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- [00:00]
Sam Foreign
Sam Foreign.
- [00:37]
David Cummings
Sleepless listeners and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions Volume 20. I'm your host, David Cummings. As we prepare for the launch of season 23 at the start of July, we're glad you're joining us for our Sleepless Decompositions episodes. And when it comes to a new season, we remember the days when we had our season passes well, similar to the notice I've already given about our early seasons on the Nanocast system, which is going away soon, I have another announcement. For those of you who purchased season passes on the GLOW system, I've been informed that the GLOW platform has been purchased by Supercast, and as such, the GLOW platform is going offline at the end of August. So please if you haven't already, download the content you purchased with your season passes before the end of August. And we're working with the Supercast team to offer GLOW members a way to join our Sleepless Sanctuary membership platform at a reduced cost thanks to your GLOW membership. Stay tuned for more details about that transition coming soon. We Promise and speaking of a promise, on our episode this week, we have tales of promise. Now, you might be thinking promise is a word of hope, of good things ahead. That doesn't exactly fit into the theme of horror, does it? Well, it's true that when we have a promise of something good coming in the future, it can brighten our mood and make us look forward to what's to come. But I'm sure we all know what it's like when that hope and promise ends up not happening, when our hopes are dashed and we're left dealing not only with the disappointment, but also with the fallout of what turns our hope to despair. That's where true horror lies. And before we launch into our tales, I want to share a word from our longtime sponsor, BetterHelp. And when it comes to thinking about living up to the pro promise expected of us, I know what it's like to be a man in our society. Men today face immense pressure to perform, to provide, to keep it all together. So it's no wonder that 6 million men in the US suffer from depression every year, and it's often undiagnosed. It's okay to struggle. I sure do. It's not easy for me to live with the pressure of trying to live up to some ideal that the media and culture expects of us. And therapy has done a lot to make me feel comfortable in my own skin to know what being a man is really all about. Real strength comes from opening up about what you're carrying and doing something about it so you can be at your best for yourself and everyone in your life. If you're a man and you're feeling the weight of the world, talk to someone. Anyone. A friend. A loved one. A therapist. As the largest online therapy provider in the world, BetterHelp can provide access to mental health professionals with a diverse variety of expertise. Talk it out with BetterHelp. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com nosleep that's betterhelp.com nosleep thanks as always to BetterHelp for sponsoring us here at the no Sleep Podcast. Now, Sleepless Friends, we promise to bring you tales of horror that will dash all your hopes and leave you feeling bereft. You're welcome, and so brace yourself for these sleepless decompositions. In our first tale, we meet two men who are caught up in the promise of wealth. Wealth which comes from striking it rich in the gold rush. If only they can make it to where the gold is. And in this tale shared with us by author Maxwell Murray, the men find themselves lost in the wilderness on their journey. And as the freezing temperatures set in, their hopes of gold turn to the hope of merely surviving. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett and Atticus Jackson. So in your pursuit of wealth, remember that promise might be there, but it might also be just a few more miles.
- [05:15]
Jesse Cornett
We should never have come here.
- [05:18]
Sam Foreign
Ernest spoke from across the fire on state Silent.
- [05:25]
Jesse Cornett
Not gonna make it. There's not gonna be any gold. Not for us.
- [05:32]
Sam Foreign
There will be. And just wait. Just a few more miles. It was much more than that distance to Dawson City or the Yukon river, and I was beginning to get the feeling we were lost. But I wasn't gonna tell him that it would be just as far to turn back at this point, and we had already ventured beyond the rest of the throng that had come up this way.
- [06:02]
Jesse Cornett
Henry?
- [06:04]
Sam Foreign
Yeah?
- [06:07]
Jesse Cornett
I think I'm going to die out here.
- [06:11]
Sam Foreign
I looked at him a long moment and was late, and the shadows from the firelight cut the bruisy hollows under his eyes in sharp contrast, made him look almost skeletal. The tip of his nose and the edges of his cheekbones were red and blistering as this frostbite thawed. Why would you say a thing like that?
- [06:37]
David Cummings
I just.
- [06:39]
Jesse Cornett
I think I am. If I die out here, promise you'll take my body somewhere they can bury it. Won't you?
- [06:49]
Sam Foreign
Not Lex. My fingers in front of the fire hissed in through my teeth. This feeling began to return very painfully to my hands.
- [07:00]
Jesse Cornett
Henry, are you listening.
- [07:05]
Sam Foreign
I'm listening.
- [07:10]
Jesse Cornett
Tell me you're not going to leave my body out in the snow.
- [07:15]
Sam Foreign
You're not going to die, Ernest. Or at least I didn't want to think about the possibility.
- [07:26]
Jesse Cornett
Say it anyways. I need to know, just in case.
- [07:34]
Sam Foreign
Fine. Should you die, I. I'll take you somepl say I can lay you down proper now. We both knew how unreasonable a demand it was. Dragging his corpse and my own gear over the indeterminate miles to find a town, or heading all the long way back to Skagway just to have him buried might kill me before either of us could make it there. But he seemed satisfied with my response, so I decided not to voice any further thoughts on the matter. I slept very poorly that night. I kept waking up to listen and see if I could still hear Ernest breathing, just to make sure he hadn't been right. In the morning, one of the packs we'd been using to carry food was missing. I stared at the long indentation in the snow where it appeared to have been dragged out of the tent some distance, my groggy mind trying to piece together what could have happened. I followed the line until I reached the edge of the small camp Ernest and I had made the night before. Just past that, it disappeared entirely, like someone had picked it up, slung it over their back. There were no footprints, though, and we hadn't crossed anyone else in days now. No paw prints either, for that matter, and no sign any animal had torn the pack itself apart to get at the goods inside.
- [09:25]
Jesse Cornett
Henry, what's going on?
- [09:30]
Sam Foreign
I found I had very little explanation for what was going on myself. Something got into the food, I think.
- [09:42]
Jesse Cornett
Animals?
- [09:44]
Sam Foreign
I don't know. You didn't hear anything last night, did you? Ernest had moved from the tent to stand just to the side of me now, staring at the place where the trail and the snow vanished into nothing. His breath fogged in my peripheral vision.
- [10:05]
Jesse Cornett
Not that I remember. Not anything as loud as might be able to drag off a full pack.
- [10:11]
Sam Foreign
I shifted on my feet, trying to warm them up after standing still. Well, we'll turn back to our last cache a little early in, replenish supplies.
- [10:26]
Jesse Cornett
I'm not so concerned about replenishing as I am about what took the supplies in the first place.
- [10:39]
Sam Foreign
And we began doubling back to the cache some miles behind us. When we made camp again for the night, an icy, howling wind whipped its way between the mountain peaks, making the fire near impossible to start in the frigid dark. I listened to the snow hissing against the canvas tent walls and wondered if I couldn't hear something else, something prowling just beyond my view. And the weather conditions meant it took us several days longer to reach the cache than it should have, and it was already late into the evening by the time we got there. Rather by the time we got to where it should have been. I looked back and forth between my map of the region and the mark I'd made where the cache was and the empty patch of land before my eyes. Maybe we made a wrong turn somewhere. It sounded naively helpful, even to my own ears. The area was the same. I could see where we'd cleared away rocks and brush when we first made the cache, though it had been smoothed over by fresh snow drifts. Now.
- [12:17]
Jesse Cornett
I thought the trail was a straight shot.
- [12:21]
Sam Foreign
It is. There was a type of nagging annoyance growing in the back of my mind.
- [12:31]
Jesse Cornett
Then where?
- [12:32]
Sam Foreign
Well, we must have made one somewhere. How else it I swept my arm around the space. Do you explain this? He looked almost wounded.
- [12:52]
Jesse Cornett
I guess I can't.
- [12:57]
Sam Foreign
I crouched and dug my hands into the snow, searching for the bags and crates of food and gear we'd left behind. Maybe they're just buried. I was speaking too fast. Maybe all that wind just buried them a little, is all. Even through my gloves, the cold and damp of the snow was beginning to make my hands ache and go numb. Eventually Ernest walked over and put a tentative hand on my shoulder.
- [13:35]
Jesse Cornett
Henry, stop. They're not buried.
- [13:41]
Sam Foreign
I let my hands fall limp. He was right. I knew there was nothing here. The weight of the idea sat heavily, like a stone in the pit of my throat. Slowly I willed myself to stand. Then what? Where are they? Then, Ernest? Who in the hell took I stopped myself from yelling at him outright. But there was still something, some part of me that felt furious in my helplessness to it all.
- [14:29]
Jesse Cornett
All I know, Henry, is they're long gone now.
- [14:35]
Sam Foreign
The wind picked up again then, strong enough to sting as it bit at my skin. We didn't speak as we set up camp on the flattened ground where the cache should have been. I didn't want to have to make the decision to turn back. It was miserable, the situation we were in, but there was always this constant feeling that we were so close, that if we could just keep on a little longer we could make it that if we turned around now, we would miss our one opportunity at a fortune. It was, I supposed, something very similar to what a particularly foolish type of gambler handler feels right before he is about to lose everything he owns. But I would not be fooled. I Thought this was no gambling den. There was only the elements in myself and my own willingness to survive it all. And of course there was Ernest, who had already bet on his own death. I didn't like the part of me that thought these things about him. I didn't want to be angry with him. I never had been before all this, not seriously, and it wasn't as though I didn't feel bad for it now. But there was something about him, something in the parts of him I'd always viewed as intelligent and perceptive and generally better than me, that now seemed leery and nervous and weak. He had mentioned it again the night we lost the supply cache. The fact he thought he was going to die. I think more than anything, I was most upset that this time I thought he might not be the only one. Can't you hear that? We tried to press forward through the pass for several fruitless days. A blizzard had kicked up the moment I'd suggested not turning back yet now our remaining supplies were nearly gone. When I looked at Ernest, he had the same expression of quiet despair he'd always seemed to have lately, which I was rapidly coming to loathe. He looked up like it had only just occurred to him that I was speaking.
- [18:01]
Jesse Cornett
You're what?
- [18:04]
Sam Foreign
I could hear it in any case. Footsteps circling the camp out there in the dark, uneven loping like something and four legged wood. But it wasn't quite that. It was only two footfalls, I thought. They stopped intermittently, like the thing was pausing to watch us. I waited until the footsteps sounded again. That there. You don't hear that?
- [18:43]
Jesse Cornett
I can't hear anything.
- [18:48]
Sam Foreign
Never mind it then. I poked at the coals of the dwindling fire for just a moment. Something darted by in my peripheral vision. It was already gone by the time I looked up. It was about one week later that I began to suspect we were not actually moving forward, but making some sort of meandering circle. Though where we were looping back I had no idea there would be no sign we'd made a turn anywhere until we came upon some landmark we had seen before. And one of us would say to the other, didn't we cross that yesterday? And neither of us would want to know the answer. There was a gnawing hunger in me now, in both of us. I would imagine hunger and exhaustion and fear for being so far from absolutely anything. I don't think I had ever felt so trapped. It had finally struck me one night, listening to some faint rattle that developed in Ernest's breathing, that we were Both beginning a slow but persistent decline into death. And then I heard those footsteps outside again, just a little closer now, and I knew I was right. Eventually, I was able to force myself to say it. We have to turn around. Ernest only nodded. I think. I think that thing out there doesn't want us here. I think if we go back, it'll leave us be.
- [21:10]
Jesse Cornett
Henry, there is no thing.
- [21:13]
Sam Foreign
I blinked.
- [21:16]
Jesse Cornett
I know you think you've been hearing something, but there just isn't any.
- [21:20]
Sam Foreign
Then how do you explain all this? How do you explain all our missing gear? How do you explain all the wrong turns you know we never made? How do you.
- [21:36]
Jesse Cornett
Henry, listen to yourself. We're lost. We're lost and that's it. Well, turn back and you'll forget about whatever you think you hear out there. Once we're back in civilization and these delusions.
- [21:51]
Sam Foreign
Delusions. His eyes were downcast.
- [21:59]
Jesse Cornett
Forget I said it. We'll turn back. That's what's important.
- [22:07]
Sam Foreign
He didn't believe me. I had never heard such distrust from him. Didn't he hear? Didn't he understand? It was keeping us here and making us starve, Making us freeze, desperate and half dead, we packed up what was left of our equipment and prepared to make the long journey back the following day. Even then, knowing we were headed home, the anger that had been slowly eating away at me every time I looked at Ernest did not subside. It was still following. It was still following, and I could still hear it beneath the cold wind and beneath the blowing snow and even beneath my own footfalls, just out of step, just behind me. Had we not done enough? We had turned back. We were going away. And yet still it dogged our every step. My every step. Ernest continued to deny hearing anything. Was he lying? Did he know? The hunger and the fatigue made us slower by the day. It had to be waiting, I thought. Waiting until we were slow enough so it could catch us. Maybe it could catch us anytime it wanted. Maybe it was toying with us. With me. But why me and not him? What did he know that I didn't? Why did it favor him and not me? What was I doing wrong? What was he doing wrong? I could not pretend any longer not to hate him for it. We weren't dying, and he denied the thing I knew would kill us in the end. Kill us and pick us clean until we were nothing but bones and sinews sunk in the snow. Yes, I thought, it must be starving, just like we were. We were already headed back through the pass when I heard a soft thud in the snow behind me and looked back to see that Ernest had fallen to his knees.
- [25:42]
Jesse Cornett
I can't feel my legs.
- [25:46]
Sam Foreign
It seemed like he couldn't believe it himself. I stared at him. Henry. He looked up at me with the horrified expression of someone who understood they did not have long to live. He tried to stand unsuccessfully.
- [26:14]
David Cummings
Henry.
- [26:15]
Jesse Cornett
Help me.
- [26:16]
Atticus Jackson
Please.
- [26:19]
Sam Foreign
You were right, Ernest. The words came out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying. What? You were right. You're going to die out here. He opened and closed his mouth once, dumbfounded.
- [26:50]
Atticus Jackson
What?
- [26:51]
Erica Sanderson
No.
- [26:52]
Atticus Jackson
Please.
- [26:52]
Jesse Cornett
I just need your help.
- [26:56]
Sam Foreign
His gloved hands scrabbled in the snow as he tried to rearrange his own paralyzed limbs beneath him. Tried to reach out to me.
- [27:09]
David Cummings
What?
- [27:11]
Jesse Cornett
Please, I just need your help. I just need you to help me up. And I.
- [27:18]
Sam Foreign
He trailed off when I didn't respond.
- [27:24]
Jesse Cornett
You're gonna leave me here, aren't you?
- [27:29]
Sam Foreign
No. The air felt still, but I could hear the wind howling in my ears. I thought of the hunger and the cold and the desperation of the thing that stalked in the night ever closer. Ernest eyes were wide and wild like a frightened animal.
- [28:03]
Jesse Cornett
But what.
- [28:08]
Sam Foreign
I told myself he wouldn't live long anyway. That if I didn't get to him, it would. It made it all a little easier when I dragged his frozen body to my next campsite and sharpened my knife. When I came back to myself again late that night, I was too sick to keep anything down. The smell of old blood in the camp made me feel nauseous. And when I rose, the world seemed to spin before my eyes until I vomited a reddish slurry of half digested meat into the snow. Seeing it there did not make me feel any less ill. The tent flap fluttered in the wind. It was watching me again. I almost thought I could see it this time. The faint shine of nocturnal eyes in the darkness. A hunched up and emaciated silhouette. My throat felt raw from the accurate sludge I'd sped up. Finally I asked it. Why? Why are you doing this to me? To us? There was no us anymore, but I said it anyway. There was no answer but the wind. I shouldn't have. I didn't want to. You made me do this. Why? Why? The footsteps outside were slow, meandering circles around the tent. I felt I was being laughed at. I did not even have the strength in me to be enraged. Not anymore. I just sat there awake until the sun came up, feeling hollowed out inside. The footsteps circled round and round like they knew it wouldn't be long for Me now. I tried to drag myself back to civilization alone, I really did, but I was covering less and less distance by the day and I was starving and I was so very, very cold. I did not think it possible for a man to feel so close to death without dying outright. My feet were blackened and felt made of wood. My hands were screaming in agony when I tried to warm them. Sometimes when I lay alone in the tent late at night, I wished I had not been such a coward as to get sick. Sometimes I wished I just sunk my teeth into that bleeding flesh and eat, eaten, truly eaten, tore through the meat and sinews without a second thought or remorse, and then usually realizing I was thinking that I wish the thing out in the darkness would come and kill me already, so no other living creature would have to cross someone as wretched as myself. I was on death's door the night the footsteps finally approached. I could hear them before I saw. They were slower now, deliberate. I watched the tent flap where I lay. I found I did not care enough to raise myself up to look directly at it. If it would kill me now, that was for the best. Maybe Ernest had been right about my being delusional. I must have been to see what I saw. I knew that even then. Frostbite, blackface fingers parted the tent flap. Then a forearm, flayed and bloody, carved to the bone. And then it was him. Him like on the night I had killed him. Parts of him desperately hacked away. Old blood crusted black and brown around the wounds. I sat up then, but found I had no words I could say to him. I felt sick. I felt furious. I felt like I could cry. I opened my mouth to speak and only managed to choked, heaving sob. He stooped down next to me and then he held out one hand mechanically, staring at me with eyes that were glazed over and whitish crusted with sharp crystals. When I took his hand, what else can I do? His fingers felt as though they could crumble like frost. I could feel the last warmth remaining in my body beginning to drain. He walked out then, and I could only follow numbly along. It was eerily still outside the tent. The wind and the snow had stopped, everything silent, muffled. The sky was clear and filled with stars. We walked until my camp disappeared into the night. I'm sorry. I should have helped you. Please forgive me. Please. His frozen grip tightened around my hand.
- [37:25]
Jesse Cornett
You're going to leave me here, aren't you?
- [37:29]
Sam Foreign
It sounded just the way he had said it the day he had fallen in the snow, just as terrified and frantic but his expression was slack and empty eyed. The cold was biting the eye movement, wanted to run, but I didn't think I could force my own limbs to do so. I'm not. I tried to say that. I'm. I'm not. Are you going to kill me for this? He only stared, but I knew he wouldn't. No, the cold would take care of that. Now that I was this far from any hope of returning.
- [38:49]
Jesse Cornett
We should never have come here. Come here.
- [38:53]
Sam Foreign
And we began the long walk into the icy, empty night.
- [39:30]
David Cummings
We'll offer up more Horror gold after this quick word from our sponsor. For ad free extended horror content go to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com when it comes to the promise of feeling better, our newest sponsor, Indicloud can deliver. You work hard, maybe you deal with life sometimes. But do you still deserve an escape? Absolutely. That's where Indecloud comes in. Gummies, flour, pre rolls. All federally legal. Seriously fun and just a few clicks away. Whether you're chasing better sleep, deeper intimacy or just solid daytime relief, this is grown up cloud chasing done right. And listen, I know it can seem funny to talk about using cannabis, but it's not all about being stoners, eating corn chips and blazing at 420. With indicloud, you get serious, effective product that can be relaxing, fun and safe. I've tried their stuff and I can confirm how good it is. In fact, our very own Brandon Boone tried some indicloud too and he told me he loves the amazing taste of Indacloud and all this sounds like a loophole, right? It's not. It's science, it's policy. And Indecloud is using it to deliver one of the oldest medicines known to man in the most modern, fun and absolutely dialed in way possible. Over 50,000 people are already choosing Indecloud because feeling good should feel this easy. So if you're 21 or older, now's your chance to float above the stress because Indecloud is giving all new customers 25 off their first order plus free shipping. Just use code no sleep or click the link in the show notes to claim your discount. That's indicloud co I n d a c l o u d dot co use code no sleep for free shipping plus 25 off your first order order. Now fill out their quick survey to support the show and enjoy the best part of your week. Brought to you by Indicloud. Ah, ghostbed sleep. So good it's scary and in the heat of summer, there's nothing more terrifying than waking up drenched in sweat stuck to your mattress. Ghostbed fixes that with their patented cooling technology and their luxe mattress sleeps up to five times cooler than their entry level model. It's layered with advanced breathable materials that pull heat away from from your body so you stay cool, dry and asleep even when the stories you just heard leaves your heart racing. Ghostbed's been perfecting the art of sleep for over 20 years. They're a family owned company with over 60,000 five star reviews and every mattress is handcrafted in the USA and Canada using premium long lasting materials. Not sure which mattress is right for you? Head to ghostbed.com nosleep and take their sleep quiz to find your perfect match. Whether that's the Ghostbed comfort signature or Luxe, every mattress in their new collection features the Procore support layer for ergonomic zone comfort that keeps your spine aligned and relieves pressure where it matters most. You'll also get a 101 night sleep trial, free shipping and a 20 plus year warranty twice the industry standard. And when you call, you'll reach real sleep experts in Florida, not some faceless phone bot. Right now, Ghostbed is giving no sleep listeners an extra 10% off. Just go to ghostbed.com no sleep and use code no sleep at checkout. That's ghostbed.com no sleep promo code no sleep for an extra 10% off. Sleep cooler sleep better all summer long. Now back to the horror. This next tail has the cure for all that ails you. In our final tale, we meet an heiress living in her wealthy family estate. It might sound like her promise has already been met with her living in luxury and wealth. But the promise she's holding out for is something very different. You see, in this tale shared with us by author K.A. collings, she knows all about the reason for her wealth. Her father developed a popular medicine of the day. And now she must deal with those who discovered exactly how the medicine worked. Performing this tale are David Ault, Erica Sanderson, Andy Cresswell, and Jake Benson. So if you're not feeling well, I'd advise against using Dr. Warwick's miracle powder.
- [44:29]
Atticus Jackson
England, 1899. There was no escape from Blyton Hall. A blanket of fog stretched over the grounds in every direction, blocking even the stars. The widow, Mrs. Enid Warwick, had no memory of the fog's arrival, nor could she recall how long it had clung to the crevices of the manor house. The mist seemed to stick to her mind as well Smoothing out the edges and leaving a wall of white. Every time she reached for a memory of this morning or the one before, it turned to smoke in her grasp, her thoughts just as hazy as the world around her. But there were two things she knew for certain, deep in her gut. One, she must leave Blytonhall forever. And two, the fog would sooner drown the widow than see her escape. It proved nearly impossible to walk through, clouding her eyes and pouring down her throat, viscous like cough syrup. Each step was met with resistance, as though she moved at the bottom of a vast ocean. But still the desperate feeling crawling up her throat screamed at her to keep going. As a girl, her father had warned her of such mysteries. The rare times he wasn't off doing business in London, he told her stories, dark tales of twisted creatures that lurked in the moors and a fog that would swallow you whole and spit out your bones. But it seemed to Mrs. Warwick that her current predicament was not so much a fairy tale as it was something biblical. For even the darkest of fairy stories allowed for a glimmer of starlight. The longer she walked, the clearer it became that this was not her first endeavor to escape. Though her mind remained hazy, there lay memory in her muscles, weak as they were, and they remembered this march, this eternal struggle forwards. No, this was not her first attempt. It had been far more than even a hundred times. It was at least a thousand, a million. An endless lifetime of fruitless ventures to leave her family home. But every time, she ended up right back at the beginning. She wasn't back there yet, though she knew something came next. It was the part that sent hot bile creeping up her esophagus. Oh, of course. The hands. They emerged from the nothingness, their bodies lost in a sea of white, and pulled at the widow Worick. There were at least a dozen, all dragging her back to Blyton Hall. She needn't look down to know that they were covered in boils, each secreting a black suppuration. They dug deep into her wrinkled skin, clawing at her collarbone, her navel, hooking their fingers into her mouth. They tasted of fetid pork. Her screams burned sharp acid in her throat, but it was no use. The grounds spanned acres, and no one would hear. The hands grasped at her desperately, like a pack of starved dogs fighting for a scrap of rancid meat and knowing they had nothing left to lose. But the widow, too, was desperate, and so she fought against the hands and the fear that threatened to close her throat shut, pushing ever forward even as her nightgown ripped to shreds. Out of the gloom, a familiar broken face appeared. Mrs. Warwick turned her gaze, unable to stomach the sight of it. When she opened her eyes, Blyton hall had consumed her once more. The widow reached for the handle in front of her, tears of frustration and horror pricking her eyes. But by the time they'd rolled down her face and her hand was wrapped around cold brass, the memories of the fog were already slipping away. She wiped at her wet cheeks, blinking away the rest of the tears.
- [48:42]
K.A. Collings
Goodness, you silly old thing.
- [48:45]
Atticus Jackson
A pit of dread still soured in her stomach. A whispering tickled her ears, coming from somewhere within the manor. When she turned, she had the distinct feeling that someone, or perhaps several people, had just hidden behind a corner.
- [49:02]
K.A. Collings
Florence Anderson? Is that you?
- [49:07]
Atticus Jackson
She hoped the housemaid or the butler might help reorient her. A draft prickled at her skin. There was a bitter coldness about the place that burrowed into her, reaching past muscle and bone until it wrapped itself around her heart. Thick motes of dust drifted through the air, and she breathed shallowly to avoid them sticking to her tongue.
- [49:31]
K.A. Collings
I'd like to take my tea now, Florence.
- [49:35]
Atticus Jackson
There was no response, only the constant stream of whispers. A flash of anger cut through the sour dread.
- [49:44]
K.A. Collings
I will not tolerate teasing from any of you. Do you hear me? Not under my roof. Not under my employ.
- [49:52]
Atticus Jackson
But the whispers did not waver, and under that, there was another noise, a ragged sound like a tattered sail. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen, as though she was not alone, but she could see no one else in the foyer. She shuffled forward into the cavernous entry hall, intent on finding the culprits. Barely a few steps in, she yelped when a shard of glass pierced through her silk slipper, drawing blood. A bottle lay smashed on the floor, its powder spilling over the warped hardwood from the broken green label. Father's portrait stared back at her, as stoic and solemn as he'd been in life. Only she could recognize the haughtiness in his eyes, an expression that in a mere second had judged you and found you wanting. The letters spelling Dr. Worick were jumbled with the broken glass. Even still, she felt it was a strong name, a name that could hold an empire on its back, Father used to say. A name so strong, in fact, she'd carried it into her marriage. Taking on another name felt like welcoming weakness into her life. Elsewhere in the house, a grandfather clock began to chime. The joyful Winchester melody only made the place feel emptier. Mrs. Warwick counted the bells, hoping that if she knew the time, she wouldn't feel quite so adrift. But the clock did not stop after 12 bells. It continued steadily onward, like a heartbeat or a funeral march.
- [51:31]
K.A. Collings
Anderson, will you make that blasted thing stop, for heaven's sake.
- [51:37]
Atticus Jackson
Still no reply. Indignation bloomed into fury like a bruise. Mrs. Warwick chased the noise up the grand staircase, the heels of her slippers clicking against warped wood and echoing through the foyer between gongs of the clock. Blyton hall was a place of high ceilings and dark corners, and despite its size, there was little room for comfort. The manor had crouched in the moors for over three centuries, built under the reign of another great queen. Mrs. Warwick could not imagine a time in which it bustled with activity or warmth. The family bought Blyton hall when she was no more than seven years old, and here she had lived for the next seven decades. Her father left her to her own devices as a child, busy as he was building a business empire, and Nanny did not allow for noisy children. Then she grew of age, and it was much the same with her own family, she and her late husband continuing the legacy her father had built through blood, and her children growing up quietly until they slipped away one by one to start lives of their own. Along the mezzanine, towering portraits of long dead keepers of the manor watched her ascent with stony expressions. Her neck bristled when she turned her back on them, imagining their gazes fixed on her as she followed up the left hand staircase. Nanny had once told her that late at night, the portraits whispered the sins of those they watched, and that she need only press her ear to them to know all of Enid's wicked deeds. Atop the landing sat an intricate grandfather clock. But as Mrs. Warwick drew closer, she realized the chiming of the bells must be echoing from much deeper in the manor. Loud though they were, the bells did not appear to be coming from this clock in particular. Still, she paused to examine was French, its face inlaid with gold. Apples and pears and laurels, gilded abundance. It had been one of Father's first extravagant purchases. When his cosmetic business finally began to bring in the kind of wealth he had always dreamed of with the success of his star product, his miracle powder. Thick layers of dust lay on the hands, which were stuck. At 12:43, something nagged at the back of her mind.
- [54:02]
K.A. Collings
Anderson.
- [54:04]
Atticus Jackson
Her mouth had grown dry. She swallowed, dust sticking to her throat.
- [54:10]
K.A. Collings
Anderson, this clock is stuck. Fix it at once.
- [54:16]
Atticus Jackson
She tried to maintain the acrimony in her voice, even as the anger in her faltered, she could not shake the feeling that something was not right in Blyton Hall. Mrs. Worick ventured deeper into the manor, each step feeling not so much like she was being swallowed, but stepping willingly into the belly of the beast. The gonging of the clock grew ever louder, the mechanical heartbeat marking each passing second. Panic bit at her heels. She grew increasingly desperate for a candle as her weak eyes struggled to adjust to the ever deepening blackness. Darkness suffocated the air. The gas lamps, empty of oil, could only watch uselessly as she passed. She made her way frantically from room to room, fingers jamming against doorknobs and armoires. Finally, she found a box of matches tucked in the drawer of a sideboard. She struck the match head, but her relief was short lived. The shadows skittered to the corners like rats. When she turned, they ducked behind doorways, half a second slower than the light. She wished then for the anger to return, to smother out the now suffocating fear. The widow brought the flame to the clock standing down the hall. Though she knew the bells lay deeper still, it too was frozen. Her hands stuck at 12:43 that time. Again, coldness pooled in her stomach. Right as the flame bit at her finger. She dropped it, stamping it with her foot, and lit another. Once again, the shadows skittered. Mrs. Worick longed for her bed, a cup of tea and a warm fire. But the bells, those bells, how they lured her, taunted her. And there was something, something at the back of her mind. Besides, she did not recognize this part of the manor. It seemed she had walked for longer than she should have. And Florence and Anderson, the useless dolts, clearly had something more important to preoccupy their time than helping the mistress. The widow did not think she could find her way back, and so there was only forward. Thick motes of dust drifted in the air like snow flurries, sticking to her shoulders, her hair, her eyelashes as she moved through the halls with increasing frenzy. Had the shadows been banished by the light? She may have blamed the building paranoia on a trick of her eyes. But they merely hid from it. The shadows had begun to take shape and they were watching her. Room after room she passed, her periphery crowded with people. But every time she turned her head, they disappeared. Blyton hall was empty, save the dust and the covered furniture. And the bells.
- [57:15]
Sam Foreign
Oh, the bells.
- [57:17]
Atticus Jackson
Their chimes bounced off the walls, growing louder and louder, drowning out even the whispers, even the beating of her own heart. Her pulse of life was no longer. The blood coursing through thin, weak veins, but the roar of the bells echoing through her body, pulling her forward, and still. Every clock she passed stood frozen in time, all stuck at 12:43. Finally she reached a set of double doors at the end of the eastern wing, and the bells screamed against her eardrums. The noise should have made them shake in their frame, but the heavy oak stood utterly still. Slowly she pressed her palms to the cold brass of the handles and pulled. The noise stopped. Father's study looked almost exactly as she'd remembered it. She had not stepped foot in here in a decade, not since he passed, and she entered now with caution. An inch of dust had settled over everything, so thick it looked like snow. Rare books lined the walls, collected for their value, not the knowledge contained within their pages, and a mahogany desk in the center of the room spoke to the commanding power her father once held. The wingback desk chair was turned backwards, and the widow averted her gaze out of habit. A small bottle sat on a shelf, just as dusty as everything else in the room. Dr. Worick's miracle powder, the product Father gave his entire life to. And then, once he passed, so had she. Father was not, in fact, a doctor, but that hardly mattered. He'd created a true cure all, something that would not only keep food fresh longer, but also brighten paints and dyes, strengthen cleaning agents, and even soothe a sore throat. The powder really was a miracle, one that had earned them unimaginable riches. And here it sat, untouched, abandoned. Once again Father's haughty eyes bore into her own from the emerald label, a king's seal printed a hundred thousand times over, and for a moment she could not tear her gaze away. His expression seemed to shift from solemnity to disapproval to disappointment to sneering revulsion. His disgust wormed into her, leaving a trail of slimy cold across her tongue and all the way down her throat until it reached her stomach, filling it with with slick, wet shame. The whispering started up again, or perhaps it had started minutes ago and she was only now noticing, along with a new noise, a ticking. The widow blinked, following the sound to the center of the room. A grandfather clock stood directly in front of the marble fireplace. She could not recall if this clock belonged in this room, but she knew for certain that if it did, it certainly did not belong in this spot. Unlike the others, it was not frozen in time. The second hand ticked steadily, the time reading 1:06. She didn't know if she was disappointed or relieved. The clock was unremarkable, except for the fact that it was horrifying. It was a study in heaven and hell. Hand painted in the center dial, the great beast straddled all the damned souls of hell, a roiling sea of rotted flesh and agony clambering for an escape that would never come. Above the clock face, celestial bodies ticked slowly in rotation, the sun and moon dial turning with each passing minute. Golden haired cherubs lounged on fluffy clouds, perpetually watching the heavens shift from day to night and back again. The parchment son grinned at Mrs. Warwick with a mischievous, almost whimsical expression, a jarring contrast to the scenes of hell just six inches below. It was in staring at the painted sun that she noticed the clock had started going too fast, time accelerating consistently so that the sun dipped below the horizon in only a few minutes when it should have taken half a day. The moon, just as mischievous as its counterpart, disappeared even faster then the sun again, faster still. Day chased night and night chased day, an ouroboros that would never consume its tail until the two blurred into indiscriminate twilight. Panic swelled once again in the widow's chest. Meanwhile, the hands of the clock spun just as quickly as the hours passed. In seconds. When the little hand hit 12, the clock slowed. The faces of the sun and moon were different now. The sun broken, bruised and bloody. The moon bloated purple eyes and tongue swollen to the point of bursting. The hands of the clock stopped at 12:43 and everything froze. No ticking, no whispering. Only the moon staring at her with bulging eyes. And as she watched, they ballooned even more, veins straining and irises bleeding, their colour expanding until Mrs. Worick was not staring at the face of a clock, but the face of a dead man. A scream ripped from her throat, terror seizing her heart. She stumbled back, or at least she tried to, but something was anchoring her in place. Turgid grey fingers wrapped themselves around her wrists and yanked her into the clock. She fell into an endless fog for an eternity, or perhaps a minute, plummeting both down and up and nowhere at all. Her feet were rooted to nothing, her hands grasped at nothing, her lungs sucked in nothing. The swirling white made everything an impossibility. Time, space, life, feeling, but not memory that stayed with her. She quickly recognized that for the curse that it was, without it at least, she could have lost herself in the nothing, forgotten Mrs. Warwick entirely. Instead, she was a person who used to be. And that was agony. And then her feet found solid ground once more and she was in Father's study as if nothing had ever happened. Except the study had changed. The furniture all stood in the same position. Each book remained in its place, but the dust no longer covered every surface, and the grandfather clock stood sentry in the back corner, the great beast and all the cherubs paying her no mind. But more importantly, the heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing not fog but stars. A low cough broke the silence like a jagged knife. Mrs. Worick turned to see her father sitting at his desk, writing in a ledger with a steel pen. His brown hair was slightly thinner than on the label, having receded a bit in his middle age, but he still styled it with his signature swoop, and his mustache was just as full and proud as ever.
- [64:44]
K.A. Collings
Father.
- [64:45]
Atticus Jackson
Her heartbeat stuttered in astonishment. She stepped forward, standing directly in front of him.
- [64:51]
K.A. Collings
Father?
- [64:53]
Atticus Jackson
He did not move, did not acknowledge her presence. She reached out for his shoulder, but the air around it burned so icy hot she flinched back. The same happened again when she reached for a paperweight and then a book, and Father never looked up, never even blinked. Not until there came a knock at the study door.
- [65:14]
Maxwell Murray
Come in.
- [65:15]
Atticus Jackson
His voice was sturdy enough to fill a room full of sturdy things. The door creaked open and a fresh faced woman in a nightgown and rag curls entered, followed by the butler.
- [65:27]
K.A. Collings
You wanted to see me, Father?
- [65:29]
Atticus Jackson
The widow Worick clutched her chest in shock at the sight of her younger self, perhaps only 19 or 20. Father gestured for her to sit in the armchair beside his desk, but kept his attention on the butler.
- [65:44]
Maxwell Murray
Please bring in our guest, Anderson.
- [65:47]
Atticus Jackson
Enid sunk into the tufted leather, revealing the large pregnant belly her nightgown had previously hidden. 20, then. The year of her firstborn.
- [65:57]
K.A. Collings
I'm not dressed to see guests, Father.
- [66:00]
Maxwell Murray
That won't matter, my dear, don't you worry. But there's something very important that I want you to see, though you must keep quiet. Do you understand?
- [66:11]
Atticus Jackson
Enid nodded, but the widow Worick shook her head.
- [66:15]
K.A. Collings
No.
- [66:16]
David Cummings
No.
- [66:17]
K.A. Collings
I don't want to see this.
- [66:19]
Atticus Jackson
She ran to the hellish clock and placed her hand on it, only to draw it back when icy hot pain bit at her once more. A moment later the study door opened again and Anderson entered the room, dragging a man by the ankles. Enid gasped, and Mrs. Warwick remembered her shock and horror at the sight of it, but her trust in her father never wavered. Anderson left him in front of the fireplace, and its yawning maw looked as though it might swallow the man whole. Tight, thick ropes bound his ankles and wrists together while dark rags covered his eyes and gagged his mouth. The man was still almost deathly so. Anderson grabbed a crystal decanter from the mantle and slowly poured the brandy over the man's face. He shuddered at first, then bucked and recoiled as consciousness set in. He struggled to cough, but with his mouth bound, the sounds of choking filled the room until Anderson finally removed the gag. Father stood from his desk, arms held solemnly behind his back. As he approached, he nudged the man with his shoe.
- [67:27]
Maxwell Murray
Can you hear me, Mr. Morris?
- [67:30]
Sam Foreign
Yes.
- [67:31]
Maxwell Murray
Very good. Now, what were you doing skulking about my warehouse at 10pm?
- [67:38]
Atticus Jackson
Mr. Morris let out another wheeze but did not answer.
- [67:43]
Maxwell Murray
I'm sorry, Mr. Morris, I didn't catch that.
- [67:46]
Atticus Jackson
Silence.
- [67:48]
Maxwell Murray
I'm afraid that won't do, Mr. Morris. You will answer me when I ask my questions.
- [67:55]
Atticus Jackson
Father unclasped his hands from behind his back, revealing an ornate cane. With several quick jabs, he struck the cane against the bound man's stomach and head. The man released a howl, his body crumpling as much as it would allow.
- [68:09]
Maxwell Murray
Let's try again. What were you doing in the warehouse, Mr. Morris?
- [68:16]
Sam Foreign
Investigating.
- [68:19]
Maxwell Murray
I see. And for which entity do you work? Scotland Yard. There was no badge amongst your belongings, though your name was found easily enough in that little notebook of yours. Perhaps you work for the Morning Chronicle or the Times?
- [68:37]
Atticus Jackson
He pressed his cane against Mr. Morris's side and leaned his weight into it until the man cried out in pain.
- [68:44]
Sam Foreign
I don't want for no one.
- [68:46]
Maxwell Murray
These are very detailed notes for no one, Mr. Morris.
- [68:50]
Atticus Jackson
Father pulled out a small black notebook along with a pair of spectacles which he delicately placed on his nose.
- [68:58]
Maxwell Murray
Let's see. Ah, yes, 18 dead, all with black blisters. And of course you've included the names of the dead. Eleven of the 18 worked at the Surrey factory, etc. Most were bottling Dr. Warwick's miracle powder. Etc. Etc. Etc. Several more factory workers have gone missing with even more dull names. Oh yes, and here's the lovely bit where you stalked and harassed my customers, interrogating them on their private health information, seeming to imply that an output break of plague is my fault somehow. And then it says, and you circled this bit several times. The words he knows. What, pray tell, does he know?
- [69:50]
Atticus Jackson
There was a pause, and then Mr. Morris's wheezing voice spoke up.
- [69:55]
Sam Foreign
All of it, Mr. Warwick. You know all of it.
- [70:00]
Atticus Jackson
Father nodded, licking his lips slowly.
- [70:04]
Sam Foreign
Right.
- [70:05]
Maxwell Murray
Well, I think you're quite confused, Mr. Morris. And I'm sure after a talk with whatever editor you work for at the Times or the Morning Herald or whatever it is, they'll see that These deaths are all purely coincidental, and I'm sure they'll understand my decision to hand you over to the constable for for trespassing.
- [70:27]
Sam Foreign
I told you, I don't work for any of them. I work for you, you hornswoggling, cowardly bastard. You're poisoning us, your workers, your customers, and we're all gonna die for your mountain of gold. Dunk.
- [70:53]
Atticus Jackson
Father smashed his cane against the man's head before he could finish his sentence, and he did not stop until blood pooled around his shoes. Enid flinched, but her eyes did not widen in horror. Mrs. Worick knew there had been no horror to express, only surprise at the noise. All fear had left her in that moment, though she'd been terrified during the interrogation, she'd realized then that the fear was not of her father, Father, formidable though he was, but of the man on the floor and of all he threatened to take from Slowly, Enid lifted herself from the chair and approached Mr. Morris. Her father stared but did not stop her as she straddled the dead man and removed the remains of his blindfold. His face was a ruined mess with bone shards and brain matter and hair sticky with blood. His cornflower blue eyes stared forever in different directions, one gazing up at the ceiling, the other hanging limply by the cheekbone, stared for the first time at his own mouth. There he was. Mrs. Worick could not turn her gaze from his broken face this time, not like she had in the fog, or when he'd perverted the face of the once mischievous son. Father stepped forward and rested a hand on his young daughter's shoulder.
- [72:12]
Maxwell Murray
Empires, heirs are not only built with blood, my dear Enid. It's how they keep their power. Though your witless husband will be the face of this company once I am gone. Only you have the cunning to do what it takes to carry an empire. You are the heir. You carry the next generation in your womb, and if you are willing to do what it takes, you can give them everything. Princes and princesses of industry. But only if you're willing to protect this empire by whatever means necessary. Even if you must spill a little blood. Even if you must spill an ocean of it.
- [72:57]
Atticus Jackson
Enid cupped Mr. Morris good cheek, stroking her belly with the other hand. Mrs. Warwick remembered how. How she felt her child's life kicking in her and knew how close they'd been that night to losing everything. She'd looked then at the grandfather clock with its damned souls and celestial bodies and swore not to God or Satan but to the Warwick family name, that she would stop at nothing to protect their empire.
- [73:25]
K.A. Collings
I will spill all the blood in heaven and hell if I must.
- [73:30]
Atticus Jackson
The minute hand ticked forward and the clock read 12:43, and once again Mrs. Warwick fell through endless fog. The memories flashed by, quicker this time, never landing solidly like the first one, and each time she returned to the fog, she begged it to take it all away, to let her lose Mrs. Worick to the nothingness. But the memories kept coming. Through the years, Enid played the perfect heiress, her belly swelling 14 more times, though only 10 survived the birth. In public, she and her witless husband attended countless charities and society functions, the perfect happy couple in a perfect, happy family, representing all that was good about Dr. Worick's cosmetics. And in private, her witless husband did his job of giving her babies for their empire. Empire. While Enid learned all the dirty, bloody realities of doing business from her father. Mr. Morris was not the only dead man to grace Father's study. With time, Enid learned how to aim a bullet right between the eyebrows so the screams wouldn't wake the children. And when her eldest grew old enough, she taught him too. As promised, the empire grew in its power until only Queen Victoria herself could rival their dominion. But then came the headlines, first about the missing journalists, then investigating the string of murders, and then the whispers, the speculation, and the political cartoons of her father, adorned in a crown sparkling with jewels, sitting atop a dragon's hoard of gold and bones. And when the expose Miracle Powder Kills rippled through England, the end had finally begun. Enid was 65 years old when she found her father hanging from the rafters of the stables. He'd been hanging for hours, and his purple, bloated face was unrecognizable. She'd called for Anderson, the new Anderson, nephew of the first Anderson, to cut him down and bring him to the study. He'd sat him at the the desk and left at Enid's command. Dr. Worick, once Emperor, had looked shrunken in his throne. He slumped forward, his bulging eyes staring at the newspapers scattered on his desk, all with some version of the same headline about the Enid hit her father's body, beat him with his own cane. Her cane. Now she'd inherited it, along with the rotted, infected Corpse that was Dr. Worick's cosmetic. He taught her how to reign over an empire and keep her crown through blood. He had not taught her how to rescue a business crumbling faster than Boudicca had burned London to the ground. Enid swore before all of England, the crown and God that Her father had simply died of old age. He was 94 years old, after all, and with him had died the company's legacy of death. For all their controversy, or perhaps because of it, half of proper English society came out for his funeral. And there they had the chance to see how she and her healthy children were turning a new leaf. A new chapter for Dr. Warwick's cosmetics and a new formula for their miracle powder. The new formula was very much like the old formula, but with the added health benefit of white chalk, which of course did nothing at all. The dozen or so doctors and scientists she'd paid handsomely, however, had assured the public of the safety of the new formula. This bought her another seven years. The widow Worick returned to the dust filled study. The grandfather clock was back in its rightful place. Father's corpse sat in the wingback chair now shriveled with years of decay. She had never moved him, not from the first moment Anderson placed him there. The witless husband took her father's place beneath the dirt. He'd done his job just fine and now his work was through. Father, on the other hand, he wasn't done. He couldn't leave her to deal with his mess all on her own. He couldn't just walk away from it all. No, she wouldn't let him. He would sit there and stare at those headlines, at the mess he made for all eternity. The whispering started once more and this time their message was clear. Blood for gold. Blood for gold. You knew, you knew. Blood drenched your gold. The study door rattled, heavy though it was. Mrs. Worick hardened her heart and opened the door. The living dead packed the corridor. The shadows finally made flesh, their bodies littered with black boils. Some oozed pus from open wounds. For others, the pus had melted skin down to muscle and even bone. Their fury was a storm. They pushed her through the sea of bodies. Fingers clawed at her clothes and skin and hair, tearing, tearing, tearing. Heels ground into the bones of feet until they snapped. She was drenched in the black pus that poured from their boils and the fetid smell of them made her eyes burn. And all the while they chanted. Blood for gold. Blood for gold. You knew, you knew. Blood drenched your gold.
- [79:03]
K.A. Collings
But we never lied.
- [79:05]
Atticus Jackson
The air was mostly crushed from her lungs.
- [79:08]
K.A. Collings
The powder does everything we promised. We didn't lie.
- [79:16]
Atticus Jackson
Her words fell on uncaring ears. They pushed her between stinking, rotting bodies all the way to the grand staircase. And as she emerged from the roiling sea of the damned, her broken body collapsed, tumbling down each step she landed in the foyer in a heap of and she heard breathing. Ragged gasps came from the bottom of the right hand staircase. Mrs. Worick didn't want to look. She knew deep down what she would find. And she didn't want to see. Still, her mind brought forth two final headlines. Warwick Empire Crumbles, Parliament Bans Miracle Powder and Letter to Daughter Reveals Worick's New Miracle Powder Kills. Below the headline of the second, a woman covered in pustules danced with a hooded figure of death, the final killing blows of their empire. After that had come the mob packs of their pustule covered victims and their loved ones banging down the gates of Blyton Hall. They barricaded the gates for days, then weeks. Most of the staff slipped away, but the loyal few stood by. The widow. Not even her children, safe in their own homes, attempted to rescue her. Eventually, the food ran out and Mrs. Warwick grew hungry. She'd never known hunger before, only want followed by satisfaction. It had consumed her, her decency, her rationality, the last vestiges of her humanity. The ragged breaths of silence continued in the foyer and Mrs. Worick lifted her head, peeking through short lashes. Bones littered the floor, gnawed clean by weak teeth. Florence and Anderson no longer looked very different from one another.
- [81:06]
Maxwell Murray
You were still hungry, though, weren't you, Enid? After all that, you still had to fill that gnawing void in you, didn't you, dear one?
- [81:17]
Atticus Jackson
Father pulled her up, dusting the thick motes of white from her shoulders. His face was neither bloated nor decayed. It was haughty and alive. He grabbed her chin, lifting it to look into her weak old eyes. There it was, that judgment.
- [81:37]
Maxwell Murray
But there was only one thing left, wasn't there?
- [81:42]
Atticus Jackson
Mrs. Worick broke his snobbish gaze, focusing on the dark corner of Blyton hall behind him. Enid, now old and frail and wearing nothing but a nightgown, lay slumped against the grand staircase, surrounded by several empty bottles of miracle powder. She stared into the middle distance, either unable to see her other self or unseeing of anything at all. Her body was riddled with pustules. Rivulets of the black seepage spilled down her skin, and in the places where the sludge was thickest, her flesh eroded down to bone. A pustule the size of a hornet's nest pulsed at the base of her throat. Below that, her entire chest had collapsed. All the skin and fat and muscle eroded away completely.
- [82:33]
Sam Foreign
Completely.
- [82:34]
Atticus Jackson
And all that was left were the crumbling remains of her rib cage. Her bones were stained with black, and the matter was already burning holes through the now exposed soft tissue within her. Her lungs fluttered weakly as she drew in breath like a tattered sail. Mrs. Worick trembled, and as she did, dust fell from her shoulders. No, not dust, she realized as she rubbed the substance between her fingers. It was too thick, too chalky. Miracle powder. It fell around them like thick snow. Pustules erupted across Father's skin, dark boils that swelled quickly. One blistered beneath his eyes, bulging and ballooning until it ruptured. The pus carved through his cheek, a river cutting through a canyon of flesh. Mrs. Warwick recoiled, disgust and horror yanking at the base of her spine, but he held her still. She felt a faint pulsing at the base of her throat.
- [83:37]
Maxwell Murray
Do not despair, dear one.
- [83:41]
Atticus Jackson
The last vestiges of his cheek flapped uselessly.
- [83:45]
Maxwell Murray
I made you an empress, did I not?
- [83:49]
Atticus Jackson
The pulsing at her throat grew stronger now, like a second heartbeat.
- [83:54]
Maxwell Murray
We brought the world to its knees.
- [83:57]
Atticus Jackson
A beatific smile stretched across one side of his face, sagging on the other, and his eyes clouded with the mere memory of power.
- [84:07]
Maxwell Murray
And look at what we wrought.
- [84:10]
Atticus Jackson
Her gaze drifted, almost of its own volition, back to her other self. The hornet's nest sized pustule throbbed in sync with the pulsing at her throat. A scream built in her chest, but when she opened her mouth, all that released was a sound like a tattered sail. Escape. She must escape. The Widow Worick ripped herself from her father's grip and fled through the front door, out of Blyton hall, and into an endless fog.
- [84:43]
Sam Foreign
It.
- [85:23]
David Cummings
As your time with us has come to an end and you can now finally escape these sleepless tales, we thank you for joining us here at the no Sleep Podcast. Join us next week for another volume of our sleepless decompositions. The no Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Semido. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. Please visit thenosleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring you this show, along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives. On behalf of everyone at the no Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our dark tales. This audio program is copyright 2025 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or Reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.
- [87:30]
Brandon Boone
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- [88:25]
Sam Foreign
What is Dedication?
- [88:26]
Erica Sanderson
The thing that drives me every day as a dad is Dariana. We call him Day Date for short. Every day he's hungry for something, whether it's attention, affection, knowledge. And there's this huge responsibility in making sure that when he's no longer under my wing that he's a good person. I want him to be able to sit back one day and go, we worked together. We did a good job.
- [88:46]
Sam Foreign
That's dedication. Find out more@fatherhood.gov brought to you by the US Department of Health and Human Services and the Ad Council when we.
- [88:54]
Creative Reason Media
Started writing our thoughts down on paper, it opened up endless possibilities. Ideas could grow beyond the borders of the mind, and that changed the world. Somewhere along the way, we lost touch with paper, distracted by devices made for every purpose except for thinking and focus on edge, waiting for the next notification. But what if new technology didn't pull us away from paper but brought us closer to it? Listen. That's not paper. It's the sound of the new, remarkable Paper Pro rewriting the future. A paper tablet with a true color ink display, gentle reading, light and unheard of tactility. With digital features for taking notes, thinking and organizing without any distractions, paper is about to change the world again. Get your paper tablet@remarkable.com today.