NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 21

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Deep composition

Greetings, sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 21.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

We're excited to launch Season 23 next weekend.

Remember to save some fireworks to shoot them off to celebrate.

And with the new season beginning next weekend, you'll have until the end of day on July 3rd to join the Sleepless Sanctuary's Sleepless tier to hear all of Season 22.

Starting on July 4th, anyone joining the Sleepless $5 a Month tier will only have access to Season 23 content when it comes out.

Anyone with a Sanctuary level membership won't be affected by this at all.

And if you're currently a Sleepless Tier member, you will continue on with Season 23 with no interruption to your past content.

Now, on this volume of Sleepless Decompositions, we have three tales which will hurt you.

Well, maybe not actually cause you physical pain, because we have yet to invent and market our own brand of earbuds, which will send a hot needle into your eardrums to simulate physical pain when it occurs in one of our stories.

But we're working on it.

So we're limited to the mere power of suggestion, which can be quite intense.

These tales will introduce you to people who have to deal with the tortuous physical pain they experience or perhaps cause others to experience.

Now, sleepless friends, we're not clowning around on this episode.

We want you to feel the love in this one.

And we mean that like they do in that old song by Nazareth when they told us, Love hurts.

So brace yourself for these sleepless decompositions.

In our first tale, we enter a new age.

I, I mean, we meet some friends who decide to break into a new age shop.

Crystals, tarot cards, witchy Wiccan stuff.

You know the kind of place.

But who would break into a shop like that?

Well, as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Michael Ward.

The gang is after a special little figure they sell.

One said to have magical powers.

Now it's up to them to discover if that's true.

Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Jesse Cornette, Nicole Goodnight, and Matthew Bradford.

So save up your money and buy it instead of stealing the shimmering statue.

Mark is not my real name.

I'm changing the names for others' privacy, too.

I'll tell you why I can't sleep.

You'll find this a bit strange, but I swear, it's all true.

I'm friends with a guy, call him Bill.

I worked with him at the crab house back in the day.

We were on the same shift together most weeks.

That's kind of how we started hanging out.

So Bill is friends with this other guy, Tony.

We go to Tony's house.

Tony also has a girlfriend we'll call Deb.

Me and Bill, we're knocking back some beers with Tony and Deb at Tony's place.

He's got a row home with a concrete backyard in Baltimore County.

I guess the place name is okay to say.

But it's facing the alley or whatever.

We either drink there or in the basement when a game is on.

So we're there, and we're talking about Tarot and how Deb's been reading people their cards, and she wants to go buy some new ones.

I used to play with Tarot when I was younger, but no big deal.

We're crushing it.

When Tony starts talking about the New Age store having a back room for weekly meetings, the Open Pagan Discussion Group.

They've got Wiccans and voodoo practitioners and Norse mythology people.

They all go there for their group.

Tony's a cool guy, but he shoplifts a lot.

He's always got magic the gathering cards he pockets or candy or some bullshit.

Whatever.

Tony tells us about this one thing they have under the glass counter there, and he wants it.

It's a figure, like a little statue.

It's got a little card about the history standing up next to it.

It's not for sale, he says.

It's just for show, and he wants it.

We go check it out.

We ride up there in Tony's car.

He's got a Dodge charger.

Remember that for later.

The New Age store smells strongly of incense.

On the left, as we enter, is the glass counter with items inside and a cash register on top.

On the right is a pair of bookshelves, one displaying tarot cards in various styles, the other with a display of stuffed animal toy cats with wings and glittery unicorns.

Ahead is a dollar a pound book bin.

Some shelves on the left are stacked with jars of loose dry herbs for rituals.

And in the middle are more books.

There's an open door to a mostly empty back room with a table and some metal folding chairs.

I check out the statue when we get there.

It's this little black stone figurine, like four or five inches tall, and shaped like a tentacle monster.

The color is some kind of shimmering black, but with the greenish sheen, if that makes any sense.

We talk to the lady behind the counter, and the guy who owns the shop comes over and tells us he's just borrowing the statue.

He's holding it until the owner gets back from the Amazon.

Then they're taking it to a museum to put it on a showcase.

Cool.

Except, Tony gets this look in his eyes, especially when the owner tells us the legend.

And we're like, uh-oh.

It's a supposedly cursed statue.

It makes people immune to death or harm, but it also brings their doom.

Tony proposes later over beers that we do a heist.

He says he can unlock the shop's back door with a shim, and we can steal the statue.

For a laugh, is how he puts it.

I'm hesitant.

Bill wants to go through with it.

He thinks it'll be fun.

Deb does whatever Tony does.

I eventually relent.

Now to be clear here, I'm an idiot.

We're all idiots.

We do what Tony wants.

He's this kind of electric personality.

We meet back up that night around 10.

I'm wearing black jeans and a black hoodie.

My shoes are brown.

Bill wears green army camouflage.

Deb and Tony They're also dressed in black.

I've done a lot of 2020 hindsight thinking, and there are about a billion different ways this could have ended before it started, but there we are.

We walk to the shopping center and stick to the backs of the buildings.

The New Age store is on the end of a row of shops, so we easily slip right up to it.

Nobody is even around.

It's going on midnight.

One thing Tony knows for sure, he says, is that the New Age place has all fake cameras.

He's scoped it out before and has pocketed a few small things to test it.

When we come up to the metal door at the back of the store, he pulls out a little brass tool, like a little J-shaped baby trumpet.

He sticks it between the gap of the door, lines it up with the lock, and turns the knob on the tool.

The door pops right open.

Genius.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

We go inside.

Tony produces a knife and holds it out in front of him.

That should have been a red flag.

We Scooby-Doo It on into the store and straight to the front case.

From the cashier's side, it's not even locked.

The door just slides right open.

The register is hanging open and empty.

Tony tells Bill to get the statue.

He does it.

No alarm goes off.

Okay, so far so good.

This

is when it goes to shit.

We're skulking into the back room again on our way out, when out steps the shop owner.

And he's pretty pissed.

We bolt.

Bill's got the statue, Tony's got his knife out, I run, Deb runs.

As I'm stepping out of the store, I see Tony is right up in front of the owner.

And then a moment later, he's outside with us.

Book it!

So apparently, Bill stumbles hard at the tree line, but nobody notices, and Bill isn't phased.

Listen.

We are at Tony's basement, and Bill hands over Tony's statue.

As soon as he does, his leg buckles under him, and he twists his ankle.

I'm telling you, he was fine up until that moment.

After pausing for a beat, Tony says he's going to try something.

Then he uses the tip of his knife to prick his palm.

Nothing happens.

No blood.

Then he passes the statue to Deb.

Immediately, his open palm oozes out some blood, which he quickly presses to his mouth.

Hey, Debbie.

Let me cut you.

Tony proceeds to jab and feint at her threateningly with his knife.

No, no, Tony, stop.

I'm not kidding.

Tony?

She is backing up.

No, you asshole, here.

Take your stupid thing back here.

I don't want it.

I will.

Tony takes back the statue, looking pissed off at being called an asshole.

Time passes.

It's a while later and we're all a little drunk.

Well, Tony's very drunk.

He's left the basement and come back by this time.

And he's keeping something in his hoodie's front pocket.

Let's play Russian red.

Bill chuffs.

Yeah, right.

But then Tony pulls from his kangaroo pocket a pistol.

It's a revolver.

The temperature in the room immediately drops, and my heart skips a beat.

Oh, Jesus, Tony, not that thing again.

We're all feeling the same dread.

See, Tony has this problem with anger management.

It's not entirely out of character for him to pull a gun out of nowhere, and it's especially like him to tease us with it.

We're playing.

No!

Tony, no.

Bill starts to object, but Tony stares him down, and he looks away.

The game is we have to hold the statue, and then take a turn firing the gun at our head.

Tony, with the statue in hand, immediately turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger.

The gun dry fires and makes a loud click as the cylinder revolves.

Then it's my turn.

I take the statue.

The polished sheen is smooth.

and it feels warm in my hand.

I'm holding my breath.

I touch the muzzle of the pistol to my right temple.

I don't want to die.

I realize he never showed us if the gun only has one bullet.

I exhale slowly and squeeze the trigger.

The loud click next to my ear is the scariest sound I've ever heard in my life.

I breathe again and pass the gun and statue to Bill.

No,

I want it to be Debbie's turn.

Tony knows she hates being called Debbie.

Bill hesitates.

Do it!

Cowed, Bill pushes the gun and statue into Deb's reluctant hands.

Tony, no!

He glowers darkly, daring her defiance.

Tony, I'm scared, please, Tony.

Come on, Tony, it's not her turn, I say.

trying awkwardly to help Deb.

Who am I kidding?

It's not a great plan.

Deb gives the things over to Bill.

Bill's eyes go wide, looking hunted.

He takes the statue.

He looks over to Tony for a reaction.

Yeah.

Okay.

Bill is trembling.

He takes the gun.

He points it at his temple.

The gun dry fires in his hand.

He blanches.

He sets both items down on the floor like they're too hot to touch.

Deb makes no move to pick them up.

I don't want to play.

Oh,

you're playing Dead B.

He put the inflection on that second syllable of her name, really driving his point home.

She dare not defy him again, he was saying.

Tony is staring daggers at her as she picks up the pistol.

Pick up the statue, Debbie,

or I'll shove it down your throat.

She's crying now.

Please.

Please, no.

It's your turn.

Take the statue.

I demand that you pick it up.

He raises the gun, sharply, hyperextending his elbow, aiming at her face.

Defeated, silently sobbing through her tears, she reaches down slowly and picks up the statue.

The percussive explosion from the muzzle of the gun makes us all jump back.

Except for Tony.

His eyes are blazing, the rictus across his face neither grimace nor grin, cold as the dead.

Seemingly in slow motion, my adrenaline pumping, I watch the bullet exit the gun.

I watch it fly the distance to Deb.

I watch it enter her face.

God in heaven, I see it go into her face.

Time kicks back in.

My ears are ringing.

My heart is palpitating.

I am shocked.

She absorbed the bullet.

Is that what I saw?

She did it.

I don't know how, but she did it.

She absorbed the bullet into her face and then sat there with a horrified expression, but remained completely uninjured.

Everything is silent for just a moment.

Tony is the first to move.

He beats.

He's excited.

He laughs maniacally.

Bill looks pale, like he might be sick.

Deb is wide-eyed, frozen.

Now, whatever you do,

don't put the statue down.

Ever.

She doesn't know how to react.

I want to go home.

Tony gathers Deb into his smiling embrace and suddenly sounds like a different man, like a jolly uncle.

He consoles her, gently jokes with her, and generally tries to cheer her up.

He assures her that she'll be fine if she just hangs on to the statue.

He doesn't even want it anyway.

She She can keep it.

She's freaked out, but okay.

He sends her home and we all break for the night.

I go home and get some rest.

I have to sleep off all this excitement.

So, it's over for the night.

So we think.

What I find out later is that during the night, Tony snuck into her house, wiped all his prints off the gun, and wore gloves, and put the gun in her father's hand.

Then he slipped into her room while she slept and stole the statue.

Her face and head were obliterated, and she would have to have a closed casket at her funeral.

Her father swore up and down his innocence, but he went down hard with the law.

Elsewhere, the shop owner of the New Age store was also dead on the floor.

The police didn't connect the two murders.

Bill and I had no idea of this the next morning.

When we met up at Tony's again the next day, he kept a straight face and seemed as shocked as we were when we heard the news.

She must have dropped the statue, he says.

Where's the statue now, we wonder?

He has no idea.

It's not until weeks later, after the funeral and everything had calmed back down, that we saw him with the statue again.

I was astonished.

He was nonchalant.

This is at his place again.

We're in his domain.

He's got control of the statue and the room.

I accuse him.

He shrugs.

I threaten to call the cops.

Go ahead.

It turns quickly into an argument.

He storms out.

I storm after him.

Bill stays put, hands up, palms forward, and declaring himself out of it.

Tony gets into his Dodge charger.

I stomp to the passenger side and get in.

I cross my arms and try to look mean and serious.

He looks bored and waves me away with the back of his hand.

He shrugs.

He starts the car and drives.

He gets onto the open road and starts to accelerate.

He's going fast and getting faster.

Trees and buildings fly past to the left and right of us.

I glare at him and reach to buckle my seatbelt.

He looks smug and deliberately doesn't buckle in.

He's counting on the statue saving him if we crash.

We're passing other cars.

Fast.

We're too fast.

I snake my hand out to swipe the statue out of his grasp.

He pulls it away and hits me in the nose with his elbow.

Now he's talking.

Now he's cursing me.

We're both shouting as he jerks the wheel sharply to the right and we hurtle down a side street.

We're passing pedestrians, parked cars, houses, and a lady walking her dog, a toddler on a tricycle, his father guiding him with his hand on the child's back.

I'm telling him to stop.

I'm pretty scared, and I want to get out of the car.

Fuck you, Mark!

He yanks the steering wheel to the left, slaloms a lamppost, and takes us up a smaller street.

I know where we are.

We're on a dead-end road.

We've got maybe a mile before the road runs out, and after that, it's nothing but trees.

He's on the accelerator hard.

We're going to die.

I look at the statue.

I grab for it.

He yanks it away.

I'm scrabbling across him.

He's jerking the wheel and weaving down the road.

Here it comes.

The dead end.

A short guardrail and a red sign are all that's between us and deadly trees.

I'm grabbing.

He's taking us up the curb.

He's going to skirt the guardrail and aim us at a tree.

He's laughing like a maniac.

I'm desperate and panicking.

I grab his head and pull it near, not even trying to hurt him, just pulling his arm with that statue closer so I can grab it.

Trees.

Impact in five,

four,

three.

I grab it.

My fingers curl around the statue.

I feel the sweat on his hand, his tight fist losing its grip on the statue.

Two.

I have it.

One.

The world explodes.

It's minutes later.

I've woken up from an apparent blackout.

The airbags are out and deflated.

The turn signal is click, click, clicking.

Tony is dead or dying.

Even with the airbag, he'd still slammed so hard he'd been launched at the window.

His head and face are a bloody mess.

He's not responding when I say his name.

I unbuckle.

The statue is in my hand.

I wrestled the door open.

I get up and out of the car.

I'm walking, and I'm fine.

I'm completely okay.

I clutch the statue close.

I'm a block or two down the road before sirens come screaming past, on their way to Tony's car, and his shattered body.

I get home.

I clutch the statue.

I hold it tight while I take a shower.

I dare not let it go.

If, if the crash would have killed me, it'll catch up as soon as I let go of the statue.

I'm writing this with one hand.

My left hand is holding the statue and wrapped in duct tape.

I'm telling you what happened today, and I can't risk ever dropping the statue.

It's my whole life now.

And I don't dare fall asleep.

Hey, what's up?

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Ah, it's such a wholesome image.

A father spending time with his son, teaching him the skills he'll need to do well in life.

And when the son shows great acumen at a certain task, Dad wants to support it.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Anthony Neal Smith, the skills this family are best at wouldn't be considered quite that

wholesome.

I join Joel from Let's Read, Mike Delgadio, and Matthew Bradford in performing this tale.

So enjoy some father-son time as you spend Sundays in the workshop with dad.

Jeremiah steadied the nail between thumb and finger, swore under his breath he wouldn't screw up this time, set the hammer on top, a couple of practice arcs.

He held his tongue right.

One,

two,

three.

Perfect.

It sunk right in.

Like that, Dad?

Chet took a moment to regain his composure.

Yeah.

Yeah, son.

You got it.

The nail had driven through Chet's kneecap, Patella splitting it in two.

Not cleanly.

Bone shards and splinters around the wound, but the sound of the cracking bone was loud enough for both to hear.

Sunday evening in Chet's workshop out in the yard, where he'd built the kitchen table and chairs, the coffee table, the TV hutch, and a corner case to display Magnolia's treasured tea sets.

It had become a tradition, bringing his son out here to teach him about working with tools, helping him with crafts.

He'd made a skateboard and also a birdhouse.

This evening, on Jeremiah's first attempt, he flinched and slammed into the meat of Chet's thigh.

It was pathetic.

Second attempt, the nail pierced the skin but skidded off the bone and lodged in the tendon.

The boy was getting discouraged.

Fuck.

He paced the garage, pounding his head on both sides with latexed fists.

So stupid.

Hey, Jerry.

Jerry?

Hey, hey.

Calm down now.

You hear me?

Take a few deep breaths and listen.

Chet explained you don't have to wail at the nail in one go.

As long as the first hit is solid enough, confident enough, the nail would penetrate, take hold, and the next two would drive it in.

Jeremiah followed his dad's advice, and there it was, a ruined knee.

A proud moment for Chet.

His son, only 16, shaggy-haired in a hoodie and an attack-on-Titan anime t-shirt, was taking initiative.

Once this was all over, the boy would do okay for himself out in the world without his parents.

It was always going to come down to this, but Chet hadn't known the day nor the hour that he would wake up to find his wife, Magnolia, stabbed what must have been a hundred times in the running shower, a la psycho, which Chet first showed Jerry when he was 11.

He had walked down the hall to his stepdaughter's room, Jerry's older half-sister, home home for the weekend from college.

Knocked, of course.

He always knocked.

With no answer, he'd tried the knob and found Colleen mutilated as only a psychopathic 16-year-old boy could do.

Nothing left to the imagination.

A hat tip to one of the original serial killers Chet had introduced to his boy in his impressionable years, Jack the Ripper.

He'd had no time to grieve.

No time to admire the skill of Jerry's recreation, exactly like the photo.

Chet had to admit, he'd often imagined what Colleen's insides were like, her heart in his hand.

But he had rules, mental blocks, self-hypnosis.

Whatever it had taken to shut down the worm in his brain threatening to knock down the whole house of cards, Jerry didn't have the same stakes at play.

He was as free as Chet used to be before Iraq.

No time because the sound of the baseball bat whooshing before impact knocked Chet to the ground.

Before he could make sense of it and get to his feet, someone wrenched his jaw open and poured a sickly sweet juice down his throat.

It was either swallow or choke.

Ketamine.

Excellent choice.

He woke in the workshop, fastened to a lawn chair.

Jerry made quick work of the other knee beautifully.

Chet took in the kid's smell as he knelt before the chair he'd been zip-tied and duct-taped to, chained to the riding lawnmower in case Chet thought about making a run for it.

It had crossed his mind, as Jerry expected it to, what kind of father, mentor could Chet be if he bolted?

He kept his seat and shut his mouth.

Weird.

Something he'd never thought of before becoming a stepfather, then a father, was how the kids in a father's life, the one he's sworn to protect, each have a different smell.

Some sort of primal instinct switching on the moment Jerry was born, or the day of his wedding to Magnolia, Colleen a first grader then.

How to explain.

The boys like a snow day here in North Minnesota, his sisters like cinnamon raisin oatmeal.

Nothing like the fear sweat of the prisoners he'd interrogated in those desert black sites.

The piss and shit fumes, bolder every day the subject was left bound, gagged, assaulted by death metal music, doused with freezing and scalding water, told repeatedly his wife and children and mother had been raped and murdered already, and much more.

Chet was on the verge of passing out when Jerry took a pair of massive garden shears and sliced off three fingers on his dad's right hand.

Or tried to.

It took four tries.

The blades weren't sharp enough.

All right, now.

Listen, Jeremiah.

Listen to me.

I know.

You've put a lot of faith in me not to scream.

That's a big risk.

A real big risk.

The boy scrunched his eyebrows.

Chet looked down at his index finger dangling.

Didn't realize Jerry had snipped it, too.

You think?

I'm not the same man I was in the army.

I'm older.

I'm softer.

My will is weaker.

Look, Look, if I were you,

I'd slap some tape over my mouth.

You know how nosy the neighbors are.

Pop, I mean, how will you talk to me then?

Tell me what I'm doing wrong.

You're doing...

Jerry,

you're doing great, son.

Really.

Really great.

One thing though.

Make sure your tools are sharp.

Listen, as sharp as can be.

Because sometimes your goal isn't only to inflict pain, right?

But to induce shock.

Look, try to...

Try to imagine it from

their point of view.

You know, them

seeing their fingers gone.

The pain not yet reaching their brain.

You see what I mean?

Okay, yeah, yeah, I get it.

Okay.

Good.

Okay, now let's

try it again with my other hand.

But go get the whetstone and the oil.

You still want the duct tape?

Well, play it by ear.

How about?

Jerry grinned and set off to sharpen the shears.

Chet watching warmly, remembering his first clues to Jerry's utter lack of empathy when he was a young boy caught torturing the dog with a stun gun he'd taken from his mom's purse.

Then the neighbor's cat.

one by one disappeared.

The couple next door, Neil and Fran, called a meeting for everyone on the street, goaded everyone into starting a neighborhood watch.

Great.

Just what Chet needed.

Amateurs with flashlights and handguns peeking into his backyard all hours of the night.

He didn't even like cats.

A couple of days after, Chet found Jerry behind the workshop with the same set of shears he was using this evening.

A gray cat bleeding out, three legs already amputated.

When his dad shouted, Jerry looked up, his eyes flat and dead.

Go to your room.

But pop, now.

Jerry had set the shears down carefully.

He dumped the exhausted, muling cat like it was garbage.

He moped across the yard as if daring Chet to shout at him again.

Once he was inside, his father disposed of the cat quickly, humanely.

He'd found Jeremiah in his room smashing the robot insect toys he'd begged for last Christmas.

He was lining up sharp pieces of plastic on his study desk, saving them for who knew what.

Chet watched from the doorway for a while, remembering Magnolia's whispered fear, Jerry's not normal.

The robotic way he spoke to her and his sister, creepy.

Or Colleen's fear at being asked to babysit her brother when she was old enough, and no amount of money would change her mind.

Was it genetic?

Had he passed along his own sickness, evil incarnate, etched into his DNA?

He was certain, as certain as he could be, Jerry hadn't found his hidden stash of souvenirs from the war, or the other stash from when he'd returned home, unable to power down the itch.

Jerry, come here.

I want to show you something.

Come on.

The right time.

Either show him or let him keep wreaking havoc through the neighborhood, his school, and, heaven forbid, his own family.

Chet had taken Jeremiah out to this very workshop, sat him down, and pulled out the first picture album.

The page is sticky, discolored, with the smell Polaroids get over the years.

He handed the book to Jeremiah.

Go ahead, open it.

Starting with page one, it was full of photos from his time in Iraq, him and his partner, his blood brother, really, Rod Grood.

Together, they'd broken hundreds of men, dozens of women, and even several children, too.

Terrorists, every one of them.

They all confessed, even if it took their dying breaths to do it.

That was the problem.

They'd say anything, guilty or not, if Chet and Rod would, for the love of God, please stop.

By the time the torture twins figured this out, it was too late.

They were hooked.

They made their questions confusing, contradictory, surreal.

Ridiculous enough their subject wouldn't even know what he was supposedly guilty of.

Jeremiah flipped pages with wide eyes.

Before

And after.

See, it was my job, son, to keep this country safe by making these sons of bitches own up to all their plans for America.

Here, wait, look, see?

Him?

Oh, man.

We called him Steel Nips because we thought for sure that a battery and some clamps was all it would take to break him.

Jesus Christ, though.

Tough fucking nut.

Here, look, flip the page.

See, it took a lot more.

Oh, man, waterboarding a man whose nose we'd cut off.

He sighed.

Sweet memories.

More and more pages, Chet told Jeremiah how he'd started much like him, a young guy fascinated with making animals hurt.

Wondering what they were like inside, wondering if their fear was reflex, based on pain alone, or mental, like terror, like the sublime.

When Chet's daddy, rest his rotten soul, caught Chet dismembering a rabbit alive, he whooped the fear of the devil into his son's ass, sent him off to the shrinks, forced him into an alternative school where he'd learned from the other students better ways not to get caught.

Still, he got caught again, caught him with his unconscious prom date.

The cops thought that they were saving her from date rape, if they only knew.

Chet finished his GED in prison, and then finished his time with good behavior, and then found a buddy from from alternative school to help him score perfect forgeries.

He changed his name and attempted to blend into the background.

It was only one day after 9-11 the army came calling, knocked on his door.

They'd seen right through the phony name and whatnot, had been keeping a close eye on him.

They needed a man like Chet, quite a few men like him, to help keep our country strong.

Was he willing?

If so, he'd be rewarded handsomely.

To be honest, Chet would have done it for free.

Jeremiah kept flipping, the ferocity of the torture rising with each new victim, the posing of the bodies, the smiles on the face of whichever one was crouching next to the dead El Queso, their little twist on Al-Qaeda.

I was in the desert for six years, six wonderful years.

Then one day they said our jobs were done and we were flown home to the States with a bonus and a gag order whenever telling anyone.

Wife, parent, child, even pet.

You know, what we've done for the war.

Jeremiah, only nine at the time, had peered up, those beady little dead eyes of his.

How did it feel?

You know, what, coming home?

No, intailgating them.

Interrogating, you mean?

Interrogating.

Well?

The cries, the begging.

Those moments he could tell his subject had given up the will to live.

I bet it feels close to what you feel killing a cat.

I wasn't gonna kill it.

Well, son, please, come on, lie to your mother, not to me.

I know you've killed a lot of cats in this neighborhood.

But look, no more though, huh?

I'm gonna teach you how to make it work, how to grow into what you're becoming.

And he didn't mean like some dexter bullshit when the father told his psychopathic son to only kill bad people.

What a joke.

Like having wander bread and water for the rest of your dinners.

Once Chet had married, become Colleen's stepfather, he tried hard, really tried very hard to keep the itch deep hidden away.

The good old days to reminisce on long winter nights.

Bought a snowblower, put up Christmas lights, raked leaves, bought a grill, made some excellent steaks and pork chops, subscribed to Netflix and binged a lot of series on the couch each night with Magnolia.

pretended he hated Colleen's high school boyfriend.

But his fucking itch.

Then Jerry was born, and with him came the sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the complete focus on making sure this tiny, fragile life was set for the long run.

But his fucking itch.

Chet couldn't stand it.

He scratched.

Damn right he scratched.

He took the hunt out of town, obviously.

Shit where you eat.

Especially in this neighborhood, you might find Neil or Fran peeking out their curtains, absolutely sure that you were up to naughtiness.

Instead, Instead, he hunted in Duluth, an hour to the east.

Hunted downtown, the lakewalk, the mall, the subdivisions on top of the hill.

He wanted someone who wouldn't be missed for a while.

Single, young, didn't call mom enough.

Found him in Ian, college student, B-minus average, no girl or boyfriend.

Known to stay out all hours.

kept to himself.

Chet discovered all of these things by bumming a cigarette and trying some cold reading to dig out details.

Offered him a ride.

What line had he used?

Dude, if you like manga, you ought to see my collection.

Of course there was no collection.

Once in the workshop, Chet forced the gas on him, nitrous, until he was ragdoll.

Not much time.

Worried Magnolia might wake and come check on him, not likely with the dose he gave her.

or Neil would butt his nosy ass into it.

Swear the guy thought that he was Colombo.

Chet got him on the workbench and took him apart.

It wasn't as thrilling as the fear and screams of the terrorists, the god's wrath punishments he and Grood devised.

It was fine.

It calmed the itch.

Several hours later, he hauled Ian's many pieces and trash bags amongst sawdust, wood scraps, used sandpaper, and varnished-stained paper towels.

drove over to the north shore, and sank those bags to the bottom of Lake Superior.

As good as a a bottomless pit.

Home well before the roofies wore off his wife and kids, before sunrise.

He was beat and fell into a dreamy sleep.

He'd dropped 10 more bodies into Superior since then.

Jerry had helped with the last three.

Chet had started by teaching the boy to use tools for woodworking, how to make something beautiful from dead trees.

Saw, lathe, hammer, sander, screwdriver, varnish, glue, and many more.

He showed Jerry his more recent photo album, The People from Duluth, Two Harbors, Hermantown, quietly dismembered in Chet's workshop, then sunk into the dark freezing waters of Gitchigumi.

Birdhouse, skateboard, coat hooks for the mudroom, plant stand.

Chet took Jeremiah on a drive to Duluth, explained.

All right, so look.

You can't pick someone you have a connection to, all right?

So don't choose the same type of person, the same appearance, or they're going to put it together.

Think strategically.

The boy chose a frumpy older woman, maybe reminded him of a teacher.

Chet asked why, and Jerry shrugged.

What's old blood like?

Jerry played Lost, asked her to help him find his dad's truck in the parking lot.

After her, a man who drove a Porsche SUV.

Both agreed anyone driving that abomination deserved what they got.

The last, a girl Jerry's age, Chet told him it was a bad idea, would draw too much attention.

Then, the look he gave Chet,

shudder.

I'm curious.

Okay, son.

Okay.

Chet whipped his head towards the sound.

Jerry coming back, working the blades, now sharpened to a serious edge.

Better, Pop?

Sounds sharp.

Chet grew weaker by the minute.

You.

Make sure.

Take care of the details.

You know.

Dot the.

And cross the.

You know.

Are you ready?

Jerry stepped to Chet's left side, widened the shears around his left-hand fingers.

Chet shook his head.

I need a minute, son.

Come on.

I said in a minute.

Too loud.

Jerry should have taped his mouth closed.

For the first time since it began, Chet wondered if he had a chance to make it out alive.

He wondered how many of his subjects, from Iraq to the Minnesota Northwoods, wondered the same thing.

Was there any answer they could give?

Any pleading or begging strong enough to get under their tormentor's skin?

Right?

No one was that cruel, that cold, right?

Chet knew better.

He wondered what would come next.

Inject his eyeballs with bleach, force him to drink rat poison, drive an ice pick into his ear not quite far enough to kill him.

The nitrous had made it all safer for his own itch, yet Chet could tell that it hadn't been enough for Jerry.

Like he had with the cats, The kid needed to see and hear the pain, like his old man had overseas.

It added something special and made the whole exercise meaningful.

Jerry had slacked off, his demeanor shy, small, still in thrall to his father.

Not the lesson he wanted to impart.

Son.

Come here.

Jerry stepped closer.

Chet stared him dead in the eyes.

You're just gonna let your subject bush you around.

Come on, take control.

I ask for a minute.

You shouldn't even give me ten seconds.

Understand?

A grin on the boy's face.

Yeah, I get it.

Thanks, Pop.

He opened the shears and positioned them for the left-hand fingers, sharp enough to take them off in one shick.

A shout from outside.

Mother of shit!

A flash, a bang.

Jerry stood there tall with his wide eyes, like he'd been zapped with a cattle prod.

Another two flashbangs, and

his head recoiled, the last expression on his face questioning his dad.

What happened?

Jerry dropped like a stone.

A heavy bag tossed right into Lake Superior, sinking down, down,

down.

In the doorway of the workshop stood Neil, two-handing a smoking pistol.

His gaze switched from Jerry to Chet, taking in his bruises, lumps, nailed knees, and fingers all over the floor.

Jesus, my God, man, what was he trying to do?

Chet's heart broke and he strained at the zip ties.

Why did you do that?

Neil, why did you have to kill him?

Why did you kill my son?

Neil eased the pistol down.

You're good now.

You're good.

I'll call for someone.

Get you some help.

He hefted his phone, dialed, spoke to the dispatcher over the speaker instead of holding it to his ear.

Chet stared at Jeremiah's body, the smell of a snow day already fading.

So much blood leaking out of the wounds on his back and head.

How he would have loved the sight.

It was truly beautiful.

Why?

Neil held up a finger.

The address.

Yeah, the address is.

Chet was itching all over now.

He failed his son, miserably so.

It should be Chet dead on the floor.

It should be Chet's blood spreading out, reflecting the blinking fluorescence.

Chet peered at his neighbor, strutting around telling the dispatcher his half-assed version of events.

Oh, yeah, he's lucky I heard him shout.

The kid was about to chop his other fingers off.

His own dad.

Blue and red lights strobed outside, the siren coming to a stop in the alley behind the house.

Chet had no other choice but to play the victim, a real victim, and hope they didn't find his hiding places.

Another glance at the floor.

Jerry's blood had made it to his slippers, absorbed into the fabric.

Should be Neil's blood,

and it will be

soon enough.

Hey, what's up?

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In our final tale, we meet a man who needs help.

And thankfully, he's seeking professional help from a therapist.

We all know how important that is these days.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Chris Panatiere, the therapist is struggling to help the man with his rather peculiar problem.

You see, his job is meant to bring happiness to others, but he has to deal with all that pain.

Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Danielle McRae, and Atticus Jackson.

So there are many forms of help out there.

Have you considered some play therapy?

Dr.

Ellen Grant glanced up at the big clock on her office wall when the door opened.

2.59 p.m.

She knew it was him.

Even before she saw his face.

Something in the air.

This was it.

The big red shoe she'd been waiting to drop for over a year.

The way the door pushed inward like it had been thrust open, then allowed to creak to a slow halt before an entrance was made.

There was a showman's quality to it.

He'd found her.

His face appeared around the edge of the door.

Hey, Doc!

Sorry, I'm early.

The clock's big hand moved straight up with a click.

Well, I guess I'm right on time then.

He stepped inside and threw his arms out.

55 minutes until I'm cured.

Mr.

Hicks.

You thought I'd give up on therapy just because you changed your name and moved five states over?

No way!

And Doc, we've been together for 20 sessions.

My father was Mr.

Hicks.

You could call me Hermit.

She glanced at her phone.

How quickly could she dial 911?

He saw her thought process.

I wouldn't, Doc.

Cold fear pressed into her extremities as her mind searched for a way to escape the situation.

She could feel the blood draining from her face.

She'd had problem patients before, that was the nature of psychiatry.

They were all suffering.

For a not insignificant few of them, however, their issues bled across the line between doctor and patient.

There had been difficult cases she'd had to withdraw from or refer to other therapists.

Harassment, even the occasional stalker, something usually handled by the authorities.

But only one patient had made her feel so unsafe, had been so adept at disappearing when the cops got involved that she literally run away.

That was Herman Hicks.

You look tense.

I want this to work.

I wouldn't miss my last session for the world.

Putting on her bravest face, trying to control the situation, Ellen rounded her desk toward a pair of chairs set out on a broad indigo rug.

I've told you many times that cases like yours just aren't cured.

It's a matter of ongoing therapy and constant vigilance.

It takes work.

I have more confidence in you than that.

He sat into the chair on the left the one he knew would be hers

you don't mind do you

she steeled herself

not at all herman

sit wherever makes you the most comfortable

he did and clasped his hands primly over crossed legs

well

shall we begin

he pointed

clocks ticking

Ellen grabbed her notebook and sat into the opposite chair.

I'm not sure what there is for us to do.

I researched you.

Everyone said you were the best.

And it was during our first visit that you said.

You

said

that you were confident I could be helped.

Your exact words.

Helped, Herman.

Not cured.

Ah, well, in my case, cured is the only thing that will be helpful to me.

I've lost my mojo.

It's your choice to see it that way, then.

I never offered you a cure.

Yeah, that's what you said in our last session before you ducked into witness protection.

you said you were going to kill me if I didn't cure you by 21 sessions, Herman.

He glanced at the clock.

49 minutes.

Ellen noticed her hands shaking and wrapped them around the file across her chest.

Please don't do this.

It's not going to help you.

He leaned forward.

I have a job, but no one will hire me any longer.

Not funny enough, they say.

Too depressing, they say.

Too edgy.

Unstable.

Well,

you suffer from anxiety and depression.

And a whole host of other personality disorders she didn't feel it beneficial to rattle off.

47 minutes.

Standing up, she dropped the pad onto the ground.

Stop that.

I'm not going to cure you in 47 minutes.

Why don't you just do what you came to do and get it over with?

I made you a promise.

21 whole sessions.

We've only just begun.

I'm not doing anything until 55 after the hour.

I think you just want to kill someone and maybe satisfy your pathology until you get the urge to do it again.

That's not true at all.

Ellen asked a question she'd been too afraid to ask in prior sessions.

How many?

You'll have to be more specific.

How many have you killed, Herman?

How many what?

People?

Psychiatrists?

Clowns for hire?

Ellen didn't answer.

He crossed his arms and made invisible notches in the air with his finger.

Psychiatrists?

Just the two.

The ones I went to before I came to you.

Made them the same deal.

They weren't me good, good, though.

You're way better.

It's session 21, and you're not cured, as you put it.

So.

So why am I better?

I don't know.

I feel like there's something more to you than the others.

A desire to push past conventions and solve problems.

It's one of the reasons I've placed you in this

particular circumstance.

No.

It's because you are a textbook sadist.

Sometimes unconventional solutions arise from the fire of the crucible.

41 minutes.

Ellen sat again and crossed her arms.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being mouse to his cat.

What?

You gonna do the radio silence thing?

I can't imagine what I could do in 41 minutes to cure you as you desire.

And even if I knew what to do,

I doubt I could do it under duress.

You have to try to help me.

Pretty sure you took an oath.

Ellen rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Herman narrowed his glare and leaned back in his chair, seemingly fine to play along.

They sat this way for some time.

Eventually, Ellen checked the clock.

A countdown to her death.

Thirty-three minutes remained.

Herman shifted.

Maybe she was getting under his skin.

She hoped so.

He held his mouth tight as a string.

She smiled nihilistically, happy to frustrate his plan.

Finally, he broke the quiet.

I'm going to paint myself

in your blood.

Oh?

Just like for birthday gigs.

Red, rosy cheeks, a bright red nose.

Slick my hair back with it.

His eyes shone with a purient light as he described his plans.

My clown's name is Red, after all.

Good for you.

But as she said it, her mind churned.

There was something here.

An avenue they'd not discussed during prior sessions.

A note to be plucked.

Tell me how you're going to do it.

Do what?

How are you going to kill me?

Already writing yourself off?

Sad.

You still have 26 minutes and you're just giving up?

Consider my question part of your therapy.

A slight grin.

Okay,

I'll play.

Ellen leaned over, gathering her notepad and pen from the floor.

Go on.

Herman reached into his pocket and placed a foldable barber's razor onto the coffee table.

He watched Ellen and shrugged as if awaiting her reaction.

She pushed away the thought, as well as the imagined sensation, of having her throat slit.

Not very creative, is it?

Well, that's your fault.

I've been uninspired.

Chalk it up to the depression.

Nothing brings me joy anymore.

Not even blopping off toes.

Toe lopping?

She made a face.

That your thing?

Wow.

Kink shaming?

Thought this was a safe space.

Not if I'm going to die in it.

24 minutes.

24 minutes.

Well,

I do appreciate the honesty.

Do you?

Yes.

Wonderful.

So,

I'm to die by knife.

As unimaginative as that is,

does the idea of that

of ending my life

bring you joy?

Yes.

What if I put up a fight?

Even better!

I will put up a fight.

His spine straightened and his eyes flared.

He popped his lips like he'd just applied balm to them.

Tell me how.

You really want to know?

His mouth bulged with saliva.

Oh,

yes.

I'm a blue belt in jujitsu, but haven't practiced in years.

And against a man with a knife, I don't like my chances.

But I do my best.

Tell me you'd make it a challenge.

I'd be harder to kill than most women in their mid-forties,

but likely no match for you.

His smile broadened.

And how long do you think you'd be able to hold out if I abandoned the knife and

tried to kill you with my bare hands?

She knew now that she'd found a vein of access into her patient's psyche.

Considering your size and fitness.

She tilted her head to assess this last point.

Likely a few minutes longer.

But you'd still prevail.

I'd need to get my hands on a weapon.

Herman rubbed his chin greedily as he surveyed the office.

What would you use?

Ellen eyed the lamp on a small table between their chairs.

It's heavy, for sure.

You might get lucky and crack my skull.

Maybe.

Do you like the idea of that?

He shifted pleasurably on his seat cushion.

Yes.

Herman,

does it bring you a sexual thrill?

The idea of murdering someone?

It

does.

Is the intensity of that thrill increased at the thought of being wounded or damaged during the course of attempted murder?

It

does.

He gestured toward the fanny pack he wore crosswise over his chest.

Do you mind?

Not knowing where things were going, but feeling she had nothing to lose,

Ellen nodded.

Go ahead.

Herman unzipped the pack and dug around inside before finally producing an object she hadn't seen in years.

A handheld bicycle horn.

Is that the horn you use at birthdays?

It is.

Why have you gotten it out?

Well, that's my business.

Just keep talking.

Alright.

Where were we?

Me killing you.

Right.

Okay.

Well, I'm curious.

Is it more satisfying for you to succeed at killing me with great cost to your physical welfare

than to try killing me and failing

ah

so you want a fight

one that puts you in peril but that you still win

what if it's virtually assured that you will win

does that lessen your satisfaction

well

we know that's the case case.

I can't beat you in combat.

So, why go through with it at all?

Because that was the deal.

You're depressing me now.

Wasn't my intention.

Just a question.

Can we go back to our fight to the death?

Sure, Herman.

What's your favorite part of doing someone in?

The blood.

The both of us bleeding together.

The commingling of it.

And what if there's no blood?

Then there won't be anything to paint myself with.

Is that what gets you off?

Well, it helps.

So it's better if I bleed.

If I die and I don't bleed, then what?

I just cut you up after.

But it's boring playing in the dribble of a lifeless corpse.

Fresh arterial spray is way better.

Go back to that.

I'm I'm curious, Herman.

Are you going to assault me

sexually?

Herman sprang from his seat with an animal roar, his face storming red.

Just what do you think I am?

Monster?

Ellen held her hands up to placate him.

Sorry.

Herman slumped back into the chair, looking utterly devastated.

Ellen realized she'd set her plan back.

I didn't know where the line was, Herman.

That's my fault.

He grimaced.

Twelve minutes.

Ellen understood Herman's pathology now, sick as it was, and his efforts to keep her on track suggested there might be a pathway out.

Let's play a game.

You must like games, being a clown and all.

A tentative honk from the horn.

Let's pretend it's twelve minutes from now and I haven't cured you.

How's that sound?

So I say,

Sorry, Herman.

I tried.

I did my best.

What will you do?

What's your first mood?

I'll stand up and say something pithy.

Funny, even.

What?

What will you say?

Tell me.

I want to hear it.

Herman switched the rubber ball of the horn from hand to hand, sweaty from his palms.

I'll say.

I'll say.

How about?

Hope you're down to clown.

That's good.

That's real good.

Your turn.

What will you do next?

Tell me how you attack me.

How we struggle.

I'll throw the knife across the room.

Ah.

Something for me to try and get to.

What next, Herman?

I'll leap at you.

Tackle you to the floor harder than you've ever been hit.

The shock of it will stun you for a few moments.

Normally, I'd hit you in the face and throat while you were disoriented, but I think today I'll let you regain your bearings.

That way,

you're all there when I smash you.

So it's to be a pummeling

wide smile.

I think so.

Yes, a pummeling.

Yes.

If you've already got me pinned,

then it should be a quick fight.

How will you finish me?

Will it be strangulation?

Oh, yes.

But not immediately.

I think I'll let you up

to give you hope.

Maybe even a head start toward the door.

Hmm, you really like to play with your food, don't you?

So,

you let me up.

Then what?

You go for the door, of course.

Even though you know I'm going to get you.

And I do.

I slam you into the door very, very hard.

You go silly for a moment.

Fit in.

Considering your vocation.

Herman chuckled.

Don't spoil the mood, Herman.

What do you do to me next?

I imagine I'm struggling to stay conscious at this point.

I drag you across the room and lay you down within reach of the knife.

Giving me hope again.

I get the feeling you sort of want me to get that blade.

And maybe I do.

And cut you.

I definitely cut you.

Deep.

Right across your chest.

What next, Herman?

What makes you excited?

You want to prolong it, don't you?

Tell me.

Herman adjusted his pants.

I had lived for a bit.

Break some of your bones.

Get a little

sloppy.

This arouses you.

Do you you want me to keep going

faster?

What next, Herman?

I cut you.

So, you can paint yourself in my blood, of course.

I take it you would have your clothes off by now.

You're a sick little fuck, Herman.

It's true.

So,

you're slathered in my blood.

It mixes together with the blood from the gash in your chest.

Yes.

Am I still conscious?

Because you want me to see the spectacle you've created.

You get off on it.

Then what?

I'm bleeding profusely now.

I mean,

the clock is ticking.

Right, Herman?

How long does it take a person to bleed out?

His eyes were shut and he'd thrown his head back.

A minute.

Maybe less.

Depends on the blood vessel.

The size of the gash.

Then we only have a minute, Herman.

Quickly, what happens next?

I get down on my knees.

I smack you until you make eye contact.

You need that.

You need eye contact to finish, don't you?

Look at me, Herman.

His chest heaved.

Look at me.

He opened his eyes, wide and deranged, pupils dilated.

We're making eye contact, Herman.

I'm bleeding out.

I'm dying.

Finish me.

How do you finish me?

My hands around your throat.

There's blood everywhere.

Our bodies are one.

Two organs together.

I squeeze and your eyes bulge.

You piss yourself.

It's spectacular.

I'm dying, Herman.

I'm choking.

I can't breathe.

Piss everywhere.

My heart is slowing.

Look at me!

Herman refocused, his fingers working the horn faster and faster.

Good.

Look into my eyes.

Ten seconds until I'm dead.

Feel my heart.

Feel it.

It's

very

easy.

Your blood is all over me.

The horn honked, a nearly continuous sound.

Eight, seven,

six,

five.

Herman tossed his head back, shrieking as he writhed and twisted in ecstasy.

Four,

three,

two.

Yes.

Herman convulsed and shuddered.

Resting his head on the back of the chair, he worked to catch his breath.

Finally, he exhaled and rolled his gaze toward Ellen, his eyes clear and calm.

She looked to the clock.

I'm dead.

And it's only 3.52.

Herman adjusted himself upright in the chair and swayed his neck side to side.

What now?

Herman sniffed and cleared his throat,

then unzipped the fanny pack to dig around.

Ellen's eyes ran across the razor, still sitting on the coffee table, then back to Herman.

He stood, making her push her back into the cushion.

He stepped close and leaned over, his breath smelling of fago soda.

With a showman's flourish, he ran his hand alongside her ear, then magically presented a red ball of foam.

And what do we have here?

He pinched the ball and placed it onto his nose, then gave it a double squeeze just as the horn sounded from behind his back.

I believed in you, Doc.

He smiled and raised his eyebrows clown high.

You just needed to believe in yourself.

She'd been holding her breath and finally released it.

Her adrenaline crashed.

Herman recovered the razor and placed it into his fanny pack.

I feel like me again.

Thanks, Doc.

He mimed a sneeze, and a long string of blue rubber appeared to unravel from his nostril.

A balloon, Ellen realized.

Giving it a stretch, he inflated it with one breath, deftly twisted it into a flower, and handed it over.

Then he left through the door just as the clock's minute hand clicked to 55 after.

Ellen, not sure yet if she believed he was really going to leave, sat like a statue in her seat with the balloon flower until she heard the bicycle horn out on the street.

She dashed to the window and pulled apart the blinds.

Herman had his head inside the window of the smallest car she'd ever seen.

He gesticulated wildly, then stepped back as another man got out, followed by another

and another.

The back door opened and a man got out and after him two more.

The front door flew wide and at least five others poured out onto the sidewalk.

Arms triumphant, Herman made some sort of proclamation.

His fellow clowns hopped with joy and embraced him in turn.

Then they wedged themselves back into the vehicle.

Herman pushed in last

and slammed the door.

As your time with us has come to an end and you can now finally escape these sleepless tales.

We thank you for joining us here at the No Sleep Podcast for our sleepless decompositions.

Join us next week for the premiere of season 23 here at the No Sleep Podcast.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInelly, Ollie A.

White, and Kristen Semido.

I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings.

Please visit theno 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 program is Copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc., all rights reserved.

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 Inc.

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