S22 Ep3: NoSleep Podcast S22E03

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They're calling.

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.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith

Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

Keith Miller.

We're now halfway through December, and that means the big day isn't far off.

Got your shopping done?

Have you decked the halls and trimmed the tree?

Well, if you're hoping for a present of audio horror, get your stockings ready.

Next week, we'll be releasing our annual full-length Christmas episode for one and all.

And if you're a sleepless member, you'll get a bonus Christmas episode.

And if you're a sanctuary member, you'll get a third bonus Christmas story episode.

Wow, jingle my bells, because that's a lot of holiday horror for you.

Still time to sign sign up if you want all those extra Christmas creeps this year.

Now, on this episode, we have close encounters.

No, not with aliens or UFOs, but with those strange, creepy, mysterious people who force themselves upon us.

Almost like that creepy dude who comes down your chimney each year around this time and eats your cookies.

That guy needs to be on some sort of watch list, the pervy fat man.

They all know who you're talking about, and I don't like it.

Get back to the reindeer and elves, old man.

Yes, on this episode, we encounter people who aren't just annoying, they're also very disturbing.

The kind of people you'd wish would go away and leave you in peace, not pieces.

So, while being alone during the holidays isn't pleasant, After this episode, you might be grateful for a bit of a lone time away from these decidedly strange people.

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

In our first tale, we meet Rob and Ella.

They're visiting their favorite curio shop, the Dusty Tiger.

Searching for treasures and knickknacks is their hobby.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Joshua Ginsburg, an old steamer trunk catches Rob's eye, and upon closer inspection, the items found therein start to become genuinely unnerving.

Performing this tale are Lindsay Russo, Matthew Bradford, Graham Rowett, and Danielle McRae.

So be careful when looking for old treasures.

They're not the only things that get collected.

The bell affixed to the upper corner of the wooden frame tinkled as the door swung open, and various necklaces, beads, and baubles hung from the back of the door rattled and clattered.

A young couple stepped into the faintly musty and carefully cultivated gloom of the curio shop from the pale glare of the early summer sunlight outside.

From behind the counter, Justin put down the pulp paperback he'd been inspecting atop a small stack of others, all recently acquired and needing a price before being placed on the shelves along the back wall of the store.

The woman was wearing a pink and white tennis outfit, and the man had on a bright purple and green Hawaiian shirt.

Rob and Ella, regular customers.

Well, Rob more so than Ella.

Hey, Justin.

Rob smiled, reaching out to give his hand a firm pump.

What's new?

Oh, hey there.

We just did our monthly redesign.

Justin gestured around the interior of the dusty tiger, of which he and his wife, Hex, were the proud proprietors.

Somebody brought by some unsold things from an estate sale last week.

I haven't sorted through it all yet, but feel free to take a look.

It's all in the trunk by the back door.

Thanks.

I'll check it out.

Ella had already wandered off to explore a pair of small ballet shoes on the bottom shelf of a display case that also included jars and vials of wet specimens.

Of what creatures she couldn't quite tell, but was confident that she had no desire to know.

She found the place a bit upsetting, especially the circus section with its assortment of clowns.

Masks, cutouts, posters, dolls, etc.

But in the interest of being fair, Rob had taken her shopping and out for dinner the day before, so she would let him have his fun today, even if that meant sifting through occult collectibles, taxidermy fails, and other things that she ranked on a scale that went from disgusting to disturbing.

Rob, however, loved the place.

He fancied himself a collector and dreamed of one day having his own Victorian-styled Wunderkammer.

Of course, that would have to be kept in his office, or his lair, as Ella called it.

Mostly, she didn't mind the things he collected, though she had suggested more than once that he should focus more on just one type of thing to collect.

He had gone from vintage postcards to tiki mugs and memorabilia to his latest fixation, which was good luck charms.

He had developed a passion for collecting early on as a kid.

First with pewter figures and animals, then, as he moved into his teen years, comic books.

He'd filled long white cardboard boxes with them, carefully bagging each each one after reading, and amassed hundreds, maybe thousands of them.

If he had held on to those, he sometimes sighed, he could probably have paid off his student loans or put a down payment on a place.

Instead, questing after the cool that eluded him all of his young life, he'd sold them to buy an electric guitar, on which he had learned to play exactly three songs.

More than once, he cited this in defense of what Ella considered early stage hoarding.

Rob, in turn, found that Ella was surprisingly unsentimental about the childhood trinkets, mementos, and fetishes that told the stories of people's young lives.

Going through other people's memories like that, she had told him, seemed kind of creepy.

Rob continued to browse the objects on display, passing vintage typewriters and cameras, x-ray slides, stacks of heavy metal magazines, an old orange speak-and-spell toy with its electronic innards spilled out across a countertop, a bone saw and other antique surgical equipment, a box of assorted animal bones, and toward the back of the shop, a battered blue steamer trunk.

It had three letters crudely carved into the top, R-T-S.

Must be for me.

He smiled, recognizing those initials as a match for his own.

He flipped it open and saw a heap of objects, a glimpse into some stranger's world through the things they had assembled over a lifetime.

As a collector, he knew the unique thrill of finding the last missing piece of something to complete a set, and similarly cringed when he saw such painstakingly gathered collections carved up and picked through online or in vintage stores.

His momentary aversion was quickly overcome, however, by the thought of what treasures he might come across.

He lifted first a dented metal G.I.

Joe lunchbox,

flipped it open, and found the thermos still inside, snapped into its holder.

Uncommon, maybe rare even.

He put it aside on top of a nearby table.

He remembered having one very much like it as a kid and wondered briefly what had happened to it.

Probably donated or given to a vintage shop somewhere along the way.

Maybe just thrown away.

There are comic books, most of which he recognized.

Classic X-Men, Amazing Spider-Man, Doctor Strange, The Punisher, all titles and even issues that he remembered once having.

Below those were books, The Phantom Toll Booth, which he, like countless other kids, had read in fourth grade, a creased and scarred monster manual, which had once been his introduction to the world of role-playing games.

Whoever this all had belonged to, he mused, must have been a whole lot like him.

Maybe they would have been friends.

Hey, Ella, you have to see this.

She put down a mirrored tray which had been displaying a line of gothic mascara and lipstick and joined him as he lifted another object from the trunk.

Oh my God, look at this.

Rob held in his hand a snow globe with an orange, grinning jack-o'-lantern contained within, sitting atop a ceramic pile of leaves painted in appropriately autumnal colors.

He turned it over in his hand, the dim light causing the faux snow to glisten silver through the fluid inside the orb, which was no longer as clear and colorless as it once had been.

You know, I used to have one just like this.

I mean, exactly like this.

Down to the chip at the bottom of the corner.

He ran his finger over the nick, as he had many times with the one he had owned.

Suddenly, he stopped turning it over and stared at the bottom.

Something was scrawled there.

Ella put a hand on his shoulder.

What?

What's up?

I think, I don't know how, but I think maybe this really is the same one I had.

Like, the exact same one.

He showed her the bottom of the snow globe, and there were his initials written in green marker.

Ella looked at Rob's face, searching for some sign that he was pulling her leg.

His shock seemed genuine as he put it down on the table.

The phone at the front desk rang, and both Ella and Rob nearly jumped.

They heard the muffled sound of Justin making conversation, saying that it was no problem at all.

He'd put something away for someone to pick up whenever.

What else is in here?

Rob pulled out various objects, all of which he had some extraordinary personal connection to.

Here, a pen made to look like a dragon, a stethoscope his father had let him play with as a child, a flute he'd played in second and third grade, a replica of a Mayan calendar carved out of cowbone that he'd hung over his desk throughout college, a gift from one of his roommates.

Is this for real?

Robbie, I don't like this.

Then he came up with the most impossible item yet.

A high school yearbook.

His high school yearbook.

He flipped open to the first page, and there was his name.

But it was spelled wrong.

Robert Salzberg, with an E instead of a U in Berg.

I actually never got this.

I mean, I was sick the last day of my junior year, so one of my teachers, Mr.

Peterson, put it aside for me.

I mean, I went back in a few days after graduation to pick it up, but it wasn't there.

I mean, I never found it.

He continued flipping through the book and found that over the faces of three of his classmates were X's out of black tape.

One was over James Rogan, who had never graduated, as he died in a car accident senior year.

Another was over Charles Mueller, who had died several years back from brain cancer.

And one had been placed over Tabitha Green.

She had passed away from COVID, he'd heard through the alumni Facebook group.

That had been, what,

just a year ago.

He felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.

What the fuck?

His confusion deepened.

At the bottom of the trunk were loose photos of him and his family.

The houses they had lived in, pictures of him in his first car, out to dinner with co-workers at various jobs he'd held.

Some photos he didn't recognize and appeared to have been taken of him from quite a distance.

Of birthdays, his wedding, even the place he lived presently.

This stuff, I mean, it's from like over 30 years ago.

It's five different cities.

Ella's grip on his shoulder tightened.

We can't.

We can't just let this stuff sit here like this.

I mean, this is my life.

My whole life.

Rob went back to the front desk.

If Justin noticed that Rob seemed shaken, he said nothing.

The trunk you just got, where did you say it came from?

Oh, the estate sale?

Let's see.

Justin flipped through a multicolored stack of notes and papers clipped together next to the cash register.

No name, but I have an address.

It says it came from 1422 North Marine Drive.

Rob's jaw hung open.

He lived on North Marine Drive.

He tried to place the address on a map in his mind.

It was four, no, five houses down from the one that he and Ella rented.

Same side of of the street.

Was it the one with the pink stucco wall or the...

No,

he realized.

It was the empty plot.

The house there had burned down some years earlier, or so he remembered having been told at one point.

The ground was still blackened where the grass had never grown.

He and Ella both tried to walk their dog in the opposite direction of that place.

It always gave them a bad vibe when they walked past it, especially at night.

Like something there was watching them.

We'll take the trunk, all of it.

Justin shook his head and scratched his chin under his thick, dark beard.

Uh, the blue one, right?

Yeah.

Actually, uh, I can't sell you that one.

Somebody just called, like literally just a couple minutes ago and bought it.

Said something.

Oh, what was it?

Justin paused, trying to recall the exact phrasing.

That it was an exceedingly rare collection and

right, and that it belonged with someone who would uh

maintain it or keep it,

keep it going.

I think that was it.

He smiled, having remembered it correctly.

Rob was silent as he tried first to wrap his mind around what that might mean.

Then having achieved comprehension, he found himself wishing for a way to rewind and avoid having arrived at an unsettling conclusion.

Yep, that was it.

Said it belonged to someone who would keep it going.

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I was sipping my latte when my friend gasped.

Her phone had just alerted her to a a data breach.

Again, that's when I told her about CAPE.

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Privacy starts at the source.

If you're renting an apartment, sometimes you have to decide how to deal with little repairs.

Do you fix them yourself or call the landlord or superintendent?

Which choice is the bigger hassle?

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Stephen Huggins, We meet a man who needs the bathroom door fixed.

And since he's in a hurry, he allows someone in his place to fix it.

Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Atticus Jackson, Mike Delgadio, and Danielle McRae.

So you might want to become more of a do-it-yourselfer after this story.

Probably better than calling maintenance.

Sometimes the smallest decisions can change our lives indefinitely.

There's that feeling, that feeling of wanting desperately to go back to before a choice was made, before a word was said, or an action taken.

It's like there's a line dividing the sections of your life.

You just barely crossed that line into the new segment, and oh, how you wish you could take it back.

You were so

close.

The moment before your life changed irrevocably is just right there.

Just behind you.

And yet, gone forever.

God do I know this feeling all too well.

There was a time when my ex-wife and I were celebrating our belated three-year anniversary.

We were both working far too much at the time.

We subscribed to the notion that we would pour our everything into our careers in order to advance, buy property, save money, and then retire early to live like free spirits by the age of 40.

Well, that fantasy didn't last, nor did our marriage.

She desperately wanted to be that free spirit we planned on being.

But in all honesty, if that free spirit did exist in her, then it was wrapped up in a hard outer casing of straight-edge, uptight, dutiful conservatism.

Not politically, but personally, without question.

I, on the other hand, well, let's just say that I'm probably the antithesis of that.

I've got a cheery, blithe demeanor I fling at anyone that happens to be nearby.

I just may have a hard, straight-edged core to match my exes somewhere deep down, but I doubt it.

At any rate, we celebrated our anniversary that year by inviting some friends of ours out on a Friday night after work.

The bar we went to was located near the halfway point between my then-wife's and my place of work.

After drinking heavily and playing too much Smash Mouth on the jukebox, most of our friends departed, leaving my wife and me to speak to each other.

If there was one troubling vice my wife had, it was gossip.

Boy, did she gossip.

Didn't matter who it was or what it was about.

She just had to talk about someone.

It was a very real addiction.

Man, I hope she's gotten better with that.

Anyway, the subject of tonight's whispering campaign was her friend, Dora.

As it were, Dora happened to work in my building.

My wife was going on and on about Dora and her relationships, but then began talking about her choice of dress and her new hairdo.

In order to break the monotony of my uninterested, procedurally dull responses, I stupidly slipped in, Well, I think Dora's new hairdo is pretty nice.

She actually looks kind of hot.

There it was.

It hung there for a second, thickening the air between the tips of our noses.

Immediately, I wished I could take that back.

I knew things would never be the same between us.

It may not seem like a big deal to many, but to my ex-wife, openly admitting I found another woman hot, her friend no less.

Well,

that was tantamount to infidelity in her book.

Yep, we were never the same after that.

I crossed over into that new life segment and had no way of going back.

One word, hot,

changed my social life forever.

The next time I crossed this line was not quite the same regret as telling your ex-wife you think her friend of me is hot.

Yeah, sure, that was a bit stupid and no doubt life-altering, but it was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the horror that I've just experienced.

My dividing line crossing moment occurred innocuously enough.

A couple of weeks ago, the bathroom door in my apartment came almost completely off its hinges.

The hinges were loose to begin with, but then I had a buddy over who decided he was going to try to force the door closed, which almost completely ripped all the screws attaching attaching it to the wall right off, all save two at the very bottom.

So, my bathroom door is attached to the rest of the apartment by a mere two loose screws.

I live alone, so I don't mind leaving the bathroom door open when it comes time to relieve myself.

I mean, there's no one around to care, so why practice good etiquette?

I told myself that I would fix the door, that all it needed were some new screws and plastic anchors.

I was wrong about that.

Not Not wrong about the door necessarily, just wrong about me finding the motivation to fix it myself.

Well,

all the procrastinating has caught up with me.

I met someone a few weeks ago.

A real, cool gal.

Pretty, too.

We actually met at the same bar where my ex and I had our three-year anniversary celebration.

What irony.

We really seem to jibe well.

When we're together talking and laughing, it's like the rest of the world is in the periphery.

Everything else is blurred out, and it's just us, having the time of our lives.

Though it's only been a little while, we've spent quite a bit of time together.

We've met for drinks and coffee a couple of times, and each time it seems like we are getting closer to...

something.

Not just to each other, but to some event.

some unstated but unconsciously understood goal.

She is drastically different from my ex-wife.

For instance, last week she invited herself over to my house to teach me how to properly make spaghetti.

I had mentioned to her how I am utterly hopeless in the kitchen and that most of my home-cooked meals consist of poorly drained al-dente noodles and plain tomato sauce.

With the prospect of a great meal, possibly followed by some tandem cardio, I no doubt accepted her offer.

As if I could turn it down.

Now I could clean my apartment from floor to ceiling, but I would still have that broken bathroom door to contend with.

It didn't matter how much this girl and I liked each other, nor did it matter how open she was.

There is no way any woman is going to sit down to pee in some man she hardly knows bathroom with the door wide open.

And even if she would, I would like to at least provide her with the option for privacy.

I work from home, so I can have the maintenance person come over at almost any time without me having to schedule it and wait around for my door to be fixed.

Despite me having this luxury, I, being the expert procrastinator that I am, decided that I was going to call the morning of my day off.

That morning started like all other mornings on my days off.

I woke up far later than I should have, stayed in bed scrolling on my phone far more than I should have, and ate a breakfast far too decadent than I should have.

Oh, excess, the distinguishing and all too inevitable characteristic that our society inflicts upon us.

While I was playing philosopher in my head and picking sausage bits from between my teeth, a wave of unease washed over me.

It started at my feet and rushed its way up to my head, turning my face flush and making my brow damp.

A bead of sweat quickly slipped down my cheek.

Then a chill began to worm its way way down my spine, from the base of my skull, down the backs of my legs to my heels.

It should have ended there, but whatever the chill was, it felt like it kept going, like it was moving through my body and then into the floor.

After I was assaulted by these wicked sensations, I stood there, still,

in silence.

And I mean absolutely still.

I honestly don't know if I was even breathing.

It wasn't just me me either, but the rest of the world as well.

No birds singing their morning mating songs, no cars rushing by on the street.

Even my refrigerator ceased its constant humming.

The very air itself didn't feel right, thick and ill-boding.

It was more like someone flipped a switch.

to hush all of existence.

The thought crossed my mind.

I wondered if the world was paused, and I,

along with it.

In the seconds it took me to internally vocalize this idea, a slow, hard knock came from the other side of my front door.

I jumped in shock.

My heart began thumping loudly into my ears and pounded as if it was trying to leap out of my chest.

Adrenaline surged through my body.

awakening me from the shocking stillness.

I began to breathe heavily, but did not move.

I thought for a second that I must have imagined the noise, but then I heard it again.

This time, three slow knocks.

I began to settle, my heart steadying, and made my way cautiously to the front door.

I had no idea why I was walking so slowly, but it felt like I should.

It felt like the right thing to do.

I approached the door, and before I realized what I was doing, I was reaching for the deadbolt to unlock it and turn the knob.

I stopped myself, realizing I was on autopilot.

Just as I pulled my hand away, a small sound came from the other side of the door.

It was an exhalation, like an old man getting up from a chair he had been sitting in all day.

It was weak and creaky, but somehow threatening in its indifference.

Then more sounds.

A word, but it was broken up as as if the syllables weren't yet in the correct pattern.

It came out in a jumble, but I quickly figured out what whoever on the other side was saying.

My intenence.

Whoever it was repeated the word a little more clearly this time.

My intenence.

And then, more clearly still,

Mintanens.

It was as if whoever it was had never heard or spoken the word before.

I stood there motionless with my hand still hovering over the knob.

With one eye open wide and the other squinted shut, I slowly let my face approach the door to peek through the peephole.

The image that filled my field of vision to show me what was on the other side of that door made my head snap back, and I released an inaudible gasp, quickly followed by a mental, what the fuck?

Just beyond the relatively thin piece of dead tree that shielded me and my possessions from the world, stood a man.

A very large, wide man.

He wore overalls so covered in filth that I could not distinguish their original color.

In fact, all of him was filthy.

Every inch of him seemed to be covered in grease stains, which were then powdered with soot for good measure.

It was like he left his day job as a mechanic to go work nights in some coal mine.

His face, however, was obscured by long, black, matted hair.

I say the hair was matted, and indeed it was, but it was also stringy and limp, as if wet.

reminiscent of an aging rocker who carried his youthful hairstyle along with him into decrepitude.

I looked at his hands, which were balled into fists.

His skin tone was impossible to determine, and the grime spanned the whole of his thick and hairless forearm.

I tried to speak to the man through the door.

I fancy myself pretty brave, but what came out of my mouth at that point showed all the courage of a cowering child about to receive a booster shot.

Uh um uh

maintenance.

This time he said it clearly and correctly.

Still the words didn't seem to fit right in his mouth.

Oh, yes, yes, of course.

Sorry.

I...

I just woke up.

Let me get decent really quick.

I lied to stall for time, though I'm not sure why.

Maintenance.

Immediately I responded in my head with, yeah, I heard you the first five times.

I was in my PJs.

Not a problem.

But I figured since I said it, I might as well throw on the pair of yesterday's jeans, which were still fully equipped with belt and pocket stuffs.

I buckled the belt and zipped up while walking back to the door.

As I was unlocking the deadbolt, a rush of anxiety burned in my chest and sank down deep into my sternum.

I never got a chance to call maintenance.

As the thought completed, so did the turn of the deadbolt.

And there it was.

That split-second decision that changes everything.

A simple yet irrevocable choice that morphs life into something that it previously was not.

Unrecognizable.

Different and uncomfortable.

The door popped open a sliver just enough to expose my sanctuary to the outside world.

Without a thought, I grabbed the doorknob and helped the the door to open fully.

He stood before me, unmoving, identical to the image I had witnessed through the peephole.

Maintenance.

I'm sorry, how did you know that I needed- Maintenance?

Uh,

yeah, I didn't have a chance to call or anything.

Without a word, he stepped in.

crossing the threshold of my doorway, penetrating the boundary between what is mine and what belongs belongs to the outside.

Oh, yeah, uh, um, sorry, come in.

Come in, the broken door is right back there.

I looked and pointed behind me to signal the general direction of the bathroom.

The man began slowly walking in the way that I had indicated, having to pass me as he did so.

That's when I noticed the smell.

It wasn't necessarily offensive, but it wasn't exactly pleasant either.

It was stale, with a hint of dampness, like a basement in the middle of being cleaned out.

There was a sweetness too, not quite sickly, but almost floral.

It's how I would imagine the very first primordial flowers smelled before they got it right, when their goal was to attract vicious carnivorous beasts to spread their pollen, luring them in.

with the sweet smell of flesh and honey.

So too was I somewhat attracted to this aroma I could not pin down.

In the seconds that I chose to concentrate on the smell, a fierce splash of bile erupted in my mouth, which immediately made me spit up and gag.

The man was a few feet beyond me at this point and heading down the hall towards the door.

Still, I instinctively attempted to spare his feelings.

Oh man, sorry.

I choked on a bit of spit.

The man did not respond.

He did not respond to anything.

He simply walked slowly and with purpose.

As I watched him, I began to notice that nothing on him was moving.

That is to say, his hair, his clothes, everything

stayed in perfect place.

I was stricken, mesmerized.

I could not stop staring at this man deliberately moving towards the back end of my apartment.

Moving, Moving, but not moving.

When I finally realized that he had missed the turn and passed up my guest bathroom, I spoke out.

Hey, it's that door there on your left.

Maintenance.

Yeah, right, but you're going the wrong way.

I made to move towards him.

I'm not sure if it was the smell or the overall strangeness of the encounter.

But I couldn't help but to walk slowly, just like him.

In fact, I was mimicking his steps and gait.

I wanted to move faster, but I just couldn't.

As he passed into my bedroom, with me still following loyally behind, I said,

Hey, where are you going?

It's not that bathroom door, it's the guest.

Maintenance.

Look, man, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing or where you think you're going, but you're headed to the wrong place.

Maintenance.

Okay, you know what?

Screw it.

I'll fix it myself.

Can you just leave, please?

I've got some people coming over.

Maintenance.

Yeah, I heard you.

But I don't want maintenance.

I want you to get the hell out of...

The man turned around.

He had reached the corner of my bedroom.

The corner that was but three feet from the head of my bed and where I sleep.

If I were lying down there, it would be as if he were watching over me.

Dude, you need to get the fuck out of my place now.

Maintenance.

Man, if you don't leave now, I'm gonna call the cops.

Seriously.

Maintenance.

Standing in the corner, stout and dirty, seemingly unaffected by his surroundings, he appeared to be staring at me.

Though his head did not move and his face was completely obscured by his hair, I could feel his gaze.

I could feel judgment.

I turned from him and grabbed my phone, which was laying on the counter.

I called my apartment's office, but no one picked up.

Fuck it.

I headed out of my front door, leaving it open as I did so.

I walked to the office, but the door was locked.

Not only that, but no one was inside.

Shit.

Closed on Sundays.

It It sunk in as I said it and made my fear about the situation deepen.

I decided that if the man was still there when I returned to my apartment, I wouldn't even step foot inside.

I would immediately call the police.

And that's exactly what happened.

He was there.

static like some grotesque statue made from onyx.

I dialed 911 while staring through my front door, which gave way to a view down the hallway and into my bedroom.

When the police arrived, I entered the apartment with them.

I showed them where the man was,

but they didn't seem to see him.

They told me to stop playing games with them.

They asked if I was on drugs or sleep-deprived.

The cops were visually frustrated and more than condescending.

I begged one cop to just please go to the corner of my bedroom and touch the wall.

Maybe he would bump up against the guy, or maybe I would see the cop pass through the man.

Either way, I would get some new information, something to indicate if what was happening was real or completely in my head.

What happened, though, was neither of these things.

As the police officer reached the man,

he just stood there.

Next to him.

Nothing's here, sir.

I think you may need some rest.

Wait, but you're not all the way in the corner.

He's right next to you.

The officer quickly scanned around the room with his arms outstretched in an almost mocking gesture, as if to say, what do you see here, or what do you want from me?

I do believe the officer truly thought he was in the corner of my room.

He seemed to recognize all the dimensions of the bedroom correctly, except for the fact that he was not in the corner, but rather was standing almost flush against this beastly troll of a man.

The officers left and gave me a warning not to play around with the emergency line.

Well, that's it.

No fucking way I am staying here, I thought.

As soon as the police left, I quickly stuffed some clothes and my laptop into a duffel bag.

All while that thing was looming motionless in the corner of my bedroom.

I was in my car before I could even think about where I was going.

I needed to get the hell out of there, put as many miles between me and that thing as possible.

I decided on a hotel across town.

It was a bit seedy, but I didn't care.

While driving to my destination, I texted my would-be dinner guest.

that unfortunately she could not come over to teach me the finer points of food preparation.

I told her an infestation in my building was discovered, and emergency action was being taken.

That wasn't too much of a lie.

I didn't read her response, or rather, I never checked for one.

When I arrived at the hotel, which was more of a motel, I was relieved to see a vacancy sign illuminated, with the no part of the sign left dark.

Of course this place would have rooms.

A seedy joint like this that's sometimes rented by the hour would always have a bed open for a person with the right amount of cash in their wallet.

I parked right in front of the office, flooding the room with my headlights before quickly turning the car off, expecting the lights to turn off with it.

They didn't.

Damn new cars.

I typically don't like to be rude, and even in my somewhat frantic state, I was still aware of the social taboo of blinding people with my headlights.

When I reached the front desk, I was greeted by a young and supremely disinterested woman who merely said, in what I took to be a joking manner,

Damn, mister, you ain't killed anybody, have you?

What?

I'm sorry.

What?

Well, you're driving like you're running from the cops or something.

Yeah, something.

No cops, though.

Nothing like that.

Just...

Uh, life, I guess.

You got any rooms available?

You read the sign?

We always have rooms open.

Always.

I quickly paid for my room, and the girl handed over the keycard.

I decided to leave my car where it was.

My room was only two doors down from the office, so I figured there was no point in moving my car.

When I made it to my room and opened the door, the most profound rush of fear and desperation took over me.

I stood there motionless in the hotel room doorway, keycard in hand, the smell of sweet, damp flowers thickly wafting its way into my nostrils.

In the corner of the room, at the head of the bed, stood that wide, monstrous thing, staring through unseen eyes, fists bald, and thick with grime.

Time had no meaning as I stood frozen in place, staring at my fate.

Whether solely in my head or actually spoken out loud, the stillness of the moment was broken by a single word.

Maintenance.

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Like any good, hard-boiled crime story, all you need is a gruesome, cult-like murder and a suspect who isn't talking to really get the cops upset.

Must be time to bring in a special consultant.

And in this tale, shared with us by author A.J.

Novelle, we learn that when Deacon Black is on the case, he'll get to the bottom of it.

The deep, dark rock bottom.

Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Mike Delgadio, Marie Westbrook, Atticus Jackson, and Jesse Cornet.

So get the bare bulb ready.

It's time for an interrogation.

I walked into the video room where three other detectives were sitting watching the monitors of interview room three.

What's the word, guys?

I leaned against the wall of the cramped room, holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee, steaming and filling the cramped space with the aroma of chicory and dark roast.

Shit.

Detective Halen crossed his arms, staring at the screen intensely, trying to impose his will upon the figure.

Halen was an older, husky figure that had been on the force longer than any of the other detectives in the room.

His face was a worn roadmap of city miles, etched across his features thanks to years of stress and unhealthy vices that plagued him throughout his career.

We've been at this guy for hours and still nothing.

Detective Williams rubbed her brown eyes from exhaustion.

She was an attractive young woman whose poise and figure would make anyone think she was a cover model for the latest fashion magazines.

She had been vice for four years before transferring to homicide after an undercover operation got too dangerous for comfort.

Where Detective Halin was from the older generation of sometimes beating a confession from a suspect, Williams was from the newer generation of criminal psychology and trying to appeal to the empathy of a suspect, often getting her target to confess as if she were a priest offering absolution.

He keeps saying the same thing.

That nothing matters in the design of infinity and we are all insignificant to the greater cosmos.

A real nihilist, huh?

A nihilist I can deal with.

This guy is something else.

When he looks at you, I don't know, he makes my skin crawl, that's for sure.

Has he asked for a lawyer?

Nah, he just sits there staring at nothing, talking about infinity and shit.

Detective Vargas was a man in his early 40s, fit and gruff.

If Halen was from the old school and Williams was the new generation, Vargas was from the generation that grew up on action movies like Lethal Weapon and Die Hard, where it's non-stop run and gun for the hero.

To say he was disappointed when he found out that there is more paperwork than gunfire would be an understatement.

He wanted to go out, stop the major crime rings, tear up the city, and get the girl at the end.

The fact that he was mostly chained to a desk for causing a not unsubstantial settlement from the department nearly drove him insane.

Has he confessed to anything?

He doesn't need to.

We found him in his home with three of his victims.

Alleged victims.

Williams leaned her head back, her eyes closed.

Whatever.

The victims were gutted and hung upside down like in a slaughterhouse.

He had the head of a little girl in his fridge, among other body parts yet to be identified.

Vargas handed me the folder with the crime scene photos.

The pictures were grisly.

The first was of one of the bodies hanging upside down.

A male figure hollowed out like a deer.

Blood and viscera pooled in the tub below him.

The genitals had been removed, and it wasn't with care.

The second photo was a close-up of the man's head.

The victim's eye sockets were empty, and small cuts were arranged in what looked like esoteric symbols and runes carved in a ritualistic manner.

The third photo was of a female victim, also gutted from stem to sternum.

Like the other victim, her eyes were removed and strange markings covered her face in a collage of cuts and blood.

The images of the third strung-up victim repeated the same pattern.

Some of the other photos were of the scene itself.

The walls of what looked like the bathroom the three victims were in had writing on them in various sizes, in what I assumed to be blood.

The words I could make out from the pictures were demonstar and lang.

The phrase eyes of the mind, written numerous times with crude drawings of eyes depicted on the wall, I held the photo up.

What's with all this?

Crazy shit.

Williams read from her notepad.

I call the demon star Algal from the black abyss of the cosmos, over which time has no hold.

I, your servant, who has opened his mind with his eyes to see the infinite, beg to be led to Lang.

That's just one of the phrases that covered the walls of the crime scene.

Forensic said it was written in blood and feces.

Fucking satanic shit.

Reminds me back in the 80s when all those satanic ritual murders were going on.

You mean the satanic panic?

You know, none of that was real, right?

You probably weren't even born yet when all that stuff was going down, so y'all wouldn't know.

This stuff makes all that shit sound like child's play.

Any idea what the suspect is referring to?

I looked to Williams, hoping for an actual answer.

No idea.

I did a quick search for Lang, but nothing came up.

Also looked up the name Algol, but nothing.

Thousand Buck says he's trying to cop an insanity plea.

Ten to one, he gets it.

The other photos were of the refrigerator and its ghastly contents.

The head of the little girl, no more than 10, sat on the top shelf wrapped in plastic.

Could be one of the missing children from the Midtown area, but I couldn't be certain from the photo.

Mason jars of various internal organs filled the rest of the shelves.

I could spot what looked like a human heart and a set of lungs.

The others, however, were strange, even deformed.

Where are the eyes?

No sign of them.

Not in the trash or in a trophy case anywhere?

I asked about that.

He said he didn't know anything about them.

Poor shit.

He knows exactly where they are.

I flipped to the next photo.

It was a bookshelf.

What was he reading?

We haven't had the chance to go through his collection thoroughly, but it looks like he has enough occult books to open his own store.

Some written in languages none of us could recognize.

Satanic shit.

I closed the folder and sipped my coffee, which was getting to be room temperature.

Prince?

Everywhere.

In the blood, in the shit, on the knives.

I handed the photos back to Vargas.

So, what's the problem?

Sounds like you have everything you need to put this guy away forever.

He mentions another possible victim.

One not at the crime scene.

We asked if they were still alive, and he said she was last time he saw her.

We've been asking, and he's been stonewalling.

The sadistic prick.

I downed the rest of my coffee.

And that's why you asked me to talk to him.

Yeah, I mean, come on, man.

You're the spy hunter make him talk if williams couldn't get him to talk what makes you think i can

i crossed my arms looking at all of them

if you're not man enough to do it i'll go in there and beat it out of him

halen stood up indignant rage in his eyes Rick, if you go in there and lay hands on him, he can walk, and we won't find the next victim before it's too late.

Deacon, please talk to him.

If you can't get him to talk, then we are out of options and time.

Fine.

Give me a minute.

I exited the cramped room to grab another cup of coffee, hung my suit jacket on my chair, and headed towards interview room three.

The sound of the station was noisy, telephones ringing, other detectives talking with each other.

It all stopped when I closed the door to interview room three.

All outside noise was closed out.

It was deafeningly quiet.

The suspect sat in his chair, stone-ridged, back straight like an arrow.

Not one part of him moved, save for his eyes.

They slowly sized me up like two blood-shot, beady cameras.

His crooked smile was subtle, almost unnoticeable if you weren't paying attention.

He was a scarecrow of a man, rail thin and rough-looking.

He had the build of a farmer that worked the fields from dawn to dusk.

His muscles defined like thick rope and cord-like veins bulged from his pale skin.

His face was gaunt, almost sunken in, like his skin was merely a leather mask stretched tight on his head, rough and cracked like an old catcher's mitt.

A few wrinkles and dark liver spots criss-crossed the sun-damaged skin.

His brown hair was cut short to the scalp, and those bloodshot eyes of his seemed to faintly glow in the dark hollows of his sockets.

He wore a county jail jumpsuit.

When he was brought in, he was stark naked, scars and fresh cuts all over his body, according to the report.

His calloused hands were handcuffed to the table between us.

I stood, a heartbeat too long, and he noticed, smiled a large, toothy smile.

Good evening.

Can I help

you?

His voice was gravelly and as rough as he looked, but there was an almost sing-song rhythm to his southern accent.

Like a country pastor who could have his congregation praising the Lord all day long.

I took my eyes off the suspect for a second and focused on the corner of the ceiling just behind him.

Afternoon, actually.

My name's Black, and you must be Mr.

Musgrove, I presume.

I returned my gaze to his face as I took a seat across the table from him.

He held that wide Cheshire grin and nodded.

That would be correct, sir.

I brought you some coffee, freshly made, still hot.

I placed the steaming cup in front of his hands.

Mighty kind of you, sir.

Are you a detective as well?

No, I'm a

private consultant.

I come and help the police when they need a second opinion on some cases, like yours, for example.

I'm afraid there is nothing more to tell.

I've already told that pretty young woman all she needed to hear.

I glanced back at the corner for a second.

What about the next victim?

Victim, sir.

I am innocent of these horrible crimes you seem to think I committed.

Oh, so you weren't found naked, covered in blood, near the three gutted bodies hanging in your bathroom?

I was.

But it wasn't me who did that to those poor people.

Really?

Then who was it?

I locked eyes with him.

He matched my glare, unblinking.

Why,

fate,

of course.

Fate?

Oh, yes.

See,

from the moment we are born into this world, every every step we take leads us to our inevitable end.

Both figuratively and metaphorically.

We can't change it as much as we'd like to.

We are shackled to what fate has planned for all of us.

Fate led me here

as it led you here.

I leaned back in my chair.

Fate, not God?

God

is only a name we give to the chaos

that is the infinite cosmos.

A name to blame or to praise on high.

God,

as we think of it,

does not exist.

So, fate put the knife in your hands?

Fate Fate put that little girl's head in your fridge?

His smile dropped for a fraction of a second.

I am no more responsible for what happened to them than I am for causing a storm in China.

It is the will

of fate.

I focused momentarily on that corner of the room.

and then met his gaze again.

Did you try to change your fate?

What was in the cards for you?

That you sought out a way to change it?

How do you mean?

Algol, the demon star, the fate breaker.

His smile dropped completely.

You were trying to reach out to it, to hold communion with it, to ask to change your fate.

What do you know of Algol?

I know what ritual you were trying to conduct, and I know what you were trying to do with their eyes, trying to expand your insight and gaze into the chaos of the infinite.

But it didn't work.

What is this?

Musgrove leaned away from me, but I moved in closer.

Do you know why it didn't work?

It's because you mixed up the the ritual with another being.

And even if you did manage to do it right, Algol wouldn't listen to you.

It doesn't care about you.

You don't even register as anything of significance to it.

All you would have gotten is a shattered mind for your troubles.

But don't fear.

You didn't completely fuck up.

See, when you do these rituals, you are calling out into the void, and you caught the attention of something else.

Something that heard you like a dinner bell.

I nodded to the corner behind him.

He picked up on my shifting gaze and slowly turned his head.

You can't see it.

But trust me, it is there, and it is a nasty one.

See, reality is a strange thing.

You only perceive what you do, because the mind isn't equipped to know what is actually around us.

There are things constantly moving and shifting around and through.

everything.

Creatures of unknowable natures from beyond our perception.

They pay us no mind because they, like you,

are unaware.

But when you call out into the void, they hear hear you.

Musgrove looked back at me.

What are you doing with your eyes?

That feeling you're having right now, the feeling of being watched, the sudden feeling of something gently touching the back of your neck, making all the little hairs stand on end.

He touched the back of his neck before the words left my mouth.

It's that thing in the corner.

It's...

it's

feeling for you as we speak.

It knows something is in front of it, something delicious, but it can't find you.

Whenever you are in an empty room and that animal part of your brain starts to activate, warning you, causing you to look around even when you know you're all alone, that's the feeling of those things normal people can't see.

The things that cross our paths, but in a different reality.

Do you want to see it?

Do you want to know what it is you actually called out to in the infinite chaos?

My lips stretched into a feral grin.

I leapt across the table, grabbing Musgrove's head in both of my hands as he struggled and tried to scream.

My left hand wrapped underneath his chin, clamping his jaw shut, and my right palmed the back of his head.

I slowly turned his head back to that corner, careful not to break his neck.

There it is.

You see it, don't you?

That

has been hovering around you since the others brought you in.

That is the reason for the sense of dread you have been trying so hard to hide.

He saw what was stalking him.

That ungodly, grotesque thing that hung above him like the sword of Damocles.

He again tried to force out a scream.

But my hand was clasped over his mouth like a steel vise.

I was squeezing hard enough that I could feel some of his teeth move through his flesh.

He fought against me and tried to move away, but he was still handcuffed to the table.

He tried closing his eyes, but I reached over his head and dug into his eyelids with my fingers, forcing them open.

That won't help you.

No, no, no.

It couldn't find you before, but now that you've seen it, it sees you.

Look how excited it is.

Oh, it's practically drooling.

The undulating mass of grotesque flesh shuddered with disturbing anticipation.

Eyes and mouths emerged like oozing open wounds.

Its numerous tendrils slowly moved about its form as it felt around its surroundings.

As we gazed upon its eldritch form, its tendrils slowly reached for Musgrove.

He started to thrash as much as he could.

The fear I felt from him was intoxicating.

The entity was salivating, Unknowable ichor dripping to the floor.

And just as its black, inky tendrils were about to touch, they recoiled as if hitting an invisible wall.

The only thing protecting you from it

is me.

And the only reason I'm doing it is because I'm not done with you yet.

Sweet panic and delicious terror surged through Musgrove like a bolt of lightning through the air.

And it was exquisite, like a fine meal at a high-end restaurant.

My fingers clenched tighter around his face and head to the point I felt bone start to give way.

It took all I had not to overindulge in his loss of sanity and to stop feeding.

Musgrove was still conscious and mostly coherent.

I released him from my grasp and he swayed in his chair as if he were drunk.

What did you do to me?

What does it matter?

I got what I needed from you.

I grabbed my notepad, quickly writing down his confession as he would have dictated and signing his name.

The handwriting and grammar would come back as a perfect match if anyone did any digging into it.

I stood up, grabbed my now ice-cold coffee, and went to open the door.

Uh, don't worry.

I left enough for it.

to enjoy.

The realization and fear sobered Musgrove Musgrove up, and the sheer terror that was etched across his face was...

priceless.

That ever-hungry thing would eat good.

I stepped out of the room and rubbed my eyes, setting them back to what others would perceive as normal.

I went back to the observation room where Detectives Halen, Williams, and Vargas were still sitting.

What happened in there?

We lost connection with the camera and the audio was spotty.

Full confession.

I dropped the notepad on the desk with two monitors.

Vargas grabbed it immediately.

No way.

How did you manage that?

Trade secrets.

I gave what would be seen as an exhausted wink.

Yeah, right.

Used some of that CIA spook shit, huh?

Well, we can throw this piece of shit in a cell and...

Vargas was cut off as a blood-curdling shriek came from the interview room.

Halen was the first up.

Followed by Vargas and Williams, they opened the door and all recoiled as they saw Musgrove standing straight up, his cuffs broken, screaming as he was pulling his skull apart.

What they didn't see was

the thing that was in the room with him had its inky tendrils penetrating Musgrove's head.

As the screaming stopped and Musgrove's lifeless body dropped to the floor, the thing feasted on what was left of his soul.

Hours passed, and everyone was quickly questioned about what happened.

The general consensus was that Musgrove snapped and committed suicide to escape judgment.

I, of course, said the same thing.

Yes, he confessed and it tried to sound in control the entire time.

No, I didn't think he was capable of that.

I won't lie, though.

The spike of fear from detectives Halen, Williams, and Vargas.

Well, that was just the chaser I needed to end my night.

Like a smooth bourbon after a buttery steak.

I left the station not long after my statement, and as I entered the city, I saw what was really out there.

Beings floating lazily through the air, invisible creatures stalking invisible prey.

The unknowable thing that took up the far horizon.

And the ever-present black sun that perpetually hung in the sky.

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 Brendan Boone.

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

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy and Ashley McInelly.

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

Ad-free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for 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 Raising 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 Raisin Media Inc.

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