S22 Ep25: NoSleep Podcast S22E25

Suffs!

The new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We demand to be home!

Winner, best score!

We demand to be seen!

Winner, best book!

We demand to be quality!

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

Suffs!

Playing the Orpheum Theater, October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

They're calling.

Like me to call you back.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

A voice unrecognizable

audio messages from the shadows,

but one message is clear,

and it says

brace yourself for the no-sleep podcast.

It's over.

It's over.

It's over.

It's over.

Welcome to the season 22 finale of the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

Yes, we've reached the end of our 22nd season.

Our phones are ringing for the final time.

Oh, and that's a crime, isn't it?

There were so many other phone calls we could ring you with.

But alas, all good things must come to an end.

But even though the season is ending, the audio horror will carry on.

During our break between seasons, we have our usual lineup of episodes.

Members of our Sleepless Sanctuary can look forward to the old-time radio episode and volume 20 of our suddenly shocking flash fiction series.

Our traditional feed will have two hiatus episodes featuring stories from our premium episodes.

Then we'll be sleeplessly decomposing with you with two sleepless decompositions episodes before the launch of season 23 on the first weekend in July.

Get ready for season 23 because it's going to be intense.

Now, as I mentioned, it's a crime that we have no more creepy phone calls to send your way.

But by crime, I really just mean what a shame that is.

Because when it comes to crime, we don't really do that true crime thing.

I'm pretty sure there's one or two podcasts out there that handle the true crime stories.

When it comes to our crime stories, they're of the fictional variety, and ones in which crime is just the backdrop backdrop for horror.

On this season finale, we have three stories in which criminals have to deal with the effects of their crimes.

And sometimes it's those people around them who end up taking the worst consequences of the misdeeds.

After all, crime doesn't pay, does it?

But it can pay off some criminally intense horror.

So don't call the cops quite yet.

They'd only put an end to our law-breaking tales, and that

would be a crime.

So thanks for hanging out with us for season 22.

And as always, watch your phones, because the question will always apply.

Do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, We meet a criminal who falls into that most heinous of categories known as a serial killer.

And now it's time to hear directly from them about why they did what they did.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Thomas Kaminsky, you might discover that their crimes were complicated and not ones you'd expect from a young woman.

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Jeff Clement, Nicole Goodnight, and Atticus Jackson.

So, when people start dropping dropping dead, it could simply be the result of the plague.

I suppose you could call this my confession.

Although I've never shied away from the truth of what I am.

Okay, that's not entirely accurate.

For the longest time, I couldn't say what I was.

I didn't have the words to express it.

Those who knew of me called me monster, vile, demon.

But such names were just emotional responses.

Killer, I'm afraid, is the only word that objectively describes me.

You could say woman, 25, single.

But that last part probably goes without saying.

Anyone who could could ever love me died the day I sold my soul to a stainless steel kitchen knife.

Sometimes I see their faces in the reflection of its blade.

I'm reminded not just of the throats it's cut, but the ties it's severed, the houses it's divided.

I have no right to feel remorse for my actions.

But time and again, I come back to that same question.

What am I?

I didn't always care to find an answer.

I never thought I'd live long enough to need one.

After all, murderers don't generally have great life expectancies.

But after nine years staying two steps ahead of justice, I learned that if nothing else, I'm a master of my trade.

You would think then that I already answered my own question.

What am I?

Why, I'm a serial killer, of course.

But somehow that never felt like the full story.

Serial killers are sociopaths who enjoy exerting the ultimate power over their victims.

For some, killing is a drug and their only way to get high.

Others derive a sick, sexual pleasure from it.

But I...

I never found myself smiling after a kill.

And yet I always went back for more.

So what am I?

Really?

The very question cycled through my certifiably psychotic mind as I waited in a room of synthesized horror.

The eight-inch knife in my right hand glistened from dim neon and ultraviolet light.

Fake splotches of blood glowing across my body.

A mutilated corpse hung from a meat hook at my side.

while a motion-activated chainsaw rattled from the family that just passed through.

More and more often, I would see parents parents bringing their kids through the attraction.

Perhaps a sign they simply didn't get scared like they used to.

I could fix that.

All right, Ashley, I'm sending one more couple through.

Last one's in the night, so I'm out of here.

Set her down when they're done.

Okie-dokie.

I put my two-way radio away and sighed.

Working weekends at a haunted house wasn't exactly a passion of of mine, but a fun enough hobby for the harvest season.

The more time I spent there, though, the more I wondered what compelled people to go out of their way to get scared.

My theory was that horror offered a glimpse into a world decidedly worse than our own, and the relief of returning to our safe, boring reality was a trick to convince us how good we actually had it.

But if this were true, then it begged another question.

If a little corn syrup and some rubber prosthetics could create such a powerful psychological reaction, then what potential might real horror have?

Rising from my doctor's stool,

I moved to a bloody operating table.

Beside it sat a worn-out wooden chest, latex arms blossoming from it like a bouquet of fingered flowers.

Parting the gore,

I uncovered a mask.

A homemade duct-taped marriage of a gas mask and taxidermy ravens beak.

Being a killer who lived amongst her prey, I needed a disguise.

One both unsettling for my victims and memorable for the news.

I settled on modern-day plague doctor.

Slipping it on, I could hear my own breathing accentuated by the filter.

It used to be my heart would race at the start of every hunt, but my feelings on the matter fast became dulled.

It wasn't that I grew bored with it or numb to it.

It was more like it stopped feeling extraordinary.

It felt like going through the motions of a job more so than committing one of the highest crimes.

And yet, I kept killing.

As though under obligation, as though compelled by some sense of responsibility.

I knew it sounded crazy, but something told me the horror had to continue, that there was a purpose to it beyond my comprehension.

Sneaking through the back rooms, I swept up behind the night's final visitors, my steps concealed by a ghoulish ambience playing over the speakers.

The victims were a young couple, probably fresh into college, dressed to match as Frankenstein and Bride.

Despite both showing their Halloween spirit, though, the woman clearly had less enthusiasm for horror.

She jumped at every little sound and scare, repaid by a laugh from her unsympathetic boyfriend.

He tried to make it up by wrapping her under his arm, but this annoyed her more than it comforted.

So she pushed him away in favor of walking alone.

Come on, this place ain't that bad.

It's just cheap gags.

Gags or not, I don't like shit jumping out at me.

She screamed again and pressed herself into a wall as a wicked green witch cackled and smacked two pants together.

I'd always found the animatronics plain and unconvincing.

But their cheapness enhanced the surprise when I revealed myself to be a real actor.

Doubly so when I revealed I was method.

Clutching her her heart, the woman turned to her boyfriend with an insidious stare, though the look quickly turned to fear when she saw me lingering in the background.

Why did I let you talk me into that?

She took one big step back as though about to run, eyes wide and trembling.

The boyfriend turned to see what had spooked her and flinched, though he tried to play it off as nothing.

Aside from the mask and doctor's coat, my presence wasn't all that imposing.

I had the healthy but unathletic build of a benchwarming track runner and the perfect height for an average man to rest his chin on my head.

That, coupled with my pitiable biological endowment, meant people often mistook me for a teenager, especially when I covered my face.

But as belittled as my figure made me feel, It proved advantageous for killing.

It gave my victims a false sense of security, allowing me to approach them them without the need for subtlety.

Or, in this case, allowing me to be approached.

The boyfriend, laughing off his little scare,

came closer to investigate, unsure if I was live or mechanized.

Okay.

All right, that one got me.

He moved up beside me and peered into the gas mask.

trying to see my eyes through the poor lighting.

I stayed motionless as he prodded prodded my shoulder, but the feeling of genuine flesh must have given me away.

He pulled his hands back and raised them in apology.

Oh, shh, sorry, dude.

I thought you were fake.

Leave her alone and let's get out of here already?

The boyfriend smirked and rolled his eyes before turning to rejoin her.

As he moved away, though, I reached out and grabbed his wrist.

prompting him to look back.

Surprised as he was, he didn't seem to mind the invasion of of personal space.

In fact, he found it all the more exciting.

No shit, they're allowed to touch you in here?

Sweet.

Not sweet.

Very not sweet.

Let's go.

Yeah, yeah.

The man moved away again, but my grip tightened and I pulled him back.

Grinning as he turned, he still believed it was all part of an act.

Only when my knife slid comfortably into his kidney could I see the realization in his eyes.

I could see, in the brief moment before the pain fully materialized, the understanding that this would be his final day on Earth.

I pushed him away but kept the knife.

He stumbled into a wall, cries of terror and agony rising from his gut with every breath.

His girlfriend looked on in confusion at first, probably thinking he had joined the act.

But blood streamed between his fingers faster than ketchup packets or some stage trick could produce.

He fell on his hind, clutching at the wound while his girlfriend covered her screams.

I imagine at that point, they were thinking themselves the unluckiest couple in the world.

But only because they didn't know the true value in their deaths.

To be fair, I'd spent a long time figuring it out myself.

Years of killing with nothing but emptiness and longing for purpose to show.

I couldn't make sense of my own motivation.

But then, by chance, a small ray of clarity broke through the clouds and opened my mind to a whole new philosophy.

I was watching my local news channel when a story came on about crime in the city.

Not only had gun violence, gang activity, and drug use been on the rise, but detectives had made little progress in the way of catching a certain serial killer.

In response, the mayor and chief of police held a press conference addressing the issue.

I expected the usual empty assurances of a personality cult, but to my surprise, the pair came right out and admitted they had been failing their citizens.

Instead of another unsuccessful crackdown, They announced a partnership between city officials and community leaders, hoping to boost programs that actually preempt crime.

The city would allocate funding for mental health initiatives, community investment, and after-school activities.

Meanwhile, the police would work with ordinary citizens to organize and train neighborhood watches and provide free self-defense classes.

The aim was to give the public their own tools to create safer streets, freeing manpower to tackle the more stubborn cases.

Like me, seeing such cooperation and community involvement, the questions that had been bugging me for so long finally fit together.

I understood the power of horror.

Why I had to kill.

Why I had to be the bad guy.

You see, when peace is only incrementally disturbed, it's all too easy to become apathetic.

It's just a minor evil, people seem to say.

It's not worth the fuss.

But those minor evils slowly build and pile on until it's it's no longer possible to stop them.

And you're left living a new, shitty normal that only looks good compared to horror movies.

It takes a grand evil, a proper villain, to really get people motivated.

Which is why the world needs me.

It needs a common enemy, a force to fight against for a better future.

Through me and others like me, the mechanism to mold a perfect existence is possible.

And the knowledge of that finally gave me the satisfaction I'd been looking for.

As I fell upon the helpless boyfriend and dragged my blade across his neck,

a gentle smile crept under my mask.

Don't worry, I thought.

I'll never let your heroes rest.

Pushing him to the floor,

I rose like a cold morning fog and drifted over his choking body.

Careful to avoid the slick of blood pooling around him, he reached out with a pale, trembling hand to grab my boot, but his fingers slipped away as quickly as his strength.

Unable to protect his girlfriend, all that stood between me and the woman were her own wits and reflexes.

Frozen by shock and crying his name, she stayed in in place as I stepped closer, ghostly white makeup streaming down the curves of her cheeks.

Gradually, she pulled her blurry gaze away from the corpse and onto me, blubbering insults and half-thought curses.

You fucking.

you monster bitch!

She reached for her purse and pulled out a can of pepper spray,

deftly emptying it on my face from a distance.

I simply wiped my mask and wicked it away.

She threw the can and ran in the opposite direction.

I could have followed, could have hunted her through the halls, watched her scream and struggle as she discovered the exits to all be locked.

I'd done it before.

But as much as I loved my job, there still came days when I just wanted the night to be over.

Adjusting my hold hold on the knife, I cocked my arm and took aim.

Years of practice had made me confident in my ability to kill with anything, including a knife clearly not designed for throwing.

A quick flick of the wrist, and the blade rode the air as though upon wings, rising slightly toward the woman's back before falling and sticking in her thigh.

She grabbed her leg and hopped two steps more,

before crashing down and rolling to a stop.

Turning to the wicked witch, I snatched a cast iron pan from her grasp and twirled it in the air.

The woman, having dragged herself to a corner, swallowed her pain and yanked the knife, drawing it out with a splatter of blood.

Being a haunted house, I wouldn't even have to clean it.

No one would know the difference.

She held the blade in both hands, shaking as she pointed it at me.

I approached calmly but cautiously.

Standing just far enough back that she couldn't slash at my legs.

Even so, she whipped the knife wildly, threatening me with every last bit of her diminishing vigor.

Stay the fuck back, you fucking psycho.

I'll kill you.

I'll fucking kill you.

Honestly, I only had to let the blood from her untinted wound sap the rest of her energy and put her to a deadly sleep.

No confrontation, no danger.

But I was far too cocky for that.

With my free hand, I lifted my mask just enough to speak.

Had the poor woman kept her pepper spray, now would have been the optimal time to use it.

I'm sure she had a similar thought.

A thing like me cannot be killed.

Not until the world no longer needs me.

Needs you?

What the fuck are you talking about?

Who do you think you are?

The who doesn't matter.

It's the what that's important.

And I've had more than enough time to consider what I am.

To put it simply, the world is sick.

And through my actions, I hope to see it cured.

Oh, great.

We've got a doctor here that's fucking rich.

I shook my head.

No.

Not the doctor.

I am the plague.

Before she could form another response, I kicked her hands straight up.

Still clutching the knife, they swung in an arc, lodging the blade in her own forehead.

The bone saved her from too much damage, but as she tried to pull the utensil free, I brought my pan down on top of the handle.

Her skull split with a sickening crack.

As the knife slipped further in, a small bead of blood running off the tip of her nose.

Her body twitched as a raspy stutter crackled from her throat.

Eyes rolled up to the whites.

In this state, she remained for a good 20 seconds until her hands went limp and dropped to her side.

I smiled again.

Sorry only that she couldn't understand my grand vision.

Perhaps no one can.

But I've long accepted society's hatred for me.

And for that, I can't blame them.

I am the bad guy, after all.

I am the plague, the pestilence, the fire that will grow a greener forest.

Indeed, I am the pure, living embodiment of evil.

And someday, I know you'll thank me for it.

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Sucks!

The new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We demand to be home!

Winner, best score!

We demand to be seen!

Winner, best book.

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

Suffs!

Playing the Orpheum Theater October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

You know what it's like to spend too much time inside your own head?

If so, now imagine someone who can spend time in other people's heads.

That's the life of a telepath.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Jack Nash, we meet a telepath who feeds on memories of cruelty and violence.

And surprisingly, there's Slim Pickens out there.

Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Jeff Clement, Atticus Jackson, and Jesse Cornet.

So don't try to attain this ability.

It can be sweet, but addictive.

Kinda like sugar.

I'm sitting on a bus.

Sucking on the memories of the man in the row in front of me.

His head is bumping against the window, like he's drunk or stoned.

All I had to do was give him a mental shove.

He went down.

His mind is easy to shred as tissue paper.

Now he's drooling while I explore the gutters of his brain.

I'm just doing what I gotta do.

This guy deserves it, or I never would have been drawn to him.

I tell myself this every time, and maybe one day I'll finally believe me.

The sun warms my skin as we drive through

Pittsburgh?

Nah, Chicago.

Oh, who cares?

I've been to so many cities and suburbs and buses like this that names don't matter anymore.

The only thing that stays the same is the jerking to a stop at red lights, the weed smoke seeped into the seat cushions, the rumble of tires on asphalt beneath my feet.

But that's all static.

I throw my thoughts around the bus to see if anybody's tailgating me into this man's private world.

I get a few whining complaints about a pension from the driver.

Snatches of Beyoncé lyrics from the woman to my left.

Nothing more.

I'm the lone telepath.

It's been that way for months.

But I'm glad to be alone.

What I'm doing, I don't want people knowing about.

I close my eyes and focus on what this man's done and what I'm taking.

He's a gangbanger in some local group I ain't never heard of.

In his rememberings, I find him dealing weed to middle schoolers, running guns from Florida to New York, causing headaches for the cops like he's Jerry and they're Tom.

Or maybe it's the other way around.

I yank each memory away like a snail from its shell and slurp it down.

He shivers as his past leaves him.

When he wakes, he'll be lucky if he can still speak, much less remember his name.

I dive deeper.

His mind is disorganized, thin, his memories like stacks of movies and magazines magazines tossed on the floor in no particular order.

But I think I've found a good one, wedged between recollections of him driving a classic model Ford and sleeping with a woman named Roxanne.

As I inch closer, images appear in the dark and shimmer like an oil slick on concrete.

I see a shotgun blasting someone in half.

I reach out to take it, then I gag and recoil.

It's not his memory.

Just him imagining what a buddy told him someone else had done.

This secondhand act is no good for me.

It's like the difference between splenda and sugar.

At first the taste is close enough, but one doesn't nourish and leaves a pale taste in your mouth.

I'm after the real stuff.

Violence done by one's own hand.

Baby, that's better than honey.

And I got a mean sweet tooth.

Problem is, it don't last.

You ever try to live off just sugar?

Keeps you going, but it burns quick.

I always gotta be feeding, always got to be moving, and it's getting harder to find the real deal.

Too many people got their heads full of make-believe violence that they see on TV and movies.

Too many remember video games like it was them holding a knife and not a controller.

All the pretend hides the genuine, and I end up wasting time trying to sift through it all.

I'm hunting for candy in a world drowning in aspartame.

Maybe that's why we're dying off.

Us telepaths, I mean.

Used to be plenty of us.

Some nibbled at memories of sex.

Others swallowed down recollections of pain.

Not many like me, with the hankering for hurt.

But now I'll go for months without feeling those familiar probing tickles in my brain of someone reaching out, testing, seeing if I'm worth the fight.

Maybe they all ran into the same problem I got now.

Too much pretend, not enough genuine.

Or maybe we're not breeding like we used to.

All I know is I gotta keep going, and this guy doesn't have as much as I hoped.

I rifle around for the good stuff.

What got this guy started down this path?

A gang initiation?

That could be hiding around here somewhere.

The more I dig around, the more of him shreds.

The last bits of his consciousness plead for preservation.

Shut up.

Then it hits me.

A hornet's nest of violence muffled under blankets of fear.

It's huge,

but not real.

They're all memories of someone else's deeds.

Whose?

My thought voice echoes in the man's now mostly empty head.

Whose?

Whose?

The magazines and movies flutter in a mental breeze.

His tattered mind mutters back.

Go away.

Name?

Name?

He resists, but not well.

I shove.

Colors in the dark.

They form a name.

Marcus.

Then more floods out, flashing pictures of a face that's wide, broad, and handsome.

A grin that's all iced teeth.

Eyes that I could sink into if they weren't so sharp.

I latch on and tug, pulling the info out like a fish from a pond.

Marcus isn't just a gangbanger, not even a mid-level boss.

He's the whole thing, the entire organization.

Brain, heart, and the fear that makes its legs run.

The guy I'm draining is a small bump in a concrete sidewalk compared to this Everest that is Marcus.

Even if just a part of it is true, I could feed off Marcus's memories for years.

Stay in one place for a while, fill the craving that won't go away.

It's perfect.

He's perfect.

I want

need

him.

And I can't get at it because Marcus is not the man I'm inside.

So I rip into my little man's mind screaming,

Where is Marcus?

It doesn't take long to find out

An hour later, later, I'm in front of a tiny two-bedroom house in some old neighborhood where all the streets are named after trees.

This is a fact I've learned siphoning off the memories of violent women and men.

The worst ones don't live in big houses like Scarface or Don Corleone.

The really nasty ones keep quiet and live next to old grannies who grow geraniums in their front yards.

Marcus don't have flowers, except if you count dandelions.

But he does have two men on his porch, staring at phones like it's a lazy afternoon.

One's about 30, the other no older than 17.

Both have thick arms and sour little faces.

I reach out to probe their minds, just a tickle to see what's lurking.

Hurt lives in both.

They're watching me from the corner of their eyes, thinking about the guns they got stuffed down their crotches.

As I walk up, I don't slow.

My fingers are trembling because the memories I ate on the bus are already fading.

I'm hungry and I don't have time to say hi.

The men stand.

The older one speaks up.

Yo,

I throw a wave of psychic energy that crushes them easy as a truck tire running over a coke can.

The older guy goes to his knees and falls on his face with a crack of skull on concrete.

The kid pisses itself, wobbles a second, then crumples.

As I pass, I snag the kid's memory of a carjacking he did last week that left an Uber driver dead.

From the older one slapping not one but two girlfriends.

Snacks I'll save for later.

As I look at their blank faces, I tell myself not to sweat it.

I'm just doing what the cops couldn't.

Besides, I'm starving.

And with Marcus, I may not be hungry for a long, long time.

May not have to do what I just done to anyone else for a long, long time.

I open the door.

The house inside is dark with the blinds drawn.

Smells like fast food and dog.

The walls are bare except for a huge TV playing some old-timey cartoon with the volume so low it's just a whisper.

Facing it is a sofa.

A shadow moves on it as someone turns and starts to stand.

You fucking you.

Marcus, his scalpel eyes dissecting me.

I stab him with my mind.

He jerks, twitches, and slumps back down.

I walk around to face him.

He's big, the couch sagging under his weight.

That's all muscle.

If a truck hit him, I'm pretty sure the truck would lose.

Your hands are lead.

I think say.

He grunts and sinks into the cushions.

I dig into him.

Past the surface-level thoughts and feelings, I find a wall around where his memories should be.

He's built it thick as the Hoover Dam, solid as cement.

Oof, now he's got a mind.

Someone warned him about people like me.

But even with all his defenses, I can sense the violence in him somewhere deep, deep down.

The screams of hundreds of kills, beatings, torturing, watching the world burn and being happy he's the one holding the match.

Saliva fills my mouth.

Too good to be true.

All this hurt in one place.

Wouldn't have believed it if I couldn't taste the hints of it myself.

I probe and push, but his walls won't give.

Marcus is tough, but he ain't no match for me, baby.

Pleasure.

I tease out memories of girlfriends and boyfriends, some his, some mine.

I make them strut across the room, curl up against his legs.

I project their flesh over my skin as I send wave after wave of pleasure.

I find the sweet spots, and I stroke up and down, up and down, faster.

His cock jumps in his sweatpants.

Slow down, baby, we got time.

Slow down, baby.

We got time.

If too many thoughts and desires come my way, they might push me out.

I need something that won't rile them up too much too fast.

Who's your mama, Marcus?

Show me your mama.

Show me your mom.

Mamas always work.

A crack forms in his walls.

It's all I need.

I rush in.

It's easier than falling.

The pull of the hurt he's done guides me like the gravity of a black black hole.

Come on.

Come on.

I shout, think.

Give me your hurt.

I'll take it away, Sugar.

I open my mind wide, ready to feast at

nothing.

I push past his wall into nothing.

There's no mother, no girlfriends, no mountain of shimmering violence.

Just darkness.

Calm, empty, and quiet.

I get dizzy.

Something ain't right.

This must be another defense, a trap I hadn't seen coming.

I turn around, but even his walls are gone.

You

want my hurt?

Marcus's soul is laughing.

He lets a few memories swim to me.

Men and women coming to the house, walking through the door like I do.

Stepping inside.

Not because we wanted to, but because he let us.

Because he was waiting.

Faces flash past.

I see the man I took down on the bus.

He was here too.

A telepath coming for the source of sex memories he found lurking in someone else's head.

But that's not what he got.

Marcus shows me what came next, and I realize why it's dark.

I realize why there are so few telepaths left and why there won't be any much longer.

Marcus is done with the people who stand where I'm standing, doing what I'm doing.

He hollows them out and stitches them back up.

Already he's showing me how he's fixing the boys on the porch.

He's sending out invisible hands to patch them together.

Marcus is shoving a few fake memories into their heads, enough to fool any telepath into thinking they're still functioning.

Soon, they'll wake and move their not-dead, not alive shells to sitting on the porch, and the rest of us will go out and wait for someone to find us, feed on us, ask us where Marcus is.

He's done it a thousand times before.

Filling the husks of telepaths with sex, hurt, pain, pleasure, whatever flavor will bring more telepaths to his couch.

Then he shows me what he'll shove inside me.

I try to pull back to my physical self, but Marcus's gravity is holding me fast.

I struggle and kick, and it only gets tighter.

Teeth above me, below me, closing in.

He starts pulling memories from me.

Every time I dream someone, every time I hurt a hurter,

I lash out with all the psychic waves and knives and bombs I can throw.

It's like blowing smoke in a hurricane.

Morcus laughs.

down,

baby

We got time

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In our final tale, we find ourselves with two brothers outside a dilapidated, abandoned mansion.

But if you're expecting some ghost hunters in this story, you'd be wrong.

Their mission has a much more earthly purpose.

And in this epic tale, shared with us by author Constantine E.

Keyosis, we find out that when a notorious criminal tells you to take care of a task, you don't let the fear stop you from getting the job done.

Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Dan Zapula, David Alt, and Peter Lewis.

So when all is said and done, you can have family, you can have enemies, and you can have a friend of of fear.

I stared solemnly at the dilapidated house as I crouched next to a tree near the edge of the glade, one arm resting on my knee, the other braced against the hard bark.

So, what now?

Do we go in?

I glanced to my left, eyes hooded, my younger brother kneeling next to me.

I huffed as I returned my attention to the solitary, decrepit residence that stood in the middle of the clearing, sprawling woodland extending all around it.

No, Mickey, we do not go in.

Okay, okay.

Michael gave a jittery nod, looking at the building warily.

So what do you think?

Do you think it's empty?

It looks empty.

It certainly does.

My gaze wandered from the house and across the expansive forest that circled it.

Large, imposing oaks towered above the earth, their thick branches filled with brass and coppery and yellowed leaves, countless of which blanketed the damp dirt below, joining the undergrowth of small bronzed bushes and darkened white mushrooms scattered throughout the landscape.

The chilled air bit at my clean-shaven face as the sour scent of humid wood assaulted my nostrils with each inhalation, reminiscent of the tang carried by excrement.

So so what do we do?

I mean, you know, we don't we don't have that much time to.

snuffing out any chance for sunlight and giving the land below a bleak, gray quality.

One side of my mouth tilted up faintly.

The less light, the better.

Come on.

I grabbed the black duffel bag lying next to me as I skulked away from the clearing and moved deeper into the woods.

My brother followed suit, in silence.

I stopped about 20 feet from where we had been crouching before, Michael reaching me moments later.

Unzipping the bag, I fumbled its insides before pulling out two black wool-knit caps.

I handed one to to my brother and slid the other over my unruly brown hair, keeping the rim right above my brows.

Michael just stared at his in gloom as his fingers traced the fabric.

Put it on.

I dove back into the sack, this time taking out two pairs of strapped, compact binoculars.

I gave one pair to Michael and passed the other over my neck.

the straps allowing it to rest on my black sweater at chest height.

Finally, I fished out two Midland LXT 500 VP3 walkie-talkies, a brief crackling noise disturbing the quiet as I turned them on and off once before placing them carefully on the ground next to me.

My younger brother stood still, both cap and binoculars held firmly in his grasp.

Stop staring at them and put them on.

I zipped the bag back up.

Turning my back to Michael, I reached inside my black trench coat and felt the reassuring grip of my 9mm Browning high power secured in its leather shoulder holster.

I took a deep breath and exhaled.

Gabe, can

we talk a minute?

What about?

Well,

he swallowed hard, shifting from one foot to the other.

You've barely spoken to me in two days, man.

I mean, you didn't say a single word on the drive here, and.

What did you want me to say?

I turned to face him, tone grim, gun concealed beneath my coat.

I don't know, just anything.

I mean, I...

I know I fucked up, but...

Fucked up?

Is that what you think you did?

Simply fucked up?

I took a foreboding step forward, straining to keep my volume down.

At this point, I think we're looking at fucked up in the rearview mirror, Mickey.

I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?

Michael lowered his head like a scolded child.

I know, I.

I wasn't.

I just.

Just what?

If you needed the money that much, why the hell didn't you come to me?

Because I always come to you.

Michael looked at me straight on, the sides of his mouth tilted down, his eyes showing hints of dew.

I'm 25 years old, man.

I just...

I just wanted to try and take care of my own shit for once instead of having you do it for me.

And you thought stealing from Raymond Ardent was the way to do that?

I glared at him reproachfully, arms half-splayed.

I mean, Jesus Christ, man.

Don't let the fact that the guy is notorious for making people that screw him over disappear keep you from screwing him over.

Michael's grip on the items in his hands tightened as he looked away from me.

My stare lingered on him a few moments before letting out a prolonged huff as I tried to rein my frustration in.

You did what you did.

I leaned down, grabbing the walkie-talkies and extending one to my sibling.

And now we've got to do what we've got to do.

Michael makes no move to take the item, his attention fixed on the ground.

We could run.

My eyes narrowed.

What?

Michael met my gaze.

We could run.

Just...

just run away.

My proffered arm fell to my side.

Run away?

Yes, I.

I mean, the car is a 20-minute walk from here.

We just take it and hit the road and drive north and keep driving until we're far enough from here.

A hint of hope flashed across his face.

And how far is far enough from here?

How far is far enough from Ardent?

I don't know.

I don't know, but...

We're not running.

Why not?

Because I'm not going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.

And neither will you.

It's better than dying, Gabe.

We're not going to die.

And how do you know that?

I mean, you said it yourself.

Ardent makes people disappear.

And now we're in the middle of nowhere and we're not even sure what we're supposed to do.

Keep your voice down.

What we need is in that house.

I nodded toward the clearing, the large edifice barely barely visible through the trees.

We'll go in, take it, get out, and that's that.

Gabe, up until an hour ago, we didn't even know there was a house here, all right?

He approached me, worry chiseled across his face.

And even if what we need is in that place, can you please tell me what the fuck that is?

You'll know it when you see it.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Shouldn't he have given us something more to go on?

I breathed deep as I rubbed the nape of my neck.

You'll know it when you see it.

That was the sole directive we'd been provided regarding whatever it was we needed to extract from the target location.

All my attempts to obtain further information as to the exact nature of the item had been met with rejection.

We had to work with what we had, and what we had wasn't much.

Listen, Michael swallowed, moving closer.

For all we know, there's a bunch of his goons hiding in that house, waiting to blow our brains out the moment we step foot inside.

And even if that's not the case, even if we do find that something in there, how can we know that he'll not make us disappear the moment we deliver it to him?

I stared at my brother for a few seconds, Michael's words reverberating in my mind.

Since we'd been given the job 12 hours ago, I'd spent every waking moment contemplating a web of possible scenarios and potential outcomes.

So every hypothesis my sibling threw at me had already been thought of more times than I could count.

I wasn't a fool.

All my brother's worries were also my own, and I was well aware of the disturbingly high possibility for all this to not be about clemency, but something far more sinister.

But I had to keep thinking otherwise.

I had to keep Michael safe.

And the only way for me to be sure of that was for this job to be exactly what had been promised.

There simply was no alternative.

I could deal deal with having to spend my life with Ardent on my trail, but my little brother wasn't cut out for it.

This mess had to end now.

We'll cross that bridge when

I flinched.

If we get there.

Michael arched his head forward and sighed.

Shut.

He glanced back toward the clearing.

I raised my hand and pushed the walkie-talkie against my brother's chest.

For now, I need you to put your goddamn things on and do as I say.

Can you do that, that, Mickey?

My brother stood silent, his attention still locked upon the house, my hand pressed against his gray sweater.

I said, can you do...

Yeah, yeah, I'll...

Michael turned toward me as if suddenly snapping out of a reverie.

I got it.

He took the walkie-talkie awkwardly.

Good.

I picked the bag up.

I watched as Michael pulled the cap over his thick brown hair and put the binoculars on, my features softening in view of the misery tainting my younger brother's countenance.

Mickey.

Yeah?

He met my gaze.

For a moment, I saw that clingy, skinny, six-year-old kid that used to follow me around everywhere back when I was still a teenager, hanging from my shirt, looking up to me with his face all lit up.

And then I blinked, the memory shattering in an instant.

The memory belonging to a lifetime ago.

That light had long since faded from my little brother's eyes.

We'll be fine.

I promise, all right?

I just need you to do as I say, and everything will be fixed.

Okay?

Michael stared at me for what seemed like forever, eyes half-lided, before giving me a brief nod.

All right.

I forced a grin and tapped my brother on the shoulder as I moved past him.

Let's go.

I crept back toward the glade, always laying low.

We have shit to do, and little time to do it.

We returned to the edge of the clearing, at the same spot I had chosen to observe the house from when we first arrived.

It had a good view of its front entrance and thick enough undergrowth, which, combined with the large trees, kept us from sight.

I placed the bag next to the tree closest to us and turned to Michael.

Now,

I need you to listen closely, all right?

My brother just nodded.

having segued from pale to white as a ghost since our last conversation.

What I need you to do is stay here in this exact spot and keep an eye on the entrance.

Use these.

I pointed to the binoculars hanging from his neck.

And watch.

Okay?

Michael's attention drifted to the old, derelict wooden door.

Just watch the entrance.

I placed a knuckle against the side of my brother's chin and shifted his head so that he was facing me again.

Are you with me, Mickey?

He stared blankly at me, but it felt like he was looking past me, somewhere far away.

Mickey,

Michael jolted.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

I'm with you.

I'll watch the door.

I noticed the tiny beads of sweat that had begun dotting my brother's forehead and temples.

All right.

That's good.

I hoped my voice wouldn't betray the fact things were anything but that.

Now, you see anything or you hear anything, anything at all, you use this I raised my own walkie-talkie in front of his face and you let me know got it You just press this button over here and you talk and I'll listen It's already tuned to the right frequency, so you just push the button and speak all right?

I got it.

I push the button and I talk and you listen right.

I tucked my walkie-talkie in the pocket of my coat Now, regardless if you see something or not, I need you to check in with me every 20 minutes.

Just give me an all-clear so that I know everything's good.

Michael nodded.

What about you?

I shot a glance toward the house.

I'll do some recon from across the periphery of the clearing.

Stake the place out from different positions, see what we're dealing with.

Try and find potential points of entry other than the front.

We'll gather as much intel as possible until nightfall and move in under cover of darkness.

We had until midnight tomorrow to deliver the goods, which meant roughly 38 hours to reach the finish line.

Subtracting the six hours necessary for the journey back, that left us with 32 hours to finish the stakeout, break into the place, find the objective, and leave.

It wasn't ideal, but I still intended to make use of as much time as possible on preparation.

So I'll...

I'll be alone?

Here?

Until it gets dark?

Just stay hidden and you'll be fine.

My eyes were already tracking potential stakeout spots along the fringe of the glade.

But if things start getting to you, I'm one push of a button away, all right?

I turned toward my brother.

Michael was staring blankly at the ground.

Mickey, just...

just come back, okay?

I frowned.

There was something strange in the way Michael had spoken those words.

Almost childish.

I won't be far.

You just stay out of sight and keep watch.

I'm counting on you to be my eyes and ears here.

For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw a flicker of light flashing across my sibling's sibling's eyes, as if responding to my last statement.

That same light he had when we were kids.

Okay.

His mouth tightened to a thin white line.

I won't let you down.

I forced a sympathetic smile.

I know you won't.

That's what I wanted to say.

What I knew Michael needed to hear.

There's food and water in the bag.

I'll see you after dusk.

And with that, I turned around and stalked away, leaving my brother behind.

I lay prone on the ground, concealed among the bushes as I observed the house through my lenses.

I'd been watching it for about 12 hours now, during which time the clouds above had parted, revealing a sky that had segued from dark azure to gloaming mauve before settling on star-dotted black.

the main source of illumination now being the pale, argent rays of the waxing moon, minute celestial bodies twinkling all around it.

Michael had already checked in with me several times, some of them to give the all good, while others just making brief, idle conversation, which I always indulged just to keep my brother calm.

Ideally, I would have carried out this whole operation on my own, but Ardent had made clear that Michael's attendance was mandatory if forgiveness was to remain on the table.

I lowered the binoculars from my eyes, the air in front of my lips fogging as I huffed.

Nothing.

We had been observing the house for half a day, and as far as I could tell, the place was completely abandoned.

Calling it a house was probably not entirely accurate.

It was more of a manor, large, extending two stories above the ground floor, and it looked old.

Really old.

Its apparent age not solely attributed to its derelict condition.

It had a darkly ornate appearance, which gave it a Victorian quality, portraying origins possibly rooted somewhere in the 1800s, if not earlier.

It felt completely out of place, like it didn't belong, and as far as I could tell, the rest of the world thought so as well.

My brother's words about our lack of knowledge of the manor's existence prior to our arrival here resurfaced in my thoughts.

All we'd been given regarding the target location was a set of coordinates, which I'd made sure to research via satellite map in my effort to be as prepared as possible, given our tight timeframe.

The coordinates had designated this exact clearing as our destination, but there'd been no house visible on the digital chart, just dirt.

The maps had been quite recent, definitely more recent than this building, yet it seemed as if satellites had failed to register it, which I found strange.

This wasn't a small shack that could have gone unnoticed.

This was a fully-fledged, imposing mansion.

At least it must have been.

a long time ago.

Whatever luxury and eminence this place once exuded, its best years were far behind it, now nothing but a hollow shell of its former self.

The outside walls were peeling like dead skin, revealing rotted wood beneath what used to be a brown layer of paint, while cracked and broken black tiles riddled the tilted rooftop of the establishment.

Every single one of its numerous windows was shuttered from the inside with boards, many blinds dangling from their hinges or missing altogether.

And out of the four steps that led to the front porch, two were absent, the other two just hazards waiting to give beneath the faintest of weights.

And yet, despite the oddity that was the presence of this mansion in the middle of nowhere, it was the lack of activity that troubled me most.

For a building that was housing something desired by a man like Ardent, I would have expected some degree of security.

Maybe a few discreetly placed surveillance cameras or some sort of guard presence, a number of armed men patrolling the surrounding area, or maybe dogs lurking about.

Really anything that would prevent a break-in.

But I could see no cameras, no trace of any alarm system equipment, and there hadn't been the faintest hint of movement anywhere in sight.

During my watch, I'd seen no lights shining through the planks that bordered up the windows, or heard anything that would reveal occupants.

If anything, there was no proof anyone had been in, out, or anywhere near the place in recent times.

I'd used three separate hiding spots to survey the estate from different angles, and had seen no footprints, tire tracks, or any kind of markings on the ground surrounding it.

And then there was the quiet.

A little after we had first set foot in the forest, I'd become incredibly aware of my own breathing.

But nothing else.

There hadn't been a single rustling of bushes, no chirping, no hooting, no crunching of dead leaves or snapping of twigs betraying woodland creatures scurrying about.

Just this eerie, unnerving silence, as if life had completely forsaken this place.

Me and my brother the only visitors in quite a while.

I shook my head.

I was letting this place get to me.

I knew better than that.

Refocusing on the task at hand, I briefly entertained the thought of the ground around the estate being a minefield, a fumbling attempt to rationalize the situation for the lack of obvious security, but quickly dismissed it as absurd.

I even considered the house being connected underground with a different site, allowing people to move between locations unnoticed, but found that highly unlikely as well.

And with each contemplation I was shooting down, that manor was gradually changing from a break-in location to a death trap.

Because if me and Michael were to disappear, this was as good a a place as any.

My attention lingered on the mansion, my mind racing.

That's when I felt it.

A tingling sensation crawled across the nape of my neck, the hair standing on edge.

I frowned as I observed the house, every single fiber of my being suddenly on guard.

I'd learned to trust my instincts.

They'd saved my life more times than I could count, and right now, they were telling me something was very, very wrong.

I squinted, something deep inside me, a sense of menace, beginning to ascend toward the surface.

There was something about the building.

Something had changed, but I couldn't figure out what it was.

I felt a knot forming in the pit of my stomach as my eyes opened wide, the realization striking me like a brick wall.

I was being watched.

Sliding my binoculars on, I darted my attention all across the edge of the clearing clearing before shifting to the side of the manor, scrutinizing every visible window.

All that met me was darkness.

And yet I felt it.

I felt it in my gut.

I knew that someone was watching me.

I swallowed it hard and lowered the lenses.

The shadowed edifice just stood there, towering in the middle of the glade.

But something was off.

It looked the same, yet I no longer felt it as a ramshackle, rotting ruin, forgotten by the world.

No,

there was something else.

A shiver crept up my spine as whatever lurked beneath the dark waters of my mind finally surfaced.

The house.

I felt as if the house itself was staring back at me.

I jolted as my brother's voice came intermittently through the walkie-talkie.

I grabbed it, pressing the button at the side.

Mickey, can you hear me?

I can hear you clearly.

Hear me?

There's something wrong with the house.

Mickey, you're cutting off.

I can't understand you.

The house!

I think there's something moving.

There was a sudden burst of static, so loud it made me wince, before the device went silent.

Mickey!

I waited a few seconds.

My look gravitating toward my brother's position.

I had a clear line of sight from where I was lying, but had tried spotting him a few few times before and realized it was near impossible to see him through the bushes, let alone now in the dead of night.

Mickey, are you there?

Static disturbed the silence once more.

Can you hear me?

I let out a sigh of relief.

For a moment there, I'd assumed the worst.

Yes, I can hear you.

Can you hear me?

I can hear you.

I can hear you.

Are you alright?

There was lots of static before.

Couldn't make out what you were saying.

I can hear you.

I frowned.

There was a remote quality to his voice, which I only noticed because it was quite the turn from the nervousness permeating it during our previous exchanges.

Is everything okay?

No reply.

My forehead creased.

Mickey, can you...

Do you ever think about her?

My frown deepened.

What?

Think about whom?

That single word shot through my chest like a hollow-point bullet.

I swallowed, feeling my mouth dry up.

I think about her all the time.

Mickey, this is not the time for...

Do you remember her face?

I can't remember her face.

I made to speak, but choked.

I lowered my head to the ground.

I was there, you know, when it happened.

My lips trembled.

Michael had never told me that.

He never really spoke about that day.

He never really spoke about our mother.

Her eyes, man.

I mean, I remember her eyes.

Real terror, you know?

She was truly horrified.

There was a brief pause, and then the voice returned.

I remember her screaming for me to run.

Mickey,

not now.

I see her in my dreams sometimes.

She's just standing there in that room, facing me.

I'm staring at her naked feet, you know?

I'm just

staring, and then I'm starting to lift my head up because I can't remember her face.

And I want to see her.

I want to remember her face.

And she is wearing her white nightgown, her favorite one.

The one we got her for her birthday, remember?

My mouth tightened.

Yeah,

I remember.

Things went silent again, but this time I could hear my brother's breathing through the walkie.

And then my eyes start going up, and there's drops of blood trickling down her white nightgown.

And when I reach her face, there's

there's just nothing there,

just a small crater of smashed-in meat and bone and brain.

Michael, stop.

My fingers clenched the device.

Not now, all right.

Just

keep your head in the game, okay?

It went quiet for a a few moments before my brother's voice returned.

If you'd been there, maybe Dad would have killed you, too.

I have no idea why he let me go, but he really hated you.

It was a good thing you left when you did.

There was something accusatory about the way Michael said those words.

I felt a pang in my heart.

A wave of shame and guilt threatening to overwhelm me as I struggled to keep it at bay.

Or maybe it wasn't.

After all, you just ended up trading one hell for another, right?

I didn't respond.

Memories beginning to forcibly descend upon me.

I mean, seeing mom die stuck with me forever.

And I wasn't even the one that did it.

There was a slight shift in his tone of almost sinister quality.

You know,

I once read

that violence is a two-way street.

That bad shit happens to all involved.

The ones doing it and the ones getting it.

I can't imagine what the fucked up shit they made you do over there has done to you.

My face was contorting gradually.

Something between anger and sorrow bubbling up inside me.

Michael, I need you to shut up.

When was it for you, Cabe?

I mean, your turning point.

The moment you knew you had swung swung so far off the shore, there was no coming back.

I mean it.

Shut your mouth.

I crawled to my left, raising myself halfway off the ground as I leaned against a tree, my back grazing across the hard bark.

For me, I think it was that loud, crunching noise when dad brought the hammer down on our head the first time.

It's hard to come back from that.

There was radio silence for what seemed like forever.

I scowled at the walkie, my knuckles wiped from the pressure.

For you...

I took a deep breath as the voice spoke, feeling the mental dam I had painstakingly created inside of me rupture.

Things I had kept behind it all these years.

Dreadful things.

Now seeping through the cracks.

For you, I think it was that basement, right?

The cracks spread like a spider's web.

I had no idea why it had been so easy.

This wall I'd spent years raising just crumbling in the span of a sentence.

Anger and shame and guilt and a torrent of other unspoken emotions I had trapped behind it, now leaking out.

Wash out the enemy, wasn't it?

All in, guns blazing, for God and country.

And just like that, the dam broke, and everything came bursting out.

And I was back in that basement, the tang of gunpowder and blood lingering all around me, gunfire and screams filling my ears.

I peeked from behind the trunk, glaring toward Michael's position.

I made to open my mouth, rage ready to pour through it, but forced myself to stop.

My breathing was coming out heavy as my eyes narrowed.

Who the fuck is this?

Because whomever that was, it wasn't my brother.

It sounded like him, sure, but it wasn't him.

It wasn't the fact that Michael had never, not once, tried to strike up a conversation concerning our parents, or the uncharacteristically vitriolic content of his speech.

Not even the complete absence of nervousness in his voice.

All of which I silently cursed myself for not realizing earlier, despite noticing.

It was the basement.

Nobody knew about the basement.

No one alive.

Some of them had offed themselves, others killed in action.

I was the only one who had survived.

The only one who knew.

And I hadn't told anyone.

I repeated the question, but was met with no response.

Just dead air.

And, right at that point, a second realization struck me.

Throwing a glance back at my brother's location, I swallowed.

Because if Michael hadn't been speaking through the walkie, someone was.

And they were using my brother's device.

I prowled across the edge of the glade, moving seamlessly through shadows cast by the moonlight, gun held firmly in hand.

Nearing Michael's position, I slowed down, skulking from one tree to the next while peering from behind them, a murderous urge growing in me.

If someone had hurt my brother, the quiet of this place wouldn't be for long.

I finally reached close enough to have a visual on Michael's spot.

glimpsed from the side of a trunk.

My fingers clenched around the pistol's handle.

Someone was there, barely touched by the lunar rays, sitting on the ground, unmoving.

I tensed as my gaze darted all around the figure, scrutinizing every shadowed nook and cranny for additional enemies, but was unable to detect anyone else.

Taking a deep breath, I raised my gun.

The barrel pointed right at the dark shape as I closed in, my army boots crunching dead leaves beneath them.

I winced.

Worry had turned me sloppy.

Don't fucking move.

I came to a halt near the stranger, and then my scowl turned to a frown.

There wasn't much light, but it was enough for me to see Michael sitting down, his arms hugging his knees, his face buried in them.

He was holding the walkie in one hand, the device almost dangling from between his fingers.

Michael raised his head languidly and stared at me, bug-eyed, his face pale.

Dad.

I lowered my gun.

Michael was holding the walkie.

There was no one else around.

Had Michael actually been the one talking to me?

No, that made no sense.

Nothing about that conversation remotely resembled my brother.

Unknown information aside.

And then my eyes narrowed to slits.

Had Michael just said, Dad?

I approached and kneeled next to my sibling.

Mickey.

I placed a hand on his shoulder.

Were you just speaking with me on the walkie?

Michael stared at me, horrified.

Dad, it was Dad.

Dad?

What about him?

He.

Michael paused, bewildered, shaking his head in disbelief.

He spoke to me.

My eyes darkened.

He spoke to you?

Through that?

I pointed at the device.

He nodded.

Was this a few minutes ago?

My brother took a deep breath as he gave me a jittery nod.

I tried reaching you, but the

signal.

He swallowed.

The signal was bad, and then I lost you completely, and then...

Dad started talking to you.

Michael nodded again.

Gabe.

Gabe, he spoke to me.

I mean,

he said things, things he couldn't know.

He gave me an anxious, incredulous look.

Has...

has he been

watching me all this time?

Mickey, listen to me.

Dad's dead, all right.

It was all over the news, remember?

He's not around anymore, and he can't hurt you or anyone else.

You understand?

I wasn't sure Michael was listening to me.

He was just staring at the walkie.

I knew this stare, looking a thousand yards away.

I'd seen it in the mirror.

What did he tell you?

What?

The man that spoke to you, what did he say?

Dad?

My lips tightened.

My nostrils flared.

It wasn't Dad.

He might have sounded like him or knew some stuff Dad would have known, but it wasn't him.

Now, what did he tell you?

Just

things.

What things?

Michael averted his look toward the ground.

Just

stuff.

About me.

About.

Mom.

He glanced reluctantly toward me.

About you?

My face hardened.

What did he say about me?

He pouted.

He...

He talked about things.

Things he said you did.

He...

What things?

Michael's face twisted as if he was aching.

I don't want to talk about him, Gabe.

I don't want to talk about any of this.

My stare burrowed at my brother.

I thought about pushing him further, but decided against it.

This wasn't the time or place for that, and he looked genuinely shaken from whatever had transpired during his conversation with whomever had spoken to him.

I didn't want to cause Michael any more grief than he was already experiencing.

He wasn't good at coping with stress.

Did he say anything about this place?

Anything about the house or the forest?

Anything we can use?

My sibling appeared to contemplate a few minutes before shaking his head.

No, nothing.

I sighed.

At this point, it was clear Michael hadn't been the one speaking to me before.

Maybe our frequencies had been hijacked by someone who wanted to screw with us, but I found the possibility unlikely.

Too much effort.

And for what?

To mess with our heads?

And then there was the fact the dead man had talked to my brother.

A dead man who, apparently, knew things he couldn't have possibly known.

Granted, someone could have dug up our past, but bringing the dead back from the grave was a whole different thing.

And our father was, beyond the shadow of a doubt, dead.

A hail of bullets from the cops had made sure of that.

Maybe voice-altering technology?

Gabe, please.

Let's just go.

I don't care if I have to live on the run, alright?

It's just...

this house.

There's something wrong with this house.

Like, seriously wrong.

I can't understand what it is, but I can feel it, man.

I can...

I can feel it.

This place is bad really bad i glanced at the manor sharp shadows cast ominously upon it we're not running gabe just just

think for a second okay why the would ardent forgive me huh he's never done this for anyone ever he's not a man who lets things slide all right For men like him, it's not about the money.

It's about the message.

And the message he's spent his entire life hammering home is don't fuck with me, or I'll fuck you back.

So why make an exception for me?

Why the sudden change of heart?

Because I asked him to.

It came out a bit louder than I meant, and my brother flinched.

Because I begged him to forgive you.

Pleaded with him about finding a way to make this right.

And let me tell you, he really, really wanted you gone, Mickey.

The only reason he even considered this compromise was because of my loyalty to him all these years.

Michael bowed his head, cringing.

So, we're going to go in that goddamned house, find whatever the fuck it is we need to find, whatever that is, get it, and then get out.

Because that's our ticket to a life where we both keep breathing.

Got it?

I leaned close to him.

Because if we screw this up, it's both our heads.

And he made clear that's non-negotiable.

Heavy silence followed.

Me looking at my brother, Michael avoiding my gaze.

This doesn't feel like a chance at redemption, Gabe.

It just feels like we're walking straight into a slaughterhouse.

I lowered my head and swallowed.

I tried to find something optimistic to say, something to give my brother hope.

But at this point, I just kept coming up empty.

We crept across the clearing, slouched.

me in the lead, Michael close behind, dufflebag in hand.

The lack of cover from the border of the glade all the way to the mansion was already making it almost impossible to approach unseen, so I'd chosen to move in from the back, but there were only two windows present at the bottom floor, decreasing the chances of detection, however minimally.

During the stakeout, I hadn't seen any back doors or a cellar.

So the only point of entry that would make the least amount of noise was the front door, since smashing through the shuttered windows was less than ideal.

The whole walkie-talkie situation still gnawed at the back of my mind as we neared the building.

I couldn't find a single logical explanation for what had happened.

I hadn't imagined it, since Michael had suffered something similar, but I was out of plausible ideas.

And the more I contemplated it and found logic failing, the more frustrated I became, since all that remained was the unexplainable.

that I wasn't one for superstition.

This place did feel like it had jumped out straight from a horror movie, but I'd learned that reality often hid much worse terrors than fiction did, and Raymond Ardent was very, very real.

We finally reached the back of the mansion, pressing ourselves against the old wood as we crouched around the building until we got to the front porch.

Instead of taking the beaten steps, I carefully climbed over the banister, helping my brother up after.

Michael had been even jumpier than usual from the moment we had left our hiding spot and began our approach, a faint tremble permeating his arms as he shot wary glances all around, the shiver having gradually grown more visible with each footstep that brought us closer to the house.

Now, standing beneath the half-roof of the porch, my little brother was shuddering as if naked in the cold.

I looked at him somberly.

motioning him to keep quiet by bringing a finger to my own lips.

Turning away from Michael, I slinked to the entrance of the abode, pausing right in front of it as my eyes wandered across the door.

It was a big, intricate thing.

There was a bronze knocker the shape of an open eye at about chest height, spots of dark green patina tainting the metal, snake-like decorative carvings expanding from it as they spread across the door's peeling surface, twisting and coiling as they reached its edges.

Swallowing hard, I neared my ear to the door.

I harked for about a minute, but got nothing.

Not even the faintest of sounds.

Looking around one last time, I carefully grabbed the knob and turned it slowly.

Locked.

I exhaled silently.

At least there was some attempt at security.

I kneeled down and examined the bronze lock.

It looked ancient, antique.

Bearing the same twisting markings chiseling the entrance.

I scowled as I pulled a lockpick kit from my pocket.

Contemplating a few moments, I finally slid two picks out of the set and started working on the lock.

Got your flashlight on you?

Yeah, jacket pocket.

You need light?

No.

Moonlight's enough.

Just keep it ready for inside, and don't turn it on unless I tell you.

I continued to fumble inside the locking mechanism.

Shit.

What?

Lock's too old.

I'm not sure.

The door drifted slightly ajar, hinges creaking as nothing but darkness was revealed through the slim crack.

My brows converged.

You got it?

I was pretty sure I hadn't.

Perhaps the mechanism was broken and the door was simply jammed when I tried it before.

Maybe my messing with it had shaken the thing loose.

I chose to go with that.

Yeah.

Got it.

I stood, fitting the lockpicks back in their set before stuffing the kit in my pocket.

Reaching inside my coat, I took the gun out and checked the magazine.

13 bullets, plus one in the chamber.

I secured it back in the handle before pulling a small flashlight from an inside pocket.

I glanced at my brother, Michael staring nervously at the pistol, before returning my attention to the dark.

I leaned near the opening.

doing my best to see or hear anything that would betray presence, but the darkness was simply too thick, and, once again, it was only the sound of the grave that reached my ears.

I cursed myself for not having invested in a set of night vision goggles yet.

I was a man of tradition, showing preference to conventional tools when it came to breaking and entering, but I had to admit it would have come in handy today.

Turning my flashlight on, I aimed the weapon ahead, keeping the light close to the barrel so that it shone where the gun was pointed.

Pushing the door a bit more, I took a step inside.

The air was heavy in the house, musty moats of dust dancing across the beam coming from my flashlight like incandescent flies.

Shining the light around, shadows dissipated to reveal old furniture sitting across wooden walls, ornate bookcases filled with frayed tomes, and showcases bearing strange trinkets behind glass exteriors.

everything covered in a thick layer of dust.

There was a small table placed near the entrance, to my right, one chair with leather upholstery on either side of it, a decanter filled with brown liquid sitting upon its top.

A threadbare, faded scarlet carpet extended from the entrance and all the way to a large staircase located on the other side of the room, a distance of about 40 feet, two closed doors visible about halfway up the corridor, facing each other from opposite sides.

This was some kind of waiting hall, I thought.

I took a few more steps inside as I shone the beam up, seeing an iron, baroque chandelier hanging from the ceiling, rust eating away at it.

And then I noticed the painting.

Upon the wall to the far end of the room, looming right above the ascending stairwell, hung a large painting.

It was too far to immediately discern any details, but it looked like the portrait of a man sitting in a large armchair.

The figure was leaning forward, almost slouching as his hands clutched the top of what looked like a cane.

The man was dressed in what I could only describe as gentleman's attire, the sort of fine-tailored suit I had seen men donning in period pieces taking place in Victorian England.

I advanced several paces cautiously.

halting about halfway to the stairs as I focused the light on the man's face and squinted.

He looked old, maybe in his 70s, thin, gray hair falling on either side of his wolfish face.

A lopsided grin slashed beneath his crooked nose, crow's feet chiseling the skin around his cold eyes, their intensity accentuated even more by his high cheekbones.

A shiver crept up my spine.

The figure in the portrait was staring right at me.

Those cold eyes boring into my own.

I swallowed.

I knew this eerie feeling.

I'd felt it when I was observing the house before.

The feeling of being watched.

Gabe?

I flinched as my brother's voice came whispering from behind.

Michael, still outside.

Is everything okay?

I glanced back, seeing his head peeking in from behind the entrance door.

My attention returned to the painting.

Unease flooding me the moment it came back into view.

Yeah.

Yeah, all clear.

Should I come in?

I found myself pondering the question as I managed to tear my gaze away from the portrait, re-examining my surroundings.

As far as I could tell, the hall was empty.

But there was something bugging me.

A gut feeling.

My instincts were telling me something was truly wrong with this place.

My lips tightened.

No.

No?

I need you to stay outside.

Keep a lookout.

What?

I huffed as I glanced toward the stairs.

I need you to keep watch in case someone shows up.

I'll handle the inside.

Keep watch.

There were a few moments of silence.

Gabe, no.

Michael's footsteps came muffled as he stepped on the carpet, entering the manor.

I know what you're trying to do, okay?

This is my fault, not yours.

And- Quiet!

My face hardened as I turned toward my brother, ready to chide him for ignoring my orders.

And as I I did, during that pivoting motion, it happened.

I wasn't sure when or how.

What I was sure about was that I wasn't standing in the waiting hall anymore.

The first thing I noticed was the moon, gray, shedding its rays through a big round window, Michael's figure dark against its glow.

My attention darted all around me as I scanned our environment tactically.

Gun extended, the flashlight shone throughout the room, revealing stacks of old books and piles of antique baubles cluttering the place, littered across the floor and sitting on top of old, vintage furniture.

Everything was scattered disorderly all around, dust floating in the air and blanketing every surface in here, just as it did in the waiting hall we just inexplicably lost from sight.

Spider webs weaved across the ceiling beams.

tiny crawlers scurrying away as the light moved over them.

An attic, I figured.

Glancing back, I saw my brother staring out the large window.

Michael mumbled feebly as I approached.

What the fuck, Gabe?

Outside, a sprawling forest expanded below, the night sky visible above it, the dark shapes of mountains outlined far out.

Looking down, I saw an expanse of dirt, my eyes gradually widening as I observed it.

I knew that clearing.

I'd spent the better part of a day watching it.

My lips parted as realization struck me.

We were still in the house.

I remembered noticing the attic during my stakeout, but was pretty sure the window had been boarded up, just like the rest of them.

Admittedly, though, suddenly finding ourselves in a different part of the manor was a notch more bizarre compared to a few pieces of wood not being where I thought they were.

That's the forest, right?

Our forest?

I glanced at Michael momentarily, and then my attention wandered back back across the garret as my brain worked on overdrive.

If our experience with the walkies was hard to explain, this was impossible.

That's when I noticed it.

I frowned, pausing.

I wasn't sure, but something seemed off.

I kept staring at a spot in the darkness, somewhere near the back of the room, as my instincts began to kick in again.

There was something about the dark there that felt weird, like it was staring back at me.

I focused my vision, and as I did, I got that feeling once more.

I squinted.

An outline.

I could discern an outline.

Someone was standing there, among the scattered stuff, a silhouette, lurking in the shadows, watching us.

I had my weapon raised even before realizing it, as the light beam shot right at the obscured figure.

darkness dissipating to reveal nothing but the back wall.

My brother jolted as he turned around, eyes wide.

What is it?

What's going on?

Shut up.

I glanced forward, scanning the area with the flashlight, firearm readied.

I prowled through the twisting paths formed by the messy heaps and furniture, peering from the sides of old wardrobes and bookcases.

Nothing.

I gritted my teeth.

I couldn't help the sense I was being toyed with.

Odd.

The word slithered from somewhere behind me, and I spun so fast my environs blurred.

Looking down the barrel of my gun, all I saw was an ornate dinner table, silverware strewn across it.

My hair stood on edge.

I was certain someone had spoken, dangerously close to me.

Mickey, on me.

What?

Come close.

My brother immediately tottered toward me as he struggled not to trip over the mess on the floor.

donning a terrified expression all the while.

Nearing, he knit his fingers over over his chest as he slumped his shoulders, looking around nervously.

What is it?

We're not alone.

We're not?

Are you sure?

Get your flashlight out, I ordered, as I scrutinized every corner of the attic with my own.

Hands trembling, Michael dropped the duffel bag as he fumbled anxiously in his jacket pockets.

A few moments later, his light was added to mine, the beam shining about jerkily.

I can't see anyone.

It's just junk.

In the eyes of a Philistine, perhaps?

Michael gasped, both of us whirling toward the direction of the croaky voice.

Standing against the window, bathed in the eerie lunar light, was a man.

His shape darkened, his shadow painted across the floor.

I cocked my gun.

As the flashlight shone on the stranger's face, I got an immediate sense of deja vu.

I knew him.

No, not knew.

I'd seen him before.

The bent nose, the unsettling eyes, the grin.

He was the person in the portrait, identical down to the clothes, a purple gentleman's suit, a buttoned black vest visible beneath his notched lapels, his ebony moccasins glinting as they reflected moonlight, his gloved hands resting atop the head of a decorative cane.

The old man winced, shielding his face.

Would you mind terribly?

I'm not particularly accustomed to the light.

I've always found the dark to be much more comforting.

Don't move!

I glared.

My brother almost pressed against me.

The stranger huffed.

We flinched as the bulbs of our flashlights flickered and burst, taking their shine with them.

What an unreliable thing, technology.

Who are you?

Your host, apparently.

He gave a short bow of his head welcome to my humble abode my lips pursed

how did we get here in the attic ah apologies for the abrupt displacement i couldn't have you rummaging through my home i'm quite attached to it

most literally at the moment he rubbed his chin forehead creasing Though I admit the need for action on my part was unexpected.

You're always delivered bound.

My eyes narrowed for an instant before beginning to widen gradually as my mind registered the man's last words, deciphering their terrible meaning.

A smirk formed across the stranger's mouth.

Oh,

I see.

I guess certain pieces of information were omitted from all three of us.

Well, they do say ignorance is bliss.

Mickey, look for an exit.

What did he mean about being to live?

Find us a way out, a door, door, a trapdoor, anything.

I kept my weapon and attention both fixed on the stranger.

I hadn't noticed an exit when I was scouting the room before, but I could have missed something in all this clutter.

But now!

Okay.

Michael swallowed hard as he started moving about the attic, going deeper in the shadows as he scrabbled through the mess.

Who are you?

My vision slowly becoming accustomed to the lack of my flashlight.

The stranger raised an eyebrow.

I thought we already established that.

Who are you?

I repeated, my trigger finger twitching.

The odd man's eyelids dropped half-mast as he took a deep breath and exhaled softly.

Who am I?

He cocked his head as if contemplating the question himself.

Well, at the risk of sounding quaint, I've gone by quite a few names, though none of my own choosing.

You really think it's a good idea to test the patience of the guy with the gun?

The stranger's smirk broadened.

Maybe I'm the brother you abandoned, Gabe.

His mouth moved, yet it was Michael's voice that left his thin lips.

I gawked.

What?

How?

The missing piece of the puzzle that had been my eerie conversation over the walkie was finally falling into place.

You were the one fucking with us?

Maybe.

Or maybe it was what's left of your conscience.

Who can tell?

My brother called from the back of the room.

Gabe, I can't find anything.

Keep looking.

Time wasted.

You'll find nothing, not unless I will it.

How do we get out?

The gentleman lost his smile.

You don't.

But I get the sense you already knew that.

My mouth pursed, my eyes drifting momentarily toward the window.

The stranger glanced back, following my gaze before returning his attention to my face.

Ah, a way out, perhaps.

Well, I guess all that stands between you and freedom is little old me.

He shrugged.

Care to give it a try?

I glowered at the guy.

Rage bubbling in my chest.

I hated being taunted, but I had to keep my wits about me.

This whole situation was unprecedented.

I didn't need my gut to tell me that this man was more than the eye could reveal.

I could try rushing past him, jump out the window, but my brother would be left behind.

What are you?

The man cocked his head.

Now that is a very different beast to tackle.

My nature is a bit above your mental capacities.

I'd recommend to let dead things lie with this this one.

Try me.

The stranger's demeanor turned somber.

Very well.

I don't have it in me to deny a man his last request.

He turned toward the window languidly and gazed out into the night.

I guess.

I've been told I am one,

yet we are Legion.

He clasped his hands behind his back, the cane parallel to his waist.

I am here, yet we are everywhere.

I am now,

yet we've always been.

I stared, puzzled.

What are you talking about?

The man glimpsed back, eyes glinting against the argent light.

We are the dream, Gabriel.

Dreamt by the one who's caged amid the stars, ever dreaming.

He paced in front of the window, a poetic quality coloring his words.

We fall like drops from it, crashing in what was and is and will come to be, though time doesn't exist but in the feeble minds of the lay.

He turned and faced me.

And I happened to crash in what you would consider many decades ago, in a shoddy little corner of the earth called Whitechapel.

And then he smiled a crooked smile, the sides of his mouth stretching impossibly, revealing jagged teeth, his eyes widening as their sclera turned black, his irises a deep, incandescent crimson, his skin acquiring a waxy quality as it wrinkled in its attempt to keep from tearing, his limbs elongating to gangly appendages.

You can call me Jack.

My lips parted as I stared bug-eyed at whatever that thing in front of me was.

Everything around me stopped for the briefest of moments as my brain brain struggled to process the sight.

Seconds later, gunshots filled the air as I fired, arms steady.

Bullets flew past the creature named Jack, his body bending in almost unnatural positions as he performed abrupt, angular motions, the shots fracturing the pane behind him.

The monster lunged upward, disappearing into the dark.

Without hesitation, I aimed high and kept shooting blind, splinters flying off the rafters like shrapnel as as rounds tore through them, the flash of each shot shedding momentary light in the blackness, revealing Jack's spindly shape as he sprung closer from above.

The beast dove down, the wooden floor fracturing beneath its feet as it landed behind me.

Gun extended, I swirled in an effort to bring Jack back in my sights, but balked as my weapon-wielding arm was grabbed by the monster's hand in a vice grip, the barrel giving off two more gunshots right next to my attacker's face as I instinctively completed my momentum.

Almost.

Jack's grip on my wrist tightened.

He leaned in, and I found myself transfixed by his terrible visage, his sour breath making me gag.

Not half bad, boy.

I winced and pulled back, finding myself unexpectedly managing to backtrack as the monster released me from its grasp.

Having gained some distance, I raised my gun and aimed right between the abomination's brows.

I pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked, but gave me nothing.

Forgot to keep count.

Fashion a gentlemanly brawl, perhaps.

He splayed his arms and took a small bow.

I swallowed, adrenaline pumping through my veins as my features darkened, every muscle in my body flexing.

Flipping the gun in my hand, I advanced toward the monster, using the weapon's handle as a makeshift baton as I threw elaborate punches and jabs, Jack dodging each attack with grotesque grace, using his cane to deflect them without retaliating, man and beast engaged in a deadly dance of assaults and evasions.

My frustration rose as I kept failing to land a blow, my jaw clenching.

I was feeling my movements slowing, but Jack didn't show any signs of fatigue.

If anything, he was moving faster.

And then my head craked violently as Jack's knuckles smashed against the side of my face, the world around me turning hazy as I lost my balance.

The gun fell from my hand as I dropped on my knees.

Feeling fingers closing around my throat, I was lifted from the ground as if I weighed nothing.

Remarkable.

Jack's voice sounded as if from a distance as I dangled from his grip.

I groaned as I struggled to draw breath, my body numb.

I can see why he asked me to take you too, why he's so worried about you.

A shout boomed across the room.

A war cry.

Footsteps fast approaching as I watched the blurry shape of Michael emerging from the shadows, brandishing what looked like a candle holder.

Reaching us, my little brother brought it down against Jack's back with all his might.

The creature didn't even budge.

Jack glanced back with a perplexed expression, meeting Michael before letting out a sigh.

The next thing I knew, I was flying away as Jack tossed me to the side effortlessly, crashing against a wardrobe side first, the wood cracking as the hit took the air out of my lungs, a sharp pain shooting across my ribs, head, and legs as I landed on the floor.

My vision worsened as I struggled to breathe, my whole body in agony.

The sounds of a scuffle reached my ears.

My brother's incomprehensible yells filling the attic.

Raising my head, I looked on just in time to see Jack's hazy figure as he grabbed my sibling from the nape.

Michael tossed and turned as he was dragged across the floor and toward the large window.

Please, please let me go, Gabe!

I mustered all my strength as I pushed myself off the floor, managing to get to a prostrate position.

Wait!

Wait.

Stop!

Stop!

I crawled toward them, the haziness beginning to clear.

Jack stopped shy of the window pane and turned to me.

His countenance appeared to have shifted back to normal, no longer monstrous.

Michael still struggled in his grip as sobs began to infect his cries.

Just...

Just let him go.

Please.

Please, I'll do anything.

Anything Argent pays you, I'll double it.

Jack watched me for a few moments, as if deliberating his next move.

Well, I do consider myself a reasonable man, so let's hear it.

What do you have to offer?

What's he paying you to get rid of us?

Money is of no interest to me.

What else have you got?

My face contorted as my mind raced.

I can work for you.

Anything you need.

I'm good at finding things, finding people.

Jack took a deep breath.

I see.

I swallowed heart.

I can also get rid of them.

Yeah, I have no doubt about that.

Good.

So we got a deal?

The old man's eyes gravitated toward the floor, then to a whimpering Michael, before returning back to me.

No.

I clenched my hands into fists.

Just name your price.

What do you want?

I really like you, Gabriel.

Men cut from your cloth are quite rare.

In fact, I've only ever met one other like yourself a long time ago.

He smiled almost nostalgically.

He was the one that gave me this.

He pointed at his nose.

And also bound me to this.

He glanced around the room.

You remind me a lot of Abilene.

You have the same irreverence in your eyes.

There's nothing for you to offer me since you are the offerings.

Your payment.

I frowned as I managed to raise my upper body from the floor, each motion accompanied by intense hurt as I braced my hands against my thighs.

We're...

I swallowed.

Then take me.

Just me.

Just let him go.

He's just a kid, man.

I'm afraid you just won't do.

Why?

Because I'm paid in fear, my dear man, and the life you've led has almost completely robbed you of it.

If anything, you've made a friend of the damn thing.

I mean, you had a glimpse at a fraction of my true self, and your instinctive response was to fight me.

All I could see in your eyes was anger.

There was a bit of surprise there, sure, but mainly rage.

You really wanted to end me.

That's not how a normal person would react.

He cocked his head.

Then again, war doesn't allow for normal now, does it?

I couldn't help my glare as my nails dug into my palms, my temples throbbing.

I tried to stand, but Ache glanced at my legs and I flinched.

There you have it.

That's the real you.

Whatever you once were, that I could use has long since died.

And I've no interest in wrath, boy, which is why you're inadequate to me.

Your brother, on the other hand,

he glanced at Michael.

Is abundant currency.

He has lived with terror for so long he's practically marinated in it.

Michael kept yelling and flinging as the man raised his cane, pointing it at the window.

I'll admit I've been quite entertained, but all good things must come to an end.

This is where we part ways.

Jack tapped the pane with the end of the stick.

I'd close my eyes if I were you.

The glass fractured.

cracks spreading like a web across its surface as a sickly, greenish glow seeped through them, as if the woodland view behind the window was nothing but a mirage.

No!

I grabbed the edge of a table, pulling myself up as I started tottering toward my brother, powering through the pane.

Stop!

The fractures widened, the pallid light slashing through the darkness of the attic.

My brother extended an arm to me.

Gabe, please!

Give Adent my regards when you see him.

The glass shattered.

An intense burst of light hit me head-on, and a sharp pain threatened to split my skull in two.

The last thing I heard was my brother crying out my name, before everything went black.

I groaned as my eyelids lifted lethargically.

My head pounded as the starry sky slowly blurred into view, chilled air biting up my skin.

Cold numbness segued to a creeping ache that permeated my entire body.

My mind foggy.

I winced as I tried to bring everything into focus, grunting as I raised my hand to my face and pressed my fingers against my forehead where a migraine was steadily intensifying.

I tried to swallow, my saliva muddy.

Cringing, I forced myself to sit up, straining to persevere through the increasing pain.

I scanned my surroundings groggily as the layers of mist that stifled my thoughts gradually began to dissipate.

I could see massive trees circling the glade in the middle of which I was lying.

My lips parted as memories descended upon me, piece by piece.

Making an effort, I raised myself off the ground as I kept staring about.

I was in the clearing, the clearing I'd spent half a day watching.

But there was no house here.

Only dirt.

The mansion was gone.

Something began to swell inside me.

Something I hadn't felt for some time now.

I put a hand in my pocket, pulled out my walkie, and brought it close to my mouth.

Mickey!

Mickey, can you hear me?

My legs gave, and I fell to my knees.

Mickey!

Two warm lines streamed down my cheeks as my shoulders began to jerk.

I just sat there as I wept, calling my brother's name over and over again.

But there was no one around to answer me.

I sat in an armchair at the corner of the room, unmoving, the place bathed in pitch-black darkness.

I didn't need light.

I'd familiarized myself with every inch of this space.

I breathed slow, steady.

My heartbeat calm as my index finger traced the trigger of the unholstered, silenced gun.

I glanced to my right as I heard the muffled sound of footsteps.

My heart never rose a beat.

Seconds later, a few feet away from me, the blackness of the room drew back like a curtain as a door slid open.

Soft, amber light invaded from the other side like a luminous carpet, revealing varnished wooden floor.

Someone entered.

A man.

His features cast in shadows.

He made for the center of the room as if walking from memory, his darkened shape halting a bit farther from the glow of the open door.

There was a discreet click and a second source of warm light sprung to life.

A desk lamp, finally illuminating the small study.

He was lean, dressed in a white silk robe with matching slippers, his rich, slick brown hair combed back neatly.

His backside remained to me as he moved around the mahogany desk at the center of the room and approached a cabinet situated near the big library that lined the back wall.

He opened it, revealing a collection of expensive spirits, as well as several empty glasses of various shapes and sizes.

He made to pick a stemmed single-malt whiskey glass, but paused.

His head cocked a bit to the side, then veered slowly as he glimpsed back, his green eyes scanning the room before eventually settling on me.

I met him with a deadpan expression.

Gabe,

I replied with a nod.

Sir.

Raymond Ardent turned around languidly and made to tuck his hands in his pockets.

Don't, I warned, as I aimed the barrel of the gun at the man effortlessly.

He paused.

Okay.

He allowed his arms to fall to his sides.

Wasn't expecting to see you again.

I'm sure you didn't.

It looks like you've seen better days.

I scratched my unkempt beard.

It's been a rough couple of months.

Ardent rubbed his clean-shaven chin.

Smart of you to lay low, play dead.

Yeah.

I had a lot of thinking to do.

Mickey?

My eye twitched.

I shook my head.

Just me.

I see.

I'm guessing you're the one who took the gun from the cabinet.

Yeah.

I also cleared the ones below the desk and inside the Art of War.

Raymond took a deep breath as his attention wandered toward the open door.

Well, I reckon I shouldn't be expecting any security to come bursting in.

Nope.

Dead?

Still alive.

Just knocked out for a few hours.

I also took care of the cameras.

I figured we could use some privacy.

Do you mind if I close the door?

Anya and the girls are sleeping upstairs.

I'll get it.

I got up up and walked to the sliding door, making sure to keep Ardent within my sights, and closed it.

He turned around, picked up the glass, and then chose a half-empty bottle that read Dalmor on the stamp.

He opened it and poured himself a drink.

Want one?

He bobbed the bottle in my direction.

Only 12 bottles ever made.

No, thank you.

He shrugged as he put the bottle back in the cabinet and picked up his glass before closing it.

He ambled to the the desk and sat in the antique chair behind it, crossing his legs as he laid back on the leather upholstery.

He took a sip of his drink.

So,

what now?

I swallowed.

My trigger finger twitched.

You sent us to die.

That I did.

Care to explain why?

I think you already know why, Gabe.

My jaw clenched.

I would have made it right.

I would have done anything you asked to make it right.

You're smarter than that.

This isn't about me getting my money back.

His eyelids lowered halfway.

It's about the message.

I can't have people thinking they can steal from me and then just carry out a job and everything's peachy again.

A man like me does that.

It's a slippery slope from there.

You promised me.

Why lie?

If you weren't gonna let us go, why not just kill us straight out?

Why the wild goose chase?

Raymond stared at me for a few moments in silence, then took another sip.

Do you remember the day we met, Gabe?

I frowned.

What does that have to do with anything?

Do you?

My lips pursed.

I remember.

I do, too.

Messy situation.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Not your fault, really.

Just plain old bad luck leading you by the hand to a place you shouldn't be.

I could say the same for your men.

I did kill two of them down by that pier.

He smirked.

That you did.

Put up a hell of a fight.

Definitely gave my people a run for their money.

What's your point?

A lot of important things happened that night.

A lot of things.

And yet, when I think back...

Do you know what the first thing that comes to mind is?

He tilted his glass in my direction.

you

my men beat the shit out of you and put you down on your knees in front of me and i aimed my gun right between your eyes and you know what i saw he looked down at his scotch

nothing

There was no fear, no begging for your life, no pissing yourself.

Every other person I executed that night was a heaping mess of tears and pleads, but not you.

You were a random, bloodied guy staring down the barrel of a gun, and you didn't give a shit whether I'd pull the trigger or not.

And I remember thinking to myself, you know, what kind of a person has a gun shoved right in their face, and instead of pleading for mercy, they just.

just

nothing

to which I immediately replied, a person that doesn't care about anything and has nothing to lose.

Yeah, that's when I knew you'd become become one of my best guys.

How so?

Because there is a certain kind of honesty in people like that.

Someone who's scared, shitless, will say anything to save their life, but those who don't give a shit about their life will just speak their true mind.

That's why I made you the offer to work for me.

With you, I knew what I was getting.

If you're going somewhere with this, I recommend getting there fast.

Do you remember our meeting about about your brother two months ago?

I do.

Do you remember what you did during that meeting?

Of course I remember.

I came to ask you to show mercy.

That wasn't my question.

I asked if you remember what you did.

My face twisted.

I asked you to understand.

I begged you to...

I paused as my eyes widened.

I.

I begged, I muttered, finally realizing the mistake that was dangling in front of me the entire time.

You begged, Gabe.

I had never seen you beg before.

You know which people beg?

People that care about something too much to lose it.

And people who care so much about something can hold a grudge against the one who will take it away from them.

And a man like you?

Begging for something?

Now that is a dangerous thing.

The moment I realized you weren't able to let go of your brother, I knew I had no choice but to let go of the both of you.

The sides of my mouth tilted down.

You gave me hope.

I gave you hope.

He traced the mouth of his glass with a finger.

It dulled your better judgment and kept you from seeing what was really happening, which meant that I didn't have to worry about you planning my death to keep your brother safe.

He took another swig of scotch.

And considering our current predicament, I think I made the right call.

I lowered my head as my brother's words echoed in my mind.

Everything Michael had said was right.

We had indeed been led like cattle to a slaughterhouse, and I had convinced my younger brother to do that.

If I'd taken Michael's advice and run away, my sibling would still be around.

To make matters worse, I had been the one who'd brought Michael into Arden's fold in the first place, to help him get to his feet and keep a steady eye on him, both of which I'd failed to do miserably.

I raised my attention back to my former employer.

What was that thing in the woods?

Jack?

Yes.

Raymond shrugged.

Don't really know.

How can you not know?

You're working with him.

Not exactly the term I'd use.

It's...

It's more like we came to a mutually beneficial arrangement.

How did you find him?

Ardent cocked his head.

I stumbled upon him by chance.

Back when I was first starting, I found myself running through a forest several hours from here with a bullet in my shoulder.

Business meeting gone wrong.

Lost a lot of good people.

His lips pursed.

I eventually came across an abandoned house in a clearing, so I went in to hide.

He focused on me.

You're probably familiar with the next part.

The door slammed behind me and he appeared out of nowhere.

A few minutes later, my pursuers showed up at his doorstep following my blood trail.

His eyes drifted away toward the floor.

I watched him take them one by one, kicking and screaming through that window.

When my turn came,

we...

Struck a deal.

I supply people I need gone, and he makes sure they're gone.

All I needed to do was take them to that clearing and throw them through the door, and he took care of the rest.

I felt a lump in my throat as visions of Michael's final moments danced in front of my mind's eye.

I swallowed.

How did you communicate with him?

To make sure the house was there?

I didn't.

He just knew when I was on my way for a delivery and made sure to make an appearance.

Why didn't he take you?

Raymond's attention gravitated to his drink.

He

said he had no use for people like me.

Whatever that meant.

I sneered as I rubbed my eyes.

What's so funny?

Nothing.

Just.

nothing.

I scratched my beard, then narrowed my eyes.

His name.

He mentioned a few things about where he used to live.

Is he the Jack?

Could be, Though I can't be sure.

Silence fell between us as we stared at each other intensely.

Is my brother still alive?

Somewhere?

Can I get him back?

No.

That much I can tell you with certainty.

And how do you know?

Because he gave me a glimpse through that window.

He swallowed.

And where he takes them,

there is...

There's no coming back from.

Why should I believe you?

Why would I lie at this point?

Wouldn't it make more sense to bargain for my life with a potential solution to your problem?

I gritted my teeth.

I knew the man was telling the truth, and I hated it, because it meant that my brother was truly lost.

I had attempted to summon the house by dragging deadbeat criminals to that clearing for weeks, scaring them shitless, but nothing ever appeared.

And I was simply forced to add another grave to that forest every time.

I eyed my gun.

This This visit was over.

I guess you wouldn't.

My attention wandered around the room as I allowed my failure to sink in.

Raymond's face darkened.

Are you after my own

eye for an eye?

I'd thought about it.

I'd fantasized about Raymond Ardent waking up in blood-soaked sheets next to his wife's corpse and then running to the kids' bedrooms to find them with their throats slit.

No.

No eye for an eye.

Just you.

In the end, I hadn't been able to bring myself to hurt two children that kept calling me Uncle Gabe or a woman that had shown me nothing but kindness.

Ardent nodded.

Thank you.

Do you...

do you mind if we do this outside?

Not at all.

He smiled and downed the rest of his drink.

then left the glass on the desk.

He got up and approached me, and I made sure to keep my gun aimed at him at height.

We left the study and moved through the quiet, dimly lit entrance hall of the mansion.

We passed through the front door and walked across the massive, moonlit garden, eventually reaching the outskirts of the surrounding dense woodland.

Leaves crunched beneath our feet as we moved deeper and deeper into the woods, until we reached a small grove.

This should do.

Arden turned to face me.

Make sure you bury me far away from here and bury me deep.

It's best if no one finds out about this, huh?

I will.

Ardent gave me a grateful smirk and took a few steps back.

He didn't drop to his knees.

I didn't expect him to.

I approached and aimed my gun right between his eyes.

There was no fear there.

No begging.

No crying.

Just clear, cold eyes staring back at me defiantly.

Ready?

He remained silent.

Blood splattered across the dirt as Raymond Ardent's body hit the ground.

Smoke billowed from the hole in his forehead.

I scowled at the body for a few seconds in total stillness, then emptied the rest of my magazine on the corpse's torso, staining the white fabric crimson.

I holstered the gun and hoisted the dead man over my shoulder.

then made my way across the clearing and into the trees.

I knew just the place to bury him.

Our phone lines have been cut.

The cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Migolsky, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore.

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

White, and Kristen Semito.

Please visit theno sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for being a supportive member of our sleepless sanctuary and for taking our nightmarish calls.

This audio program is copyright 2024 and 2025 by Creative Raisin 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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