NoSleep Podcast 2026 Holiday Hiatus Vol. 1

... ... Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast 2026 holiday hiatus episode volume one. Happy New Year and welcome to 2026. After a busy holiday season, we've chosen to go dark for the week after Christmas. And yes, we're usually dark with our tales, but in this case it means we've turned off the office lights and put a closed for the holidays sign on the door. Can we sleepless need some rest? But as always we're not going to leave you song sleepless stories. We're sharing with you two tales that were a part of our sleepless universe platform the past few seasons. So please enjoy these stories for your horror entertainment with our very best wishes. It's our hope that this year will be full of all the best kind of fictional horror for you and very little real horror. There is a cup of kindness yet for the tales of a sleepless kind. In our first tale, we meet a couple dealing with a devastating loss. It's understandable that they'd want to make a new start in a new home, anything to leave their past trauma behind them. But a new home doesn't always mean a brand new home. And in this tale, shared with us by author Jamie Francis Janasian, the couple soon realize that their fixer upper needs fixing in more ways than a new coat of paint. Most of the work is needed downstairs. Performing this tale are Nicole Dullin, Nicole Goodnight, Atticus Jackson, Mike Delgado, and Dan Zapula. So let's hear the woman explain why she says, my family is refusing to leave the basement. They've been down there too long. I keep telling them they just need to come upstairs. To leave that cramped dark room of packed dirt and come into the light, we all need to leave this place while we still can. I'm still clinging to the hope that it's not already too late. Did you know that in Connecticut, sellers aren't required to disclose that a death occurred in a home unless you submit an inquiry in writing? I sure his hell wasn't aware, not until after we'd already moved in, until it was already too late. I wonder if whoever buys this place after we're gone will think to ask. I did later learn that the real to regretted selling to us, that if he had known our situation, he never would have shown us the place. I can't help but imagine what our lives would have been like if we'd never bought the small fixer upper off of Lakeshore Drive. It's all moot now of course. If it weren't for the price we'd never have looked at it in the first place, especially since it had been a foreclosure. I hated the feeling of building our lives on the shattered remains of someone else's, but Gideon and I needed to move. We had to. We couldn't stay in our old house. It's recently vacated bedroom dangerously close to becoming a shrine. We couldn't keep going to the same grocery store in our tiny town, where everyone knew and regarded us with looks of pity. Once we moved to Bridgeport we were just two more people amongst 100,000. We could mourn in peace and anonymity, lost in the throngs. Reliving in the city doesn't come cheap. So that's why Gideon and I were looking at a fixer upper that had sat vacant, but for the bank eventually reclaimed it. I should have trusted my gut when I thought something about the place was off. The new cheery welcome mat seemed at odds with the rest of the house, which gave off an aura of a deep, almost crushing sadness. It hit me like a wave when we first walked in. A split second before the scent of rot and decay followed and it's awake. The realtor apologized and said that they'd found fridges full of rotten food from when the prior owners left the place abandoned. He assured us that he dealt with something similar before and with a few windows left open at an air out in no time. The house was outdated in parts, yet remodeled beautifully in others. It seemed the prior owners had apparently begun the process of painstakingly restoring it before they abandoned the place, leaving behind a new kitchen but upstairs bedrooms that were missing flooring and plastered with faded mildewy wallpaper. As we approached the door to the basement, the smell intensified to eye-watering levels. There was something else that gave me pause too, something about the basement. The space was cramped, all unfinished dirt floor and exposed brick beyond the small area that had been set up for a washer and dryer. Right at the edge of where the faint light from the single-pull string lamp faded, was a small wooden ladder leading down into a darkness that soon swallowed it up. Despite the realtor's best attempts at leading us away from it, I found myself subconsciously drawn to it. Unaware I'd even approached it until I was standing at the edge. What's down there? I felt that wave of sorrow and longing the closer I got to the packed dirt floor, leading down to the blackness. For a brief moment his salesman's smile slipped off of his face, and after an awkward silence he quickly outed, but just across space. The smile was back. Just a little extra storage space. As my husband and I stared at the dark expanse beyond the ladder, we discussed plans to install some lighting to make that space that took up the majority of the basement usable. We planned a lot of things back then. We wanted to place breeze belongings in one of the bedrooms like we had at our old home, even though part of us knew that their presence only served to highlight her absence. But the rooms upstairs were a mess, riddled with holes through the subfloors, mold behind the walls. So we reluctantly agreed we needed to complete the renovations before the space would be usable. It didn't feel right to put breeze things in a storage unit during that time though. Yes, I knew they were exactly that. Just things, just objects. But no matter how many times I told myself that, it felt like we'd be leaving her in a storage locker. So we wrapped up the rocking chair I'd read to her in. In cellophane, lovingly packed the stuffed animals and barbies, and with the rest of the house being in the state that it was, we'd tuck them neatly into the only place safe from construction, the crawl space. Close by and protected while we made a safe, more permanent place for them. At first I expected us to spend all our free time down there, like we used to in her room at our old house. That's something about that place alarmed me as much as it called to me. I think that even before we'd finished placing her belongings down there, we realized that we'd made a mistake. Some part of me knew. Maybe it was the look of that place. The black dirt that seemed to swallow up any light we directed at it from head lamps and flashlight beams. Or the overpowering smell of lingering rock mixed with old earth. Maybe it was that feeling. The one of emptiness I'd felt when we first moved in had been replaced by something far worse. As we placed the final box, the stale air down there was thick with a sinister sort of excitement. Even then I had a vague feeling of no longer being alone. It didn't take long for the noises to start. I was running a load of laundry when I heard it over the rumble of the machine. A prolonged shriek, the sound of something sharp being slowly dragged across cellophane. It was my first time alone in the basement, and to hear that emerging from the claustrophobic space, at first I thought it was giddy and down there, opening the rocking chair, and I smiled sadly the thought of him leaving work early, succumbing to the need to feel close to her again. I too had felt the burning desire to go down there, despite myself. Could it resist? I called down to the space. The sound abruptly stopped, and I heard the shuffling along the hard dirt. I put a foot on the old wooden ladder, figured I'd join him so he wouldn't be alone. It felt right, going down into the darkness. No one should have to be alone, especially in a place like that. That's when I heard footsteps from upstairs, followed by Gideon's voice, announcing his arrival home from work. I sprinted up the basement steps, how to breath and nearly tripping as the only thing running through my mind was that if Gideon was upstairs, who the hell was in the crawl space? As I was about to describe what I'd heard to Gideon, I suddenly felt silly. I was in a new place, with our past wounds still so fresh, of course I was imagining things. The next morning, I was working from home when I heard it echo through the previously silent house. A giggle, a familiar sounding one, coming from outside the kitchen window. I didn't remember leaving the window open, but when I went into check, it was closed. Still, the laughter continued. That's when I realized it wasn't coming from outside. It was coming from below, floating up through the grate under the stove. It went on like that every so often. Sound of her soft laughter would float up from the basement, but there was a wrongness to it. It was laughter and name only, hollow and joyless, lacking the light my daughter had always carried. Gideon never mentioned hearing it so I never brought it up. At the time, I thought maybe I was just losing it due to stress. The stress of losing Brey, of starting over in a new city. Looking back now and recalling the circles under my husband's eyes, the grimmeness there, he must have been in the same boat. The first time she spoke to me, I had been bringing down a box of Christmas decorations. Mom? I nearly choked on the air I'd been breathing. I never thought I'd hear Brey's voice again. For a moment I thought I'd dreamt it. Are you coming? The voice, song like, floated up from the dark, from the crawl space, a dry little coffee got out. I lost my shit. I ran upstairs and I finally told Gideon, my husband gave me a look when I did. A look that said he understood, and if what I needed from him in that moment was to go into the basement and duck into that dark little crawl space so he could tell me everything was okay, then he was going to do it. The little room was pitch black as I followed him into it. All of our attempts to install lighting down there, temporary and otherwise, had failed. And the dim glow from the single bulb in the basement was swallowed up before even descending the ladder. We clicked on our flashlights. I wondered if he too had heard the sound of something moving across the packed dirt that echoed out seconds before we directed our beam towards the darkness. The sound of scarring? Gideon gasped and a moment later turned to reveal what he'd seen. A blanket had been placed across the hard dirt. One of Brey's. A door-knorth-smiling characters from her favorite animated movie. Off-tours were strewn along it. A single book lay open off to the side. I didn't even need to see the impression left on the blanket to know that someone had been sleeping down there. Gideon shot me a questioning look. I didn't open the boxes. He stared into the empty space for a long time before he nodded absent-mindedly, insisted relieve the house, called the police to seek out whoever had been living in our home. It was a long night. We gave statements to one officer as the other searched the home. I don't know what was worse. When the first officer said there was no evidence anyone else had entered the house, or when the second officer stayed back to speak to me and hushed tones. You've lost someone. I nodded in surprise, even though it was a statement and not a question. He leaned in. Look, whatever you think you hear down there, it isn't real. Nothing good could come from a place like that. You've been in the crawl space? I got called to do the wellness check on the Macauskeys and... He stared off into space for a long moment before he quickly shook his head, as if trying to escape from his own thoughts. Well, I found them. They were down there. The Macauskeys. It took me a moment to place the name as that of the prior owners. I'd seen the name on some mail we still received for them and brought back to the post office. What were they doing down there? I asked, even though the look on his face had me questioning if I truly wanted to know the answer. They weren't in a position to tell me. He stared past me, towards the house. There wasn't enough left of her. That night I couldn't sleep. I dreamt of the prior owners who never left this place. I dreamt of Bree. I dreamt of the crawl space. I awoke to the feeling of eyes on me. Gideon was sitting up in bed, giving me a concern laden stare. We need to talk about last night. I don't think you should go into the basement by yourself. My response was silence, confusion. You don't remember what you said to me? He whispered it as if he thought someone else could be listening. I shook my head. That you wanted to go down there to be with her? That... That you didn't want her to be alone in the dark. My horrified expression seemed to mirror his own. You know she's not down there, Nettie. She never was. I knew that. I mean rationally I did. And who...what is down there? I'd never seen my husband look more afraid than in that moment. I don't know. The longer I stayed away from the basement, the louder her laughter got. The more persistent the pleading whispers. When the hushed pleas turned to crying, God I couldn't take it anymore. I had to go see her. Are you coming? I found myself drawn to the sound. Perennial instincts still there. A mental phantom limb. I knew I made the right decision as I descended. Well, until I looked at her. Eyes glented up at me from the well of blackness beyond. And the sobbing ceased instantly, like someone had flipped a switch. No, baby. My mouth was dry as the rational part of me desperately screamed at the rest of me. Reminding me I was not talking to my daughter. I can't. I fumbled with my phone for the light, half expecting to see her staring up at me. Big brown eyes wide, half afraid of what I'd see. As light flooded the room, I heard a soft movement, something wet sliding across the packed dirt of the ceiling. But I saw nothing. The little storage room was empty. As soon as the light went off though, those eyes were back, regarding me from higher up along the wall, moving steadily downwards. Never once blinking or darting away from my own. Please? My stomach dropped as I felt a chill at my proximity to this thing mimicking my daughter's voice. Nothing I'd apparently just caught in the act of brawling down the wall. I don't like the dart. That's what broke me. That's what led to my husband finding me broken down, bawling at the kitchen table. But Big didn't have to go back down. But he insisted. This was our home, he'd said. If we couldn't feel safe here, then where could we? So we went down into the basement, me with my phone light, and him with the emergency flashlight. It was bold of me to assume that the situation couldn't possibly get worse. By the time I descended the little ladder, he'd already walked into the room. He had his back to me, standing in the shadows. Gideon, where's your flashlight? I turned it off. She doesn't look like I remember. He never turned to look at me. His broad frame blocking whatever he was seeing from my flashlight beam. And that? Can you please go upstairs, pack a bag for us? But now? Please. He told me to leave without him if he didn't come back up within 10 minutes, to leave the house if he didn't come out of that basement and to never come back. Call movers to get our things. I nodded. Numb. Where are we? I waited. I waited 10 minutes. 20? 30? After an hour had passed, I went down to the basement. And the ladder was gone. He must have pulled it down to keep me from coming after him. I felt a wave of uneas, but infinitely worse. A sick pang of jealousy. Jealousy that he was down there and I wasn't. I whispered Gideon's name into the dark. Why haven't you left yet? Babe, it's time to go. We need to leave all of us. No, Nadi. It's too late for me. A day has passed since then. I'm still here. I can't force myself to leave. I just want us to be a family again. This morning when I went down to check on them, they only response that emerged from the crawl space sounded like a low... Which? Curial. They've been silent ever since. I called the police, but they didn't seem to think that my husband and daughter refusing to leave the basement. Constituated in emergency. I know Gideon told me to leave, but I can't just leave my family. Them and Bri, down there in the dark, I'm out of ideas. We need to be together the three of us. If I can't figure something out soon, if I still can't get them to come to me, well, there's only one option left. In our final tale, we'll see you in the next episode. In our final tale, we visit the museum known as Enigma. It's a place which celebrates the strange oddities of the art world. Cass has worked there for a while now, but her job and the museum aren't doing very well. And in this tale, shared with us by author Kristen Samedo, Cass tries to save what's left of her job with a new exhibit based on some gruesome art that could be cursed. That'll sure draw the crowds, right? Performing this tale with me are Sarah Thomas, Graham Rowett, Wafia White, Mike Delgado, Nicole Goodnight, Kyle Acres, and Tanya Melosevich. So remember, all art has value. Some more, some less, and some art can be priceless. Deeply hollowed eye socket stared back at me from a dusty art history photo book. The image became the reason for my weeks-long fukestate in college shortly after I declared myself a fine arts major. I was one of those college students without lofty ambitions. I expected to study the renaissance and impressionism, stare at large canvases and museums, and try to find meaning in places I had never seen any meaning at all. Regular activities found in the study of art, I thought. It all so subjected that any answer I gave in class or on a test could pass. I thought confident that the fine arts track offered the leniency I sought and excluded strenuous intellectual labor. I didn't expect much of myself or my major. I also didn't expect Alara Claire. Claire, a figurative painter from the late 80s, was a disquieting woman, personally and in her craft. It may be easier to write her off as insane, manic or brutally deranged, but the truth of her is more prosaic than that. She was scorned and dignified, calculated, spiteful, but most undoubtedly self-possessed, sane, and arguably one of the most gifted figurative painters of her time. But she exercised merciless wrath upon her subjects with such inventive depravity. She could have scared Francis Bacon out of his grave. Convents her husband entertained multiple affairs during their marriage. She depicted his mistresses, real or imagined, in various states of brutal injury. Some were alive, but appendages and eyeballs were missing, violently torn from their bodies. Their jaws opened so wide they appeared dislocated. The detail was so lifelike that the blood appeared to droop off the canvas. Claire's paintings weren't simply for therapeutic expression. By 1995, Claire was wanted in connection to the murders of several women involved in her husband's trists. The injuries on their bodies mirrored those painted on her subjects, supposedly. An unrepentant confession with an asuicide note was found next to her body, confirming police suspicions. As usual, I delayed my thesis project up to the 11th hour and found myself frantically pulling books off the warped wood of an ancient library shelf. The only parameter of the assignment was to choose an artist we found personally compelling, whether in form or subject. And in the weeks following the discovery of that book, I became overcome with fervent obsession. Looking after the assignment was turned in, I was uninspired to do anything that didn't involve thinking or talking about Claire's work. Once, I woke out of a deep sleep to find myself holding a kitchen knife parallel to my eye, poised for a lateral slice. I withdrew from life, friends, hobbies, everything. It wasn't until my mother broke down my apartment door and discovered me in my filthy twin bed that I snouted out of it. My room was littered with torn pages and prints of Claire's frightful visages that my mother spent hours throwing away. The fog began to lift after that. The name Alara Claire vanished from my memory for a couple of years. In my senior year, an unpaid internship catalyzed my 10-year career at Enigma, an Auditys Museum in the O-So bustling town of Wallace, Idaho. Technically, it's a city by size, but the population equaled the maximum capacity of a strip mall in middle America. This strip mall features an abandoned JC Penny and a mining museum, and Enigma. One 15-minute interview later, and I was Jerry Thorns' curation intern. Jerry was a just over five-foot-nine-bombing man in his 50s who wore graphic t-shirts and one pair of ancient red converse that were a little too big for him. Enigma was his over-midlife crisis purchase, and he couldn't afford to hire help in the early days. He walked the line between Jolly Mentor and Ruthless Dictator as a boss, constantly rearranging items in his display cases down to the millimeter. He sourced most of the inventory from sketchy sellers on Facebook Marketplace. A few years ago, he'd nearly bought bleached bones from that company up in Boston that hired morticians to steal body parts from the morgue. Honestly, I think had I not told him about it first, he would have conveniently overlooked the scandal. At first, the novelty of a new attraction in town drove business long enough that I could take credit for the success. It was a real modern-day freak show in there, and I was the carnival barker. It didn't take much to elicit the interest of passing tourists. A glass case with a thrifted vintage doll, a plaque detailing its entirely fabricated curse, and a listing on Atlas Obscura go a long way. For most of my time there, business went well enough that I made it into Jerry's ancient payroll system at 16 bucks an hour. Enough in Idaho money for a comfortable shack and not too much demand on my stunted work ethic or lack thereof. May was International Taxidermy Month. Not an actual federally recognized holiday, but a random month I chose to slap together a bunch of stinking dead mammals in various Frankenstein states. It was nothing more than a marketing ploy. Ten years in, and the gimmicks were starting to run dry. In one corner, a taxidermy rat is dressed as a priest, interpret that however you wish. A monkey with eight legs labeled Spider Monkey, and yes, I think myself quite clever for this one, is suspended from the ceiling. As I rub my hands together against teeth grinding anxiety, a banner reading International Taxidermy Month, opening night, starts to peel itself away from the wall. Sweat materializes at my hairline, and I glance that Jerry's expression to gauge the likelihood that he will fire me on the spot. No one shows up to a party on time. It's a faux pas! I keep my eyes locked on the entrance, willing one. Just one off-putting guy with an overwaxed mustache to walk through the door. The silence between Jerry and I pulls taught in my chest. Jerry huffs and checks his watch. He turns, tearing the banner down and nearly clocking me with his elbow. He crumbles up the cheap vinyl and throws it in the trash. I follow him towards the basement office, taking the banner out of the trash bin and smoothing the wrinkles while I catch up behind him. Leave it to the residents of Wallace to be above taxidermy art. I figured they'd be bored with the usual big-foot stuff. Cryptids and taxidermy should get their own month, so I don't have to take this kind of risk. Jerry walks with purpose. A step or two ahead of the pace his gate normally allows for, which worries me. More silence. My chest stretches tighter. Descending the stairs, we pass by pictures of Jerry and, eventually, myself, at an igmo over the years. Hung on the exposed brick wall. Interspersed by dusty shelves full of shrunken heads. Me when I graduated college. Me on my one and five-year anniversaries. Birthdays and other milestones over the years. Jerry took every one of them like a bizarre but proud father figure. Now he's more like a customer who wants a refund. Natorious for being unable to read a room. I open my big mouth. Hey, um, maybe this isn't an opportune time, but since no one's here. Jerry stops walking and tosses a look mixed with irritation and disbelief over his shoulder. I realize what I just said and struggle to recoup. Yet? Here? Yet? I thought we could talk about tenure or something. Do art curators get tenure? Anyway, coming up on a decade here now and... Jerry slams his fist on a wall-mounted display case, cutting short my half-baked petition for financial security. A few skulls hanging alongside the shelves quake against the brick. God damn it, Cass! When are you gonna take ownership of anything? His outburst causes me to rock back and shock. Jerry's an emphatic guy, but rage rarely appears in his behavior. Um, where did that come from? I ask, pathetically feigning indignants, redness floods the back of Jerry's neck. I'm in trouble now. Where did... Are you kidding me? He throws his hands in the air as we hit the bottom landing. Jerry shoulder checks the corner of his office door on the way in. You know, I don't expect much from my interns. I knew I was the last choice for all you fine artsy, fartsy kids. He jobs in accusatory finger in my direction. And that's what you were at the time. A fucking kid. I thought you'd grow out of it. Out of what? Lack of ambition. I thought you wanted this place to thrive. I mentally prepare a slew of excuses. I do want it to thrive, but the economy, we live in East Bumpfuck Idaho. Tourists have no taste, but Jerry isn't done. I know you're not stupid, Cass, but my God, are you lazy? The words cut to the bone. I go numb momentarily until Jerry's voice brings me back into the room. Did you even look into that smelly bunch of corpses before you decided to slap them up in my gallery? Or did you leave everything to the last minute again? It's an oddity, Scalery, Jerry. And you have to admit, it can't be everyone's cup of tea. I watched Jerry turn resolute. The tide of red receipts from his collar just a bit. Today's officially your last day. Clock out at five. It's approaching 430 as I rock in my computer chair. Missing rent payments the last few months should be all the pressure I need to make something happen before all this. More than pressure, though, I need praise, approval, BA plus on an essay I didn't write. But I'm too used to living on borrow time, which is turning into stolen time. Because I sit at my office desk, helplessly refreshing Facebook marketplace. I slam any synonyms for weird, oddity or cursed into the search bar. Nothing but bony haunted dolls, which in reality, we're just someone's great grandmother's toys, all produced in an era when all dolls qualified as creepy. I imagine the eviction notice on my apartment door. The embarrassing call to my already disappointed parents, begging for my old room back. I open Instagram and doom scroll. None of my usual vendors have anything new or exciting. So the discover page becomes my Hail Mary. I trade the previous search terms for something broader. A state sale, Idaho. Random accounts return from the search. Bony's with one or two filtered to help pictures of pets and half eaten sandwiches. Nothing relevant, let alone good. I'm about to hit my lock screen and defeat when one post catches my eye. An account with the handle Idaho estate curios made a post two days ago. Caption. A state sale, Saturday. Beautiful treasures, timeless antiques and unforgettable works of art. $194 Magnolia Avenue, 10am to 4pm. Tomorrow. I know that neighborhood too. Closer to Silver Valley, where the more wealthy of Shashone County reside. If someone died there, they were rich. Not only do wealthy people have needle and a haystack levels of art, but they also tend to be total freaks. I'll take a haunted duck decoy at this point. I hear Jerry before I see him, his footsteps heavy and unsettled. I exchange my sadness in my expression for deliberate indifference and avoid his gaze. He stops in front of my desk. All right, you're done now. The agreement was five. It's 5.30. Been a good run, Cass, but I'm hemorrhaging over here. She pauses, somehow out of breath from going down the stairs. The last person that came here today wanted directions to the medieval torture museum. I ignore him and continue my diligence social media scroll. Don't make me the bad guy. I've been good to you, Cassandra. Just leave. I went at my full name. Digging deep, I find something scathing to lob in his direction. Yeah, really enjoyed the 16 bucks an hour and three whole six days a year. Some serious perks in this place. You should offer Google some employee retention advice. They could learn a thing or two from you, Jair. Cassandra, I'm dying over here and the blood's on your hands. Despite a slight annoyance that lingers in his tone, I can tell he's open to negotiation. I finally look at him, one hand poised on my monitor. So much for supporting the next generation of artists, Ajari. I turn my monitor towards him so he can see the Instagram post. What am I looking at? A treasure chest for enigma. A state sale near silver valley. I sing the last word like I'm dangling a treat above a dog's nose. Jerry drags a hand over his face, redness returning with a vengeance. I tried to head off the fight he's gearing up for. That neighborhood is crawling with rich weirdos. Whoever died this time probably kept heads and jars on shrunken ones if we're lucky. The gallery needs some nasty shit, Jair. You know the general public is desensitized. I wave my hand around and bolt the atrix now. We need some blood and guts in here. This is supposed to be a family friendly museum. Which is why no one is coming. It's boring. I can't tell if it's exasperation or fletchlings of hope, but Jerry's thinking. He stares past me in contemplation for a moment without speaking. The wheels are turning. You go off the clock. I ain't paying you another dime until there are bodies on that gallery floor. He says this without meeting my eye. He leaves and I lean back in my chair. My mouth curling into a smirk. I get in my beat to shit 2003 Honda Civic and head towards my only hope of keeping my job. The house is the kind of unremarkable all cookie cutter mansions are. A neutral color palette on the outside that likely matches the inside. Devoid of personality but abundant in its market appeal. The manicured lawn, unweathered shingles and contemporary glass front door screen wealth. I watch a young hipster looking couple walk from the front entrance to their car, disappointed and scowling. More notably, they're empty handed. Damn it. I'm too late. Somebody must have cleaned out the place. No one would leave this playboy mansion without something valuable. Well, I think I'll be able to sleep in all I want once Jerry cans me. But I have enough hope to get out of the car and drag myself up the walkway. One of the hipsters calls backward to me as I pass them. Don't waste your time. It's just a hoarder house. A bunch of worthless junk. I press my lips into a polite smile and nod. The front door has one of those ancient door knockers shaped like a lion. It clashes with the modernity of the door itself. Feeling like a character in an agatha Christie novel, I tap the antique brass against the door. I wait. No answer. I push. And though it's unlocked, I struggle against its expensive weight. I quickly discover I'm wrong about the interior. For a second, I wonder if I walked into a different house. I glance back at the front door to confirm it was the one I came through. The front hall leads to a living room on the right. Wall to wall shag carpet secretes a brown goo that resembles viscous mud. Nearly everything about the inside of this place is either filthy or outdated. I walk deeper into the house and find myself standing in front of a conversation pit. Yes, the ones you step down into to sit in. I let my feet fall heavy on the shag and amble down to the coffee table to admire several vintage trinkets sitting atop it. You looking for something in particular? A man's voice shoots up my spine and into my ears. I nearly knock over a Swarovsky crystal elephant as I try to stand upright again. Names Lewis. Lewis, a man similar in age to Jerry, don's a skinny goatee and could audition for any generic mob boss role in Hollywood. Gruff and utterly disinterested, slightly peaked with a hint of a New York accent. I'd bet money that he screamed, I'm walking here at a car at some point in his life. In response to his introduction, I squint my eyes as if to say, so what? The auction here. There's not much left to see and I'd like to go home so can I help you? Oh, I don't like this guy. But I see an opportunity to weaponize his urgency. Should there be some job-saving piece of trash left over for me here? I gather my voice into what sounds like a vaguely transatlantic dialect, which in my mind is supposed to be a sign of dignity. Well, I was looking for artwork to display at my fine art gallery, but don't let me stop you if you're in such a rush. For a fact, I turn like I'm going to leave. Lewis doesn't bite. All right? So he's not that desperate. I opt for cutting to the chase. Got any paintings? Lewis sighs and turns. Yeah, but hurry up. He leads me towards a door in the back of the house and opens it. A light bulb threatens to pop as Lewis yanks the strain. We're at the top of a dusty basement staircase. A disembodied drip, drip, drip floats up from a leaky pipe somewhere. It occurs to me that I am alone with a strange man in a strange house about to step away from the only nearby exit into a concrete basement where, technically, an indeterminate amount of bodies could be buried. Poor unfortunate pickers of yours who just wanted an ironic clown painting for their co-op apartment beaten with a shovel by a disgruntled estate manager. Probably. And I could be next. I let my mind run with this exaggeration for a second, but much like ambition, fear is a feeling I don't care enough to be compelled by. I'm not afraid of losing my job, but I am ashamed. A shamed a failure. A shamed of asking for charity or second or third chances. In this case, I'm closer to my fifth or sixth. Shame tends to dribble down into acts of desperation. And desperation is much more motivating and deafening. Singular light bulb is our only light source. And at the bottom of the stairs, it dissipates, creating minimal light over the dust and mildew laden walls. Even in darkness, it would be difficult to miss the piles of torn furniture and misshapen utility shelves, all warped from water damage or humidity. What appear to be hundreds of paintings lay face down and unrecognizable in the wreckage. Lock yourself out, but make it quick. I ignore his urgency. I lift a couple of frames with the toe of my shoe and recoil as bugs scuttle out from underneath. Lewis watches me from the corner and shuckles at my mild distress. I roll my sleeves up and get to work rummaging through junk. And expensive reprints make up most of it. And I'm about to call it quits when I see them. My white whale. Whales. Spilling out of a utility closet in the darkest corner of the basement. I quickly flip my bones flashlight on to investigate. Dozens of ornate gold frames with nary a scratch balance themselves on top of one another. I take one from the top of the stack for examination. Bile rushes up my windpipe and I choke when I realize. She's back. It might have been an otherwise gorgeous woman screams on the stretched canvas in my hands. Her blonde hair is pulled out in bloody patches and curled in her fingertips. And an eye hangs loose, teetering on her cheek. For a moment, the iris appears trained on me. I turn the work repeatedly, ticking off the checklist in my head. Cracked oil paint. Check. Hand-rot nail. Check. Darkened canvas. Check. And two initials. Deftly looped an elegant cursive. E.C. How much? Lewis raises an eyebrow. Well, you know, these paintings aren't inventory. They're even mentioned by the previous owner. Fuckin ugly things. Why would you want them? You really can't sell them? Lewis doesn't respond. He eyes me curiously, deviously. He lets me baste an anxiety for a second. I could. How much? Lewis smiles. His eyes catching a glint of devious light. Shit. I'm in the second act of my desperation, as I sit on a squeaky leather couch in the bank's lobby. I usually avoid Wesley Credit Union if I can help it. Our relationship is as stable as a bear on a tightrope. But these are desperate times. I look at the banking app on my phone to take inventory of how bad things are between the bank and me. A giant message takes up my screen when I log in. Notice. Your account is overdrawn. An angry red number in the negative sits beside the message, causing me to scrunch my nose a little as if reading it inflicted physical pain. Miss Fountain. Amy, the lone counselor, says my name flatly and unaffectionately. Understandable, given the backlog of personal loans she approved for me that haven't been paid back yet. Amy! I crank my voice up to an overly cheerful pitch. Amy's size and, without a word, turns and walks back to her desk. She knows I know the way by now. She plops down in front of her computer and pinches the bridge of her nose. This is what? The third visit this year? And it's only... She glances at her calendar. March. What do you think it's worth to fluctuate, Amy? Yours is more of a flatline than a fluctuation, Cassandra. Tushay. Um, well, I was hoping there was some sort of bad or fair credit accepted loan. I need to consolidate some debt. $15,000 should do it. You still need to make a thing called payments on a loan like that. Unlike the last few loans I gave you. Which I appreciate. I say through my teeth before I hear my tone. I straighten up and smile. Amy, I appreciate everything you've done for me. I'm getting a pay raise at the gallery, so the money is there. Almost. I'll be able to make the payments on all the old loans and this one. Maybe even pay some off and fall in a few months. Please, Amy. Amy keeps her arms crossed, unmoved. I start to gaze around the room the way one does when trying to conjure a thought. My eyes land on some god-awful mass-produced apartment store art hanging in the lobby. A small child blows on a dandelion. Fluffy seeds scattering in a blurry mass towards the lens. It dawns on me then. I let the silence hang between us for a moment. Like I'm realizing some inevitable defeat. I drop my hands onto my lap and quiver my bottom lips slightly. And I'm pregnant. Amy's arms go slack. Her jaw loosening a little. Her eyes blink down to my stomach and I scramble to close my blazer over it. I just found out and I'm freaking out. I'm gonna be on my own on this one. And well, I just want to give this kid a real life, you know? Please. This loan will change my life and hers. I hope it's a girl. Now Amy realizes defeat. She looks at a picture of a young girl on her desk. Her daughter, I hope, for my sake. I can't believe I'm doing this. I hope you're telling the truth, Cassandra. I pinch my eyebrows upwards and feigned hurt. My hands still folded on my belly. Amy, I couldn't lie about this. Amy shakes her head slightly as she turns on her computer. Within a few minutes, I'm walking out of the credit union, shitting grin plastered on my face, digging for a cigarette in my purse. I need to pick up my paintings from Lewis. I drive to Enigma the next morning after picking up the paintings. My shifts don't usually begin until 10, but I need Jerry to see me in the office, chipper and plugging away at work. I need him to see that I have not only found the exhibit that will save us, but that I have changed too. I fling the door to my office open at 9 and set to work straightening out the old utility racks and loading the Alara Claire collection into them. Lunchtime comes and Jerry hasn't popped in yet. I know he's ignoring me. Waiting to be noticed isn't working anymore. Jerry! I hear him shout back from his office. Watch! I hear him sigh and mumble something that sounds like an apology. But it's not directed at me. After an indesernable click, the office phone, I think, his few footsteps start towards me. He takes his time lumbering over to stand at my desk. His eyelids are slid halfway down, preemptively unimpressed with whatever I say to him. I shake off the strange feeling when he looks at me and clasp my hands together. Alright, we gotta talk about the exhibit. I stare at him, waiting for curious inquiry, or hell, even a passive aggressive retort, but the glaze in his eyes remains. I ignore this too. There one night only, an exclusive peek into the lost arts of the posthumous painter of the macabre, Alara Claire. Don't get too close. You might catch the curse. I cut my hands around my mouth, full stadium megaphone mode. Jerry remains unexcitable. Just business today I see. Okay? Here's the deal. We can upcharge the fuck out of these tickets because one, she's a dead artist whose art has virtually disappeared until now, and two, it's gory. I mean, look at this. I jump from my computer chair and stride to the shelves full of Claire's artwork, pulling a piece from the stack. I hold it up to Jerry. In the painting, a brunette woman's eyes are intact, but her throat is split open, pulled to the side by fishing hooks, her tendons stretched and bleeding. I can sell this kind of attraction, Jerry. I know this work better than anything I've ever curated for a nigma. I set the painting down on an easel so we can both admire it, but almost immediately, I feel a fog flowed into my mind. The past advances quickly on me, and for a moment, I'm in that apartment room again. Bags so deep under my eyes they look like craters in my face, like one of Claire's painted victims. Cass? Jerry's question jolts me out of a waking dream. I realize then that my hands are on either side of my throat. My nails digging in and pulling. I think a scratching motion like it's normal to tear at your own throat to satisfy an itch. I'm fine. Jerry raises an eyebrow. Jerry, listen to me. These aren't just copies. They're the originals. Do you know the kind of bullshit I had to go through just to take the loan out to afford these things? Do you think I would do that if I didn't love this place? He flinches at my question. I see a tear well up in his eye. Did I finally crack him open? I clear my throat. Yeah, Cass. Whatever you say. Jerry has never been agreeable to anything. Ever. I can't suggest a lunch spot without some kind of argument from him. My nerves keep me talking for talking sake. We could even embellish a little. Say she used real blood in her paints or something. People will go nuts. Uh-huh. It's not skeptical. Just quiet, mindless compliance. I deflate, but try to summon cheeriness in my final push for enthusiasm, hoping it's contagious. OK. Well, I'm announcing tickets today, so get ready. Jerry nods and turns to leave. A strange urgency at his heel. I remember the apology that I thought I heard Jerry mumble when I called him in. Is there someone else here, by the way? No. His tell-tale redness shatters across the flesh of his neck again, but he doesn't sound angry when he speaks. For some reason, he sounds caught. Caught in what? I'm not sure. I just thought I heard you talking to someone in your office before you came in. Must be hearing things, Cass. He nods his head towards the paintings. Maybe one of your ladies in white. I hear his footsteps lead away from me and back into his office. His door clicks shut, and the lock tumbles noisily into place. Many resentments bleed into the most acute feeling of invisibility. Am I so insignificant, so unworthy of praise or consideration? Is my replacement inevitable? I turn back to my work. I refuse to let Jerry take the wind out of my sails. This exhibition will be unforgettable. I watch and smug victory as hordes of people line up outside Enigma. Jerry's jaw hangs open, scanning the faces of the attendees. They're trying to cup their hands around the frosted glass doors for a peek. Jerry doesn't need to know I use the company card without authorization to boost the posts on our socials advertising the Claire exhibit. This is the first and only time I ever feel pride. A satisfaction with my efforts. I'm sure Jerry can't withhold his approval now. I look at him before squaring back my shoulders. Show time. This wakes Jerry from a daydream. Hey, wait, Cass, I need to talk to you. I feel a waft of air from where his hand misses my shoulder, attempting to turn me around. Too late, I think. I'm already at the door. My heart bursting with adrenaline. Jerry catches up and sneaks out with me. Our guests try to surge forward, but with a command unfamiliar to me, I hold my arms across the entrance to stop them. To my surprise, the anxious block of burst-time patron settles. Eyes trained on me, anticipating my instructions. I hold them in reverence silence. Hello, everyone. We're delighted you could be here for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Please get in a single file line and have your tickets ready. Jerry and Nigma's founding father will scan your QR codes. Once checked in, please go to the exhibit floor for a brief introduction to the exhibit hall of Claire Originals. I smile hard, projecting my confidence across the masses. The crowd shuffles together in one line. A certain gravitas passes over us like an incoming rain cloud. I look at Jerry and wink. He seems anxious, but I mistake it for more disbelief. I return inside and await our guests in the lobby, ready for redemption. The floor is dark, safe or dramatic, uplighting beneath paintings. Dozens of grizzly portraits of women hang in various states of decay and putery, each more creatively depraved than the last. I painstakingly ordered them from least disturbing, which can't really be said for any of them, to most gruesome. A fog machine pours haze into the gallery, while an old gramophone plays a screechy, violin forward score to tie the whole thing together. Jerry brings up the rear of the last few guests, who file in and spread in a semicircle around me. My beaming grin feels inappropriate against the macabre backdrop, like giggling at an open casket funeral. Hello, everyone. There's no turning back now. I say a devilish grin on my face. A few people politely chuckle and I continue. As you know, tonight is very special. Students and cult followers of Alara Claire know that her work is famously experimental. Women of her time, if they were held in any esteem within the arts in the first place, were not looked upon favorably for creating such perverse images. There weren't many who did, not like Mrs. Claire, and it did not garner her much popularity during her lifetime. Many of you are aware I'm sure that these paintings, I gesture around the room, are not pure fantasy. Mrs. Claire confessed to murdering several of her husband's mistresses before her suicide, creating an extra layer of horror to her body of work, much of which you will see in this room tonight. I studied the gaping mouths of a few patrons before my final tidbit. It's also rumored that Claire used the blood of her victims for some of her paintings. Rumors spread over the crowd now, excitement and fear rolling into each voice in the room. I look at Jerry standing in the back. His face shows more fear now. I wonder if somehow he's buying into my embellishment despite being privy to it before. He probably wasn't listening again. Figures. Well, I won't bore you anymore. Please enjoy, but do not take pictures of any artwork. If you do, you'll be asked to leave without a refund. Frantic arms begin elbowing one another as guests compete to be the first in the room. Opening night alone pays for the overhead this month. Prematurely, relief washes over me. I find Jerry leaning against a pillar to the side, staring at his shoes. Now seems like a good time for gloating. I stride up to him, but he speaks before I can. I'm not going to give you an opportunity to say I told you so. I told you so. Jerry laughs in a display of long withheld fondness. I hate to admit it, but I could cry at the minor affection. I did have to turn some people away at the door. We hit capacity. I lose my smug composure and gawk. Has that ever happened before? Not since you've been here. No. He doesn't say it spitefully. He looks at me like he's about to apologize for something. Hey, Cass, I need to let you know. Since I didn't think tonight was going to go very well, I made some calls and... Yee of little faith. He Lewis has some more Claire paintings or something even worse. I should go back and check. Jerry starts to speak again, but I become distracted by a patron at the gallery's far end. A tiny elderly woman with a hand-knit shawl staring up at one of the paintings. Not just staring, though. She's reaching out to touch it. Holy shit, I'm going to kill her. I cover a distance of 10 steps in just five long strides. Hey, if photos aren't allowed, why the hell would you assume you can touch the artwork? She doesn't respond to me. I look now. Really look at this painting. The mistress in this one is holding her own decapitated head. Natalia is the title of the work emblazoned on the gold-plated plaque beneath it. It's a pretty name for someone who met such an ugly fate. Unfazed by the subject, I return to the old woman who produces an oversized box cutter from her purse. I think she's going to damage the painting in some kind of fit of confusion, but before I can ask her what the buck she's doing, she moves the box cutter to her throat with the speed and strength that defies her age. Without hesitation, she rams the box cutter in deep, dragging it across with force. The bloodspray springs like a geyser, spewing on me, on the art, fucking everywhere. She lifts the box cutter and starts again, retracing the first gash, and goes on like this over and over, faster and faster, until her head is on fleshy pages. A scream rips out of me and bounces alone at the walls of the gallery floor. When I hear it in a singularity, I freeze. Why is no one else screaming? I hear the pitch of the gramophone faltered downwards, like the auditory equivalent of a Salvador dolly painting. The sound droops, warped through every note. The old woman's head globs to the floor, as I look around. Her face is dull, wet, slap, secondary to the sight before me. Every patron stands still. A few are frozen and fear, but many are so close to the paintings that their faces touch the canvases. No one moves or speaks for a long time. I hear the sound of someone gagging and liquid splashing on the floor. Jerry is throwing up somewhere in the background. Then, like synchronized swimmers in a bloodbath, the crowd begins tearing, gouging, chewing, and mutilating their own bodies. One woman who appears to be in her mid-30s mimics a painting titled Gabriela, the subject of which is ripping her tongue out like bloody tapy. Another woman, much younger, probably 20, emerges from the restroom to stand in front of a piece called Rose, a gallon of bleach hovers over her mouth, pouring, pouring endlessly in before she throws it aside and convulsions. Froth bubbling up to her lips, a morbid twin to the painting in front of her, on and on, as if paying tribute. The ones end their lives like the subjects before them in such a show of violence that should be impossible for a person to infect on themselves. For a moment, I think I see some of Claire's subjects smiling at the hysteria. The ones who still have lips anyway. The more lucid guests begin screaming and scattering towards the edit. Some breaking windows to expedite their escape. Someone bulls me over, and I finally tear my eyes away from the paintings to look for Jerry. He's leaning against a wall as far as possible from the gallery floor. Pinkish bile stains his shirt, and his face is drained of all color. All shaking hands, he pulls his bone out of his pocket and pounds 9-1-1. I race over to him, shoving myself across a stream of panicking patrons, and when I reach him, I smack the bone out of his hand. He looks up at me, a different brand of disbelief now. Not one twinge with pride, but fear. What the fuck are you doing, Cassandra? He picks the phone off the floor, the screen cracked but operable, and the operator's voice speaks faintly through. Sir, are you there? Yes, please, I need help. And Nick McGallery off of Highway 90 East. I lunge for the phone again, but Jerry quickly blocks me. Police or fire? Both. And an ambulance. Several ambulances. I start banging my fists on his back, desperate to get him to listen. I'm shrill, shrieking, panicked. It wasn't the violence that scared me. It was the utter failure I know, Jerry thinks this is. But he doesn't get it yet. He doesn't see my vision, doesn't see my ability to pivot or any of my abilities, period. This can't be the end for me. Jerry, listen, this isn't a bad thing. This isn't. I didn't fuck up, okay? Look, I told you we needed this kind of thing, right? We need this publicity. Don't throw this opportunity away. This adds value. Blood and guts, Jerry. I can work with this. We need it. An ap Cassandra. And I do. I shut up. Tears well up in my eyes. But I'm grinding rage between my teeth. John Muscle's flexing as I listen to him beg for help. That bog rolls into my head again. He's not on your side. I think he never was. He's wanted you gone forever. You don't matter. You're disposable. I look at the shattered glass around my feet. And without thinking, pick up the meanest looking shard in sight. My eyes jump from it to Jerry a few times before I decide. I can't let him do this to me. I zero in on his jugular and step forward once, twice, then throw my weight or up. Hand wraps so tightly around the glass that I believe first. Jerry sits in the coming and staggers out of my reach. But not before I nick him on the atom's apple. We both lose our footing and spill clumsily onto the floor. I land hard on my back and lose all the breath in my lungs. Jerry stumbles up before I can and runs out the door. It's just me and the paintings and their twin bodies lying on the ground, staring up. In the distance I hear sirens. The needle on the gramophone lifts. And all the music stops. Cassandra was a very sick individual. I tell my new hire, Veronica. I didn't know. She wasn't sick when I hired her. I always wanted her to be invested in Enigma. I wanted an employee who cared as much as I did about keeping this place running. Eager to impress me, she nods in understanding. I don't know whether it was the obsession with Alera Claire or that she caught wind of her impending replacement. But something got to her that night. And I thought it would be the end of my business. I have to admit that what she said that night did stick with me. Hmm. Gotta thank her for that. Anyway, ready for your first day as curator? Ready when you are, Mr. Thorn? I have to ask. She trails off, hesitant. Do you think it'll happen again? If the curse is real, even if the paintings are gone, like the curse transfer? The crowd outside grows rowdy. People start to chant. Let us in, let us in. Inside I finish plastering the gallery with frame newspaper clippings featuring Cassandra's mugshot and crime scene photos of the Alera Claire exhibit. One headline screams, the curse of Alera Claire touches a nighma gallery. Wack statues resembling Cassandra and Alera stand side by side, and every case in the gallery contains ripped out hair or eyeballs in formaldehyde. Things all claiming to contain an object from the massacre that night. I shake my head at Veronica. New kids with your true crime podcast this and YouTube sleuth that. I figured this place was done for. I tried to board it up but couldn't keep people from scaling the fence and breaking in just to see an empty room. I pull open a drawer behind the counter and grab a jangling set of keys. I see now though. This place hits a cash cow. People will always pay for this kind of thing. Honestly you got in on the ground floor Veronica. You should consider yourself lucky. And besides, the curse only seems to affect women. I wink at her. She looks nervous but quickly recovers up brilliant white smile. Hello folks, welcome to enigma murder museums reopening debut. A girl about 19 or so pushes to the front. I saw this place on a true crime channel. This is where the Fontaine murderer worked right. Hope it's worth the price. I think about correcting her. No, no. Cassandra wasn't the murderer. 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