NoSleep Podcast Halloween 2024 Hiatus 02

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Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Welcome back, sleepless friends.

As we remain in our Halloween candy coma, we present week two of our Halloween hiatus episodes.

Two more delicious tales from our premium sleepless sanctuary feed.

And speaking of treats, I hope all of you are now aware that all six episodes of the Tales from the Void series have been released.

You can watch them on Screenbox in the US and on Super Channel in Canada.

And I'm being told by some people that the series is showing up on Amazon Prime.

So if you have that, do a search for Tales from the Void and see if it's available to you.

We hope you can find a way to watch the show.

We're very proud of what's been created by the whole team.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

Fiscally responsible, financial geniuses, monetary magicians.

These are things people say about drivers who switch their car insurance to Progressive and save hundreds.

Because Progressive offers discounts for paying in full, owning a home, and more.

Plus, you can count on their great customer service to help you when you need it, so your dollar goes a long way.

Visit progressive.com to see if you could save on car insurance.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Potential savings will vary, not available in all states or situations.

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Why try Zen Rewards?

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Zinn Rewards unlocks access to exclusive experiences, promotions, and perks you won't find anywhere else.

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Warning: this product contains nicotine.

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So, let's not let the horrors and darkness of real life overwhelm us.

I hope you can take a break from the topsy-turvy world out there and enjoy some of the horror stories we're providing for your ears and your very dark souls.

And now, more than ever, it's time to brace yourself.

In our first tale, we meet a family struggling to survive.

Their farm is almost barren, and winter is approaching fast.

The threat of starvation is very real.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Fiona McKenna, A stranger arrives and seemingly has all the answers to their problems.

Isn't that what good neighbors do?

Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, Atticus Jackson, and Danielle McRae.

So it's best to prepare for the lean season.

You should do what you can to make sure you will never be hungry again.

Winter would fall any week now.

I could tell from the rumbling clouds, from the cold which bit at my skin.

It left a lasting sting, a warning marked by a sharpness which throbbed into a silent taunt that this pain was only the beginning.

Mother and father, when they didn't think I could hear, talked in low voices about how the potatoes spoiled early, how the cow barely had meat on its bones.

What was left unsaid between them, but what I heard as clear as day, was that we were in trouble.

On the day everything started, I found myself in the forest.

I was escaping the dark, fearful expressions which seemed to permanently fix themselves upon my parents' faces.

But I had wandered off just long enough to be sure I would feel the electric strike of the belt as punishment for my absence.

I gripped tightly to a pocketknife, nervous to return to the farm, looking for any sort of bounty I could bring home to escape my painful fate.

A dash of brown in the corner of my vision.

I lunged, brandishing my pocketknife and beginning the chase, jumping, dodging, and twisting my way through the weather-stripped bramble.

I was catching up to the squirrel and gasped, pumped my legs once, twice, and leapt with knife outstretched.

The air tore itself from my lungs as I landed face first into the dirt.

I choked, accidentally inhaling the better part of the forest floor and reched, curling into a tight ball.

The squirrel paused just a few inches ahead of me and looked smug.

You're...

I picked a leaf from my tongue.

gathering all my frustration and anger and envisioning my father's face when he'd accused me of neglecting my my chores.

A little

shit!

The squirrel blinked twice and ran up a tree.

Whoa.

A surprised laugh from behind me.

I'm surprised that squirrel didn't drop dead from such profanity.

Startled, I jerked around.

I was half expecting father to have caught me.

But the man behind me was not dressed in tattered work clothes, nor did he seem angry.

He was quite pleasant, dressed in dark gentleman's clothes with half-balding hair shaved tightly to his scalp.

He looked rather clean, rather dull-like.

He bent down to examine the cut which had sprouted on my arm, and I got a better look at his face.

All the pleasantness I initially felt vanished, for I did not like his assortment of features.

It felt as if the geometrics were wrong, his eyes too close together or too far?

His ears too high

or too low along the exterior of his head.

I had never seen a face that had all the right parts but somehow didn't look like a face at all.

It made me rather nauseous to look at.

He took a step away, and the nausea lifted, pleasant once more.

I can help you bandage that if you'd like.

That's not a cut that should be facing the open air for very long.

I had never seen mother or father refuse a favor, so I parted my lips to say yes.

Do you know my parents?

Is what came out instead.

Mother would whack me for the impoliteness, but his face and its peculiarity had made me nervous.

He smiled.

I think he was trying to look kind, and nodded.

I know your parents, and they've heard of me many times.

I travel quite a lot, but I'm settling here for the winter.

You can call me your neighbor.

I nodded again, but made no move to get up and follow him.

He stepped back a little, as if smelling my hesitation.

His features became vague once more.

I'm just offering to bandage that wound.

Although I might, and I must check first, have something for you to bring back to your family.

It may make your chore skipping seem a little less lazy.

That was an offer I could not refuse, despite my hesitation.

I followed him further into the forest until we arrived at a cabin tucked neatly in a clearing of trees.

The inside was small yet snug, almost entirely made of polished wood.

My neighbor puttered around his cupboards until he found a wrapping and some ointment.

He placed it next to me and retreated several steps to look out the window, turning his face until I could only see a sliver like a pale crescent moon.

It's going to be the harshest winter yet.

He gazed up at the clouds.

Is your family prepared?

Yes.

I nodded, lying.

Perhaps he heard a tremble in my voice as his tone turned sympathetic.

It's such a shame how small-town farmers are affected.

After this winter, all you will do is work to make sure you have enough food for the next one.

His words plucked at strings inside me, and bitterness hissed from deep within my chest.

The same thought had occurred to me many times, and sometimes, although I would never tell a soul, when it was dark and all was asleep, I would curse at the world and my family and the constant year-round scramble to try not to go hungry.

The Lord loves us and will get us through.

It was a line I stole from my father, one he used when the townsfolk spoke down to us, voices dripping in pity.

The words never meant much to me, but it seemed a reasonable response for the conversation.

Silence beat its heavy heart between us.

Hmm.

Do you think?

He paused to lick his lips, voice becoming measured and reedy.

I got the impression he was picking his words carefully, cautiously, much like the careful and cautious steps a fox would take before pouncing on its prey.

Now, I've always found it odd that the Lord would make winter in the first place, if he loved us so much.

I certainly wouldn't put the ones I loved through that again and again.

He faced me, eyes wide, parts of his face twisting into different lines, shapes, lengths, each feature trying to make an expression, but moving differently, as if the parts had minds of their own.

His words struck again, but they struck at something deeper inside me, at something I didn't like.

The hairs on my arms stood up and my back prickled.

I stared into that horrible, wrong face of his and nervousness rattled up and down my body like electricity.

I stood up, wanting to leave.

I'm done.

Now before you go,

my neighbor turned away and rummaged through his cabinets once more.

He handed me a basket full of berries, the forest type.

I accepted the offering, but when my hands met his to exchange the basket, he caught them and wouldn't let go.

I gasped and jerked in an effort to escape, but he held firm and kneeled down to my height.

I tugged and struggled, keeping myself pointed towards the door so I didn't have to see his terrible face.

You can pray to me too, boy.

I have power, you know.

I

can give you the things that God decides not to.

After that, he released my hand, along with the basket, and I ran, faster than I had before, trees flying past me, all the way home.

Father was angry, but mother was so excited by the berries, he did not dare to do anything.

And how did you get these, boy?

I did not want to talk about my neighbor.

Father would be angry if I repeated the things he said.

It made me feel strange.

as if my insides were covered in dirt.

I did not want to describe him.

His head, with a face that somehow wasn't a face at all.

We made it about a month and a half before the food began to run out.

The sour, hungry ache that spread out of our stomachs and into our heads, our chests, our souls.

It even infected our bones with a rattling sharpness as they began to bulge out of our skin.

Our house had become a carousel of sorts.

The days spun and twisted, a rotation of the same activities differentiated only by the growing hunger inside.

Father would teach Bible lessons until his words would tie themselves up into nonsensical knots.

Mother would sit in her rocking chair pretending to sew, face wolfish.

I spent my days watching the snow pile up.

and wondering if it was possible for one's body to kill itself.

I imagined an intestine strung around my neck like a noose, choking me from the inside out.

I think we had all gone a little mad.

Our minds were beginning to fray, to unzip, thanks to that horrible, hungry thing inside of us.

For dinner, we had bits of dried this and that, never anything of actual substance.

We had begun to boil old bones, bits of wax and other odds and ends that we could use to make something resemble an actual meal.

It was around then which my neighbor began to visit my dreams.

I was quite frightened at first and would try to run away through the blank, foggy dreamscape until I would wake up gasping.

He was patient, though, and let me figure out on my own that during these dreams, he would take away my hunger.

When I discovered this, I started to do anything I could to make the dreams longer.

We would talk about my family, the weather, but mostly about what I did or rather didn't have to eat that day.

I still hated to look at his face, but not being hungry was more important.

I forced myself to stomach the nausea, to look at him despite every inch of my skin prickling with rebellion.

I told myself it wasn't my neighbor's fault his face was so terrible, so out of proportion.

Although I could never put my finger on just what was so disproportionate about it.

At the end of every dream, my neighbor always asked me if I had a wish for him to grant.

It was then that I would get another wave of nausea, of unsettlement.

Suddenly scared, I would shake my head, forgetting all my earlier friendliness.

One day, he offered to give me a gift.

I think he was beginning to get sick of my refusal.

Yes, Yes,

another gift.

He paced back and forth.

You'll see that I'm true.

You'll see, boy.

I'll help you understand what being full is really like.

He turned to me, already beginning to blur and fade, a sign I was going to wake up soon.

As I shuddered awake, his words echoed in my head.

I'll give you a meal worth dying for.

I sat up and wiped the sweat from my face.

Boy.

I startled at the sound of a harsh whisper.

I turned to see Father staring me down.

I couldn't make out his expression in the dark.

Boy,

who is it that you talk to in your sleep?

I didn't answer.

I did not want to face Father's disapproval.

I could feel the weight of his gaze, but then he only sighed.

I opened my mouth to respond, but by some miracle was saved by a loud knocking at our door.

Mother jolted awake at the sound.

We rushed to the living room, greeted by early morning light and further knocking.

Father grabbed a gun while I crept towards the door, ready to surprise the bastard on the other side with a bullet.

It was too cold for a robber, for a drunkard, for just about anything.

Which meant whatever was at the door was not just about anything.

Grabbing the handle, I ripped the door open.

I jerked back with it, allowing Father, who cocked the gun with a quick ka-chink, a clear view of whatever was at our door.

A goat, standing black, fat, and wet from the morning snow, stepped gingerly into the house.

My jaw dropped, my neighbor's face flashing in and out of mind.

I looked at my family.

Father looked stricken by something terrible, but mother squawked in surprise and threw her matchstick arms around the creature.

It's a blessing.

She buried her face in its wet fur.

A blessing.

Father and I stood, quiet, cautious.

She reared on Father.

Elijah, slaughter it now.

I will cook dinner, praise the Lord, and I will cook a feast.

Jodi,

I don't.

Father spoke carefully, his gums smacking.

I don't know if we should eat this thing.

I got a bad feeling.

Something just ain't right.

Elijah.

Mother's eyes turned darker, her voice lowering.

It was as if she was growling, as if something was speaking through her.

You are not going to waste this moment on absurdities.

This goat could very well.

Her eyes flickered to me, hesitating before hardening again.

Save our lives.

No, Jodi.

The Lord will get us through.

I interrupted.

I was hungry and was not going to let this paranoia stop us from eating.

I'm hungry, Father, was all I said, but it gave Mother enough ammunition to put the final nail in the coffin.

Feed your family, Elijah.

Mother's voice dripped with finality.

Father sighed, defeated.

He put on his snow coat and led the goat towards the slaughter shack.

When Father came back, he held bags of bloody meat.

He dropped them at Mother's feet, grabbed his Bible, and locked himself in the bedroom until dinner time.

I waited at the table, unmoving as the hours dripped by.

I was hungry.

When it was time for dinner, Mother laid out plate after plate of prepared meat.

Waves of hunger crashed so violently against my insides, I thought I might pass out.

I raised my fork towards a plate, attempting to serve myself, but

Father caught my hand.

He began to pray.

I did not hear him over the growling of my stomach, and I doubt Mother did either.

because before father could even finish, we lunged at the food and began to feast.

I don't remember much of that night, outside of blimps of noise, tastes, and small flashes of isolated memory.

I remember the sounds of chewing, teeth against teeth, rubbery meat mashed between them.

I remember glancing at Mother, watching her jaw begin to work sideways like a cow locked in back and forth grinding.

I remember the squish of the meat as I'd grab squashed handfuls and shove it in my mouth.

I think by mistake I began to bite at my fingers as I remember metallic waves of blood as I shoved and chewed and shoved and chewed.

It didn't matter.

What mattered was that if I kept eating, I could be full.

At some point, Father threw up.

He gagged and heaved, the scratchy, unending backdrop of chewing interrupted by wet meat chunks hitting our floorboards.

Then I think he went to bed.

I remember thinking him quite stupid, thinking him lesser for leaving without bothering to be truly full.

Mother dropped next, falling asleep on her plate.

Meat juice smeared her arms, neck, and face.

Chunks of the goat littered her hair.

I kept going.

But I do not know how long.

My stomach ached and groaned, but it didn't matter because the hunger stayed strong.

My abdomen swelled larger.

I could feel my skin tear, but my arms remained as skinny as ever, and my chicken-bone fingers continued to pick at the meat.

Finally, after what seemed like centuries, I felt it.

The fullness.

It was euphoric.

Satiation nestled inside of me.

I felt it behind my eyes, under my fingernails.

Liquidized perfection dribbled down the walls inside my chest, and I gasped with relief.

I gagged with relief.

I choked on it.

I even cried.

For in that moment,

I was perfect.

I leaned back against my chair, chair, feeling satisfaction wrap itself around me like a warm blanket.

Unconsciousness came gently, smoothly, beckoning me towards a thoughtless bliss.

As it did, I opened my mouth in silent prayer, finally accepting what had been offered to me.

I pray, I'll never be hungry again.

Consciousness came slowly, so it took me a while to notice the rubber bindings which fastened my limbs to the legs of the table.

It took me longer to look around.

It was somehow still night, but the unnatural kind of night.

Outside our windows was the darkest shade of black nothingness I'd ever seen.

My vision was limited by the restraint of my tied-down body, but I saw blood and grease smeared over the upper halves of the walls, somehow even spattered on the ceiling.

All was quiet, except for a faint tap, tap, tapping.

It was then, I think, that the last of the sleepy confusion dissipated and the panic set in.

I began to yank and jerk at my fastenings, limbs straining and popping as I thrashed.

I opened my mouth to scream, to cry for help, but nothing came out.

I tried harder, my throat becoming raw, but there was silence.

My voice was no more.

Relax.

I thrashed even harder as skeletal fingers ran across my stomach.

It's over.

You belong to me.

My neighbor stepped into my vision, and my mouth shot open in a soundless howl.

The features on his face, nose, ears, eyes, mouth, had begun to scuttle across his pasty skin like spiders.

I watched in horror as his mouth crawled to his forehead and his ears fought for territory along his chin.

I vomited and had to turn my head to cough up the stringy meat forcing its way up my throat.

When I did, I saw the rest of my dining room and my mother, face to the wall, sitting on one of our chairs.

I flapped my gums towards her in a silent help

and continued to kick at my bindings.

My chest was so tight I could barely breathe, and each breath came out in ragged, irregular bursts.

My neighbor just gave a tired sigh and walked towards her.

He turned the chair around so I could see her.

And

I vomited again, white stars piercing my vision.

I gagged and spit and jerked the other way, unable to look any longer.

Mother was holding a bone.

the large thigh of the goat.

Her mouth was working in the same sideways cattle grind it had earlier, save for the fact that her entire bottom jaw had dislocated from the bone's hardness and now hung from her face by two little strips of skin.

She tried to continue eating anyways, thrusting her face towards her so her bottom jaw would swing up and hit the bone.

The jaw bounced off the bone again and again.

She had been that terrible tapping sound.

My neighbor came back and wiped the spit from my face.

I silently cursed him, but he paid no mind.

And father, I mouthed.

My neighbor's smile, which now resided on the left part of his neck, frowned.

I never could get Elijah, but I got you.

So I guess that's all that matters.

He put his hands to my neck and proceeded to break it.

My tendons burst and popped as my neighbor twisted my head until I could see directly behind myself.

Father sat on his regular chair, the Bible clutched closely to his chest.

I flapped my wordless mouth at him, but he did nothing, only watched us.

He seemed sad.

You've done a sin, boy.

You chose to be saved by the wrong one.

Back to me.

My neighbor untwisted my neck with another loud pop.

He grabbed our kitchen knife, still bloody from our earlier meal, and held it up to my stomach.

I squirmed fruitlessly as he began to cut through my flesh.

Pain filled every crevice of my body as he dragged the knife down before opening my stomach up with a final swish of the blade.

I gasped as my guts, along with several pounds of half-digested meat, spewed out of me and fell to the floor.

White danced in my vision, and I had begun to grow dizzy.

He reached down below the table, picked up what looked like dirt, and began to shove handfuls where my intestines had once been.

Please?

I mouthed, head lolling back and forth on the table.

I had given up fighting.

I was...

weak.

My neighbor ignored me and continued to shove the dirt where my stomach once was until it was entirely full.

He then placed the two flaps of skin back on me and drew his finger across where the cut was, resealing my skin.

It hurt.

The dirt was itchy.

Sticks and twigs poked at me from the inside out.

My skin stung from where the dirt stretched it.

I felt heavy, weighted.

Don't worry.

This fullness will never go away.

My neighbor gently opened my mouth and began to fill it with dirt.

He was right.

I was full.

Or rather, I was getting filled.

I could feel my throat clogging.

I felt the dirt behind my eyes, my vision gradually fading white.

I felt it in my head.

My thoughts slowing.

Dizzy.

Dumb.

You'll never be hungry again.

The devil finally got annoyed with the scuttling of his features.

He took off the face he wore, tossing it to the side.

He brushed a spare eye from his shoulder and stepped back to marvel at his work.

The devil was pleased.

He thought himself rather good at answering prayers.

The boy was stuffed, a little dirt peeking out of his ears, a little spilling out of his mouth.

He imagined the boy was happy, finally.

Humans hated being hungry.

He didn't know why they didn't ask him to help with it more often.

I told you.

He looked proudly at the boy before walking out of the house and stepping into the billowing winter night.

I told you you'd never be hungry again.

The No Sleep Podcast is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

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Simply redeem codes to earn points toward premium tech, outdoor gear, and gift cards to your favorite retailers, all waiting for you in the largest reward store of its kind.

Why try Zen Rewards?

Because it offers more than just premium items.

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Warning: this product contains nicotine.

Nicotine is an addictive chemical.

In our final tale, we ask, what would you do?

A simple question, and one that a group of siblings would ask each other as they played the game they invented.

Would you do something unpleasant if the reward was worth it?

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Quincy Lee, the siblings find the stakes of their games elevating to the point where the consequences are becoming quite serious.

Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Jessica McAvoy, Jeff Clement, Kristen D.

McCurio, Atticus Jackson, Aaron Lillis, Mike Delgadio, Sarah Thomas, Jesse Cornett, Graham Rowett, and Tonya Milosevic.

So hopefully your answer is no if you're asked, have you ever played the would you game?

Would you cut off your pinky to get a million dollars?

Would you kill your cheating spouse to marry the man of your dreams?

Would you eat a dog turd to win a year's supply of ice cream?

These are the sorts of preposterous questions that make up the would-you game, which is like a deranged cousin of the Would You Rather board game.

But unlike the popular board game, the Would You game has real-world sticks.

Stakes as high as life or death.

Or even higher.

I found this out the hard way with my sister SETI.

Her actual name is September, but everyone calls her SETI.

Just like everyone calls me Toby.

My actual name is October, and yeah, we do hate our parents for this.

Seti was always competitive, even when she was very little.

But I didn't understand how competitive until she invented the Would You game.

We played during boring summers at home.

In the beginning, it was just Seti, me, our older sister Jules, July, but everyone calls her Jules, and her best friend, Darren.

Darren is the one who added cards to the game, well, structure.

He was kind of a nerd and liked board games, though he only reluctantly played them with me and Seti, whom he found too young and competitive.

The game, as it exists today, is largely Darren's construction.

There are seven cards, always dealt in order.

Would you?

Risk verb, risk noun,

to

reward verb, reward noun.

For example, would you kill your roommate to cure cancer?

Most of the time, the randomness of the cards led to absurd sentences, less like Truth or Dare and more like Mad Libs.

Points were earned through guesses, with fellow players trying to guess whether you would or would not.

Often the fun of the game revolved around players justifying their choices, as in, sure, eating a dog turd would be gross, but two minutes of gross is worth a full year of delish.

It was silly, harmless fun.

The fact the game turned into something horrifying is my fault.

I knew even at the time I shouldn't have done what I did, but I was furious with Seti.

She pulled, would you lick a cockroach to get a day home from school, and she said yes.

Setty says yes to everything, I pointed out.

It's ridiculous.

She's lying.

She wouldn't do any of these things.

I would.

Setty, about seven years old at the time, bawled her fists.

She was trying very hard to be cool enough to play with her older siblings and keep up with us.

You wouldn't.

I snapped, sick of her lying.

We went back and forth, and finally I declared I was adding a new rule.

The challenge rule.

Any player could challenge another player, and then the challenge player would have to do the thing they'd said yes to.

If they did, the player who made the challenge had to give the reward.

So, a day home from school meant I'd cover for her with her parents.

Setty's face immediately took took on a pink cast.

She clearly hadn't anticipated my making up this rule.

I, cruel older sibling that I was, challenged her then to lick the cockroach.

It wasn't nice, I admit.

Tears came into her eyes.

She looked at me in disbelief.

Setty always looked up to me and idolized me.

I'd like to say in that moment I regretted what I was doing to her, but at the time, I was just gloating.

But little Seti wouldn't be beaten either.

Darren went and got a roach.

And Jules really should have been chaperoning better, but Darren was just gleeful at the idea of anyone licking a cockroach.

He pulled a dead one from one of the traps and laid it out on a napkin in front of her.

Setty's lower lip quivered.

Her big eyes lifted to mine.

Then she leaned forward, squinching her eyes, and stuck her tongue out.

The pink tip touched the roach.

She licked it.

Ew!

Gross.

But now I owed her a day off school.

Triumphant, she squished the dead roach in the napkin and tossed it into the trash.

I win.

Yeah, well, you licked a roach, which means you lose a life.

I win!

From then on, the challenge rule held.

But I should have known it was a stupid, dangerous rule to put into play.

The next time we played, the very first card Setty flipped had kill written on it.

She paused on that card, while Darren's mouth made an O of suspense and Jules and I exchanged troubled glances.

Including the kill card was controversial.

It sometimes resulted in hilariously absurd combinations such as, would you kill your butt to become a lost treasure?

To an adult, this sort of Mad Libs game was ridiculous.

When I was 10, it was hilarious.

But of course, the word could also result in some very bad combinations.

Seti kept drawing your sibling to

win

this game.

She paused, mouth quirking to the side as she considered the cards.

Invalid.

No, no, no.

We can still guess.

Setty slid her answer card, a card that said either yes or no, face down in front of her.

Darren?

He was already sliding his card forward as well.

Jules and I followed suit, and we all flipped them upright.

Darren and Jules had guessed no.

My card said yes.

I knew my dumb sister.

And Setty,

hers also said

yes.

Knew it.

She smiled back at me serenely.

Come on, bullshit.

Jules elbowed him, but Darren ignored her.

Challenge.

No, oh no.

No, we're not.

What?

It's in the rules.

If she kills Toby, she wins the game.

He eyed Setty pointedly.

I'm not going to let her win by cheating or bluffing.

Enough.

My younger sister gathered the cards in front of her, set both her yes and no cards aside, and smoothed her skirt.

There was no red face this time, no crying or embarrassment.

She stood up and turned to Darren.

Well, aren't you silly?

Don't you know it's just a game?

Come on, Toby, let's go.

Something Something in my stomach unknotted as her fingers intertwined mine.

It was a relief to know that, despite her competitiveness, my sister could recognize when a thing went too far.

Suddenly, her arm curved around my neck, yanking me back in a chokehold.

I slapped at her arms, fingers clawed and pulled at me as my face went purple and my windpipe felt crushed, and speckles blackened my vision.

Then she was off me, hauled back by Darren and Jules.

Let me go!

Let go!

Setty, stop it!

Let me go!

Jesus, she's bad shit.

Let go!

Setty was still screeching as they dragged her to a room.

If I kill Toby tonight, I win!

I win!

Say that!

I win!

No one wins, Seti!

I can't believe I even have to say this.

I'm telling mom and dad, why do you have to be so crazy?

Christ.

This game is suspended.

Do you understand me?

It's over.

There are no winners.

And we are never playing this fucking game ever again.

So that was the end of the Would You game for many years.

Seti found other games to play, of course, less dangerous ones.

She was really good at games and made a fortune with gambling, the lottery, card tournaments, investing.

Playing the market was itself sort of a game, she told me.

And as with all ventures, she tackled it with a competitive spirit and almost unmatched skill.

Though she did suffer some stunning losses occasionally as a consequence of her tremendous risks.

She knew all the tricks of the trade.

Shuffling tricks, sleight of hand, weighted dice, counting cards.

No, contrary to what you might believe, she was actually a pretty good sister, most of the time.

It was SETI who took care of our parents, making sure their bills were paid and their lawn mowed and the big house always tidy.

And she did do a lot of the cooking and cleaning herself before she'd do her makeup and go out for the evening to the casino or for a drink with business partners.

She never went to college, instead keeping house for our parents.

But then, she didn't really need college.

We had wealth inherited from our grandparents, and SETI multiplied multiplied it neatly, managing investments for all of us.

She did this with complete transparency and fairness, and while she sometimes gambled heavily with her own money, she never did with ours, always putting it in investments according to our willingness to embrace risk or security.

And yet, through my college years, when SETI was finishing high school, she brought back the Would You game.

And this time, being legally an adult, she had no one to rein her in.

I found out about it from Keeter, another boy at her school.

He told me how she'd started playing with a group of Preppy's senior friends.

I tried to shrug this off.

I mean, whatever.

We were all adults now.

Surely my sister wouldn't go too crazy, right?

It wasn't until later that I found out she'd changed the rules again.

She and some of the other seniors were playing one day when they decided that the Mad Libs aspect was no longer as entertaining as when we were children, and that players should draw until the card issued a sentence that the majority agreed made sense.

Of course, even then, most of the results were still things that couldn't actually happen.

But others, like, would you eat bugs to get a winning lottery ticket, were not only perfectly valid combinations, but also easy enough to both challenge and reward.

And this is exactly what happened when Seti and her friends played.

One of them claimed he'd eat bugs to get a winning lottery ticket, and she challenged.

He ate several ants, so Seti bought lotto tickets until she had a winning one.

Granted, it was only for $3, but the cards hadn't specified, had they.

And that's how it began, Seti herself becoming a guarantor of sorts anytime she'd played the game.

She had the money, after all.

Even back then, our family was well off, and Seti already had a considerable sum saved from her gambling and side hustles.

I never knew what else she'd hit on the side, but I assumed some of it wasn't legal.

She could afford to escalate the game, so when a combination came up, like, would you dump your boyfriend to earn a new iPhone, said he could issue the challenge.

And when her friends followed through on the dumping, said friend would be gifted with a new phone.

It was nonsense, risky and unhealthy, but not, I guess, more than any other kind of gambling.

Until it got worse.

worse.

Several years later, SETI had some friends over.

I'd refused to join.

I'd sworn myself to never play this game again.

SETI seemed to get even more competitive when I was around, so I kept away from the group, watching from across the living room.

Turns kept passing around and everyone was laughing, drinking.

A few people were smoking, but that wasn't really my business.

Mostly it sounded like absurd stuff.

Would you kiss Mrs.

Whittinger to save a litter of kittens?

Groans.

Mrs.

Whittinger was the principal at the high school, and in games of kiss, merry, kill was universally the kill option.

Much discussion ensued about whether a litter of kittens would actually die if the player said no to this, and whether the price having to kiss Mrs.

Whittinger was too high.

Setty considered the question, but intertwined her fingers and explained that since the kittens were in the reward deck, not the risk deck, the game would not put kittens in harm's way.

In short, kissing will mean you do a good deed, but not kissing won't make you do a bad one.

Thus, if Scott, the player who'd drawn this combination, were to return to their old high school to kiss the loathsome Mrs.

Whittinger, a litter of kittens would be rescued.

But nothing would happen otherwise.

Well, yeah, but if I don't kiss her, some kittens somewhere might not get rescued.

So,

guess I gotta kiss her.

Scott grinned at the groans all around.

Challenge.

Scott did indeed end up visiting the high school on a made-up errand and kissing the principal on the cheek.

She was suitably astonished at this affection from a troublesome alum, but also rather touched.

And Sadie honored her word and awarded Scott by saving a litter of kittens that still occupies our parents' house, where she has devotedly looked after them.

But that's not the reason I'm telling you about this game.

See, shortly after Scott's draw, another friend, Rosalinda, drew a combination that elicited quite a stir.

Would you cut off your finger to gain $1 million?

Whoa!

Gasps and whispers all around.

Everyone at that party knew that if it was done, Seti could potentially honor the million.

This was into her investing years.

She had the financial wherewithal for it, and she had granted other gifts before,

but never to such an extravagant amount.

The most she'd ever given was a gift for a Bahamas trip.

I totally do it.

No way.

There's no way way I'd do that.

What?

One million dollars?

This one's a hypothetical, right?

They glanced tentatively to Setty, who just sat back holding her drink, with her eyes glimmering and a lazy smile on her face.

Yeah, obviously.

I mean, who's got a million dollars to give?

Setty might.

Yeah,

right.

Screw it.

Rosalinda slammed her card down.

I'm in.

Make your picks, people.

Everyone voted.

Half said yes, half no.

Rosalinda flipped her card.

Yes.

Everyone glanced at Setty, who stood up quietly, moved to the bar to pour herself another drink, and then poured a glass for Rosalinda, too.

A glass of strong stuff.

She then moved into the kitchen where she opened a drawer.

I felt my heart race increase, moved to follow Seti, in whose fingers glinted silver.

She sterilized the knife over a flame, then brought it to Rosalinda, laying it out on a tray with napkins, bandages, and a first aid kit.

Rosalinda's eyes grew wide as saucers.

Shit.

Everyone had gone utterly silent, appalled.

I held my breath.

Don't.

I thought.

Don't.

What should I have done?

Called the police?

Even now, I wonder.

No one was forcing Rosalinda to do anything, and yet.

Setty sat back in her cushioned chair, idly swirling a bourbon in her glass before downing it.

Her eyes glimmered over a smile as she raised her gaze to Rosalinda.

Challenge.

Everyone was dead still.

And then Rosalinda picked up the knife.

I'll spare you the description of the aftermath of that.

The woodshoo cards had said, cut off your finger, but they'd said nothing about sewing it back on.

Scott put Rosalinda's finger on ice immediately after she cut it off, to the screams of the other players.

There were some accusations that Seti was sick.

That this all went too far.

Then Rosalinda's friends rushed her and her severed finger to the hospital where it was reattached.

And, of course, Rosalinda and her friends were somewhat mollified that, shortly afterwards, a million dollars was transferred to her bank account.

In fact, when word spread, others began seeking out my sister to play.

That was when I put my foot down about playing in the house.

I said her parents' house couldn't be turned into a gambling den, that I didn't want murders or maiming under their roof, or them to have to deal with cleaning up blood or whatever sick things happen.

Setty agreed to take her games elsewhere.

I tried to keep out of her business, but occasionally word leaked.

From her parents or jewels or mutual acquaintances.

And it seemed like both the risks and rewards were getting bigger.

But when things really got out of hand, when I finally put my foot down that it had to stop, it was the first time someone died.

Before COVID, the games had involved physical risk, even maiming, but had never included death.

I wasn't present for the lethal draw, and only found out later that the combination polled was, would you become haunted by a terrifying ghost to save your child?

This particular game took over Zoom during the height of the pandemic, among a handful of players who won the chance to play via lottery.

SETI's games were in high demand.

As it turned out, one of the players had an eldest daughter on a ventilator.

Now you think that any combination involving a ghost would be inherently invalid.

After all, it's not like SETI can conjure up the supernatural.

But apparently the players agreed to accept it as a valid draw and the devoted father played yes.

Anything for my kids, he said.

I viewed the recording of the Zoom later, and after the father played his yes card, SETI's eyes fluttered for several seconds in this strange way, as if she were in a trance or listening to something no one else could hear.

Then her eyes opened and she declared, challenge.

A few days later, the daughter recovered.

It wasn't until said daughter messaged me begging me to intervene that I understood how deranged the game had become.

The man who answered the door in his bathrobe had eyes red-rimmed from weeping, a week's worth of beard stubbling his gaunt face.

Without a word, he let me into his house.

As he shuffled away from me, I noticed burn marks on the walls, not not in any obvious pattern, but here and there marring the wallpaper.

He pointed to a pile of framed photographs stacked on the sofa.

They'd formerly been hung on the walls, I realized, but he'd taken them down because in every single photo, he had been burned out, leaving the rest of his family intact.

That was how the wallpaper had been charred.

There was also, I noticed, a burn mark in the shape of a handprint on his arm.

While the father wearily offered me tea, I picked up one of the photos, the backing and part of the glass damaged from the heat.

Is it just the burn marks, or is there other stuff going on?

The lights, the shrieks and banging at night, the handprints, the dreams,

and...

and this.

He pulled open a drawer full of children's drawings scrawled by his daughter and her siblings, kept from when they were very little.

In all the drawings, he had been scratched out, and a blackened figure like a shadow seemed to be looming behind him, its hands on his shoulders.

She's obviously hired someone to come and do all this.

You're probably having nightmares from the stress.

No way would I believe Seti could summon ghosts, but I absolutely believe she had the resources to make a man think she had.

The defiled children's drawings especially left me chilled.

How had she identified which figure in the child scrawls was him?

I offered to stay the night, to confront whoever Setty had hired and chase them off.

And I promised I would contact my sister in the morning and put an end to the so-called haunting.

The man seemed relieved by my assurances that all the spooky effects were staged.

Yet he also requested me not to interfere.

He was clearly anxious that if he didn't let things continue, his daughter would fall sick again.

I tried to assure him that SETI didn't have that kind of power and couldn't make her relapse.

But he insisted I keep out of it.

Privately, I decided to speak to SETI anyway.

She was overseas, however, and the man killed himself before she got back.

Hung himself from the staircase, leaving his beloved daughter and her sibling to mourn.

I waited in our parents' house for my sister the night she returned.

She'd barely gotten off the plane a half hour earlier, but despite what must have been a wearying flight, she waltzed through the front door in a glitzy suit like she'd stepped out of Vegas.

Seeing me, she spread her arms wide in greeting.

How could you?

She dropped her arms, though her smile didn't falter.

Toby, dear, I didn't.

Whatever it is you're upset about, it was the cards.

A ghost, Setty?

A terrifying ghost.

Of course it wasn't a ghost, Setty.

I was shaking with fury.

The funeral had been two days ago.

The only terrifying thing here is you for hounding a man to death.

You drove him to this.

It's you who fulfills all the challenges, who delivers the rewards.

Admit it, you paid for his daughter to get special treatment.

I looked into it.

You couldn't guarantee it, but you did everything you could to make sure she'd recover, didn't you?

And when she did, you made him suffer.

She had to complete the challenge.

She pursed her lips, silent for a moment.

What if I did?

What if you did?

I couldn't believe her.

Said you drove a man to his death.

You said that already.

She looked bored.

So?

I made a man terrified.

He chose to kill himself.

Bullshit, you killed him as much as if you handed him the rope.

Oh, he chose hanging?

Setty,

you have to stop this.

That stilled her.

She was silent for a moment, eyes shadowed by by the brim of her hat, crimson lips pursed.

Finally,

a curl to her mouth.

Make me.

What?

Make me stop.

She languidly took a chair at the coffee table, indicating for me to do the same.

I stared in horror as she pulled out a deck, eyes glittering.

One game.

A duel.

You win, I stop and never play again.

You can have your wish.

No.

Toby,

people pay thousands to play with me.

You don't know what a deal you're getting.

Besides, it's the only way to make me stop.

She again indicated the chair.

I just stared at her, fists clenched.

Why?

Because,

Toby, dear.

Our mother and father's beloved who can do no wrong.

Because we never finished our game.

Remember when we were little?

We started to play, but things went too far?

We couldn't end it?

I won't be left at a stalemate.

Finish the game with me, dearest Toby.

Golden child.

The one mom and dad always loved best.

They love you too.

They love me like the alcoholic loves the bottle.

A terrible influence they secretly wish they could obliterate.

And it's true.

I am terrible.

But

perfect.

Good Toby.

Win against me,

and I will stop.

Her eyebrows shut up.

Reluctantly, dread building in my gut, I sat down opposite her, threw out one more feeble argument.

We don't have enough players.

I won't let anyone else get involved.

We don't need other players.

A duel game is a two-player version.

It has a few extra rules, like the double-dare.

It's where you take your opponent's challenge and double it.

So, for instance, if it's, would you kill a kitten?

And I accept, you'd have to kill two.

Great example.

How are your cats, by the way?

All very well.

As it happens, they haven't been drawn into any games.

She flashed a wicked smile at me as one of said cats, oblivious to the danger it would be in should Seti draw any cards that involve pets, came over and rubbed against her leg, purring.

She explained the the rules of the duel game as she shuffled.

It was basically the same as the regular game, but answers were scored differently.

One point for yes, one point for a correct guess, zero points for no, zero points for wrong guesses, ten points for a completed challenge.

And if a challenge went unfulfilled, it was an automatic loss.

If more than one challenge was fulfilled for the same reward, only the most recent challenge would gain the reward.

The game would continue until each player had drawn 10 valid combinations.

Getting points for saying yes automatically skews the game in your favor.

It skews the game in favor of playing more boldly, Cass.

But it's still possible for you to win.

I glowered.

Said he allowed me to draw first.

Would you dance with rotting human entrails to earn a dream vacation?

Well, tame by the current standards of the game.

I started to put down my no card, but then remembered I'd get zero points for it.

Of course, if I put down yes, Seti would manage to make those rotting entrails appear, and I didn't even want to think about whether they'd really be human or not.

I sighed and pushed forward yes.

Setty also slid a card forward.

Both of us flipped.

Both of us said yes.

one point for me one for setty for guessing correctly

i waited for the inevitable challenge but she only smiled

you're not going to challenge

no because you'll actually do it and you'll get ten points and obviously you'll get a dream vacation too But I'd rather save my money for more interesting rewards.

Seti's turn.

She flipped the cards slowly.

Would you fly to stinky toenails to gain your name on Mars?

Invalid, obviously.

She drew again.

Would you sing loudly to the president to save world peace?

Another invalid combination.

Seti drew three more nonsense sentences before finally coming up with a valid combination.

Would you kiss a bowl of tirea to get a year's supply of ice cream?

This is such a dumb game.

Setty smiled and pushed a card forward.

I rolled my eyes and did the same.

We both flipped.

Yes.

Of course you would.

You could challenge.

And give you 10 points.

Fuck that.

We went back and forth a couple more rounds.

My hands were shaking.

Soon we got to challenges I wouldn't do.

I started playing no, Seti always playing yes.

She was gaining points and didn't challenge me on the rare times I drew something I felt I could do.

And then, as we were approaching the 10th round that would end the game, Seti drew a combination that made my breath catch.

Would you skin yourself to win this game?

Setty was already ahead.

If I didn't challenge her, she'd win.

And if I challenged her and she refused, she'd lose.

A smart play for her would be to pick no.

She wouldn't risk anything, and she was way ahead of me anyway.

The game would end on the next turn.

All she had to do was miss one point by playing her no card.

Playing yes was something only a complete idiot would do, but Seti had never played no.

Not in any of the turns we'd had so far, so

would she now?

Setty looked me in the eye as she put down her card.

Smiled almost apologetically with a little shrug.

Ah, how that smile infuriated me.

The lightness of it.

The willingness to throw everything down in this stupid, idiotic, foolish game.

She was already guaranteed to win.

I played my card.

We flipped them over.

Yes.

Fury coursed through me.

It was like when we were kids all over again, and Setty would brazenly claim she'd do something outrageous when all of us knew she really wouldn't.

When she'd bluff, and I'd call her on it.

And so the words spat from my lips before I could think to stop it, because how dare she mock me like this?

Playing like her life hardly mattered.

Challenge.

It was strange.

The expressions that flickered across Seti's face.

Regret, fear, angst,

rage.

For a moment, she reminded me of that little girl again.

The little girl who idolized me.

Just wanted to be brave enough to impress me.

And so I called her out for going too far.

And every single time, she'd forced herself to rise to my challenge.

Remembering that, I suddenly regretted my actions.

Setty's eyelids closed, fluttering, as if she were coming to terms with what just happened.

And then, without a word, she rose to her feet.

My parents did a lot of barbecuing in the summers, even the occasional pig roaster carving up venison.

I wondered with horror if among the many implements in this grandly furnished house, they might have a skinning knife.

Setty, wait.

I seized her arm as she turned away.

I forfeit.

You hear me?

I forfeit.

You win.

I withdraw my challenge.

What?

You can't forfeit.

That's not how it works.

Too bad.

I'm done.

Toby!

I grab my jacket and rush for the door.

You agreed to finish the game.

Yeah, bite me.

From inside, a howl of anguish.

High, keening, practically inhuman.

God, Setty could be so scary.

I hurried away, trying to force the horrible, stupid game from my consciousness, trying to forget how irrational Setty could be.

My phone buzzed.

It was SETI.

Some angry emoticons then.

We're not finished.

You have one turn left.

Toby.

One turn.

She carried on like that all night.

I silenced my phone.

In the morning, I had so many messages I blocked her.

I fully expected calls from her parents, Jules, or our mutual acquaintances.

Email, messenger, voicemails at work, maybe a singing fucking telegram.

Setty had a huge network, and I knew my sister had a thousand ways to contact me.

There would be no escaping her wrath until the game was over.

And yet, silence.

Not so much as a peep.

And it was this complete absence of communication that unsettled me more than anything.

I called our parents, Jules, friends, but they hadn't heard from Seti.

Not wanting them to worry, I lied to everyone and said I was just checking in because it had been a while.

With every hour, the knot of dread in my gut tightened.

Finally, three days after our fateful game, there came a knock at my door.

I'd been in a state of suspension so long that my first feeling was

relief.

I mean, at least we'd get this over with.

I went to the door, calling out, who's there?

There's no response.

I peeked through the peephole, but it was covered.

Just like SETI to play games.

Maybe it really was a singing telegram.

I opened the door.

Hello.

The word died on my lips, shifting from hello hello to hell in what, looking back, seems chillingly appropriate.

On the threshold stood a costumed figure.

She was reminiscent of the Easter bunny.

Huge black eyes, plush fur around chipmunkish cheeks, buck teeth, and mauve fur with a fluffy white belly.

This wasn't sophisticated like a cosplay persona.

No, this was more of the maul-grade Easter variety.

Vaguely creepy and unsettling.

Like a costume theme park character or a Chuck E.

Cheese animatronic.

I'd always had a dread of such characters, even as a child.

Something about the fakery of the costuming was so off-putting.

But now that same unease prickled through me as the bunny spread its arms out in a ta-da pose.

Um

I stepped back and held open the door, trying to ignore the small voice that wondered what I might see if I lifted the mask off that bunny suit.

The bunny strolled in with an exaggerated, happy stride,

reminding me again of a costumed character.

Who could ever tell what was underneath such a suit?

The bunny pulled out two chairs from my dining table.

and patted one for me.

Setty?

The bunny pulled a card from a pocket somewhere in its fur and held it up for me to read.

One more

turn.

How do I know it's you?

Take off that dumb thing.

A headshake.

The bunny pointed again to the card, exaggeratedly tapping it and nodding to me.

Its suit smelt faintly of copper and

maybe

something else.

Sweat?

Body odor?

No, it was more unpleasant than that.

Like the smell of a dead mouse I'd found once in a trap rotting for days.

And I wondered what was under that suit.

She wouldn't have done it, would she?

She couldn't have and survived.

I mean...

This this had to be an act to make me fret, think she'd done something crazy.

I looked into those bunny eyes.

Black mesh.

I thought I could just glimpse the whites of her eyes, a faint gleam as she looked out at me again.

And again, that coppery smell.

And as we both sat at the coffee table, there was, I could see very clearly now, blood dripping from the suit of the bunny.

A faint dribble of it.

How badly was she bleeding in there?

Or was it all an act?

Would she even be bleeding still?

Would blood really drip through the costume?

God, Setty, fine.

I'll play the last turn.

And if I win, you'll take that suit off and you'll be just fine underneath, alright?

Deal?

You'll be whole and fine.

The bunny made a sound in the affirmative.

It was Setty's voice, but sounded wrong.

Like the vocal cords were somehow deteriorated.

It reached into a pocket somewhere in the suit,

handed me the wood you cards.

My turn.

Hands shaking, I shuffled.

I could see now a couple of places where the mauve fur was darker and wet with stains.

But it can't be real.

No way it can be real.

I swallowed the bile in my throat and dealt the cards.

Would you?

My hands trembled as I turned each one.

Disappear

yourself

to win

this game.

Fuck.

Disappear?

Did that mean die and my life or like witness protection disappear?

The meaning was unclear, but I couldn't pick no or said he would win.

And somehow I knew what would happen if she won.

That she would lift off her mask and underneath there would be.

Shuddering,

I pushed forward my card, and the bunny pushed forward hers.

And we flipped.

Yes.

The bunny spoke one word.

I tried not to imagine its skinless tongue slurring.

Challenge.

My heart quickened.

Fine.

You, mom, dad, Jules, everyone we know, you'll never see me again for the rest of my life, okay?

No matter how hard you look or how you spend your resources to come after me,

I will not be found.

I'll be gone, and when I am,

I'll have won the game.

As I spoke, I felt the air shiver between us.

It was as if something had written my words in my soul.

And I knew as deeply and suddenly and surely as I knew my own name that I would disappear so thoroughly that I would effectively cease to exist.

Somehow, I was incredibly calm about all of this.

Goodbye, Setty.

I turned, grabbed my bag, and walked out.

I drove to our parents' house to tell them that I love them.

They were extraordinarily perplexed when I greeted them each with a tight embrace, and

even more so when I begged them to please look after Seti for me.

I just hoped it was enough to save my sister.

Whatever was under that suit was all part of the drama to draw me in, and everything would return to normal after the game.

I just had to disappear.

Who

dad was a bit hard of hearing?

Setty.

September?

What's happening in September?

No, Mom, I'm talking about Setty.

I stopped.

Staring at the mantle.

A few days ago, I'd been here playing the game with Setty, and all the photos on the mantle had been the same vacation trips as always.

Goofy images of Seti, me, and Jules playing as children.

But now, I was looking at the exact same photos, and it was only me and Jules.

Mom, meanwhile, nudged Dad.

Sweetie, remember how Toby used to pretend to have a little sister?

Oh, gosh, that's right.

Dad brightened and turned to me.

And whenever you did something bad, you'd blame it on September.

But I was already out the door, rushing back to the the game.

I declared I would disappear.

From the present moment on, I'd be gone, but

SETI.

I checked my phone, my email, messages, but there were no photographs, no texts, no social media evidence my sister had ever existed, present or past.

I called Jules.

She said the same thing as our parents, that SETI was the imaginary little sister I made up to blame for the worst outcomes of a childhood game.

A game I designed.

A game for which I am the guarantor.

A game I have been hosting among various groups and players for the past few years.

And when I at last got home and rushed inside,

the bunny was no longer at the table,

but the cards were still laid out.

A note scrawled beside them on a bloody napkin.

Double

dare.

People still contact me asking why I ended the game.

And the truth is.

Well, the truth is the napkin.

The only proof of SETI.

Written in her own distinctive handwriting.

Disintegrated with time.

And I'm not even sure myself what I believe anymore.

But I'll tell you this:

if anyone ever offers to play the woodshoo game,

no matter what the prize,

do not do it.

It's not worth it.

Learn from my mistakes

and never ever

play

the woodshoo game.

As the train pulls into the terminal, we ask that you gather what's left of your sanity and depart the train.

Thank you for traveling with us on the Sleepless Express.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

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

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 learn about the Sleepless Sanctuary.

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On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for traveling the rails with us for our 21st season.

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