The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast #4

Episode Date: July 24, 2011

Our fourth episode gives us a quivering quartet of Nosleep Podcasts! Featuring stories from the No Sleep forum at Reddit.com, these stories will make the dark hours of the night creep slowly past.This episode features these stories: Jack’s Back written by Linda Groth (Redditor littlepangolin) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).This is My House written by Erika Blair (Redditor AllJackedUpOnMtDew) and read by Isla Schanuel. Music and production by Chris Holland (Redditor slamgauge).There’s Something Wrong written by Joshua Giles (Redditor vede) and read by Wade Thorson (Redditor WadeK).Special mystery tale written by Walter Smith (Redditor hauntedtape) and read & produced by Alex Beal (Redditor Alexthehoopy). Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

For the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. No sleep. It's the No Sleep podcast. No sleep. Featuring stories from Reddit.com's No Sleep forum. No sleep. Join us as the sleepless hours. Our first tale is entitled Jack's Back,

written by Linda Groth, and read by David Kroff. Cummings. I first got into contact with Jack, my former landlord, a little over a year ago when I answered his newspaper ad. I was in a rush to move as I had just broken up with my significant other, whom I shared an apartment with, and Jack was renting out the furnished basement of his house. The location was good and the price was a steel, so I moved in with a few boxes of personal items four days later. Jack was the eternal bachelor, interested in nothing but cars, certainly not interior decorating or even basic upkeep for that matter, and when he got up to go to work at 5 a.m., he would

often wake me up, since I am a very light sleeper. However, as the months passed by, I got accustomed to waking up early. I cannot tell you the exact moment I realized that something wasn't right. Over a number of days, a thought slowly crept into my conscious mind and settled. I hadn't heard very much noise from upstairs lately. There was the occasional creek or bang, like in all older houses, but the heavy footsteps that I woke up to and sometimes heard during the evening had seemed to disappear completely. Perhaps Jack was sick, I thought.

Perhaps he hadn't worked in a few days. perhaps he worked different hours. The man was a real loner and kept to himself, so it honestly didn't seem strange to me. I only really talked to him when I went upstairs to give him his rent money on the first of every month. He was never unfriendly or rude, but he was short with me,

like he didn't have much to say. I looked out the window and saw that the light was on in the garage. The blinds were closed, but someone was moving around in there. Jack must be working on his car. I felt relieved. His car was his baby, a powerhouse customized from scratch in the body of a 1930s Ford.

He'd shown it to me once. It was still just barely drivable, but had already won prizes. He spent all his free time working on it. The last couple of days, the truck that he drove to work had been sitting in the driveway when I left in the morning, but the following day it was gone. That same evening, the new noises started. It was around 5 p.m. I was on the computer when from

upstairs I heard what could only be described as shuffling, like something covered in cloth was being dragged across the floor in short bursts. Then the sound of something heavy, like a big dresser being moved. More shuffling. I heard the phone ring multiple times, but nobody picked up. A few minutes later, I could hear Jack slam the front door shut and walked towards the garage. As he passed by my window, I looked outside. Now, I have to say that Jack was not a man who cared a great deal about the way he looked. His hair was gray and disheveled. His clothes often had holes and oil stains and I had never seen him even remotely close to clean-shaven. But this, this was different. There was something unnerving about his gait, but I couldn't put my finger on what exactly was wrong.

His arms hanging at his sides. He was looking up into the sky. I couldn't see his face, but for a moment it looked like his mouth was wide, wide open. Was that his tongue bulging out? and black? No, of course not. It couldn't be. I closed the curtains and locked my door. Never before had Jack frightened me. That night I woke up because of screaming from upstairs. Not frightened screams or calls for help, but angry. A man's voice, loud, shouting and rage. I couldn't make out any words. Was it Jack? I stumbled out of bed and fumbled around in the dark for my clothes. Not really knowing what to expect, I looked around for something to defend myself with and grabbed a knife from the kitchen.

With shaking hands, I called the police on my cell, ran upstairs, and beat my fist against the door. There was no answer. The house was dark and silent. Jack's truck was there in the driveway, cold. After a little while, a police patrol drove by, and I talked to the officers briefly in the driveway. But they left after looking around outside and not finding anything out of the ordinary. Useless cops. So useless. I turned around and the house loomed in front of me like only houses in the dark can.

I thought I saw movement behind a curtain. After an hour or so, I crawled back into bed. I did not sleep. I just laid there, quiet as a mouse in the dark, with my covers up to my eyeballs, listening for any noise or movement upstairs. There was only silence. Thankfully, I was not scheduled to work the next day. It was late summer and a lovely day, but I was afraid to go outside. I didn't hear Jack all day.

However, the phone rang multiple times. Nobody picked up. I spent the day with millions of thoughts running through my head, jumping at every little sound the house produced. Kitchen knife never out of reach. Had there been a knock on my door that day, I probably would have suffered a fatal heart attack. Nightfall brought a sense of despair.

I didn't see anyone walking by my window that evening, but through my curtains I saw the lights come on in the garage. I started to wonder whether I was losing my mind. sleep came late and when it did it was filled with terrible dreams it was one of those long nightmares that you never really seemed to be able to get out of in my dream jack was standing by my bed looking down at me i remember his face foreign cold filling me with a deep feeling of dread and then something had roused me from my sleep I looked up and that lingering feeling of dread escalated into paralyzing fear, violently wedging an icy spear into my spine, because for a few terrifying seconds Jack was right

there, mouth opened so impossibly wide like a ghostly image burned into my retinas from looking into bright light. I screamed and the vision faded away. Just then, as if something upstairs had heard me scream, a response came in the form of a heavy thump. Something rolled across the floor. Looking back, I think that was the turning point for me. Everything about this was so, so wrong, and I couldn't continue letting this happen, whatever it was. I needed not to be scared anymore. This needed to end. When dawn finally came after what seemed like an eternity, I looked outside, and felt my heart skip a beat when I saw something moving around in the lit garage. This was it. It had to happen now.

I needed to know the truth. I grabbed my trusty kitchen knife and climbed out my bedroom window, which was not visible from the garage. Crouching, I sneaked around to the front door and held my breath as I turned the smudged brass knob. It wouldn't budge. The door was locked. Is it possible to be both relieved and disappointed at once? My sweaty hand tightened around the handle of the knife as I went around the side of the house.

Adrenaline was coursing through my veins, eyes in the back of my head like a startled deer. Please don't let him see me. Please don't let him see me. The kitchen window was open. It was open. I still remember every terrible detail so clearly. After picking together the last bits of courage I could muster, I stood up and looked inside. The fluorescent light over the sink was on. I could see that the refrigerator door was slightly ajar. Then the smell.

That awful, disgusting stench wafting out through that window slit. And there, on the floor, next to the broken dishes, God help me! I did not go back inside. I didn't stay. I drove away and called the police from my car. I did not want to gamble on that thing, whatever it was, staying put in the garage until the police arrived. I drove until I was too tired to drive any further.

Then I pulled in on a side road and slept. I never went back to the house. A few days later, I found the article in the local newspaper. It stated that a 58-year-old man had been found dead in his home on 12th and Dunsmere. Cause of death was unknown. An autopsy was going to be performed. Fowl play had been ruled out, however. The coroner estimated that the man had been dead for about three weeks before he was found by his tenant.

It also spoke of some unusual findings around the property, especially in the unattarctic. attached garage, but I did not read any further. The worst part is, sometimes when I wake up, I can still see Jack standing beside my bed, draped like a blanket over something far more dark and sinister. Our next tale is entitled, This is My House. I live in Northern California, in a small townhouse with my girlfriend. I've decided to change the names of both people and places just to be common. I don't want anyone going out to the beach trying to dig up clues and instead find the trouble that I found.

I tried to cut it down as brief as possible, but I decided to take all this writing and recording and put it online, someplace where people can read it, but probably won't take it seriously. You have to understand that I've barely slept at all in days, and it's difficult for me to keep my thoughts in order. Saturday, March 26th. John and I found this camcorder half buried in the sand on Stinson Beach. When I picked it up, water leaked out from inside the camcorder. Sand was packed into every crack and the battery was missing. We dried it off with this beach towel and popped the cassette drive open. There's this digital cassette cartridge inside the drive.

It's got a yellow plastic head and a Panasonic logo, but there's no label or sticker attached. It seems like the camcorder itself is pretty much trash, but, you know, we figured it might be possible to recover the data on the actual tape itself. I've got this older digital camcorder at home that uses the same type of tape, so I took that in the camcorder inside with me when John dropped me off at home this evening. Thursday, March 31st. John came over again and saw the tape on my desk. I told him I had forgotten about it and hadn't even tried to play back the tape yet.

We popped it into the camcorder and hooked up to my PC's firewire port. We opened up a video capture application and told it to scan the tape for footage. Only one scene appeared on the screen. I'll describe it to you as best as I can. A few feet in front of the camera is a one. woman. Her back is to the camera and she's walking down a narrow dirt path, possibly a game trail. Tall, dry grass and small bushes line either side of the path. From the lighting, I'd say, it's probably sometime in the early morning or evening. The sky is cloudless and tinged with a soft

orange color. The only sound is seagulls crying, the soft sound of oceanways breaking against the shore in the distance, and the shuffle of footsteps. The woman is wearing what used to be a one-piece swimsuit. The top half has been ripped or cut apart and now hangs down off of her hips and she is naked from the waist up. Dozens of ugly red welts and cuts cross her back. It looks like she's been whipped or badly beaten with a stick. A length of thin rope, more like twine, has been used to bind her hands behind her back. The twine is wound so tightly against her wrists that you can see that her hands have started to turn blue from lack of circulation. The twine is cutting into her skin, and small rivulets of blood have run down her hands and fingers, dripping onto the dirt trail

behind her. During the course of the scene, she only takes a few dozen steps. The clip is only about 30 seconds long. Right before the clip ends, a man's voice can be heard, and it says, Are you filming? You'd better not be filming yet. I told you to wait until we get inside. And then the clip ends. Both John and I were unsettled by that one short scene on the tape. It seems pretty authentic, like someone's home video gone horribly wrong. I tried to copy the clip to my computer, but every time we play the file back, it's just this mess of scrambled green lines with no audio.

John took the tape with him when he went home. He wants to try and use his MacBook and his parents' camcorder to see if he can recover the clip onto that computer. He says maybe it's just a problem with my firework. wire cable. Friday, workday, no different from dozens of other Fridays before it. I called John to ask about the tape, but he said he hadn't had time to look at it again. He's going to stop by his parents' house after work and borrow their camcorder for the weekend. Sunday, April 3rd. John called me just after 7 this evening. He sounded excited and told me he was able to get the clip to save onto his MacBook. The video plays back, but the sound's still missing. I told him he should upload it

online, but he wants more time to try and get the audio working, too. Wednesday, April 6th. So I wasn't able to get a hold of John for two days. Finally, he called me just as I was getting ready to leave work and head home. His voice sounded odd. There was almost no inflection to his speech. It was flat and emotionless. Anyway, I thought he was calling about the tape, but when I asked, he told me that it wasn't

important anymore. He said he had found something, and we needed to go back to the beach. It takes almost two hours to drive out to Stinson from my house, and I told him there was no way I'd be able to get out there on a weeknight after work. Even if I could go, it would be almost dark by the time we got out there. For some reason, this made him angry. I promised I go Saturday with him, but that wasn't good enough. He said he needed to go tonight. That there was something very important.

He kept saying he had something to show me. I asked what, but he said I had to see it for myself. Finally, he just called me a stubborn asshole and hung up. Thursday, April 7th. John won't answer my calls. His voicemail says it's full, and it won't take any more messages. Friday, April 8th. When I got up to take a shower in the morning,

there was a small amount of wet sand spread out on the bottom of the tub. I thought that maybe Sarah had only just now gotten to rinsing her bathing suit out from the beach a couple weeks ago, but I didn't see her suit hanging up to dry anywhere in the bathroom. It was mildly puzzling, but I forgot about it as soon as I left for work. Later at work, my phone chimed that I had a voicemail. I hadn't noticed the phone ringing, but that's not really unusual. I don't have the best reception inside the office.

Certainly not. The first time that's happened. The message was from John. He sounded calm again, no hint of his previous anger. I'm going back to Stinson again tomorrow morning. Meet me there. There's something I want to show you. I finished my workday and went home.

I decided to tell Sarah about the tape and how it's making John act strange, but when I got home, she still hadn't gotten back from work. I made myself dinner and watched some TV, and there was still no sign of her. I called her work, and they told me she left when her shift ended, right at 4 o'clock. I called her mom in L.A. to ask if she's heard any word from Sarah, but she hasn't, and she seems as worried as I am. Saturday, April 9th. I fell asleep on the couch watching TV. Sarah was still gone when I woke up. There's no way I can go meet John with Sarah missing. I went online and tried to find any reports of traffic accidents on Friday evening, but there's nothing.

Finally, I called the Sheriff's Department. They told me that I can file a missing person report. There's no waiting period to do so. I gave them all the details, and they promised to call me back as soon as they heard something. Sarah's mom called me again in the evening. She's really upset that no one can find any trace of her daughter. Sunday, April 10th. I had the most vivid night.

merit this morning. In the dream, I'm sleeping in my bed, spooned up against Sarah. I wake up, and I'm freezing cold. The bed is totally soaked with nearly frozen water, and it reeks of salt and seaweed. Everything's wet, mattress, the pillows and blankets, everything. My arms are wrapped around Sarah, and her body is just as cold as the water. I prop myself up and turn on the lamp next to the bed. Sarah is asleep on her side with her back to me, and I see that her arms have been bound together with twine. The knots so tight that it's turned her hands blue,

and there's blood seeping from the cuts in her wrists. Slowly she rolls from her side onto her back, and I can see her face. It's her, but she looks... She looks deformed. Her face is too broad and her nose looks flattened and smashed like she's pressed up against a pane of glass. Her eyes are bright and shiny and her mouth is locked into this terribly wide grin with far too many teeth inside her mouth. She tells me that there is something she needs to show me. I woke up in an empty bed, bathed in sweat and tangled in the bed covers. I swear I can still smell the ocean.

Eventually, I left the house to get food. When I got back, I noticed wet sandy footprints leading from the grassy lawn right up to my front door. There was a wet piece of twine wrapped tightly around the door handle. When I untied it, it stained my hands, a dull red. Monday, April 11th. I couldn't sleep. I called into work and told them I was sick. I lay on the couch all day watching TV, and I have no appetite.

At some point, I must have dozed off on the couch with the TV on. I woke up, and the TV was blaring noise. A local news report was on, and the reporter was yelling, almost screaming. It was a story about hundreds of dead bodies washing up on the beach last night, all of them with their hands bound behind their backs. He looked directly into the camera, almost like he was looking right at me, and said, then the TV turned off. My apartment is freezing, and I can smell salt water.

Tuesday, April 12th. Another night of fitful sleeping, but at least no more dreams. I'm exhausted from stress and lack of sleep. It's difficult to keep my thoughts in order. I called work and told them I was still sick. I don't know. For some reason, I don't want them to know about my missing girlfriend. In the evening, a deputy from the sheriff's department called me.

He told me that they found Sarah's car abandoned in a parking lot near Stinson Beach. I tried asking him more questions, but he seemed very elusive and he wouldn't give me any straight answers. I hope they don't think I'm a suspect in her disappearance. He told me that I needed to meet them at Stinson first thing tomorrow morning so that they could ask me some questions. Shouldn't they want to question me at the sheriff's office? Before he hung up, he told me that it was imperative that I be at Stinson tomorrow. He said there was something he needed to show me. I called Sir his parents' house, and her dad answered the phone.

I told them about the deputy finding her car. He said it wasn't important anymore, and that everything was going to be okay. He said, just make sure you meet with the deputy tomorrow morning, okay? There's something you need to see. Wednesday, April 13th. Another nightmare. God, I hope it was a nightmare. I'm so tired from not sleeping, it's hard to tell what's real and what isn't.

In the dream, I was laying in bed again. The clock said 3.28 a.m. I woke up to a soft tapping noise coming from the bedroom window. I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep. Then I heard it two more times, and then Sarah's voice. Alex, I know you're in there. Please let me in. There's something I want to show you. My bedroom window is on the second floor.

I ran downstairs. My gaze locked onto the floor, afraid of what I might see outside the window, even though the blinds were closed. I fled into the small guest bedroom on the first floor and locked the door behind me. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. The house is filled with the smell of seawater again, stronger than before. Thursday, April 14th. I'm terrified and nearly mad with the need for sleep. I don't know what to do or who to ask for help.

I know that I can't stay locked in this room all day. I'm afraid I won't make it back home ever again, but I have to go down to stinson. to talk with the sheriff. He's already called twice asking me where I am, and if he shouldn't just send somebody to pick me up and drive me down there. Hopefully, everything will work out okay, and I'll be back home later this evening.

Monday, April 18th. I feel a little silly for sounding so paranoid earlier. I finally found John and Sarah. Everything is going to be fine now. There wasn't any reason to be worried in the first place. Although it did take me a while to find their bodies, I had to wait until night when the tide was at its lowest point. This will probably be my last post.

It's hard to type because my hands are so numb. The twine is so tight you lose all feeling in your fingers. If you're ever in Maryland County, California, come down to Stinson Beach. There's something you need to see. Next fair is entitled, This is My House, written by Erica Blair,

and read by Isla Shanuel. I won't leave. This is my home. I dreamed about living here for years, this two-story house on the corner of Elk and Thomas Street. I saved for years to afford it to move out of that cramped apartment with its moldy walls and mixed inch of spoiled takeout of despair,

and I'll be damned if I let this force me out. The incident started small enough a few months ago, slammed door in the middle of the night, The television turning on when I wasn't in the room, items moving from their place on the coffee table or bookshelf, I tried not to let it bother me. I would carefully put those missed possessions back what they belong and ignore the sounds. I tried to avoid whatever caused the disturbances, but...

She was slender, dark hair and eyes, mid-20s as near as I could figure. She appeared all over the house, in the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallway. I could tell she could see me. me as well, and most times she would stand and stare at me, her eyes wide with fright and confusion, until I turned and walked away. Only once in a while would she flee or chase me. I thought, at first, that I might be able to handle her. After all, this was my dream house. I wasn't about to let her stop me from living here, but it just got worse and worse. I could hear her all the time, talking, laughing, screaming, crying.

Doors opened and closed all day. Water would run in the kitchen or bathrooms when I was in another room. One day, I went into my living room and all the furniture was rearranged. She would turn lights on or off, startling me. The girl began to scream at me whenever she appeared. I never responded. I didn't want to escalate the situation. so I would leave the room and leave her sobbing behind me.

Now I don't know what to do. I'm not sure if I can live with this thing living in my house. This is my home. My house. But if I have to threaten her, I will. I'll shriek at her, chase her through the room so that knife if I have to. This is my house. And I'm not letting this suit.

I'm not letting this supernatural bitch take it away from me. I don't care if I did die in my bathtub a year ago. This is still my damn house. Our final tale is entitled, There's Something Wrong, Written by Joshua Giles, and read by Wade Thorson. It might be the beer from all the partying,

but I could swear there's something wrong outside. I know everyone left, but there's still a car outside. Not my car, that one's out there too. Someone else's car. That means that between my house door and their car door, they got lost somehow. There's definitely something wrong outside. I can hear it.

It's scraping against the house on the outside, scratching long, dull lines into the wood with must be its long, dull cloth. like it's haunting me to come outside. I put my ear to the wall to hear it, and it stops scraping. God, I think I can hear it breathing, just inches away from my head across nothing more than flimsy, decades-old wooden beams. Not scraping anymore. Tapping.

Can't do anything to get me out there. I wasn't planning on going to class tomorrow anyway. I'm sure to go. away in the morning. Yes, there won't be anything wrong outside when the sun comes up. I'm sure. If I just stay calm in here, then it's at the window. I can see the condensation from its breath on the glass. There's nothing behind the glass. Oh, God, I can't see it. I just know it can see me, though. It can see my neck. It can see my flesh. It sees something it wants. It's scratching the window, making two long streaks.

down the glass, slowly. So slow, it seems like it'll be hours before it hits the sill, the sill, the bottom of the window, the bottom of my unlocked window. I can practically feel its enthusiasm on my bounding, leaping journey across the living room toward its undoubtedly hungry mouth. I almost trip on a beer bottle on the way, but I'm determined to get to that window before it manages to open it up. Oh, God, if it opened that window, it's...

I don't want whatever happened to... Oh, I can't even think of that person's name right now, but I'm certain there's a freshly torn corpse out there somewhere. There just has to be. I hurriedly flipped the window lock. It huffs a breath against the window at the same moment. A huff of disappointment. It sounded like a horse or a bull or something else even worse,

and it left droplets of mucus on the glass. on the glass. No more breath on the window. It's finding another way in. I can hear it trample the brush along the side of the house. It's going around to the back. What's at the back of the house? It has the upper hand. It knows this house. I've only been here a week. Just got here for college, a house my parents managed to get for me, way out at the edge of town. What's at the back of the house? What's not at the front or the sides of the house? The outdoor cellar entrance. That's the back of the house.

Jesus, where's the indoor cellar entrance? In a closet somewhere, I think, in my bedroom closet. Yeah, that's where it is. I just hope I can get there before it does. I don't lock that door. I don't lock the outside door either. I aim the flashlight at my closet door and see a hole into the blackness. But there's something.

wrong down there. I peer down into the hole, scanning with my flashlight, when a sound pierces the cold silence that I'd grown so accustomed to. Hey, man, what the hell? A pair of people, in the middle of what

must be, a drunken one-night stand are in the cellar. At the other end of the room, the three of us hear a creek. Moonlight pours into the space as the outside door squeaks its way open.

A horned shadow forms on the dusty ground of the cellar and an enthusiastic grunt fills the space as I pull my head back up into my closet and slam shut the trap door. The young fornicators inside are shouting. They're confused.

They don't know what's wrong, but now they're shouting in pain. That sound is so terrible. The sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing. The sound of people dying. I can't handle this. I pile as much as I can on top of the door

before rushing back into the living room. I sit on the couch, huddled in fear, watching the windows. I want to turn on the light, but I don't even bother trying. I know that there's something wrong with the power now. This thing has cut the power line. It has to have cut the power line.

A dull thud reports from one of the windows. My gaze snaps to it and I see a hand reaching up from below, smearing blood on the glass. I rush to it and peek outside the window. But this hand doesn't have a body. All it has is a few inches of an arm and a few more inches of bone at the end of that. Suddenly the hand retracts into the darkness, pulled away by the monster. Thud, a new hand. This time a female hand, and this time only with one finger, an index finger, pointing up toward the roof.

Thud, the, it's on the roof. It's down the chimney. I push all the strength the beer can give me into the couch. It tears jagged lines into the floor along its path to cover the fireplace, but before anything gets into the room, I block the hole. I hear another huff, followed by a cyst, like the sound of pouring water behind the couch in the fireplace. Then I see the dark outline spreading out on the floor in front of the seat.

It oozes around the empty bottles and cups scattered on the floor. It mingles with the various licked. spilt over the course of the night. I can barely see in the dark, but I know what it is. I shine my flashlight to confirm my suspicion, just as the chunks start to flow out. First, just a piece of meat, then an eye, some fingers, slowly spreading out on the living room floor. The heavier pieces dislodge cups from their position and start a cascade of, deathly stinking sludge through the room.

I can't take this. I'm done. The bathroom door pushes open easily and I grab whatever bottles I can find behind the mirror. Two or three, I managed to open easily and I pour their contents into my hand just as I hear it. The sound of the window.

There's something wrong. Back in the living room, feet just at the edge of the day, the disgusting layer covering the ground. I see the window open. The locks snap, apparently, without effort. A huff. Footsteps across the wooden porch outside.

The doorknob rattles, cracks, and the door swings inward. A huff. It's just been playing with me. More footsteps across the other side of the porch, the other window. The locks snap. The window pounds the wood at the top of its run. A huff. The filth on the floor is knocked out of the way by its feet. A huff. It's just been playing with me. Our sleepless tales have come to an end.

The special mystery tale in this podcast was written by Walter Smith and read by Alex Beale. Close your eyes, drift off, and don't look under the bed. The No Sleep podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons license, 2011. Some rights reserved.