The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast 3rd Anniversary Bonus Episode

Episode Date: June 13, 2014

The NoSleep Podcast turns three years old today and to celebrate we are releasing a bonus episode for all the fans! This episode will feature two stories that were originally produced for the great horror audio fiction site, "Chilling Tales for Dark Nights". The executive producer, Craig Groshek and I have collaborated on a number of stories in the past year and I want to ensure my listeners get to hear the kind of stories they feature. Make sure you check out their website and their YouTube channel to experience the high quality horror audio they produce! Thanks to everyone who has made the past three years at The NoSleep Podcast full of fun and frights! "The Contract" written by Aaron Shotwell and read by David Cummings. "A Klondike Horror" written by Joshua L. Hood and read by David Cummings. Click here to learn more about Aaron Shotwell Click here to learn more about Joshua L. Hood Click here for Joshua's anthology formatted for the Kindle Click here to learn about Joshua's upcoming audio project, "Driftland Radio" Podcast produced by: David Cummings. Stories originally produced by David Cummings for Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Used with permission of Craig Groshek. Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to the third anniversary bonus episode of the No Sleep Podcast. This is David Cummings, the producer of the show. This episode is being released on Friday the 13th of June, 2014, and it was exactly three years ago today that the No Sleep podcast launched its first episode. To celebrate this milestone, I am proud to present this bonus. episode for all the listeners who have listened to and supported the show over the past three years. Like our other anniversary bonus episodes, I'd like to present something a little different for this episode. It was in the past year that I began a collaboration with Craig Groshek,

the executive producer of Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. I've mentioned Craig and his team in the past, so I thought it would be appropriate to share a couple of the stories which I have produced for him during the past year. If you haven't listened to them already on Craig's site, I hope you'll enjoy hearing the type of productions I've had the pleasure of creating for him. Chilling Tales for Dark Nights has an excellent team of narrators and producers that create horror audio fiction in a similar style to what you hear on the No Sleep podcast. I would encourage all of our listeners to check out Chilling Tales for Darknights.com and experience the high quality of audio stories they produce.

I'm proud to be a small part of their team when the opportunity arises, and I am grateful to Craig for allowing me to share these stories with my audience. He is not just a colleague and collaborator. He is a good friend. So let's begin this anniversary. episode with the first of our two tales. In this story written by author Aaron Shotwell, we meet a man whose career is one of stealth and anonymity. That's because he is a killer for hire. If you have the money and the right contacts, he will make anyone disappear. But one assignment

has him encounter a man with a bizarre secret that will change. the killer's life forever. And it all began when he entered into the contract. I'm posting this from a masked IP at a public location. I don't want to be traced for reasons you'll soon understand. I won't give my name and I won't give my alias. It's too easily recognized in certain circles. I don't want this making its way back to my doorstep in any way, shape or form. You can call me X. Generic, I know, but that's the point. I was a contract killer, one of the best guns for hire on the East Coast, and I had the clientele to prove it. Grady skimmers, stonewalling employers, blackmailers, rats, moles, kingpins, even cheating husbands. I've done it

and at a high price my customers were more than willing to pay for a job done right. I was professional and precise, methodical, no names, no personal information, no face-to-face contact, no wire transfers, cash only, anonymity, plausible deniability, and no personal involvement. These practices kept me alive and in business, and they were the reason my name was in such high demand. When I got the call six months ago that started all of this, I handled it the same way as all the others. This is the transcript. I keep an encrypted database with a kill switch protocol. You never know when the info could save your skin. Now it just serves to remind me of my mistake.

House or apartment. Public. Um, uh, Parsons place, that is. Hello? Location. Uh, yes. Am I speaking to Mr. Listen, my name is... No names. Location.

Hotel. 10th floor, room tomorrow night, 8.30 p.m. Description. He's an ex-minister from St. Excommunicated for Physical description. Ah, yes.

Okay, okay, he's about six feet tall, mid-50s, thinning, gray hair, slightly overweight, and walks with a bit of a limp. He wears glasses, has a scar over his left eye. He, 20,000 in unmarked 50s at the drop point. Four hours. Your contact knows the place.

Be discreet. Don't be late. Understood. Listen, this is important. You have to know that... Leave special instructions with the drop. I can't stand, chatty people. They're bad for business.

I don't want to know you and you don't want to know me. Some people seem to have a hard time grasping this concept. Oh, Jesus, I shouldn't have even taken the call. When he fumbled on the password, I should have just cut the line. I wouldn't be in this mess if I had just cut the goddamn line. I could say hindsight is 20-20. I could blame the whole thing on the questionable and the unknowable, but I can't say that I wasn't warned. I just didn't listen, didn't care to know more than necessary to the task at hand.

When I collected the payment, I found more than the usual neatly stacked banknotes in a briefcase. I showed up at my contact's place of business that night, whose name I also choose. to withhold, after hours in a safe room below his hardware shop where the real money was made. Shady dealings by the light of a low-hanging lamp. You'd be surprised how many people need a squeaky clean middleman who can keep his mouth shut, and I was one of his most loyal business partners. He slid the package across the desk toward me, a slightly stained gym bag. lumpy with its contents. No marks for class or professionalism, but I'm sure it didn't

attract any undue attention. I had to give it that much. The condition of the bag did not belie the crispness of the currency either, ruffled and frayed from who knows how many tumbles and turns. Beneath it all, I felt something heavier and more rigid. I dug around and pulled out a small book bound in something that looked like leather and felt like stone. A dusty thing with pages yellowing at the edges and blackening at the corners. I held it up to the light, confused. What the hell is this? I asked. He sat back and lit up a cigarette.

Hell if I know, he huffed. But I think you need to be a little more careful with the jobs you take. The guy was a whack job, all nerves and the real liability. He paused for a long drag on his cancer stick. Not worth the paycheck, if you ask me. No disrespect, mind you. I just hope it doesn't come back to bite you the ass. I listened with one ear as I thumbed over the book. It was full of crude drawings,

symbols, and a lot of it written in a language I didn't recognize. A letter fell from beneath the front cover as I fanned through the pages, enclosed in fine stationary and sealed with wax like something out of the 18th century. I broke the seal of the seal. I broke the seal, and unfolded a note written on some kind of thick parchment. It read, Mr. We sincerely apologize for involving you in this grim affair, but we have tracked Father WS. Too long and too far to fail now.

We require an artful hand and a certainty that only you can afford us. That man's intentions are. a profound betrayal and a dire sin, and his death matters more than your life or mine. There exists a world in the shadow of our own, a world of those who would do us harm, who seek a dark eternity for us all. He would loose them upon us. Please know that yours is a vital task and that a much grander fate rests in your hands.

No matter the outcome, we humbly thank you for your service and your sacrifice. Go with God and may your aim be true. With admiration, this is some cult shit, man.

I almost laughed. Is he serious? "'People don't leave massive bags of cash lying around when they're joking,' he replied with a shrug. "'Shaking my head, I tossed the cryptic items aside and got back to business. I gave the cash my usual once over, a quick flip-through, checking for serial numbers and signs of counterfeit, then tossed him a small stack of large bills for his trouble. I didn't bother with a meticulous count. That was his job, and I trusted him.

We'd had a lucrative arrangement for several years, and he wouldn't jeopardize the loss of my business, let alone his life over such a petty sum. With a mildly annoyed tip of the hat, I took my leave to make preparations. I almost made it to the front door before he tried to sell me on a new line of garden shovels he had gotten in stock that morning. You know, just in case I found myself in need of a quick disposal.

He knew that part wasn't my job or my problem, but it never stopped him from trying to make an extra buck at my expense. In fact, his sales pitches had become a routine part of my visits, as had my refusals. I decided to make my post at a nondescript office building two city blocks from the hotel. One of several I had identified and favored for their easy roof access and lazy contracted security. I showed up an hour early, enough time to set up shop and account for the typical human lack of punctuality. The sun had already nearly set, and the cover of night was a boon of which I always took full advantage, given the opportunity.

I walked through the door in a mild gray suit and tie, slight five o'clock shadow, false mustache, and a salt and pepper wig, the visage of a middle-aged, constipated stiff, opting for a late night at the office to avoid sharing a bed with his head. his hag of a wife. My medium-sized briefcase didn't so much as raise an eyebrow as I approached the guard at the front desk. I passed him the doctored security pass I'd lifted off a careless employee earlier that day. I also took the time to make small talk, some bullshit about being transferred in for a week on a joint venture project, and hating the hours.

I find that friendly conversation usually instills more trust than a badge. I made my way straight to the roof, prepared to cover the security cameras, of which there were none. I found no use for my lock-picking set with the unlocked door, stepped through and found a good corner spot with no safety railing, and a clear view of the hotel's west wing. The landlord was just begging for a lawsuit when some idiot wandered up for the scenery and took a fall. But that carelessness was exactly why I chose the place. I opened the briefcases, polished latches, and pulled the parts from their black foam inserts one at a time.

The folding thumbhole stalk clicked tightly into the upper assembly. I fitted the lower receiver and trigger housings to the forward grip. I slid the scope onto the mod rail and tightened the clamps. I screwed in and secured the barrel, then ported the sound suppression jacket. I slid the bolt into the upper assembly. I paused for a moment and considered what I was doing. The note and book had scarcely left me. my mind since the night before, and the more I'd thought about it, the more I chastised myself

for taking such a stupid job. A lot of what I did relied on the confidentiality of people who had the common sense to keep our business to themselves. My contact was right. This guy was clearly out of his mind, and I was taking a huge risk by involving myself in their affairs, even at an anonymous level. I mean, was I really about to clip a holy man over some delusional fantasy of spiritual warfare? Did this man really have to die out of fear that he may summon some kind of demon? I knew better than to let any moral conflict bother me. I knew it was just a job, but this was ridiculous. Did I really want to get involved with these nut jobs? What the hell had I gotten myself into? I guess it wasn't my place to judge. Sure, there may have been

better reasons to end a life, but I was just the hired hand. A car washer doesn't question a man who brings in his clean ride for a detail, right? A pharmacist doesn't question a thin woman buying weight loss supplements. Besides, I had never backed out of a job before, and I didn't plan to start. If my reputation was going to take a hit one way or the other, I'd I had might as well make good on my end of the deal. I checked the feed mechanism and loaded the magazine. Six rounds, 308 caliber, modified charge. I focused the lens and scoped my range.

I closed and locked the bolt, and the round was loaded. The recoil pad sat firmly against my shoulder, and the weight of the rifle balanced on the bipod. I rested my thumb over the safety. I took a deep breath and I waited. As I stared through the scope into the room, the last rays of sunlight provided just enough clarity to make out a few important details.

Clearly, the guy had occupied the room for some time and he'd been busy. Just about every inch of the walls had been covered in the same gibberish from that book, written in what looked like permanent marker. He had torn up the carpeting and covered the floors in all manner of pentagrams and other circular symbols. At the center of each sat a variety of objects, including candles, piles of plants and rocks, and bowls filled with a number of different liquids. Last, but certainly not least, was the bed.

It had been stripped down to the mattress, which had been painted over with one last incredibly intricate pentagram, and thick iron chains and shackles trailed from the bedposts. Oh, you sick bastard! The scene was almost cartoonish, really. the kind of thing you'd expect to see in a bad horror film or a haunted house. I wasn't keen on the idea of harming the mentally ill, but I figured he'd be better off if I put him out of his misery.

Before I had much time to admire his work, my mark stepped through the door, lighting enough candles on his way in to give the entire room a flickering orange glow. He looked neurotic, fidgety and sweaty, and he constantly darted his gaze over his shoulder. I had a clear shot, and I should have just taken it, but I was struck with morbid curiosity. So I followed his movements around the room, the crosshairs constantly hovering over his eye. I watched his deranged ritual unfold, watched as he. as he fretted over the minute placement of the random items around him.

Watched as he rubbed his hands together and gnashed his teeth in nervous anticipation. I watched as he muttered prayers into the open air from a book that looked much like mine, and watched as a laughable practice of a mad obsession turned to true horror. As the ritual pressed on, I began to the ritual. began to feel the goings-on in that room for myself, and I mean that in the most literal sense. Something had gripped me, something otherworldly, and the scope of my rifle became a portal of forced witness to the blasphemous and obscene. The cool breeze around me turned to the musty heat of candles and sweat. The scent of a gritty urban summer turned to the stench of his

labors and the filth of his room, and the sounds of the roaring traffic below turned to his muffled mutterings and the banging struggle of someone or something behind the bathroom door. Though at a great distance, and though the crosshairs still marched over his left eye, I was suddenly there. I watched as he dragged the source of the noise from the bathroom, heard his grunts and his victims muffled cries through the duct tape over her mouth as he dragged her to the bed and heard the rattling of shackles as he unbound her limbs one by one, only to restrain them once again. She lay splayed out across the mattress, donning a wrinkled and stained nightgown, likely the nightwear in which she was abducted. She was to be some

unseen something sacrificial meal, and the candle flames wafted and dimmed in the growling breeze of its hunger. My Vigils Hold released me, but only for a moment, long enough to feel my index finger lightly caress the curve of the trigger, long enough to slow my hastened breath. I watched him press his hand against his mouth and pace about the room as he considered the gruesome next step. I could hear the anxious skittering and shone. shuffling of the demons now, seeming to come from the very shadows on the wall, and many shrew

voices chattered pleas for their feast. They grew irritated with his hesitation. I saw the terror in his victim's eyes as she caught the sheen of a blade drawn from his belt, a brutal dagger with a serrated edge, and she struggled against her. shackles until her skin began to tear and bleed. I watched him approach her slowly with a look of sorrow and remorse upon his face, apparently an unwilling prisoner in this deed. My finger gently pressed the trigger as I watched him raise it over his head, poised for a downward thrust. The creatures in the shadows hissed and moaned their approval. He stayed his hand for several moments, as did I, until his resolve grumbled.

He stumbled back and dropped the knife, and he covered his face in tears of personal disgust. The creatures from the shadows wailed and shrieked with fury, and the room began to cross. quake around him, shaking cabinet doors open and tossing aside the objects about before. The candles flared and raged. My panic released my mind, hurtling back to my own body, and adrenaline coursed through my veins. The sound suppression jacket made a harsh thump of a gunshot, and the left side of the priest's face shattered into a cloud of red mist as he fell limp and went crashing to the floor. Just as his head made contact with the hard wood, the candles extinguished in unison with one violent flicker, and silence and darkness befell the room.

I cycled the bolt and the jingling of the bolt. Bullet casing against the cement became the only sound I could hear from miles. I kept watch through the scope and a thin beam of moonlight shone through the broken window to show the unblooded half of his face. I stared into his unblinking eye for what seemed like hours, trying and failing to slow my heartbeat, and then it happened. Slowly, soundlessly, a hand like a long bundle of twigs crept from the shadows, wrapped its gnarled talons over his face, his eye still visible between them,

and dragged him off into the darkness. Fuck this! I stuttered to myself. Fuck this! I disassembled the rifle as quickly as I could. and returned it to the briefcase. I rushed down the stairs and headed for a back entrance, stashed the rifle and disguise in a hidden compartment beneath my car's back seat, and peeled out of the parking lot into the busy traffic.

I would be leaving the city, disposing of the disguise, the badge, and the bullet casing, and never looked back. Less than a week later, I read about the priest in the... papers. Their description of the crime scene erased any doubts I might have had about the reality of that night. They said that they found his body gnawed near to the bone. They said that the damage was so severe that they had to identify him by dental records, and the gunshot wound was far from the focus of the story. Strangely, they also mentioned nothing about the ritualistic scene or the state of the room.

The girl, apart from slight bruising and a state of shock, had apparently been left untouched. I thought I'd be safe if I could just run far enough away, but fleeing did me no good. I pulled quite a few jobs since that night, all across the country, never inclined to stay in one place for too long, and all of my marks shared the same fate. I poisoned a slum lord in New Jersey, and I heard about his vicious mauling in the evening news the following night. I slid a knife between the ribs of a heavy-handed bookie in Northern California a month later, and I watched the hands claw him from my grip and into the shadows before he even took his last breath. I heard them devour a mafioso's ex-wife in her own bedroom. I can still remember the smell that followed.

You see, I can't. kept that book, and I've tried many times to make sense of what happened that night. I don't understand much. I don't know what they are or what they want, but I have come across a damning revelation. Apparently, apart from the summoning, the ritual was just a formality. These things only require a mortal, any mortal, to take the life of a night. in their presence. They feed not on the dead, but on the murdered, and once fed, they follow the hand that fed them, demanding sacrifice again and again until the killer's life is done. The priest had defied them, and they were not pleased. I, however, did not, and they collected their meal by my hand,

He invoked their wrath, and I don't know what would have become of him had I not pulled the trigger. However, his death was my first act of unwitting service, and now I don't know what will become of me if I stop. But I just can't send anyone else to that horrible fate. Until recently, I killed only for money. I justified my actions with the banality of evil. The idea that such things had become an inherent state of normality in society. I profited from death, but so did coffin salesmen and life insurance agents. People would kill one another with or without me.

They'd murder each other for vengeance, petty theft, or their own self-righteous. brand of justice. What made me so different? There was no guilt in the ordinary. Now that I've witnessed true evil, I can't justify my lifestyle that way anymore. I've seen what horrible things prey on us in life and in death. I've seen the dark forces that count on us to send each other to the grave, to do their work for them and who hunger for us. I've seen what may await us in death and I can no longer take a

life so lightly. In living as I have, I wonder just how many I damned. I wonder if I ended the priest's suffering or if I only sent him to an even worse torment. I can feel them growing restless. They're angry, but I have fed them for the last time, and I will no longer run. Whatever comes for me now, I can't help but feel deserving. For all those lives I have ended, I can think of no other way to make amends. God, forgive me. I'm so very sorry. In this, the second of our two tales, we are transported back in time to the days when the promise of golden wealth drew men to the far north. It's a story by author Joshua L. Hood about an outlaw on the run during the Klondike Gold Rush days.

Having failed to secure his fortune, he's now running for his life, and there is more than just the law on his true. trail. As the cold wind swirls around, he desperately tries to avoid the Klondike horror. Blood froze from dark red to moonlight blue under the slap of Gore's bare feet. Each step took more skin off of the blackening souls and froze it to the sharp granite of the craggy trail. A week ago, he would have run in the snow, but the hard freeze, made the glittering crust like thin glass. Moreover, rocks don't leave deep footprints, just bloody ones. Gore hoped that whatever was chasing him couldn't track by the smell of blood.

It had only been five minutes, maybe less, since he'd last heard its massive feet plodding along behind him, and most Arctic predators could scent a hair under his. six feet of snow. Gore ran faster. He was becoming too numb to feel the rocks beneath him. Soon he'd have to put his boots back on or he'd start losing toes. Besides, the sure-footedness of being barefoot no longer applied once you couldn't feel the ground. The last thing he could afford was to slip, break a leg, and lay helpless for that thing. He crossed into the shadows of the pine forest. The moon didn't shine through the limbs,

and even the white of the snow had disappeared from his pulsing vision. Feeling his way in the dark, he bounced off of something like a tree trunk and steadied himself. The tree was devoid of bark and had jagged edges carved into it. Gore sighed with relief. He leaned against the pole and began trying to navigate his frost-bitten feet back into his leather boots. He would definitely lose some toes, but it was better than losing his head. As his eyes adjusted and his strength returned, he suddenly saw the grim, scowling face of a blocky creature hovering next to his.

chills that had nothing to do with the harsh winter shivered down his arms and spine. The face resolved further, lips bright red, eyes stark white. He looked away, despite this being the very thing he'd been seeking, like it could see into him and knew who he was. This pole with the carving faces was part of a forest, all its own, rimming the edge of the northern slope of the Granite Bute. Dozens of images, evil faces on top of comical ones, mixed with animals and spirits, were all hewn into the trunks of sacred trees and placed as a barrier between the Clinket

Village and the Granite Butte. The tribal totems were said to protect the natives against the demons of the north. Gore hoped that was true, but not too true. He huddled in the fur coat he'd found on the headless corpse and counted to 100. Nothing moved but wraith-like wisps of snow in the icy breeze. The thing had lost his trail. He lit a match and the wooden faces sprang to life. With an uneasy hand, he patted one on the cheek. You watch out for me now, Crow. You protect me, you hear?

The face didn't reply. As Gore walked away, he thought, what kind of monsters do you protect against, you bastard? Hopefully, not all of them. A bear spot against a frozen creek bed provided enough shelter for Gore to start a small fire. without fear of being seen by the hairy thing. Tomorrow he would go into the clinket village and ask for safekeeping.

The clinket didn't much like the tribe. They sent something about the small cadre of white men that they didn't trust, but they were his only chance. They knew him in the village, had actually liked him once. Maybe that would mean something. Morning came with a cold wind. Gore hadn't slept much, but at some point he shut down his mind enough to forget about the tribe. And that boy, and that thing that he'd found in the cave, or rather that had found him in the cave.

When he came to, the sun was just gleaming over the horizon. He'd only have an hour of daylight before it disappeared again, so he went toward the village. Snow had obscured everything so completely that he almost walked by the first lodge without realizing that it was even there. His hopes sank. There was no one inside. The village, which should have been rich with smoke and activity, was completely abandoned. Silent. He looked around, but there was only stillness punctuated by long shadows creeping into the woods. Why would they leave? The clinket rarely moved camp once they settled in for the winter, and this was an abnormally cold year.

Before organizing the tribe with McTerry, Gore had spent several weeks in this village, trade in the sugar, and tobacco with the natives. It was where he learned how to hide his tracks by running barefoot along ridgelines, how to dress all kinds of animals for food, and most importantly, where he learned to imitate the behavior of the clinket people. A skill he'd thought useless until he met McTerry. Then one day, he and the Scotsman shared a bottle of whistle. and Dawson and came up with the idea for the tribe.

Soon they were jumping claims together using Gore's knowledge to make it look like clinket raiding parties. Business was so good that the tribe expanded to almost a dozen men before the winter got cold and things got bad. Then that boy and his sugar came along and made it all worse. The whole thing started and ended with sugar. Even in the boom towns, a man could be hung or shot over sugar. No questions asked. And the tribe wasn't nearly that civilized.

Gore found the fire pit in the center of the village. It was a small depression in the snow, far smaller than he'd ever thought useful in the Arctic. cold. The clinket used surprisingly little fire, he remembered. He went past the pit to the Elder's Lodge. The lodges to either side were only sticks protruding out of the snow. The hides that had once been stretched over them had been removed, too valuable to leave. The Elder's Lodge was still intact, though, and hopefully that meant there was food inside. The flap was crusted shut so that Gore had to cut around the lashions with his knife

and pull off the whole hide like it was a solid wooden door. He threw it aside and lowered his mining lantern into the dark opening. The sun was already beginning to dim. As the lantern crossed the threshold, a failure. appeared in the center of the lodge. Gore jumped back, thinking that the thing from the cave had somehow followed him to the village. Knife still in hand, he stumbled backwards to a crouch and prepared to defend himself. Darkness fell over the lodge door, but the face did not emerge, nor did the beast come lunging out to devour him like it had McTerry and the tribe.

All was silent. Gore went back to the lodge, this time focusing the light into the shadow slowly. The form of a man resolved itself in the darkness. The man was seated in a prayer position, one he'd seen many times during his stay in the village. The man didn't move. The frosted black face had been dead for all. long time. Gore dragged the frozen body out into the dying sun. He was shirtless, painted for battle. A lone warrior left to keep vigil. But against what? There was something familiar about the red

markings on the warrior. He wasn't the elder, nor anyone that Gore could remember, but he'd seen those marking somewhere before. He cleaned off the frost from the clinkets bare chest and a symbol appeared. It was a familial symbol belonging to an important tribal matriarch. The symbol was drawn with a finger into a deep blood-red stain that had been painted onto the warrior's chest. Gore suddenly remembered where he'd seen it. It was the same symbol that the boy had painted on his face, the boy with the sugar. Ten minutes later, Gore had the fire pit dug out and had built as big a fire as he could find wood for. The frozen arm of the warrior, chipped off with his hatchet, was roasting above the flame on a pile of rocks.

Gore's mouth watered with the smell of cooked meat, and he smiled at the irony. Like father, like son. McTerry was probably the only other literate member of the tribe, so Gore knew that the journal must have been his. Meaning that it must have been McTerry's headless body that he'd found hanging from the tree, and McTerry's coat he was wearing now. His name wasn't on the journal, but that made sense. No one wanted to be associated with any record of the tribe's actions. With a full stomach, Gore began reading the words by the glow of the dying fire.

He feared that the huge hairy beast was out there somewhere, just beyond the protective ward of the totems, and the journal was the only key to what had happened at the cave. The only chance he had to survive. It began. November 22. It's already under deep freeze. Oh, this winter will be a hard one.

Can't return to Dawson. Most of the soldiers gotten off to fight the Spaniards. Thought this would be a good thing, but the Mounties are worse, much more savvy. They don't fall for Gordon's ruse. They say these savages wouldn't take the minor scalps. Gordon said no one would know the difference because most of the soldiers had been engine hunters after the civil and expected scalpins. Mounties don't fall for it, though. And now they're looking real hard at us.

Can't go to Dawson, even with the season's gold just waiting in our pockets. Damned fool, Gordon. Provisions are low, but we'll hit the miners' cabin soon enough. Time to get on the war paint or skipped ahead. He knew this part. About how the miners had been smart enough to leave their claims before the freeze that year, and how they took everything with them. They'd only found one old hermit braven out the winter, and he'd only had a rack of fish and very little meat on his bones.

After that, two of the tribe had made a run for it and tried their luck in Dawson. From what Gore knew, one of them had made the slip on an outgoing steamer, but the other was recognized and hanged before he got his first drink. Everyone else was too scared to leave and had hold up in a cave that they used to store their booty. All pickaxes and mercury bottles, but no food. Still, they thought it would be safe to winter in that cave. Even the clinket didn't go up that mountain. December 3. Well, Gordy has redeemed himself some.

Brought back an engine boy coming from Dorsey. Dawson. Had a half sack of sugar. Not much, but an easy split. Moreover, the boy is still summer fat enough to make a decent meal. We let Gordon do his bit. Seems to bother him little enough. We call him Gore for a reason, I suppose. There was an awful amount of fat in that boy. Cave smells like grease fire, but ain't no one here praying for gourmetes. God knows how these engines stay so fat, but God bless them. They do for a fine meal in a pinch. Gore thought back to the boy and removed a leather pouch of brown crystals from his pocket.

Like a Chinaman stingy on snuff, he tucked a little sugar under his tongue and let it melt away the flavor of the frost-burned warrior. He hefted the leather pouch and lamented how lighted it grown. When they'd taken it from the boy, it had a full two pounds. Then he noticed for the first time that the colored thread pattern on the side made the same familial symbol as was painted on the warrior's chest. I guess I was right. He began to muse, but was suddenly, distracted by a sound from the darkness of the woods. It was faint at first, but soon Gore could

swear that he heard a small child moaning. It grew louder. It was a boy, the boy. The sound became a groan and a huff, kind of a low, repeating wail, but without the wind behind it to be considered to cry. He'd heard it many times when a mine collapsed on a man's chest or when he'd shot a blue coat in the lung during the war. This one he knew intimately. It was the sound of the boy when he'd bled him out, cut his throat. They'd saved the blood, but no one could bring themselves to drink it, so it just spoiled. Now he heard it plainly, belching out of a split neck somewhere in the darkness beyond the totems. He felt the tingle of fear creeping up his spine, but pushed it down and told himself he was just shaken from cold and scurvy. The sound faded.

Gore retreated to the elder's lodge with his knife and hatchet both brandished. thing was out there. It was trying to draw him out, maybe drive him crazy. Is that how it got the tribe? He ate more sugar and tried to sleep. The totems would protect him. An hour later, he was shocked awake by another noise from the darkness. This time it came from the opposite direction, where he knew that the totem border was closest to the village. This time it was a different sound. Similar but more beastial, more savage, like cutting the throat of a bear or dying elk. It was louder.

That thing may have only been 200 yards away, just pacing the border and taunting him with its devil voice. He pulled the frozen hide back into place over the lodge door, knowing that the flimsy walls would do little to keep out the cold or the demons that haunted it. The sound faded away so slowly that it was painful to hear. Then silence came, deep and sleepless. Gore lit a lantern. December 15.

Engines are tramping about. round the base of the Butte, making a hell of a racket. Started yesterday, they was calling out a name, the boy's name most like. Then they stopped for a while. Buff went to check it out, came back with a scare in him. Said day was by the totems with a bigger fire and he'd ever seen a muse. The old one was sitting prayer-like, and the others was dancing. Now ain't none of that surprising. These savages get up to all kinds of hoodoo. One gets used to it. But what had buff in a huff? Buff in a huff. Oh, is that he says they was communicating with the dead. God knows how he'd got that idea. Says he'd seen him talking to the smoke and that the smoke was talking back in the voice of that boy.

Said he couldn't understand that gibberish, but he swore that one of the braves looked up the butte towards our cave with a real angry look. Then they all howled. Howled like devils at the moon. Whatever that voice in the smoke told him sure put a fire in him. Coward buff ran back, lickety split, piddling all over himself. I say the lack of food has got us all a little loop. Maybe we'll make a foray into the village soon. Get some more grub.

A fat squaw would do just right. A beastial growl rent the silence. It was the sound that the thing had made when it lunged out of the cave at Gore. This time it was accompanied by a violent knocking on dried wood that was somehow more chilling than the moan, but only just. A few seconds later, a cracking sound like old timber fallen in the wind came echoing through the darkness. The thing huffed once more in violent triumph and fell silent again. Gore turned the page with panicked fingers.

December 17. Oh, Gordy's done it this time. We just held counsel and found him guilty. of theft. We only had one pound of sugar left. Then suddenly we only had a half. Use three of these miners' gold scales

we got lying around to confirm it. Pack inspection found half a goddamn stolen pound of sugar in gordy stash. He says he's innocent. That it was a frame up. It doesn't matter. Rules

are clear. Some of the boys say that we should go easy, since Gordy helped found the tribe and says we should just kick him out of the cave. Utters say that's dangerous because he could come back at any moment. Gordy says it's a fate worse than death. Frankly, I don't care, so long as there's one less mouth to feed. He's standing out of the cave and bellowing that he's innocent. That's a good laugh.

Ain't none of us innocent of anything. In other news, the engines are back at their hoodoo down below the rise there. I think that's part of what's got Gore too stirred up to count his blessings and leave with his life. Sounds like they got a caged bear down there growling away. Don't know what they plan on doing with it, but ten barrels a scatter shot and a hungry belly says I hope they send it this way. Gore had stolen the sugar. He'd told himself that no one would notice,

but that was just the hunger talking. Everyone knew exactly how much sugar they had left. He also remembered the growling, and it had indeed given him the shivers. When he'd finally given up pleading and left the cave, the noise had faded into the background, and he remembered breathing a sigh of relief. He never did see what was making it.

He'd spent the next couple of days trying to make it back to Dawson, but when the snow came in thick, he knew he'd never make the pass. So he decided to turn around and try to make peace with the tribe. He'd eaten most of his coat, boiled it in snow melt, and swallowed it furrowing, all. His teeth were beginning to hurt and he knew what came next if he didn't find fresh food. But fresh food would be a long ways off. When he got back to the Butte he was startled to find that the trail up to the cave was red with frozen blood.

It disappeared into the woods at the bottom of the butte. Despite his curiosity, Gore waited until the sun came on. and devoted its precious short hour of warmth to follow in the trail. It abruptly disappeared right before the line of totems. He found there a decapitated corpse spitted on the branch of a tree. He took its coat, grimy and smelling of decay. Its pockets held only a journal and the leather pouch of remaining sugar. Then he went up the Butte cautiously, slowly rounding on the cave. He didn't know it at that time, but he would soon be running for his life from the thing hiding there.

The low, strangled moan of a dying man came from deep in the forest. Gore startled from his reminiscence. The sound droned on, intermittently interrupted, by a choking sound, as if the gout of arterial blood were getting backed up in the dying man's throat. Gore froze, moving only his eyes to make sure that the knife and hatchet were still in his numb fingers. Why hadn't he taken a gun from the cave when he had the chance? The sound faded and silence so profound that it was deafening fell over the darkness again. Gore edged forward, stiff legs protesting.

From a gap in the frozen hide, he could barely just see out into the moonlight. At first it was all just snow and the silhouettes of ancient trees, but his eyes served. searched around until they fell onto the corpse of the dead warrior that he'd stepped over to get to the lodge. Never step over a dead body. He heard McTerry's voice echo in his mind. Superstitious, Gore had thought, just like all his kind. But now he wasn't so sure. Hadn't the corpse been facing the other way? And what was that glint in its eyes? The moonlight?

But hadn't its eyes been shut? The sound of a man bleeding out through his own cut throat ripped across the silence again. Gore could have sworn that it was coming from the corpse, but his mind was so afraid that he couldn't be sure. He pulled back into the lodge with a stifled yelp, and the sound stopped. More knocking sounds came from the woods, like someone angrily pounding on the totems out in the distance. Another crack of dried wood and a triumphant growl. What can stop it?

He thought desperately. Something has to be able to stop it. He turned up the lamp and flipped the page. December 18. God damn, what a night. What a goddamn night! All night true, those damn savages chanting away. That thing they got down there is growling up a storm.

Buff went back down there an hour ago. We'd given him up for a goner, but he came back all at Twitter again. Said that thing they got tied up down there ain't natural. Said that only one brave is left there. Some shirtless, crazy fuck. Buff's got to be delirious. Said he's the only one chanting, but there's the voices of at least a dozen men down there.

Must be hiding in the woods. Of course, good chance we're all a little delirious. I'm going to go have a look myself. I want to get a gander at this. tinged it buffs all worked up over. Says it's completely hairy, like an ape from the circus, but that it stands on two legs like a man. I've never seen a circus, so I can't say. Said it's only a few feet tall, three or four, and it's chained to a totem. That's nuts because engines don't use chains. Says it stinks too. That I believe because,

I can damn near smell it all the way up here, like old garbage in a July latrine. The way it bellows is just, well, let's just say it's about time to put an end to it. December 18 night. Well, I got some good news. We got full bellies. That is, if we can manage to keep it down, we ate that hairy thing. First I got Labouf, and we snuck down there real quiet like, got within sea and range of that crazy engine. And boy, do I mean crazy?

You ain't got no idea. Feller had that big old fire going, and sure enough, that thing was chained up down there going a mile a minute, like it was rabid or something, just like Buff says. I don't know how we saw us. We were real sneaky. Damn sure we hadn't made a noise. We've gotten good at sneaking in the tribe. We knows what we're doing.

But some way that brave knew just where to find us. He stopped his chanting, all dozen voices of it, and looked up right at Leboeuf and me hiding in the crags. I hefted my rifle to put it. an end to it. But before I could fire, that damned engine pulled up a buoy and clean cut his own damned trot with a deep, slow cut. Oh my God, that ting on the chain went berserk. Like it knew what was coming next. You see, that brave looked away from us right before he did it. Looked right at that monkey ting and they both got real quiet.

The ting got all still like it was afraid. Then the brave nodded to it, like they understood each other. Well, the next thing we know, gouts of blood are all gushing onto the snow. The brave fell down, shaken like he had the palsy, and the ting went to screaming and jerking at its chains with the power of ten men. Damned, lucky it was chained and not just tethered. So the next thing I know, I hear a loud crack next to me, and Leboof had put a 50 ball right in that thing's head. Damned fine shot when he needs to be.

So we go down the hill, and Leboof is all talking about how he's going to eat the monkey thing. Like he didn't even see the blamed crazy engine just bleed himself out like that. To be honest, my mouth would have been watering too, if it hadn't been. for the stench. Oh my God, the stench! It's all about the cave now, but I guess it's better to be stinking than starving. Next we start dressing the ting, mostly to get its head free from the chain, and the fire starts to burn down. But it's not quite out yet when that hinge and elder over guesses his gunning, and I see him move in between a couple of trees. in the shadows. I turn and fire, oh, but go wide, and Leboof gets up his gun. He pulls and it clicks on

an empty chamber. Damned fool was so excited for meat that he didn't reload. Anyway, I look back and that crazy brave is gone. His body had clearly been dragged by some other engine into the woods. I thought about going after them right then, but knew they'd have so. sport of us if we went into the woods. I'm not worried about the cave. We got half ton of mining charges and more pistols and rifles than we could shoot in a week. They know they're no good coming up our way, which is why I figure they'd try and draw us into the pine. Anyway, Leboof and I get the meat back here and the boys damn near kiss us despite the smell. It was greasy, and I swear to God that the stink is coming out of our pores. But like I say when the

boys complain, ain't none of us gourmet. Gore looked out of the gap in the lodge again. He hadn't noticed before, but it did indeed look like that corpse had its throat cut. The red of the blood glistened as though it were still wet. A black shadow dashed across the scene between gore and the corpse. A strong smell of decay and garbage struck him through the gap like a bad wind. The smell was familiar. It was the smell of the thing that had been chasing him the previous night. It was also the smell that was so strong in the cave and on his nude coat. What was it the journal had said? That stink is coming out of our pores.

Gore sniffed the coat and winced. The shadow darted by again. This time the sound of the clinket boy bleeding out came loudly from just behind the lodge. Only the thin layer of hide and frost to separate them. It was deafening. Gore huddled in the middle of the flimsy structure, scared. He'd not known fear for a long time. Not when he was in the war, not when he'd come north with nothing but a pistol and whatever gear he could rustle from the rushers.

Not when the Mounties came after him for scalping miners. But now he was scared. He looked down at the journal. There were only blank pages left. left. What had happened at the cave? It couldn't have been that small beast they'd eaten. They said it had only been three or four feet tall. The one in the darkness was huge. Maybe an older one. A parent? An angry parent looking for its child? Shit! The smell came back as the lodge jolted, struck by a very large fist. I'm not worried about the cave, the journal had said.

They know they're no good coming up our way, but maybe something else would have better luck, Gore thought. Then the brave nodded to it, like they understood each other. Not alone, warrior stand in vigil. Gore realized. of the corpse. But a sacrifice, a bargain. A life for a life. And now the thing knows

how to find the ones it sought. The only language that makes sense to demon beasts. The scent. The scent of sin on the hunt. Revenge. He raised his hatchet defense

toward the door, impotent fear coursing through him. The lodge shook again. Frost fell around gore like a dusting of snow. The sound of a child dying echoed through the darkness again, but not a human child this time. A beastial one, pierced through the skull by a lead ball. a long, slow moan of mourning that ended in a violent, angry howl. An anger so determined that it overcame nine armed men, so keen that it destroyed the guardian totems,

so final that it cost the people of the village whatever uneasy peace they held with the demons of the north. It howled again, and the sound of the frozen warrior's corpse shattered by its great strength, tinkled like broken glass through the walls. Gors shook, the tent shook, and then the world exploded into a moonlight snow-scape as the hide walls were rent apart. Gors, who have been listening to the third anniversary bonus episode of the No Sleep Podcast. This episode was produced and narrated by David Cummings. For more information about the No Sleep Podcast, please visit the noesleeppodcast.com.

Thank you for listening and join us again as we enter our fourth year of terrifying tales at the No Sleep Podcast. podcast.