn't enough time. There's plenty of time. I check my watch. He's actually right. It's still only 322. Let me see the man you've grown into. We'd gone through this drill pretty recently. Father, too, has a selective memory.

Nevertheless, they dutifully turn to the mirror and stand before it. At first, I see only myself. A tall, pale man at the end of his 30s. Sunken eyes and sunken cheeks. More than a little malnourished. Food no longer has much appeal to me. Eating is a job to perform on a schedule. Like everything, really.

When Father appears, it's only his face, and I wear it superimposed over mine. My hair, what I retain of it, changes over from unkempt, wispy, blonde tendrils, to a close-cropped, neatly trimmed black business cut. My eyes roll back from blue and roll forward again as a smoldering shade of umber. Father's face is full, ruddy, clean-shaven, and alight with malice. I want to see your foot. Let me see your self-discipline and how you treated it after.

I want to see for myself if my son has grown into a man who listens. I always listen to you, father. I kick off both shoes and peel off both socks. I'm a big believer in symmetry. I turn away from the mirror and unwrap the dressing around my right foot. I then lift it so he could examine its underside. You overstitched it. You put 12 in there.

I see no need for more than eight, which also means you under-disciplined yourself. When you do a self-discipline exercise, it needs to be a real 12-stitch incision. Even facing away from him, I feel the flush rise to my cheeks. It's like I'm no more than a pre-adolescent punk getting put straight by his old man. I mean, for crying out loud, I did my best. Shit wasn't easy. Mind the thought-swearing, son. Oddly, his voice is softened somewhat.

I see you're not entirely useless with disinfectant. The wound looks clean. I assume you used isopropyl since you're stupid. I don't even own isopropyl. No, father, greater risk of toxic shock. I used ethyl alcohol, which is also the only disinforful. The disinfectant father had ever kept in the house after Mercuracrome got banned. Whether or not the ethyl alcohol is still good, as a disinfectant agent after these many years, I've never learned.

Nor do I especially care. But it's almost gone, and I'll need to resupply. I don't even know if the stuff is legal over the counter. Face me. Stand on the bandage instead of the floor. This floor needs a cleaning, son. Fuck or duck, but you are one lazy little bastard. I stand with my right foot on the bandage. Take your clothes off.

I hesitate, feeling my cheeks burn hotter still. I need to check the state of the rest of you. Strip. No, father. I wonder to hear the defiance escaping my lips. I am almost 40 years old, not some dumb kid. We don't need to do this anymore. What the fuck's the matter with you?

I'm your father, and I'm a goddamn doctor besides. You can't hurt me anymore, Father. That silences him, but only for a matter of seconds. You want to bet on that? I know what the house is trying to tell me, Father, what it wants me to remember. Oh, but this should be rich. Tell me, you misbegotten, panty-sniffing cock-knocker, what this week's hallucination du jour is. What's your broken brain whispering in your ear today?

You killed them, father. He cracks a half-smile, along with one thin eyebrow. I see you're having a new nightmare tonight instead of recycling the old ones. Hard to say whether that means you're getting better or worse. Bad enough, I only have you to try to maintain this place. You killed Mother first. I summon every fiber, every flake of willpower I possess to remain outwardly calm since he can see me. Then you killed Dewey and Andrew.

But I bet you killed that stray dog first. That dog made you mad. made you mad. Then, then you killed Linda, too. I cannot stem the tears. They fairly erupt out of me as I at last confront my father

with what I sincerely believe is the truth. You killed them all, Father. Why? Father's laughter is no surprise. I'd heard it often enough before and always at someone's expense. Oh, I beat the fuck out of you.

You insignificant, remedial, want to be rebel without a brain. You do remember the rules, don't you, son? But no, never mind that. You're wrong, Jimmy. Let's cut to the chase, shall we? I didn't kill anyone. Have you got that? Is it sinking in?

I shake my head. Father will not deny me this. It is the truth. And I deserve the truth after all this time. Believe me, I'd tell you if I did it. What have I got to be afraid of? Honestly, I wish I had. But I didn't.

Never be the one to take out your own family members. That's my motto. And do you know why you can believe me with 100% confidence, dear son of mine? Again, I shake my head, but I cannot speak. Because, Jimmy, if I had wanted to kill anyone in my family, I would have killed you first. I gather my breath, and I somehow manage to compose myself. I remember more than you think. The first rule is someone always gets it.

When you get home from work, no matter what. The only question is, who deserves it the most, huh? Every night when you came home, if you came home, we all got to make our case why it should be someone else. Hmm, not bad. That's one. Have you got another? I've got all.

The second rule is always take your medication. I never understood that one because we were hardly ever sick, but we took it anyway right before our school, and then again, at night before bed, you made us open our mouths and stick out our tongues, and then you checked inside with your finger. Can't be too careful. We couldn't think straight half the time.

People called us weird. We didn't have friends. Well, son, medication is a tricky thing. Sometimes one only finds the ideal dose by trial and error. And the third rule is, the beating doesn't end until you draw blood. I let the comment hang, and I glare at him. And he glares right back at me. I'm impressed.

And I never want to hear you use. Bad memory as an excuse to get out of work or discipline again. Am I understood? Yes, father. I understand. Go find this leak of yours. Don't take too long. Come back to me when you're ready to clean up properly and get back to work.

I am going to. I wonder if I can find the courage in me to do what I finally realize for the first time I can. I can do. Thankfully, I do find it. In fact, having made the decision, it's not difficult to find at all. There's one thing I need to do first, Father. Oh, is there? Well, I wait with bated breath.

I'll be right back. I return to the kitchen, and I snatch up the first large dishcloth I can find. I run water over it to make it nice and heavy before wrapping it about my right hand and wrist. When I return to father, he starts up again right away. Lord, on a board! If this is how you go about cleaning these days, boy, I may have to start over with you. Look at the water you're trailing behind you.

It's like you pissed yourself. Without the mirror, a father would never see anything again. I could have grabbed anything to do the job. job, I could break the mirror from a distance, but this is a cleaning that I want to do by hand. I reel back. Oh, no, you don't. You wouldn't dare. You worthless sack!

But I do dare. Something must have changed in me. I must be having one of those moment of clarity things. An epiphany, that's the word. I punched that mirror. With everything I have in me, glass shatters making an odd, crunchy noise against the back of the mirror, before dropping long wedges and slivers at my feet. If I expect there to be some massive catastrophic consequence from this,

some baleful final scream from my father, or an attack by every spirit who occupies this house, well, it doesn't happen. Instead, I'm rewarded with silence, broken only by the glass, still tinkling out of the frame onto the floor. And that silence is all the vindication I need. For minutes, I soak it in. My eyes closed. Until grandfather clangs out the fourth hour, one clamorous peal at a time,

The noise is either louder this time or my imagination amplifies it. There is an accusatory tone to the peels to a distinct note of unforgivable sin. I'd broken the mirror, and the mirror was bound to the house, just as grandfather was. I stagger over to the wretched old monolith, tracking a footprint of blood with every step. I seize it, hands clutching either side of the clock's face. With a long, sustained, groaning wrench, I pull it free of its moorings. It falls forward with a scream of dislodged black iron nails and smashes to the floor with an almighty splintering of fractured wood and shattering glass,

dying at my feet after the third strike of its mass. massive steel pendulum, there is no fourth strike. Right, downstairs. That there isn't a more direct path to the cellar, minus the kitchen stairs, which would be treacherous even to the hail and healthy. But that is the way the house was built. No one among its long history of owners and caretakers ever changed it.

Add that to the to-do list, I think, pulling the cellar door back and peering down the concrete steps into the musty gloom. I could make this into a house worth living in. If everyone would shut up and let me, it's not like I'm hurting for money. What I apparently do lack, however, is a brain as I'd come all the way out here without a flashlight. The moon is waxing bright in the early morning, but that won't do me much good after I'm four or five steps. steps down. Then I remember the phone I always keep in my pocket but hardly ever use. It takes me some time to remember how to activate the flashlight function, but I figure it out in the end and allow myself a half smile of pride. Uh, 407. Down I venture by the glow of my cell phone watching every step.

I'm proud of you, Jimmy. Linda, for sure this time. Well, fuck a duck. It isn't that I'm surprised. As such, this is just a distraction that I do not need. Uh, leave me alone. Wow. All I did was say something nice to you.

You don't have to be a dick about it. I'm your older brother. I remind her, fully aware of the futility in doing so. Societal conventions never meant much in my family. Nevertheless, I continue. It should be me saying things like that to you, not the other way around. I'm at floor level. I pan the phone in front of me, finding most everything as I expect to find it.

The interior of the cellar is the length and width of the entire house, extending well beyond the reach of my little light. Three rows of four concrete pillars distributed equidistently throughout, stabilize its vast ceiling and the floor of the main level above. I can only make out two of those pillars, clearly, plus the shadowy outline of two more farther in. You're right, Chimmy. You definitely should be.

I'm surprised. I'd expected her to forge on with her own agenda not to agree with mine, but her tone is acidic, like thoroughly nasty. Come to think of it. Why didn't you ever say nice things like that to me? All right, as long as she's going to be like that. Well, there must be because I was never proud of you. You know, except that one time you won the spelling bee in second grade.

That was pretty cool. I should have said something then. Fortunately, I've been in this cellar enough times I could sketch it from memory if I had to. The current quest item, the big-ass cellar tub you could drown a baby elephant in, And just what the hell did the family ever use that thing for? Back in the day, it's over by a concrete staircase that leads upward to nothing but ceiling. There may once have been a portal there, you know, right up into the utility room. Someone would have had to have lain floor over that portal at some point.

I have no doubt it used to be there. Yeah, but no one ever did, Jimmy. Hardly anyone ever spoke to me. Maybe that's why I gave up on shit like that, Jimmy. Ever think of that? Oh, boo-hoo, little sis. Do me a favor and fuck off, all right? Stop haunting me.

I'm sorry, Jimmy. What? But her tone remains unchanged, totally unapologetic. I may need you to repeat that. You want me to stop doing what to you. You heard me. You think I'm haunting you, big bro? Oh, but now she's amused.

It's 4.10. I am relying entirely on my inner clock at this point. There's no need for me to arrive early. I am ready for the drip to come from back upstairs, you know, from outside the house, even from anywhere far from where I currently was. I am the rabbit and the house wants me to run, rabbit run until I drop dead or succumb to madness. If it does, I say, Resolute, inadvertently creating a complete non-sequitur for the ghost of my sister.

I'm going to burn this hellhouse to cinders. The tub of the sink is before me. The long, rusty metal faucet hanging over it like the hand of destiny. I lean over it, too, and wait. It won't be long. I'm not a ghost, Jimmy. I'm not dead. The water swells under the faucet head.

I can see my reflection in the pregnant drop of water by the light of my phone. For better or worse, I'm right on time. I'm in the right place. And for an infinitely precious second or two, I am overwhelmed by a combined rush of relief and triumph, so much so that what Lindy's, said does not immediately register. But again, time and place seem to dissolve all around me. I'm no longer leaning over the sink. I am being drawn into its well to the filtration system

ringed with a funnel of spiraling steel razor wire that it has instead of a train. It is, in effect, an industrial-sized garbage disposal. It was a thing father had made himself and all from mail-order parts. I picture myself being drawn through that terrible barrier. I'm being strained, you know, like a hanging bag of curd, on its way to becoming ricotta cheese, my blood pouring out ahead of me into the pipe gutter that runs along the wall. You know, the underground before I know it,

a river of blood and shredded flesh pushed slowly forward over time by water, just dripping from the faucet. I will eventually be absorbed into the town's sewer network. All of this in a fleeting moment I see with absolute clarity until my eyes close of their own accord and open somewhere else. I'm still here in the cellar, but I'm not leaning over the sink anymore.

I'm coming down the stairs again. The stairs are illuminated, though not particularly well. Before I reach the bottom step, I'll see the source of the light. There are several light fixtures in the ceiling, all of them for crappy, low-wattage twist-in bulbs that glow with the dull yellow of dehydrated piss. But that isn't all I see. I also see the place where I just was, and... And...

but I'm still there, too. The younger Jimmy stands halfway between present-day me and the disposal system. His back is to me, not that it would matter, I realize at once that I am again being made to relive another memory, one that I had, perhaps, deliberately blacked out by force of will. We're not alone, distantly far away in the recesses of the cellar, a thin, shrill voice calls out, and I recognize one of the twins. Ready or not, here I come.

There's no lisp, so it's probably Dewey. His voice echoes and fades. I don't see him yet. Younger Me puts his hands over his ears. The lights go out. That would be from the cellar circuit breaker, all the way over on the other side. We all knew where it was, even Dewey and Andrew. Making use of the circuit breaker, beat the hell out of going bulb to bulb, and reaching up for the strings one at a time.

The dark is absolute, but in the recreated memory I see myself as an animated silver sketch. I catch glimpses of either Dewey or Andrew to also silver outlines in the dark, but never both. One or the other darts from one pillar to the other, cackling and echoing laughter. that quickly fills the cavernous room before tapering off again. But the twins didn't cackle. These days, meaning the days of this memory, they hardly do anything.

What an idiot you were. Linda again. And are. Oh, hey, make sense? Or go the hell away? Look at yourself. I do. And there I am.

am standing stock still hands over my ears tell me jimmy what is the past you doing right now he's holding his hands over his ears yes jimmy why is that come on you're missing the point what were you really doing putting your hands over your ears from the deep cellar dark brief glimpses of a small shadow the beam of a flashlight scattering over the pillars, the walls, and the floor. Dewey's voice, it's definitely him again. Come out, come out, we're... Dewey was being annoying. I tell my sister, let it go, I think. Feeling panic, inexplicably rise in my chest.

Don't push this, sis. Please don't push this. You could have stopped him with a word. You weren't blocking out, Dewey. You were blocking out me. You were trying to block yourself from doing what you taught me how to do. I closed my eyes, let out of breath. I'm tempted to put my hands over my ears, just as my younger self is doing.

Though I know from experience, it won't work. It never worked. I didn't hear my sister in my eardrums. The panic has become like a cold wind. in my blood. And instead of covering my ears, I wrap my arms about myself and I rock in place. Why are you doing this? We're telepaths, Jimmy. We did this all the time more than talking. They both knew. Mommy was so proud. I nodded. Why must I remember this? Daddy. Father hated it. At first he didn't believe. He didn't believe.

believe it, but when he did, he hated it. Yeah, it was a jealous old bastard. I hated it, too. Not always, Jimmy. You didn't hate it until you met her. Oh, you never wanted little old me in your head when you were talking to her. I mean, family be damned at that point, right? No, that's not what this is.

This isn't about, Melissa. I was trying to block you out. because of something else. Uh-huh. That's true. Doesn't make me wrong, though. A silver, scurrying form darts between two pillars, briefly disappears, then re-emerges, and halts.

One, two, I see Jimmy! Dewey shines the flashlight right on my younger self, and for an instant I see myself in full color again, holding my ears, squinting against the light. Go on, Chimmy. Go see where Andrew's hiding. She's telling me now, and I can tell by observing myself in my memory

that she was telling me the same thing back then, too. I do not want to do, as she tells me. Neither one of me does. Where are you, Linda? She doesn't answer that. You came down here for her, reason. Look. If you're alive, you must be somewhere.

Look. But I, I don't. Neither in the present nor in the past. It wasn't that I didn't want to know. It's more that somehow I already knew. Dewey's shown his flashlight on it. If father had been able to see this, he'd have had no cause to complain. The gigantic tub was spotless. with neither a flake of rust nor the faintest smear of grime

to be detected anywhere on its exterior. The floor underneath was, oh, permanently and irrevocably stained from hard usage of the pipes underneath, but the steel itself shimmered as though freshly polished. From the well of that sink, I heard something shift. I saw the tub wobble just the slightest bit. Younger me takes his hands away from his ears and regards, Dewey. But I'm not playing, little bro.

I say to him with a manufactured half-smile. I just got here. I had no idea you and Andrew were playing. Dewey nods, beaming. Linda gave us permission. Said we could stay down here all day. The cellar was naturally off-limits to the twins. Unless escorted by either Linda or myself and forbidden to us all on weekends,

Father often did, um, work down here. We never learned what that work was all about, nor did there seem to be any place to do work come to that. The eyes of younger me blink in inadvertent wince, and I understand that version of myself is still battling down the telepathic projections of my little sister. The present day, Linda, has relented for now. I haven't seen you this happy in a long time.

I say to Dewey. Dewey holds a finger over his lips. He stands on tippy toes. I lean down a bit to lend him my ear. I know where Andrew is. He nods over to the tub. Old time! I'm going to be.

going to scare him what he doesn't expect it. Something is wrong here, very wrong. I can't put my finger on it. In fact, I can't touch anything. I am no longer there. I've become my younger self. But that version of me is 16 years old, not 14. Linda is the one who was 14 at that time,

and I hadn't seen Melissa in ages. That would make the twins 11, which was a bit old to be playing hide-and-seek in their own basement, but then, as I have said, societal conventions don't mean much in my family. A metallic scream of hinges, the tinny slap of aluminum doors being thrown to either side from above, and a broadening beam of light from outside, all Harold Linda's coming. As for Dewey's plan, well, it doesn't look to be coming true, because the noise has also summoned Andrew to his feet. He stands, just as do he anticipated right up from the well of the tub.

Even so, that thing is so deep that only Andrew's head and neck are visible. Ranger, step! Yeah, the twins were 11 when I found out everything. Ranger was the stupid name they had given to the stupid, hyper-energetic alabaster furred, flop-eared, canine friend. they'd made four years ago. It was a Samoyad. No one had seen that dog in some time. Be quiet. Listen.

The tub, as father had told us, is where he disposes of medical waste. At 16, I'm old enough to doubt this, to recognize the lie, in fact. Why would that thing be in a person's house? Only, strictly speaking, I mean, to be fair, father had never said the medical waste was work-related. Linda stands by my side as Dewey joins Andrew at the lip of the sink.

She shares a meaningful look with me, and I surrender. I allow her into my head. I caught them sneaking into the attic, like you did with what's her face? Her name was Melissa, I answer her. I wonder if I stood in that sink, that grinder. Would I be able to hear Melissa call up from beyond the sharpened steel coils? Two years had passed. To the world she's missing, no one knows about her association with me.

And though I don't intend that lost thought to make it into Linda's circuit, she evidently picks up on it just fine. I saved your life the only way I could. Taddy was going to take a lot more than a finger from you. You know, I don't look at my hands very often. I don't look at them while washing. I avoid looking at them best I can, even on the rare occasions I check my watch.

I guess I don't want to confront that truth. That time my father held me down in the tub and you forced a cloth, damn. with drugs over my nose and mouth. It wasn't a finger. The voice again speaks up from inside of me. But this time I think it's only myself. It wasn't a finger.

Of course it was a finger. You had an extra one anyway. Come on, Jimmy. You know what he did. I check. It's not true. I have ten fingers, and there is no stopping.

Stomp suggesting there had ever been an 11th freak finger poking out from anywhere. The twins are eye to eye, Dewey outside the tub Andrew standing inside of it. Can you hear her? It's just like Linda Fed. Dewey shakes his head. I can't hear the dog either come to that. Going back to when Mother went away, I've developed this trick I like to play on myself. One that gets easier the more I do it. See, whenever I get close to anyone who later disappears, I just pretend they were never real.

You know, upstairs, along the walls, there are empty picture frames and dream catchers where images of mother used to be. And therefore, she never really existed. She can be safely forgotten. At 16, I'm not quite there yet with Melissa, but I'm working on it. He told me what to do, every bit of it, step by step, and you've been a part of it every step of the way. Dewey, as naive and as behind his peers, as is his twin, and as permanently damaged from over-medication as Linda and I, no doubt are, hauls himself up the side of the grinder until Andrew can help him get right in it with him. And there they are, going to their knees like two sacrificial lambs,

listening for the bark of their long-sense murdered dog friend named Ranger. Linda has promised them she's found their dog and can prove it to them. They believe everything Linda ever tells them. Without question, she's the one who hides under the bed with them. When I'm being punished, she's the one who comforts them. She's the one who helps with their homework, who gives structure to their day, telling them what to do, delighting in her authority, but never outright betraying their trust. Even when she tells on one or both of them for various minor misbehaviors, it's all for their own good. And me, I am the worthless 16-year-old punk that can't do anything more than stand there and piss himself, partly because I am scared.

And partly because another part of me absolutely does not give a fuck what happens anymore. Mostly, it's because going back to age 14, my fucking Kagle muscle didn't work anymore, and I've been back in diapers for two years. But there's also this. The twins know they are about to die. I mean, they have to. Right? For the moment, they're perfectly safe, but just as they know,

To hit the circuit breaker, instead of going light bulb to light bulb, in this underworld of a cellar, this disposal factory for our serial killing family, they know what the big green and red buttons on the wall behind the tub are for. I could run up there and slap the green button any time. It would happen too fast for them to stop it. Hell, they could do it themselves if they were in a hurry to get on with it. I can hear her. Dewey's eyes are not. misty and full of wonder.

Hey girl! Hey, Ranger, it's us! And I remember, I'm not really here. There's nothing I can do about any of this. None of it's my fault. Anyway, it isn't even Linda's fault. Oh, yeah.

Linda's scratchy voice fills the cellar echoing off the far walls. You want to bet? And she charges for the body. on the wall, hand outstretched, shrieking with glee. The world fades again. But I do recall helping Linda put the tarp in place over the grinder while it did its work. I don't remember if I stayed to run the water with her after to help her clean it all up on the inside. I have a vague memory of hearing that powerful faucet, spray the remains of my twilight, spray the remains of my tweed.

twin brothers down the cylindrical pipe gutters, while the grinding mechanism was still chewing up the last of them. But, you know, I might have been hearing that on my way back up the stairs. That's it. And I'm sure that within a week, there won't be any Dewey or Andrew looking out from the picture frames. There will be only their dream catchers, smaller ones with not as much twine as mothers. There will also be a far greater chance now that they're gone, that I will be the one to receive punishments on the nights that father comes home from work. When I return to the foyer, I find that I am myself again, whatever that means. It's the present day, me, you know, the almost 40-year-old me, with the split right foot and the bruised hip who hasn't left the house in years,

the hopelessly self-sufficient and independently wealthy me, who never learned to drive a car and never graduated school and never fell in love with anyone, though I did come close once back in the day. The grandfather clock and the mirror still lie in broken ruins. A reminder of what father always said right before the belt came off. You can never really take anything back. but I no longer hear his voice.

Perhaps, as Linda suggested, he has gone on to whatever awaits people like him on the other side. When five o'clock comes, several smaller clocks strike the hour, but grandfather, it remains silent. At 5.11, there is no drip. No echoing plink to remind me that I'm still on the hunt for a league. piquey pipe that never existed in the first place. See, I remember everything. After the twins were gone, something changed in father. He withdrew us from school.

He stopped going to work and declared that going forward his children would be homeschooled. He even sent away for the paperwork to make sure that the charade stuck. He disconnected the television and the landline phone and declared that any living thing that sat foot over the threshold of his, never our house was an intruder. For a brief period of time, it was like he didn't know what to do, particularly when all of the legal documents and resources for homeschooling arrived, only to sit on the kitchen table, undisturbed, for months. He never disciplined us for what we did to the twins.

When I was 18, old enough to legally leave him, and this unspeakable monster of the house. Linda ran away, never to return. And three weeks after that, he put the gun that he always kept in his nightstand drawer under his chin, and he splattered the wall behind the headboard of his bed with his brains. I still have that gun, and there are still five rounds in the chamber. I remember finding him dead, his lower-doseph, jaw hanging askew, where it had come unhinged from the rest of his skull, one eye, bulging,

and the other clamped shut. There's no way to guess how many people father disposed of in our basement over the years. It could be one, or it could be 100, but it seems he wasn't ready for the deaths of his twin sons or the completely unexpected departure of my sister. It could be He wasn't ready for us to be murderers, too. Though Linda had implicated him in her plot to murder the twins. Hard to say, the man was fucked up. Much as I hated him, finding him in this way was very upsetting. I couldn't think of what to do.

I mean, I tried putting his head back together. I spent days on his head. I got the bullet out. Put everything back where I thought that it must go. I even used stitches. For the first time since Mom had been alive, I prayed, like Linda and the twins hiding under the bed. But nothing worked. And in the end, I sent him through the grinder.

I took down the remaining pictures with him in them. I put up some dream catchers. And after that, I expected the police any day. But the police never came. Why would they? By then, no one from the outside world, as far as I knew, had so much as seen our house in more than two years. Even now, decades later, the only one whom I'm certain has seen,

it is Gus, my grocery delivery guy, and apart from the time that he got one foot over the door, he's only seen it from the outside. To the world, perhaps father is still alive. A retired surgeon just living his best, hermit's life with his four very strange grown-up children. I know he's gone, and he's not coming back. Anyway, I'm not done with the house yet. I have another stop or two to make before I make any final decisions about what to do with the place. And there's a little cleanup still to be

accomplished. There's the attic window, for one thing. There is also, as I note, forcing myself up the stairs from the main entryway, the damage to the bedroom hallway ceiling and attic floor above it. Alternatively, you know, I could burn the whole estate to the fucking ground, but doing so would draw attention. Hmm, there would be a host of questions I'd have to answer to the world at large, and I remain enough of my father's son to want nothing to do with any of that. First things first, the linen closet. That's where I'll find the first of the phantoms that have tormented my mom. and spirit going back to when I was a teenager. It occurs to me as I ascend the steps to the landing of the debris-strewn bedroom hall

of all the ghosts that occupy this house. The one I never hear from is the ghost of my mother. Dewey and Andrew don't say much, but today is an exception. It's Dewey who whispers to me as I wrap my hand around the doorknob of the linen closet from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was you! You did it! No. I draw the door wide open, yanking out towels and blankets and letting them fall to the floor.

That was father, pulling out the last of the linens from the uppermost shelf. The bright white head of Ranger, the Samoyad peers down on me with dead, plasticine blue eyes. Ragged, shredded flesh testifies to death by a hacksaw, or similar. Fresh blood pools from underneath the stump. Its jaws click, its mouth opens. But it's the voice of Andrew, betrayed by the lisp that comes out of it. It was you, Jimmy. No.

It isn't the first time I've spoken to one or both of the twins with the dog's head is their conduit. It was Father, and I would have been in trouble, and it wasn't our dog. It was ours! The dog's head barks at me, coughing blood. You killed Ranger, and then we got in trouble. It wandered onto our property. It could have been rabid. Father only did what animal control would have done anyway. You killed her!

They speak together through the head of the Samoyat, now drooling blood over the edge of the shelf. Everybody loved her, and you killed her. Father didn't love her. I clamp my eyes shut, hands over ears again. You killed her. They repeated as though they hadn't heard, and maybe they hadn't. The dead talk, but they don't always listen.

They keep saying it over and over again, and I can't block it out, no matter how hard I try. You killed her, Jimmy. You killed her. You did it. It was all you. Only you. You killed her.

Father had wanted her off the property. I was certain of that much. He had said we'd all be in trouble if he ever saw it again. He'd shoot it dead and he'd whip us bloody. I know that's true. I can see him say it. I can hear it. Almost like it's his voice speaking to me right now.

But it isn't. It never will again. All that is really left of any of this is me. And my mind is a self-ruined hellscape of truth and lies so thoroughly scrambled. I may never know the difference again. We saw you do it. Linda saw you do it. Linda learned from you, big brother.

But you didn't know that until Melissa died, did you? Whoever had killed Ranger might as well have killed the twins. They'd never been the same after that. Did you? I didn't do it. Even if I did, I... But I can't finish the thought. I want my words to be true, but I also want to say I'm sorry.

And I still don't know if it's the truth. One thing is for sure, though, whoever did it would have had to have been insane or stupid to keep the head in the fucking linen closet where it's... anyone could have found it, and where it would have decayed over time anyway. Why dispose of the body and keep the head? It makes no sense. I open my eyes. There is nothing to see other than a tremendous spill of linens and towels at my feet, all of which are perfectly clean. I reach out and lay my hand on the uppermost shelf of the closet. My fingers come back, dry, neither a drop nor a dribble of dog blood on them.

Jimmy. Uh, Linda again. Godwin would it end. Get out of my head. I turned to the mess of the bedroom hallway, to the ladder that I'd left down that led to the attic above. I go to it, feeling that I am almost,

not quite done with a very important task. It's not that I hope to accomplish anything meaningful, It's more of a vague sense that this job will be the last job. After that, who can say, huh? You need to see, Cheney. See what, Linda, you are so full of shit. I put one hand on the ladder, bracing myself. You still haven't told me where you are.

You have to get out, Cheney, like I did. That's all. It's as simple as that. You have to leave. Things will get better after you do. I promise. Answer the question. I'm close.

Come outside, Jimmy. Wait for me. Don't bother packing. Well, if you're close, why, the front door's open, sis. Come on in. I start climbing the ladder. No, Jimmy. Never again.

If I do that, I'll go back to being the way I was again. I'd be like you. No fucking chance. But you have a chance, Jimmy, and this is it. But why leave? This is my house. Now, leaving won't change anything. It'll change everything. I'm taking you away from all of this. You can't change what I've done. You can't change what you've done either, Linda. It was never us, Jimmy. I poke my head up through the trap door to the attic. It wasn't even father.

It got him before it got us. That's all. Don't you see? No, I really don't. I haul myself into the attic proper and stand straight. Everything as much as I'd left it, though there's a hint of sunlight trying to bleed through the window. And I'm 95% sure you're not even real.

It's the house, Jimmy. I look around noting the damage. My eyes finally settling on the strong blocks that had so fascinated my friend, Melissa, my girlfriend. My first girlfriend, my only girlfriend. My sister, meanwhile, is relentless. It's polluted with death, Ginny, going back generations. But you only see the people you knew. God only knows what Father was dealing with.

The monsters in his head he would never admit to. Oh, you believe in God, sis? Well, that's new. It feeds off of the living, corrupting them from the inside, filling them with the only feelings this shithole of a house understands. Jealousy, spite, hatred, cruelty. It takes a long time to get. get rid of those things, Jimmy, but it can be done.

It takes help from the outside, from the right people. I've done it. I know how. It'll be easier for you than it was for me. I'm standing over the strong box. The padlock hangs open, the key jutting out from the keyhole. This is what you've done, Linda. I tossed the padlock aside and heave the lid open.

I stare down into it, dreading to uncover what must be inside, fully aware that what I'm doing might very well bring Melissa's ghost back into play. Yet all I see at first glance is a trove of family photographs, long since ripped from their picture frames and discarded into this graveyard of forgotten memories. There's Linda herself naturally as well as the twins, both before and after the death of Ranger. When they essentially became walking zombie children, there's father.

I'm in there, too, although I'm not sure why, since I'm still alive and in the house. There's nothing recent. After Linda had left, there'd been no one who wanted to take pictures. But Mother's camera is in there, too, just next to a picture of her holding me in a shoulder hug. In that picture, she comes alive again in my mind younger than I am now, her face radiant and happy. Her smile uncomplicated and true.

But the picture shows something different that only an older person could detect a facade, a brave face, actively concealing a subterranean misery or desperation that she did not want to share with her eldest. son, who was only 11 years old at the time himself and could not yet see through it. Then, from behind me, strange, I thought I'd fixed that shit, hadn't I? It skipped the last hour, didn't it? My left eyelid and right pinky finger twitch out of helpless reflex. I whirl, expecting to find the middle platform again dripping from the damned leak in the rafters. Instead, Mother shook me.

I didn't rise. I turned over in bed, groaning. It was too early, even for a school day. It was still dark outside. Mom? Jimmy, get up. We have to go. I rolled flat over on my back.

I looked up at her blinking stupidly. What, Mom, what's going on? There was a creaky. in the floorboards, the traveling hint of someone else awakened up in the house that must be father. Mother's voice dropped to a frantic whisper, her words coming fast. Get your sister. Have her get the twins. We have to be quick, Jimmy. We have to be quiet. But I could hardly hear her through the haze of medication, which I was still getting used to. I wanted to do as I was told. I always obeyed my mother.

I tried to sit up and failed. I opened my mouth to answer, but my strength was already gone. My vision already fading back towards sleep. Jimmy! But her whisper hiss was not but a gossamer's thread of thought from far, far away, soon lost in a sea of words and phrases that were becoming increasingly less coherent. There's some... We must ledge only alive at night.

Later, when I awoke with a start as though from a nightmare, it was to the sound of father stomping his feet and shouting at the walls. Most of the contents of that strong box lies strewn all about me. Photographs and frames and dream catchers, an old and empty glass bottle of Coca-Cola, toy cars that had never been handed down. Dusty 45-R-PM records with only one song on either side. baseball cards, a scattering of father's medical certificates and commendations from the 80s and early 90s. All of it random and precious once upon a time, and so much of it meaningless to me. But underneath what little there remains in the box peaks out one thing that father had definitely never put there.

And I dread to uncover any more of it than I already have. I had expected to find it, but that doesn't make it any easier. It's a faded pink t-shirt I can only see from the back, the clear ridges of a human spine poking out from where the fabric had worn away over time. It's no surprise. Yet I can no longer contain the wordless howl of anguish and misery and grief that he's been building inside of me for decades, not only for Melissa, but for the twins, too,

and even for that stupid white dog the twins had named Ranger. I'd never have hurt that dog. I'd never wanted to hurt anyone in my life. There, Linda, I call out to her in my mind, rocking back and forth on my knees. Are you going to blame this on the house, too? Did the house kill Melissa?

Yes, Jimmy. That's exactly right. The house killed me. her. I was its instrument. Come outside, Jimmy, please. But I don't go outside. I go back down the ladder and avoiding the mess on the bedroom hall floor as best as I can, instead stumble and lurch my way to my bedroom. I fling open the door, sit down on my perfectly made king-sized bed, and I open the drawer of my nightstand. I withdraw my father's gun from it, my gun, and I check the cylinder, five chambers loaded, one empty.

I click the wheel back into place and consider. One carefully placed shot, and it would all be over. From my pocket, a faint vibration. Odd. It's my phone. I pick it up. The number is unfamiliar to me, but I answer it anyway. Hello?

Hi, Jimmy. I don't recognize the voice. It's female, adult, more than a little. nervous. Who's this? I looked for her, Jimmy. For mom, I wanted to find her before reaching out to you. No luck yet. Linda? Yes, Jimmy. You know it's me. You sound different than I remember.

In a long time, right? Where are you? In the driveway. She sounds near tears herself. I just pulled up. I can't be here long. I can already feel that familiar. I don't know.

Ambient evil or whatever it is. Look out your window, Jimmy. See for yourself. Still clutching the gun. Phone held to my ear. I go to the bedroom window, blinking back the rising sun that washes over me. As I draw back the curtains. There, in the driveway, is a car I've never seen before.

a two-door hatchback, the make and model unfamiliar to a man unused to any car other than the rattling old Toyota that Gus the grocery delivery guy drives. The person standing beside it, too, seems a stranger to me. If it's my little sister, she's grown into a rather plump woman with darker hair than she had in childhood, which she keeps in a ponytail. She's holding her phone to her ear. She waves. Please, come on. First step is the hardest. From behind me, from nowhere, a disembodied voice snakes into my ears, as though its source had been secretly hovering directly over me the whole time. So, you get to live happily ever after while I remain dead.

Is that it? Does my life and death count for nothing but to help you, learn to become a better human being, Jimmy? I call bullshit. Melissa. She fucking killed me, Jimmy. You need to go out there and kill her. If you ever loved me, you'd do that for me. I power off my phone and sink back onto the bed, sitting up.

I regard the gun. That's either my sister out there, or it isn't. and it's either the voice of Melissa's ghost in my ear or it is my own treacherous mind. It's the house, Jimmy. It's always been the house. Melissa is gone. I have a thought that the Melissa I knew

would never ask such a thing of me. But then, you know, being murdered in a haunted house by a possessed 12-year-old psychotic could reasonably be expected to affect anyone's disposition. It's decision time. I can either leave this house forever and depart with the woman claiming to be my sister, hoping for, what, some kind of redemption down the line via exorcism, therapy, some combination of the two. Or I can walk out there with this gun in hand and blow her

fucking head off. Whatever I choose, Linda won't wait forever. It takes me ten long minutes to make up my mind. I know because I count the seconds in my head. Counting is an associative task for me. It doesn't require additional thought. At the end of those ten minutes, I find myself at my front door, hoping that I've made the right choice for once in my life. And I opened the door, and I step out into the light. You have been listening to the audio adaptation of Plink, written by Marcus Demanda, produced for the No Sleep podcast by Phil Mikulski. Starring Peter Lewis as Jimmy, David Cummings as Father, Mary Murphy,

as Linda, Jessica McAvoy as Melissa, Nicole Doolin as mother, and Dan Zapula as Dewey and Andrew. This presentation was adapted for audio by Jessica McAvoy. Musical score by Brandon Boone. Please visit the no sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show. along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our Dark Tales. This audio production is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media.

The copyright for Plink is held by Marcus Demanda. 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.