NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 23

We was here... Die Composition! Greetings, sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 23. I'm your host, David Cummings. As we prepare for the launch of Season 24 next weekend, we have lots to be excited about. A new season is always exciting, but as you likely know, it will coincide with our 15th anniversary. We have lots of plans in the works to make it a time of horrifying celebrations. And one of the big announcements we're going to make is coming next week, at the end of January. Keep your eyes and ears open to learn about an exciting event sailing your way. You know, we love being able to bring you, our fans, not only weekly horror stories, but also share with you other events and experiences we bring your way. I'd like to think we have a good relationship with our fans. And while this kind of relationship doesn't allow us to cuddle on the couch together and eat popcorn while watching movies, it does allow us to recognize that some relationships can lead to their own forms of horror. I'm sure we've all gone through the pain of a broken relationship. When one person decides it's time to end it, make a clean break, move on through the heartache, it can be a scary time. And in this volume of Sleepless Decompositions, we have two tales that deal with relationships that have come to an end. And while separation is scary emotionally, I think you'll understand how some events can make that pain even scarier. But if there's one relationship that isn't scary to us, it's the one we have with our sponsors, the people who keep these episodes free for our lovable fans. and we want the warmth we feel for our fans to be reflected in their warm clothes. It's a new year and the days are colder, so this is the moment your winter wardrobe really has to deliver. 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Quince dot com slash no sleep. Now, don't worry, our loving and loved fans. We won't ever leave you. We'll be together forever and ever and ever. And for that reason, I think it's good advice for you to brace yourself for these sleepless decompositions. In our first tale, we meet Lisa. She's lost Owen, a man she spent so much time with, shared so much of her heart with. But Owen has left her, suddenly and without explanation. But in this tale, shared with us by author G.T. Corbin, Lisa just can't let Owen go, and her efforts to reunite with him will be quite passionate indeed. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, Mary Murphy, Jake Benson, and Jeff Clement. So, no, leaving endless voicemails isn't that creepy, is it? All you have to do is speak after the tone. You've reached the voicemail of... Please leave your message after the tone. Hi, Owen. It's... it's Lisa. I know you don't want to hear from me, but he left so suddenly there was no chance to... to talk. We should talk. It can't end like this, Owen. Please, call me back. Hi, Owen. It's me. I'm still waiting for you. I want to believe you'll understand. You've always understood me. It just took a while sometimes. Remember the first night you moved in? You were so intimidated, like a little lamb, shaky on its feet. So endearing. That's when I knew you were the one. You are the only one. Please, call me back. I don't understand what went wrong, Owen. I thought you wanted this. You bastard, I need you. Come back. Come back. I'm sorry. Call me back. You told me once that you feared being forgotten. Dying and leaving no mark that you were ever there. Disappearing. Aren't you scared? I'm looking at the things you left behind. The Navarna poster on your wall is torn at the top left corner. Did you notice? Did you try to take it down? The glass on this photo frame is cracked. I looked in your closet. Your jean jacket? A spiderweb of white mould created polka dots on the fabric. Your life fractures when you're away. You run on borrowed time, collecting ephemeral trinkets that will wither and yet still outlive you, passed along as though you never touched them. I gave you a chance to outlive this life, Owen. Where did you go? I wonder if your mum will be home soon. I'm going through your photo albums. I trace over your face in your childhood photos. Red-cheeked, bright-eyed. Did you even have a flicker of understanding of who you'd grow up to be? What you'd become? No. Of course not. If you had, you wouldn't be suited for it. The beauty lies in not knowing. Your mother didn't come home. Father is looking for you too. He said good men, perfect men should keep their promises. Perfect men, clean men, like you. You should keep your promises. Otherwise you're not clean anymore. And you need to be clean again. Honestly, Owen, what are we doing here? How many more times do we need to do this? Keep your fucking promises. Do not tell father, I swore. Do not tell him. Do you see what you're doing? I slept in your bed. I thought you'd go home, but I guess you knew I'd follow you here. Even though you never brought me. You didn't need your old family and your new life. You had us. And just like from your real family You fled You fled, Owen But you abandoned me just like you did your mother Well, unlike your old father Father will not let you throw your chance Your second life away Come home Your love took me to the sky, Owen Was that funny? I can't tell I've never really been funny Either way I'm on a plane I've never been outside Ireland you know Never even gone to Dublin And now I'm on a plane A plane to you I'll see you soon Angel Why do you run from this? Chasing each other as we sink lower Like falling stars Like the tragic poems you love so much It's getting a little drab though, Owen We have to get back to our life, don't you think? We were meant for more than an endless game of tag You were meant for more than the fear that's sending you away Nothing bad will happen to you Only good You used to trust me Trust me now I know how much money you took Let me rephrase that I know how much money you have left. And every plane ticket, every train, every step you take away from me has a cost. You're running out of steps? We can still talk about this before you end up stranded. Let this be a choice, Owen, before you're out of options. I'm near Angel. You're selfish. You're not supposed to be selfish. Every cent I spent chasing you around could have gone to your family. Either one, I suppose. If you didn't want to invest it in me, fine. We could have given it to your mother. Your niblings. I stopped by your brothers. Yes, Aaron. When you came to London, I figured it was the safest bet. He was so happy to see me. So, disappointed in you for never introducing us. For never talking about me. For running away. He'll call me if he sees you. Might pay him a visit earlier than that, should I be overtaken by my own loneliness. He suggested it. He did? Oh, but Lisa, why would you tell me that, you ask? Now I know not to go there. Yes, Angel, but you're running out of false sanctuaries. You're only safe in ours. you know that tell me are you going to steal when you're out of money do you think father won't forgive you for that it's true he'll be displeased you were clean once it was why I brought you home to him but you can be clean again so long as you're sorry father will forgive and you will be sorry, Owen. Another day, another trip, another quest to save my angel. Can you hear me, Owen? Got my money's worth out of this phone plan, didn't I? I had this image in my head as I was leaving all these messages for you, begging you to come home. Even though you left me. When everyone was sleeping, you packed your things and just ran off into the afternoon sun. Like a stranger. An intruder. You left me after everything I did for... I'm getting carried away. What was I saying? Ah, yes. I had this image in my head of you letting my call go to voicemail because, well, you're ashamed, of course, of your cowardice, of how much you've hurt me, hurt father, hurt our family. And then the voicemail would play after the beep and you'd hear my voice, the voice you once vowed to follow to our little sanctuary, the voice you said you'd do anything for. Your face, beautiful. and young and clean, but aged with wrongdoings and regret. And we can fix that all. It's not too late. Your face would contort in pain, and you'd reach out towards the phone with longing, pain the likes of which you were never meant to feel again. Not if you stayed. Not with me. Silly me. I forgot. Voicemails these days don't play like that. That's movie nonsense. You have to go to your voicemail manually and choose to play my messages. And you haven't. Not the previous one, at least. And if I had to guess, not this one either. Well, here's the fucking thing, Owen. If you had chosen to listen to my beautiful voice, if you had chosen to expose yourself to my love and my pain, to feel the guilt you're meant to feel for your sins, here's what I'd tell you. I tell you, you look as divine as the first day I met you. As perfect as the day I chose you to come back with me. As the day you smiled and said you'd follow me everywhere. I tell you, I can see your fear in the way you sit at the edge of your bed. Hunched over and so, so small. When you were not meant to be small, you were always meant for so much more. and I can see the pain in the lines under your eyes that weren't there when I last brushed my knuckles down your face. The sunken, hollow quality of your cheeks. Did you not eat to get away from this? Did you break yourself to run? Mostly I tell you that I can see through your window so I know you're not getting this warning. Father and our siblings are in the hallway right now. Soon they'll barge in. You look up. Do you hear their footsteps? Run, Owen. Right. You chose not to hear me. How sad. There. The door bursts open and the fear breaks you in half. You fall off the bed onto the filthy carpet. Mind, heart, courage, all in pieces. It's okay, my fallen angel. We'll put you together again. They would never hit you, of course. But you know Eden and her genetically engineered plants. She experimented with a few on you at some point, didn't she? What fun? Three breaths of her enhanced gardenia extract, and you're out, mid-scream, your voice trailing off into a pitiful cry before it fades along with you. Aris checks you over. For what? I'm not sure. Weapons? Forbidden substances? Your damn phone? father comes to open the balcony door I know you're poor by now starving even but in your situation you probably should have at least paid for a second or third floor room don't you think? who are you talking to? oh no one important not in this state anyway I remember the day we met College Road was sick with students at that time of night And even squeezing into a spot at the bar or the pub felt like a blessed sign You had to press against me to order Two pints, you said One non-alcoholic That was the second sign Not that you didn't put alcohol into your body Drunken confessions under a parade of tequila shots is still one of my favorite memories of yours. You weren't drinking then, though, because your little brother was visiting. He wanted to enjoy the nightlife, and you promised to drive him home. By the end of the night, you had his arm around your shoulders, a bright grin on your face, and my phone number in your pocket. The light in your eyes was unburdened by the choices of that night, and that certainty, that lack of regret raised you up. The third sign of your own virtue. You were kind, and in that kindness you were perfect. Pure. Yes, pure. In the sense that I needed you for. Though I appreciated your impurity in other areas, if you go by conservative notions of the fact. You know that. Was back at your place the first night you called. And the second. And the third. And then you stopped calling me only to the bedroom and called me to your friend's place instead. They loved me, didn't they? Not as much as you did. Otherwise I would have asked them to come with us. And they would have. I always know at which point to ask. I made sure you loved me enough too. As for me, well, I... Go on. Oh, Sarah, is it time? Father will begin the cleanse. He wants you there. He's your candidate. Your responsibility if it goes wrong remember He not a candidate Sarah He already been chosen He the perfect vessel for the spirits coming He was the perfect vessel Now we need to spill the regret out of him and hope there's enough to survive clean. He will. Can I talk to him first? I have a question. I do hope you see these messages after. I hope you understand how much this meant to me. How much I did for you. Only you. And if you're unkind to me now, I want you to remember enough to vie for my forgiveness. When the spirit inhabits you in their coming, that need will guide them to me. Hey, angel. Oh, don't worry. You'll be feeling like yourself soon. Father will ensure it. We love you. And we want you back to your normal, perfect, chosen self. I couldn't let you go on. You're too important to me. To Father. And once you finally accept your place as a vessel, you will be important to the world at large. You wanted to be remembered. and now you will never, ever die. Oh, it's okay, Angel. You will not look at me like that when Father has salvaged you from your wayward notions. You can be such a hypocrite at times, you know. I hope they bleed that out of you too. I hope it tears itself through your throat as you scrape it raw with screaming and then you'll be kind again. When I brought you to our sanctuary, you were happy. Do you remember that behind all this anger? I told you you were the chosen one. I told you how ecstatic everyone would be, how they'd help you ascend from the mortal restraints of time as a vessel. You wanted not to disappear, and we gave you a chance at an eternal purpose. And you ran, like a coward, when you finally realized that in order to get the spirit in, we'd have to cut you out. Honestly, Owen How do you worship without sacrifice? Did I not sacrifice for you? Did I not run behind you like a lovesick fool to ensure your destiny? So tell me If you could be so kind Where the fuck is your phone? You didn't pick up once I'm calling it right now. I'm saving this for you. I want you to hear me. Are you even getting these calls? Owen? What did you do? I don't know who this is, but you'd better stay away. Delete those messages. Fuck. Fuck! Delete them. Please. You have to delete them. Do you know what they'll do to me if they realize I confess? Got a minute, Lisa. Something wrong? Police came round. Poking for information. Looking for your candidate. Oh. Are they gone now? Father took care of it. For now. Is the angel okay? Recovering. Tough cleansing that one. Harry said it took all night to clean up. We'll see if yours is any better. What? Father wants to see you. You've reached the voicemail of... Please leave your message after the tone. Shit. Owen, this is Aaron. I hope this message reaches you. I got a call from your friend in the guardie. He found the voicemails from Lisa O'Neill used forwarded to his phone, and I... Please call me back. God, Owen, call me back Let's hang up the phone on that story because that was heavy Let's lift that burden thanks to this episode being sponsored by BetterHelp. This is the time of year we try to deal with things weighing us down. But instead of chasing a new you, think about ways you can feel lighter. Remember this truth. The new year doesn't need a new you. Feeling lighter doesn't mean doing more. Sometimes it means carrying less. I'm trying to identify areas of my life that do so little to help me and plenty to weigh me down. I'm trying to stay offline more, avoid doom scrolling and the endless mess of what algorithms want to throw in my face. I've found that therapy is a great way to gain an unbiased perspective on my life, and it can play a key role in leaving behind what's been heavy so I can focus on the future. BetterHelp therapists work according to a strict code of conduct and are fully licensed in the U.S. With over 30,000 therapists, BetterHelp is one of the world's largest online therapy platforms, having served over 5 million people globally. And it works, with an average rating of 4.9 out of 5 stars for a live session based on over 1.7 million client reviews. You can't step into a lighter version of yourself without leaving behind what's been weighing you down. Therapy can help you clear space. Sign up and get 10% off at betterhelp.com slash nosleep. That's betterhelp.com slash nosleep. Thanks BetterHelp for your continued support. Now let's order up some room service for more horror. In our final tale, we meet Phil. He and his hastily packed luggage are on the road, Getting away from a girlfriend he caught cheating on him, putting some space between them, literally and figuratively. And when a winter storm curtails his drive, a conveniently located hotel is a welcome sight. But in this tale, shared with us by author Sam Riding, Phil discovers that there are other clients at the hotel that night, and they don't seem to be interested in having a quiet, restful evening. I pitch in and perform this tale with Dan Zappula and Sarah Thomas. So if you're looking for a place to spend the night, choose any place other than the Hotel Mariposa. Mariposa. The sun was beginning to set, and I had just passed Chair Mountain on the 133, when the first snowflake hit my windshield. It was late September in the Colorado Rockies, and I hadn't expected snow for another couple of hours. so I figured I'd be able to make Breckenridge before the worst of it came down. In fact, I was counting on it, because there was no way in hell I was about to turn back. A few hours earlier, I'd walked in on my girlfriend and her Pilates instructor, practicing some interesting new positions in our apartment. I didn't make a scene. I just packed a bag and then called my buddy in Denver from the road. I knew he'd take me in for a while, given the circumstances. But when those first snowflakes fell earlier than expected, I realized my chances of making it through the mountains had just plummeted. As I drove through Aspen, there was still only a light dusting on sidewalks and stationary cars. But by the time I reached Dunbar Ranch, the snowfall was so thick, I could barely see 20 feet in front of me. I knew I had to stop someplace, and the question of where was fast becoming a critical one. But then suddenly, after a few hundred yards further, I saw a sign. Hotel Mariposa, it read. Fifty bucks a night, half mile on your right. Fifty bucks with the whiteout on the way seemed like a steal. So I took the turn, drove down the track, then steered my way into the parking lot. After turning off my engine, I peered through my increasingly snow-covered windshield at my would-be shelter for the night. The three-story hotel had a rough facade of gray stone and dark wood. While cross-pattern windows glowed with an inviting warmth, I climbed out of my car, grabbed my bag from the back seat, then crunched my way through the snow towards a stone arch and a solid oak door marking the main entrance. After pushing my way inside, I was greeted by hardwood floors adorned with a luxurious forest green rug. Beige walls were interspersed with dark wood panels engraved with butterfly motifs. While high-ceiling timber beams supported a wrought iron chandelier, one end of the lobby featured a large stone fireplace, complete with a carved wooden mantle, And just a few feet away from a pair of antique leather chairs, a young receptionist stood behind a large, mahogany front desk. I noticed her white name badge read Lena. Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Hotel Mariposa. May I ask what name you'll be checking in under? Thompson, Phil. But I don't have a reservation. I saw the sign when the snow started coming down and was hoping you had a room available. Well, you're in luck, Mr. Thompson. It's been a quiet season, so we definitely have a single for you. Does room 15 on the second floor sound okay? Perfect. What's your checkout time? 11 a.m. It's also a no-smoking room, but if that's okay with you, then sign here, please. After signing my name, she handed me the key. Then after insisting I needed no help with my suitcase, I made my way to the elevator. Oh, and Mr. Thompson, the third floor of the hotel is currently undergoing renovations and is strictly off-limits to guests for the time being. I thanked her for letting me know. She wished me a pleasant stay. Then I continued towards the elevator. Tucked into a corner behind the grand staircase, the hotel's elevator had a touch of old-world opulence to it. I pushed the two button on the brass control panel, then after the doors closed, it gently lurched upward. Stepping out onto the second floor hallway, a deep green carpet muffled my footsteps as I walked. Then after passing half a dozen oak doors with tarnished brass numbers, I finally came to room 15. Inside, the walls were clad in dark wood wainscoting and a beige wallpaper. while a polished hardwood floor was partially covered by a large woven rug in muted greens and gold. The bed was a sturdy-looking four-poster, dressed in crisp white linens and a thick green quilt. A large cross-paned window, framed by deep green velvet curtains, allowed me a view of the snowstorm outside. It was piling up like crazy out there, and if it wasn't gone by morning, I'd be stuck at a $50 a night hotel in the middle of nowhere, plagued by the heartache of uncovered infidelity. I remember turning away from the window for scanning the interior of my hotel room. There was a narrow closet in one corner, then a small writing desk in the other. But just to the right of the desk was a small cabinet, and when I opened it, bingo. There was the minibar. I'm not proud of it, but I worked my way through those little bottles of liquor until I was too drunk to do anything but lay down and sleep. I thought I'd escaped having to accept reality for a night. But I was wrong. After falling asleep, it happened all over again. I drove home from work, parked outside our building. Then when I walked upstairs and into our bedroom, there they were. I didn't see much, and I guess I should feel fortunate at that. But the image of my ex's back, then his back, twisting and writhing together. I guess it must have stuck because I got a repeat showing that night in my dreams. Only, unlike in real life, where they'd been lit by rays of late afternoon sun, they were submerged in almost complete darkness. and they were not alone. Surrounding the bed, dozens of other couples writhed and squirmed and twisted in each other's embrace. Some cried out, but not in ecstasy. And even in my oniric haze, their groans of anguish sent shivers down my spine. There was something hauntingly inhuman, yet familiar about them. like they were changing, and in the dark near distance, something great and terrible loomed large above us. I awoke with a start around 5 a.m., heart hammering and with sweat beating around my temples. The dream was with me for a moment, then it was gone, replaced by the sudden and uncontrollable urge to vomit. I rushed to the bathroom, dropped to my knees, and emptied the yolk-yellow lining of my stomach into the pure white porcelain until my stomach spasms ceased. Then while I kneeled there, trembling and clinging to the bowl, I began to hear something reverberating through the wall opposite my bed. After picking myself up and stumbling into the bedroom, my suspicions were confirmed. Whoever was next door was having some kind of party. I didn't stand around trying to figure out what they were singing. I just heard a lot of voices all at once and thought, You gotta be kidding me. But after climbing back into bed and wrapping a pillow around my head, I managed to drift off again. A few hours later, I woke up to gray light creeping through the curtains. and a head that felt ready to explode. I drank from the faucet like I was dying of thirst, took a scalding hot shower, then called down to room service for some dry toast and a black coffee. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. It was Lena, the girl from the front desk, who gave a look of quiet amusement once I opened up. A rough night, huh? She took my coffee and toast from the trolley in front of her. You could say that, but I'll be gone by eleven. Promise. I reached for my coffee, but my eyes were drawn to the knowing smirk curling Lena's lips. Uh, about that. You haven't looked out of your window today, have you, Mr. Thompson? I turned, setting down my Spartan breakfast on the nearby desk. Then after pulling back the curtain, my heart sank. The world outside lay under an unbroken blanket of bright white snow. Towering pines stood cloaked in it, while animal tracks etched faint patterns across the landscape. Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. I'm supposed to drive to Denver today. I don't think anyone's going anywhere till the snow clears, but we make allowances for such circumstances. Meaning what? Meaning management wants me to inform you your stay is complimentary until you're able to leave. We'll charge you for the first night, but the rest, that's on the house. I let out a sigh of relief before thanking her profusely. At the time, I thought that was incredibly generous of them. Now, I know different. After Lena returned to her duties, I finished my breakfast and called my buddy in Denver. He'd heard about the snowstorm, was relieved to hear that I was okay, and told me his couch was still available whenever I needed it. I thanked him, hung up, then grappled with the problem of how to occupy myself for the next 72 hours or so. I figured I could take advantage of the complimentary catering to nurse my hangover a little. Then after that, I could explore the hotel. After making my way down to the hotel restaurant, the bartender mixed me up a Bloody Mary for a little hair of the dog. Then, once I was feeling comfortably numb, I decided to hit up the recommendations he'd given me. Namely the hotel games room and its library Seeing as it was the first library I seen in any hotel I figured I check it out to see what books they had But what lined its shelves was far from the light reading material I expected The library's tall, dark oak bookshelves were packed with old books in leather bindings, While two high-backed armchairs and a small table sat near a diamond-paned window, one wall appeared entirely dedicated to biology. And after browsing a few titles, I noticed a running theme. There was The Natural History of the Housefly by L.S. West. Then there was volume two of Fly Biology and Disease Transmission by a B. Greenberg. I saw another entitled The Housefly, Biology and Control, and another more generalized tome detailing the insect's medical entomology. I figured whoever owned the hotel was simply curating a very niche corner of their own personal library. But then, having assumed they were a person of science, the titles present in another of the bookshelves took me completely by surprise. I spotted things like The Divine Comedy, The Canterbury Tales, and Paradise Lost. I guess those are pretty standard for any religious philosophy section, but there were also the likes of St. Augustine's The City of God, the Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas, and a book called The Key of Solomon. I figured this was more medieval poetry, but after taking each one down from their shelves and thumbing through the pages, I realized each had something in common. The first explored the nature of hell's eternal punishment, the second explained demons as rebellious angels and hell as eternal separation from God, while the third detailed demonic hierarchies and their ability to interact with humans. Looking back on it, and I can barely believe I'm about to write this, but I thought it was kind of cool. Someone obviously had an interest in demonology, and while I found the insect section repellent, I could quite easily see myself flicking through Dante's Inferno for a couple of hours while nursing a few tumblers of free whiskey. But if I did end up catching up with old Dante and Virgil, it would only be once I got bored of whatever was in the games room. Located just down the hall from the hotel library, the games room was nicely stocked with pool and ping pong tables. Yet, seeing as I was the only guest, there'd be little in the way of friendly competition to while away the hours. But then, that's when something occurred to me. I wasn't the hotel's only guest. Because the asshole in the room next to me hosted a sing-along at 5 o'clock in the goddamn morning. I walked out of the games room, back down the corridor to room 14, then began knocking on the door. I wasn't intending to yell at them or whatever. After all, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. but I wasn't about to let them organize another 5 a.m. choir practice either. I knocked once and got no reply. Then when I knocked again, I enjoyed a moment of irony when I spied the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from Room 14's door handle. I'll admit to knocking a little louder out of spite, but not even so much as a rustle could be heard from the other side of the door. I pressed my ear up against the wood, hoping I'd hear, I don't know, something, but again, nothing. It was then that curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to peek through the door's keyhole. I took a knee and leaned forward, carefully aligning my eye with a dime-sized aperture. I could only see a fragment of the room, a patch of carpet, the leg of a chair, and the corner of a bed on which rested a man's unclothed foot. After knocking a third time, I called out to whoever was laying there. I figured talking to the guy would almost certainly wake him, but the foot didn't move. It stayed toes up and statue still. Then right as I was starting to suspect there was some kind of medical emergency due to his unresponsiveness, I saw a large black housefly suddenly land on the side of his foot. I watched it crawl down his skin in fits and starts, starting then stopping as it traced his foot's lateral side. But still, the man didn't move. I remember this faint feeling of dread clawing its way through my guts. Yet before I had a chance to really think about what I was seeing, a sudden sound to my right had me jumping with fright. Excuse me, sir? I turned to see a formidable-looking member of the hotel's staff walking towards me, cutting an imposing figure, despite his uniform. He asked if there was a problem, so I told him I thought the guy in 14 was sick. Mr. Forrester called down to the front desk just a couple of hours ago, asking us not to disturb him. I'm assuming you saw the sign? I did, but I... I was looking through the keyhole and... Sir, we'd appreciate it if you respected the privacy of your fellow guests. I totally get that, honestly, but this guy had like 20 people in his room at 5 in the morning, and I just wanted to make sure it wasn't going to happen again. I understand your frustration, sir, but the staff are more than capable of dealing with any complaints you might have. When Mr. Forrester wakes from his nap, I'll raise the issue with him personally, but for now I'd appreciate your cooperation in the matter. I felt myself shrink, a flush of embarrassment burning in my cheeks. Yeah, I get it. And I'm sorry. I'm not trying to cause trouble. Just figured it might be quicker this way. No need to apologize, sir. But that's what we're here for. You just relax and enjoy your stay. After retreating to my room for a couple of hours and hearing the news that the snow was unlikely to clear for the next couple of days, I made my way down to the hotel restaurant to have dinner. The food wasn't great, but it was free, so I wasn't about to complain. Then, as I was sitting at the bar enjoying more complimentary drinks, Lena, the girl from the front desk, asked if she could join me. At first, we talked about how slow business was, but then, with a wry smirk, She told me she'd heard about the little interaction I'd had with her co-worker outside room 14. I tried to explain myself, how I'd only been looking through the keyhole out of concern. So what you're saying is, you were spying through another man's keyhole so you could stare at his feet? When I shot her a look of rebuke, she glowed with mischievous amusement. I'm kidding! She laughed, touching my arm in gentle reassurance. I get it, really. And you won't have to worry about Mr. Forrester after tonight. He's checking out in the morning. Music to my ears, unlike whatever the hell they were singing in his room last night. But honestly, you wouldn't be a little freaked out if you saw the same thing? Sure, maybe. If I didn't know, Mr. Forrester had been drinking in the hotel bar until 4.30 in the morning with his old CU Boulder alumni. That might explain why he was still passed out at 1.30 this afternoon. Yeah, I see your point. And I don't know, maybe my mind's just not in a great place right now. In what way? In the way that I just walked out on my now ex-girlfriend after catching her with someone else. I was headed for my buddy's place in Denver when the storm hit. Oh, wow. I guess that'll do it. She thought for a moment, then spoke again. You know, maybe it's not such a bad thing that snowstorm hit when it did. How so? This place, it can be good for people. Like Floyd here. He used to be a guest. Now he works here. Is that so? Same with management. Checked in decades ago while on vacation. Now he's up there in his office on the 3rd. He doesn't get out much, does he? You noticed. He's a busy man, but he trusts us to get things done down here, which is nice, I guess. And what about the big guy I met outside my room? Don't tell me he used to be a guest, too. Yep, and so did I. I was bringing my glass to my lips when Lena spoke, but her words stilled my hand. You... you're kidding me, right? Nope. She gave me an earnest smile. I expected Floyd and her to burst out laughing any second, but they didn't. That is... interesting. I was still unsure if I was being pranked or not. You don't have to take my word for it. Lena hopped off the barstool. But what I will say is that this place is very old, Mr. Thompson. And all the quiet up here in the mountains, it can be good for people in pain. So, relax. Stay until the snow clears. And I'm quite confident you'll soon see what I mean. Here's hoping so. Good talk, Lena. Thanks. Anytime, Mr. Thompson. Good night. After talking Floyd into pouring a tumbler of Jack for the road, I made my way back up to my room, then lay on my bed watching the Weather Channel in the hopes of hearing some miracle weather bulletin. Nothing came, so after a shower and a few glasses of water, I climbed into bed and hoped for a long and silent night. The room next door stayed quiet, but the bad dreams came back, and that second night, they were much more vivid than the first. I remember walking into my apartment, then opening the bedroom door, but when I stepped inside, it wasn't my bedroom anymore. The interior was a vast, dark expanse, dimly lit by a sickly green light emanating from some unseen source above, and before me was a carpet of pale, clammy flesh. Hundreds of faceless, sexless figures writhed on the ground in front of me, as far as my eyes could see. But I knew there were more, many more, because rising from the darkness behind them was a chorus of sobs, gnashing teeth, and the buzzing of hundreds of thousands of flies. The sight and sound of it horrified me, and the stench that emanated from the scores of squirming bodies was overwhelming. Then suddenly, one of their number began to violently spasm as their groans of agony hit fever pitch. They bucked and jerked while clawing at their stomach with trembling hands. Then following one final cataclysmic convulsion, their entire body began to rupture and split open. What emerged from that broken sack of flesh was enough to drive me to the brink of sanity. Its segmented body glistened with putrid gore as it dragged itself from the ruptured corpse with black skeletal limbs. They trembled with the effort, fluid dripping from them as it twisted to reveal a pair of bulging blood-red eyes. After wrenching itself free from its lifeless cocoon, the grotesque insectoid creature collapsed in exhaustion, before slowly dragging itself up onto its hind legs. Then, with shuddering twitches, it began scraping its spindly legs across its segmented body and compound eyes, dragging away clumps of rotten tissue that fell to the ground with wet smacks. From below its eyes, a needle-like appendage suddenly extended and retracted, lapping at the remaining viscera as its legs dislodged more rancid meat. Then suddenly, the air grew sour with the smell of rot as the creature unfurled a pair of damp, crumpled wings with a nauseatingly wet crackle. It began shaking them, slowly at first, sending droplets of noxious fluid spattering to the ground beneath it. As its wings began to shine with a sickening iridescence, their trembling intensified until a deep and dreadful humming echoed all around. Then, with a great, lurching leap, it took flight, weaving an unsteady path into the darkness beyond. I woke up feeling exhausted and itchy, and unlike the previous morning, where the memory of my dreams quickly faded into fog, it was like the vision of that terrible birth was burned into my brain. I decided to avoid alcohol entirely, convinced it was affecting my sleep. But in truth, my drinking habits were the least of my problems. After a hot shower, I decided to call down to the front desk to get some room service, and not long after, Lena appeared at my door with a breakfast sandwich and some coffee. We wished each other a good morning, then off she went. I set my sandwich and coffee down on the room's desk, then turned on the TV to watch the weather channel. As the anchor covered bulletins for Grand Junction, I turned back to the toasted English muffin stacked with a sausage patty, a slice of cheese, and a fried egg. If I was about to get bad news, it'd be easier to swallow if accompanied by some hot breakfast. As the meteorologist gestured towards their map, I took a bite. It was like home comfort in a bun. As I took another bite, the anchor began talking about aspen and the heavy snowfall that blanketed the area. It was good news. Over the next 24 hours, the snow was expected to melt enough for Highway 82 to reopen, in which case I'd be able to drive to my buddy's place in Denver. I was elated. But after taking a third bite of my sandwich, I noticed the texture felt a little off. I chewed and swallowed, eyes glued to the TV in front of me. then glance down to the sandwich for my next bite. And that's when I saw it. A pale, lifeless maggot nestled in the sausage patty. My stomach lurched. Then after pulling apart the bread and patty, I saw they were riddled with maybe a half dozen motionless grubs. Nausea rode up in my stomach like a tidal wave. I rushed to the bathroom and emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet, shoving my fingers down my throat until not a morsel of rotten food remained. My hands shook as I washed my face and rinsed my mouth, not just from the raw disgust, but with anger. Everything I'd been served until that point had been fine. So the fact the chef managed to mess up so spectacularly, it felt personal. I walked back into the bedroom and called down to the front desk. Uh, hey, Lena? It's Phil Thompson from room 15. Oh, hey, Mr. Thompson. How was your sandwich? Actually, that's what I was calling about. The anger rose in my chest again. There were maggots in my food, Lena. Maggots. Oh, oh my God. I'm so sorry, Mr. Thompson. We'll make this right for you, I promise. How the hell does that even happen anyway? Like, how did the cook not see those goddamn things while he was putting my sandwich together? I'm not going to make any excuses, Mr. Thompson. I understand how serious this is. We're holding a staff meeting in like five minutes, and everyone's going to be there. I'll bring it up first thing. Okay, well, thanks, I guess. And you guys have been real generous to comp my stay, but maggots? You could kill someone. I understand your anger completely. Give me 30 minutes to get this meeting finished, and I promise we'll make it up to you, okay? I thanked her, hung up, then sat on the bed for a few moments, staring at the sandwich's maggot-ridden remains. that's when my mind started ticking over and I realized that something about the hotel just didn't sit right with me. I thought about the strange choice of books in the library and the wailing at 5 a.m. I remembered the fly on the guy's foot and the way someone had just appeared once I started looking through the keyhole. I thought about the manager that no one ever saw. Then I wondered how after two days of serving only the finest food and drink they managed to serve me something riddled with maggots that somehow didn smell or taste rancid enough for me to notice I hadn seen another living soul except for staff members since I'd arrived. Did they even have a manager? Was this even a real hotel? How was it that all the staff had been guests at some point? And what was with those damned dreams? I guess that was the penny drop moment for me. The moment my thoughts turned to the forbidden third floor. What were they hiding from me? Were they protecting me from exposed electrical sockets? Or from something else? I started repacking my suitcase. Not because I had any intention of leaving. I mean, I couldn't. But it made me feel a little more in control. Yet once I was packed, that feeling of unease didn't abate. It only got worse. And the next thing my instinct told me to do, to reassert a little of that control, was take the elevator to the third floor. I mean, if the manager was up there in his office, he'd appreciate me telling him about the rotten food in the kitchen. At least, that's what I told myself as I made my way towards the elevator. I scanned the hallway, making sure the coast was clear. Then after I stepped inside, I found myself hesitating as my finger hovered over the little brass three on the elevator's control panel. I told myself I was just being silly, that I was physically and emotionally worn down after three days of heartbreak, booze, and isolation. Even if I wasn't strictly a paying customer anymore, I had the right to speak to a manager over them serving me rotten meat, if only to stop someone else from receiving a similarly disgusting surprise. After pushing the three button, the elevator ascended to the third floor, another soft ding sounding before the doors slid open again. Then, when I stepped out into the corridor, the stench hit me immediately. It was a combination of putrid acridity and a sickly, cloying sweetness, layered with fecal undertones and a sharp ammonia tang. It provoked a visceral reaction in me, and maybe it was my already weakened stomach, but I began to violently retch before covering my mouth and nose. I looked around, seeing no signs of any renovations, as I tried to discern the source of the stink. Then I began to detect an eerie hum coming from down the corridor to my left. Treading slowly down the carpeted hallway, the low drone grew louder and louder, until I determined it was coming from behind a door labeled Management. As I got closer, it became a wall of sound which drowned out my footsteps. Then, as I realized what I was hearing, the suddenly unmistakable sound set my nerves on edge. It was the buzzing of flies. There had to be thousands of them in that room to make a noise like that. A relentless mechanical whir that made my skin prickle just to hear it. And even while covering my mouth and nose, I could detect the rancid whiff which seeped around the door's edges. It caught in my throat, so intense it made my eyes water. But even with every instinct screaming at me to turn back, the irresistible urge to know the truth kept my hand hovering over the door handle. My hand shook as I took hold of it, but just as I was about to turn it, I heard a voice call out to me from down the corridor. Wait! I turned to see a breathless Lena having emerged from the service stairs. Mr. Thompson, please. You don't want to go in there. You're damn right I don't. There's a fucking dead body in there. I know there is. We put it there. Now, if you'll accompany me back to your room, I can explain everything. Have you even called the cops? No, and we're not going to. Now, let's go to your room, and I'll explain why. As we made our way back to room 15, I thought I'd pieced it together. The guy in room 14 had passed away, and the hotel staff called the cops as soon as they found him. But then, with the snow having come down like it did, there was no getting a coroner's wagon out to them until it cleared. In which case, they had to isolate the body away from any guests and try to carry on as normal. But that's not what was going on. Not by a long shot. And I could never have been ready for what I was about to hear. As soon as the door closed behind us, I turned to Lena. So whose body up there, huh? The managers? The guy from room 14? I'm not going to lie to you, Mr. Thompson. It's Mr. Forrester up there. He passed the night you checked in. I knew it! I fucking knew there was something going on! We had to move him up to the third floor because, well, that's just the way we do things here. But Mr. Forrester wasn't a guest. Not anymore, anyway. He was a member of the hotel staff. Oh. Wow, that poor guy. I'm sorry. Lena's eyes sparkled as she spoke. Oh, no. You don't have to feel sorry for Mr. Forrester. What happened to him was beautiful. Beautiful? Lena, he died. How is that beautiful? I don't expect you to understand right away. No one does. But once they understand what he is offering, once they see it, everything changes. Who's he? Management? What the fuck are you talking about, Lena? Just tell me what's going on. This place isn't just old, Mr. Thompson. It's a very special place, too. It wasn't always a hotel, but it's always been special. Everyone recognizes it, and given enough time, you will, too. Stop talking in riddles before I call the cops and report a murder. There was no murder, Mr. Thompson. Larry Forrester took his own life. For the first time, I just stood there, dumbstruck, as Lena continued. He said his goodbyes, laid down after drinking a little something of his own creation, then maybe 30 minutes later, he was gone. You were there? And you didn't stop him? And what was that singing all about? Was that you too? You wouldn't have stopped him either, Mr. Thompson. Not if you knew where he was headed. And we weren't singing. That was us saying goodbye in a way that'd make him take notice of Larry's sacrifice. You people are fucking crazy. Larry's not headed anywhere, Lena. He's fucking dead. His body is dead. But you know exactly where he's gone. I know you do. Because you saw it. Something about the look in Lena's eyes had the horrors of the previous night's dreams rushing back to me. She knew. But how? How did you know about my dreams? They're not dreams, Mr. Thompson. No one sleeps here, not really. They're more like newsreels from a place where the most beautiful things are possible. What I saw was not beautiful, Lena. What you saw was an angel born from an imperfect body. One who feels no pain or suffering or loss. The whole world is a rotten, festering shit heap. It promises nothing but pain. So to find bliss in that decay, to embrace the rot, it's a beautiful thing. And how dare you say it's not? Not when you've been chosen. Chosen? What the... I cut myself off. You know what? Fuck this place. I'm leaving. I grabbed my suitcase from the closet. When I turned back, Lena was blocking the door. You can't leave, Mr. Thompson. You can't. He won't let you. Get the hell out of my way. After forcing my way past her, I stumbled out into the hallway and towards the elevator. But when I got close, I heard that soft ding as the doors suddenly slid open. I was facing the corridor, so while I saw the doors slide open, I couldn't see what was inside. But I didn't need to, because I heard it, and I smelled it. The same putrid miasma that infested the third floor now spilled out onto the second, and from the elevator's interior I heard the sound of a thousand buzzing flies. I froze, unable to move, until it stepped out into the hallway. It moved with an eerie grace, but while it was shaped like a person, it was not a person. Its flesh appeared to be a seething mass of countless black flies, shimmering and pulsing with the insect's movement as individual flies took flight for a moment, only to snap back into the grotesque parody of a human figure as the stench of rot, decay, and burning hair overwhelmed my senses. The figure turned its sick imitation of a skull, revealing two hollows where eyes should have been. Then, as it tilted its head, the buzzing grew sharper, hungrier, as if the swarm could sense my fear. I dropped my suitcase and ran for the service staircase, hurtling down the steps until I reached the lobby. The hotel's staff were lined up either side of the front entrance. So out of pure instinct, I ran to the fireplace and grabbed a heavy brass poker. Stay back! I brandished the poker threateningly, but no one moved. They simply stood in place like a guard of honor and allowed me to pass. I didn't understand why at first, but when I pulled open the door, it all made sense. I was immediately hit with a blast of icy air as a swirl of snowflakes blew into the lobby. Beyond the threshold, the world was a chaotic white void, as a thick, relentless snowstorm reduced visibility to mere feet. The wind howled, whipping dense flurries in every direction and burying the ground in a heavy blanket of snow. It seemed impenetrable, and as I gazed out into the bright white abyss, I heard Lena's voice from behind me. Beelzebub will not be denied, Mr. Thompson! The Lord of the Flies has staked his claim, and he will not be denied! I knew running out into that snowstorm meant death, but whatever awaited me inside that hotel would be far, far worse. So, I ran. The wind roared, slamming me with frigid gusts and blinding me with snowflakes. The cold seeped through my clothes, and soon each step became a struggle. But I pushed on, driven by the fear of a fate worse than death. As exhaustion crept in, my legs began to burn. Snow clung to my clothes, and my limbs began to stiffen as I slowed to a sluggish walk. The world became a featureless, white haze. Then, as a strange warmth began to set in, my mind began to fog, thoughts scattering like snowflakes in the wind, as a heavy drowsiness weighed on my limbs. As my chest tightened and each breath became shallow and labored, I realized I was dying. I remember a flicker of panic, but as my vision blurred and faded to a dull resignation, then suddenly a bright white light began to pierce the blizzard's chaos. It felt warm, inviting, and as I began shuffling towards it, each step I took felt lighter and lighter, as if the weight of the frost was lifting from my bones. As the light grew brighter, a strange calm washed over me. Then after that, I don't remember a thing until I awoke in a Denver hospital bed. When a nurse noticed I was awake, she explained I was found unconscious and hypothermic by a man driving a snowcat. The guy then hauled me into the cab and drove me all the way to Denver and the nearest hospital. Apparently, I had a core temperature of just 84 when they brought me in, which, according to the nurse, meant I was dangerously close to death. I felt terrible, but knowing I was someplace safe kept me calm as the doctors checked me over for frostbite, then told me I'd need rest and observation for a day or two before being released. I told the cops about the body on the third floor of the hotel, and they drove out once the snow cleared to check it out. But there was no body, no stink on the third floor. To them, it was just a regular roadside hotel. Nothing more, nothing less. But I, no different. I waited for the dreams to follow me, but they didn't. I thought I might find religion too, but I didn't. I don't know exactly what happened to me at the hotel, but I know I'm not crazy. I know it was real, and I know I'll never quite feel normal again until the stench that haunts the hallways of the Hotel Mariposa has been replaced by flame and smoke. I'm sorry. As your time with us has come to an end, and you can now finally escape these sleepless tales, we thank you for joining us for our sleepless decompositions. Join us next week for the launch of Season 24, here at the No Sleep Podcast. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Semido. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings Please visit thenosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast we thank you for listening and for supporting our dark tales This audio program is copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. I haven't seen you anymore. ... A jerk now. Drink using the For more information, visit Ford.nl. Ready. Set. Ford.