S23 Ep3: NoSleep Podcast S23E03

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It's the darkness of the night, WNSP's overnight programming.

DC here, welcoming you back to another show.

As you know, I like to keep our listeners informed about any cryptid sightings in the Cryptid Valley area.

And there's something going on out there that may have to do with a new type of cryptid.

On the way to the station, I noticed a large group of people outside the mall.

Well they seem to be in a frenzy, screaming about something, fighting, grabbing at shopping bags.

It's like they were entranced by some unseen force.

Now I couldn't quite make out what was happening, but I did hear some of them yelling out what I assume is the name of the creature which has them under its spell.

So all I can do is warn everyone to be aware of the insidious hold that a creature named Laboo Boo can create.

Let's hope the infection doesn't spread outside of Cryptid Valley.

Now, it's time for our regular segment here on the darkness of the night.

An episode of the No Sleep Podcast.

A rustle of the leaves, a fleeting movement at the edge of your vision.

How often have you walked a forest trail at dusk, only to feel the unmistakable sensation that something unseen is watching you?

For centuries, humans have populated the darkness with creatures of legend whose existence remains unproven, yet whose presence is undeniable in the whispered tales of those who dare venture too deep into the wild and wild.

Brace yourself for the no-sleep podcast.

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

We appreciate you joining us again for our audio adventures.

And as you know, I'm always happy to share with you other projects that you might enjoy listening to.

And when said projects feature familiar voices you know and love from the No No Sleep podcast, I want to tell you about them even more.

So here's a trailer for a new swashbuckling audio drama called the Invenios Expeditions.

It features David Alt and Lindsey Russo among their talented cast.

Here's a taste.

From the creators of the Leviathan Chronicles and the Repscallion Agency comes a thrilling new chapter in the Leviathan universe.

Come aboard the Invenios with treasure hunters Captain Jeffrey Tully and Oberlin St.

Clair as they build their dream research vessel and assemble a daring crew.

Want to be a treasure hunter?

It helps to be a bit of a dreamer.

To the Invenios.

What begins as a recovery mission quickly spirals into danger, drawing the crew into a global conspiracy with hidden connections to Leviathan and ancient secrets.

Invenios, we are taking fire.

Repeat, we are taking fire.

Forces that brought down Leviathan still exist.

I assure you that you have absolutely no no idea what i'm capable of doing secret alliances a powerful treasure pirates the fate of immortality the invenios expeditions the newest series from leviathan audio productions available now wherever you listen to podcasts

so check the show notes to learn more about the invenios expeditions or as they said find it wherever you get your podcasts

now let's talk about our expeditions, or at least the stories on this episode, which will take you on disturbing journeys.

Let's talk about death, baby.

Let's talk about you and me.

Because, after all, we'll all die one day.

But horror is full of death.

Boring old death, where serial killers or monsters kill people all over the place, slashing and stabbing.

But what about when death is inflicted for a purpose?

Death as a means to an end?

In this way, it's not merely about the act of killing, but seeing death as serving a higher call.

And if you happen to be on the dying end of something like that, you have to wonder if it makes death seem easier, or if it still holds its dark grasp over us, as it always does.

So we're dying to bring you these stories.

We hope you make it all the way to the end.

Now, tune in, turn on, and brace yourself for our sleepless tales.

In our first tale, we meet a woman trying to honor her mother by returning to her mom's hometown on the coast.

It's a town suffering greatly from environmental disasters.

But in this tale, Shared with us by author Tyler John Kaczyki, the woman finds the town isn't what she expected, expected, and she learns why her mother insisted on returning to her home before she died.

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Mary Murphy, and Peter Lewis.

So let's respect what the sea offers to us, for our gifts are given to the ocean in reverence.

Before mom went home to die, she left me a pearl.

It was a reminder of her and a promise that it would all make sense one day.

Six years later, I drove to the coast, pearl in my pocket to where mom grew up.

To make sense of it all, I had never seen the ocean before.

At least, not in person.

The mass migration from the coast occurred more than a decade before I was born.

Year after year, water levels were the highest they'd ever been.

Year after year, record-breaking natural disasters struck around the world.

Hurricanes and tropical storms and tsunamis.

Eventually, governments stopped funding tourist infrastructure.

What was the point of rebuilding?

The next year it would all go down again, and the people weren't coming like they used to.

But that was just the start.

The final blow was the water toxicity.

Health organizations around the world advised against human contact with ocean water.

No more eating seafood, no more swimming.

Contamination levels were too high from trash, mostly plastic broken down over time in such high volumes, and industrial pollutants.

There's this film of grime that stays on your skin after you're out of the water, and all kinds of stories about what it does to you.

Guess it didn't used to be like that.

It was the end of a tourist industry already on the decline.

It was the beginning of the local population's migration inland.

The salt life, beach bumming, surfing, oceanside bodybuilding, was no longer.

The coasts, the oceans, were just used for industry from then on.

Big boats traveling, moving cargo, industrial plants needing the cooling water and such.

Mom grew up in North Harbor, which was a small resort town on the black sandy shores of the North Atlantic Ocean.

At least, that's what the internet told me.

Mom's history, mom's family, were all off-limits growing up.

I never got to know why I just had one set of grandparents when most had two.

If I asked, I got hushed or scolded by dad.

I brought it up once around mom and never made that mistake again.

She just looked at me with this sad, distant stare.

The image of my mom, just before she left, is forever seared into my memory.

She was so frail, an emaciated body that could have blown away in a strong breeze.

Her head was clean-shaven.

I remember her asking me if it was okay for her to walk around like that, without a wig, without the light purple cotton beanie, if it scared me.

But most of all, I remember how brave she had been.

I think that maybe I was more scared than she was.

I'm going home to where I grew up, like we've talked about.

I love you so much,

but I need to do this for me.

I fought so hard not to cry that morning, sitting next to her at the breakfast nook.

I didn't want her to feel bad.

She was dying.

I didn't want to put more burden on her.

But I failed.

I cried with large, violent sobs.

She held me until it subsided.

Then dad walked her out to the car.

That night, when dad got back, he curled up next to me on my twin mattress.

We both cried until we fell asleep.

I took the pearl everywhere I went those next six years.

It was my lucky charm, my worry stone, my mom in my pocket.

From time to time, I pestered Dad about mom, about North Harbor, about going there together someday.

You shouldn't go there.

There's nothing to see.

I just want to see where she grew up.

I was only kind of lying.

I would settle to see that, though I hoped for something

more.

I felt drawn to it.

Surely there'd be something to see.

For us, me and Dad, Mom's departure became just as forbidden as her childhood.

He didn't want to talk about it, refused refused to go to North Harbor with me, discouraged me from going at all.

You don't want to go there.

Trust me.

No reasoning, no justification.

Just a cautionary glance and that terse statement.

Now, looking back, I wonder if Dad knew what I was going to see there, if he'd seen it himself.

Eventually, I stopped bugging Dad about it.

A few days after my 18th birthday, finally in my own place with my own car, I decided I didn't need his permission anymore, that I'd go on my own.

Before I left, I read about North Harbor online.

Like most coastal towns, it had flourished in the summer.

It had more people than it could handle.

I found articles talking about how on certain weekends, like 4th of July or Memorial Day, People would get stuck downtown in traffic for hours.

And then in the winter, the town would go into hibernation.

It survived on tourist income, made enough money each summer to get through the off-season.

And like all coastal towns, it was now deserted.

Just off the interstate, I drove into a thick, low fog.

Turning on my lights, I took it slow, following the GPS on my phone more than the road.

That is, until it lost signal.

Fortunately, There was only one way to go at that point.

When I pulled onto the main strip, a narrow, two-way road lined with shops that led straight to a bluff, the road got rough, the cars shimmying this way and that.

I decided to pull into a parking space about halfway down the strip.

Wherever I needed to be, wherever I was going, I figured I could walk from here.

I remember the pearl in my pocket feeling heavier and heavier the closer I got.

almost pulling me in the direction I was supposed to go.

I remember it pulling me to the bluff, towards the water.

Getting out of my car, the road was the first thing I noted as off.

It was paved, in great condition.

That wasn't right.

I looked around, began walking down the strip in the direction of the bluff, and I noticed all the shops were wrong too.

Street view on Google Maps showed the skeleton of a road.

Massive potholes, large washed-out sections with more dirt and gravel than pavement.

The buildings lining the rough road were supposed to be wooden and rotted, spotted with moss, windows broken, roofs caved in, doors missing.

It was supposed to be a town long abandoned to the elements.

Instead, cute, brightly painted shops with steepled roofs and large picture windows displayed the merchandise for sale.

Neon t-shirts and hats on mannequins, sunscreen, beach towels, shot glasses, and mugs.

Each shop was empty.

The entire strip was, except for an employee.

Some kept themselves busy by refolding shirts and hoodies, while others sat idly at the checkout counter, either reading a book or heads down asleep.

I rolled the pearl between my fingers and window shopped down the strip, feeling it start to throb the closer I got to the bluff.

Nearly there, at least, I thought, I couldn't see too far ahead of me, the outline of a person began to take shape in the middle of the road.

They were large and hunched over, appeared to be crossing the street.

Even slumped as they were, they would have towered over me.

To my left, muffled cries caught my attention.

A young girl in a dull gray raincoat and blue jeans sat between shops.

crying into her arms.

I looked back over to the slumped outline and then back to the kid.

Her Her cries caught louder, turning into sobs.

I walked over to her, my view switching between the slumped outline, nearly to our side of the street now, and the girl.

I panicked a little in that moment.

What was this child doing here in the middle of an abandoned town?

I wasn't good with kids.

Didn't know how to interact with them, let alone comfort them.

Who took your mom?

She looked up at me and I froze just as I reached to comfort her.

A small, oblong birthmark on her jawline, just a shade darker than the rest of her skin, caught my eye.

I began to consider its familiarity, but then she spoke again.

The crustacean took mama, and Bab is not gonna do nothing.

She flung her hands in the air.

I had no idea what to do with her, how to help.

Do you have a phone we can use?

I can call for help.

The girl just looked at me, confused, turning incredulous.

My phone has no service out here, otherwise, I'd.

Everyone's left.

Haven't you heard?

Even if you called, no one would pick up.

I started biting my nails, thinking,

Do you know where your mom is?

Maybe we can go to her together.

The little girl looked up, hopeful, eyes wide.

Can you help her?

Can you get her?

No one else will help.

No, I don't know.

Maybe?

Yes, we'll find her together.

The little girl took me by the hand and led me to the bluff, then to the shoreline.

She was desperate to avoid the others, especially her dad and the crustacean.

We walked away from the main strip, between rows and rows of houses, quaint little wooden shacks once painted the bright colors of the shops, but not maintained as well.

Colors slightly more faded from the salty winds.

To a tree line on the outskirts of town.

We walked through the trees a ways until we encountered a landslide of rocks scaling the entire height of the bluff.

Come on, down here!

We carefully stepped down, rock by rock, bear crawling until we met the damp black sand beach.

A few yards up, we made it to her hiding spot, a small cavern dug into the bluff, just enough space for both of us to huddle inside.

Who are you?

We don't get visitors anymore.

And when we did, it was summer.

My name is Jenny.

I'm...

I stopped, thought about it more.

Why was I here?

I wanted to know why mom left us to die alone.

I wanted to know why she couldn't even tell dad about her past, why it had haunted her.

The pearl felt so heavy in that moment, so weighty, that I half expected it to look different, feel different when I pulled it from my pocket.

But it didn't.

It was the same.

Iridescent, about the size of the top of my pinky, a small cluster of dimples on one edge.

I'm looking for my mother too.

I handed the pearl to her.

She gave me this a long time ago, and it's taking me to her.

I have one too.

Mama gave it to me this morning.

We traded pearls.

I examined hers, rolling it around in my hand.

and noticed how similar they were.

They looked and felt the same.

Even the small cluster of dimples on one of the curved edges.

Salty ocean spray pelted our raincoats.

The fog had since cleared, and the day was gray and windy, the sky just one billowing cloud.

Cloistered between large rocks, close enough to see but covered enough to remain hidden, we watched the crowd at the water's edge.

I remember when the fog finally let up, being in awe of the ocean itself.

It was an incredible presence.

Equal parts powerful and peaceful.

One massive body made of infinite parts, all in perfect harmony.

This is why people had lived here.

This is why people would travel to see it for themselves.

The entire landscape was just as beautiful as the pictures online.

More beautiful, really.

The sand was black and speckled.

To one side, the coast seemed to stretch out forever.

To the other, a towering shank of rock jutted out from the earth and into the water like a dagger.

In the distance, sea stacks stood tall and brooding.

The remaining town's population, several hundred, stood just out of the ocean's reach in a semicircle, watching the slumped man, who wasn't really a man, at least, not anymore.

leaving their presence.

He was dragging a body from the semicircle crowd to the far side of the shore, towards that dagger of a rock that cut off the black sand beach.

When I saw the body, I told the girl to stop looking, to sit against the rock, not look over it.

At that time, I hadn't gotten a good view of him.

From that distance, that angle, I could only see his back, beige and hunched.

Do you know what's happening?

Lots are cast to see who will be given to the ocean in reverence.

She recited as if from memory, from practice, looking straight ahead at the water.

Why?

She turned to look at me.

Otherwise, the water won't get better.

It'll get worse.

The people won't come back, and we'll have to leave.

And that's what the crustacean says.

I remember that movement very clearly now.

Her squeaky voice, her innocent face.

How sad it made me.

How sad it still makes me.

The crustacean?

Our priest.

He came from the ocean, so he'd know.

What is he?

I watched the hunched creature get further and further away.

The little girl shrugged.

Papa said he either came from the ocean or he was made from it.

I don't know what we expected to see, to learn, to find.

All I know is my pearl pulled me toward that thing.

It was clear now that following it wouldn't be good, wouldn't end well.

But I had to follow.

And I felt she had to follow too.

I don't think we had a choice.

I think we were both meant to see it for ourselves.

After the crowd returned to town, we followed the slumped man's trail.

The blood was hard to see in the black sand, but impressions left from the body and his steps were easy enough to follow.

Plus, we knew where he was going.

When we arrived, I braced myself against the slick black rock, waiting, timing the crashing of waves onto shore.

Once we got the timing down, we scurried around the large rock, across the narrow surf, to beat the next wave in.

When we turned the corner, could finally see the hidden coastline.

I stopped, felt the little girl bump into me.

I swung my arms back to keep her from seeing it, but I was too late.

She had already peeked around me.

We stood still, shocked, even as freezing water broke against our shins and soaked our shoes.

White bones, all picked clean, covered in black sand.

We watched the crustacean crouch over the girl's mother.

In horror, its back, slick and sectioned carapace, was facing us.

But we could still see all those tendrils and arms and legs and feelers.

Hundreds of little appendages, each beige and translucent, tipped in red, ripping into the corpse.

The little girl finally screamed and it turned to us.

It's impossible to forget that moment.

That image.

And as the years have passed, there are details that stand out.

A face stuffed into that shell, sunken and compressed.

Among its appendages, two human arms protruded where its torso might have been.

Two legs where its waist might have been, both lost in the crowd.

When I think back on it now, I am certain a human was trapped in there.

Its eyes, black and beady, locked onto mine.

But it didn't stop shoving the bits and pieces of flesh into its mouth.

It kept going, blood running down its length and dripping onto the sand.

Feasting on the corpse.

Feasting on her mother.

Feasting on my grandmother.

I turned to grab the little girl and run.

Run as far away as we could.

But she was gone.

And so was the pearl.

I felt the pearl's absence the moment I turned.

I didn't even need to check.

I could feel that it was gone.

The missing weight.

The non-existent pulse.

I turned back towards the monstrosity and it too was gone.

On the piles of bones, all jaundiced with age, laid a hollow, hunched shell.

And next to it, the decayed and scavenged remains of my mother's body.

Oh, watch your step.

Wow, your attic is so dark.

Dark?

I know, right?

It's the perfect place to stream horror movies.

What movie is that?

I haven't pressed play yet.

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Imagine if you could always get whatever your heart desired.

It's no secret, you just desire something and it manifests itself.

Sounds great, but it could come at a cost.

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Chris Green, Annie learns it's a cost that's enormously steep, costing other people their lives.

Performing this tale are Marie Westbrook, Nicole Goodnight, Tanya Milosevic, Jeff Clement, Aaron Lillis, Atticus Jackson, Graham Rowett, Mike Delgadio, Peter Lewis, and Lindsay Russo.

So when death involves taking one's own life, you have to be sure there is no chance of retribution.

And when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.

Paolo Cuello, the alchemist.

Annie sat at her desk looking out the window, rolling a pencil back and forth with her finger.

The street was mostly empty.

The drizzling rain seemed to be letting up.

She wasn't sure when she had come to the decision.

She assumed everybody had thought about it at one point or another.

Maybe it was a normal thing to consider.

A common dysfunction.

Then again, how normal is it to contemplate your own suicide?

She'd never thought about it until now.

She'd thought suicide was something for the selfish.

But now she understood it was for the people who were

what?

Disappointed with the world?

Maybe it was for the depressed or the heavily medicated.

She wasn't quite sure.

She didn't look at the folded newspaper sitting on her desk, the front page blasted with the picture of Emily Braun, who had committed to her decision the week before.

Maybe people would say it was a copycat suicide.

Was that the term?

But that was why they kept notifications of suicides out of the newspaper, right?

Annie's father worked his 40 hours, came home and sat in front of the television.

The all-present blob on the couch that died the same way he lived, miserable.

Her mother, still living, wasn't happy either.

So, how important was happiness?

There wouldn't be a memorial for her like there was for Emily.

There wouldn't be a new hashtag.

Sweet Emily, I didn't mean to push you in that direction.

Emily, who rose in the middle of a meeting, walked out of the meeting and off of the roof.

How guilty was Annie for this?

Hashtag share the pain.

It had something to do with the cosmic karmic scales that prevented her repulsion for Emily from infecting others.

Not like it could.

Not like it should.

Annie had been almost completely indifferent to Emily.

She was more of a sign on the side of the road than a roadblock.

She came back to the note she'd been trying to write.

The anger subsided briefly back to self-pity.

Her fingers numb with the pencil still rubbing back and forth on the desk, making the familiar rhythmic sound.

Maybe she could write something nice to her mother, or who?

Who would really care about it?

Maybe her mother would on a biological level, yes.

But after that, would she feel relieved?

She felt like weeping, but that would just be wasting tears.

Her suicide would not be coming from a place of self-pity, she reited herself, but a desire to make the world a better place.

A martyr needed a cause.

Action was what changed the world.

Action and then recognition for that action.

Of course, before she had pieced the logic of everything together and had come to the conclusion that she was different, there were moments that indicated how the universe worked.

It was undeniable that little things just worked out for her.

Annie was staring at the small chocolate bar.

She had wanted it.

She was five or six.

Mrs.

Graham walked through the door, causing the little bell to ring.

Annie had turned to look, but hardly noticed Mrs.

Graham holding the hand of her boy, Bill.

But all she could think was that sweet, delicious chocolate bar.

I want it.

Without hesitation, Mrs.

Graham grabbed the chocolate bar that Annie had desired.

Not the same brand or something similar, not one from the same box.

No,

she had grabbed the exact candy bar Annie had been staring at, two behind the front.

She hadn't even spoken, hadn't even done her own shopping, but simply bought and paid for it.

Here you go, sweetie.

Handing her the chocolate bar, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, Bill threw up his hands and began stomping.

Why'd you buy one for that stupid girl?

You're too fat to get a candy bar.

Bill's Bill's arms dropped.

The tantrum abated.

Both mother and son stared at each other in the shock of what had just happened as Annie bit into her candy.

Andy Bradbury had been bullying her for weeks on end, teasing, pulling her hair, making her life miserable.

When she had told her daddy, who was halfway through a TV dinner and baseball game, He'd only made an offhand comment about the boy having a crush.

It came back to desire.

She desired not to be bullied, but it was unspecified desire, which is a kind of desire, but not a strong one.

Her teacher was in front of the class pointing at the topboard.

Annie turned, looking at her bored fellow classmen and saw Dustin Howitzer.

Howitzer would later be on the football team, but that was a few years and another 100 plus pounds.

He wasn't big.

Not like he got.

But it was clear he had just begun a growth spurt, already three inches above the other boys.

The desire, finding specificity, had come into fruition.

I want howitzer to beat up Andy Bradbury.

Then howitzer stood up in the middle of a lecture on fractions.

Annie's mouth dropped open in shock.

The teacher, who had stopped talking, just cocked her head to the side, unprepared for what would happen.

Howitzer, who walked between rows of desks, not toward the door, but away from it, walked right to Andy's desk.

do you need to use the restroom mister probably the only thing the teacher could think of to say

howitzer clenched his fists and began pummeling andy all chairs except one were scooted back as everyone rose in shock he had to be pulled off of andy howitzer turned his head slightly coming to his senses and then let him go He shook his head as if coming out of a daze.

Annie sat in her chair, still in shock.

Desire had been made manifest.

She had understood then for the first time, not a hint of how it worked, not like the candy bar, but she understood how the universe actually worked.

Tears were already beginning to pour down Howitzer's cheeks.

Andy's face was beginning to puff up like a giant raspberry.

Howitzer looked down, maybe defeated, maybe confused.

He looked at Andy and then down at his fists, still in shock at what he had done.

Then there was the pencil.

It had fallen off someone's desk who had risen in the commotion.

It had waited for Howitzer's troubled backward steps and it had rolled, causing his arms to fly up like some kind of cartoon character.

It had rolled out of sight as Howitzer's head thumped hard on the floor.

Instant karma, Annie considered later.

Every action required another.

Then came the experiments.

Slow at first, like getting strangers to kiss, like wanting a pizza given to her in the middle of her finals.

But every action was followed by some kind of debt that needed to be paid, even if it meant the teacher paid the tab on the pizza.

Did she feel guilty?

No, she supposed she didn't.

She desired it.

It happened.

If she wanted a boyfriend, she would get one.

If she wanted anything, anything at all, she would get it.

Pancakes for dinner were nice, but her mother burning herself in the kitchen while cooking the pancakes wasn't.

Her father not drinking after work was nice too, but when the house smelled thick with smoke, almost instantly she regretted it.

Maybe she could desire good into the world.

That was the real reason for wanting her father to stop drinking.

It would ease the monthly budget.

It could make her mother a little happier when her father wasn't loose with his words and fists.

Desire itself didn't seem to matter unless it was specified.

But there was always a cost.

The scales would be evened out every time.

The universe had to be balanced.

When she was 17, she had seen a bank robbery.

She turned and walked away.

But even then, the desire was out there.

The robber was caught because he had diverted his run to the getaway car.

He ran up and handed her the bag of cash.

She refused to take it.

The pause, the hesitation, the change of plan, and the cops had surrounded him.

A knock at the door broke her out of her thoughts.

She thought maybe some things were best left with the door closed.

Letting go of the pencil and paper that simply had mom scrawled at the top, she rose to get it.

The rain was picking up a little.

Chad stood at the door holding flowers.

There was that look in his eyes, the cloudy, unfocused look that made her think of someone who was drugged.

The magic wasn't impeded by guilt.

I need to be alone.

Chad nodded.

I saw you in the window.

You looked so sad.

Are you okay?

You should go.

He turned and walked away.

Her prom date was another one.

Although the rampant desires of a teenage girl hadn't been easy to control, he got handsy and began pushing her toward an inner edge that she didn't want to go.

As he pushed at her, trying to hike up her dress, her desire for this boy's infatuation was lost.

He stopped suddenly, eyes blink just like Chad's.

He turned and walked away.

Although he wouldn't have been the first to commit suicide because of her, now that she was thinking about it, she had no desire for Emily to commit suicide.

Maybe.

Emily had just been part of the karmic judgment of her desire.

Maybe that was why her desire to to not see the memorials went unheeded.

Her prom date had just walked away like Emily.

He'd almost walked right into traffic if other people hadn't seen him and stopped it.

She had received the prerequisite sympathy as people began discussing what must have happened.

Let's face it, college desires were many and she had indulged.

She had hated.

Many suffered.

She had loved.

More suffered.

She had passed classes when she shouldn't have.

It was an easy desire to let out into the universe for a professor who didn't give a second thought to changing her grade.

Who knows?

Maybe he flunked someone else.

She didn't always know how the universe corrected itself, but it did.

She was sure of it.

Then after college, there was a job interview.

Only the one.

They spoke for a few minutes and she was hired.

The interviewers, two no-names in HR that she would never meet again, walked out and dismissed the other applicants in one unfailing swoop.

The league of applicants' faces fell, and she glowed.

But she hadn't accomplished anything.

Not really.

She hadn't experienced any prize.

She hadn't ever really won out of talent or skill.

Then, Emily Braun was hired within a couple of months.

Then Emily had begun dating Chad.

Now, she was dead.

She had tried to live without desire, but she was no Buddhist.

Desire was as ingrained in the American culture as much as fast food burgers.

She liked having desire.

She liked being hungry for things.

It was the restaurant on her lunch break.

Her little group of work friends all ate and laughed.

She happened to look over at Chad sitting at a table with Emily.

Chad gazed at Emily as if a devout congregant.

Then desire came.

I want a soulmate.

Chad hadn't said anything else to Emily, and God knew he might have felt guiltier than Annie did.

His silence was probably part of the unspoken desire to not hear anything about Emily.

Chad merely rose from the table and walked over.

Emily had turned to stare as Chad asked for Annie's number.

Bill Brunswick laughed when Chad asked her out in front of everyone.

Hey, pal, aren't you on a date?

She now hated her work friends.

Bill Brunswick was fat and she hated him.

She hated everyone at work.

Unable to keep from unleashing that desire, she mustered all of her energy to keep it buried deep inside.

She hated the memories of Emily and she hated all this attention about her death.

She hated Chad too.

Wasn't it his fault?

She hated her job and the two HR people that hired her.

She hated her family, and she thought maybe she hated herself too.

It had been in some psychology class.

The professor had spoken gravely.

Suicide is something that we don't talk a lot about.

It's because it's a touchy subject, and often other professors are afraid of bringing it up, like it'll spread like some type of social contagion.

The class had been interesting.

People shared, and the professor had been adamant that if anyone was feeling suicidal, to speak up.

You don't have to be alone.

Hashtag share the pain.

Then there was the quote by Chesterton.

The suicide is worse than the murderer because the murderer kills off one person, while the suicide kills everyone they know by killing themselves.

She got dressed.

It felt like a weird thing to do.

What was she to wear in her last hours?

Didn't matter.

Nothing fit anymore anyway.

Makeup?

She caught herself in the mirror.

Well, maybe a little.

The rain misted into her face when she walked outside, still slightly overcast, and the sky seemed to give a half-hearted attempt at rain.

She walked down the street and hailed a cab.

The cabby smelled.

He rolled down his window as she got in.

She smiled.

The instant gratification of having that desire realized made her feel better.

But the muggy, hot air blowing back at her took the smile away.

The cabby didn't talk.

He knew instinctively where to take her.

At the corner of 2nd and Main, she saw a woman holding hands with a little girl.

The woman looked up at her.

There was that desire again.

I want to be a mother.

The woman hoisted her daughter up with arms stretched out toward the cab.

The light changed and the cab accelerated, leaving the mother and the child watching after it.

The cabby caught her eye in the rearview mirror.

You don't have to do this.

What?

There's other ways.

You just have to be strong enough.

She didn't question how he knew what she was thinking until the realization slowly crept over her.

His head snapped forward.

He began to speed, weaving in and out of traffic.

People honked.

Before she knew it, he was screeching on the brakes in front of her office building.

The cabby didn't say anything as she got out.

A woman in a business suit walked past.

Don't do this.

Then a man walking in the opposite direction.

You know you don't want to.

She lifted her chin, confident in her decision.

The strangers stopped talking.

She used to pick scabs when she was little.

She thought it was something linked to her personality, that uncontrollable desire to not let anything heal.

Pick.

The blood fills the tiny hole.

Sometimes it stops.

Sometimes it overflows.

Her father walked into the kitchen.

He opened a bottle of beer and drank, pick.

He didn't sit down.

He just drank.

Pick.

Then another, and then another.

Then when the beer was out, he found a bottle of wine.

Pick.

After the wine, a bottle of bourbon.

That was the last one.

The inevitable downfall.

Why don't you just drink yourself to death?

And he did.

Pick.

The blood filled the tiny hole.

Sometimes it stops.

Sometimes it overflows.

The first body to hit the pavement was someone she didn't know.

She cocked her head to the side looking at it.

Why him?

Her desire was becoming realized.

She turned toward the street.

Some people were beginning to look up to the top of the building.

A cabby and a truck driver were too busy yelling at each other to notice the bodies that had begun falling until one landed on top of the cabby.

The truck driver didn't move at first, merely looked up, seeing others gathering at the ledge.

She opened the door to the building with another thud, and then another on the street behind her.

screeching brakes and horns as cars collided some people sat where they were working but when they saw her instinctively they rose she walked to the elevator where a crowd was trying to get on the doors were unable to close it would be like this at every floor she thought a little half smile crept across her face the people diverted except for a janitor summoned, she knew, for her purposes.

She turned her head to see people begin swarming the stairwell.

The elevator, mostly emptied, had a few people still standing in it.

The janitor got in, pulled out a key, and turned on the override.

Tapping the top floor, he nodded, turning to her with a grim smile.

The elevator flew up to the top floor and opened with a ding.

Annie walked slowly, savoring the moment.

She smiled, wanting to watch.

One by one, people rushed to the edge of the roof, climbed on, and merely stepped off.

No scream, no plea for help, just a step and gone.

Sometimes a small sob would come from them, but mostly nothing.

Eat your heart out, Emily Braun.

She chuckled slightly, walking to the ledge.

Bill Brunswick shoved past her and then stopped.

He looked at her.

She quieted the annoyance just enough to give a little nod.

He ran for the ledge.

He didn't stop to climb up.

The side of the ledge hit his stomach and his body toppled over.

Other people in her office, some she recognized, some she knew, most she didn't, jumped.

The standard was to pause and look down, and she liked that.

So they all began doing it.

She climbed onto the ledge and looked at the swelling crowd, the bodies everywhere on the sidewalk and in the street.

She imagined the whole building pouring into elevators and stairwells trying to get to the roof.

Dozens had already fallen in when she was done.

Hundreds would.

Something changed as she looked down.

Guilt was something she didn't quite feel.

Emily had caused her to feel what most people would call guilt.

But was it really that?

She saw all the death and felt better for it.

She felt as if maybe she didn't want to do this anymore.

A man on the ledge near her hesitated.

The crowd kept swelling on the roof, but they too had stopped.

although their numbers grew.

She smiled at the man on the ledge with her and gave a little nod.

He jumped.

Even then, maybe if she did this, others would stop.

That's not what she wanted.

She didn't want to do this anymore, but they should.

They all should.

As she turned to get off the ledge, the people had pressed toward all sides of the roof.

She tried to get down when she saw Chad.

Chad pushed his way through, seeing her.

She paused, still on the ledge, seeing him wave excitedly to her.

Well, maybe I'll let him go before I get down.

She felt like laughing until someone's body pressed against her feet, causing her to lean back, teetering off the edge just a little.

But Chad was there and caught her hand.

As she tried to find balance, a desire blossomed violently into her thoughts.

Get me off this roof now.

Chad nodded, still holding her hand, and jumped, toppling over the ledge, dragging her down the other side.

As she fell, there were no conscious thoughts.

There were no last-minute repentances or pleas.

Noises whooshed past her as sirens and cries grew louder.

Her mind scrambled, trying to act on a desire for rescue, but came up short.

Then, she tried to imagine, to desire some form of paradise, but couldn't conceive of one.

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Picture this.

You're at a bar one night minding your own business when a fellow patron makes you a surprising proposition.

No, no, nothing involving carnal desires.

One a bit more sinister.

You see, in this tale, shared with us by author Connor Fugis, a wealthy, successful doctor needs the man to do something for him, and it's something the doctor's wife can't find out about.

Performing this tale are Kyle Akers and Graham Rowett.

So, when you need dirty deeds done dirt cheap, it's best to find someone ordinary to do them: someone like the every man.

So how about it?

He prods my arm with his.

He tells me his name is Frank.

He tells me he's a doctor.

He tells me a lot while he feeds me drinks and keeps me relatively quiet.

I don't remember how many times I've asked him to repeat himself.

The music in here is blasting.

I...

I don't know.

My eyelids sag and I just look stupid.

Frank brushes a finger around my ear, pushes my hair back behind it.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was coming on to me.

But no.

No, I'm clearly living a delusion.

Come on.

He twirls my earlobe around and around.

It's gonna be easy.

It'll be fast.

I've done this thing before.

I'm shocked, and in my drunken state, I make it abundantly clear.

No.

No.

No way.

He nods, maintaining that deep eye contact he's held since he sat down next to me 20 or so minutes ago.

It's true.

But you're a doctor.

Like it's a sainthood.

Like he's an angel.

It gives me an edge over everyone else.

I see a smirk that builds on on the left side of his face, forcing the appearance of a dimple.

Maybe he always smiles with this side.

It's his good side, though he doesn't seem to have a bad one.

We're both at the bar, on stools that squeak and squeak, even over the music.

The clatter of bottles and patrons makes my head spin.

I can hear my own breathing over my words.

It was a mistake, I'm sure, coming here alone.

I tell him my name is Robert, since we both seem to be lying through our teeth tonight.

Rob.

He sees that I'm drifting away.

He grabs my chin and turns it back towards him.

You have to do this for me.

I haven't been able to look my wife in the eyes for weeks now, since I know what I'm going to have to do.

I poke the bar with a stiff finger.

You mean what I have to do?

Yes.

Yes, you're absolutely right.

Would you do this favor for me?

Please.

I feel like I trust you with this.

It all feels like an illusion.

Like I can put my hands through Frank's face and he dissipates into nothingness.

Like he's some bad omen trying to wean me from my drinking habits.

I reach my hand out and touch his face, feeling his stubble and his droopy cheeks.

He feels tired.

He takes my hand off.

Robert, if you don't do this, I'll just find someone new.

It's as simple as that.

But I chose you, Robert.

Out of everyone in this bar, I chose you.

Isn't that special?

I agree that it is.

I feel...

unapproachable.

I feel dirty and disgusting.

But Frank likes me.

He does.

I should have told him my real name.

I want to punch myself for being too secretive.

I'll do it!

I slap the bar with a perch and a smile.

Oh, you will?

That's brilliant, Robert.

I could just kiss you.

So many snarky remarks come through me.

I hold them in.

The moment is here, right now.

That happiness that bounces back and forth between us.

Come with me.

There's no time to lose.

He takes his wallet out and rifles through the crisp pile of twenties inside.

He places two down on the bar and grabs my hand.

We walk together, and I wonder if other patrons think we're leaving together, the two of us.

Frank whips my body through the crowds and out the door.

The sudden coldness is sobering.

I feel like I'm swimming, through the people and through the air.

We'll take my car.

Frank holds his keys out, presses button after button until he hears a chirp from across the parking lot.

He gives a small aha and leads me over.

I imagine the other scenario, where I stay at the bar and drink and drink until someone inevitably calls a cab for me.

How embarrassing it'll be for me to show back up tomorrow and do it all again.

Seeing Frank's face, Frank's eyes as he loads me into the passenger seat of his Camaro gives me butterflies.

He's broken the chain.

This is nice.

I fiddle with the various knobs and switches.

I see his headlights flash, then turn off.

On, off, on, off, until Frank slaps my hand away.

I giggle and breathe and focus my attention on one still point.

I don't know what I'd do if I puked in here.

He looks annoyed.

He's probably mad at me.

Are you mad at me?

I see tears fill the bottom of my eyes.

What?

No!

He backs the car up and speeds away.

Now we're going, me and Frank.

I realize the state of my safety and find myself not caring.

It feels odd knowing that I have to kill someone tonight.

Frank trusts me with this dark secret of his.

This unhappiness that's inside him, despite the career and the money and the car.

It must be a looming thing, this hatred and this betrayal.

Cheater, he had said, about the woman he married over a decade ago.

That's what she is.

A dirty fucking cheat.

He went on about her lies.

The second phone he had found wedged between the drawers of their bureau.

Said she blew every man she laid eyes on.

Neighbors, mailmen, my own fucking brother.

God,

I'm sorry, I told him.

I hadn't been in a stable relationship since high school.

But I couldn't tell Frank that.

He talked to me like one of his buddies, or one of his rich doctor friends that go on and on about the doctor problems they face.

God, that's rough.

Real rough, Frank.

And now we're silent.

He's pressed against the steering wheel, eyes glued to the street.

He gives me an occasional glance over to make sure I haven't given into my ecstasy and passed out.

I am far from passing out, however.

The AC keeps me alert.

I'm awake, more than I've ever been.

I feel invigorated, ready,

set on doing anything if it means I get to spend another drunken drive home in this car with this man.

I don't know how long it's been.

I feel a bump, and we're whipping around a gravel driveway to the front of Frank's home.

The sheer size of it.

It's an everyman's dream.

Quickly now, while she's still asleep.

I half stumble, half run toward the home.

If I don't think about it, it's not happening.

Frank's in front of me.

He unlocks his door and I hear a small, rhythmic beeping that echoes throughout the house.

He hustles to a small box on his wall with a screen that glows blue.

It's the only light on inside.

I see him punch a series of numbers into the box and it gives one last long beep before the light turns off and we're left in darkness.

It's scary and yet it's romantic in the same way.

I hear his breathing next to me.

Feel his warmth.

He turns on his phone's flashlight and holds it up under his chin.

He looks like a floating head with sunken eyes.

He looks like a devil.

Frank holds a finger to his lips.

Shhh.

I nod and do the same hand motion back.

He flips the phone around and illuminates the grand staircase in front of us.

It just adds another bout of wonder to my face.

The grandeur is so much to handle.

I'm basking in it, I think.

I'm pretending I'm a high-class doctor whose wife will soon be dead.

I can imagine Frank's excitement.

We go up the steps, small scuffs and squeaks coming from the marble and bouncing around the walls.

Frank looks unfazed.

It's just me, honey.

Just me coming home from a long day at work.

And it probably had been.

Frank in his scrubs being paged for surgery, mulling over the death of his wife by the hands of a stranger, missing not one beat of his day while he does so.

It's too easy.

My eyes are trained on the beam of light ahead of me.

I follow and follow, trusting him with every fiber of my being.

We have that connection.

Yes.

Yes, we do.

He stops at a tall white door.

It's open a crack.

I can hear breathing inside.

The stop and go of a person lost in their sleep.

Unaware.

Unknowing.

I go to push the door open, but Frank places a hand on my chest.

Take this.

And though it's dark, the glimmer of the knife still catches my eye.

He puts the handle in my fingers, and the heft of it is deceiving.

I grip the knife and wave it back and forth.

Where?

Anywhere.

But make it fast.

I can't have screaming.

He grabs my back and pushes me inside the room.

Robert, you're so great.

Do you know that?

No one else could do this for me.

He has his hand on my shoulder now.

There's a mass in the bed, coddled in blankets and silk sheets.

Beauty sleep in its truest form.

Frank's wife is gorgeous.

From what I can see of her, that is.

She looks almost pure, that she doesn't hold that anger and disdain for her dwindling marriage.

Peaceful.

Yeah,

that's the word.

One, two,

three, four, five steps to the bed.

One, two, three towards her for a closer look.

One back.

The knife in my hand.

Everything coming to a head.

I turn the blade downward and hold it high in the air.

Frank is on the other side of the room.

I imagine him covering his ears, closing his eyes.

It's too dark to see.

I love you, but it's too late.

I realize I don't know this woman's name.

We'll probably never know it.

But I decide that's okay.

Humanization is gone, on both ends of the knife.

I'm nothing but a murderer.

She's nothing but flesh.

Without thinking, without hesitation, I bring the blade down.

I feel contact.

A deep gasp comes from the unnamed woman.

Frank flashes the light over top of her.

The knife is halfway into her neck.

Her eyes are wide open now.

She looks at me and internally I crumble.

Alive.

Still alive.

Finish it off.

I bring my arm back up and feel the muscles in her throat close around the blade.

Don't do this, they say.

Have to, I want to admit.

The knife comes down again, this time through her cheek.

Dead now.

Certainly dead now.

Crimson spurts everywhere.

It lodges from the two gaping holes in her body, in differing directions on her face and chest.

I close my eyes.

My stomach churns and knots.

Again, and again,

up and down.

I don't know how many times.

My palm is torn to shreds.

Heat is surrounding my head and my body.

Her body squishes under the blade.

The exhaustion.

The blood.

I stab until it doesn't feel too much like a workout.

Until the squishiness is the only sound there.

Okay,

okay.

Frank's next to me now, grabbing my wrist and wriggling the knife from my hand.

Okay, that's plenty.

I halt the motions, but I feel my arm instinctually try to raise itself again.

like a machine slowly powering down.

Help me move her.

I nod and nod, unable to look at the mess I made.

Frank throws the blankets off her and they slap the tile, now soaking wet.

I opt for the legs.

And Frank sighs before trying to grab her arms.

We hoist her out of bed, the dead weight almost too much for me.

There's pieces of her left on the sheets.

Parts that are going to be rinsed clean.

Never to be thought about.

This woman will never be whole again, and Frank will never be caught.

He's a doctor, you see.

He's a noble man.

He's not big or flashy with his money, but he has plenty of it.

He has a lavish home.

He had a beautiful wife.

Darn shame she left without a trace.

It was her choice.

She was the one to make it, and I have to respect it, even though it pains me.

A man of few words.

We don't get that window into the soul.

We get a closed-up box.

Frank mumbles obscenities to himself as we walk back down the stairs.

There's no need for quiet now.

He's open with his frustrations.

Basement.

We turn the corner, and I realize that I've sweated myself sober.

It's real.

It happened.

And what did Frank say?

It'll be easy.

Fast?

I can't deny these words, although it feels like I've been here for days.

Frank drops the arms and what's left of his wife's head splats down.

He opens the basement door.

Another door, another staircase.

I picture a never-ending labyrinth of stairs just leading down, down, down.

Frank's inferno has a ring to it.

Just let her tumble down here.

I let go of her legs.

He prods the corpse with a foot, giving himself leverage and pushing until gravity does the rest.

Timber.

She thuds and bangs and bounces until her body reaches the bottom.

We follow it down, me and Frank.

He's still got his flashlight on.

Before we continue, you need to know.

I turn to him, questioning, wondering.

What more is there to know?

You should know.

My wife never cheated on me.

Rip the bandaid off, Frank.

Give the poor boy a chance.

Make him understand.

She's a lovely woman.

Was.

Whatever this is now.

He gestures towards the heap on the floor.

He sees that I can't say anything.

I'm mute now.

As though I was the real chatterbox earlier tonight.

He knows I want more.

I need more from him.

Truth be told.

I didn't want to be the one to kill her.

It seemed immoral, like I was breaking some sort of code.

Husband and wife code.

Frank comes to me and grabs my face again for the umpteenth time.

When I said I've done this thing before, I wasn't lying.

I have.

Many times.

I just needed help with this one.

You need to follow me.

He lets go, and I feel streaks of liquid squiggle down my cheeks.

The sweat and the blood.

The living and the dead.

He steps over the body and continues into the basement, which seems to be just one long corridor.

We walk, and my feet propel me forward, unprompted.

I'm in a movie.

I've left my body and I'm seeing this life through a third party's lens.

I'll wake up a better man.

I'll learn my lesson.

At the end of the hallway is a doorway, guarded by clear freezer curtains.

A butcher's shop?

A fridge?

Concealing what exactly?

I haven't shown anyone this.

He sounds nervous.

Like he believes I'll think differently of him.

He pulls the curtain and I see it there, laying on the floor.

It's a person.

Was a person?

Is trying to be a person?

A body for sure.

Sutured from the top to the toes.

Purple and white and red.

A hodgepodge of parts.

A face that's not much of a face at all.

A head that's not a head.

Not really.

I've been building something.

Something real special.

He bends down and runs a finger over its head.

Through the hair stapled to the skull.

My wife was amazing.

You heard me say this.

But she wasn't the best.

I've been searching and searching, and I've been left disappointed time and time again.

Oh, Robert, you need to understand what it's like.

Wanting so much.

Putting so much of yourself out there and getting nothing in return.

It's cruel.

Cruel, cruel, cruel.

I close my eyes and hold them shut with my hands.

But imagine it, Rob.

The perfect woman, able to give you everything you dreamed a woman could.

The best legs, the best tits.

Oh God, I'm running rampant with thoughts.

My wife had the beautifulest eyes.

All I think about when I think about her is her eyes.

Nothing more.

She was weak.

She didn't know what I needed.

Sylvia here.

He caresses its cheeks.

She had the best face there was.

Oh, her smile just brightened my day.

Doris had thick eyes and a great ass.

It's just amazing what you could do with hard work.

He sees my fear.

Probably smells it, too.

He comes over and pulls my hands away.

You can't say a word.

It's not an ask, it's a principle.

You're in this now.

A big part.

I'm not one to tattle rob.

You gotta believe that.

God knows you can't afford to lose what little you've got left.

He leans in.

And again,

between you and me, my name's not Frank.

But I'm sure you've figured that.

Again, he grips my ear in his hand.

He traces every bend, every swirl.

So supple.

So soft.

I feel his spit on my face.

His heavy breathing.

He laps my earlobe with a tongue.

A grunt, a moan, an uncertainty about how it makes him feel.

I look at this thing, Frank's monster.

It's alive.

I see its sagging face, its inflated arms.

The gaps where eyeballs should very well be.

Frank twirls and twirls.

He's digging his tongue into the canal.

I can feel the slobber.

It fills up my ear and deafens me.

And it's now, I see.

Now I know why it looks the way it does to me.

The odd-looking head.

I understand that I am special to Frank, or whoever this man is.

He chose me.

God, I should be so lucky.

I'm drowning in something.

Some feeling I've never felt before.

Out of all of them, Robert.

Out of all of them, I chose you.

I look at the head again, and I see two holes on each side.

Where ears ought to go.

Our tales may be over, but they are still out there.

Be sure to join us next week so you can stay safe, stay secure, and stay sleepless.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

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Baby, if you've ever pondered,

ponder the monsters after me.

I'm trying to stay alive in Cryptid Valley.

Cryptid Valley, WNSP.

Got kind of tired of Mothman and the Yeti.

Shupacabra, so many more, it seems.

Maybe you and me were never meant to flee.

Find me now by following my screams.

I'm a WNSP in Cryptid Valley.