Muse

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

THE END something even more bizarrely inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened. There is yet a third theory which states that both of the first two theories have been included here to welcome you, our listeners, to this episode of the No Sleep Podcast and provide something of an introduction for your guest host. Yes, I'm tall, bald and called David, but not the one you were expecting. Hello there, and thanks so much for joining us. We have five fables of fear for you this week on the subject of questions and answers. But first, before all of that, I shall bend to tradition and let you know something of my travels through space and time to be here with you today. Back in the mists of ancient time, or the late 80s and 90s, I was introduced to audio drama through the cassettes of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, as quoted at the top of the episode. I used to listen to them at bedtime, falling asleep to the relaxing lilt of Peter Jones as the book telling me all about life, the universe, and everything. At the same time, I enjoyed ghost stories thanks to a cassette with Edgar Allan Poe stories on it, which was probably my initial way into audio horror. As an older millennial, though, I was hit by the 16-year drought from the cancellation of Doctor Who in 1989, which is why I ended up finding groups online doing their own interpretations, and how I got involved with Darker Projects, which started my audio career over 20 years ago now. The voice acting ran alongside my planetarium work and astrophysics background, another hangover from Douglas Adams and the Doctor. It was around the end of Series 3 that I discovered no sleep, and immediately went back to the beginning and binged listened through Series 1 and 2. By that point, I had decided that I wanted to be a part of it. So in July 2014, I was introduced on Series 4, Episode 8 as an, quote, actor and scientist, because those things often go together, right? And performing a story called Still Waters. It's quite fitting for this season's theme. Since then, it has been an honour and a privilege to be part of the No Sleep team, especially to be invited on tour to meet so many wonderful fans and fellow contributors.

I have also written a couple of stories for the show, the first one of which, all children look the same, was very heavily based on reality when I had taken work as a Santa one year. But one of my absolute favourites was the amazing Erica Sanderson's first story, My Wife Cooked Me Dinner, by Rona Vassilar, and you can hear the circumstances leading up to that encounter in last week's show. In my career, I've played the Doctor, the Devil, several times, and even Arthur Dent, which was a personal highlight of mine. And so, in that spirit, I have my pocket Scrabble set, so I'll introduce a random element and pull some tiles out to find out what the ultimate question of this podcast is going to be. Right, okay, let's see. B-R-A, bra. Okay, uh, C, E, Y, a few more, uh, oh, ah, yeah, I see. Haha.

Brace yourself, for tonight there will be no sheep. No sheep? I always said there was something fundamentally wrong with the universe.

Mr. Alt, I'm paying you to host this show, and you make a sheep pun like that? I feel like I'm being fleeced. But that dad joke inspired me to take a moment to talk about StoryWorth, the service that helps you make memories. Because as we enter June, we start to think about Father's Day. I lost my dad years ago, but I often think about how I wish I could have had him around longer in my life. I would love to have learned about his life and experiences. StoryWorth would have allowed him an easy way to share about his life. He'd get questions and prompts, and he'd respond however he wants. Writing back over email or web, voice recording, or, new this year, a guided phone call. No apps, login, or tech hassle. It gives your dad a year-long experience and gives your family a book full of stories he'd probably never think to tell on his own. StoryWorth meets him where he is so he can focus on the joy of remembering and reflecting. You get each story as he tells it. And after a year, StoryWorth compiles everything, his words, his photos, his life, into a beautiful hardcover book. This year, give Dad a gift that captures who he really is before the stories get harder to remember. Father's Day is Sunday, June 21st. Order right now and save up to $20 at StoryWorth.com slash nosleep. Save up to $20 at StoryWorth.com slash nosleep. You know it. StoryWorth.com slash nosleep. Now, David, how about our first tale?

In our first tale, we meet Evie and James, a lovely couple who have lost their beloved cat, French Fry. The answer seems simple. The bus must be to blame. But in this story, brought to us by Nick Porrish, we find that each answer delivers more questions. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, and Graham Rowett. So, if your pet goes missing and is found again, you may want to check it for worms.

I was sobbing late at night in our narrow bed. And back in those days, when I sobbed, James sobbed too.

It was the bus, James. The bus got her and some garbage man probably swept her up without even checking for a tack.

The bus that arrived three times daily at the stoop outside of our apartment had claimed the lives of four other neighborhood cats in the time since we'd moved in. Its bulldozer of a grill was so tall that the driver never even saw the cats before the vehicle's tremendous wheels flattened them against the asphalt. James collected his sniffles.

The garbage people don't just throw away dead cats. They have to call animal control, and animal control checks for tags.

I nodded, but the weight on my chest didn't get any lighter.

And she's chipped, Evie. They check her chip, too.

Slowly, sequestered in each other's arms, we caught our breath. James held my cheek in his palm and wiped away my tears with his thumb. It had been nine days since French Fry, our little calico, had slipped out of the front door and disappeared. I'm going to drive by the old place again.

Okay.

She always liked the old place better.

Yeah. There were more bugs and worms for her to play with there.

I slid out of the bed and onto our clothes littered floor. James sat up and leaned against the headboard.

Wait, you mean right now?

I nodded as I changed into pants and a sweatshirt. I can't sleep, James, thinking about her all by herself out there. It was April, and a heavy rainstorm was rolling in that night from the east.

What if you drive all the way out there and don't find her again? I mean, won't you just feel worse? I don't know. I don't know, but I have to try.

James swung his legs out of bed. All right.

Let's get going before the rain starts.

By the time we turned onto Congress Street towards the dingy duplex we'd spent our college days in, rain was pouring down our windshield in thick sheets. James rubbed my back with his right hand and gripped the steering wheel with his other. It was past midnight, but still not so late that there weren't plenty of kids trekking home from the bars with damp shoes and drawn tight hoods. When we arrived at our old place, the lower half of an aging, two-story house, the lights were still on.

So, what now, Evie?

I peered through the foggy car window, hoping to catch a glimpse of french fry huddled in the duplex's muddy, overgrown garden. No luck. But I did see people moving in the apartment's living room window. I unbuckled my seatbelt. I'm going to knock.

Evie.

Maybe they've seen her. I opened my car door and stepped into the rain. James followed a moment later. I rang the apartment's doorbell, and a college kid with a mustache as wispy and ephemeral as moth's wings answered the door.

What's up?

The words blasted the smell of raspberry vodka directly into my face. Music and buzzed chatter echoed from the living room. I explained that we used to live in the apartment, that our cat had been missing for nine days, that we thought she might have come back here when she realized she was lost.

So, have you seen her? Um, no. Shit. But one of the basement windows got busted in last month. Our landlord taped a garbage bag over it, but, like, raccoons and critters and shit still crawl in there sometimes. Maybe your cat's chilling down there right now.

Can we check?

Sure, man.

The kid showed us to the basement door in the apartment's kitchen and swung it open. The light from the kitchen barely made it to the bottom of the basement stairs before it was swallowed up by darkness.

The bulbs out, so just, like, be careful.

I nodded, and James and I descended the stairs. The kid wandered back to his friends. At the bottom of the stairs, I pulled my phone out and clicked on the flashlight. The basement was dark, that type of deep, heavy dark that is almost tactile, like you could reach out and grab it or it could reach out and grab you. The wind and rain shook to the flapping bag taped over the window and sent a cold shudder across my skin. French fry? The wind howled in response but then from deep in the darkness I heard a soft meow. French fry? Come here baby girl. I took a step into the dark. James hesitated on the staircase behind me. I'll find her. I know you don't do great with the dark, creepy shit. James shook his head.

No, I'll go with you.

Together, we stepped into the shadows. The basement was big, bigger than I remembered. We called out to French Fry and moved in the direction of her gentle cries. We stepped around a half-finished wall of sheetrock, and the glow of the kitchen upstairs was gone. The narrow beams of our flashlights were all we had. French fry? This time, there was no response. I paused and felt a creeping sense of dread slither into my chest. My fingers brushed something and... James? He squeezed my palm.

I can't stand this basement. Always feels like something's watching us down here.

French fry's watching us. I swept my flashlight over the bare, cobwebbed wall. And there she was. My French fry. peering at me with her bright green eyes from behind the water heater. Her white, black, and orange fur matted with mud and dirt. My sweet girl. French fry. I knelt down on the concrete floor and reached my hands towards her. She hissed, and something in her eyes shifted. The white of her canines blashed in the darkness, and she crept deeper behind the heater. James knelt down next to me.

She's just scared.

He dug a tin of wet food from his pocket, then cracked it open and set it down on the concrete. French Fry emerged from her hiding place and approached the can. She'd always been a small cat, but the time on her own had rendered her even thinner. I moved my hand to pet her, and her green eyes blared at me.

Let's not overstimulate her.

She sniffed at her food, then began to devour it. I stood up and watched her eat. This cat was the same size as French Fry, had the same pattern of spots on her white fur, the same strawberry pink color, but she finished the food and began to gnaw at the can.

Damn, French Fry, let's get you home where there's more food.

James picked her up, and she writhed like he was a stranger. What happened to not overstimulating her?

Yeah, well, I wouldn't mind getting back to bed at some point tonight.

French Fry squirmed and jerked her body. James held her tight in his arms, even as she began to dig her claws into his shirt. We wrestled French Fry through the rain and into the backseat of the car, thanking the college kid, even though it appeared he'd already forgotten we were there by the time we emerged from the basement. Instead of crawling into my lap during the muddy drive back to our new apartment, like she usually did, French Fry remained huddled on the floor of the back seat. When I turned to check on her, I saw her claws carving deep, narrow grooves into the rubber floor mat. Her eyes burned with a paranoid intensity. After we got home, James traced his fingers over the web of thin red lines that the cat had drawn across his arms during the whole ordeal. I sat on the edge of our bed and plugged in my phone.

Maybe I'll get cat scratch fever.

He wiped a bead of blood away from one of the cuts. He winced.

She got me pretty good.

I looked at the spot near the foot of the bed where French Fry had spent every night for years. Right then, she was somewhere hidden in the living room. Something's wrong, James. She's not herself. James flicked off the bathroom light and walked into the bedroom.

She's scared, and you're exhausted. I'll schedule a vet appointment tomorrow, so we can be sure she's healthy and didn't catch anything out there.

I nodded, and we crawled under the covers.

Everything'll be alright.

When we woke up, the apartment was covered in small, white bits of cotton, The felt skin on French Fry's favorite toy, a battery-powered stuffed fish that automatically flopped when it was turned on, was shredded and its cotton guts disemboweled. As soon as we turned on the light in the living room, French Fry scurried out of sight under the couch.

What the fuck?

She knows she did something naughty, I guess.

I squatted next to the couch and French Fry let out a low, quiet growl. Maybe. We made our chai and packed our work lunches. Normally, it was a daily struggle to keep French fry out from under our feet as she wove between us and rubbed against our shins. That morning, though, she only made her presence known once, when James stepped within a few inches of the couch and she dragged her claws across the top of his foot. Ah, damn it, cat. James jerked his foot away. I checked the clock and saw it was time to leave, so we hurried out the door. At work, between forms and spreadsheets, I thought about French fry. I thought about the deep, sick paranoia I saw in her green eyes when we found her in the basement. I thought about how quickly she lashed out with her razor-sharp claws when she'd been so gentle before. Something happened to her when she was on her own out there. I had no idea what, but something happened. When we got home from work that evening, she was still hidden somewhere away from our reach. As soon as we opened the front door, though, we were hit with the smell of something she did leave for us to find. Ugh, it smells like rot. We approached the litter box with our collars pulled over our noses. I lifted the box's lid, and the smell intensified.

Ugh, holy shit.

James, look. I bent closer to the box. The surface of the litter was softly pulsating, like desert dunes during an earthquake or skin with an intense rash. The gray dust shivered under my gaze. I grabbed the box's scooping shovel.

Evie.

I gently brushed away the top of crust of litter, and the stench exploded in strength. Crawling out of french fry's shit were dozens of writhing black worms, as thick and long as toothpicks. They burrowed deeper into the litter as the kitchen light hit them. Oh my god!

Where's french fry?

Like an answer to his question, french fry let out a raspy hiss. James started to turn, and she leapt down from the top of the fridge onto his back, driving her claws deep into his neck and shoulders.

Ah, fuck!

I screamed, and french fries sank her fangs into James' neck. I grabbed her around her emaciated stomach and tore her off of James' back. Blood seeped through the holes she left in his t-shirt. In panic, I hurled her. across the room. She landed on all fours and trained her burning, hateful eyes on me. French fry! She bared her fangs and charged. In the millisecond before she pounced, James swung his foot and sent her flying through the air. She hit the wall with a thud and slumped to the ground in a limp pile. James panted and held his palm over his bleeding neck. I started to sob, and back in those days when I sobbed, James sobbed too. French Fry was still breathing. We laid her unconscious body down in the bathtub, and James grabbed some bandages for his neck from the cabinet. When he was about to turn off the bathroom light, I stopped him. I don't want her scared when she wakes up. James nodded, and we closed the bathroom door. The emergency vet clinic opened at seven the next morning. I cleaned up the bite on James's neck. And we decided that as soon as they were open, I would bring French Fry to the bed, and James would go to urgent care to get checked for anything that she might have transmitted with her bite. Everything will be alright, Evie. In the bathroom, I heard French Fry wake up. She clawed at the door and shifted, seamlessly, back and forth between desperate wails and violent, war-like shrieks. James and I tried to ignore it, and eventually, we sobbed to sleep in each other's arms. I'm not sure what time it was when I woke up to a fat, wet drop of saliva landing on my lower lip. I opened my eyes. James? He was on top of me, his legs pinning down mine and panting. His breath was hot and damp, and yellow pus bubbled around the bite on his neck. James, are you okay? He slowly lifted his hand and rested it on my cheek, like he was going to wipe away a tear with his thumb like he'd done so many times before. In the whites of his eyes, I saw things as thick as toothpicks slither under the surface towards his irises. James. In one slew in motion, his hand shifted to my neck, and then his other hand was there too, and he was squeezing the air out of my windpipe with an iron grip. I thrashed, but his weight kept me trapped on my back. His eyes burned with the same paranoid energy that I'd seen in our cats. I groped at the end table until my hand found a single, sharp wooden pencil.

I swung it with as much force as I could muster, and its graphite tip sank into James' shoulder. He let out a deep, raspy wail, and his muscles loosened just enough for me to shove him off my body and onto the floor. I scrambled to my feet. Hot tears streamed on my face and my throat burned. James grunted like a wild animal and struggled to jerk the pencil out of his shoulder with clumsy, inarticulate hands. I stumbled over and into the bathroom, then locked the door behind me. My eyes adjusted to the bright light. I saw deep purple imprints around my neck and drops of blood from James' arm on my sleep shirt. I took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to get a grasp of the situation. My phone was in the bedroom with James, and he seemed to be having some kind of psychotic crisis. But the bathroom had a second door leading into the entry hallway, and maybe... The door shook as James pounded his fists on the cheap wood. I backed away until my heels brushed against the bottom of the shower curtain. French fries screeched and leapt from the bathtub. The shower curtain popped off its rings and formed a millimeters thick barrier between me and my beloved cat's fangs. I threw the tangled mess of cat and vinyl onto the floor. I threw open the door to the entry hallway and left the bathroom. I pulled on my shoes and started to open the front door. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, and the first rays of morning sun crested the horizon. It sounded like something was choking out his vocal cords. James stood at the opposite end of the hallway and took a shaky step towards me. Blood oozed from the pencil in his shoulder. I don't know what's happening. James, I'm going to help you, but I need to leave now, okay? Like a marionette on strings, his uninjured arms seemed to raise by a force not its own. The morning sunlight bounced off the blade of a kitchen knife in his hand. I'm... sorry. He charged.

I'm...

I dove through the door and into the chilly morning air. My feet tripped down the front steps, and my knees landed hard on the sidewalk. I got to my feet as James staggered through the door behind me. I limped across the street towards the bus stop on the other side, stepping over mounds of squirming earthworms on the damp asphalt. James shuffled after me. I reached the other side and turned to look at the person who was supposed to be the love of my life. I froze there in that moment as his paranoid eyes burned with hate. and he raised the knife high above his head. He lunged towards me, and... The driver didn't even see James before the vehicle's tremendous wheels flattened him against the asphalt. The bus skidded to a halt, and I leaned against the stop sign, shaking and crying. James' blood intermingled with the shredded guts of crushed earthworms as the driver got off the bus to see what happened. Oh, my God! I sobbed, and no one was there to sob with me. French Fry was already gone when the police came to look through the apartment. I figured she slipped through the front door again, like when she first disappeared. James became a bizarre footnote in textbooks on interspecies disease transmission, an engaging topic for graduate students to discuss for a few minutes every semester. Some mornings, I can still hear horrendous beeline shrieks and the crunch of bones beneath bus wheels during the half-conscious moments before I'm entirely awake. When that happens, I lay on my narrow bed and sob. I try to process the terror and the grief and the violence of that damp, bloody morning. Crying is a lot harder when you're crying alone, but maybe one day I'll start to learn how. I decided pretty quickly, though, that french fry would be the last pet with fangs that I'd ever own. I always wanted a tortoise anyway. The cat was James' idea.

Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com. Delighted to welcome two new sponsors on this episode. Although our first one here is going to give you a much better sleep. Not sure how I feel about that. But seriously, have you ever struggled with bed sheets that slip off the corners? Your sheets and pillowcases getting a bit threadbare. They say most people keep their bedding way longer than they should, and it can really start affecting your sleep. That's why we upgraded our bed with Bowl & Branch. They make everything your bed needs. Their signature organic cotton sheets, pillows, blankets, and comforters are all designed to be breathable, incredibly soft, and get better over time. We got our signature hemmed sheets from them recently, and sleeping on them has been a dream. Literally, we noticed the difference immediately. Our old sheets always bunched up and felt uncomfortable. Bowl and branch sheets feel so luxurious and soft. I really feel like I'm sleeping better on them. I may want to give you no sleep, but take it from me. Bowl and branch sheets are the ones you'll want to fall asleep on. Get 20% off your first order, plus free shipping during the Memorial Day sale at bowlandbranch.com slash nosleep with code nosleep. That's bowlandbranch, B-O-L-L-A-N-D, branch.com slash nosleep, code nosleep to get 20% off. Say it with me, bowlandbranch.com slash nosleep, code nosleep. Exclusions apply. And if you know me, you know I'm kind of a big deal. And by that, I mean I'm a big guy. Tall and wide. I struggle with all this extra weight, and I struggle to lose it. And now with new GLP-1 medications, I know extra help is on the way. And that's thanks to Weight Loss by HIMS. Because I don't want to just lose weight, I want to look better and feel better. That's why Weight Loss by HIMS now offers access to the FDA-approved Wagovi pill and the FDA-approved Wagovi pen. Wagovi is designed to help you lose weight and keep it off so you can stay on track with your goals. With Wagovi at HIMS.

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D.H. Parrish feels like he's struck it lucky in life when he meets Courtney, who turns out to be quite a unique individual in more ways than one. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Mary Murphy and Atticus Jackson. So don't question your luck, just count your blessings, especially when the odds are one in a million.

You know, you'd be lucky to have me, because I'm one in a million.

That's what Courtney said to me over lattes at Prestige Coffee about a minute into our date. It was my first dip back in the pool since Emma had ghosted me a year earlier, blocking me on social media and disappearing from my life without a trace or explanation. I was still scarred from that, and I didn't want to play such games again. So when Courtney made this pronouncement, I was afraid I'd matched with another self-centered loon. And hey, maybe that was my type. With my stomach in knots, I thought about excusing myself and leaving right then. But after five seconds of awkward silence, Courtney cracked a smile and giggled. This was her icebreaker, she explained. She had dextrocardia, so her cardiovascular system was located on the right side of her chest rather than the left. It didn't affect her health, but it meant, she said with a wink, that I couldn't find my way to her heart the same way I'd tried with other women. I replied that I hoped it just meant her heart was always in the right place.

It always will be.

She reached over and lightly patted the back of my hand. And so began the best date of my life. It turns out, dextrocardia is a lot more common than one in a million. It's more like one in 12,000. But Courtney was still special. Smart, kind, quick-witted, and breathtakingly beautiful. With big brown eyes that lit up when she laughed. That first encounter was only supposed to last about 30 minutes. but we stayed at that beat-up wooden table nursing our coffees and talking for almost three hours. By the time we parted, I was pretty sure she'd be the one, and after our third date, I was absolutely sure. I proposed to Courtney at our four-month anniversary, getting down on one knee at the most expensive French restaurant I could afford, using the diamond ring my grandfather had given my grandmother 66 years prior. I perhaps moved quickly by modern standards, but why wait when you know? My grandparents were engaged only two months after they met, and their marriage, the one that started with that same ring, lasted over 50 years. Although, given grandpa's dementia, one could argue whether grandma was really with the same person for the Final Four. Still, when Courtney shouted yes to the polite applause of the tables around us and our waiter brought...

us two flutes of champagne for us to drink to our future, it was the happiest day of my life. My parents live around here, so Courtney had already met them several times before our engagement, and they liked her well enough. My mom was a bit surprised when I asked if I could have grandma's ring to propose. It had been bequeathed to me, but my parents were keeping it for me in their home safe. She asked why I was rushing into marriage, and that while Courtney seemed wonderful, was I sure I knew her well enough. Wouldn't it be better if we took more time to get to know each other before making such a commitment? I brusquely told her I was dead certain, and if she didn't like it, she could skip the wedding. She paused, took a deep breath, and handed me the ring. As I thanked her and turned to leave, she muttered one of her lines, You can't put an old head on young shoulders. I, on the other hand, never met Courtney's family in person before the wedding. Her mother and two older sisters lived across the country. Courtney never knew her father. He'd disappeared from the picture before she was born. Courtney didn't know herself if her mother left her father or vice versa. She said her mother never talked about him other than to say he was gone. and her sisters remained similarly mum on the topic. On the few occasions when she'd try to go internet sleuthing, she'd uncovered nothing. Some people become obsessed with the hole in their lives an absent parent creates, but Courtney took the opposite tack. She didn't care. Her family seemed pleasant and polite enough when I was introduced on a Zoom call, although they were hard to read. That said, Courtney's mother couldn't have disliked me or the idea of me too much, since she insisted on paying for the wedding reception. And in contrast to stereotypical tales of demanding in-laws, she placed no limitations and attached no strings on what we wanted to do. Well, one exception. She requested that the dinner not be, quote, some horrid vegetarian affair, end quote. We organized the wedding to be held on the Sunday before Labor Day, almost three months after the engagement. Preparations went quickly, and surprisingly smoothly. When I was with Emma, even though we never had formal discussions of marriage, she'd nonetheless already informed me about the non-negotiable decisions as to who would be in her wedding party, her color scheme, the floral arrangement, cascading yellow roses, and the song for the first dance. Courtney had no preconceived notions about what had to happen at her wedding, save that the music played, the wine flowed, and everyone danced.

When you don't have any meddlesome relatives, deal breakers, specific childhood dreams that need fulfilling, or childhood traumas that need addressing, and have solid financial backing, wedding planning is not so complicated. On the Friday before the big day, my parents hosted a small rehearsal dinner at their favorite neighborhood Italian place, La Strega. Courtney's mother and sisters flew into town that same day. They refused to let us pick them up at the airport, they wouldn't even specify which flight, and instead met us at the restaurant. Courtney said her mother had always been like that, always refusing favors. Courtney thought it was because her mother had been so independent and viewed accepting help as a sign of weakness. Anyway, the three arrived at precisely 8 p.m. They were all quite tall, taller than Courtney by almost half a foot, and thin, bordering on gaunt. They made an entrance as if walking a runway, their long black hair flowing behind their narrow figures. They wore matching black sheath dresses with cape sleeves. And in the restaurant candlelight, they looked more like three sisters. Dinner conversation that evening was light and superficially jovial. Courtney's sisters rarely talked, and Courtney's mother answered questions without ever divulging any real information or opinions, deflecting like a seasoned politician. My parents didn't seem to care or notice. They'd already had a few drinks before anyone had arrived, so everything seemed fine, and they were reconciled to the marriage, keeping whatever residual reservations they had to themselves. When the meal ended, the three refused offers of a ride to their hotel, insisting on finding their own way. After dinner, Courtney and I drove back to my apartment. which would become our apartment after the wedding. In fact, Courtney already practically lived there, having laid claim to over half my closet and drawer space. She anticipated my question before I could ask it, and said that her mother and sisters were usually a bit more, well, interactive, but that they were probably tired from the cross-country trip and not ready for the whole family union thing. She was sure that they liked everyone, and that, even if they didn't, well, to hell with them. She gave me a peck on the cheek to put an exclamation point on that last sentiment. The next night, Courtney went out with her mother and sisters alone. There was a tradition, she explained, a rite of passage, where, before a wedding, the women in her family had a private, girls-only gathering. She didn't know how long it would last.

In fact, she only knew the vague outlines of what would happen, as she'd never actually been to one. I don't care what happens, I told her, as long as you come back to me, the same Courtney. While Courtney was with her brood, I went out with a group of friends, including my best man, Jeff, for what passed for my bachelor party. Jeff wanted to go to a strip club, but I nixed that idea. His compromise was the rack, a Hooters knockoff that had a good beer selection, fair if overpriced wings, and a female waitstaff that wore tight midriff-bearing tops, decorated with eight balls over each nipple to go with the pool tables in the back that were the ostensible reason for the bar's name. That and the facsimile medieval torture device mounted to the wall by the toilets. As we sat nursing bottles of Heineken, empty overturned glasses from several rounds of tequila shots arrayed before us, Jeff got as serious as the alcohol he'd consumed would let him. He told me that while he didn't mean any offense, he wondered why I was rushing into marriage. I warned him that any statement that begins with no offense will inevitably be offensive, in sort of the same way that any statement that begins, I'm not racist, is inevitably racist. He nodded, but retorted that I should answer the question. After all, did I really know Courtney well enough? I told him I knew her well enough to know that she and I were meant to be, and if he thought otherwise, he could piss off. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. If we'd been drinking beer and glasses, I would have poured mine over Jeff's head. Unable to make that dramatic gesture, I stood up and stormed outside to get some air. It felt damp and oppressive, reeking of the secondhand smoke from those congregating at the entrance to share cigarettes. Damn it, why didn't everyone else shut up? I knew this marriage was right, even if we've only known each other for a short time, even if her mother and sisters were a little weird. I was going to... no. I was destined to spend my life with Courtney, um, uh, uh, Bouchard. I paused at that declaration, realizing that I couldn't remember Courtney's middle name. I then questioned if I ever even knew it to forget it. How could I not know that fact? What else didn't I know? What was her favorite movie? Favorite book? Cats or dogs? Why was her family so strange? Was Jeff right? No, of course not. It was the alcohol getting to me,

and I just needed to get out of there and get some sleep. I went back inside and told Jeff and the others I was calling it a night. Jeff said they would stay and continue to celebrate on my behalf. I figured they were enough in their cups to fantasize about having a chance with some of the Rack girls, and God bless the triumph of hope over experience. Before I could leave, Jeff handed me a glass of brownish liquid, insisting I down one final shot to celebrate the end of bachelorhood. To the future, the undiscovered country. You know the undiscovered country is death? Shut up and drink. You'll be trapped soon enough. We downed the whiskey. I took a cab to my apartment. Not having consumed so much since my college days, I staggered through the door and stumbled into my bedroom. I shed what clothes I could and climbed under the sheets, the room spinning as I fell asleep. I awoke in darkness to the sensation of a weight pressing on me, a weight making it difficult to breathe. What was going on? Was I having a heart attack? It took me a second to realize. The weight was Courtney, her naked body on top of me, her arms and legs entwined tightly around me. She had been planning to spend this final evening at her own place, so this was unexpected. On all other nights, this situation would feel charged with erotic possibility, but at that moment, I only felt constricted, as if some serpent were squeezing the life out of me. I tried to escape Courtney's embrace, to push her off. But I couldn't. I tried to speak, but no words came out. I don't know what happened next, save that I must have passed out. I came to in daylight, this time alone. No sign of Courtney. It must have been a dream, I thought, just excess booze and sleep paralysis. I forswore tequila for the near future. I trudged out of bed and went to the kitchen, where I was greeted by the blessed smell of brewed coffee. That was a bit strange, since I was pretty sure I hadn't said it the night before. There was also a note on the counter. Last night was amazing. The first of forever. I called Courtney to find out what the heck had happened. The call went to voicemail. I texted her, we need to talk. She replied, I know you called. It's bad luck for us to speak until the wedding. Wait for it. This was odd. The Courtney

I knew, or thought I knew, cared nothing for superstition. I looked at the note again. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me, but the handwriting seemed ever so slightly off, as if someone had made a very good copy of her style. Did I know Courtney's handwriting well enough to judge? Was that possible? What should I do? I dialed Jeff, who answered on the first ring. Before I could say more, he told me he was sorry about what he'd said last night, that Courtney was clearly the one for me, that he'd been out of line, and that he'd see me at the hotel in a few hours. I told him I needed to talk to someone, and could he please come over or meet me somewhere. He said he was kind of indisposed, and I heard a female voice in the background telling him to hang up and come back to bed. He told me he'd see me later, and the line went dead. I collapsed back on my couch and stared at the black mirror of the television screen. I must have still been tired because, lost in these confusing thoughts, I drifted off, woken again only by the sound of the doorbell. I got up and looked through the peephole. It was Jeff, thank goodness. I opened the door, surprised to see he was already in his tux. I asked him why he was dressed so early, and he asked me why the hell I wasn't. I glanced at my watch. Shit. It was late. I must have slept the day away. I quickly showered and threw on my formal wear and Jeff and I dashed off in his car. While we drove to the hotel, Jeff sheepishly explained that the girl I'd heard on the line was one of Courtney's sisters. She'd shown up at the bar after I'd left and one thing led to another and he figured I'd find out eventually and didn't want it to be awkward. When I started to talk about what he'd said last night and what had happened to me, he cut me off, saying that he'd reconsidered that I absolutely belonged with Courtney, and that he didn't want to hear another word about it. His about-face from last night, rather than reassure me, had the opposite effect. The brief time after our arrival at the hotel was a blur. Because I was late, the guests were almost all there, and the hotel wedding planner whisked me to my place, instructing me on where to stand and when to march. Like a weary soldier, I resolved to follow orders, hoping that going through the motions would be my salvation and lead me past these unexpected wedding day jitters. As my parents escorted me down the aisle, I tried to draw strength from all those in attendance to remember that this day was right and special, but I could not escape the uncanny feeling that I was a sacrificial bull

being led to the slaughter. I reached my designated spot at the altar, and the room became quiet.

and still, which let me feel my heart pounding that much more. Then the doors at the back of the room opened, and Courtney appeared, the assembled rising as one at the side of her. As planned, she entered alone. She belonged to herself, she said, and no one had the right to give her away. A princess in brilliant, blinding white. She proceeded down the aisle to strings playing Wagner's familiar tune, Diaphanous Tull veiling her face and neck, her train sweeping the floor with every step. When she glided toward me, all eyes on her graceful march, I prayed that my unease would fade, that seeing the love of my life would bring me to my senses. It didn't. Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is wrong, kept repeating through my mind. I forced a smile, trying to will that intrusive mantra to cease. But the closer she came, the more I wanted to cry out that this had to stop. I looked briefly back to Jeff standing just behind me, who nodded and put his hand firmly on my shoulder. He no doubt meant well, but it felt as if he were an arresting officer holding me in place. The officiant, a friend of Courtney's, welcomed us and began opining about love and marriage as Corinthians and Khalil Gibran would have had it. I heard the words and recognized occasional laughter from our guests, but comprehended nothing. When we turned from the officiant to face one another, I hoped that looking into Courtney's brown eyes would knock me out of this awful reverie, this unnatural panic. It only made matters worse. Something seemed off about Courtney's face. It lacked definition, appearing almost pixelated, as if an AI were trying but not quite succeeding in approximating Courtney. Of course, that was just an effect of her gauzy veil, and when the officiant nudged me to lift it, Courtney became Courtney. And yet, that definition took a moment to clarify. It was a fraction of a second, but still a perceptible lag, as if her face were adjusting to my expectations, like a photosensitive lens adapting to light. When I took her hand to place the ring on her finger, the ring would not go on the first time. Perhaps this was the sign, if the ring doesn't fit. But when I tried a second time, it slid on without problem, as if her finger had shrunk to accommodate it. And then, we were declared married.

I hesitated to lean in to kiss her, to seal the moment, and so she took control and pulled me tightly to her, the guests laughing as she did so.

You're mine now.

We walked down the aisle to cheers and then waited outside so that we could be joined by our families and greet our guests before the reception. I shook hands and smiled and hugged and thanked with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. When was I going to get over this ridiculous feeling? After about 30 congratulations, nausea overtook me and I excused myself. Looking for a place to hide, I went to the bridal room and then retreated into its bathroom. Staring down into a copper sink, I turned on the faucet, splashed water on my face, and slapped my cheeks.

What the hell? Get a hold of yourself, you idiot. Your life just took the most wonderful turn imaginable, and you're behaving as if you'd just been shown a portal to hell.

As I gave myself this pep talk, the bathroom door swung open.

There you are. I wondered where you'd gone to.

Courtney sidled up next to me and turned off the water.

It's too late to get cold feet.

She slid her arm around my waist, turning me so we were now standing side by side.

Look in the mirror. We're quite the couple, aren't we? Don't we look wonderful together?

I gazed at our reflections. They looked like us. The real us. The us that had fallen in love over that first coffee. We smiled, and they smiled back. Courtney, Courtney Elise Bouchard, seemed so beautiful. Her face with an ethereal glow. Her porcelain skin offset by her white satin dress. Its asymmetrical style exposing the perfect curve of her left shoulder. seeing a

together in the mirror seemed to break whatever evil spell I had fallen under. I felt relieved, happy again. All was well. It was just a bad case of nerves. And then I noticed a small black dot, just where Courtney's dress revealed a hint of the slope of her left breast. I turned from the mirror to look at the spot directly. I think you've got something on your chest.

I thought we just worked that out.

I don't mean metaphorically. It looks like an ink spot, perhaps some makeup. I grabbed a white tissue from a box on the counter and tried to rub the spot, which wouldn't come off.

What are you doing?

She flinched before she pushed my hand away. She shook her head and gently laughed.

you can't rub that away that's my tattoo you silly she pulled down the dress slightly

revealing cupid's wings and cherubic face with his bow drawn and aimed just below her nipple or were you just trying to get me to flash you oh yeah i tried to stay calm but my expression must have betrayed something, because Courtney asked if I was okay. I forced a smile and said something like, I guess the moment's still kind of overwhelming for me. She pulled the dress back up.

Well, let's get back to the party. You can see this again later tonight, and forever after.

She took my hand to lead me out of the room, but I drew it back. I told her to go on without me, that I just needed to freshen up. She paused, cocked her head to the side, and made me promise to come soon. So, here I am, in a hotel bridal room, trying to figure out what the hell to do. Of course I knew about the tattoo. Courtney had gotten it when she was 18. She'd had it drawn to show love's arrow pointing toward her heart. But the real Courtney, my Courtney, had her tattoo on the right side of her chest, where her heart was. This was on the left. Whoever that is that I just married, whatever that is, it's not Courtney.

The End Stillwaters of Season 4, to the churned tides of the Cape Fear River in Season 24 and beyond, it remains an absolute joy to be a part of the no-sleep journey with you. We are all so grateful for your support and continued presence here, and your enjoyment over 15 years of podcasting our particular blend of horror fiction. Check out the website for show notes, links for the new merch, and information about February's Crime Wave at Sea tour. and, well, I have to get back down to the dungeon again. And so it only remains for me to say so long and thanks for all the fish. Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

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 Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally, Ollie A. White, and Kristen Cimito. 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.

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