The Dark Somnium - Why did the garbagemen start coming in the dead of night?

Episode Date: February 13, 2021

Why did the garbagemen start coming in the dead of night?--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I've been losing an average of 30 minutes of sleep every night for the past 10 days. Now I am down to a paltry four hours and 30 minutes. My walls are beginning to shift and my vision is blurring. I have to focus. I need to focus. Someone out there has to know. Does anyone know why the garbage collectors have switched to the night shift? Even asking it sends shivers down my spine.

It's late, and soon I will hear them turn up to collect. I can't sleep upstairs anymore, not where they can see me. Now I sleep in the living room with my gun propped up against my shoulder. The wait, a stern reminder that I am present. I am awake. I am a threat to them. They won't try anything if I'm a threat to them, right? I'm sorry, let me explain.

My name is Tyson. I'm a farmer with a thriving family. a loving wife, and two bright young boys. We live in a very remote area that requires a significant amount of divergence for basic services. I won't say where, I won't risk my family or my business, especially knowing what kind of armchair detectives there are out there. I respect what you all do and fear you in equal measure. So I'd rather throw you a bone you can thoroughly chew on, as opposed to delving into mine

in my family's personal info. What I can tell you is this patch of land has been in my family for six generations, was not acquired illegally, built on sacred land, and, to the best of my knowledge, has never had a violent occurrence or bloodshed. We're normal, hardworking folks who have always tried to do right, which makes what is going on here all the more difficult to understand, to quantify and reason with when the basic logic gives way. I hear you.

You're undoubtedly scratching your heads and asking, why are the garbage collector such an issue? And I don't blame you. I'll get to that. Something shifted by my gates. No sound. Can't be the garbage man. You hear them a mile off.

They're not subtle about making their presence known. The first night they turned up was so startling that I, honest to God, thought we were being robbed by the most unprofessional thieves. this part of the world had ever birthed, rambunctious, loud, and borderline jovial in their candor. It was always the same, each and every time. The sounds of the huge mechanical vehicle roaring as it drove up my dirt road, crushing twigs and kicking up dirt as it ground to a stop by the gate some fifty feet from my front

door. Two thuds, boots hitting the ground, stumbling over the main gate where our trash was left for the garbage man on Tuesday. Usually a couple of surly men got out, grunted, and hauled ass out of the area as soon as possible. These two couldn't have been happier to be there from the sound of things. Young men, the smiles almost visible in their tone. This the one, Bill, looks ready to me. I reckon it is, Jeff.

Let's get her done. A laugh, a high-five, the sound of something being dragged and thrown into the truck before they'd back out of the driveway and go off. into the night. Unusual, right? My wife and kids certainly thought so, especially when the trash was still there the next morning. Maybe they were some weird kids pulling a prank. My wife Lucy remarked, taking a sip from her coffee and glancing nervously at the window. I think she was saying it more for our boys' benefit than our own. I nodded and ushered them away from the windows, told them to go play. The next night it happened again. No specific. time, so much as that dead of night period between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. when the world falls

totally silent around you. None of our animals made a peep during that time frame, nor did we dare to, because when we heard them roll up again, we were paralyzed with fear. It took a few minutes to realize it, but when I looked to my wife and she returned my fearful glance with a wide-eyed stare and a nod, we scooped up the boys and huddled in our bed, the exact same sounds, the exact same timed footsteps, the exact same conversation. We heard them drag something wet into the truck before leaving after maybe 15 minutes. My younger boy, Jace, was always anxious and hearing this uncanny valley shit at his age sent him into a panic attack.

We spent the remaining time soothing him while my older son traveled. Tavis took to peering through the window with me. Our pig pen that lay some forty feet to the right of the house had the door ripped off the hinges, and a blood trail leading from the entrance all the way to the farm gates where the garbageman had been. When we mustered up the courage to inspect further, the pigs were silent, unmoving, and staring at the long dirt road that led away from the home. The tall trees that littered our farm looming overhead as if to silence them from telling

what they'd seen. We tried calling the city council to complain, but they were as perplexed as we were, said trash pickup was still Tuesday, and that since it was only Sunday, we weren't due. They advised we file a complaint with the police for trespassers, but that yielded absolutely nothing. In the meantime, things escalated. Night three brought us the same routine, same sounds, even after we'd taken to putting a lock on the pig pen, they still took one.

This time making sure to leave a small pile of viscera behind, perhaps as a warning. We elected to putting the animals in the barn and dead-bolting it, hoping the pranksters would get the message and perhaps get bored. I'd ordered a CCTV camera, but with my location being so out of the way, it was going to take time to arrive, and I wasn't about to stand in my window with a camera pointed out at some weirdos. We didn't consider the consequences of this time. defiance. It was night five. The boys were sleeping in our room, and like clockwork, they

showed up and pulled me from what little sleep I was getting. My wife soon after. Goosebumps raised on our skin and a chill in our bones. We strained our ears against the open window, hoping to hear their frustration and subsequent decision to leave. The routine continued until Jeff spoke to Bill. The moment they opened their mouths, I knew something. was horribly wrong. This one bill looks locked to me. I reckon it is, Jeff. Let's pay him a visit.

They rattled our front doorknob and politely knocked at the door. Five rhythmic knocks. Five seconds of silence. Five more aggressive knocks. I bolted downstairs and grabbed my rifle, keeping the lights off, but my aim focused on them. Adrenaline pushing fear aside, if only to defend my family. I don't know who you are, but you've been coming on to my property unannounced, and I ain't standing for it no more. I pulled back on the bolt, and the sound filled the room.

You got three seconds to turn on your heels, or I'm firing. My eyes adjusted to the front door, and in the darkness, two shapes stood behind my door, shrouded by the shadow of the night. They were tall, with thin legs and bizarre movements like they were swaying in place. Those three seconds felt like an eternity. One! The shadow to the front leaned forward, trying to press its face against the glass. Something was wrong. Two!

It moved away and tapped the letter box, testing if it opened up. When it did, it held it open and spoke as the second shadow stepped closer. Three never came. Instead, I backed away out of terror and barricaded our room, unable to speak. It repeated my last words back to me. same pitch, exact same tone, but something was off about it. Like hearing your own voice played back through old speakers, you sense an eerieness to it. As I'd instinctively taken steps back, however, the other one spoke. This was the first time either said anything that didn't repeat,

and I swear to God it makes my heart pound in my throat just talking about it. We have gone to collect. Come outside. The legs carried my body before I could register what was going on, rushing to the bedroom and locking it. I pulled my family in close and held my head down to theirs, desperate to block out whatever ungodly sounds erupted from our front door. It took a half hour before they gave up, assumed their usual routine, and left. The sound of the tire speeding off of the road, bringing some degree of relief.

Until the following morning, when our nearest neighbors, the Gundersons, reported. a break-in at their farm some five miles up the road. The perpetrators had smashed through the gate, entered the barn, and done such a violent axe to their cattle, that of the ten of them that had been attacked and mutilated, only two survived and were immediately put out of their misery by the patriarch, Ted. You've been having problems with these sons of bitches too, Ty? He bellowed down the phone once I began retelling our sleepless events. "'Shit, you sound like hell and probably look worse than the cows at this point.

I ain't having it. You got a young family to support, and when they hurt one of us, they hurt all of us. Tonight, we put an end to it, you hear? I nodded, agreeing to stake out our property that night and do whatever needed to be done. Hands still shaking, I grabbed a stiff drink from the cabinet. Never been much of a drinker. Most of this was my dad's for the tougher times. But if times weren't tough now, I don't know when they would be. Ted rolls up around 11 p.m. Wife and kids are asleep, and we shoot the shit in the living room for a while, mainly discussing how the harvest had gone and what we could do to protect our livestock in this day and age.

The conversation petered off, as they often do when a night draws on, but it was as we fell silent that the realization swept over us. We were going to confront these people tonight. I gripped my gun a little tighter, as Ted gave me an assuring nod. Peking out the window for any signs of the garbage man. Son of it, my farm! He bellowed, springing to his feet and bursting out the door before I could get a word in edgewise. He was halfway down the road before I could ask him what he was doing.

He turned, his eyes wild with fear and rage, pointing a shaking finger to the small shape that was his house far across the hill. It was on fire, large pillars of smoke billowing forth as the fire danced in the light, illuminating the surrounding fields. I can't stay here while my farm, my livelihood burns away. Those bastards are behind this, well, you can bet your ass they won't last the night when I'm through with them. I'll teach him a lesson about the value of things.

The things people throw away. He turned on his heel and ran to his truck, speeding off before anything more could be said. This would be the only night the garbage men don't pay us a visit. I get a bit of extra sleep, but my wife doesn't. She just stares out the window at the Gunderson farm in the distance and shakes her head. She knows how there will be no help on the horizon. She knows how close we are to that fate, and seeing that scares me to death. The eighth night, they arrive with no vehicle sounds, no grand buildup to the crescendo of

their routine. They whistle softly, as if calling an animal, patient in their call as they scrape something around in the dirt. I'm crippled by fear and cannot dream facing them. I look around in the dark and see Lucy is still asleep. Travis is snoring in the corner, but Jace. Jace is wide awake and transfixed, and staring at the window overlooking our driveway, reaching out to open it.

I leap out of bed and just about tackle him away, the shock of waking up to such a violent affair sending him into a panic attack as the entire family snaps awake in a frenzy, shabye, shouting over one another as he cries uncontrollably. This has got to stop, Tyson. We can't do this anymore. We can't live like this. Lucy was exhausted, her eyes barely open and her teeth chattering. In the moment of silence between us, the whistling started again, almost mocking in its tone

if it weren't for the sinister giggling behind it. She screamed, walking towards the same window. It took everything I had to hold her back as she fell to pieces in my arms. The entire family crippled by nerves and a lack of sleep. It was only when one voice cut the air that the final night's events were set in motion. The things people throw away. Oh no, Ted. One look into my wife's eyes and I knew what she was thinking.

There was no stopping her. She darted around, packing the kids clothes and any essentials she could find, ignoring the whistling outside and instructing our boys to focus on getting whatever they needed. You do what you need to do. I don't care if the nearest town is a three-hour drive or I undergo the seven-hour drive to my mom's. I will not stay another night in this fucking house, not until they're gone." She was almost delirious, fueled by fear and anger as she darted around like a hurricane,

turning over tables to get what she needed as if prepping for a weather event. Within the half hour she'd been rushing around, the noises had faded. and the outside once again fell silent. I couldn't leave the house. It'd been in our family's lineage for generations. We'd been born here, lived here, and died here no matter what. As the head of the family, it was my job to stay here and protect it, even if I couldn't protect those that I loved most under its roof.

She waited another hour before getting in the car and leaving, kissing me with all the passion she'd had when we first met. I told Jace he had to be strong and that he'd one day conquer his fears because I believed in him. I told Travis that as the eldest he needed to protect them like his life depended on it. Then, just like that, I waved them goodbye and promised I'd join them at their grandmother's house when this was all over. Now all that was left was to sharpen my resolve and to find out what this was.

I took the chance to try and get some sleep during the day, but no matter how he was hard I tried, it wouldn't come to me. So liquid courage it was. One way or another, this was going to end. Night 9. The penultimate night. Not a sound. I mean, that is the most literal sense.

The wind didn't move. The trees didn't speak. Not a single blade of grass danced and no dirt was kicked up. Everything was silent. So silent, my own thoughts were amplified in this void of sound. Every insane thought of what could happen flitted through my mind and forced me to double-check every window and door, triple-check the locks, and ensure no oversight was left. Couldn't let them get an opportunity, even if it's just me.

I know they're watching, even now. If I didn't know any better, I'd have said a shadow moved just behind the porch window. Can't be sure, not without checking. I think they were biting their time, keeping me on edge to make sure I'd have to make sure I knew they could step in whenever they wanted and do as they pleased. But I kept my nerve. I resisted the urge to bolt to the truck. I've got my whiskey and I've got my gun.

I'll see this through even if it kills me. Night 10. Now we're all caught up. I checked on the animals this morning and what was left was a pile of bones, flesh, and waste. They'd been taken the night before, and I don't know how I didn't hear during the size. There was but one horse's body left. Teeth marks riddled the torso, and the legs had been torn off. Our crops had grown fetid, decayed, and worn.

Nothing in our farm would yield a damn thing anymore. My livelihood was decimated in front of my eyes. Gone. It's late now. I'm sat in my armchair with the rifle loaded and ready. My hands are shaking, and my knees won't stop bouncing. I feel the dread start. my gut and worm its way through my chest before lodging in my throat and forcing every

breath to be a labor of pain. They came early tonight, truck roaring and routine sounds in full swing. Only there weren't two sets of thuds this time. There were six. They walked up to the porch, a shadow covering every facet of the window and door panes, not a speck of light coming through. The voices don't change their pattern. They never do.

This is the one, Bill, looks ready to me. They pound their fists against the window, a dull moan emanating from the background, pained, muffled, and growing in strength. I reckon it is, Jeff. Let's get it done. Nails drag down the glass, a horrific groaning accompanying the repeated intonations of their god-forsaken phrases. The things people throw away.

Ted, poor Ted, smashing his head against the wall, repeating it with every sick swing. It was only when I heard the fourth voice that I finally looked out the window, perhaps on instant. Not until they're gone. My Lucy, my sweet Lucy calling to me. I can't begin to tell you what I saw when I pulled back the curtains for just a split second, but every forbidden aspect of it burned into my brain. And it will not leave me even as I shut my eyes from the surrounding chorus of madness. My kids.

My kids are now saying they've come to collect. But I must come outside. That whistle has come back. It's almost soothing. I can't bear to do this on my own. I can't live with that image of this in my skull anymore. I miss my wife. I miss my kids.

I miss sleeping soundly at night. What if it is them out there? But they're, what if they're really just wanting me to get help and my own sick mind has put me in such a state that I'm here, asking you for help on something that is, at its core, truly simple? I'm going to put down the laptop and open the door. I have to know. I have to.

Why did the garbage men start coming in the dead of night? Does anyone know? Hello.