S22 Ep18: NoSleep Podcast S22E18

Oh, watch your step.

Wow, your attic is so dark.

Dark.

I know, right?

It's the perfect place to stream horror movies.

Flick me.

What movie is that?

I haven't pressed play yet.

ATT Fiber with Al-Fi covers your whole house, even your really, really creepy attic turned home theater.

Jimmy, what have I told you about scaring our guests?

Get ATT Fiber with Al-Fi and live like a gagillionaire.

Limited availability covers may require extenders at additional charge.

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

Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, old David Cummings.

I call myself old because it's been a good long time since my teenage years.

When I was a teenager, there were no smartphones, no internet, and no electricity.

Well, there was electricity, but we had to walk down to the electric creek and haul the power back up to our house.

And as much as I'd like to reminisce about my teens, I know that we were at just as much risk back then as teens are today.

And when it comes to horror, there is something even more sinister about it when there are teenagers involved.

Whether they're being chased and slaughtered by maniacs, or dealing with crazies in their own families, or even dealing with trauma from their own so-called friends, it's that weird mix of seeing someone who isn't a kid, but isn't yet an adult to suffer through terrifying scenarios.

In this episode, we meet some people who either are teenagers going through some nasty stuff.

or adults who are recalling the teen traumas of their past.

I hope most of you can't relate to these nightmares.

I trust the worst part of your teenage years was just the embarrassment of asking someone to a school dance, only to have them reject you because you were gross and a loser and no one likes you, David.

I mean,

anyway.

So, whether you're currently a teenager and living through the thick of it, or someone who can only recall your past, we hope these stories give you a chill and a thrill from their very own teenage wasteland.

Now, do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we meet four young women who have just experienced something strange.

One of their friends is missing, and the police want to get to the bottom of this.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Glumara, each girl has their own version of what happened, and it's fair to say their stories have quite a few discrepancies.

Performing this tale are Mike Delgadio, Mary Murphy, Danielle McRae, Nicole Goodnight, and Lindsay Russo.

So, unless you're braiding it, you probably should avoid being a hair puller.

On October 6, 1978, Janet Hinnishaw went missing.

She was last seen walking home from school with a group of other girls from her seventh grade class.

Authorities were notified when her parents discovered that she did not stay at a friend's house.

The girls who walked with Janet that night were questioned.

Bridget Palmer, twins Patricia Jones and Pauline Jones, Jones, and Debbie Howard all left Mrs.

Cleveland's seventh grade class with Janet Hinneshaw on the evening of October 6th, 1978, in Waverly County.

As a group, the girls all agreed that nothing particularly strange happened that evening.

The five children left together after class to walk home.

They stopped at a small park on the way towards their neighborhood for about an hour.

and then continued on the trail leading to their homes.

That, however, is the only shared narrative between the four girls.

The children were questioned individually, and despite all being together on the night of Janet's disappearance, each of their stories differed wildly.

Even though the girls denied anything strange happening when they were together, their individual stories contained peculiar information that the others in the group were unaware of.

When asked if the girls shared their stories with one another, they refused to speak about it and would instead talk about their personal lives.

The children were each questioned at the same time in separate rooms.

Bridget Palmer.

Yeah,

all of us were so excited for the weekend.

It was a Jones' birthday on Saturday, and we were going to stay up all night and eat ice cream.

It's always a long walk home from school, so we like to cut through the woods.

It's really pretty around this time of year, too, and the wind smells really good.

Me and Janice ran ahead to beat the Joneses and Debs to the park.

There were only two swings, and we were gonna take them.

Janice and I made it to the park, and I remember she tied her hair up into a ponytail.

I was so jealous.

My hair was cut so short, because last month Tommy Hogsnot put gum in it.

Janice's hair is so pretty.

And her blue eyes are gorgeous.

She's my best friend.

I love her.

We were swinging together, and we held hands to be sure we swung at the same time.

On the count of three, we agreed to jump the swing and land in a big pile of leaves we both made.

We both counted and jumped.

But she let go of my hand and I fell onto the ground alone.

I thought I landed weird, because the back of my head started bleeding.

The bugs were really loud that evening.

I remember that.

And all of a sudden, all I could hear was a screaming.

I looked back and she was gone.

I yelled at her and asked where she was.

I remember running really fast into the trees behind the swings.

And I was so, so mad no one else was with us.

I know that Janice and I are faster than the others.

But we were in the park for so long.

She wanted to be a runner when she went to high school.

She was always faster than me.

but I did my best to keep up with her.

I don't know what happened to Janice, but I was going to blame Debs and the Joneses, and even Tommy Hogsnott because he's such a jerk.

The last thing I remember is seeing everyone else outside of the park.

Patty, Pauline, and Debs looked so scared.

We didn't know what else to do.

So we went home, and I cried all night.

I didn't tell my parents until Janice's mom called.

I feel like it's my fault.

I should have ran faster.

I wish I was as fast as Janice.

Patricia Jones.

Me and Pauline were gonna have a really cool birthday.

I was gonna be 13.

I was gonna be a teenager.

I'm sad I couldn't do everything I wanted to.

I know I sound selfish.

I do hope that Joy is okay, even if she doesn't like me.

Bridget and Joy are definitely best friends, and

I feel like I'm sort of tagging along with the group.

I love Pauline, but but that doesn't mean we need to do everything together.

I guess Debbie is her new best friend or whatever.

But yeah,

we were all taking a shortcut like we normally do through the woods.

And on the way, there's a park we normally stop at.

For some reason, everyone else falls behind and it's just Joy and me walking through the leaves.

I looked behind and I couldn't see anyone else.

I saw Joy put her long hair into a ponytail and she ran fast ahead of me.

I hate how short my hair is.

My mom wants us to have Bob haircuts and I...

Hate it.

It looked like there's a stupid bowl on my head.

It's not as dopey as Bridget's hair looked after Tommy Hoggins put gum in her hair, though.

That was funny.

I remember yelling at Joy to slow down, and she just sort of stopped in the leaves next to the swings in the jungle gym and started putting them in a pile.

I thought it was really weird, and I remember her yelling Bridget's name really loud for some reason.

It's like she was...

talking to her, but I didn't even see her or Debs or Pauline at all.

I was so confused and scared and annoyed, and I looked back at the trail behind us and I didn't see anything.

I remember that I heard weird bug noises and I screamed back at joy for us to leave and find the others and I couldn't see her at all.

I heard her scream.

And I ran away.

I know it makes me look like a coward, But I was so scared.

I ran back the way I went in and I was yelling for the others.

We were all outside of the trees.

I was so, I was so angry, and I wanted to go home.

Pauline was crying, and Debbie gave her her big coat to cheer her up, or something.

Bridget looked annoyed at me for being so mad, but...

It's her fault for not coming in with me and Joy.

It's not my fault I didn't come out with Joy.

I don't know where she went or what happened.

I got so many bug bites from that night and I think a tree cut the back of my neck.

I didn't tell mom or dad about what happened.

I was annoyed that Joy was screwing with us.

Pauline kept crying on the way home and I was so mad at her for falling for her crap.

Joy's dad called our parents last night, asking if we saw Joy.

I just told Pauline that we we walked home by ourselves.

I guess Joy wasn't screwing with us.

Me and Pauline didn't have our party that weekend.

It was just us two watching movies alone in the basement.

What a dumb birthday.

Pauline Jones.

If you talk to my sister, I'm sorry she's so mean.

She didn't tell me anything, but I know she's a jerk.

I'm sorry.

We were all going home, and I remember being so excited for our birthday.

We're gonna have snacks and see movies and open presents.

I'm sad we didn't get to do that with all of us together.

We don't normally get a lot of presents because our parents have to get two each, but for our 13th, we were gonna get more than usual.

You only get your 13th once, you know?

I wish I got to know Jolene more.

I wish we would have had a really good time together.

I wish I knew what her favorite movie was.

I know Jolene and Bridget are really close.

I wish I was like that with Patty.

I hate how we've been together forever and she doesn't seem to want to be near me anymore.

I'm glad I got to meet Debbie in fifth grade, though.

She's been really nice.

I'm glad she's nice.

She kind of keeps to herself a lot and I keep telling her that her hair is so pretty, but she wants to keep it stuffed in a hat whenever she can.

I don't know why, but Miss Cleveland lets her keep it in a hat in class.

I think it's because she's just as nice as Debbie is.

Mom gave us a haircut last night, and I think the bowl she likes to use was chipped because the back of my neck is kind of cut up.

It's not her fault and I know she's trying.

But I remember Jolene had really pretty long blonde hair.

I remember she put it in a ponytail because it kept blowing everywhere or something.

All five of us were walking home and Patty and Bridge were talking about taking the shortcut to get home faster.

I hated that shortcut because it was so scary.

There's a park in the middle of these woods, but it's so old and gross, I hate going there.

I saw Bridge and Patty and Jolene all run together into the woods and Debbie and me tagged along behind them.

Debbie is so much braver than me.

I'm glad she came with me.

I just wish she stayed with me the entire time.

I don't know how it happened, but Debbie disappeared and I couldn't see anyone else.

I got a little lost in the trees and I tripped.

I heard people screaming.

And then I think I heard someone say a name over and over.

It's hard to remember because of all the buzzing.

It was like this bug noise from the locusts you normally hear in the summer.

I was so scared.

I got out of the leaves and began running back the way I came.

I don't know how I did it, but I got back out onto the grass by the sidewalk where I saw everyone else.

I didn't see Jolene though.

I tried asking where she went, but no one else said anything.

Debbie was so nice to me.

She hates taking her big coat off, but she gave it to me because I was so cold and scared.

It was so nice and warm.

She had a really pretty red scarf that she usually wears too, but I don't know what happened to it.

I think her mom gave it to her or something.

We all went home and I couldn't stop crying.

I asked what happened, and no one said anything to me.

Hattie looked at me and she looked so mad.

And when we got home, we were told to stay in all weekend and no one was allowed over.

I don't know what happened, but our mom and dad tried their best.

Patty told me she talked to mom and dad, and I figure she told them what was going on.

Despite everything that happened, I had a good time watching movies with Patty,

even if she was mad at me.

Debbie Howard.

I didn't know Jane that long.

All of us started having class together this year.

It was...

It was weird because I would almost call Patricia Pauline every day, and I learned really quickly to not do that, though.

They look so close, but Pauline is so shy and kind, and Patricia, well,

Jane seemed really nice, though.

I know her and Bridget are really close, and I can't imagine what Bridget is going through right now.

All of us were leaving school and we were so excited for the birthday party that weekend.

We went and

took the shortcut, but I know Pauline hates it.

I tried staying behind with her and suggested we take the long way home, but she insisted we go through because she said she was super brave.

I remember she held onto my scarf and I felt a tugging on it.

The tugging was so hard it made my hat nearly come off and I didn't see Pauline anywhere.

I don't know where she went, but I heard laughing ahead of me, and I was running and panicking.

I was so scared I lost Pauline.

I must have lost my scarf somewhere because I couldn't find it.

And I saw Jane alone, swinging and laughing, and I remember yelling at her to help me find Pauline.

I didn't notice that no one else was there.

I was too freaked out.

I thought I heard Bridget scream something, and I turned around, but I didn't see her.

I turned back around,

and all I saw was an empty swing.

I thought everyone was playing some joke on me.

I just wanted to go home at that point, so I kept walking through the woods, and when I stepped out, I saw everyone waiting for me.

Everyone besides Jane.

Bridget looked so upset, and Pauline looked so scared, and

I was mainly just confused.

Pauline started crying, so I gave her my coat to comfort her or something.

I didn't know what to do.

I noticed that the other girls had cuts around their necks, and I wanted to ask what happened, but no one said anything at all.

It was...

It was quiet all the way home.

Later at home, my uncle told me I wasn't allowed to go over to the Joneses for their birthday because of Janet's disappearance.

I don't remember Janet at all.

I figured he meant to say Jane.

I stayed in my room all weekend, so

I don't know what else happened.

Investigations are still ongoing into the disappearance of Janet Hinnishaw.

Both of Janet's parents have been cleared of any wrongdoing, and questioning continues with those who have associated with her.

Despite correcting the children's misremembering of Janet's name in their questionings, the girls insisted that the name they used was the name that she had.

According to Janet's teacher, Mrs.

Cleveland, she did not have any other nicknames that were known.

When searching the park the girls mentioned, nothing of note indicated anyone being in the vicinity that night.

In fact, it appeared that the space had not been used in quite some time, and the swings and jungle gym were rusted and in disrepair.

Debbie Howard has recently come in for an additional statement about the events surrounding Ms.

Hinneshaw's disappearance.

Despite warnings not to go back to the location of the event, she insisted she missed something.

Debbie Howard Interview 2 I know I was told not to go back to the spot where everything happened,

but it isn't that far from school, you know?

I was kind of thinking about it for these past few weeks.

I didn't really talk to Bridget or the Joneses anymore.

I didn't really talk to Patricia at all to begin with.

But not seeing Pauline kind of hurts my feelings.

But I thought if I went back, it would make everything...

I don't know.

Better.

I was hoping maybe Jane was there this whole time or something.

It's stupid, but, you know.

I didn't go very far onto that trail because honestly I was still terrified whatever happened to Jane makes me really paranoid I'm pretty paranoid anyway but thinking what happened to her could happen to anyone else is scary my uncle said he supported me and he's been really supportive for years and I'm glad I can stay with him he drove me to the spot and he even came with me I asked my uncle if he saw or heard anything and he told me he didn't.

But I definitely heard this bug buzzing noise coming from inside the trees.

I thought it was strange because it's so cold out right now and all the bugs are dead, right?

Why are there bug noises?

Inside the woods, you can see the park from a very specific angle.

You kind of have to move your head to the side a bit, but you can make out the jungle gym at least.

Well, I did that.

And I think I saw someone.

It didn't look like Jane.

It looked like some big guy standing there.

But he was holding something up.

It looked like some ball being held from a rope, I think.

He was definitely looking at me, I know that.

And I don't know how, but I felt like I was being pulled inside the woods up to him.

I wasn't actually moving, but it was like my glasses turned into a telescope and I could see so much closer.

I can't really describe it.

I hope that makes sense.

When I was getting pulled inside, I started panicking and I was getting closer to that ball rope thing.

But the closer I got, the more I could see the details.

The rope was yellow, and the ball was a weird shape.

Then I got even closer, and the rope was attached to the ball in a knot, and I could see the eyes looking back at me wide open, and they looked like they were in pain.

He was holding her head from her ponytail.

It looked like she was still screaming something, but all I could hear were those bugs.

All I remember is her sad face up next to mine, and then her eyes rolled back so I could only see the whites, and the buzzing got louder.

And then I noticed she was trying to scream Bridget's name over and over.

It was Janet.

At this moment, Debbie Howard appropriately refers to Janet Hinneshaw by her actual name.

It is still unclear why the other girls cannot do so.

When asked about why Debbie called Janet by the wrong name in the previous interview, she denied doing so.

The last thing I remember is my uncle shaking me awake.

I guess I fainted at some point, but I don't know when.

We both went home and he put me to bed.

I woke up the next morning and he surprised me with something.

He said he found my red scarf my mom knitted for me on the ground near the spot I passed out.

Apparently, he went back and found it sitting in the grass between some trees.

I asked him if he saw or heard anything and he told me that it was still quiet.

I still have trouble going to sleep and I get so scared anywhere near those woods.

I stopped wearing my scarf because, for some reason, every time I put it on, those buzzing noises keep coming back.

As of now, there have been no additional details regarding Janet Hinnishaw's disappearance.

All that is known is from the testimony of the four girls that were with her the night of October 6th.

What does Zinn really give you?

Not just hands-free nicotine satisfaction, but also real freedom.

Freedom to do more of what you love, when and where you want to do it.

When is the right time for Zinn?

It's any time you need to be ready for every chance that's coming your way.

Smoke-free, hassle-free, on your terms.

Why bring Zen along for the ride?

Because America's number one nicotine pouch opens up something just as exciting as the road ahead.

It opens up the endless possibilities of now.

From the way you spend your day to the people you choose to spend it with.

From the to-do list right in front of you to the distant goal only you can see.

With Zen, you don't just find freedom, you keep finding it again and again.

Find your Zen.

Learn more at zen.com.

Warning, this product contains nicotine.

Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

Hey parents, have you been thinking about homeschooling?

Choosing the right curriculum can feel overwhelming, but it doesn't have to.

At the Good and the Beautiful, we offer complete, high-quality homeschool courses.

And the best part, our K through 8 math and language arts programs are completely free to download.

Homeschooling can transform your family, allowing more flexibility, deeper learning, and quality time together.

Start your journey today for free at goodandbeautiful.com.

Are you one of the many people who suffer from choleraphobia?

Does the phrase, we all float down here, send a shiver through your spine?

Well, your fear of clowns probably isn't as bad as Ben's.

You see, his father was a clown.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Monique Asher, Ben recalls his struggles growing up with a father like his, a man who seemingly didn't understand the line between man and clown.

I joined Dan Zapula, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, Nicole Doolin, and Marie Westbrook in performing this tale.

So try to remember that clowns are meant to be fun, especially Slappy the Clown.

Ben sits with his legs hanging into the hole of his late father's grave.

The casket is lowered.

The fanfare of the stupidly cheerful day is over with, and he alone is left with the task of covering the remains in dirt.

The groundskeeper had been skeptical.

You sure you're up for it, kid?

It ain't as easy as it looks.

Not much is.

You know, I went and saw your dad perform with my old man back when he first started.

He stared off, lost in memory.

One of the best days I ever had with him, I think.

Shame he's gone.

The Slappy could make a man like Mussolini smile.

Ben had nodded and tilted the bottle of bourbon at him, which was now about half full or half empty.

Ben had lived out a long summer evening waiting for the sun to go down.

for the workers to lock the gates, and for no one to be around so he can do what he has to do.

He bounces his feet off the soil a few more times, staring down at the casket, an opalescent white monstrosity covered in flowers that shoot out water, real ones too.

A fuck ton of technicolor handkerchiefs and a few bicycle horns.

Ben winces.

He can still hear the grating sound of it when he looks at the shiny silver horns with red balls at the end.

A staple in his childhood, he can still feel the jump in his body from when it was Slappy's turn to wake him up for school in the mornings.

That fucking horn.

That fucking clown.

He pulls a mouthful of bourbon from the bottle and swallows it hard.

It burns a little as it goes down.

His hands find a grab on the grass and dirt and sprinkled colorful confetti surrounding the hole.

Why did his dad have to be such such a fucking lunatic?

Grief tries its hardest to snag Ben's heart despite the numbing buzz of booze eating at his liver.

It takes for a second.

Not grief for the carcass of formaldehyde-filled flesh beneath him, but for the man he was before.

There are only brief moments, and Ben can't tell for sure if they're even true or not anymore, but there were times when his father still his father.

Franklin Bellidoyle.

Not Slappy the fucking clown.

Ben thinks he remembers a trip his mom took with them up to Lake George the summer before he turned 11.

Frank was Frank the whole time.

Frank was dad.

He taught him how to fish.

They flipped burgers on a grill together.

Frank kissed Ben's mom on a canoe.

And Ben had wished...

Shit, back then Ben had probably prayed, that his dad could stay that way.

But when they got home, mom unpacked, and dad,

he went into the bedroom, and Slappy came out.

Ben knew it before he even entered the room, because he could smell that sick, old, oily clown makeup.

Slappy threw a pie at the wall, took all the money they had, and left.

Ben didn't see him for months, and when he came back, it was Frank for a day, crying and frantic, all apologetic to his mom.

Ben sat with his ear to a glass and listened through the walls, felt the fright grip his throat that day, felt sure at the time, something was very wrong with his family, wrong with his father.

Slappy did it, Lynn.

You gotta believe me.

It was like I was there one minute, and the next I was gone.

You're fucking nuts, Frank.

I'm not.

I'm...

Maybe I am.

Maybe I need help.

Frank or Slappy or whoever went away for a while after that.

Came back with a bunch of pills he took for a week or two.

Then supposedly Slappy told him he wasn't allowed to take them anymore, threw them on the floor, and crushed them up beneath his feet.

By then, Ben was 12 and spending most of his time outside the house trying not to think about Slappy, but when the circus came to town and the whole class went for a field trip, he couldn't avoid it.

That day was the second worst of his life.

He was chowing down on cotton candy with the girl he liked, Susie with the curly blonde hair and the one dimple, when the ringleader and Slappy called him down to the stage.

Him and his chaperone, Mrs.

Groves.

It was hot down there.

Light so intense it burned your skin.

He was sweating, and he smelled like puberty was seeping out of his pores.

The crowd hollered, Cupid, Cupid, Cupid, The stupid fucking name Slappy gave him when he was born, because his dad said the clown was in the delivery room.

His poor fucking mother.

Ben knew the bit, but he didn't want to do it.

Slappy sat at a little table with Mrs.

Groves on the opposite side.

A crowd of hundreds watched as another stupid clown ran over to Ben with a bow and arrow.

He was supposed to shoot Mrs.

Groves and make her fall in love with Slappy.

That was the bit.

But instead, he took it and pulled it back as far as he could and shot it right in Slappy's stupid face.

The crowd laughed, and Slappy made that stupid, sad face and pretended to cry.

Mrs.

Groves did what you're supposed to do when a clown cries in front of you.

She comforted him.

Then Slappy grabbed her tits and pulled up her skirt, and everyone laughed.

Ben didn't think it was funny, and Mrs.

Groves didn't think it was funny.

She never let Susie see him again.

Neither did any of the moms of girls in his grade.

The casket shakes.

What the shit?

Ben's heart moves to his throat.

He stands quickly and backs away, unsteady on his feet.

It wasn't me, son.

You have to believe me.

It was Slappy.

If I could get rid of him, I would.

I promise I would.

If I don't do what he says, he said he'll ruin my life.

He said he'd hurt you and your mom.

He shows me in my mind sometimes.

He shows me what he would do to you.

And he laughs.

Cupid.

Ben teeters over the grave.

Before Frank died, Ben hadn't been around his father in years.

But the words he said loop in his mind.

You gotta believe me.

You gotta do do what he says, Cupid.

You've gotta.

The casket goes still.

All the shit piled on top is shuffled about.

This can't be fucking real.

This whole day has him fucked up, is all.

His dad's dead.

Slappy's dead.

They dressed him in clown makeup, for God's sake.

That face, that oily white face, the red mouth, the blue triangle eyes.

Today, they looked

different.

Deep with wrinkles and sunken in.

His skin so thin, the shape of his dentures was visible underneath the clown grease at his open casket.

They wired the mouth shut, don't they?

How do they wire it shut when a man has no teeth?

Do they go through the gums?

Ben swallows another sip of bourbon from the bottle and reads the headstone out loud.

Beloved by millions, his body rests, but Slappy lives on.

Ben chucks the bottle into the grave and it shatters.

The bicycle horn honks loud, piercing his ears in the empty graveyard.

His body tenses.

He needs to do it now before he gets too scared.

He unzips his pants and lets out his full bladder onto the casket.

He thinks of his mom getting into the car with Frank that night back then.

A dinner out to talk things over, to talk about getting back together.

Her waving to teenage Ben, him knowing they couldn't trust Frank.

The call from the hospital.

There had been a terrible accident.

Her paralyzed body waiting for him to come home every night after that.

Spoon feeding her puke green baby food.

changing her diapers, slappy, frank, whoever, calling him from his too short stint in jail.

It wasn't me, it was Slappy.

You didn't do what he said.

You too left him.

Oh, God, Cupid.

Oh, God, help us!

Fuck you, Slappy.

I hope you rot in hell, you piece of shit.

The fucking clown appears out of nowhere just on the other side of the grave.

Ben falls back, horrified, and piss leaks all over his jeans.

As soon as he's there, he's gone.

Ben kicks away from the grave.

He leaves the body and the grave there open, unburied.

The groundskeeper can deal with it.

Fuck this and fuck Slappy.

Ben stumbles to the exit of the cemetery, climbs the fence, and abandons the grave.

He runs to the nearest gas station, damp with piss and sweat, and calls an Uber.

When he gets home, the night nurse rouses herself awake from the chair she's clearly been asleep on, next to his mother's hospital bed in the living room.

Monitors beep.

Sorry, you alright, Ben?

She's sweet.

He doesn't mind if she sleeps on the job sometimes.

It's a long, hard job.

Yeah.

It's over now, you know.

I just

had to see it for myself.

The body.

Oh, you look like shit, Ben.

She looks at his pants.

Um, why don't you go wash up and get some rest?

Your

Ben kisses his mom on the forehead before heading upstairs to his room.

He looks in the mirror.

Boy, he does look like shit.

He strips his soiled clothes and turns on the shower.

When he steps in, the hot water feels like a million bucks.

Gotta wash this horrible day off him.

He lathers himself with soap.

Goose flesh pricks out of his skin.

He turns the shower off quick, thinks of Slappy standing over the grave, of the casket shaking below, and listens hard.

There's nothing, just the loud sound of mom's oxygen machine downstairs.

Fuck you.

Spooked yourself, Benny boy.

He turns the shower back on and rinses the suds down his body until he feels it's been long enough.

All the booze and spooks turn in his stomach.

He turns off the shower and steps out into the hazy bathroom.

The mirror is fogged, so he wipes it and looks at himself in the reflection.

A little better.

His dad's gone.

The day is over.

That fucking clown is no more.

The smell of oily face paint hits him out of nowhere, overpowering the soap he's just cleansed himself with.

Then he sees it.

Just a smudge.

A fingerprint, thick and greasy and white and smeared on his throat.

He wipes it, but instead of cleaning it away, It only makes the greasy white mark grow longer.

He grabs a towel, wets it, lathers it with soap.

He scrubs.

But every scrub just unveils more and more

and more of it.

Up his chin, red mouth, he scrubs.

It's thick and suffocating on his skin, in his pores.

He scrubs so hard, he thinks he might bleed.

He's crying, gasping for clean air, desperate to get it off.

The face in the mirror changes.

His face, only covered in Slappy's makeup, is smiling, grinning.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

This can't be real.

Slappy is in the ground, Ben pissed on his grave.

He's dead.

His dad is dead.

He wipes and he wipes and wipes, crying baby Cupid.

He runs to his room, to the full-length mirror in his room to see.

The bathroom mirror must be broken.

In his room, he turns on the light, stares in the mirror, and it's everywhere.

Up and down his body, greasy clown paint covering his fucking cock for Christ's sake.

Slappy smiles.

Slappy waves.

Ben shrinks.

Now you're gonna listen to me, you little

fuck.

What does Zin really give you?

Not just hands-free nicotine satisfaction, but also real freedom.

Freedom to do more of what you love, when and where you want to do it.

When is the right time for Zen?

It's any time you need to be ready for every chance that's coming your way.

Smoke-free, hassle-free, on your terms.

Why bring Zinn along for the ride?

Because America's number one nicotine pouch opens up something just as exciting as the road ahead.

It opens up the endless possibilities of now.

From the way you spend your day to the people you choose to spend it with.

From the to-do list right in front of you to the distant goal only you can see.

With Zen, you don't just find freedom.

You keep finding it again and again.

Find your Zen.

Learn more at zinn.com.

Warning, this product contains nicotine.

Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

You're juggling a lot.

Full-time job, side hustle, maybe a family, and now you're thinking about grad school?

That's not crazy.

That's ambitious.

At American Public University, we respect the hustle, and we're built for it.

Our flexible online master's programs are made for real life because big dreams deserve a real path.

At APU, the bigger your ambition, the better we fit.

Learn more about our 40-plus career-relevant master's degrees and certificates at apu.apus.edu.

If you've ever kept a diary, you'll know how meaningful it can be when you look back on your life documented therein.

But for the young girl we'll soon meet, a diary gifted to her wasn't blank and ready to be filled in.

As we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Jamie Flanagan, her diary comes with important rules.

Rules that, if broken, can have calamitous consequences.

Performing this this tale are Kristen DiMakurio, Mary Murphy, Danielle McRae, Aaron Lillis, Marie Westbrook, Jeff Clement, Nicole Doolin, Kyle Akers, Nicole Goodnight, and Sarah Thomas.

So, your diary is meant to be written by you one day at a time.

Don't believe me?

Well, just ask Moira.

I'm eight years old when my mother asks for the book.

My grandmother pulls the diary from a dusty shelf in the kitchen as my other grandmothers exchange a glance across their weaving.

It does not seem odd to me that I have three grandmothers, nor odd that the kitchen should be used to house so many books.

The cottage is filled with them, stack upon stack, shelf upon shelf.

My grandmother hands the diary to my mother, boasting of her handiwork as she stirs a pot of stew.

Coptic binding, hand-stitched with mare's mane.

Horvin ink.

On parchment from Salib Gullionwood.

Bound in vellum from Milo's calf.

He grumbled about it, Milo, but came round in the end.

Carried it here himself when he learned it was for our Moira.

For old time's sake.

What's old time?

Like now, but heavier.

And a bit blurry.

My grandmothers have names, of course.

Cleo, Lockley, and Addie.

Though I've never been able to tell them apart.

I'd like Moira to have it.

A silence hangs over the cottage, like a cloud threatening to rain at my mother's pronouncement.

For what purpose?

Moira is afraid of the world.

Three pairs of roomy eyes turn to me.

My chest tightens as my throat closes and my cheeks begin to burn.

Without a word, I can guess their answer.

Dinner comes and goes, then it's goodbye kisses and tight embraces.

Gran turns to my mother.

Tell that man of yours we said hello.

My father never visits the cottage.

It's not, I'm told, a place he belongs.

That night, at home, as my mother tucks me in, she gives me a conspiratorial grin, then reaches into her bag and retrieves the diary.

An early birthday gift.

Just don't tell your grandmothers.

I take the book.

It's thick and heavy, and its vellum is smooth and reassuring beneath my touch.

When I was your age, I had a diary just like this one.

Your grandmothers gave it to me.

I read a little each day, and it made me feel safe.

So long as I followed the rules.

What rules?

Each day, you may read one entry, but only the entry for that same day.

Don't bother with what happened yesterday or the day before.

Life moves forward, and that's how it's meant to be read.

But, and this is very important, never skip ahead to tomorrow or after.

Promise?

Promise.

Good.

Keep it close.

Don't sell, lose, or give it away.

There is one book for you in all the world, and no one, not even your grandmother's, can replace it.

She casts a serious gaze.

I try my best to appear wise, responsible, and like someone who would never give, sell, or otherwise lose a book.

Once my mother's footsteps have receded down the hall, I huddle beneath the sheets, reading today's entry by flashlight.

The diary makes no mention of monsters in closets or ghouls beneath beds.

I lie down to sleep, and for the first time, I'm not afraid of the dark.

Sunlight spills through my bedroom window, warm against my cheek.

It's the day before my ninth birthday.

I can smell angel food cake baking and hear my father whistling from downstairs.

In the afternoon, my mother and I finger paint flowers on my bedroom wall.

She lets me paint a sunflower on her cheek, laughs, and hands still wet with colors, holds me.

Before bed, I open the diary, longing to be reassured and, because I'm exactly the girl my grandmothers know me to be, break my promise and read about what presents I'll receive tomorrow.

Pages flutter beneath my touch.

It's suddenly morning.

I'm already dressed.

I put down the book and head downstairs.

My father greets me with a harried smile as he cleans up the remnants of what appears to have been a party.

Ah, there she is.

How about a little leftover cake for breakfast?

I go to the fridge, and sure enough, there's my angel food cake, mostly eaten.

with holes atop where candles should be.

I'm confused.

Then memories surface.

Details I somehow know.

My friends arriving, the cake with lit candles, what songs we sang and what presents I received.

But they all feel like stories from the television.

Like things I've seen that never happened to me at all.

That night, I visit my grandmother's.

They lounge in their sitting room, playing a game that reminds me of Yahtzee, but with a set of small bones instead of dice.

Grants?

I'm confused.

Wants to know rules for a book she shouldn't have.

A pang of shame colors my cheeks as a handful of bones clatter against the coffee table.

It's simple.

If a tad convoluted.

For any today, you can read all you like and still have those things to look forward to.

If you read tomorrow or any further ahead, you'll find yourself wherever you leave off.

Why?

Time's a fickle relative.

Shy about the future, insufferably blunt about the present, and a disaster at record-keeping.

Tomorrow isn't meant for most eyes.

You're half-kin, so you can have a few hours' preview.

Any more than that, you'll skip ahead with the pages.

They continue their game, as though they've forgotten me entirely.

Are you angry with me?

Should I give it back?

No, dear.

You were always going to have it, though we had never chosen to give it to you.

Oh, well, then

I should probably get home then.

Thanks, Granz.

You're welcome, Poppet.

Then, as I turn to leave,

Moira.

I turned to face them.

Three pairs of eyes, uncharacteristically sad, stare back.

Enjoy tomorrow.

Savor it.

One hands me the bones.

Know that you are loved.

Before beginnings.

Beyond ends.

Always.

I limp my way through the playground at recess.

It's been a few days since I visited my grands, and I've taken their advice to heart.

I set my bag down, the book safely inside, as I take a seat on a seesaw.

That's when the boy shows up.

Can I play?

I stand, holding the opposite seat at waist height.

He accepts the invitation and joins me.

Up and down we go, back and forth, slow and creaking.

And after a very long time, he speaks.

Why do you limp during recess, but never during class?

What do you mean?

All week, you've limped during recess, but never during class.

Time?

What about it?

My grand says time's my relative or something.

If I'm happy, it'll be happy and run fast.

If I'm sad, it'll be sad too and move much slower because it feels bad for me.

The seesaw creaks to a stop.

His brow wrinkles in confusion.

So why do you limp during recess, but never during class?

I step off the seesaw, careful not to let him plummet.

I sit in the grass, then remove one of my shoes.

A trick my grands taught me.

Hold out your hand.

Tiny bones fall from my shoe to his palm.

He sifts through them, a question perched on his lips.

As I cradle my legs to my chest and rest my chin on my knees, I use them when I don't want something to end, or when I'm enjoying something I wish would last longer.

Do they hurt?

Yes.

Then why do you wear them?

Because pain makes a moment seem longer.

You're weird.

Then he drops the bones to the ground before rushing away.

A shrill whistle announces the end of recess.

Other children rush past me in a blur.

I finish tying my shoe, then gather the bones.

That's when I realize my bag is gone.

And for a panicked moment that rivals eternity, my book along with it.

During social studies, I sit stone still despite my dread while blindly circling answers on the multiple choice quiz.

I pass a note to the boy who'd shared the seesaw with me, asking if he has my bag.

With a wince of distaste, he nudges it off his desk without reading.

Our social studies teacher, a severe woman with split bifocals, stops at my desk.

Class?

She yanks the page from beneath the tip of my pencil.

Is this how we fold our paper?

No,

a chorus of voices reply.

How do we fold it?

The class mumbles something else, but I can't hear it through the ringing in my ears as the muscles of my neck and face tense up, the last bulwark against a sob.

Correct.

She stares down at me.

Down the center,

like a book.

With that, she drops the piece of paper on my desk, and for a moment, the world is searing white.

Then I'm in motion, on my feet, fleeing the classroom, searching for a safe place to cry.

When I arrive home from school, I hurry to my mother, then fall into her arms as

pages flutter.

In the dark, I stare across my bedroom at the novelty clock on my wall, the black cat with its shifting eyes.

My brow knots in confusion as the unlived memories of the last day and a half assert themselves.

I remember crying.

Remember my mother on the phone with other parents, trying to track down my diary without luck.

I somehow keep myself from panicking.

I need to find whoever has the book and stop them from reading further than they already have.

I slip out of bed and run toward my parents' room.

Ease the door open.

Hesitantly, call out for my mother.

She sits up in bed as my father turns on a lamp.

Moira?

I tell her that

pages flutter.

Wearing a different set of pajamas, I stand at their bedroom door as a yesterday that never happened forces its way into my head.

I sob, hands to my forehead as I open the door.

Oh, bad dreams again, honey.

Another coughing fit takes hold of my mother.

Pages flutter.

I stand at the threshold of my parents' room.

New pajamas, new night.

I fall to one knee as an entire week rips through me.

I howl in pain.

My mother sits up.

Doubles over in another coughing fit.

My father rushes to my side.

It's okay, Moira.

Your mother's just just feeling a little...

Pages flutter.

I open the door to their bedroom, where my mother, frail and thin, wearing a knit cap, sits on the edge of the bed, clutching a wastebasket.

A missed month robs me of my ability to speak, to stand.

My head cracks against the wooden floorboards that break my fall.

Pages flutter.

My father is asleep in bed.

There's no sign of my mother.

Before I can make sense of what I see, pages flutter.

I'm sitting on the carpet of our living room on a sunny day as a cartoon plays on the television.

My lips part, eyes hood over as months of lost time etch themselves into me.

Each thought like a sculptor striking stone.

On the mantle is an urn.

Then I remember when my relatives gathered in their dark suits and dresses.

How I was led by the hand toward a wooden box that both did and and did not contain my mother and in the living room, I am screaming.

My father, prone on the couch with his eyes closed and fingers resting gently against a liquor bottle, doesn't so much as twitch.

Pages flutter.

My father leads me into an office of brown walls and leather couches.

I wade through the quiet hum of central air conditioning.

and the smell of lemon-scented polish.

It's a doctor for people who are soul sick, I remember him telling me.

I am 10 years old and I am screaming.

Pages flutter.

Wearing a thin gown, I seem to float through a hallway lit by halogens, paneled ceiling above, checkered floor below, and many, many doors.

Then I remember intake, my father's tears, bimonthly visits.

I'm 12 years old, and I'm still screaming.

Pages flutter.

I stare up at the ceiling of my moonlit bedroom in Shady Pines facility, quiet as a mouse.

I'm awake.

Can't move.

Blame it on my meds.

Or another one of my fits.

I have a few different kinds.

Manic, depressive, dissociative.

This one they'll call sleep paralysis.

But it's the diary.

Inscribing the last two years into me.

My arms itch from past cuts I've inflicted, trying to slow it all down.

I just want it to slow down.

Pages flutter.

I'm 19 years old, and I refuse to panic, not this time.

I take stock of the immediate, the clothes on my back, the wooden stool beneath me, the easel in one hand, the paintbrush in the other, the canvas in front of me.

Instead of fighting the deluge, I breathe and accept the last five years.

I breathe, not worrying about time or order.

I breathe and let my skipped life bloom, develop in me, like a Polaroid.

Then I know where I am and where I've been.

How I left the facility when my father, sober, finally came back to claim me.

How I enrolled in community college, older than my peers.

I gaze at a canvas awash with dark oil colors.

A painted figure stares back.

A black cat with clock eyes, old beyond counting and cruel beyond reason.

I've looked for you.

Called old classmates.

Most didn't remember me.

Others hung up.

Whoever you are, please stop reading.

Please.

Pages flutter.

I fall to the twin bed of my dorm room and then curl into a fetal position.

Out of community college.

and into a state university.

Art major.

My chest vibrates as sobs breach my lips.

Lottie, my roommate, lies down beside me, a soft parenthetical at my rigid back, whispering that everything will be all right.

It won't be.

I know it won't.

Pages flutter.

I'm 25, seated on a high pile carpet in a studio apartment.

A warm box of white rice in one hand and chopsticks in my left.

Surrounded by moving boxes and a few lit candles.

She She hasn't been here long enough to call the power company.

The acquaintance across from me.

Dimly lit by candlelight.

A friend of a friend.

I'd agreed to help her with the move.

After eating a dumpling, she wipes a bit of sauce from her lip, then gazes at me in a way that makes me feel warm.

Seen.

I make a fist with one hand, dig my nails into my palm, hoping the pain will turn these seconds into minutes.

Just let me stay in this moment.

Please let

pages flutter.

I lie next to a man, early 30s, in a large bedroom in an expensive flat.

A pristine, sterile space.

Lifeless.

He rises to dress.

I stare at him.

This person I abandoned my desire for, to share in his safety.

And I pray for someone to come along with my diary so I'll no longer feel beholden, so I can find peace on my own terms.

Pages flutter.

The bed in the loft is disheveled.

It's a bohemian studio of red bricks and dark metal accents.

Looks small and cheap.

Still cost more than we can afford.

Holding down a job isn't easy for me, given my condition.

In my free time, I paint.

Art supplies and musical instruments are spread throughout the studio.

The latter belong to her.

At the nearby sink, a woman in her 40s, the same age as me, applies dark eyeliner.

She asks why I won't be attending her concert this evening.

That's when I realize I can't get out of bed, that I haven't for a day or two, save for a trip or two to the bathroom.

Like my last partner's wealth, her confidence has been carrying me.

And I've had nothing to offer in return.

Her makeup does little to hide how much my silence hurts her.

She crosses the room, reaches for her dark overcoat on.

Pages flutter.

The coat rack.

Nothing hangs there except a scarf of mine.

Most of my jackets are on the floor, tangled amongst the rest of my clothing.

An alarm clock sounds as I roll over on that same bed, in the same studio.

I reach out, silencing it, take stock of what I've missed.

The musical instruments are gone.

The paint supplies in disarray.

I am 45 years old.

I'm alone.

Pages flutter.

It is loud in the art gallery.

Louder than I would like.

The size of the crowd is encouraging, but I worry about the critics.

My black evening gown scratches at the seams.

It used to fit better.

I look over my collection, which, at long last, I've managed to get on display.

The portraits all share one thing in common.

The subjects are dead.

I stare at a portrait of my mother.

A wound four decades old, though somehow only minutes, splits further open.

I am 47 years old and still don't know how to mourn.

A man in his 80s, frail and much smaller than he'd been in my youth, approaches, asks if the paintings are selling, and no, they aren't.

He nods.

Then looks at the portrait of my mother.

It's exceptional, he tells me.

His voice cracks with age and regret.

He says he wishes he'd taken her more places, seen more of the world with her.

If only they'd had a little more time.

Then, with a kindness I cling to like a life-preserver, he stares at me and tells me he's proud.

He is so, so very proud of...

Pages flutter.

I stare at a portrait of my father, which hangs in my collection.

I stand there, split in two.

Half of me sinks as the other floats away.

I am 50 years old.

Pages flutter.

I pass beneath the vaulted ceiling of a vast space.

My footsteps echo as I pass Roman soldiers, pharaohs, cavemen, dinosaurs, things lost to time.

I take a seat on a bench, admire a painting that hangs on a wall.

Grateful for the soothing din of passers-by.

A girl about eight years old, younger than me, and not, wearing a puffy blue coat and knit cap, wanders over.

She adjusts the straps of her backpack as she stares at the painting.

I greet her, ask if she's here for school.

She's shy, shakes her head yes.

Moments later, her teacher seeks her out.

Relief washes over the woman's face.

She'd thought she'd lost one.

The girl asks me what I do.

I offer to show them.

Later, in a back room few can access, I invite the teacher and the girl to sit beside a work table, upon which rests an aged canvas.

I put on a pair of vinyl gloves, remove the nails from the wood with a pair of pliers, mix putty, apply it to the holes and cracks, then use a hot iron to affix strips of fabric.

I flip the canvas over.

Examine the painting with a black light.

Find the places time has eaten away.

I mix my paints to match their colors, then fill in what's been lost.

A restoration artist.

She restores them, see?

Good as new?

No,

I tell her, as I use a q-tip and a bit of solvent to make a dull orange bright again.

It'll never be as it was, or like it was supposed to be.

There's damage, changes, even in repair.

It won't keep forever.

But it'll stay as long as there's someone around who believes it deserves to.

Which things get to stay?

No telling.

Most don't.

Nor do the people that made them.

That's what makes them beautiful.

And a little sad.

And that's okay.

That's the way of things.

Aside from fixing stuff, did you ever make anything?

Anything that stayed?

The question cuts deep, but I don't let on.

A practiced smile that's long since become reflex crosses my face.

A small, sad thing that answers her question without answering it.

Then the girl and the teacher have gone.

I apply varnish to finish the piece, hang up my smock and throw away the gloves, turning off the lights behind me as I go.

I return to the bench in the gallery, to the painting which hangs there.

I try to admire it as a whole, restorations and all.

Much like my life.

The fraction I've lived, and the bulk I haven't.

I feel a pain in my arm, then in my chest.

The lights above dim.

A subtle warning that it's nearly time to go.

I stay where I am.

I'm too old and young to follow such rules.

So I sit with the painting and my regrets.

I should never have waited so long for something to come along and save me.

For someone else to make me feel safe.

Tomorrows are frightening, until you start to run out of them.

And what's left of my book is thin.

I think back to the early parts, when scenes played out in their entirety, and the tone was the stuff of fairy tales.

So it's no surprise when one of my grandmothers sits beside me, disguised as my shadow.

Though I couldn't name her as a child, I recognize her now.

Gentle Atropo.

The one who shelves the books.

I wish my grands had taught me better ways to stretch a moment.

For all the pain, mine went by too fast.

I can't blame you for that, though.

For a while, I did.

All you did was find a diary.

And pages are meant to be turned.

So read on, there's comfort in endings.

But before Addie returns me to the stacks, if it isn't too much to ask,

Turn back to the morning before my ninth birthday.

To the sun on my skin, my mother's baking and my father's whistling.

Draw a sunflower in the margins so I'll feel held before beginnings,

beyond ends,

always.

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 Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore.

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

White, and Kristen Semito.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the Sleepless Sanctuary.

Add-free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking our nightmarish calls.

This audio program is Copyright 2024 and 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

You're juggling a lot, full-time job, side hustle, maybe a family, and now you're thinking about grad school?

That's not crazy, that's ambitious.

At American Public University, we respect the hustle and we're built for it.

Our flexible online master's programs are made for real life because big dreams deserve a real path.

At APU, the bigger your ambition, the better we fit.

Learn more about our 40-plus career relevant master's degrees and certificates at apu.apus.edu.

Drew and Sue and Eminem's Minis.

And baking the surprise birthday cake for Lou.

And Sue forgetting that her oven doesn't really work.

And Drew remembering that they don't have flour.

And Lou getting home early from work, which he never does.

And Drew and Sue using the rest of the tubes of Eminem's minis as party poppers instead.

I think this is one of those moments where people say, it's the thought that counts.

Eminems, it's more fun together.

What does Zinn really give you?

Not just smoke-free nicotine satisfaction, but also real freedom to do more of what you love, when and where you want to do it.

Why bring Zinn along for the ride?

Because America's number one nicotine pouch opens up all the possibilities of now.

With Zinn, you don't just find freedom, you keep finding it.

Find your Zen.

Learn more at Zinn.com.

Warning: this product contains nicotine.

Nicotine is an addictive chemical.