S24 Ep25: NoSleep Podcast S24E25

It's the no sleep podcast season 24 finale.

“Thank you for joining us for this memorable full-length production.”

I'm David Cummings. The host and creator of the show. As we've reached the end of our 24th season, I want to thank everyone for making this a special time in the show's history.

This has been the first season where the show has

originated from the dark waters of the Cape Fear River. There's something uniquely no sleep about a horror storytelling podcast having its home base right on the banks of a river named Cape Fear. And we'll continue to make this our base for seasons to come.

It's also been a special season in which we celebrated 15 years of the no sleep podcast. And as we look to the future, we have plenty of opportunities

“for new and exciting changes while still”

celebrating the traditions of the past. The podcasting landscape has changed. We'll need to change and adapt to stay

at the forefront of horror storytelling.

Change can be exciting and challenging, but we're grateful that our listeners continue to join us during the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. For our season finale, we have an epic production

of a story by Marcus D'Manda. This feature length production has been produced by Fill My Kalski and features a musical score by Brandon Boone. And in order to present this tale to you in full, without interruptions, we are most grateful

“for the sponsor of this episode, Indecloud.”

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when you order to support this show. Enjoy responsibly, and a huge thanks to Indecloud. Not only for this special free episode, but also for helping everybody spend a little less time managing summer

and a little more time enjoying it. In this tale, we meet Jimmy, portrayed by the inimitable Peter Lewis. Jimmy is living in a home that's been in his family for generations. With it comes a legacy of memories. Some find, some not so endearing.

There is trauma in that house. Trauma that has isolated Jimmy in there for many years. And when the house itself seems to be conspiring against him, it will push Jimmy to extremes as he seeks to stay in control of the routine he so desperately needs.

Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Dullin,

Dan Zepula, and me.

“So if you find the sound of dripping water to be annoying,”

you just have to describe the sound. Is it a drop, a plop, a pattern? No, in this case, it's a plank. [Music] Here it comes again.

Wait, for it, you'll hear it, close your eyes. Almost, almost, picture me holding up a finger. Just another moment or two. And right on time, as usual, that fucker's accurate to the microsecond.

“I haven't pinned down its source yet, but I think I have an idea of what's going on.”

This is not a picture. I've been in the ruined bedroom hall and start back downstairs to the main floor of the house. It comes every hour, you know, 12, 11, 11, 11, 2, 11. You get the idea, it's 3, you're 11 in the morning at present. I'd say you could set your watch by this increase in the irksome phenomenon of mine.

Maybe you could, as for me, my watch doesn't allow for that level of precision. It's mostly aesthetic, my watch, a pretty thing, but not good to the microsecond, like that abominable drip is. When a time draws close, I can see those microseconds in my mind. It's like a digital readout on the insides of my eyelids,

one that advances impossibly fast until the minute ticks over from 10 to 11. The digits to the right of the decimal flash double zeroes as the distant but unmistakable blink echoes like damn nation through the whole fucking house. That's it? No big deal, right? They won't be another drip for an hour. But then, you know, in another hour it will be there, timely as taxes,

more reliable than gorilla tape, and that ruins everything. I have no peace for the other 59 minutes

“and 59 seconds of every hour, and that is because you must understand this, I know it's coming all the time.”

It occurs to me as I'm all these things over, I do not need this watch, I have.

It's analog, it cannot display to the microsecond, nor even to the hundredth of a second,

it's accurate, you know, and may understand these things in its endlessly repeating self-winding non-electrical mind, but if so it cannot show it. I do have a cell phone, though I'm not sure why, and my brain keeps time better than that, it's regulated by the drip, you see, my sense of time recalibrate every hour. Also I have plucks all over the house. There are two things, an intruder would immediately notice on stepping on the interior. Unwelcome, Matt,

of my front foyer, it's alibaster marble streaked with jet, brings vanilla ice cream with swirls, to mind, and both bear mentioning here, the second thing would be the four foot long oval mirror in the entryway by the coat closet. You ask it a little something extra when you look into that thing, but the first thing would be the hellish mahogany grandfather clock with the weighted steel pendulum. Now that old bastard stands shadowy century between the dining room and the three carpeted

steps leading down to my elaborately furnished entertainment center, and when that mother goes off the angry discordant peels rattle the 28 empty picture frames that fill the blank spaces of my walls.

Never the mirror, though. Now that fucker never moves, but the picture frames are

encumbered by the ghosts and demons that inhabit the mirror dance to grandfather's terrible toll in every time, and it's not alone. That clock is the grand father, right? I also have a clock on my fireplace mantle. There's an old school twin bell alarm clock on my night stand,

cabinet be decked with smaller clocks of silver and gold and many others besides.

The larger ones are set to strike at varying hours. Now I wind or set them all between 8 a.m.

“9 a.m each day, so you see it does not bother me when they strike the hour that's what I have”

them before that's what they're intended to do. The tolling of my clocks gives my life structure. It provides definition, but every time they do it, I have precisely 11 minutes until the next drip causes a momentary area than the other the heart, before my left eye and right pinky finger

twitch out of irresistible reflex. Those 59 minutes and 59 seconds between the ringing of the hours

is my quiet time. It's sacred to me. Any noise made within that time can only come from me. This is my world according to the vision with which I have created it. We're all the architects of our personal realities and so I accept no judgment from anyone, not that I need fear any.

“People may say that I'm well or quirky, perhaps even a bit weird, but if so I haven't had”

tolerated for a long time and a good thing, too, I've reached an age where I don't feel the need it to put up with shit like that and I keep a gun in the house. I do not recall exactly when it was that I realized the drip came on the 11s. Might have been three days ago. Might have been a week. Funny all things considered that I should lose track of the days when I'm a depth as I am in minutes and hours, but I do. And it's all because of that ratchet foul and unspeakably annoying drip.

The drip is an intruder. I cannot stop it. I can't even find it. Today, I have made it my mission to locate the source. Knowing when the drip will come should make that easy, right? While I'd have

“to do is intercept it at the pre-programmed moment, right? Easy, easy, easy. Let me take you back”

in time, say about three hours and no worries will return to the present eventually. So midnight, hmm? Tough to tell, with all of the echo, it's a big house, this. But I suspect the drip was coming from the kitchen sink. So as the totally none of the monstrous foyer clock clanged out the 12th hour again, and again, and again rattling the frames, I found myself leaning over the kitchen counter. I positioned my neck at a decidedly awkward angle, the better to look up

into the opening of the faucet. By the time the crash and clamor of all grandfathers echoed off in the memory, it might have been 12.03. I didn't check my watch to be sure I had a thing to confirm.

I cannot miss this. I thought, not even for a second. There even are eight minutes. There's a

torturously long-time-to-old place in this position, and even though I knew the drip was accurate to the microsecond and could not possibly come early, I did not move. But there was no hint of a coming blink. No slow swelling of an incoming drip, growing pregnant with its own weight, no pre-sage of my hourly visitor whatsoever. I waited for it. Counting seconds, we spring them allowed. Seeing the digital readout in my mind, counting up. First, to 100, then to 200.

Eventually, gave in the temptation at 300 and checked my watch. It was 12-10. But as I've said, my watch is analog, so I had no idea how close I was to the moment. I missed it. And I didn't just fail to anticipate it. To the microsecond, I missed it entirely. The drip, you see, this time, had come from upstairs, sort of the branch. I slammed my hand down on the steel rim of the sink. Eyes turned to this ceiling. I felt my left eye twitching its socket, along with the

inescapable panic that takes a bite out of your soul when your heart holds completely still for 1.3 seconds. I was and remain completely unconcerned about anyone ever hearing any of my outbursts,

anyway. Fuck, this shit, I was in. I had to get to the bottom of this. If there's one thing I've

“hated for all of my adult life, it's half-finished jobs. True, it was past midnight. I ought to have”

gone to bed. It wasn't like the drip wouldn't be there in the morning. Intellectually I understood this, my mind acknowledged it. It was also true that I now had an hour before the drip would come again. Nevertheless, fueled in equal measure by irritation and frustration, I abandoned the kitchen for the stairs leading up from the foyer. There are two bathrooms up there. My personal facilities as well as the guest bathroom, which I do keep fully stocked. More out of habit than for any

reason that makes sense. That's where I went, if that dreadful plank had come from the bathroom that was mine, I'd have pinned it down long before. Oh, and a very notion of this unholy disruptor coming as close to me as my own private shit. Well, such a thought was intolerable and so I did not entertain it. Not had to be the guest bathroom, had to be. But there was another thought that slipped unbeaten into my mind right then. If I took my time, if I was so stealthy

and quiet that it took me most of the intervening hour to even get to the guest bathroom, well then maybe the thing behind the drip would not hear me coming. But oh, that's crazy. I reminded myself there is nothing behind the drip, but a faulty pipe, and that's nothing a wrench won't fix. There is no thing behind the drip.

Like, father always told you, Earth is nobody out to get you, Jimmy. A yearion in my mind is sometimes

I really do, when he speaks, I feel my ear drums vibrate. So I know it's real, he's dead, but you know he's still here. There's no one after you, Jimmy. Which is normal? I mean, he's my father, right? He was a good father. No, he wasn't. Though you who was very strict, still looks out for me, when he died he left his voice behind right here in the house.

“I suppose he's mind, as well he gives me advice and checks on me. You've been behaving yourself?”

Haven't you, Jimmy? At the foot of the stairs, still undecided about my approach. I answered him, yes, father. It was barely a breath. I did not worry about the drip hearing my father, but I did

not wish for it to hear me. That's good, Jimmy. You're a man now. I can't always be there to

correct you. Something in my throat caught. I know, father. What makes a man, Jimmy? Self-discipline, father, and have you been disciplining yourself, son? Yes, father. And I certainly had been. Where this very week I let the guy who delivers my groceries step over the threshold and the into the house. He only got the one foot in, but as father was careful to teach me sometimes that's all it takes. Sure, young Gus had been bringing my bags to

the door going on two years, and he was hardly more than a kid, but he wasn't exactly a friend much less family, was he? I'm still a bit on steady from disciplining myself for that. That's a good son. Did you clean yourself afterward? Is my son squeaky clean? Yes, father. The laceration across the underside of my foot had not entirely closed,

“and the bandages were likely overdue for a change. I did, I remember that I used alcohol”

and light down the race every half, wrapped in toilet paper before it threw in it away. Exactly as I'd been taught, and I didn't cut my thumb. No, once. You better not be lying. No, father. I'm an honest man. What's troubling you? You fret like a woman.

The truth is I fret a lot more than most of the women I've met, but there was no point in the same,

so there's a drip in the house, father. They're better not be for long, and don't you dare call a plumber? If you spend good money on a plumber after all, I've taught you.

Silence. He was father's way of showing contempt or outright disgust, and he was right.

How could I allow myself to be defeated by a fucking leaky pipe that I have to call on father for every little thing? Father, yes, can't you hear it, too? What do you think? You don't have

“this shit figured out yet? The only thing I can hear in this house is you. The only thing keeping”

me in this house is you, and you're not ready to run it yet. What's with all this kippito bullshit, Jimmy? What have I taught you? Yeah, one does not approach a problem with stealth-one attacks

that shit. You gotta be assertive. I lurched up the stairs, hand on the railing for support,

making no further effort to stifle the noise as I went. I had little doubts the guest bathroom had the answer I was looking for. There was also a tool box in the adjacent linen closet for when my guests turned out to be correct. Why do you call it the guest bathroom? You know what it is. He don't have guests. Those words came as though I had thought them, they didn't vibrate my ear drums, and yet they hadn't come to me in my voice.

The thought voice was much younger though as familiar as fathers. It was scratchy as though from dehydration, same as I remembered it from childhood. It was a huge atory, and it belonged to a girl. Halfway up the stairs I had to stop. I closed my eyes. Don't.

“It was the kids bathroom. Tell you, remember, Jimmy?”

But it wasn't like, father. I was only a thought difficult to see if, with any clarity, like an opaque jar whose contents weren't quite clear. Not now. I'm busy, okay?

Why are you trying so hard to forget me, Jimmy? I'm not. I'm busy. You hated me. You always did.

It's okay. I understand. I drew in breath. Hard. I opened my eyes. Go away. Miraculously, she did, and I continued on to my destination. The sink, marble, like the floor downstairs, was bone dry. It looked like the faucet hadn't stripped out anything in days, never mind minutes ago. Everything seemed in perfect order, and only the wallpaper fading and crawled at the edges, betrayed at the bathroom's age.

I traced the grain outlines of Poo Bear, Eor, Piglet Roo, Kanga, the only one missing from the ensemble cast was Christopher Robin, and the adult me, new y, the idea behind the wallpaper was that whatever a kid or kids lived in his house stood or squatted in his place. This was our wallpaper, who already was once upon a time. It was our world, meaning mine and my siblings. I brushed the thought aside. It was unhelpful. Especially in the current crisis,

it was a distraction. At position myself under the faucet, I looked up, right into it, and I waited. And waited. I no longer had any idea what time it was. Father, and Linda, you were just talking to Linda. They had it shaken the inner workings of my near flawless mental timer. I mean, all I had to do was check my watch, but that would require me to break eye contact with the

“underside of the faucet, and so I resisted the temptation. God, what if I blink at the wrong moment?”

I'd still know I'd to see the aftermath. There might even be a small splash I can feel. All I need to do is wait for it, wait for it. Distant farther up, that came from the fucking attic. I pulled back trying to regulate my breathing, summoning every ounce of willpower I had to simply avoid screaming, and I failed. This makes no sense. I heard it from right here. I heard it. Wait.

I turned. The shower curtain was a perfect companion to the wallpaper, or it was once.

“Back in the day, you could clearly make out the trees of the hundred-acre wood and the”

stuffed animals peeking out from within them. The curtain, it was still clean. I'm not a slob, but it had faded to a ghost, trees, and shadow animals. I tore the curtain back. There was no drip, but the tub was full. The water was murky, opaque thick, with the old soap. It was pinkish, in color, crimson swirls, twisting around floating soap scum. As though the bubble bath mix had been

topped off with cherry syrup, or the bathtub it was. It was filled with blood. And there was a

child's finger floating in it. I reeled from it, hand over my mouth, memory threatened, but I

“fought it back down. I've gotten very good at that. I took a moment to recover, but then I turned”

back to the tub. I found it, empty, bone dry, like the sink. What's the matter with me? I asked no one at all, finding my voice unaccountably weak. I should be angered by this. Okay, and I was, to the very soul, but this other feeling this is temptation to act truly. Cry. No. No. I would, not father might hear. There's though I had summoned him, he again spoke. This time I could almost see his face in the mirror over the sink, when he did it, but not quite. In this mirror,

unlike when I saw him in the mirror downstairs, he was a shadow, or perhaps a shade, like the faded trees and stuffed animals of the hundred acre wood, but his voice was as clear as windchimes. Do you have a leak to fix you worthless piece of shit or don't you? I got back on the job. Reemerging back into the bedroom hole, I staring up at the ceiling portal with the brass ring. I could not help but ask myself when exactly was the last time I'd ventured up into the attic.

I couldn't remember, but it must have been decades ago. No, I thought, unable to stop myself.

“You could, remember? If you wanted to, where was that damned stick with the hawk catch at the end of it?”

I could see it in my head. I saw it at least twice a week. Though I hadn't had any need actively seek it out in a very long time, linen closet has. I don't, uh, I don't look at doors while I open them. It's one of my quirks, I guess? Anyway, I put my hand on the knob. I rested my head against the folding wood of the closet door and listen. Not that I expected to hear anything. So, habit of mine, I listened, I looked off to the side and I drew the door open.

Nothing, bad, happened. Well, of course, nothing bad happened, and the draw hook was exactly

where it always was leaning up against the interior wall of the closet, as for the rest,

apart from the aluminum tool box, it was all towels and blankets and wash rags. The thing I was afraid of, it was a head, it was a fucking dog's head, and he wrapped in a towel and stuffed it into the back of its highest shelf. It was white, it was a big floppy years. He found it back and he stopped. Don't, you think about that shit. That's ancient history. Doesn't matter, no one ever found the dog.

It's not here, anyway. I, from mine, did myself. I'm allowed, taking the stick and shutting the closet door, leaving the linens and towels where the dogs had used to be in place. These things, the images, hallucinations, phantoms, whatever.

on the regular. Oh sure, yeah, you betcha. I'm on guard against them every waking second of every

“day, but until recently their full manifestation had been rare. I used to have medications, I used”

to have to take them. I took them every day. Usually I don't need my medication these days.

I have it under control. I... You never needed it. My mind started. It was forced down your throat

every time you choked it down against your will. You were a nosy, inconsiderate little fuck all. And now you're seeing things, making things up. It's fucking sad. I'm not making things up. My brain protested out of reflex. These aren't hallucinations. You're not arguing with me, are you?

“Have I pulled me up short? No, father. It sounded like you were. I said it's because you can't hear it.”

I only wanted to explain. Don't go there. It was the same voice he used when he slid his belt through the loops. Right before he wrapped it around his hand and racked it like a bowl whip. Their memories, you dumbass. Those are your fucking memories.

My mind, you see, is not always my friend. It's never my advocate. I could not afford to have these

intrusive thoughts. They got in the way of my daily wrecked my routine. So I did what I always did when my brain turned against me. I argued with it. Not memories. I said aloud, making sure I could hear my own voice loud and clear. Not memories never memories. You're not sentimental you. How is my father's belt? All right, but he wasn't hitting me with it. Not even in my hallucinations.

“Who the fuck are you talking about? What are these memories you're not having son?”

Nothing, father. You're memories. My brain continued to insist in spite of father's presence. They're your memories. They're all you have left. No. I'm mulled, whether to my rebellious inner self or to father and I'm not sure. People, people said things about father, people from the government used to ask questions. None of them understood the way it was. Father wasn't a eater. He was a threat man. And that sound, who was only the sound of leather

against leather. Nothing more. Father only cracked the belt against itself. He held it by the buckle and his right hand doubled over the some of his left hand hooked into the loop. All he had to do to produce that terrible echoing crack was the janky thought. Or, but father, who was right next

to me after all, who's having none of that? President, has he in one who talks shit but never

follows through, is that what you're calling me? He always made me flinch though. You know, it's sound of leather on leather. How the sound of it caused the very walls to emit fear like an invisible gas. Also the cracking of father's belt, it never failed to alert everyone. How my siblings had hidden under their beds and prayed allowed thinking God that it wasn't him this time. Father, here he could be scary. When he was mad, twitched with a tortured spider, it cried out.

Do I have your attention? I'm not it. It was the only answer I was capable of. Tell me, Jimmy, does the window need cleaning? I bet it does. I bet you've let it sit there unattended for years. Tell me, son of mine, am I right? I poked my head up through the trap door. Light struggled to find its way into the attic. The one window at the end, which would normally

grind over headlight fixture casting whole attic space in a nauseating shade of orange.

Dust moats the size of snowflakes hovered and wafeted through the stale dead air and a sheet of gray dust covered everything. That included a brass bound wooden strong box under the window, long and more than deep enough to double as a child's coffin and not that it had ever been used

“as one, at least I didn't think it had. The lock hung loosely the key jutting straight out of the”

keyhole. As for the window in question, he had was pretty bad. Yes, father. I didn't add that he didn't need to tell me. I did not live with this kind of filth and had I but realized it had come to this I would have rectified the situation long ago. A last noise should have predicted

it the thought never entered my head and there's only so much one man can do, but first the drip.

How in the living hell I might have a drip up here was anyone's guess yet? There it was. A small slowly spreading pond over the small rectangle floorboards at the attic center. There was another of these platforms if that's the right word where I poked my head up through

“the trap door and yet one more at the other end by the cirrhosis yellow glass of the only window.”

The rest was all open floor beams and fluffy pink insulation so I was wise to watch one step. One forty-five. I had less than an hour before the next event, but that was all right that thin pool of water was a confession from the attic itself. "Hey it's me, it's your attic, I'm the ones been tormenting you." I smiled in spite of myself. I knew intellectually that this could not be real. I'd have to have a leak in the fucking roof if I'd had to be true, and while I had to admit that

such a thing was definitely possible it had not rained outside for a week, but the water on the floor was so clear. "So real, so right there." I wasn't prepared to acknowledge the possibility

“of it being a mirage brought on by longing, at least not until I saw or didn't see the drip”

come down with my own eyes, but that would be a mirage too. I tried to explain to myself. Sadly I'm not terribly good listener, but father would agree even when I only have myself to listen to. Now the thing I had to do was investigate. Once I was steady on my feet I made the

long step over the floor beams from the first platform of floor boards to the second I had to be careful.

The pond was small, but then so was the platform, and the last thing I needed was to slip, fall through a solid foot of insulation, and maybe crack my head on one of the support beams on the way down, and then crash all ten, or so more feet back down onto the carpet of the bedroom hall. That'd be great. But no such misfortune be fell, and I found myself standing over the little pond with enough room to sit down in front of it if I wanted. Above me twin rows of cedar beams

not oak, supported the arched roof. The reason for this, as I knew from father, was that the roof had been specifically built, to be moisture resistant, leaks were not permitted in this house, and father had been nothing if not of forward a finger. The pond at my feet was absolutely still, which was another oddity, unless there was some slight imperceptible wearing of the wood, a flat surface like that should not collect the water in a neat little pond. The water should

be running, dripping off the sides of the platform into the insulation, and the beams above me were dry, there even dusty, with hanging cobwebs in the corners. Hey! The voice was young, female, vaguely familiar. It almost made me a jump, which would have been a disaster given my location, but her unlike my father's this voice conveyed in no anger. Quite the opposite, the voice was mildly surprised, like it belonged to someone who hadn't expected to see me yet. There was

pleased by my rival. That alone would have made it unlikely that the voice had belonged to my sister,

so I knew I was really hearing it, and not imagining it, it came from the water. I sat,

Chris Cross Apple saws in front of it, I leaned forward. That isn't a pond, I thought, why did you think of the word pond? It's a puddle, and I not even be water. It definitely didn't drip down from the ceiling. I repositioned myself leaning over it on all fours, I sniffed at it. Nothing unusual. Hey, I sat back to it. You better not let her catch us here. She'll tell. So familiar, I still couldn't place it, but the one thing I did know, and I knew it beyond any doubt,

was who the voice was talking about. That would be Linda. Whoever this was knew enough about Linda to be wary of her, even though she was my younger sister. Who are you? I asked, feeling rather stupid, but needing an answer. You don't remember me, Jimmy? I shook my head,

“and no, I'm sorry, a long silence followed the admission. You killed my memory, didn't you?”

Was already bad, and you killed all that was left of me. Again, I shook my head, this time in mute denial. I'm sorry, whoa, whoa, what? You killed my memory, like you killed so many others.

No, that's not true. I've never killed anyone. You killed the memory of me. I thought you liked me to me.

I kept shaking my head. I held my hands over my ears, but there was no good. The sound that vibrated my eardrums didn't originate from outside of my head. Real, as the sound was, it's epicenter, was inside, and I knew it. I just didn't think of it in those terms when I could help it. When you're done forgetting, there'll be nothing of you left.

“Good, I thought. Maybe that's what I'm trying for. I don't know. I have no idea anymore.”

You'd be better off killing yourself. It's what you're already doing anyway. Oh, that got under my skin. It wasn't fair. There was, tempting. I called, I have a gun in the drawer of my nightstand. I could go to my room and eat a bullet right now. Is there what you want? No, Jimmy, that isn't what I want. What do you want then? Listen, I don't even know your fucking name. Now, bad form, dropping the F bomb in a conversation with a

girl who sounded 13 years old, maybe 14. But if the voice in my head sounded young, then maybe

I knew her when I'd been young, too. If so, me swearing would be nothing new to her. As a kid, I never

swore in front of my parents. Her teacher is pretty much everyone else I knew got our regular ear full. Yes, you do. Touch the water, Jimmy. Oh, he's just telling me your name. You'll make yourself forget it again. I want to help you fix it, Jimmy. Then tell me your name. Fine. My name is Melissa. Now touch the fucking water. I tapped the water with a tentative finger just like that. All in an instant, my world disappeared.

It's a dream catcher. Her bright blue eyes glowed with recognition, but there was worry there, too. Something in the way are thin eyebrows drew closer over the bridge of her nose. The smile on her lips

“had straightened it to an almost neutral expression. Jimmy, if this is your dad's, you should put it back.”

Where? I answered, still smiling. He's got these hanging up all over the place, plus extra. I pulled this one out of a box in the attic. Then tentatively. What's the dream catcher anyway? Embarrassing is it should have been to ask the question at 14. I felt that I should be the expert in matters of what's in my house with Melissa Flores. Nothing was ever embarrassing. She was smarter than me, but she was also kind. She didn't have a gram of judgment in her. She wasn't my girlfriend,

but she was my best friend. Only, friend, my brain corrected me before I could stop it.

old, not yet. On the girlfriend thing. You know, I kept meaning to ask her if we could be boyfriend and girlfriend. What my mom would have called going steady. Even though I wasn't allowed to have

“a girlfriend until I was 16. Even then, Father would have to approve. And that's why we were here,”

sitting together on either side of this dream catcher. It was an absolutely gorgeous summer day, warm enough that I was allowed to wear a t-shirt and shorts out of the house, and that Melissa's behest, swimming trunks underneath. I could see the strap of her suit under a lock of blonde hair, draped over one bare shoulder over baggy pink hello kitty shirt. Behind her, we had the whole pond through ourselves. Back in the day, you know, and mom was still around. Father sometimes brought

me here to fish. It was on our property, though we couldn't see the house through the trees from here. I wasn't worried about father suddenly showing up. He hadn't taken me fishing since mom's death.

“I didn't worry about swimming with all those fish, and apparently Melissa wasn't fussed over that”

either. But as for the object in question, to me, it looked like an abstract art project thrown together by a woodworker who had certainly discovered twine. You hang it over your bed. It protects you from nightmares. Otherwise, in my house, don't work. Then, that caused her smile to broaden further. God, I love her face. That's only because you didn't understand it's power. She gave my shoulder a playful shove. Now that you do, it'll work. And pretty sure of yourself. It's the power of suggestion.

If you believe in it, you won't have nightmares. Yeah, I get the concept.

I've never had a dream catcher before. I nodded to the one in her hand. And now you do.

Why wasn't I allowed to have a girlfriend? Wasn't fair. Lots of boys at school had girlfriend's one boy. I knew even had a boyfriend. And everyone knew it. You better believe I never mentioned that at all. Thank you, Jimmy. Her voice was so sincere, and so sweet that I got hardly standard. Then, before I had any clue what was happening, she leaned forward and planted a kiss right on my lips. I was, um, so taken aback by this that for a long second, I could hardly do anything,

but sit there. Why died? Feeling a fresh blush. Heat my cheeks. And afraid my lips must have felt like lifeless rubber to her. Had I but known, she was going to come at me like that. Finally, I managed. I, you're welcome. Want to go study? If you gave a slight tilt overhead, had I told her that was my mother's phrase? I, I nodded stupidly. I must have been grinning a mile

wide. It's true that you're never really ready for when bad things happen in life. But the same

is often true of good things. I never could have guessed the day was going to go like this. And as for father and his rules, well, I'd worry about that later. She reached over and took both of my hands in hers, making me feel as though a low voltage none, hurtful power switch had been switched on in my palms. Excellent. She spoke as though she'd simply whittle the down today's to-do list by one item. So, your dad keeps a box full of nothing other than extra-dream

catchers in your house? Yeah, and yetache. I flinched only a little as I felt her pinky finger trace over the inside of my hand. Uh, but, but, no, dad's got all kinds of junk in that big-ass box. I haven't even been through most. Since then, she had me on my feet and still holding

my right hand and without asking me first. Started walking directly towards my house.

“We need to investigate. Melissa, no, hold on. She kept leading me. Your dad's at work, right?”

Yes, that was true. He'd be gone all day, still. Yeah, yeah, but there's still my sister in the twins. We're older, right? Listening past them, home some bullshit, send them outside to play hide and seek. Something. But you're not allowed in there. I wanted to say. Father likes to be ready for visitors and he doesn't want me bringing home girls. Melissa knew of my siblings, but she hadn't met them yet.

Linda was 12 and like me had learned to be very cautious. She'd think on me and later she would tell me it had been a matter of self-preservation. To be fair, she was the one who typically watched the twins freeing me up to spend whatever free time I had, much as I pleased. I'll give my little

sis who'll credit there, but it's also how she wanted it. She'd always liked being in charge

even more so since we didn't have mom anymore. I hadn't trusted her. She didn't trust me.

“But it's just it's junk. Melissa trust me. Too late. We have to see. Why? It's a secret”

attic box. I'm going to look in it. It's a girl thing. We open for bitten boxes. You wouldn't understand. She was right. I didn't. She looked at me as though she expected me to laugh. And when I didn't, she continued leading us onward to the one place in the world, but I escaped. We were never

possible. And because it was Melissa because I was a fool. I let her.

That had occurred to me. You know the way that it sometimes does within dreams that I wasn't really there, not anymore. You know, even as together we drew closer and closer to the house. Coming around the U-Band of trees that enclosed the pond we could we could see it. I sensed a rippling in my perception and intuition that my hold on this moment was slipping. Good. I thought, I am not safe here. When my eyes next blinked out of reflex, I kept them shut.

No, Jimmy. We're not done yet. I could smell the musty attic all about me. I could feel the flakes of airborne dust drifting down, nesting in my hair like larvae seeking a place to hatch. This was my world and my reality. Back any me back as though it were a refuge. I knew better,

“but it still felt less perilous than the memory. I can't do this. You have to.”

If I were to guess it was almost one in the morning, and my guess is in matters of time we're rarely far off. There's a leak in the house. And I have to find it. I have to fix it. There is no leak in your house. There's a leak in your fucking head. It was no good to try to block her out. She wouldn't leave. And it's about time. I felt myself cracking. Why was she doing this?

It's how you liked me. I did. It might have become love if we'd had a chance. That was 25 years ago, Jimmy. I've waited a long time for this. Sit down. I sat, feeling the familiar word of the platform under me. Open your eyes. When I did, I found that I had returned to the attic of my house. Here I was on the center platform, Chris Cross Apple saws. Surrounded by oak wood and insulation under

a roof of cedar, but there was no puddle. And the wood of the platform might have been freshly cut, or at least cleaned. There were no floating dustmote, no cobwebs with trailing tendrils hanging in the corners. The insulation looked a pinker, the air smelled cleaner. And there, at the far end of the attic,

“sat the strong box with the key jutting out from the lock. Above it, the window gleam is though I had already”

attacked it with a gallon of wind exit. There stood Melissa, peering out over my front lawn.

The world looks different from up here. And as though I had never moved from where I remained seated

on the middle platform, I was also by Melissa's side at the window. How strange it was, looking up at my younger self. I, who was the Phantom here, I, who was the intruder. I guess. The younger me said, the current me in watching in silence couldn't help but wonder how Melissa saw the difference in this case since she had never stood in my front yard before. I wonder if the

would have asked that question aloud. Well, boyfriend, you're a blood of conversation. She took my hand again. And there they go. I could only imagine she was referring to my siblings, whether two or all three had no idea. It looks like we'd gone with the send them out to play, plan, which would work with Dewey and Andrew. As for Linda, maybe not so much. Come on. Melissa positioned us squarely in front of the strong box. You ready? I ought to have been.

I'd gone through that box more than a few times though never to the very bottom. There was a lot

of junk in there. Just nervous. Younger me said, sounding rather feeble in the ears of older

“me. She turned the key. The lock was big enough you could hear the turning of the tumblers,”

but the lid of the box slid open in absolute silence. Father would have been sure to have kept the hinges oil, even if all he ever did was toss shit away in here. What? You got a body hidden in here or something? Something. Older me thought. Something. Younger me echoed. But then as though common sense would not be denied the younger me wind on. And I'm more concerned

about someone barging in on us. From where I said I could not see into the box. Only the two of us

leaning over it under the clear light of the attic window. It's like you said. Your dad's working. He could come home early. It wasn't likely. And both older me and Younger me knew it.

“Father was far more prone to come home late. There were times he didn't make at home until the next”

morning. Still one head to concede that he could come home early, you know anything is possible. Melissa pressed on undonted. You were too little brothers are off doing. What was that you sent them to do again? Butterfly hunting. I looked kind of guilty about it. In a father would not like two sons of his capering about catching butterflies. I don't even imagine Linda's butterfly net had been on hand when a younger me and Melissa had run into them. As a rule, do we

and Andrew did anything that I or, especially Linda, told them to do lately they did so without speaking. Cute as buttons those two. She silenced me with a quick pack on the cheek. Unsurprising since you're their older brother. Why don't they have her smile? I had no idea how to respond to that. Maybe thanks for the compliment would have been the way to go and not my area of expertise. And your grumpy kid sister is totally MIA. Melissa shrugged.

That's too bad. Probably needs an older sister figure. I can fix her. She is a sneak, which she needs is to keep her nose in her own business. That's me corrected. Melissa dove into the box with both hands drawing five dream catches fourth from inside and brandishing them like playing cards. You worry way too much Jimmy. You're the older brother. We're not doing anything wrong. Wrong to the world and wrong in this house are two very different things.

“Older me thought. Also, we were so quiet getting that ladder down. I think I heard a fly fart.”

She set the dream catchers aside on the floor, not before a fanning her face with them though, and dove in again. What's your old man got all those dream catchers hanging up all over the joint for anyway? Let's see if afraid of. Nothing. He likes them. That's all. If you say so. Then her hands emerged from the box again. This time they came back with an empty glass Coca-Cola bottle. What's your dad got this for? Younger me shrugged. Wolder me imagine

the father telling me that the coke bottle was the first thing he bought with the first money

here and is a kid that, you know, a guy net out of a stand-up vending machine with a built-in bottle opener might have been a real memory or my brain might have created it thinking it was the kind of thing father would say. No clue. Melissa set it down with the dream catchers. Come on, lazy bones. I'm not doing this by myself. Younger me pitched in and before long we'd drawn forth some old toy cars that looked like they came from gangster movies. A half finished quilt

talked in to a notebook of plastic sheet protectors. God shimmy, your dad should sell this. You got Reggie Jackson here, Tom Severs, Ron Gidry, Pete Rose, Holy Hall of Fame Batman, this is Mickey freaking mantle. Younger me shrugged again. I guess he'd rather keep him.

And never even look at them? Jimmy, you gotta be loaded to even think like that. I thought your

“dad was only a doctor. A surgeon. To this house everything that's like beyond surgeon money I think.”

I'm sure it was. The family's always had money though and always been frugal with it. I knew that as a 14-year-old kid but did not say so. Wish it'd probably go. Get world of getting as good, huh? Not until we've hit bottom. Melissa leaned in so far only half a face was visible. This, what's this? Fiduro back holding three medium-sized rectangular picture frames. These are nice. Maybe they were? I haven't a clue what makes a good or bad picture frame.

Hours were mostly polished steel, some with gold lining and quite heavy, so I'm sure they were expensive.

She set them down, then went back in and drew out four or five smaller ones. She's Jimmy, your dad sure has a lot of frames. Where are the pictures?

“We should go. If memory served, though in my case memory is a very treacherous thing,”

there were still a fair number of pictures hung up all throughout the house, but there weren't as many as there were when I was all, say, 11 years old or so. Hatered. She pushed objects around inside the box, suddenly she froze in place.

Jimmy, is this your mother? I never had a chance to answer.

In that moment, a tremendous metallic claim shook the whole house. The clamor, though it only struck once who's so great that I could feel its vibration where my ass met the word of the platform, but neither Melissa nor my younger self seemed to notice. And indeed, my younger self had much bigger problems than random noises to deal with. You see a head appeared at the trap door of the attic poking up through the floor and looking

around with wide gray eyes, as though it were supported by nothing more than a loose spring. Lanky, fair, hair, drooped over the shoulders of a pale blue nightgown. A smattering of cream covered acne speckled her pale cheeks. cries settled on Melissa. Oh, hey. Melissa stood one hand still clutching a fistful of photographs.

“You must be Linda. But the smiles spreading across her face darkened as soon as my sister spoke.”

Her voice scratchy as though from this use her tone accusatory she pointed. You're an intruder. Then she looked directly at me. And you, you are going to be in so much trouble. But the clang, thankfully real, and still bouncing off the walls. And inside the head of older me, was from the real world from present day.

downstairs, grandfather had struck two in the morning. A company in him, the smaller clocks were all but drowned out. A faint, tinkling, or a mere afterthought under his dominion. In front of me, the puddle of water was again visible. But this time, as though it had only remembered to obey the laws of physics at this exact instant, it was running, dripping off the edges of the

platform. I saw dustmotes in the air, cobwebs in the corner. The equality of light, too, suddenly changed down to the fact that the window needed a very serious cleaning. Melissa and Linda flickered in place, and then disappeared. Two, one, ten minutes. I'm going to get you this time. The evidence, dripping off either side of the platform, was incontrovertible.

It was right in front of me, visible to the naked eye. I tried to pin point what must have been the puddle's center, though that job became more difficult to more the water dispersed across

to wait out the remaining time. No, don't do this. You're not this dumb. Whatever magic made to the drip up here, it's gone. The drip will come from somewhere else this time. This house is alive, and it's fucking with you. If I ever had any doubt of that assertion, that trip down the attic's memory well had cured it. This house has been in my family for generations.

“Such a long residency. Can I be indefinitely maintained without consequence?”

People, I leave an imprint. They are the life blunt of this old idama style of mine. The house reflects their moods and attitudes with perfect honesty. It has become spiteful over time. I waited. If it didn't happen here, where it had obviously happened before, then there was no way to deduce where else I was supposed to be until I was told. So I counted the seconds, my eyes locked on beams of Cedar Ward that still ought to be dripping. And I felt the time bleed away.

But still, my brain stubbornly insisted, you can't really be sure of that. Maybe it isn't fucking with you. Maybe it's trying to help. Downstairs again, son of a bitch. Leave me the hell alone already. He'll be home soon. He needs to be ready. It'll be you this time. That was Linda again. And whatever she was, she wasn't a real voice. Unlike father, unlike Melissa, Linda only came to me as thought. Even when both she and Melissa had been present in my memory,

I could hear Melissa in my ear drums. Not Linda. But why? No, father never hit.

Only cracked the bell to you. You never hit with it. And she didn't stop. And Linda was as stubborn as little sisters came. You know how sorry I am, Jimmy. It was either you or it would have been someone else. Someone's always got to get it when Daddy comes home. He would understand. He could have been me. It could have been Julia Andrew. He didn't have to be anybody. You didn't have to tell. There it is. That's a confession.

No big deal of beaten it, hit anybody right? You didn't have to do it. I wouldn't have done that to you.

It did have to be somebody. You don't remember Daddy's rules. It was always somebody.

“I'd never have done that to you. How but you did, Jimmy. More than once. Don't you remember?”

No. No, I wouldn't have. I need it to be on my feet. I need it to um. Clean the fucking window. Father called out from somewhere in the general direction of the strong box. It was like he was unaware of Linda's presence though. She and he, both had invaded my mind together. It was like he thought we were the only ones here. To listen to engineer. He can't hurt us anymore. But my eyes turned half against my own will to where I thought

the real sounding voice of my father had gone from. I found it less than three feet away in the insulation that separated the second platform from the third. A careful person really

“could walk around here with no problem. A reckless person might. Sun, you need to do as you're told.”

That window is dirtier than a $5 or isn't it? Isn't it? A shape began to emerge from the insulation like a body made of cotton candy only visible from the waist up. It was all cocooned in the stuff with her head at the top gradually taking form. That head rocked right and left. Swevled as though seeking me out. But it was blind. What it would look like if that head rocks of

attic insulation tried open its eyes. Well I never learned.

Linda shrieked in my brain. Her raspy voice like stone being scraped on stone.

to trust Linda. You would never exactly had each other's backs before. However, it's also

“noteworthy that I'd never been threatened by my attic insulation before. And so it seemed like”

reasonable advice at the time. As soon as I was in range I reached out with my open right hand and took it full in its half-formed face and squeezed. Father's cotton candy mouth opened wide, swallowing my fist hole. For second sight I could feel the insides of his cotton candy cheek. Against the back of my hand felt his cotton candy tongue a braid against my wrist and his cotton candy teeth nibble my fingers. I grabbed him by the ear with my free hand and pulled,

stretching his ear out from his head by six inches or more. Father's mouth disappeared from

“around my right hand leaving it trapped in place and it reopened in the middle of his half-formed”

forehead. "You bastards, you're no son of mine. Did you know that? Did I ever tell you? I could tell from the start. Bastard." "Cue it, Jimmy! Exercise is unholy ass. Priests once and for all!" "I drew in breath. Fuck you. I pulled my right hand free, drawing a fistful of insulation with it. And only she may torrent of spiders and flies. There must have been in sconce in the insulation for God only knew how long they hit me in a blinding wave. My hands flailed out in panic when I

made it to one knee the floor gave beneath me way faster than it should have. It shouldn't have given him at all. I'd made a misstep and with a seconding crunch I tumble the straight through the attic floor. The new crunch thankfully was all drywall and not bone. For a time I held on the one of the oak and beams that framed the attic insulation, feeling my feet dangling below me, kicking in empty space. In that time I could still make out all attic, but from this angle,

you know, I level with the floor and felt a lot like I was being swallowed whole by pink fluffy quicksand. It got worse. The insulation all about me drew in and then pulled back out a monster trying to breathe only I was caught in its throat. The visage of my father in that insulation

never fully integrated, but the stuff remained tangibly undeniably alive on every side of me.

I had the unsettling sensation that it supported me. I couldn't imagine why. Let me go. Then gathering myself summoning calm, trying for reason, I started again. A clean window. Just let me go. Father, please. I can't do anything like this. A tendril of insulation in circle to first one wrist and then the other. Right in front of me, it again gathered form and sat up. But this time it wasn't father. It was Melissa. Or so I judged by her size, by the

near perfect replication of her straight shoulder length hair. Her almond shaped eyes. The tendrils

were her hands holding me up, keeping me from falling. But her eyes never opened. She was here

“and like father she could not see. My hands clasped hers. Can you feel me jumping?”

Yes, it was her. It was as my Melissa. She sounded almost hopeful but there were tears in her voice too though I could not see them. Yes, I lied. What I could feel was the insulation but it seemed like the right answer anyway. Can you see me? Yes, also debatable but I assumed it was the desired response. But Melissa, why? Why are you here? The insulation tightened cutting off my circulation. Why do you think, Jimmy? Huh? I don't know. I answered with a simple truth and also

I've been here the whole time. Then she let my hands go. I hardly got in a worthy

“scrabble against the oak and beam. I'd been holding fast, less than a minute ago. In this time”

I crashed straight through the bedroom hole below landing hard on my side. Where ceiling to breathe and whispers of insulation rain the down after me. That dropped. At a glance was maybe 12 feet and I hadn't landed well. It would have been a lot worse if I hadn't been stopped. Partway down

by the apparition of my first and only girlfriend. Yeah, she probably count myself right,

fortunate not to have cracked my head on one of the beams. Still, at 39, landing on one's hip after a fall of 12 feet wouldn't have been much fun under the best of circumstances. And I was still nursing the foot injury from my self-discipline earlier. Thankfully, no one bothered me in the first

“moments after the fall. I guess it was a solid 10 minutes before I trusted myself enough to attempt”

standing again, which I'm happy to say I could still manage. I could even walk more or less.

But there is no doubt my right hip as well as the split on the underside of my right foot

slowed me down in a big way. I looked up. The hole leading up to the attic was still bleeding dust, insulation, and loose chips of drywall. Yeah, it's a bigger job than the window, I thought. I'm going to be expensive too. Unless I can fix it myself. In my current state, I didn't even trust myself to re-assend a ladder, so instead I brushed myself off and checked the time. 250 a.m. Then having no idea where the drip would come next, I limped back downstairs to the entry

level of the house. And hey, we're almost back to the present, huh? We're getting there. A 308 in the morning. I have only to wait for it and then follow it wherever it takes me.

Father and Melissa are quiet, Linda. Is quiet? I've never heard from my mother,

and I rarely hear from the twins. In my mind, having seen the minute hand turn over to the eight I start counting seconds. When I get to 180, it'll be time. To me, counting is an associative activity, not cognitive. I can focus on other things while I do it. There just isn't enough time for me to be properly positioned at the next potential source of the leak, given that I don't know where that will be. Still, for uh, ships and giggles, I make a guess at the big-ass laundry

tub in the basement, since I haven't visited that part of the house yet, today. That isn't a laundry tub, Jenny. Linda? I wait. It sure sounded like her. Could have been my own overstrain imagination though. I can't imagine her being content with saying only one thing, regardless of how cryptic it is. But there's nothing more. A shake my head in an effort to clear it. Anyway, this is what the house wants. You see, to make me run,

palmel all over the place, bad foot, be damned, and then show me I'm wrong. It's got a bad attitude to this house of mine, family trait. It's 309. Where was I? Uh, yes, family, um, the twins. I tried to envision them. In my mind's eye, I still see them at age 9 or 10. They were identical. With matching gray eyes, twin bullcuts, provided by father, you know, once mom was gone, and a shared pool of clothes. It was difficult to ascertain with any certainty which one you were

talking to have the time. Andrew had a chip to tooth, which was helpful when he spoke. The only problem was neither of them were very talkative. Ah, but here, this picture frame over the love

“seated used to be them, I think. I'm almost sure of it. In fact, it would have been a wide shot.”

Mom had a special camera for those. The picture that used to be here showed them on the carousel at the town fair. Unlike the other kids they ignored the faux rains. Instead they held

in that picture. I remember it perfectly because all the other kids in the background of the

“photograph they were, they were having the time of their lives. But that's all, I remember.”

I have no context nor have I the faintest recollection of what else may have transpired that day. And now, unbidden, I recall that the last time I had seen the twins smile was with that stupid white dog they loved so much. It wasn't our family dog, it had simply turned up one day. It's a Samoyate Andrew had said, "The chip in his tooth contributing to an already pronounced list. How proud they had both been to learn the dogs' breed. How that stupid Samoyate

dog had made them smile. But that was long before the carousel pick. In it, they had the same

identical expression they almost always had, like whatever it was they were doing, including having

“their picture taken on a carousel. All they wanted was for it to end. Father never used that camera,”

not even after Mother had gone, but Linda sometimes did. Linda had never been one to elicit smiles. But she did love that camera. After the picture had come down, Father had put a dream catcher up in its place. It done the same to Mother's former picture spaces. It didn't matter who else was in any of those pictures, whether it was me or Linda or Father himself. When it was time to have a person's pictures taken down, the pictures disappeared and the dream catchers were hung

over the empty frames. What's your old man afraid of? It's only a memory. It's not her voice. Good. It'd be happy for a break from those voices soon I might even be tired. Maybe I can get some sleep for once. Eyes closed. I count down the final seconds. I hold up my hand and lift a finger. And here we are. Back in the present at last, welcome. This time, the drip comes from a farther down, probably from all the way down in the cellar.

I sigh, I'm muttering another curse to no one at all. Also, it may seem, if any are watching, but I know better. The house itself is watching. It sees

everything. It has many eyes that it's disposal and unlike me, it never forgets. I could get there

using the stairs down from the kitchen, but those are too narrow and too steep for my full confidence if the wrong mood unexpectedly hit me with enough force, you know, I might throw myself down most stairs before I thought to decision through. It's best not to provide myself with that option. So I make my way to the living room. There's a sliding glass door leading out onto the deck. I'll take the stairs down from that and around the side of the house is the cellar door,

which used to be closed with a padlock, just like the one on the strong box. But I haven't kept that door padlocked in years. Where are you going? You have a window to clean. Here, hobble over to the foyer closet for a jacket. Yes, father. I got distracted when you attacked me. Attach you. That's rich, you ungrateful little shit. Father, I don't understand.

No, and you never did. You're that fucking slow. You confuse correction with violence.

You said I was no son of yours. You don't act like any son of mine. That's for sure.

“You need to fly right and see to your responsibilities if you're a true son of mine.”

I'm sorry, father. I am still trying to pin down that leak. There was also an accident with the attic floor. A pause, then his voice thick with slow bubbling men is. What did you do to my house? It's more of what your house is doing to me. I think in my turn, which is as good as talking, when father is asking the questions, I'll fix it. Father, you give me a chance to fix it. Is that an attitude? I detect in your tone, boy?

it, you already thought it. There must have been a time I was better at it. Linda certainly was, but I cut off of that unhelpful train of thought as soon as it occurs to me. If I'm not careful, I'll summon her back into my head, too. Zipping up my jacket, I again answer loud as grandfather strikes the quarter hour rattling the picture frames. No, sir. I mean, I didn't mean to. I can't help it.

“You disciplined yourself earlier? Yes, father. I told you I did. Did you clean up after?”

Yes, father. I am squeaky clean. Did you disinfect or were you a complete fucking idiot? That's the worst part. It's disinfecting. The antibacterial soap isn't so bad nor the bandaging,

but alcohol comes first. And stitching after that. Getting stitches is no big deal in the scheme of

things, but I am here to tell you, putting the stitches in yourself is no picnic. Yes, father. The only place that works for that is right here in the entryway. The mirror hangs on a blank space of wall just inside the double front doors opposite the code closet. Ablong, four and a half feet long, bound in an elaborately rot wooden frame that seems to have the unique super power of repelling dust. This mirror is one of several objects in the house that I

assiduously avoid whenever possible. This family artifact, like the grandfather clock farther in,

is as old as the house itself. Yet it's always looked brand new. There is no member of the family,

nor if you went back far enough, any visitor whose reflection has not been cast back by that mirror.

“It's the only place where I can still see father as I remember him when he was alive.”

It's the only place where father can see anything, and he needs someone to be standing in front of the mirror for the trip to work. Father, please, there isn't enough time. There's plenty of time. A check my watch. He's actually right. It's still only 322. Let me see the man you've grown into. We've gone through this drill pretty recently. Father 2 has a selective memory. Nevertheless, I do definitely turn to the mirror and stand before it. At first, I see only myself,

a tall pale man at the end of his 30s, sunken eyes, and sunken cheeks. More than a little male nourished. Food no longer has much appeal to me. Eating is a job to perform on a schedule,

“like everything really. When father appears, it's only his face, and I wear it superimposed over”

mine. My hair, what I retain of it, changes over from unkempt with speed blonde tendrils, to a close crop to neatly trimmed black business cut. My eyes roll back from blue, and roll forward again as a smoldering shade of a member. Father's face is full, ruddy, clean shaven, and a light with malice. I want to see your foot. Let me see yourself discipline and how you treated it after. I want to see for myself if my son has grown into a man who listens.

I always listen to you, father. I kick off both shoes and peel off both socks.

I'm a big believer in symmetry. It's earned away from the mirror and unwrap the dressing around my right foot. Then lift it so he could examine its underside. You over-stitched it. You put 12 in there. I see no need for more than 8, which also means you under-discipline yourself. When you do a self-discipline exercise, it needs to be a real 12-stitch incision. Even facing away from hand, I feel the flush rise to my cheeks,

like I'm no more than a pre-addless and punk getting put straight by his old man. I mean, for crying out loud, I did my best. Shit wasn't easy. I'm the thought swearing, son. Oddly, his voice is softened somewhat.

isopropyls and you're stupid. I don't even own isopropyl. No, father, greater risk of toxic shock. I used ethyl alcohol, which is also the only disinfectant father that had ever kept in the house after Mercury Crone got banned. Whether or not the ethyl alcohol is still good, as a disinfectant

agent after these many years, I've never learned nor do I, especially care. But it's almost gone,

and I'll need to resupply, I don't even know if the stuff is legal over the counter. Face me, stand on the bandage instead of the floor. This floor needs a cleaning, son. Fuck, I duck, but you are one lazy little bastard. I stand with my right foot on the bandage. Take your clothes off. I hesitate feeling my cheeks burn, hotter, still. I need to check the state of the rest of you. Strip. No, father. I wonder to hear the defiance escaping

my lips. I'm almost 40 years old, not some dumb kid. We don't need to do this anymore. What the fuck's the matter with you? I'm your father, and I'm a goddamn doctor besides. You can't hurt me anymore, father. That silence is him, but only for a matter of seconds. You want to bet on that? I know what the house is trying to tell me, father,

“what it wants me to remember. Oh, but this should be rich. Tell me, you misbegotten”

panty sniffing cockknocker, what this week's hallucination de jour is. What's your broken brain whispering in your ear today? You killed them, father. He cracks a half smile, along with one thin eyebrow. I see you're having a new nightmare tonight, instead of recycling the old ones. Hard to say whether that means you're getting better or worse. Bad enough, I only have you to try to maintain this place. You killed mother first. I summon every fiber, every flake,

of willpower I possess to remain outwardly calm since he can see me. Then you killed, do we, and Andrew, but I bet you killed that stray dog first, that dog made you mad. Then, then you killed a Linda too. I cannot stem the tears, the fairly erupt out of me as I at last

“confront my father with what I sincerely believe is the truth. You killed them all, father. Why?”

Father's laughter, he's no surprise. I've heard it often enough before, and always it's someone's

expense. Oh, I beat the fuck out of you. You insignificant, remedial, want to be rebel without a brave. You do remember the rules don't choose son, but no, never mind that. You're wrong, Jimmy. Let's cut to the chase, shall we? I didn't kill anyone. Have you got that? Is it sinking in? I shake my head, father will not deny me this. It is the truth, and I deserve the truth after all this time. Believe me, I tell you if I did it. What have I got to be afraid of?

“Honestly, I wish I had, but I didn't. Never be the one to take out your own family members,”

that's my motto. And do you know why you can believe me with 100% confidence, dear son of mine? Again, I shake my head, but I cannot speak. Because, Jimmy, if I had wanted to kill anyone in my family, I would have killed you first. Hey, gather my breath, and I somehow manage to compose myself. I remember more than you think.

The first rule is someone always gets it. When you get home from work, no matter what,

the only question is who deserves it the most? Every night, when you came home if,

Not bad. That's one. Have you got another?

“I've got all three. The second rule is always take your medication. I never understood that one,”

because we were hardly ever sick, but we took it anyway right before our school, and then again, at night before bed, you made us open our mouths and stick out our tongues, and then you checked inside with your finger. Can't be too careful. We couldn't think straight. Half the time. People call us weird. We didn't have friends. Well, son, medication is a tricky thing. Sometimes, one only finds the ideal dose by trial and error.

And the third rule is, the beating doesn't end until you draw blood.

“I've become in pain, and I glared him, and he glared right back at me. I'm impressed.”

And I never want to hear you use bad memory as an excuse to get out of work or discipline again.

Am I understood? Yes, father. I understand. Go find this leak of yours. Don't take too long. Come back to me when you're ready to clean up properly and get back to work. I am going to. I wonder if I can find the courage in me to do what I finally realized for the first time. Can't do. Thankfully, I do find it. In fact, I've made the decision. It's not difficult to find at all. There's one thing I need to do first, father. Oh, is there. Well, I wait with baited breath.

I'll be right back. I return to the kitchen, and I snatch up the first large dish cloth I can find. I run water over it to make it nice and heavy before wrapping it about my right hand and wrist. When I return to father, he starts up again right away. Oh, it's on a board. If this is how you go about cleaning these days, boy, I may have to start over with you. Look at the water you're trailing behind you. It's like you piss yourself.

Without the mirror, a father would never see anything again. I could have grabbed anything to do the job.

I could break the mirror from a distance, but this is a cleaning that I want to do by hand. I real back. Oh, no, you don't. You wouldn't dare. You worthless sack. But I do dare. Something must have changed in me. I must be having one of those moment of clarity things. On a piff any, that's the word. I punch that mirror with everything I have in me. The last shatters making odd crunchy noise against the back of the mirror before dropping the long wedges and

slivers at my feet. If I expect there to be some massive catastrophic consequence from this some baleful final scream from my father or an attack by every spirit who occupies this house, but it doesn't happen. Instead, I'm rewarded with silence. Broken only by the glass,

“still tinkling out of the frame under the floor. And that's silent. Is all the vindication I need?”

From minutes I soak it in. My eyes closed. Until grandfather clangs out the fourth hour one clamorous peel at a time. The noise is either louder this time or my imagination amplifies it. There is an accusatory tone to the peels, too, a distinct note of unforgivable sin. I'd broken the mirror and the mirror was bound at her house just as grandfather was. I stagger over to the wretched old monolith, tracking a footprint of blood with every step.

By easy and hands clutching either side of the clock's face. With a long sustained groaning wrench by pulled it's freedom of its morons. It falls forward with a scream of dislodged black iron nails and smashes to the floor with an old mighty splintering of fractured wood and shattering glass.

Right downstairs. Odd that there isn't a more direct path to the cellar, you minus the kitchen stairs, which would be treacherous even to the hairline healthy, but that is the way the house was built. No one among its long history of owners and caretakers ever changed it.

“Add that to the to-do list, I think, pulling the cellar door back and peering down the concrete”

steps into the musty gloom. I could make this into a house worth living in. If everyone would shut up and let me, it's not like I'm hurting for money. What I apparently do lack, however, is a brain as I'd come all the way out here with a flashlight. The moon is waxing bright in the early morning, but I won't do me much good after I'm four or five steps

down. Then I remember the phone I always keep in my pocket, but hardly ever use. It takes me

sometimes to remember how to activate the flashlight function, but I figure it out in the end, allow myself a half-smile of pride, a 407. Down I venture by the glow of my cell phone watching every step. And proud of you, Jimmy. Linda, for sure this time. Well, fuck a duck.

“It isn't that I'm surprised, as such. This is just a distraction that I do not need.”

I leave me alone. Wow. All I did was say something nice to you. You don't have to be a dick about it. I'm your older brother. I remind her, fully aware of the

futility in doing so. societal conventions never meant much in my family. Nevertheless, I continue.

It should be me saying things like that to you, not the other way around. I'm at floor level. I pan the phone in front of me, finding most everything as I expect to find it. The interior of the cellar is the length and width of the entire house, extending well beyond the reach of my little light. Three rows of four concrete pillars distributed equally throughout stabilize its vast ceiling and the floor of the main level above. I can only make out two of those

pillars clearly, plus the shadowy outline of two more farther in. You're right, Jimmy. You definitely should be. I'm surprised, I'd expected her to forge on with her own agenda not to agree with mine, but her tone is acidic, like thoroughly nasty. Come to think of it. Why don't you ever say nice things

like that to me? Alright, as long as she's going to be like that, I must be because I was never

proud of you. You know, except at one time you won the spelling bee in second grade. That was pretty cool. I should have said something then. Fortunately, I've been in this cellar enough times, I could sketch it for memory if I had to. The current quest item, the big ass cellar tub, you could drown a baby elephant in, and just what I held it the family ever used that thing for. Back in the day, it's over by a concrete staircase that leads upward to nothing but ceiling.

There may once have been a portal there, you know, right up into the utility room. Someone would have had to have lane floor over that portal at some point I have no doubt it used to be there. Yeah, but no one ever did, Jimmy. Hardly anyone ever spoke to me.

“Maybe that's why I gave up on shit like that, Jimmy. Have you ever think of that?”

Oh, boo hoo. Little sis, do me a favor and fuck off. Alright, stop haunting me. I'm sorry, Jimmy. What? But her tone remains unchanged totally unapologetic. I may need you to repeat that. You want me to stop doing what to you. You heard me. You think I'm haunting you, big bro? Oh, but now she's amused. It's 4.10. I'm relying entirely on my inner clock at this point.

There's no need for me to arrive early. I'm ready for the drip to come from back upstairs, you know, from outside the house, even from anywhere far from where I currently was. I am the rabbit and house wants me to run rabbit run until I drop dead or succumb to madness. If it does, I say, resolute, inadvertently creating a complete non-secretor for the ghost of my sister.

faucet hanging over it like the hand of destiny. I lean over it too and wait. It won't be long.

“I'm not a ghost, Jimmy. I'm not dead. The water swells under the faucet head.”

I can see my reflection in the pregnant drop of water by the light of my phone. For better or worse, I'm right on time. I'm in the right place and for an infinitely

precious second or two. I am overwhelmed by a combined rush of relief and triumph. So much so that

what Linda said does not immediately register. But again, time and place seemed to dissolve all around me. I am no longer leaning over the sink. I am being drawn into its well to the filtration system ring with a funnel of spiraling steel razor wire that it has instead of a train.

“It is, in effect, an industrial sized garbage disposal. It was a thing father had made himself”

an all from male order parts. I picture myself being drawn through that terrible barrier.

I'm being strained in a like a hanging bag of curd on its way to becoming recorded cheese. My

blood pouring out ahead of me into the pipe gutter that runs along the wall. Now the underground before I know it, a river of blood and shredded flesh pushed slowly forward over time by water just dripping from the faucet. I will eventually be absorbed into the town's sewer network. All of this fit a fleeting moment I see with absolute clarity until my eyes

“close of their own accord and open somewhere else. I'm still here in their cellar but I'm not”

leaning over the sink anymore. I'm coming down the stairs again. The stairs are illuminated though not particularly well. Before I reach the bottom step I'll see the source of the light. There are several light fixtures in the ceiling, all of them for a crappy low wattage twist in bulbs that glow with the dull yellow of dehydrated piss. But that isn't all I see. I also see the place where I just was and and I'm still there too.

The younger Jimmy stands halfway between present Amy and the disposal system. His back is to me, in how that it would matter, I realize it once that I'm again being made to relive another memory. One that I had perhaps deliberately blacked out by force of will were not alone. Distantly far away in the recesses of the cellar a thin shrill voice calls out and I recognize one of the twins. "Ready you're not here I come!"

It's no less so it's probably doy. His voice echoes and fade. I don't see him yet. Younger me puts his hands over his ears. The lights go out. That would be from the cellar circuit breaker all the way over on the other side. We all knew where it was even doy in Vandro. Making use of the circuit breaker beat the hell out of going bulb to bulb and reaching up for the strings one at a time. The dark is a absolute, but in the recreated memory I see

myself as an animated silver sketch. I catch glimpses of either doy or Andrew too, also silver

outlines in the dark, but never both. One or the other darts from one pillar to the other

cacoline and echoing laughter that quickly fills the cavernous room before tapering off again. But the twins didn't cackle. These days, in meaning the days of this memory, they hardly do anything. "What an idiot you were." "Linda again." "And are." "Oh hey make sense or go the hell away." "Look at yourself." "I do. And there I am. Standing the stock still hands over my ears."

"Yes, Jimmy. Why is that? Come on you're missing the point. What were you really doing? Putting your hands over your ears." "From the deep cellar dark, brief glimpses of a small shadow, the beam of a flashlight's get her in over the pillars, the walls and the floor. Doy's voice. It's definitely him again. "Come out, come out wherever you are." "Doy was being annoying. I tell my sister.

“Let it go. I think feeling panic can explicitly rise in my chest. Don't push this.”

Sis, please don't push this. You could have stopped him with a word. You weren't blocking out, Doy. You were blocking out me. You were trying to block yourself from doing what you taught me how to do. I closed my eyes, let out of breath. I'm tempted to put my hands over my ears, just as my younger

self is doing. Though I know from experience it won't work. It never worked. I didn't hear my sister

in my ear drums. The panic has become like a cold wind in my blood. And instead of covering my ears, I wrap my arms about myself and a rock in place. Why are you doing this? We're telepaths, Jimmy. We did this all the time, more than talking. They both knew. Mommy was so proud.

“I nodded. Why must I remember this? Daddy. Father hated it. At first he didn't believe it,”

when he did he hated it. Yeah, it was a jealous old bastard. I hated it too. Not always,

Jimmy. He didn't hate it until you met her. Oh, you never wanted little old me in your head when you

were talking to her. I mean, family be down to that point, right? No, and it's not what this is. This isn't about Melissa. I was trying to block you out because of something else. Uh-huh. That's true. Doesn't make me wrong though. A silver scarring form darts between two pillars briefly disappears, then reemerges and holds. One, two, three, I see Jimmy. Do he shines the flashlight right on my younger self, and for an instant I see myself in full color again, holding my ears,

squinting against the light. Go on, Jimmy. Go see where Andrew's hiding. She's telling me now, and I can tell by observing myself in my memory that she was telling me the same thing, back then, too. I do not want to do, as she tells me, neither one of me does. Where are you? Linda. She doesn't answer that. He came down here for a reason. Look. If you're alive,

“you must be somewhere. Look. But I, I don't, neither in the present nor in the past. It wasn't that”

I didn't want to know. It has more that somehow I already knew. Do he shown his flashlight on it? His father had been able to see this. He'd have had no cause to complain. The gigantic tub was spotless. With neither a flick of rust nor the faintest smear of grime, to be detected anywhere on its exterior. The floor underneath was, oh, permanently and irrevocably stained from hard usage of the pipes underneath, but the steel itself shimmered as though freshly polished. From the well of

that sink, I heard something shift. I saw the tub wobble just the slightest bit. Younger me takes his hands away from his ears and regards, do he? But I'm not playing little bro. I say to him, without manufactured half-smile. Just got here. I had no idea you and Andrew were playing. Do he not? Beaming. Linda gave us permission. Said we could stay down here all day. The seller was naturally off limits to the twins. Unless escorted by either Linda or myself and

forbidden to us all on weekends. Father often did work down here. We never learned what that work

me blink in the inadvertent winds, and I understand that version of myself is still battling down

“the telepathic projections of my little sister. The present day, Linda has relented for now.”

I haven't seen you this happy in a long time. I say to do he do he holds a finger over his lips. He stands on tippy toes. I leaned down a bit to lend him my ear. I know where Andrew is. He nods over to the tub. I've no no time. I'm going to scare him when he doesn't expect it. Something is wrong. Here, very wrong. I can't put my finger on it. In fact, I can't touch anything.

I am no longer there. I've become my younger self, but that version of me is 16 years old,

not 14. Linda is the one who's 14 at that time, and I hadn't seen Melissa in ages. I would make the twins 11, which was a bit old to be playing hide and seek in their on basement, but then as I have said, societal conventions don't mean much in my family. The metallic scream of hinges, the tinny slap of aluminum doors being thrown by their side from above, and a broadening beam of light from outside, all herald linders coming.

As for Dewey's plan, it doesn't look to be coming true, because the noise has also summoned Andrew to his feet. He stands, just as Dewey anticipated right up from the well of the tub. Even so, that thing is so deep that only Andrew's head and neck are visible. For 11, when I found out everything, Ranger was the stupid name they had given to the stupid, hyper energetic alabaster fur to flop a yeard canine friend. They'd made four years ago.

It was a Samoyad, no one had seen that dog in some time. Be quiet, listen. The tub, as father had told us, is where he disposes of medical waste. At 16, I'm old enough to doubt this, to recognize the lie, in fact. Why would that thing be in a person's house? Only strictly speaking, I mean to be fair,

father had never said that the medical waste was work related. Linda stands by my side,

has do he joins Andrew at the lip of the sink. She shares a meaningful look with me and I a surrender. I allow her into my head. I caught them sneaking into the attic, like you did with what's her face. Her name was Melissa. I answer her. I wonder if I stood in that sink, that grinder. Would I be able to hear Melissa call up from beyond the sharpened steel coils? Two years had passed. To the world she is missing, no one knows about her association with me.

And although I don't intend, that lost thought to make it into Linda's circuit,

“she evidently picks up on it just fine. I saved your life the only way I could.”

Daddy was going to take a lot more than a finger from you. Now I don't look at my hands very often. I don't look at them while washing. I avoid looking at them best I can even on the rare occasions I check my watch. I guess I don't want to confront that truth, that time, a father held me down in the tub and you forced a cloth damp with drugs over my nose and mouth, it wasn't a finger. The voice again speaks up from inside of me. With this

time I think it's only myself. It wasn't a finger. Of course it was a finger. You had an extra one anyway. Come on, Jimmy. You know what he did. I check. It's not true. I have ten fingers and there is no stomp, suggesting there had ever been an 11th freak finger poking out from anywhere.

“The twins are eye to eye. Do we outside the tub and Rose standing inside of it?”

Can you hear her? It's just like Linda's dad. Do he shakes his head?

I like to play on myself. One that gets easier or the more I do it.

“See whatever I get close to anyone who later disappears. I...is pretend they were never real.”

You know upstairs, along the walls, there are empty picture frames and dream catchers where

images of mother used to be. And therefore she never really existed. She can be safely forgotten.

At 16 I'm not quite there yet with Melissa, but I'm working on it. He told me what to do. Every bit of it. Step I step. He's been a part of it. Every step of the way. Do we as naive and as behind his peers as his twin? And as permanently damaged from over medication as Linda and I, no doubt are. Holes himself up the side of the grinder until Andrew can help him get right in it with him. In there they are going to their knees like two

“sacrificial lambs listening for the bark of their long-sense murdered dog friend named Ranger.”

Linda has promised them she's found their dog and can prove it to them. They believe everything Linda ever tells them. Without question. She's the one who hides under the bed with them. When I'm being punished, she's the one who comforts them. She's the one who helps with their homework, who gives structure to their day, telling them what to do, delighting in her authority,

but never outright betraying their trust. Even when she tells on one or both of them for various

minor misbehaviors, it's all for their own good. And me, I am the worthless 16-year-old punk that can't do anything more than stay in there and piss himself. Partly because I am scared. And partly because another part of me absolutely does not give a fuck what happens anymore. Mostly it's because going back to age 14 my fucking cagal muscle didn't work anymore and I've been back in diapers for two years. But there's also this. The twins know they are about to die. I mean they

have to. Right? For the moment they're perfectly safe, but just as they know, to hit the circuit breaker instead of going lightbulb to lightbulb in this underworld of a seller, this disposal factory for our serial killing family, they know what the big green and red buttons on the wall behind the tub are for. I could run up there and slap the green button anytime. It would happen too fast for them to stop it. Hell, they could do it themselves if they were in a hurry to get on with it.

I can hear her. Do these eyes are misty and full of wonder.

“Hey girl, hey Ranger, it's us! And I remember, I am not really here. There's nothing I can do about”

any of this. None of it's my fault. Anyway, it isn't even Linda's fault. Oh yeah. Linda's scratchy voice fills the seller echoing off the far walls. You want a bet? And she charges for the button on the wall hand outstretched shrieking with green. The world fades again. But I do recall helping Linda put the harp in place over the grinder while it did its work. I don't remember if I stayed to run the water with her after helper cleaned all up on the inside. I have a vague memory of hearing that

powerful faucet. Spray the remains of my twin brothers down the cylindrical pipe gutters.

While the grinding mechanism was still showing up the last of them. But you know, I might have been hearing that on my way back up the stairs. That's it. And I'm sure that within a week there won't be any do-ey or Andrew looking out from the picture frames. There will be only their dream catches. Smaller ones with not as much twine as mothers. There will also be a far greater chance now that they're gone that I will be the wondrous Eve punishments on the nights that Father comes home

from work. When I returned to the foyer, I find that I am myself again. Whatever it had means.

hip, who hasn't left the house in years, the hopelessly self-sufficient and independently wealthy

“me, who never learned to drive a car and never graduated school and never fell in love with anyone”

though I did come close once back in the day. The grandfather clock and the mirror still lie and broken ruins. A reminder of what Father always said right before the belt came off. You can never really take anything back. But I no longer hear his voice. Perhaps as Linda suggested he has gone on the whatever awaits people like him on the other side. When five o'clock comes several smaller clocks strike the hour but grandfather remains silent

at five eleven there is no drip. No echoing plink to remind me that I'm still on the hunt

for a leaky pipe that never existed in the first place.

“Do you remember everything? After the twins were gone, something changed in Father.”

He withdrew us from school. He stopped going to work and declared that going forward his children would be homeschooled. He even sent away for the paperwork to make sure that the charade is stuck. He disconnected the television and the landline phone and declared that any living thing that set foot over the threshold of his, never our house was an intruder. For a brief period of time it was like he didn't know what to do. Particularly when all

of the legal documents and resources for homeschooling arrived, only to sit on the kitchen table

undisturbed for months. He never disciplined us for what we did to the twins.

When I was 18 all enough to legally leave him and this unspeakable monster of the house. Linda ran away, never to return. In three weeks after that he put the gun that he always kept in his nightstand drawer under his chin and he, and splattered the wall behind the headboard of his bed with his brains. I still have that gun and there are still five rounds in the chamber.

“I remember finding him. Dead is a lower jaw hanging mosquito where it had come unhinged”

from the rest of his skull. One eye, olging and the other clamped shut. There's no way to guess how many people farther disposed of in our basement over the years. Could be one, or it could be one hundred, but it seems he wasn't ready for the deaths of his twin sons or the completely unexpected departure of my sister. Could be he wasn't ready for us to be murderers too. The Linda had implicated him in her blood to murder the twins. Hard to say the man was

fucked up. Much as I hated him, finding him in this way was very upsetting. I couldn't think of what to do. I mean, I tried to put him his head back together. I spent days on his head. I got the bullet out. Put everything back where I thought that it must go. I even used stitches. For the first time since Mom had been alive, I prayed. Like Linda in the twins hiding under the bed. Nothing worked. And in the end I sent him through the grinder. I took down the remaining pictures

with him in them. I put up some dream catchers. And after that I expected the police.

Any day. But the police never came. Why would they? By then no one from the outside world

as far as I knew had so much as seen our house in more than two years. Even now, decades later, the only one whom I'm certain has seen it is Gus, my grocery delivery guy, and apart from the time that he got one foot over the door he's only seen it from the outside. To the world, perhaps, Father is still alive. A retired surgeon is living his best hermit's life with his four very strange grown-up children. I know. He's gone. And he's not coming back. Anyway, I'm not done with the house yet.

I have another stop or two to make before I make any final decisions about what to do with the place. And as a little clean up, still to be accomplished as the attic window for one thing. There is also, as I note, forcing myself up the stairs from the main entryway the damage to the

estate to the fucking ground, but doing so would draw attention. They would be a host of questions

“I'd have to answer the world at large, and I remain enough of my father's son to want nothing to”

do with any of that. First things first, the linen, closet. That's where I'll find the first of the fanhums that have tormented my mind and spirit going back to when I was a teenager. It occurs to me as I ascend the steps to the landing of the debris strewn bedroom hall of all the ghosts that

occupy this house. The one I never hear from is the ghost of my mother. Do we and Andrew don't say

much, but today is an exception. It's do-y who whispers to me as I wrap my hand around the door knob of the linen closet from nowhere and everywhere it wants. It was you, you did it. No. I draw the door wide open, yanking out towels and blankets and letting them fall to the floor.

“That was father. Pulling out the last of the linens from the uppermost shelf,”

the bright white head of Ranger, the Samoyed pears down on me with dead plasticine blue eyes. Ragged, shredded flesh testifies to death by hacksaw or similar. Fresh blood pulls from underneath the stump, its jaws click, its mouths opens, but it's the voice of Andrew betrayed by the list that comes out of it. It was you, Jimmy. No. It isn't the first time I've spoken to one or both of the twins with the dogs head is there, conduit. It was father and I would have been in

trouble and it wasn't our dog. It was our- The dogs head barks at me, coughing blood. You killed Ranger and then we got in trouble. It wandered onto our property, it could have been

“rabbi. The father only did what animal control would have done anyway. You killed her.”

They speak together through the head of the Samoyed, now drooling blood over the edge of the shelf. Everybody by the lobster and you killed her. Father didn't love her. I clamp my eyes shut hands over ears again. You killed her. The repeated as though they hadn't

heard and maybe they hadn't. The dead talk, but they don't always listen. They keep saying it over

and over again and I can't block it out no matter how hard I try. You killed her, Jimmy. You killed her. You did it. It was all you. Only you. You killed her. Father had wanted her off the property. I was certain of that much. He had said we'd all be in trouble if he ever saw it again. He'd shoot it dead and he'd whip us bloody. I know that's true. I can see him say it. I can hear it almost like it's his voice speaking to me right now, but it isn't.

He never will again. All that is really left of any of this is me. And my mind is a self-ruined

hellscape of truths and lies so thoroughly scrambled. I mean, never know the difference again. Whoever had killed Ranger might as well have killed the twins. They'd never been the same after that. Did you? I didn't do it. Even if I did, I... I... but I can't finish the thought. I want my words to be true, but I also want to say I'm sorry. And I still don't know if it's the truth. One thing is for sure though, whoever did it would have had to have been insane or stupid to keep

the head in the fucking linen closet where anyone could have found it and where it would have decayed over time anyway. Why dispose of the body and keep the head? It makes no sense. I open my eyes. There is nothing to see other than a tremendous spill of linens and towels at my feet. All of which are perfectly clean. I reach out and lay my hand on the uppermost shelf for the closet. My fingers come back. Dry. Neither a drop nor a dribble of dog blood on them.

"Shinny." "Ah, linda again. God win what it end." "Get out of my head."

I go to it, feeling that I am almost not quite done with a very important task. It's not that I hope to accomplish anything meaningful it's more of a vague sense that this job will be

“the last job. After that who can say, huh? "You need to see, Chinny." "See what, Linda, you are so”

full of shit. I put one hand on the ladder, racing myself. You still haven't told me where you are." "You have to get out, Chinny. Like I did. That's all. It's as simple as that. You have to leave. Things will get better after you do. A promise." "And so the question." "I'm close. Come outside, Chinny. Wait for me. Don't bother packing." "Oh, if you're close, why the front door's open,

sis, come on in. I start climbing the ladder." "No, Chinny. Never again. If I do that, I'll go back to

being the way I was again. I'd be like you. No fucking chance. You have a chance, Chinny, and this is it." "But why, leave. This is my house. Now, leaving. We'll change anything." "It'll change everything. I'm taking you away from all of this." "You can't change what I've done. You can't change what you've done, either." "Linda." "It was never us, Chinny." "I poke my head up through the trap door to the attic." "It wasn't even father. It got him before it got us. That's all. Don't you see?" "No,

I really don't. I haul myself into the attic, proper, and stand straight. Everything is much as I'd left it, though there's a hint of sunlight trying to bleed through the window. And I'm 95% sure you're not even real." "It's the house, Chinny." "I look around, noting the damage. My eyes finally settling on the strong blocks that had so fascinated my friend, Melissa. My girlfriend. My first girlfriend, my only girlfriend. My sister, meanwhile, is relentless." "It's polluted with death,

“Chinny. Going back to generations. Do you only see the people you knew?”

Cattle me knows what father was dealing with. The monsters in his head he would never admit to.

"Are you believe in God, sis? Let's know." "It feeds up of the living, corrupting them from the inside, filling them with the only feelings a shithole of a house understands. jealousy, spite, hatred, cruelty. It takes a long time to get rid of those things Chinny, but he can be done. It takes help from the outside, from the right people. I've done it. I know how. It'll be easier for you than it was for me." "I'm standing over the strong blocks. The padlock

“hangs open the key, jutting out from the keyhole. This is what you've done, Linda.”

I tossed the padlock aside and heave the lid open. I stare down into it, dreading to uncover what must be inside, fully aware that what I'm doing might very well bring Melissa's ghost back into play.

Yet all I see, at first glance is a trove of family photographs, long since ripped from their

picture frames and discarded into this graveyard of forgotten memories. There's Linda, herself naturally as well as the twins, both before and after the death of Ranger. When they essentially became walking zombie children, this father, I'm in there too, although I'm not sure why since I'm still alive and in the house. There's nothing recent. After Linda had left, there'd been no one who wanted to take pictures.

But mother's camera is in there too, just next to a picture of her holding me in a shoulder hug. In that picture, she comes alive again in my mind, younger than I am now, her face radiant and happy. Her smile uncomplicated and true, but the picture shows something different, that only an older person could detect a facade, a brave face, actively concealing a subterranean

who was only eleven years old at the time himself and could not yet see through it.

“Then, from behind me, strange, I thought I'd fixed that shit head and I, it skipped the last hour,”

didn't it? My left eyelid and right pinky finger twitch out of helpless reflex. I oral expecting to find the middle platform again dripping from the damn leak in the rafters, instead. Mother shook me. I didn't rise, I turned over in bed, groaning. It was too early, even for a school day, it was still dark outside. Mom? Jimmy, get up. We have to go. I rolled the flat over on my back, I looked up at her blinking stupidly.

Well, Mom, what's going on? It was a creaking in the floorboards, the traveling hint of someone else awakened up in the house, that must be father.

“Mother's voice dropped to a frantic whisper, her words coming fast.”

Get your sister. Have her get the twins. We have to be quick, Jimmy. We have to be quiet. But I could hardly hear her through the haze of medication, which I was still getting used to.

I wanted to do as I was told, I always obeyed my mother. I tried to sit up and failed.

I opened my mouth to answer, but my strength was already gone. My vision already fading back towards sleep. Jimmy! But her whisper hiss was not but a gossiper's threat of thought from far far away. Soon lost in a sea of words and phrases that were becoming increasingly less coherent. There's something wrong with the house. We must leave a voice behind us. There's something wrong with father. It's in the moon. The fire. The pipes. I had drawn the alive at night. This madness. We have to

I have to go. I'm sorry. So sorry. Later, when I woke with a start as though from a nightmare, it was to the sound of father stomping his feet and shouting at the walls. Now, most of the contents of that strong box lie strewn all about me. Photographs and frames and dream catchers, an old and empty glass bottle of Coca-Cola. Toy

cars that had never been handed down. Dusty 45 RPM records with only one song on either side.

Baseball cards, a scattering of father's medical certificates and commendations from the 80s and early 90s. All of it random and precious once upon a time and so much of it meaningless to me. But underneath what little their remains in the box peeks out one thing that father had definitely never put there. And I dread to uncover any more of it than I already have. I expected to find it, but that doesn't make it any easier.

It's a faded pink t-shirt that can only see from the back the clear ridges of a human spine poking out from where the fabric had worn away over time. It's no surprise. Yet I can no longer contain the wordless howl of anguish and misery and grief that has been building inside of me for decades, not only from a lesser but for the twins, too, and even for that stupid white dog the twins had named Ranger.

I'd never have hurt that dog. I'd never wanted to hurt anyone in my life.

There, Linda, I call out to her in my mind, rocking back and forth on my knees.

“Are you going to blame this on the house, too? Did the house kill Melissa?”

Yes, Jimmy. That's exactly right. The house killed her. I was its instrument. Come outside, Jimmy. Please. But I don't go outside. I go back down the ladder and avoiding the mess on the bedroom hall floor as best as I can instead stumble and lurch my way to my bedroom. I fling open the door, sit down on my perfectly made king-sized bed and I open the drawer of my nightstand.

Five chambers loaded. One empty. I click the wheel back into place and consider.

“Ah, one carefully placed shot and it would all be over.”

From my pocket, a faint vibration. Oh, it's my phone. I pick it up. The number is unfamiliar to me, but I answered it anyway. Hello? Hi, Jimmy. I don't recognize the voice. It's female, adult, more than a little nervous.

Who's this? I looked for her to me. From all I wanted to find her before reaching out to you. No luck yet. Linda? Yes, Jimmy. You know it's me.

You sound different than I remember. Can a long time, right? Where are you? In the driveway. She sounds near, tears herself.

I just pulled up. I can't be her long. I can already feel that the mill here. I don't know. I'm being able or whatever it is.

Look out your window, Jimmy. Say for yourself. Still clutching the gun. Phone held to my ear.

“I go to the bedroom window, blinking back the rising sun”

and washes over me. As I draw back the curtains.

They are in the driveway as a car I've never seen before.

A two-door hatchback. The vacant model on familiar to a man on use to any car other than the rattling old Toyota that gusts the grocery delivery guy drives. The person standing beside it, too, seems a stranger to me. If it's my little sister, she's grown into a rather plump woman with darker hair

than she had in childhood, which she keeps in a ponytail. She's holding her phone to her ear. She waves. Come outside, Jimmy. Please.

Come on.

First step is the hardest.

From behind me, from nowhere, a disembodied voice snakes into my ears. As though its source had been secretly hovering directly over me the whole time. So, you get to live happily ever after while I remain dead. Is that it?

“Does my life and death count for nothing but to help you learn to become a better human being, Jimmy?”

I call bullshit. Melissa. She fucking killed me, Jimmy. You need to go out there and kill her. If you ever loved me, you do that for me.

I power off my phone and sink back onto the bed, sitting up. I regard the gun. That's either my sister out there or it isn't. And it's either the voice of Melissa's ghost in my ear or it is my own treacherous mind. It's the house, Jimmy.

It's always been the house.

Melissa is gone. I have a thought that the Melissa I knew would never ask such a thing of me. But then, you know, being murdered in a haunted house by a possessed 12-year-old psychotic, could reasonably be expected to affect anyone's disposition. It's decision time.

I can either leave this house forever and apart with the woman claiming to be my sister, hoping for, well, at some kind of redemption down the line via exorcism, therapy, some combination of the two. Or I can walk out there with this gun in hand and blow her fucking head off. Whatever I choose, lingo won't wait forever.

It takes me 10 long minutes to make up my mind. I know, because I count the seconds in my head, counting is an associative task for me. It doesn't require additional thought. At the end of those 10 minutes, I find myself at my front door, hoping that I've made the right choice for what's in my life.

Then I open the door and I step out into the light. [Music]

Written by Marcus Demenda, produced for the no sleep podcast by Phil Mycalski,

“starring Peter Lewis as Jimmy David Cummings as father, Mary Murphy as Linda, Jessica McAvoy,”

as Melissa, Nicole Dullin, as mother, and Dan Zepula as Dui and Andrew.

This presentation was adapted for audio by Jessica McAvoy,

musical score by Brandon Boone.

“Please visit the no sleeppodcast.com for show notes and more details about the people who bring”

you this show along with hundreds of hours of audio horror stories in our archives. On behalf of everyone at the no sleeppodcast, we thank you for listening and for supporting our dark tales.

“This audio production is copyright 2026 by Creative Reason Media.”

The copyright for "Plink" is held by Marcus Demenda. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.