S24 Ep22: NoSleep Podcast S24E22

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 river bank, or the endless ocean. [MUSIC] It's time to dive deep into the abyss. [MUSIC] From the dark waters of the Cape Fear River,

Immers yourself in horror as you brace yourself for the no sleep podcast. [MUSIC] [MUSIC]

Thank you for joining us for the no sleep podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings. As we speed towards the end of season 24, we are keeping busy planning for the season finale. And all the bonus content and other fun things will have for everyone between seasons. [MUSIC] And we'll have our usual fan favorite episodes like Old Time Radio and suddenly,

come on, raps like some fall. Suddenly shocking, I mean. And we have some delightfully creepy episodes from our sleepless decompos. Are you kidding me? That was not outside.

I mean, our sleepless decompositions episodes. You know what, I need to apologize if I seem distracted. The world cup is happening and I've got the game on while I'm doing this. Sorry about that. But isn't that what so often happens to us?

“We've got a job to do something important that should require our full attention,”

only to find us distracted by other things. Whether it's our phones, something on TV, or perhaps another person who shows up to an OS, we end up focusing more on the things that aren't a part of our job. And to illustrate this point in great detail, we have tales this week that feature people going through situations just like that.

They're trying to do their job or get something important done, only to deal with things that make the situation turn frightfully fearful. It's almost like their stories turn into tales of unrelenting horror, which is a good thing for us. So I'm going to get back to work and focus on the task at hand.

No more distractions for me. And your job now is to listen to these tales and become immersed in the horror. That's it.

Oh, and of course, your other assignment, as always, is to brace yourself because it's

time to plunge into the horror of our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we meet Eddie. He's a college student earning some cash working the night shift at a truck stop. He's alone and deep into the night.

“Surely there's not much to keep Eddie from getting his chores done, right?”

Well, in this tale, shared with us by author Sam Cahn-Pantel, Eddie's shift is interrupted by a strange customer who looks like he needs to cool off. Performing this tale, our James Solus and Dan Zepula. So remember your tasks, get your work done, and above all remember, please, no smoking. Three slow hours and two and eight hours shift.

Things are already getting dull. I know no if I should be grateful or not that I haven't seen a customer in ages. Only my boss would make a busy college student work alone at a grimy truck stop in the

I pull out a list of shift tasks for the 18th time to check if somehow something new appeared. To think I'd give anything to clean right now, turn on all lights, check, organize cash register, check, clean toilets, check, mop floors, check, restock fridges and shelves, check, damn, time for my boss, it's a pretty thorough list.

You always forgets to tell me to turn on the lights.

The store is spotless, and it links to the previous shift workers, and I already ran out of chores to make up. I even searched through an abundance of cheesy, truck-themed name keychains, case I could grab an extra anniversary gift for Casey.

“Seriously, how do we have keychains from Maybelline and Gizmo, but not Casey?”

The sound of the front doors when you open snaps may out of my tangental thoughts, there's

a fuzzy shadow of a customer in the entrance, wait, what the hell?

Hello, I lean over the counter to get a better view, can I help you? No response, the shadow is gone, I swear someone was there, I get up to check outside and shut the door, storming like fucking crazy, and the wind must have pushed the door open, my breath out, no intruders, our ghosts, our demons, or any of that shit, thank God. My scribble will remind you on a sticky note to make the door a little harder for the wind

to open, that's all, just the wind, nothing unusual.

“Two more excruciating hours go by, and I only deal with one customer, an eccentric older woman”

in a yellow raincoat, who purchases the weirdest combination of road snacks I've ever seen,

tries to tip me as suspicious, wrinkled $20 bill, and tells me I'm a handsome young man who should come visit her cabin sometime, great. Right as I'm wondering if I'll meet any more fascinating characters, the store plunges into darkness. Of course this damn thunderstorm causes a power outage, following the winding drone of every

piece of technology in the building turning off, our ancient generator attempts echolocation. I trudger around the back of the store for a while, bumping against walls, until at last

“I reach our generator small red light, yeah, yeah, I hear ya.”

I feel my way around the utility room for the necessary cords and plugs, which must be stashed around the room in the most illogical way possible. Okay, you go here, and you go in there. With a short delay, lights flicker on, fans were up again, and the security locks click back into place, and Christ.

I could have sworn this old generator would be faulty, back at the front, the damn doors open again, but didn't even hear the bell ring, the storm is getting worse, cold gusts crawl into each corner of the room, knocking products off the shelves, rain and hail splatter the windows from every direction, the sun should rise soon, the sky is a visible, even when lightning strikes, I can't recognize anything other than the curtains

of rain, then the hands, long sharp hands reach through the doorway, fingers curl around the frame, dragging the horrible being attached to them into the truck stop. I stumble back and grab the edge of the counter, whatever the hell's in front of me, it's a shirring human, it's charred skeletal corpse smells like smoke, and it leaves ash wherever it touches, its back is hunched over to fit inside this building, it's long neck pressed

up against the ceiling tiles, but it could easily be 10 or 12 feet tall, this fuck, the hell is it, this thing has a linkied with their glimps, it lears protruding from its head,

away from them, this freak of nature is staring at me, staring inside me, its gaze

“warms its way into my eyes, pumps eyes through my veins, and restricts itself around”

my lungs, my back slams against the floor and feeling drains out of my body, shit, why is this happening to me, the room's swaying and blurs together, I can't hear anything over a horrible andcessant ringing, the figure towers over me, moving closer, an action bony hand reaches towards my immobile body, its arms splits in the tubes, threes, doubles

back on itself, the fluorescent lights blinding halo shine in my face, yet I can't close

my eyes, dark smoke swirls from its body and it fills the room, its fingers press on my shirt, my eyes will look with tears, whatever's left of that thing's flesh is burning hot, little by little, its hand digs, works itself into my chest, my shirt ignites and peels away, cheap fucking fabric, noting into nothing, my skin burns and bubbles into ashes, muscle, fat, and bones sluff away, to make room for this thing searching for my slowing

heart, tears leak out of my eyes, and the moisture just evaporates, my lungs swell with smoke as I grasp for anything breathable, the sour choking smell of my burning body is almost as torturous as the pain, is this it, I have to die here, some shitty demon kills me in a truck stop in the middle of god damn nowhere, do I even get to say goodbye, the

thing retracts from my flesh, a second away from my heart, my anatomy rebuilds itself, builds

the pit in my mutilated chest with reckless abandon, blood rushes through my body and I still can't hear anything over the pounding in my head, face appears through the corpse's body, with a creature disintegrates into smoke and ash, the face screams and shakes me, black spots fade in and out, my double vision flicks together for a moment, and I recognize who's above me, Eddie, get up, we have to leave, get up, Casey, I can't hear myself, he pulls

“at my stiff arms, salty tear drops fall on my skin, the building's on fire, you have to”

get out, what, it's so cold, I forced myself up, relying on Casey to hold me upright, I cough some smoke out of my lungs, he grabs and pulls me out of the store, my head throbs and I can't keep myself on my feet, he shoves me into the passenger seat of this car, and I unhelpfully attempt to orient myself, Casey throws something soft over me, a blanket, I try to tug on it and see something bright out of the corner of my eye, Casey's right,

the truck stops on fire, the reflection of flames dances on the car's window, was it ever even raining, did lightning strike when I wasn't paying attention, there's no fucking way this was some natural disaster, it made this happen, did you see it? there's no response,

“I turn as much as my stiff body allows, in case he looks worried, did you see it, on top of me?”

see what, you were just laying there, I thought you were fucking dead, his eyes flick away from mine and he grips the wheel, tears carved tracks through the suit staining his cheeks, I can't think, Casey didn't see, my head won't stop pounding, it touched me, it was killing me, he didn't see it, I'm in agony where it dug into me, under the blanket, I gently feel my chest, the skin is tight, like a layer of thick fresh scar tissue, it's numb but the flashes have

nerve pain follow my movements, if that thing wasn't real, if it was a hallucination from inhaling smoke, I stare back at the burning mass, the flames grow higher even as we drive towards the hospital, sparks shoot out from the back of the building, the roof crumbles into itself,

but I doubt the fire trucks can save what remains of that place, there's a shape in front of the building, still the wetted by the fire and smoke billowing around it, somebody is standing outside, I squint and barely make out the shadowy pair of antlers and piercing glowing eyes, as bright as the fire behind it, it's watching us. 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.thanosleepotcast.com. That story reminds me about how terrible it is to burn your food,

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that's home chef.com/noseleep for 50% off your first box and free dessert for life. Home chef.com/noseleep must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Thanks for your support home chef. And we're thankful that this episode is sponsored by Better Help. We're now into summer, and summer is the favorite season of many people. We think about vacation time to be outside

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Here's some advice. Always be nice to census takers. After all, they're counting on you.

Ah, that's fun. I bet Albert would laugh at that joke. He's a census taker in the town of Hemzley. But in this tale, shared with us by author Don Tobin, Albert soon realizes that the numbers aren't adding up, and he has to figure out what's going on in this strange little town. Performing this tale, are Graham Rowett, Mary Murphy, and Peter Lewis. So check your lists, do a proper

of counting people. Census work was neither difficult nor particularly thrilling, but it suited

“me. I found that numbers were reliable in a way that people were not. People misremembered and”

exaggerated. They moved around, had children, and ultimately died. I made sense of the mess using

nothing more than a pen and a ledger. It pleased me more than anything to tame the disorder and tuck it away into crisp vanilla folders. It kept me moving, door to door, town to town, enumerating the living and recording the dead. Sometimes I'd visit places that suited me. Tree lined streets where the houses stood in neat rows, and the hedges were trimmed just so. I'd knock on doors with polished brass knockers, where the scent of fresh baking drifted through

windows from orderly kitchens. Those were the sort of neighborhoods where fences were straight, and even the dogs, if they barked, sounded well-mannered. But not every place was like that.

“One day, I was somewhere else entirely. Hemsley was the sort of town where the numbers rarely”

changed. It was a small, insular place, tucked so deeply into the hills that it might as well have been forgotten. A decade had passed since I last had to count it, yet I found that little was different. There were a few coats of fresh paint here and there, sure, but it had the same sagging porches, the same rusted vehicles poking out of the tall weeds. The same rural blight settled in for the long rot. I sat in my car for a moment, engine ticking in the afternoon heat,

to watch life play out in the periphery. Somewhere off to the side, a door slammed, followed by the hurried slap of bare feet on pavement. I turned my head just in time to see a girl in a yellow dress dart across the street, already breathless. She nearly collided with a boy who had been waiting at the edge of the opposite yard, hands ringing at his sides. They stood close. The voice is barely carrying over the street. The girl shifted on her feet, throwing a glance over

her shoulder as if fearing pursuit by a parent. Such were the quaint troubles of children. I remembered being their age. When the most trivial things felt like the end of the world, scuffed knees, lost toys, a wrong answer in front of the class. Her moment I almost

ended their innocence. Life was easier when the worst of it never stretched beyond the playground,

or the brief reproach of adults. The boy pointed and the girl's eyes clicked toward me for just a moment before she grabbed the boy's wrist, tugging him away. They disappeared around the corner of a house, whispering urgently. I watched them go, turning back to the task at hand. With a curts eye, I drummed to my fingers against the steering wheel. Right. Routine town, routine job. Reaching across to the passenger seat,

I brushed aside some loose papers to pick up my hat, setting it into place over my thinning scalp. My briefcase followed, cool leather firm beneath my fingers. I pushed the door open and stepped out of the car with a grunt of exertion. The first house on my list was a familiar one. It's out a little apart from the others as if it had edged away over the years. A simple folk Victorian, likely built when the railroad first came through, it's once white clapboard-siding now a soft,

sun-fated gray. Mrs. Genevieve Holloway had lived there alone for as long as I had records of the place.

“One resident. One was a neat little number. What better place to start?”

I rarely lingered at doorsteps and almost never accepted hospitality while working.

It wasn't my job, nor particularly my temperament to make conversation. But last time, the heat had been unbearable, and when Mrs. Holloway had offered me a glass of iced lemonade, I'd surprised myself by accepting. I remembered the cool weight of the glass in my hand, condensation pooling at its base, as Mrs. Holloway talked at length about her garden. Soft tinkles from the wind chimes rang down from the porch eaves,

filling the silence between words and the rhythmic screams of cicadas. It had been idyllic. Serene, even, for a while. But as I approached the porch now, I could tell that

The lace curtains were drawn tight, starving the house of natural light.

“Paint was flaking away from the disheveled steps, which were half buried beneath layers of leaves.”

As I made my way to the door, my finger is brushed a wilted germanium. It's

planter tip to skew, as if someone had meant to write it, but never finished the task.

Well, it had been ten years since I'd last seen Mrs. Holloway. A lot could change in that time. Still, I hoped for the best, as I shuffled my case to the other hand, and knocked on the door. For a few dreadful moments there were silence, and I feared I'd lost an acquaintance in Hemsley. But then, the sound of feet scraping over hardwood came from within, and Mrs. Holloway answered, "Releaf washed over me." She was alive, but not well from appearances.

She'd always been a thin woman, but her frame seemed diminished, as though the years had hollowed her out rather than merely settling over her. Her skin had gone pale, stretched over her cheekbones, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face. A pair of smudged readers balanced at the tip of her nose, their silver frames contrasting sharply against dark circles under her eyes.

And yet, beneath it all, I could still make out the woman from memory. The way she held herself,

slightly stooped in a thin lavender robe. The flicker of recognition in her gaze as she stepped out in her slippers, the spring-loaded screen door, slapping the threshold behind her. When, if it isn't the sense it's mad, a hint of faux flirtation simmered beneath the frailty of her voice. Come to count us in Hemsley again. I quite liked that she remembered me, and played along by removing my hat,

curling my hand over the brim with a coi smile. That is, if you don't mind.

“Of course, of course. Can I offer you something to drink?”

Having anticipated the possibility, I shook my head with genuine regret. I'm afraid not today, Mrs. Holloway. This year I have to count Brooke Mirror as well, and I'll need the daylight. Is that so? She eased herself down into a rocking chair in the corner, gesturing toward a wicker chair with a floral cushion.

Dark patches of mold speckled the fabric, creeping along the seams, but I only hesitated for a breath before lowering myself onto it. I replaced my hat and prepared my ledger, shifting slightly as if that liked distance me from the mustiness of my seat. Ambitually I liked my fingers to peel some of the pages apart, glancing up with a cordial smile to indicate I was ready to begin.

Household numbers? I asked, smiling in a way that said, "It's just a formality." Two, of course.

“She tucked her robe closer around her shoulders, rocking her chair with her feet.”

Interesting. I faltered for a moment, flicking my eyes up without raising my head. She smiled sweetly. Two. I see. Did you remarry? She shook her head. A child returned home.

No, dear, just me and the other. I looked my fingers again, turning a page. If there was a new inhabitant, I would need to ask a few additional questions. Male or female. She let the utterance drag on for a moment, eventually offering a nonchalant shrug.

My brow furrowed, and I shifted my pen down to the next line. College educated? Mrs. Holloway noted, though from her posture I wasn't sure whether to take it as an affirmation or not. I suspect that I could have asked anything and received such an odd. It was the sort of gesture given by someone that hadn't heard the question,

but wanted to move on. Disturbed, I considered her for a moment. The simplest explanation was age, forgetfulness. I'd seen it before. Elderly folks losing track of time. Miss remembering who was alive and who wasn't.

It was sad, but not out of the ordinary. Of course. I marked one member of the household,

suraptishously sliding the second paper to the back of the stack.

Still, as I shut my ledger, I found myself watching her for a moment longer than usual as I stood.

Indeed, the power of her skin suggested it may have been a long while since she'd spent any time in the sun.

“The silence stretched for just a little too long, until I cleared my throat politely,”

clasping my case with a pinch. Well, this is Holloway. That's all I needed for today. I'd best be on my way if I'm going to make it the brick mirror before sundown. Maybe next time I'll take you up on that lemonade. As soon as I'd said it, I regretted it. I'd men it as a simple pleasantry,

but the words carried an awkward assumption, considering her age and condition. Mrs. Holloway only gave a small, unreadable smile and continued her rocking. If she found what I'd said to be a full paw, she gave no sign of it. She waved me off with an airy wave of her wrist. Uh-huh. It too, then, Mr. Censusnan.

I smiled again at her nickname.

“She seemed able to hold a conversation when she wished, but it felt a bit like an ember struggling to hold its”

glow. You may call me Albert, if you wish. But she was already somewhere else. Her gaze unfocused, the slow creek of the rocking chair and a crescendo of cicadas, the only response. As I stepped down from the porch, a peculiar sensation settled over me. There was a nagging, irrational notion that someone was inside the house,

watching me through the windows. I had no reason to think so. The curtains were drawn and they were opaque with the glare from the sun, but for just a breath, I felt strangely certain about it. Nothing to do but to shake it off. It was silly. Clearly, the old woman's odd insistence on another housemate was playing tricks on my mind.

“Still, as I walked away, I found myself smirking at the absurdity of it.”

Maybe it was Mr. Holloway's ghost keeping an eye on her.

Maybe the old man had never left, lingering in that dim parlor, while his wife sat rocking

on the porch with the "sensus man." Of course, I didn't believe in ghosts. Not literally anyway. But in another sense? Oh, sure. Everyone had ghosts. Ghosts were the past refusing to settle, regrets refusing to sink to the bottom. They were the things that stuck with you no matter how many miles you put

between yourself and where you began. I'd only wondered what kind of ghosts Mrs. Holloway had. Maybe it was living in a town that barely existed, watching the world shrink like a pond in a drought, with a vast horizon laid out beyond her porch, promising worlds that could no longer have meaning to her. Maybe it was sitting around, waiting for an old body to give up the fight.

I didn't know. Maybe she was looking forward to seeing Mr. Holloway again, if such things were possible. But then I thought about a photograph tucked away in a drawer, face down.

A street I always took the long way around to avoid, it was never able to resist glancing down.

Numbers had always been easier than people for me. They had rules. They were balanced. They didn't ask for anything I wasn't able to give in the right amounts and at the right times. My fingers flexed against my briefcase, gripping the leather tight until I smoothed the hand over my mustache and forced myself forward. It wasn't my job to dwell. It was my job to count. So I would. Door after door, with names and numbers recorded in steady, concise little writing.

If all went smoothly, the hours would slip by unnoticed. But it wasn't long before the numbers in Hemsley started to feel a little off. At the next house, a man with hollow cheeks and eyes like dull glass answered the door. His hands trembled slightly as he leaned against the frame. Census. I explained subconsciously keeping my distance. I just need to confirm the number of residents in the household. For? The man spoke flatly, though not impolitely. He looked me in the face,

but never quite met my eyes. I glanced beyond him to the inside. Small dim space behind the man

was unusually quiet. A woman, presumably his wife, sat at the kitchen table, staring at the wood as if there were a novel entrenched in the grain. Near the living room, a little girl peaked at

might have signaled distress. It took me a second to recognize the yellow dress I'd seen when I first

“arrived. Now she was perfectly still. Her fingers curled tightly over the top of the chair,”

seemingly holding her breath. "For," the man had said. At first I thought maybe the boy I'd seen the girl meet, lived there as well. "Um, and the fourth?" The man blinked at me. Then at the empty space beside him, as if expecting someone to step forward. "Oh, they must be out." I frowned slightly. "Out?" As I spoke, the girl gave a small shake of her head, just once, as if she herself didn't believe it. She held up a shaky hand with three fingers raised.

The man at the door hesitated. "It'll be back soon." He smiled. A thin, off-kilter thing that showed teeth, but no life. I marked three in my

“ledger and hurriedly moved on, mumbling my thanks. It was the same at the next house.”

And the next. A woman insisted there were four in her home. I counted three. The other two barely stirring on the couch. A tired-looking couple claimed five. I only counted two frightened children. A woulda were claimed to have two. I noticed two bowls set at the table behind him. One recently

empty. The other kicked in black mold. Always one more than expected. Whenever I asked about the

extra ones, the responses were muddled. Vague assurances, nervous glances, stammered corrections. Sometimes people changed the subject entirely. Other times they simply stared at me. Their expressions blank, as though the question itself didn't make sense.

“I'd seen census mistakes before. People miscounting or including relatives who only visited occasionally,”

but this wasn't some oversight. It was a pattern. The deeper I went, the clearer it became. Every face I saw was drawn. Their skin like wax paper stretched over their bones. The clothes hung loose on their frames. Their movements were sluggish. And getting them to speak more than a sentence was like pulling teeth. Was there some sickness here? I wondered. Some fever playing tricks on people's minds. I hadn't been briefed on any outbreak, but it was

possible. Could be something wrong with the water. I was thankful I'd turned down that drink from Mrs. Holloway. Still, the unease borrowed deeper into me with every door I knocked on, with every wavering uncertain voice insisting on a presence that clearly wasn't there. Eventually, frustration got the better of me. I stood at the edge of the town square, flipping through my ledgers, scanning numbers from the last census.

Hemsley had always been small. It's population predictable.

10 years ago I'd recorded each household, cross-checked every name, logged every resident with precision I was proud of. Even allowing for natural shifts, deaths, births, people moving, my records should have been roughly accurate. But they weren't. Even factoring in normal fluctuation. Every single household had one more than it should. I stared at the numbers, tapping my pen absolutely against the page, trying to make sense of it.

One extra person. Everywhere. Then there was that damn nimble feeling of being watched from every vacant window. Hemsley's small town coziness had somehow turned watchful. It made the hair stand up on the nape of my neck, the more I endured it. A sharp gust of wind rattled the trees lining the street, sending a loose scrap of paper skittering across the ground. The sky was turning overcast, dimming into a dull, sickly grey. I exhaled sharply, stuffing my pen back into my

case, and slamming it shut with more force than was necessary. This was absurd. I strode across the square, boots crunching against loose chunks of pavement, and exasperatedly climbed back into my car. I tossed my case onto the back seat and pulled off my hat, thrusting it onto the dashboard.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. My thoughts were running slow, like waiting through tar. I say we just move on. Next town is... I frowned. The name wouldn't come. It was right there,

“slipping between my fingers. Brookhaven? No, Brookmeer. I think you're like it there.”

Quite place. Just like this one. Good people. Easy to count. I was greeted by silence.

I glanced over at the passenger seat. My partner was watching me. The smile was the same as always.

Small, unreadable, almost polite. But the eyes... the eyes weren't there at all. Just smooth, cold hollows, empty sockets where something should have been. Such a strange person. Right. I said, feeling more tired by the minute. I shifted into gear. Brookmeer then. Plenty of people there for you to meet. My partner is smile, widened.

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in all 50 states. Wugovie is the registered trademark of Novo Nordisk AS. To get started and learn more, including important safety information, Wugovie clinical study information and restrictions, visit hymns.com. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. YouTube. They say these days more young people watch YouTube over regular TV and streaming

“combined. Frankly, I think the platform is full of debutchery and deep bunkery. Oh no, wait”

we that's a YouTube channel called debutchery and debunkery. And it exposes frauds and scam artists, and it's hosted by Max. But in this tale, shared with us by author Quincy Lee, Max is challenged by a woman who says she can absolutely make her believe in the supernatural. Performing this tale, are Erin Lilis, Jessie Cornett, Atticus Jackson, Lindsay Russo, and Nicole Goodnight. So, bold claims require bold evidence. Otherwise, you'll simply be debunked.

I'm sitting on a sofa in a cramped messy room. The carpet is faded and stained, the wallpaper peeling, and spots of mold speckled the ceiling. Everything about this old house screams disrepair.

A younger man, somewhere in his 30s, in a suit with the slick haircut and white smile of a dentist,

or maybe a realtor, flashes his pearly whites at the old man. Hello, sir. My name is Nathan. I'm a spiritual medium. Your family reached out to me and asked for my services.

“Can you tell me some of what you've been experiencing?”

She's there. Who's there? Nathan, the medium, glances at the chair, back to the old man. Who is it you see sitting in that chair?

He sniffs, wrinkles up his mouth in a frown.

And I don't know her name. For the record, I don't believe in any of this stuff. I am here because I don't believe. I'm also recording this entire interaction. The old man, the medium, the invisible woman in the chair in the corner. I make sure to get the chair. Lots of footage of it.

“I am tempted to get up and go sit in it, but that would ruin this whole charade, wouldn't it?”

Anyway, I just keep filming. Nathan, the smart me medium who should be a realtor,

looked confused when he first looked at the empty chair, but is now playing a long, full woo woo psychic mode.

To the woman in the chair, can I ask what you are doing here? What is it you would like to communicate? Silence. And Nathan turns to the old man. Do you see any change in her? The old man shakes his head. She's just sitting there. A few minutes more of a lot of nothing.

The medium decides to cast a blessing on the room to help put her spirit to rest. And then, the old man sits up straight. His eyes go big. She's getting up because she's she's laughing. She's she's cursing at us. Then he starts whimpering. Then she's coming closer. She's coming. She's coming. Stop her!

He starts screaming and the medium leaves up chanting words of a prayer in what is me probably no gold translate in Latin. He waves a hunk of burning sage and sprinkle salt while the old man screams. I get the whole thing on my phone. The screaming, the sage, the sweat, on Nathan the mediums brow as he shouts with increasing ferocity over the old man's howls, snarling at the empty chair. And when the moment is right, I yell,

"Good!" The old man stops screaming. His face breaks into a grin as he turns to me. Brilliant. You were brilliant. I angle my phone toward myself, speaking to the cameras we have set up to catch the psychic at work, and to my future audience, you all who should subscribe to my channel if you haven't already. This is Pete, an actor. A max host of debauchery and debunkery, where we used to take a shot for each lie, but we quickly realized we get drunk way too fast.

Now we just debunk stuff and then get drunk later while laughing about it. The only person who is not an actor here is Nathan, the medium, who as you can see quickly began speaking to an empty chair. Nathan, you stated several times that you could sense the presence

“in the chair. What do you have to say now that you know Pete here is an actor?”

Nathan has lost his charm. He stammers, red faced, furious had haven't been set up, looking between me and Pete and the chair as if unsure which of us is the most to blame for his predicament. He insists his powers are genuine and battles that there is a spiritual energy in the chair. Well, I go on to remark about how the chair itself is from Target. We bought it this morning. So was there spiritual energy at the department store before we brought it in?

He says it must be in the house then. I tell him how the house itself is a set. It's actually my house,

Though I guess you're right, there's not the greatest vibes. Feng Shui has always been a little

“often here. And I do need to replace the carpet the stains are real. The mold spots on the ceiling are fake.”

You get the idea. Call me Max, short for Maxine or Maximillion depending on my mood. I'm currently Nathan the medium's worst nightmare. His ruddy red face is on the verge of tears. Oh, his business is going to take a hit all right. You're waxed, so say to Monies, but this bullshit is hurting people. You hurting people by this mist in their beliefs, disrespecting the spiritual. You know, I'd say that's exactly what you're

doing by taking advantage of people, just like you tried with peeve here. I bet you go into schools and debunk Santa Claus to the little kids.

“How telling that you compare what you do to lying to children?”

So you know you're lying, you just think it's okay because they're feel good lies. You know what, make fun of all you want. But this stuff is real. You're full to mess with it. He turns and storms out. My last shot of him is both middle fingers held up. His dramatic exit is marred almost immediately by his return moments later. His face now blank as he thrusts a business card into my hand. Thanks for the tip, Nathan. Probably won't, though. It usually

doesn't work when people know I had a time. Call her. She will make you believe. He turns on his heel and strides out. I look at the card. It just says, "Make believe on one side

and on the other is an eye and a number." The eye has a nifty effect where it appears to always be

looking at you. The card is matte black with simple lettering. I tuck it in my pocket. A few days later, Nathan the medium contacts me via text. The episode has already aired. I'm sure Nathan is pissed about it. No doubt he's getting a lot of emails and calls. He's getting roasted in the comments. So, his messaging me is not surprising. Probably to beg me to remove it. Offer to bribe me. I've had all kinds of things. His message when I open it surprises me.

Forget what I said about the card. Just throw it away, please. Now I've always been a

contrarian. Had forgotten about the card until that moment. But of course after his request, I go digging it up. The matte black, the eye, the words make, believe, and the number to call. I call it out of curiosity, making sure to record the call so I'll have material later for an episode if this turns in anything. There's no ringing. Just a voice connecting almost immediately.

“The address is... Come if you want to believe. Corny. Probably not worth the effort of a”

debunk. But the address isn't too far from my sister's house and I have to visit her anyway to help her with a few things and talk about my brother-in-law. He's badly cancer. I make a note about it, and the next day before I head over to see my sister, I swing by the address. It takes a while to find a small psychic reading shop. More of a look, really, tucked between a bakery in a bookstore. You have to go down instead of stairs to even find the door,

and the room is so small it feels like stepping into a janitor's closet. The woman inside is neither old nor young. She's somewhere between 30 and 50 unremarkable bird of a woman with beady dark eyes and hair like a crow's wings, glossy black with a blueish sheen. Must be died. She's sitting in a chair in the corner in a long black gown. Stiff is a doll that's been posed. She has only one eye visible, which follows me as I step in and sit down in the chair opposite

her. The other eye is shrouded in shadow. Also the lights in here are very low. It's a nice effect.

Hello, Max. So Nathan obviously did give her the heads up so much for debunking.

Even so, I ask her if I can record. She cackles a little and motions for me to go ahead, so I take out my phone and start recording as both, so I don't have much hope for anything from this,

“given she's already been prepped for me my Nathan. Still, why not?”

I'm told you can make anyone believe. Sure. Okay, make me believe. Her head cocks raven like and she examines me. Her eye drifts to the camera. Is this really what she want, Max? To be made to believe? Me and my viewers. Andrew viewers. How nice. All right then. Max the debunker. I'll make a bargain with you. In five days, if I've made you believe, you publicly announced your belief before you

end yourself in your channel. If you still don't believe in five days, nothing happens to you. The sheer goal of this lunatic. I can't help smiling. And myself and my channel, that's the worst bargain I've ever heard. Why would I agree to that? Because you don't believe. You believe you won't believe. And you're an arrogant shit who wants clicks and making this bargain will give them to you. She makes actually a very good point.

Also, she's right. I absolutely do not believe. I say as much to my camera. Okay, crazy lady. Fine. I accept your bargain, but just recording this to note that I have no plans to commit suicide and if I appear to do so and this lady has murdered me, I expect her to be arrested.

“She just looks at me with that flat black eye. So, how are you going to make me believe?”

Tell me the names of three people. Kenji. My brother-in-law. He dies on Friday. Was this a battle with cancer? My condolences. Wow. Okay. This is I mean, obviously you did your research. It's called a hot reading. When a purported psychic will look up information about a subject before the reading and then recite facts about them that seem astonishing to the audience.

Nathan told her I was coming so she obviously looked up my brother-in-law in his condition. My brother-in-law could pass at any time. Friday is very specific, but it's not a bad gamble. I find it in portase she throws out his death so casually, though, wagering her whole charade on his ill health. That one's too easy. Who else? Sarah.

My sister, who is going through it right now with Kenji Zilness. The woman shakes her head. Nothing much happens to her in the next five days, except for grieving her husband. Name someone else.

“What? No! You said I can name anybody. I name Sarah. You can't make a prediction for her?”

She size and rolls her eyes. It's your episode, Max. There are plenty more interesting options. But fine. Your sister, Sarah, forgets a bag of groceries and has to go back for it inside or two apples.

Some herbal medicine your brother-in-law requested that she'll never get a chance to deliver to him,

and chocolates for you. This is all so specific. Already, I'm thinking of how it could be staged. Could this woman bribe one of the store workers that the co-op my sister shops at? Or maybe this make believe woman has a bug in her ear now. Someone's whispering

stuff to her, and they've been watching Sarah and the shopping has already happened. I'm still considering how elaborate this might be, or if she's just doing what most of these gamers do. Why?

I'll pick the third person because you're about to say Mateo and yes, his wife is cheating on him.

You'll say it's too easy for me to have guessed. You think I have an accomplice

seeing her. Seeing who. The woman in the chair.

Her lips curve and a ghastly smile. Pete, the actor? There's no woman in any chair. I paid him to make her up. He'll call you in three days and he'll tell you he's been seeing her. He'll beg you to make her go away.

“He'll warn you. He'll plead. He's an actor. Did you hire him?”

He'll say that he knew you'd say that. He'll beg you to believe him, but you won't.

Well, this last one sounds easy enough to stay, anyway. Though if they can make this stuff happen

with my sister, I'll be both really impressed and probably filing a lawsuit for stocking. That's for my brother-in-law. It's disgusting that even talk about him that way. Oh, Max. Take my card. I love referrals. Refer me to someone else and maybe I'll make them believe in your place. Whatever. I step out of the place, ascending the stairs into the bright sun. She makes my skin crawl. Not because she's connected to the occult, but because she's a charlatan

“who lies without any sense of moral compunction, a parasite feeding on people's superstitions.”

I've made it my career to expose people like her. These kinds of scammers are the reason my father ended up losing so much money, destitute, and desperately believing that the woman, if she even was a woman, catfishing him, was in love with him. He believed she was planning to elope with him until he succumbed to COVID during the pandemic. Exposing the lies can't bring him back, or undo the harm that was caused to our family, but it might prevent someone else from falling

for a similar scheme. When I get home, I review the footage of my encounter with the make-believe woman, and decide that next week I'll splice it with some footage of all her predictions not coming true. I don't make a decent short reel, I guess, though not dissimilar from other wheels where I've exposed frauds. I save the footage, and forget about it.

Two days later, on Friday, my brother-in-law's passing coincides with the first prediction.

But his death was already foretold by the doctors, and I dismissed the coincidence. For the rest of the day, I am talking to family. I console my sister. I spend the night and check in on her every few hours. She's barely stopped crying and hasn't eaten anything. Next day, I'm still trying to console her when my phone rings. It's from an unsafe number, I don't pick up. But it rings and rings, and she tells me through

tears it's fine to please go and answer it, so I do. It is Pete, the actor. Who? Annoyance hits like an ice pick in my brain, because I already know who. Already suspect. I can't believe it. This make-believe lady actually did it. She actually reached out to Pete, paid him whatever she paid him. Not much, probably. He's an amateur actor. We found on Instagram.

Honestly, one of the reasons we hired him is because he came cheap, and now he's turned his stick on me. Yeah, you have very funny. Listen, I know who hired you.

“She said you'd say that. She said you wouldn't believe me, but you have to max. You have to.”

Okay, look, this isn't appropriate. My brother-in-law just died. I need to take care of family matters. I hang up the phone, frustrated, and then I silence it as it

Nobody just an actor I worked with on a gig, nothing to worry about.

I sigh, looking at my silence to phone. It's still ringing. There are also pictures coming through via text and messages. Pictures from the photo shoot. All of the empty chair. Can't you see her? He keeps texting. More empty chair pictures. The man is dedicated. I'll give him that. He's a much better actor than I initially gave him credit for.

Probably should have paid him more. I block his number and forget about him. Forget about him. That is, until the next day. I'm helping my sister to put things away around the house.

It places a mess and everything reminds her of Kenji.

As I unpack a tote bag on the counter, I pull out a couple of chocolate bars. I ask her if I can have one. Yeah, I got those for you. Oh, really? Thank you. Sure.

“I pull a box of an herbal supplement out. My heart thumps in my chest. This is only a coincidence, I think.”

What do you want me to do with this herbal concoction? Huh? Supplements for...

Looks like it helps with digestion and gut health.

Oh, I... I got that for Kenji. I don't know. Oh, I don't want to ask. I don't want to, and I loath the butterflies in my stomach. The way my throat is dry and constricted. Did you forget the bag? Huh?

“The herbal medicine? When you were out shopping for him, did you leave the bag?”

Um, yeah, actually. She wipes tears from her eyes. I've just been so out of it. How did you know I left it? I don't answer. My heart is hammering now as I go to my phone search for Pete's number. Try to call but there's no answer.

I turned to my sister. Maybe the cashier kept the bag by accident. Maybe they set up behind the counter so you didn't notice when you walked away. She's too distraught over Kenji to engage with me. Doesn't understand why I care about the bag. Could've been tucked behind the counter. She echoes. A cling to that thought.

The make-believe woman. The make-believe woman bribe the cashier to hide the bag. And then put items in it that my sister would normally buy.

“How else would the make-believe woman have known exactly what items would be in there?”

These cameras, I tell you, blood sucking. It's insane the lengths they go to. Adjusting case. Just? In case. I retreat to the spare room. Open my laptop and check the footage of my recording with the make-believe woman. Check the date. She told me I had five days. Tomorrow will be five. I have time. I have time. I have time.

I repeat to myself, wondering why I'm being so uncharacterously irrational when none of this is real. I paid Pete. I know he's acting. Why the fuck has any called back? I call again. No answer. I go to YouTube and pull up the debauchery and debunkery video I released about Nathan the phony medium. My heart settles as I watch it. The medium talking about his craft. This fucking fraudster.

He goes on about establishing a psychic connection and how time is all wibbly wobbly. Pretty sure he crumed that from some sci-fi show. And as a consequence, he can see snippets from the future.

The camera shots of my house. The staged front room. The peeling wallpaper and everything.

And there's Pete sitting on a sofa pretending. I can't wait for him to get to the part where I call cut.

“And he reveals he's acting the whole time. That's what I need to see to feel better.”

What's your been experiencing? Pete the actor keeps staring and says he doesn't know her name and then my camera zooming in on the chair. No. Fuck me. No. I freeze the frame.

No. No. What the fuck? No. She's there.

Staring out at me from the screen. Staring through the screen. Right at the camera. The woman from the psychic reading shop. The video proceeds as normal. The same as before. Exactly as we recorded. My blood is pumping so loud. I can barely hear myself think. My pulse raging, drowning out the dialogue in the video as the medium leans forward and asks what the woman is doing now. Pete says she's just sitting there. The camera pans back to the empty chair, but it's not empty.

The woman is sitting in it. The camera returns to Nathan the medium as he gets up and begins performing a blessing on the room until suddenly Pete sits up straight on the sofa. There she is. She's there. My throat constricts.

“My heart sledge hammers my ribs so hard. I think I might go into cardiac arrest.”

The phone camera remains trained on Pete. On his hammy acting. Only now instead of looking hammy he looks genuinely terrified. He really is a better actor than I gave him credit. I hear my own voice chuckling under my breath on the recording. Trying not to giggle that what I evidently thought was a great performance by her actor

and then finally my phone pans back to the chair. I scream aloud in my room and myself and jerk back

from my laptop. The woman is standing, lurching toward the camera. toward me. I'm cowering on the floor, gasping, as the woman steps nearer, nearer to the camera, her face swallowing the screen. Then everything has back to normal. The woman on the video is gone. There's only Nathan, red faced and ashamed as Pete and I tease him.

I'm max, host of debauchery and debunkery where we stick a shot for each line, that we quickly realize we get drunk way too fast. I slam my hand on the laptop to shut it, but then something occurs to me. If the woman was really there, if I wasn't seeing things, others must have noticed her too. I pull open the laptop again and skim the YouTube comments.

All ordinary, and my heartbeat settles until I scroll to the most recent comments. Specifically, there's a bunch left by the user, Pete hands it up. It's the handle for our actor and he has commented over and over.

“Pete hands it up. I believe. Pete hands it up. I believe.”

Pete hands it up. I believe. Pete hands it up. I believe. Pete hands it up. I believe. I check Pete's Instagram account the one we hired him from. His account is gone, deleted. I call Pete and while the phone rings, Matt. The door bursts open. Max, everything okay? She's come because she heard me screaming over the video. Can you see her? I'm trying out the hyperventilate as I turn my laptop

toward her, rewinding the video to just before the cut. Can you see anyone in the chair?

But I push pastor without answering. I need to get home. Need to get to that staged front room.

“I slam the door behind me. I try calling Pete again as I pull out of the driveway. His phone just”

keeps ringing. I call, call, then drop the phone, swearing at the nearly pancake of pedestrian. I'm so distraught. The pedestrian screams upset and eases my screech by. My phone rings again and I pick it up wildly wondering if it's Pete. But it's my sister worried about me. I lie that I'm fine, run to red light and

creating a long residential streets and finally screeching into my driveway and I leap out,

rushing up the front steps through the porch and into the staged living room area. See, the chair. Still empty. Thank God. Everything's still the same as on the day of Nathan the mediums visit. Nathan. I need to call Nathan. Nathan, it's Max from debauchery and debunkery. I need you to make her stop out. I pause, stammering over my next words and grip my teeth and make myself say,

"I'll take down the debunk video. I'll say you were right. Just make her stop." "To you, police." Sure, fine, just make her stop.

“"If you believe, you must publicly announce your belief before you”

in yourself and your channel." The blood in my veins turns to ice as I remember the deal. That absurd deal. If I believe I end my channel and myself, if I don't believe nothing happens. So Max, you'll be fine if you don't believe, says the small, rational voice in my head, "If I don't believe, as long as I'm still a skeptic, but tears start into my eyes." The phone shaking in my fingers because I'm looking at my texts

and there's a new one from Pete. Hello, this is Jay on my grandfather's phone. He had a heart attack yesterday and passed away. Scrolling up to the previous texts, it's just the picture he sent over and over again of the chair. But now I see her. I fucking see her.

And now I can't make myself unsee her. I can't, I can't. And I'm certain that when I finally see her

in the flesh again and my five days are over, I'll end my account. And myself and, "Oh, fuck me, how do I stop it?" "Please help me." Nathan's voice, "Cackles."

“It doesn't sound like Nathan. I think down to the floor in despair and that's when I find it on”

the carpet. That matte black card of hers. Black, like the blackest void in the universe, except those words make believe. And the picture of the eye looking at me and the number. And I remember. She likes referrals. I still have a few hours left to find someone else. So I'm making this final video. Please, are you a skeptic? You think I'm making this all up? That it's just nonsense that I'm a, then I'm an actor. Perfect. Okay, please listen, I believe.

And I need you to look her up. I need you to call her. Call the number, call her. And no matter how skeptical you are, she'll make you believe. But I beg you to do it soon. Now, call her now. Now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now. I promise she'll make you believe.

sink beneath the waves. We claw our way back on to dry land. Join us again next time.

“When we plunge into the chilling depths, where water hides its darkest secrets.”

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