S24 Ep8: NoSleep Podcast S24E08

Indeed presents. Highers you can't afford to get wrong. Like a warehouse operations manager. Uh, where are the forklifts? I sold them. They were too expensive. I got a great deal on these scooters though. You expect us to move a two-ton pallet on a scooter? It'll be fun! Just think of the core strength you'll build. This is a job for sponsored jobs! This is what happens when you don't sponsor your job on Indeed. So the next time you need someone to get the job done right, get matched with quality candidates with an Indeed sponsored job. Visit Indeed.com slash Next hire and sponsor your job today. Water. It gives us life. We are drawn to it. Yet it holds immense power over us. It can bring unspeakable horror to the most familiar places. Your morning shower. A tranquil riverbank. Or the endless ocean. It's time to dive deep into the abyss. From the dark waters of the Cape Fear River, immerse yourself in horror as you... Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. You know, we always appreciate the great support we get from our fans. You guys are amazing to us. And there's a way you can support us and get some cool swag at the same time. Truth be told, I so rarely mention the No Sleep Podcast merch we have available, so I'm doing it now. And the timing is perfect because we've just launched a new merch store in conjunction with Void Merch and designer Jordan Chivley. We have some classic logo designs along with some new looks available in various formats like shirts, stickers, tanks, totes and even buttons. Check the link in the show notes to see our new designs and we'll have many more designs coming soon. Show the world you love to stay sleepless with your No Sleep Podcast merchandise. We just couldn't do this without you. And speaking of not being able to do things alone, on the show this week we meet people who go through things with their... partners. Whether friends, lovers, family members or even strange inanimate objects, there's something about doing things with and for others than just doing things alone. But it makes life more bearable. And of course, in our world these partnerships rarely are of the warm and fuzzy kind, leaving you feeling sweet and sentimental. No, these tales feature people whose actions will leave you feeling alone with your fears. What say we delve into these tales together? Hand in hand, let's jump into the dark water and plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales. In our first tale we meet two buddies, a couple of school kids trying to hone their skill at sports. There's better way to do that than by tossing around the old pig skin. But in this tale, shared with us by author John Coyote, one of the boys spots something watching them and when it chases them there's only one place they can hide from it. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement and Matthew Bradford. When the three Rs stand for reading, writing and running for your life, you'll want to figure out how to survive after school. We've shed cotton white turtlenecks, collared shirts, neckties. Its navy blue emblem polos and wrinkled chinos were in. It means summer, or that it's close by. We're on the baseball diamond after school, the grass is high. Our team won't use this field, it's junk. We play off campus in the neighborhood. Mr. Madsen's our coach. We practice Tuesdays and Thursdays but today's Wednesday. I'm on the team so I know this stuff. Landon's not, so he probably doesn't. He swims and has abs. Not even a six pack but more like an eight. No one else in seventh grade has muscles like him. I'm glad we're in our polos. It's like we're the same this way. Except his hair is long, dark brown and the pool chemicals have left it brittle, even faded a bit. Mine's shorter, dirty blonde with no chlorine color. Mr. Madsen says, for baseball you need good hand eye. I think I have that. Landon? Not really. We're tossing around a football on the junk field. It's not official size, which means my hands can fit around it just fine. I've tried stretching my fingers over a regulation ball and I can almost get there but it hurts. I do better on this one. My throws are Peyton Mannings. I chuck it up to Landon. The ball's ovular like a torpedo and whizzes a zipline hum through the blue may. Landon flails his pale white arms, his wide hands, better fit for butterflies and breaststrokes and completely botches the catch. Me? I'd snag it like T.O. It's Landon's turn to quarterback. He drags his arm back to do it. It's so ridiculous, a shot put motion that I laugh straight out. A chuckle that plays melodically off the warm evening air. I like hearing my own laugh. It's 5 o'clock, which means our parents should be here soon, but it's a toss up for who's will get here sooner. Mine both teach at another school, Edith Sherwood. It's in all girls high school. Landon's? Well, I only know they're divorced. Everyone knows that. It's kind of like a mark you wear here. Landon is still in his happy Gilmore wind up when he stops. Just stops outright like some forceful magnet grounded him. The football drops from his fingers and vanishes in the tall weeds. I can't make out his face wholly, but something's off. My first thought is that it's a seizure. I've heard about epilepsy. Some kids have it and will seize out of nowhere. I haven't seen it though. I don't know if Landon has epilepsy and I don't know what to do if he does. They don't teach us things like that. In health we talk about sex and look at illustrations of tadpole sperm. I hope Landon isn't having a seizure. Hey, are you okay, man? My voice is not melodic anymore. It's mousy and dumb, which is about how I feel. I know nothing about seizures. I can't save my friend, but I race to him anyway. Landon's frozen. His face is whiter than normal. Dad calls Landon's face homely. He says it about other people too, mostly guys, and the way that dad says it makes me think it's an insult. I haven't checked for myself, but the guys he says are homely I kind of like. I think they have nice faces. Landon's face is nice to me. He has blue eyes, a trait we share, but his are bigger and wider, muppet-ish with thick lashes. He has lots of freckles, various shades of brown, thin, bright pink lips, and his nose like mine is a little big. Not too much though. And he's not having a seizure. I look in his eyes. The life inside them wavers like shadows over the artificial blue and swimming pools. Landon, what's wrong? You're scaring me, man. Snap out of it. I step back. I clap my hands in front of his face, how characters do on TV. It's fireworks cracking. He blinks. It brings him back. What? What's wrong, man? There. What? There. Landon raises his hand. It goes up like a slow elevator and points his index finger over my left shoulder. I follow it. There's something over there. And that sends chills through me. Electric icicles. That thick fear in his voice, it strokes the nape of my neck. Has he ever been this scared? When we watch the sixth sense, I'm pretty sure he was. But not really. Not in real life. His finger guides my eyes to the street, over the low stone wall that perimeters our school, to the sidewalk across the ever-busy East Woodbine Avenue. A white Subaru races by. Late sun sparkles in the dash and then it's gone. A gold Volkswagen convertible with its black canvas top up replaces it, zooming the opposite direction. It's hum like a well-thrown spiral. The school's speed light doesn't flash. Too late in the day. Do you see it? And yes, I do. I see something. A man. He wears dark jeans and a dark gray hoodie. They're here. What? I see that Landon's ready to bolt. His cool water eyes say it first. I catch it there, then grab his wrist. Have I touched his skin before? It's soft, smooth, cold. I don't like gripping it this way, tight and hurtful. I wish I didn't have to. His arm is pale on the underside and freckled on top. I've seen pictures of leatherback turtles swimming in blue water. I think they have freckles like Landon's. The veins in his forearm twitch. He wants to break for it. Landon, what's wrong? But he doesn't answer. Just tugs fast and gets loose. And of course he does. He's stronger and doped on adrenaline. I shout after him, but he's already hit blacktop. His legs pomp as in the pool. Pat, pat, pat. The rubber soles on his buck oxfords, the suede tan we all wear, echo off the pavement and carry to me. I'm furious. Impressed. I don't want to look back to the street, but I do. And I see him there. The man. Not a man. Closer. Just beyond the low stone wall. It's crossed woodbine. Its features are more definitive now. It's not clothes that are gray, but skin. Which is scales. Gray scales, head to toe. But its eyes are wide and white. Its long, sharp snaggle teeth are white, too. Its mouth protrudes slightly from the rest of its face. A bit like a horse's muzzle. Some anthropomorphic monster. Where its fingernails should be lengthy gray tendrils wire out. Even more snake out from around its neck. A sick skin frilled collar. I parrot Landon and run. The junk field has become massive, stretching miles, not yards. I check over my shoulder and the monsters clearing the low stone chasing its gray feet are immense human like in shape. The veins there bulge in lieu of toenails. There are claws. I hear its hard boned heels beat the ground. Weighty. Each hit rips traceable vibrations through the earth to its core. The quakes are enough that I'm thrown from my own feet and tumble into the high grass. It brushes my cheeks, my ears, stinging the skin that is sensitive. I'm among the weeds now. Ready to die beneath the heavy, healed, gray foot. Which rattles. Rattles. Rattles. I regain my run. It's awkward. Clumsy as Landon as wide receiver, but I'm up. Moving. Not looking back. I know how close it is. The monster. The ground shakes tell me. I've bound on the black top. There are no cars in the parking lot. No tikes in the wood chip playground, though I think a black rubber swing seat rocks nominally without breeze. I can't be sure. Everything's shaking in my vision as blood wells up in my eyes and I beat feet faster, faster. Hurry. Landon's at the school, holding one of its hollow metal doors, the doors that gasp open, that lead us after schoolers out into sunlight to yard football and freedom. But the outside is compromised now. Come on. I do. I am. I try to disassociate to imagine rounding third base, pounding chalk line and needing to score and needing to run. I can't waste a second craning my neck. Checking the throw, checking the monster. I need to get inside. I hustle in. Landon drags the door closed behind me. It clicks shut. Did you? But I can't finish. I'm bent over, huffing. There isn't room for words. My lungs are greedy for air and I do my best to comply. Sucking. Weezing. The walls shake. The monster battering. Its efforts come like atom bombs on a fallout shelter. Its dark gray body flashes across the door's small cut window. Landon and I stumble back. We race the checked linoleum hallway that holds eerie glimmers of the overheads. Fluorescent spirits ripple beneath our schoolboy shoes. Red rubber shoes. I look back. Landon won't. In the window, the monster lowers its gray muzzle. It might be grinning. It might always look that way with saber teeth long enough they don't fit its face. It whiffs its equine nostrils and fogs the glass. Its eyes are pupil-less, white marbles. Can it see? The lights blow. One of their frosted panels falls, smacks the tile floor. It's the sound of a large textbook dropping and it's followed closely by a bulb. The glass tube erupts on impact. I wince. Uselessly, I cover my head as in a war movie. We duck inside the nearest room. I swing the door shut and I lock it. We're in a kindergarten classroom. There aren't any windows and with the lights now blown, it's tough to see it in the dark. But after a minute, my eyes start to adjust. It's imperfect, but I can make out the traces of things. Our parents sign us out in this room with the aftercare staff. But there are no aftercare workers here now. No parents or kids. We're alone. And have been. The floor is a bright orange carpet and there's an avalanche of well-loved purple and navy bean bags stockpiled in the corner. Opposite those, there's a jumbly AV cart. It trophies a bulbous Sony television and a line of family-friendly VHS tapes encased in thick, thick plastic. Where is everyone? Early tears puddle in my eyelids. I feel their weight, their density. Come on, help me move this. Landons behind the long and hefty hardwood desk. The infamous three-ring sign-out binder lays open on it alongside a gaggle of walkie-talkies that stand upright like toy soldiers. They teeter but refuse to fall as he tries shoving the desk. What the hell's going on? I whisper, shout. It's becoming part of a new dialect. Survival. Landon sighs, abandons desk and comes to me. He grabs my bicep. Our faces are close. Have they ever been this close? His is severe. I don't know. There are tearlets in his eyes too. I thought. His bright pink lips tremble. It's also how they go when he's holding a laugh down. But he's not laughing. And I might be more scared if he was. I wish we could laugh. In blue May, in late-throne spiral sky. What? This morning, my parents were fighting about something. My dad was picking me up. I couldn't hear. Really, I was in the car. But my mom was saying something to my dad and it sounded serious. I don't think she wanted me to come in today. Landon avert his eyes. The tearlets flatten. One brims over and falls. It stains his freckled cheek. I want to wipe them. Something really fucking bad is happening, man. He spaces the words out. It's how adults talk sometimes on grave matters. He brushes the tears away himself. Just help me move this desk. Shit, shit, shit, come on. I'm staring at the locked door. Through it. Envisioning the nightmare outside. Each charge. More ceiling tiles falling. It's just a matter of time. What? What if it can still get through? Those tendrils. What? It won't. We need to block the door. Dude, now! I... Before I finish, we hear glass break. It patterns. Back there. Down the hallway. Jesus, man, help me move this desk. Landon commands the instruction through gritted teeth exerting all his energy. His face is flush. The desk budges then catches momentum on the carpet which hisses under its legs. The walkies tumble. Some slide to the floor. Landon, we can't stay here. What happens when it gets in? It won't. Where the hell else are we going to go? I sketch a mental map of the first floor, scanned for the exit routes. It's an odd power, bolstered by years worth of aftercare. I imagine that everyone has these places. Rooms we can mind walk uninhibited. That we know intricately. Even the dark cobbed webbed corners. Most of all those corners. I know this room opens onto another classroom and beyond that is the music room. I see bathrooms there. I see a water fountain and across the hall a stairwell. Where we can take one floor down to the basement. An idea which doesn't thrill me like locking yourself in your own funeral casket. Or up to more hollow metal doors which lead outside. We can go out of that room and into the stairwell. How's that better? It'll just get us out there. I stop wheeling through my mental map, indulging in the fantasy of re-knowing sunlight. And I consider that he's right. It isn't better. It would just get us out there. You're right. When the hollow metal doors outside finally crash open, we do with a gun blast. It shakes the classroom walls, the whole school. We're huddled in the corner. We've hobbled together a makeshift fort of bean bags built up around us. It won't do anything when the time comes, but it distances us from the nightmare, I guess. Just a bit more. The footsteps follow. The flat feet and heavy heels I already know. Running. And then it's a pounding on our door. That's how it goes this time. The door gives marginally on each blow. The desk bracketed against it shifts a millimeter at a time, too. It goes on like this. I'm not aware exactly how long. Seconds and minutes, like reason and logic, dissipated on East Woodbine. As did reality. Land and staring at the door. Maybe through it as I was before. I'm certain now that it was the sixth sense we watched together. His face is the same as it was then. Horror struck. It was September, the night after our first mixer. I slept over at his dad's house. I got halfway through the movie before falling asleep. When I woke up later, Landon was still awake, watching his expression like it is now. I had missed the scenes that could do that to your face. Freeze it. And your spirit, too. Ice it. Eventually, the battering stops. Landon looks at me. We hear a single, short, equine huff. Then the creature walking off. Flat feet, heavy heels. Further into the school. I lose it. I don't want to cry. It's a reactionary emotion I've come to hate, but occasionally as with any other body function, it just breaks through. Part of the design. We have to emote. It's survival based. Crying is a signal. A warning sign with brazen red letters spelling danger. Has Landon seen me cry? I'm ugly doing it. I prefer how he does, like when his parents split. It's a temperate act, like his laughter. His swimmer arm slips behind my neck. His fingers light my shoulder. Hey, I think he's been crying, too, in his solemn way. He drags me into a hug. I hear his muffled sobs. Feel them in the crook of my neck. I'm doing the same on his. We have to get out of here. We have to. And with the admission of that something passes through me. It's hard to say what it is. It's dark, though, or at least akin to darkness. An emulsion of guilt and selfishness. The thought, if we never escape, I'll always have Landon. It fills me with sadness, soul deep. I cast more tears into his clavicle. Two days. We've hooked the Sony up. The television runs a micro static tingle and an enduring digital blue glow that travels far in this darkness. It colors part of Landon's profile as he contemplates the walkie in his hand. We've tried it, but it just buzzes. I think it might be afternoon outside, but that world's a thinning dream. Slipping slowly from my conscious mind. I think to start counting new time in here, as you do on distant planets. During the early trapped hours, we raided the closet. Besides packs of Ticonderoga pencils, layers of construction paper and a fleet of orange capped glue sticks, it offers sustenance in the forms of chip sahoy and goldfish crackers. Not a long standing diet. More importantly, we rustled out the six mini water bottles, lukewarm in their half empty plastic case, treasures from a mermaid's purse. We've had two each. Two remain. I know we'll have to make it to the water fountain soon. Neither of us are excited by the prospect. The thuds on the classroom door had come once more. I don't know how long ago. A while. Yesterday, but not since. Come on. No one's picking up, man. Who's the last person you remember seeing? I take care to answer, replaying images of 48 hours past. Ms. Ruth on the walkie. Yeah, I thought I saw a couple second graders on the swing, but I know I saw Ms. Ruth too. From the far end of the hall, there's a crash. That still happens intermittently. There are hushed whimpers. Landon's crying, and it's my turn to console. I drape an arm over his broad shoulders. He falls into my lap where I hold him. He shakes like a thunder-scared pup. What if we never get out? I rock him. I don't know. And it's all I can think to say. Because the dark shadow that feeds my intrusive and selfish desires is growing. Has been growing in here. I hug Landon tighter. And it won't allow me to say anything more. But I'm not a lawyer. I'm a lawyer. I'm a lawyer. I'm a lawyer. I'm a lawyer. I'm a lawyer. Hiring isn't just about finding someone willing to take the job. You need the right person with a right background who can move your business forward. If you want candidates who match what you're looking for, trust Indeed Sponsored Jobs. And listeners of the show will get a 100-pound Sponsored Job Credit to help get your job the premium status it deserves at indeed.com. Just go to indeed.com. And support this show by saying you heard about Indeed on this podcast. Indeed.com. Terms and conditions apply. Hiring, do it the right way, with Indeed. Ready to launch your business? Get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs. Shopify is specially designed to help you start, run and grow your business with easy customizable themes that let you build your brand. Marketing tools that get your products out there. Integrated shipping solutions that actually save you time. From startups to scale-ups, online, in-person and on-the-go. Shopify is made for entrepreneurs like you. Sign up for your $1 a month trial at Shopify.com. If you live life always feeling guilty, always thinking you deserve to be punished for your actions, you'll be able to relate with Marlena. She feels cursed and in a way far more extreme than you might imagine. And in this tale, shared with us by author Christine Lageski, Marlena and her partner find disturbing ways to deal with their conditions. And the solution is rather hard to swallow. Performing this tale are Mike Delgaudio, Lindsay Russo, Graham Rowett, Danielle McCrae and Nicole Goodnight. So Marlena tells us why her blood pressure rises when she has her heart in her throat. Almost every day for the past decade, Marlena ate her own heart. The tissue would tear free from arteries and veins and squirm up her throat. She'd hold the lump in place hoping this time she would choke. It always sprouted hooks and heaved itself into her mouth. She surrendered and ate it, slice by bloody slice. Because what waited for her was much worse. On the three thousandth day, Marlena felt the oversized muscles squeeze its way up. She shut her eyes as shards of pain stabbed her chest. In the blackness, she saw the cavity left behind and the rim of light marking the abyss within. The black hole tugged at her lungs, diaphragm, intestines. Rather than consign herself to the bottomless void, she took a bite and swallowed. Then another and another until once again it congealed into a pulsing mass in her chest. It tasted like a slimy body dredged from the bottom of a green lake. Like Danny, like Debbie. Again, babe? Hadley poked his head in from the bedroom. It's so not necessary. I haven't done it for months. I know, I know. Marlena sank to the floor and pressed a fist into her sternum. Over the years, she had learned that eating someone else's heart staved off the horrible disgorging for a week. But she never likes doing it. She already had too many lives to account for. Hadley, on the other hand, enjoyed his craft. He was like her. A sinner with a singularly terrible punishment. In the past year, they'd found comfort in each other's shared experiences. Although she wouldn't call it love. Marlena's unforgivable was a sin of omission. Hadley admitted to multiple sins of commission stretching back a century. Although he didn't look a day over 40. He was elusive on the details. But she did some research and suspected that she was a person of the past. He did some research and suspected he was a con man who married multiple women at the same time. All of them disappeared. It seemed several of them were pregnant when it happened. A two for one. Hadley was a rent and nurse. Moving from hospital to clinic to assisted living. Picking off the vulnerable and moving on if he had any hint that someone had become suspicious. Marlena worked in the kitchen of a nursing home. Where she could do the same if she was clever enough. Desperate enough. It was one of dozens of jobs she'd held across the country. Still living tomorrow? He helped her to her feet and knotted. A clinic in Nome. That probably won't be gone long. It's only a four week gig. Although it has potential to go much longer. Some of these areas are so desperate for help. Alaska. Of course she thought. A lot of indigenous women went missing up there with only perfunctory investigations. She'd eaten hearts of stone before. She suspected one beat in Hadley's chest. He was good to her however. And she had learned most of what she knew from his vast experience. To be honest. He was an improvement over the men she had hooked up with in the past. She would miss him. He wrapped his arms around her. Seriously. He looked terrible. I know what you need. He kissed her neck and pulled her toward the bedroom. They lingered after love making. You're still depressed. You keep inflicting this pain on yourself and you should just go with the remedy. I'd just rather not kill. And when you can't stand it anymore you'll eat someone else's heart anyway. Has that occurred to you that all this is a test? I mean sure. I've failed so many times. But if we could withstand the temptation maybe we might get to go someplace better. Like the abyss? Hadley always denied it. But he couldn't tolerate the pain of the disgorgement. He was even more terrified of the black hole in his chest. There's no instruction manual for our situation, babe. If I found something that works for me I don't want to screw around with it. I meant we might be allowed to die. Didn't you ever try killing yourself? Once. When I did the first Unforgivable. But I don't dwell on the guilt anymore. I lost count of how many times I tried. Jumping, shooting, burning. None of it worked. I'm still here. Hadley suddenly grew very quiet. Then he squeezed her close to his chest. You know, there's one thing that might do it. Someone would have to eat your heart. The pit of her stomach turned cold. We'll see. Her temples pounded as she pulled away from him. Even if it did kill her, finally and forever, the thought of Hadley turning on her frightened her. She didn't want him to have her heart anyway. He didn't deserve it. As she dressed, Hadley prattled on about his next chosen victim. The young man about to be released from the hospital psych ward and transferred to a rehab facility. So you'll pretend to be a Zuber driver? Something like that. I need a heart before I travel. Don't want to barf up my guts at TSA. Marlena scowled. She never chose the innocent or anyone who had a chance at recovery. When she could no longer bear it, she took people who were terminal or those who didn't deserve to live. In fact, she had one picked out. An orderly, she caught molesting a bedridden old woman. He would be meeting her that night, buying her silence in return for $5,000. She caught the orderly's eye in the hall that afternoon. Town Forest, 11 PM. Marlena arrived an hour early and hid her car off-road. She hid and listened to the wind. It always carried the voices of children, never laughing, always weeping with the ache of broken hearts. When the orderly reached the designated trailhead, she stole up behind him, stabbing him in the kidneys. He barely had time to register a shock before he dropped to the ground. His heart was black. Bathed in its own blood, it tasted meaty and sweet. Like justice. She sighed, anticipating days of relief from the rotten burden of her sins. She pocketed the money, then dragged his body deep into some heavy brush for the scavengers to enjoy. Hadley was pacing, chewing on his fingers when Marlena came through the door. He got away? He got away? He leaned his forehead against a window, rocking side to side. I can't fly tomorrow if I don't get a heart. He was such a baby. Just anticipating the pain made him frantic. He could go hunting. She watched him from the corner of her eye. It's not like you've never done it before. I have to clean up. I got blood in my hair. She knew what was coming. She slipped a chef's knife under her shirt. She ran the shower hot, steaming up the bathroom. He was nude when he entered. He got into the tub, kissing and fondling her. She slid her hand outside the curtain, pulling the knife from the folds of a towel on the back of the toilet. As his hands moved to her throat, she thrust the blade under his ribs. He cracked his head on the faucet as he fell, pulling her down on top of him. She quickly cut out his heart before he could revive. In place of cardiac muscle was black stone, the sign of a truly evil man. She soaked it in the blood, pulling in his abdomen, kneading it with her fingers to soften it. It was one of the most delicious things she'd ever eaten. Two hearts in one night. How would last her a while? Marlene a packed Hadley's sectioned remains in a big suitcase, cleaned the apartment and, in the gray light of dawn, left town. She was almost too exhausted to drive. I'm so tired of this life. Ten years earlier, Marlene's husband deserted her, along with four-year-old Danny and two-year-old Debbie. He started an affair with someone on the town council. Marty swore he loved her, that he would gladly leave his wife, except for one snag. He didn't want kids. The relationship was going nowhere, but she loved him too much to send him packing. Every time he walked out the door, she wondered how different, how much better, her life might be if she had no children. Then she would panic at the very idea of losing Danny and Debbie. Never, never, never, don't listen to me. I don't mean it. She was driving the children home one December night, after a tree lighting ceremony. On a dark, back road, she hit a patch of ice, spun around and shot down a bank into the icy river. Her face smashed into the steering wheel. Dazed, Debbie and Danny whimpered softly in the back seat. Marlena squeezed to the window into the black, freezing water. It stabbed like a hundred knives, yet somehow she made it to the riverbank. Wind rushed across the river, carrying a faint, plaintive cry. It was the first time she ever felt her heart in her throat. She waded into the killing waters to save her children. Felt the crippling pain in her bones. And froze. She stepped ashore. In an instant, her decision was made. The wind sang mama, the car sang, and Marlena screamed. The morning after the funeral, her heart tore loose for the first time. Marlena vomited into the kitchen sink, staring as it pulsed. It was white, a flag signaling cowardice. She saw the black hole inside herself. In agony and terror, she could only think of one way to return the organ where it belonged. Panic stricken, she crammed it into her mouth, gnawing, gagging, chewing, swallowing. Even as the muscle spasmed, the heart reconstituted itself in her chest. Marty, never called, never even sent condolences. She saw him coming out of a restaurant with his wife. The woman must have been eight months pregnant. Her face was rosy, luminous as she leaned her head on his shoulder. He patted her swollen belly and smiled fondly. Marlena stumbled into a deserted alley and regurgitated her heart for the second time that day. It was the first and only time she had to do that. She quickly snatched it up and wolfed it down before a hungry rat could pounce on it. She haunted Marty's steps until he asked her to meet at a hotel far from town. She waited on the side of the road instead where he would see her in his headlights. As he pulled over, she turned and fled. He chased her down a wooded gully where Marlena stabbed him. Overwhelmed with hunger, she consumed his black heart. She left him on the tracks to be dismembered by the next speeding train. Marlena replayed the crimes, first and last, that brought her to this latest escape to a new town in a new state. She wondered, not for the first time, if she should have just let that rat eat her heart. She took a job at a soup kitchen. It was there that an idea for a final exit came to her. If it didn't work, it would be nothing she hadn't earned. One morning, she broke in and waited for the final disgorgement. The organ had flushed pink, a sign, she hoped, that her gift was acceptable. Hands trembling, she diced the heart into bits, then added it to a stockpot of soup in the refrigerator. As the void opened in her chest, she lurched into the alley. A wind alive with the cries of children, swirled trash around her legs. Marlena's intestines were the first to disappear into the widening interior chasm, followed by stomach, lungs, abdominal muscles. It hurt like hell, and she wept. Faint voices welled up from the abyss. As eyes and brain and skull caved inward, she saw her children waiting for her. There was a bottom to this hell after all. The end. Hiring isn't just about finding someone willing to take the job. You need the right person with the right background who can move your business forward. If you want candidates who match what you're looking for, trust Indeed Sponsored Jobs. And listeners of the show will get a 100-pound sponsored job credit to help get your job the premium status it deserves at indeed.com. Just go to indeed.com. And support this show by saying you heard about Indeed on this podcast. Indeed.com. Hiring. Do it the right way. With Indeed. I'm sure you know what it's like being one of the beautiful people. Those gorgeous stars who people can't take their eyes off. I assume you do, because I sure don't. And those people may be pretty, but they usually need a bit of help to look that way. And in this tale, shared with us by author Hannah Mescon, we meet an LA esthetician who makes pretty people beautiful. And her inspiration requires her to be on the cutting edge of beauty. Performing this tale are Marie Westbrook, Danielle McCray, Dan Zipula, Cattabelle Ansari, and Nicole Goodnight. So even if she's not real, there are real reasons why you won't find much beauty within Cynthia. Nothing says true love, like giving a sloppy blow job after you finished your skincare routine. This saliva mixes with the moisturizer, the come with your serum, and the next thing you know, you've got to wash your face and start over. It's at least $30 worth of product, completely wasted. That's why I always tell my clients to exhaust their libidos before they do their regimens. This is how I know Alex must be in love. She hasn't taken my advice, and even worse, seems to not cleanse at all after the deed, which is why I'm presently vacuuming her sebum jammed pores with a PMD Microdermalipro. She winces when I carve the tool into the corner of her nose. In ancient Greece, we speckled lead based makeup over our blemishes. In China, we cracked the bones in little girl's feet. All across Europe, we traded regular bowel movements and full lung capacity for a 15 inch waist. Now I stab and squeeze and scour and scrape and suck and singe the skin of the luckiest girls in LA. I won't tell you my fee. There's a wait list you'll never get off anyway. But there are pros pleasuring the geriatrics of Beverly Crest that would trade myriad body functions for my hourly rate. After my last client of the day, one of the housewives, I've latched some excess oil from my nose and slick on a tinted plasma lip compound. I do it all, the injections and the lasers, the exfoliating acids and the slugging, but I'm not beautiful. I'm not fishing when I say that. I'm okay with it and have the professional experience to say so objectively. Some things you just learned to live with and my enduring plainness is one of them. I swap my scrubs for jeans and a vintage Brittany Tee and head out to meet Callie for one of the great transactional Angelino pastimes, the estate sale. Callie is my best friend, and like every 35, 22, 35 woman worth her 95 pounds of body weight and gold, she's an actress. We met when I was still an employee at a corporate spa and she was still self-tapping to play law and order prostitutes. We'd go to the den every weekend, find some finance bro to pay for our vodka sodas, dance until we could barely walk and end the night at the McDonald's drive-thru. Now I have my own studio and Callie is on that billboard above the sunset coffee bean. Neither of us drink to excess or eat fast food because it makes for a peeky complexion. It's packed, so Callie parks her Tiffany blue Bronco on Cerro Crest and we walk. Oh Jesus fuck, Viv. Look at this place. Callie may have a Blumhouse movie coming out, but she's not LA real estate rich yet. The house, Mansion, is Spanish colonial, the kind that was popular back in the 20s with white stucco walls and a red barrel tile roof. We passed through the courtyard with its arcing fountain and colorful tiles, finally slipping past the metal stud door. She was so elusive. It's weird to be in her house. It's like a violation. Ruby Delmar was a noir actress from the 40s who had a normat Desmond like trajectory, but with even more death, she had a string of hits, but in something like five years lost her husband, her mother and her daughter. After that, she never did another film and became a complete recluse. Reminiscent of a red-headed Veronica Lake, she's considered one of the all-time great beauties. I'm still of the opinion that women were more beautiful when they didn't do too much to their faces. I think Callie overfills her lips, but at this point, it's too late to say anything. I feel like that whole seductive but mysterious thing is impossible now. My team rides my ass. If I take a compelling shit and don't post about it. Gross. I pick up a brass candlestick and I'm shocked at how heavy it is. Ooh, close. Callie yanks me into the living room where there are rows of wardrobe racks holding vintage couture. She throws a mink coat over her shoulders. Okay, I know Fer is obviously a no-go these days, but it's second hand. Call, it's 75 degrees out, and I think it's about not, like, perpetuating animal cruelty. I'm just saying he's already dead. She pouts as she hangs a back up. My gaze drifts outside to the pool, where vultures pick over what's left of the wrought iron patio furniture. I realize I haven't eaten since breakfast, and I'm about to ask Callie to leave when I see it, a mannequin. She's unlike anything I've ever witnessed. Poorless, porcelain skin, blonde, lustrous hair in a victory roll, multi-strand pearl collar above a bias-cut dress with a creamy lace cape. Her lips are painted oxblood, and her lashes are dense and glossy. A line from one of Ruby's films wriggles into my brain. Beauty is never free. Someone always picks up the tab. It's a currency like any other. I reach out to touch her. My finger is just grazing her arm, and she feels strangely warm, like she'd been sitting in the sun. Whoa, creepy. I'm buying it. Oh, why? I could put her in the studio as decoration. Okay, Bates Motel, whatever you say. It's not until I set her at my dining table that I realize she has freckles, a light dusting of them across the bridge of her ski slope nose. The estate liquidator had filled me in on her history. Her name is Cynthia. She was made by a soap sculptor in the 20s who wanted to make a more realistic mannequin. The traditional ones were made of wax, heavy, prone to melting, so he made Cynthia out of plaster. I could have sworn that skin was porcelain. When the sculptor passed away, he gifted Cynthia to Ruby. He said she was the only woman whose beauty rivaled his creation. What the fuck? I turned to see Jake Scott to go back from his restaurant. A gastropub on Melrose with $20 burgers and $30 negronies. His jaw hangs open, and he can't take his eyes off her. It's for the studio. I offer, hoping that's enough of an explanation. You sure that's a good idea? He cautiously approaches the table. Won't it, um, scare your clients? It's chic. I got her at the Ruby Delmore estate sale. Okay. Jake unpacks a plastic container filled with penny alavodka. She's not gluten free, is she? My nightly ritual takes about 40 minutes. There's the dental, including tongue scraping and oil pulling, tying my hair around a satin rod for heatless curls. Jake calls it a Muppet Intestine. Then, most importantly, the skin. Triple cleanse, BHAs, repair serum, snail mucin, retinol, and finally, a peptide moisturizer from my own line of products. Tonight, I'm plagued with the brewing pustule on the left side of my chin, so I dab on a mandelic acid and sulfur spot treatment. Most of my clients couldn't handle a routine this rigorous, but my skin has trained like an Olympic athlete. Sometimes I record the whole ordeal for my socials, but today took it out of me. I tuck into bed and scroll through Instagram. My clients like to tap me post facial, and I try to repost. Sure enough, the housewife has shared a selfie, slicked back pony, the sunlight bouncing off her glass skin. My poor receptionist is going to be slammed tomorrow. Jake slides in next to me, also glued to his phone. We are the worst type of cliche. Okay, we cannot be this couple. I plug in my phone and set it on my bedside table, but Jake won't look up. Come on, tell me about your shift. He's been the chef at this new restaurant for about three weeks, so he's still settling in. One sec. He's typing away, probably notes for the menu. Inspiration will strike him at the oddest hours. He's always jotting down a new reduction for the doc or a clickbait idea like a $50 martini served with a caviar topped deviled egg. He's been especially distracted since he started the new job. Either that or he's planning a proposal. Hmm. I have a feeling it may be the latter. I can sense these things. Fine. No talking it is. I give him a kiss on the cheek and slap on a piece of mouth tape. The apartment is quiet, safe for the hum of the HVAC and the occasional creek of the bed as Jake shifts. But twice I hear something softer, like a rustle or an exhale coming from the dining room. Probably the neighbors or the wine. Microneedling changed the game. The fillers and talks are great, but if you really want to see a change in the quality of your skin, you have to needle. I always recommend upgrading to PRP. I draw your blood, then word around in a centrifuge until the white blood cells separate from the red. We call those white platelets liquid gold because the resulting product is a cytokine and growth factor packed substance more valuable than any precious metal. Then comes the needle. I jab tiny holes from hairline to jawline, then smear the plasma over the raw, stippled openings like putty over a nail hole. A little bit of trauma, a lot of results. But like any effective beauty enhancing modality, the whole process hurts like a bitch. I recommend numbing cream, but today Emma says she doesn't want it. Mental toughness. We have to increase our tolerance to life's unpleasantries. Today, this is my un-presentry. Beauty is never free. I flip on the luminous Legend Pro, and its mechanical hum drowns out my thundering pulse. Something about this feels dangerous. Lissot. Powerful. I begin to trace the fat needle-tipped pen over her temple. Pinprick drops of blood beat at her skin surface. The snail trail of crimson blooming in the pens' wake. Son of a bitch. I freeze. Caught like a teenager with her first pack of cigarettes. Do you want me to stop? I have to ask. Emma swallows fortifying herself. No. Keep going. Someone always picks up the tab. I continue guiding the device over her cheekbones, her nose, her chin. Tears pool in her eye troughs and I whip them away so they don't seep into the trauma sites. By the time I'm finished, Emma looks like she's leaned too close to a hot stove top. Her face a lattice work of blood-brite pinholes. What are aestheticians and their clients if not sadists and masochists? Feeling capitalism in the patriarchy's ideal of beauty. Once I've sent Emma home with some ad-vil and aquifer samples, I head back to my office. When I open the door, Cynthia is sitting on a large box in the half-dark. And I swear as light smirks shocks her lips. I flip a switch and the overhead lighting snickers next to life. There's no smirk, of course. She looks exactly as she did when we first met. I catch my reflection in my Minoti standing mirror and have to double-take. That zit on my chin. It's gone. Not a spot or a scab or a scar in its seed. Just even smooth supple skin. As if it was never there at all. It's a currency like any other. Since it's Jake Snydall from the restaurant, I decide to make him tapas for dinner. Hunks of rustic bread with fresh tomato jam, anchovies, Iberico ham, tuna carpaccio with lemon zest, briny olives, white beans, pickled guindillas, glugs of peppery olive oil, flaky salt, and a chilled verdeo to wash it all down. It doesn't really involve cooking, that's his domain. But I know he appreciates the gesture. You're an angel, Viv. You should come to the restaurant already. Let me return the favor. Well, you are excellent when it comes to returning the favor. I swallow a sip of wine, a lascivious smirk curling my mouth. Later, we lay in bed above the sheets, sweat cooling our worn-out bodies. That kitchen's gonna reek of anchovy carcass in the morning if I don't do something about it. Be right back. No way. The whole point of tonight was for you to relax. Eventually, we agree to tag team it. I've rinsed out containers for recycling, an olive jar, the wine bottle, then the anchovy tin. But when I pass in the can, he grabs it without looking, and the curled, gilded aluminum slices into his palm. Shit! Blood seeps out of the fresh wound. Oh, God! I'll get the kit. Hang on. I fish under the bathroom sink until I find our first-aid kit. When I return, Jake has a wad of paper towels pressed into his hand. Confusion pinches a line between his brows. Did you just put on makeup? I laugh at the absurdity of his question and hurry to banish the cut. But later, when I look in the mirror, I notice my flushed cheeks, my beast-dung lips. A dark thought emerges from the wet loam of my brain. Then, for a crazy moment, I imagine Cynthia's eyes burning through my sternum like cigarette holes. Work gets weird. Madison gets a liquid rhinoplasty. The viscous hyaluronic acid filler warming between the hollows of her imperfect nose. No anesthetic. She wails. My body jolts. Cynthia thrums with satisfaction. I lose an inch and a half from my waistline. The Morpheus 8, a tool that wouldn't be out of place in 2004 Abu Ghraib. Dancers across Isabella's all-feeling jowls. Her wimpers shoot through my body like heroin. My lashes grow longer. Denser, darker. Hundreds of little scythes reaching skyward. I feel Valerie's shrivel lifts with a canula, only group on slinging strip moments spas inject directly with a needle. She blinks back tears. I'm alive. Cynthia is, too. My pores shrink. Invisible to the naked eye. I zap varicose veins from Francesca's thigh. The network of blue sharpie lines blitzed into oblivion. A CO2 laser sears Ella Michelle's cheeks. Raw is rugburn. A chemical peel melts the outer dermis of Moriah's melasma-ridden forehead. They groan and gasp and cry in wine. My body sings. Chance howls. Celebrates this dark energy that crackles through me like a storm. Cynthia is proud. Slaked. Fulfilled. Anointed. And I've never looked fucking better. Callie has a red carpet event tonight, so I'm doing her pre-glam skin. A facial the day of an event is a world away from a typical appointment. No moisture stripping chemicals. No overly abrasive exfoliation. The goal is to calm and hydrate, not to batter and abuse. I'm painting the final strokes of a colloidal oatmeal clay mask onto her décollège when her phone vibrates on the bench beside us. Let me guess. Booty call from the guy you've absolutely been seeing and definitely not telling me about based on the collection of higgies on your neck. Callie can't speak since the globby mask is smeared across her lips, glue-like. I ignore her hovering the plastic brick in front of her sludge-covered visage. Despite the witch hazel pads resting on her eyes, a modern Carone's obel, the facial recognition and her phone unlocks. It's from Daniel. I don't recall hearing about a Daniel. How about right now? Ooh, commanding. I narrate as I type a flirty response for Callie since she's otherwise occupied. Can't write now. Getting a Brazilian, winky face. How about later tonight? Daniel types. Ellipses, ellipses, ellipses. The response comes through and a sickening truth nails my stomach to the floor. No go. Viv is coming to the restaurant. My tongue sweeps my mouth, dry and bitter. I assess my tools. The blading lasers, derma-planing blades, black head extractors, lancing needles. My fingers hum with anticipation. I crank the skin-act facial ozone steamer to its max. Beauty is never free. I slam the hot mist outlet into her cheek and scalding vapors blister her freshly laundered skin. She screams, finally breaking the clay mask seal. It drips in globs back toward her tonsils, which ring like alarm bells. Her epidermis bubbles and pops like a witch's cauldron. A tangy mix of sulfur and meat rides the air, coating my throat. Vivian, what are you doing? She thrashes, but I pin her down, securing her body to the table with a spare electric cord. The cotton pads slip from her sockets, and her eyes glisten with terror, like the cold belly of a slug. The CO2 laser beckons me. I flip it on and aim the focused beam of light right at those slugs. I recall a child that afternoon when I once fried a family event with my mom's reading glasses. Someone always picks up the tab. The electric blue light sears Callie's enviable emerald eyes. At first, they turn cloudy. Then they char and blacken before there's a wet pop, and they rupture like an overripe grape left in the sun. Her screams are hoarse now scraping against her throat, which gives me an idea. The derma-planing blade, ideal for ridding dead skin cells and unwanted peach fuzz. Today, I have another use for it. I jerk the petite blade across Callie's neck in a wet sweep, and the taut skin breaks loose, spilling syrupy blood down her cleavage. The snap of her fascia and the squelch of her flesh are owed to joy, and I am Beethoven. Cynthia looks on with a pennywise smile, as I slough off Callie's pretty face. I sit at my vanity and admire my cosmetics as though they are precious jewels. I twist open a topaz tube of mascara and coat my lashes, inky. I snap open a moonstone cabochon, dusting my cheeks with the pressed blush. Finally, I glide a ruby gloss over my pillowy lips, kiss my haunting reflection. When Jake walks in the door, he finds me on the couch and nothing more than crimson lingerie and a wolfish smile. His breath catches in his throat at the sight. My hair in a 1930s victory curl, fishnets crawling up my thighs, breasts lifted to the heavens. It's as though someone retouched me with a flesh and blood filter, smacked me with a pretty stick. His growing need is obvious from here. He dry swallows and drifts toward me, as if pulled by an invisible thread. He wants to reach out, touch me, feel me, take me, but then he goes still. Like he's seen a bear and isn't sure if he should back away or run. He's seen her through his peripherals, Cynthia. She's on the other length of the sectional, which is why Jake didn't notice her at first. He cranks his head, notch by notch, so he can drink in the full splendor. Despite the rigidity of her plaster limbs, Cynthia sits in a new pose now. Her legs crossed, wrists too, flicked sassily over the hump of her knees. Her head is cocked, but the scene stealers her face. Her lips carved into a sneer, but I believe what's caught Jake's attention is her veil. Like a piece of stuck baloney, Kali's flayed skin is stretched taut over Cynthia's face. Kali's won's delicate features, now nothing more than a macabre mask. Cynthia's glass eyes staring through the gaping holes, frozen in eternal, silent torment. A scream voils out of his throat. It's a currency like any other. As our stories sink beneath the waves, we claw our way back onto dry land. Join us again next time, when we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest secrets. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores are composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mykulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McEnally, Oli A. White, and Kristen Semido. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless universe. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep podcast, we thank you for taking the plunge into our dark waters. This audio program is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media. 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. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved. During Memorial Day at Lowes, shop household must-haves for less. Save $80 on the Charbroil Performance Series 4 burner grill to chef up something special. Plus get up to 45% off select major appliances to keep things fresh. Our best lineup is here at Lowes. Lowes, we help you save. Valid through 527, while supplies last, selection varies by location. See Lowes.com for details. Visit your nearby Lowes on Russell Branch Parkway southeast in Leesburg. If the world were like a sleep number mattress, everything would adapt for your comfort. Because as your life changes and your body changes, sleep number mattresses adapt and shift to give you personalized comfort night after night. And now everything's on sale during our Memorial Day event. Save up to $1,200 on mattresses for a limited time. 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