The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast Halloween 2012 Bonus Episode

Episode Date: October 31, 2012

It's Halloween 2012 and time for our second annual Halloween Bonus Episode! The episode features four stories to listen to by the light of the Jack-o-lantern.This episode features these stories:Snapshot written by David Burks (Redditor shadow_kick) and read by James Cleveland (Redditor tseotet).The Witches and the Circle written by Eric Dodd (Redditor Unxmaal) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).Nobody written by Anders Jensen (Redditor Anders771) and read by C.H. Williamson (Redditor pomochu).The Showers written by Dylan Sindelar (Redditor clover10176) and read by David Cummings. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness and the frightful tales creep into your mind, it's time to give in to your fear, because tonight there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's my little ghosts and goblins. It's Halloween, and instead of candy, I have a bonus episode of the No Sleep podcast for everyone. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. The Halloween episode this year is our longest episode ever. We have over two hours of frightening tales for your thrilling and chilling evening.

So grab some fun-sized candy, turn down the lights, and settle in as we get right on with the show. Our first tale describes a haunting. But unlike the usual things and places that can be haunted, the item in this story is rather unique. Narrator James Cleveland reads for us the tale by author David Burks, as he describes the nightmare he discovered in The Snapshot. When you think about something being haunted, there's always a handful of objects intrinsically tied to the idea. Off the top of my head, let's see, there's dilapidated houses, hospitals and graveyards. The always spooky haunted car. I'm sure most of you have heard of a haunted painting or ghostly radios tuned to the desperate message of some long-forgotten spirit.

Modern trends have even led to tales of haunted computers and possessed cell phones. More important than the object, however, is the story behind its acquisition. Nobody simply goes to sleep in their peaceful little suburban shack, only to wake up in a haunted mansion. It seems ludicrous to imagine buying a new car with a ghostly passenger tagging along in the back seat. Even in the twists involving haunted technology, you can almost guarantee the protection. The protagonist acquired the item second-hand. Imagine my surprise then at finding a haunted photograph of my family. A photograph that had, for the past 15 years, been just another snapshot of my past.

In fact, the only thing special about the photograph was that I had bothered to put it into a frame and set it next to my monitor. There, the three of us crouched, froze. in an awkward group hug as we grinned at the camera. On the left was Annette, my mother, 15 years younger and 15 years happier. To her side was my little brother Paul. Nothing more than a barely exposed grin beneath a mop of messy, blonde hair.

On the far right was me. A thin smile trying to break past the restrictions of my adolescent insecurity. I had an impressive gap separating my front teeth, and I wasn't about to let anyone see it. At least, that's how I remember the photograph. I haven't slept in weeks, not since my discovery of the initial changes. The first changes were subtle, enough to unnerve me, but not enough to allow me the possibility of alerting anybody else. It started with my mother's smile.

I had been chatting with my little brother online when the photograph caught my eye. At first I wasn't sure why. On closer inspection, I noticed the smile was less apparent, less real, just less. I choked it up to the increasing cynicism of getting older. I didn't mention anything to my little brother. hopped offline and tried my best to forget about it. Despite my conclusion on the matter, I found myself revisiting the photograph each time I sat at my computer.

Each time, the smile seemed to dissolve a little more. I also found myself inspecting the remainder of the trio for subtle changes. I was just as before, dutifully repressing my smile. With Paul, though, there was definitely something different. I stared at the photograph, incessantly comparing it with the memory in my head, picking likely points of change between the two, much like those picture puzzles in the back of those highlights magazines, you know, the ones littered in every pediatrician's office across America,

his teeth, or, to be more precise, the crack between his top and bottomed teeth. My memory of the photograph was of his toothy grin clamped shut, topped by his untamed blonde hair. Looking at the photograph now, though, there was a distinct separation. I thought about calling home, trying to explain the situation to my family, trying to explain that the photograph on my desk was haunted because my mother was smiling less and my brother's teeth was slightly separated. Funny how those situations always involved a protagonist appearing insane when he tries to get help. That was one week ago.

Skip to today and the photographer started doing something else entirely. What was once depressing is quickly becoming terrifying. I could attempt to write out the entirety of the subtle changes that have slowly warped the photo, but there is no point. What's important is what exists now. My mother is crying. Paul is screaming. And there I stand, indifferent to it all.

At least there I stood. You see, yesterday I noticed that my little representative in the trio started to move. Closer and closer toward the camera that originally gave birth to the shot. Same subtle smile, somehow becoming more sinister and cruel with each new glance. I wish I could tell you that I burned the photograph or threw it into a dumpster miles away from my apartment. I'm simultaneously horrified and enfrolled. The picture has become a twisted ritual in my daily life. Every morning I pull myself out of the couch following an unethal.

of a restless television-fuelled night. I open the door to my office and slowly make my way toward the photograph, avoiding eye contact with the once familiar inhabitants. I stand there in front of my desk and stare at my feet for what seems like hours. Slowly, reluctantly, I direct my gaze to the photograph and survey the day's new changes. My reaction is always the same. My heart catches. I throat tightens and the rigidity of my legs liquefies beneath me.

Somehow, I always manage to make my way back to the couch, marginally comforted by the closed door separating me from the picture. I haven't set at my computer desk for days, until now. You see, I'm not really sure what else I can do. We've all read the typical horror stories, throwing its way, burning it. It'll just come back, usually with an increased vigour. I'm sure continually looking at it is the wrong thing to do, but I can't live with the mystery of not looking. Hell, I don't even know how much longer I can live in general. I haven't slept. I haven't ate.

Worried co-workers used to call, but I managed to convince them that I was sick. Maybe writing it all out will help. And I can. go back to my normal life. A normal life devoid of one very glaring impossibility. I'm being haunted by a photograph. No, I'm being haunted by myself. I've never been more afraid of anything. On Halloween night, many young people decide to use the occasion to indulge in some dark rituals. Some visit graveyards, some go to local sites reported to be haunted. As author Eric Dodd explains to us, others decide to hold seances to attempt to contact the dead. But in the hands of people who don't understand what they're doing, the ritual can prove to be far more effective than imagined.

I'll read for you the tale of the witches. and the circle. My great-aunt had died the year before. Her house was locked up in probate until issues of inheritance were settled. My father was acting as caretaker of the property, which meant I took care of the place while my old man bought booze with my great-aunt's money.

I didn't mind. It got me out of my place, away from my old man, and it made a nice place to have parties and hang out with my friends. My friend Chris loved the place. I think he also needed a place to hide. Somewhere away from his own house,

with all of his dead mother's things lying around, right where she left them, before a sleep-deprived truck driver snuffed out her life like a candle on a store-bought birthday cake. Our big plan was to host a Halloween party, just for our small group of friends. friends. Chris quickly latched on to the idea of having a seance and spent a lot of his time at the library or at some of the local used bookstores researching. I told him it was no big deal,

that it was just a stupid party trick, but he insisted on getting it right. I guess Chris was messed up about his mother's death. I should have thought about that, about why he was was so concerned with contacting the dead, but he didn't talk about her very much. I was pretty stupid. There are things that happen when you are 19 that stay with you. You don't think they will, but they do. If that's not the definition of haunted, I don't know what is. I met Chris as he was walking back from the dollar store that evening.

He was carrying several bags of Halloween candy, some chips, and a few bottles of soda. And I drove us on to the house. He dumped the candy into a large plastic bowl and smacked my hand when I tried to filch some. That's for the trick-or-treaters, jerk, he said. As the afternoon faded into evening, the trick-or-treaters did show up, giggling in their Spider-Man and in turn. incredible Hulk masks. I doled out candy while Chris ordered pizza and set up the food on the kitchen table. Pete, Liz, and Sophia arrived by eight. I was excited that Sophia had shown up. I had been

crushing on her for months, but at 6'4-140 and bright red curly hair, I looked like a scarecrow that tried to dress up like Ronald McDonald. Sophia was tiny, cool, beautiful, with jet black hair and skin that may have never seen sunlight. She was my secret reason for having the party. I didn't stand a chance, but a guy could hope. Liz was Pete's longtime girlfriend. She was almost as tall as me.

with a shaved head, several piercings, and full-sleeved tattoos on both arms. I'm pretty smart, but Liz was a genius. She aced every exam without trying and was taking college-level classes in ninth grade. We had been friends for several years and had shared several classes at high school until she dropped out halfway through 12th grade. The vice principal told her in no uncertain terms that she would not allow a tattooed freak like Liz to represent the school as the valedictorian. Liz broke the woman's jaw in two places, and that was pretty much it for Liz's public education. Pete was wrecked when he walked through the door.

I had been friends with Pete since we were toddlers. His mother had worked with mine at the same hospital before my mother left town. I loved Pete like he was a brother, but he had several bad habits, self-destruction being high on the list. He nodded his hello, then staggered to the cabinet where my great aunt kept her liquor, and liberated a bottle of peach schnapps. By nine, Pete had retired to the monstrous old red couch in the house. the living room, cold cloth over his eyes, and a bucket by his side. Why is he overindulging? I asked Liz, as we shove the furniture out of the way. Chris and Sophia rolled up the large

area rug exposing the hardwood floor beneath. Failed as driver's license exam, Liz said, rolling her eyes. Again, Chris said, brushing his thick brown hair. air out of his eyes. This is what his fifth time to take it? I thought they just gave it to you out of pity after five tries. At least he didn't vomit blueberry pancakes on the instructor's shoes like he did last time, Sophia said. The heavy old grandfather clock in the living room bonged ten times. Chris stood up. Okay, everybody, let's get started. Liz tried to get Pete to join us, but he was fast asleep. Chris returned to the room carrying a large wooden box.

He opened the box and removed a small jar of salt and several candles. He motioned for us to sit in a circle, and he poured the salt in a double ring around us. He poured another smaller double ring a few feet away in front of the fireplace. He then carefully taped down several pieces of paper onto which he had previously drawn strange geometric symbols. I took the candles and positioned them at points around the circles, then lit them with my zippo. Chris motioned for us all to sit within the large circle. He dimmed the lights and joined us. We took our positions around a small wooden toolbox.

The circle was small. When Sophia sat next to me, her knee touched mine. I tried to concentrate on something other than her perfume. Chris folded open the top and removed a metal bowl, which he placed onto a metal stand. He pulled some pieces of wood from the box, put them in the bowl, and lit them. He pulled a fabric shrouded object from the box. and placed it in front of him. The dark cloth revealed a book bound in dark leather,

and when Chris opened the yellowed pages, instead of being brittle, they turned with an odd ease. Chris flipped through the pages, and when he stopped, the sallow pages lay slackly open without a hint of curling. He began a low chant,

in a sing-song rhythm, While chanting, Chris dropped wads of dried herbs into the metal bowl. Heavy, acrid, yellow smoke billowed up, stinging our eyes. Ancient spirits, Chris said, as we stared at him with rapt attention. Ancient spirits, hear us. We beseech you. Ancient spirits, hear our calls. All ancient spirits answer us.

Ancient spirits, come to us. Ancient spirits, the way is open. Ancient spirits, take this offering and come to us. Chris ran a scalpel, a scalpel that none of us had seen. across the palm of his hand. Liz recoiled in shock. The blood sizzled as it met the flames in the bowl. Jesus, Chris?

Sophia said. He shushed her with a glare. Ancient spirits, Chris called. Hear us. The way is open. Answer our... The door. doorbell chimed.

We all jumped, including Chris. The doorbell chimed again. Through the door, we heard muffled voices. Trick-or-treats. Sophia huffed and rolled her eyes. The ancient spirits are here, and they want candy. I thought you turned off the porch light. She stood up and walked to the door.

the door. She flipped on the porch light and opened the door. Two little kids were standing there, both dressed like witches, with pointy hats and green masks. They giggled, shoved their widespread pillowcase sacks towards Sophia, and yelled, trick or treat at the tops of their lungs. Sophia looked around for the candy dish, then saw it on the kitchen table. It was empty, save for some rappers. Sorry, kids, we're all out. That's what it means when the porch lights off. The kids looked at each other for a moment.

Can we come inside for a minute, ma'am? My sister really has to go to the bathroom. Sophia nodded and stood aside as two little pointy witch hats bobbed past. As the shorter of the pair went to the bathroom, the taller stood near the couch, next to Pete. She said nothing and was very still. I found myself sneaking glances at her mask. It seemed far too elaborate for a child's mask. And the black pits that hid her eyes seemed to drink in the light.

There was a crash from the hallway leading to the bathroom. Chris and I jumped to our feet and ran to see what had happened. The smaller of the two children was kneeling at the entrance to the hallway. I'm really sorry. I broke the mirror on the wall. My hat is too big and it must have caught the frame. I tripped. I can't see where I'm going. She tilted her head down and began to cry softly. "'It's just a cheap old mirror,' Chris said.

"'He extended a hand. "'His cut hand, I thought to myself, without knowing why, "'and pulled her up. "'It's getting late. "'Your parents must be worried.' "'Yes, it's almost midnight. "'Sister, we should be going.' "'We turned to see the sister leaning over Pete's sleeping form,

Green mask pressed close to his ear. Hey, what are you doing to Pete? Liz said. She stood and walked towards the taller child. He was sleeping, the taller witch said, shrugging. Her rubbery, pointed green nose, bobbled. I was telling him to have sweet dreams. The two children left, clutching their pillowcase sack,

and jostling each other as they walked down the sidewalk. I watched them go, and as I saw them turn the corner, I think that I may have seen them both take turns licking at the smaller one's hand. We shut off the lights, bolted the front door, and relit a few candles that had gone out. Chris picked up his book again as we rejoined him inside the salt circle. Ancient Spirit. He cried.

Ancient spirits, we call you. Ancient spirits, hear our call. Ancient spirits, answer us. The old grandfather clock began to toll the first of twelve. Chris sprinkled more sage into the redly glowing metal bowl. Ancient spirits, we beseech you! A candle went out. Sophia snorted and put her hand on mine.

My heart slammed to a stop. Then I realized that she was only trying to pull the zippo I had been fidgeting with out of my hand. She winked, then reached over to light the candle. Another candle went out. and another. The room was plunged into murky darkness, only lit from the flickers of the coals in the metal bowl. Okay, said Chris, with only a slight tremor to his voice.

The ancient spirits have heard our call and have responded. He shifted slightly and closed the box. On top of the box was an ornate, Inlay of letters and numbers in the style of a Ouija board. Chris drew a small white planchette from his shirt pocket and beckoned for us to place our hands upon it. We moved the planchette on the board in small, slow circles. Ancient spirits, are you here with us? Something crashed in the kitchen.

I made as if to get up, and Chris, motioned for me to stop. Don't leave the circle, he said. Stay inside the circle. Never break it. Nothing can harm you if you don't cross the boundary. We placed our hands back on the planchette. Ancient spirits, are you here with us?

Chris asked again. The planchette slowly moved to a corner. Yes Boards creaked In the darkened room around us This is too spooky Chris Sophia said It feels like someone's watching us

It oh Sophia looked down In the twitching red glow Of the flames A shadow seemed to spread across Sophia's chest She looked up at us and opened her mouth to speak. A flood of blackness flowed out of her mouth and down her chin.

She slumped forward, knocking over the metal bowl. The burning coals scattered. Sophia! I lunged toward her. A smoldering coal burned my hand, but I didn't feel it. I could only think about Sophia's beautiful hair. It was on fire. Get the lights!

Chris yelled, standing. He shoved me off Sophia, out of the circle. I scrambled to my feet. I could see nothing in the inky blackness. Liz was screaming over and over. A wall should have been inches away, but I felt nothing. I reached out frantically.

My fingertips caught six. Something, the sleeve of a shirt? It jerked away. There was a blinding, burning pain on my arm. I fell flat and away, clutching the wound. Blood soaked through the sleeve of my shirt. I crouched low, trying to see something, anything. I turned back to the circle.

Liz's face, mouth and oh of surprise, jerked backward. Her slashed throat sprayed blood across the room. It smelled like copper. I turned to the right, arm out. I ran.

My hands slammed into a doorway with force. A fingernail peeled back. I dropped to my knees, then crawled forward. My fingers met the cold steel of the refrigerator. I flung the door open. Light flooded the kitchen.

I huddled in the corner, shaking. I heard a racking scream from the other room. Chris! I snatched a heavy cast-iron frying pan from the stove. Heavy pan raised high, I stood to the side of the doorway. Blood trickled into a pool in the elbow of my shirt. I heard the slow slide of footsteps. There was a low, whispering breath.

Orsophia. Light glinted off of the butcher. I swung as hard as I could. My lips peeled back in a rictus grin. I grunted an involuntary, Ha! The edge of the cast iron pan caved in Pete's face as if it were a Sunday morning egg.

He went down in an untidy heap. I swung and swung, bashing his head until it was a lumpy mess, until his body stopped twitching. Still clutching the ban, I ran for the front door. It took me an hour to reach the front door. The front door could not have been farther than 15. feet away. It felt like miles. As I stumbled and crawled to the door, terrible things whispered to me, laughed at me, mocked me. I saw the dim shapes scuttle away as I looked, eyes straining to see my attackers.

They darted in and gouged my flesh with claws and hot, grasping hands. I had a little bit of, flailed blindly in the dark with the frying pan, but they only laughed. When I did reach the door, it was locked. I smashed the antique stained glass with a blow, then climbed through it, lacerating my hands and arms more in the process. The official police report states that Peter McCulty, 19-year-old Caucasian male, several priors including vandalism and possession, was under the influence of a large amount of controlled substances, traces of Adderall, Efector, PCP, Silocybin, and certain other unidentified, experienced a psychotic break and killed several people. Initially, I was suspect number one. A police officer found me walking down the middle of the

street, covered in blood and bleeding from dozens of cuts, fist clenched tightly around a cast iron pan. The police took a dim view of my story, and once it was determined that drugs had been involved, they ignored it completely. As far as, as the police took a dim view of my story, and once it was determined that drugs had been involved, they ignored it completely. As far as the cops were concerned, a bunch of kids took some acid on Halloween. They played at a satanic ritual, then one went off his rocker and killed a few of the others. It happens every Halloween. I was remanded into psychiatric custody for two weeks. It was only after I was released that I found out that the police had only regarded. covered three bodies, not four. They never found Chris or any trace of him. I have never gone back to that

house. I think about going back every night. I take my meds, meds that make me forget, mostly, and suppress the whispers that I hear in those long, black hours before dawn. But sometimes I still hear them. Every year, as Halloween approaches, the voices get louder, even if I up my dose. They tell me terrible things. They tell me it was my fault. They tell me I was the one with the knife. After a long and stressful week, it's fun to head out to the club to unwind with some drinks and possibly a new friend to interact with.

But make sure you don't lose yourself if you get swept off your feet by your lustful desires. C.H. Williamson reads for us the tale by author Anders Jensen. He tells us that when looking for fun, sometimes you end up. with nobody. Friday night. After another hard week you want to party. Have fun.

Get laid. You go to the club. It's not a place you usually go, but it will do. You sit at the bar scanning the masses and order your first drink. A girl sits next to you.

She looks like, what you are looking for. Young, blonde, great body. She chats you up. She says she's a medical student at the local college. You ask her if she wants to dance. She does. Later, you get more drinks. Some more get to know you conversation. She asks you, What's your blood type? You think that's kind of odd. She says you can know someone's personality from their blood type. Whatever, sounds about as silly as astrology.

After some more dancing and more drinks, she asks if you want to go to her place. Oh yeah, that's what you were waiting for. You go outside. Her apartment is only a blocker to a way. You get to the building. Start making out in the elevator. You get into her apartment.

It's small, clean, furnished well enough. She says she has some champagne in the fridge. Why not? She pours two glasses, hands one to you. You take a couple of sips. Everything starts to blur. You try to get up. You can't.

You see her calling someone on her cell phone. Right before you pass out. You slowly open your eyes. feels weird. You are lying on your side in some brightly lit room. You hear a loud heartbeat. What is this place? Looks like a hospital.

Suddenly you realize you are not breathing. You try to gather. for air, you can't feel your body. You panic. You try to scream. No sound comes from your mouth. You look down at your body. You can't breathe because you have no lungs. You cannot scream. because no air comes from your throat. That is not your heart beating. You have no body. Your head is lying on an operating table.

There are two hoses coming from your neck into some machinery. E.EG electrodes are placed all over your. scalp, producing wiggly lines on the monitor. The machine oxygenates and adds nutrients to the blood. Then an artificial heart pumps it into your head through the hose. The blood leaves through another hose back into the machine to repeat the cycle. The horror overwhelms you. You realize that there is someone in the room out of your sight. You can't really move your head. All you can move are your jaw, eyes, and eyelids. A man in surgeon's garb and thick-rimmed eyeglasses walks into your sight. He looks at the EEG monitor.

then shines a tiny flashlight into each of your eyes. He tells you to wink twice if you can hear him. You do. The girl you met at the club walks in through the doorway in front of you. She seems excited that you woke up. She refers to you as it. The man picks you up from the table and secures you on your life support machine in the specially designed hole for the neck. Then he wheels the machine with you on it down the hallway to the other room.

There are three other heads in the small windowless room. One of the heads, an elderly woman. looks at you with sad, tormented eyes. The head of a middle-aged man keeps staring blankly into the TV on the other side of the room. It's showing some infomercial. The third head of an old man has its eyes closed. The surgeon snaps his fingers in front of the old man's face. and gets him to open his glassy eyes.

The surgeon introduces himself. He's a retired surgeon who teaches at the college. He wanted to research the means of keeping a head alive without a body. He says such technology could save millions of terminally ill and lethally injured. But the research proved too controversial. He couldn't get permission to experiment with animals, let alone humans. So he continued his research on his own illegally. He got terminally ill volunteers, mostly the elderly, he could experiment with.

But he needed a young, and healthy subject for his experiments. One of his students with whom he had a special relationship offered her help to get a volunteer. He says the longest he's managed to keep a head alive is two and a half years. He believes that with his improved technology, he could keep a younger subject alive almost indefinitely.

You are there to find out if he is right. You wish you could just die. But you won't. There's absolutely nothing you can do about it. In our final tale, we learn of an old urban legend shared with a class by a favorite teacher. The tale shared every Halloween inspires one student to find out if the story is based more in fact than fiction. I'll read the epic tale from author Dylan Sindelar as we discover the dark secrets of the showers. members of every generation who will proclaim that they know someone whose brother's best friend's

sister went to that haunted house with 13 floors that used real blood and snakes and spiders and is so scary that no one has ever made it all the way through. Those same people will swear by these stories without ever being able to provide a shred of evidence, or a name of someone who could provide proof of the claims, simply because everyone around here knows that it's a true story. The storytellers eventually pass the tales onto their children who modify them just enough to keep up with the changing times, and the cycle continues. I'm as skeptical as anyone when it comes to these stories, seeing as I was like a junkie, when I was younger, constantly searching for more terrifying stories about whatever area of the country

I was living in at the time. I made up and spread stories about haunted pizza parlors in New York. My cousins encounter with the Jersey Devil, or how my grandfather encountered a feral, human-like demon creature in the woods of Colorado. I even broke the one rule with these stories. by putting myself in them. This took guts, in hindsight, because I had to make sure that I always told them the same way. Surprisingly, no one ever called my bluff. I like to think that I have had some wonderful contributions

to various urban legends around the Midwest and Northeastern States. I moved around a lot. There was always a surge. of joy whenever I would wander the halls at school and hear one of my classmates retelling my stories to another one of their friends, adding little bits here and there like a massive game of telephone. I knew, of course, that the stories were complete fiction, but I stood my ground whenever someone asked me about them.

I would even manage to act a little bit, speaking with a shaky voice or a little bit. looking scared when I would recount a situation that I supposedly experienced myself. I suppose this aspect of my childhood has led to my current predicament, which I will recount in full, for the internet to take from it what they will. I have laid this little introduction out as sort of a disclaimer, aimed particularly at those who will call my story into question. I have been like the boy who cried wolf for years, but I assure you with every ounce of honesty and integrity that I have that this time the wolf is real. From my introduction, it is probably apparent that I moved around the country quite a bit in my middle and high school years.

My friendships were often fleeting, as were any positive relationships that I ever had with my teachers. Because of the events that followed, my memory of one teacher in particular is probably slightly skewed, but I will attempt to give the least biased version of our friendship that I can. Mr. Mays was one of my social studies teachers in the early years of my high school experience. Being older now, I can understand how horrible children are to deal with around that age. And I respect him to no ends for the way that he was able to connect with his students. He seemed like one of us. He talked like us, made pop culture references that were current,

listened to cool music, and sometimes he would even say hell or damn, while he was giving a passionate lecture about Native American history or something like that. A teacher that swore, even a little bit, was the teacher that, the epitome of cool to a freshman in high school. My memories of Mr. Mays mostly stem from the way that he really got into anything that he was doing. The instance that is still very vivid in my mind was, of course, around Halloween of my sophomore year. Mr. Mays had the typical teacher decorations around the classroom, smiling jackalantons and black cat cartoons, typical and boring in the minds of egotistical high school students.

However, on the 31st of October, when most other teachers were rolling their eyes at the fact that teachers still took dressing up in costumes on Halloween seriously, Mr. Mays took the whole cool teacher thing to a new level. We walked into the classroom and were surprised to find the blinds drawn, sheets over the smaller windows, candles lighting the room, and a single frowning jack-o'-lantern sitting on a stool in front of the desks. Mr. Mays sat at his desk, just watching the students come into class and take their seats. He didn't have to ask anyone to be quiet, because the moment everyone walked into the room, they were either too excited to care about petty conversations

or too confused to bother with them. The students took their seats as Mr. Mays began his lecture. He spoke quietly to set the mood and took a seat on a chair right next to the jackal lantern in the center of the room. Today is probably my favorite day of the year, class. he said in a monotonous voice. Halloween is my favorite holiday,

and I want to share with you exactly why I love it so much. One girl raised her hand with a concerned look on her face. I'm pushing the due date for your papers to next Tuesday, said Mr. Mays, without bothering to look at the girl, who slowly put her hand down, looking around at the other students with a hint of embarrassment. The class erupted in quiet cheers, and Mr. Mays waited for the inevitable silence.

He began his story immediately after the class had calmed down. I will attempt to recreate the amazing story that Mr. Mays told the class that day. The way in which he told this story rendered the horror junkies, speechless and the rest of the class terrified. The same girl that had raised her hand to ask about the paper was holding her knees to her chest by the end of it, a look of terror on her face. The important thing to know was what the story was about. The specifics slip my mind now and aren't too relevant. I'll try to recount the parts of the story that matter the most, but don't hold me to it.

Basically, Mr. Mays and his friends set out on a road trip around the country after graduating from college. They took a truck, loaded it with camping gear, and set out to Sitesy for the entire summer. The group went from the Poconos in New Jersey, down to the coasts of Florida, New Orleans to California, and up to Washington. From there they went to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and then back home to New York. The concept of the freedom to travel anywhere had the entire class hooked in an instant. Mr. Mays was the coolest teacher ever in my eyes. Being adventurous college kids, the group didn't bring a map. There were no time constraints, so they just kind of drove in the gym.

general direction that they wanted to go and eventually found a town to stay in or someplace that looked interesting. He told us that after spending a week in Colorado, he and his friends had to travel through miles and miles of corn, plains, and more corn. He assumed that they were in either Nebraska or Kansas when they decided to pool their extra cash and stay in a hotel for a night. They settled into a motel in some town that Mr. Mays could barely remember the name of, when one of his friends realized that they were somewhere near his grandfather's farm. He wasn't entirely sure where it was, but being adventurous college kids, they decided to get a quick refund from the motel and try to contact the friend's grandpa.

They were unable to get a hold of the grandpa on the phone, so the group figured it would be fun to just show up. Mr. Mays's friend was adamant that his grandparents would take them in and feed them without a moment of hesitation. So the group set out with an hour of sunlight, seeking the salvation of a comfortable house to stay in. In Kansas or Nebraska, wherever it may have been, there aren't a whole lot of natural markers that could guide,

lost travelers. Any directions given to someone who didn't live around the area basically amounted to go up a couple of miles to the corn, take a right, and go down a dirt road to the other corn. There should be some wheat on your right. So, as is the case in most scary stories, the group got lost. Never wanting to admit defeat, they drove into the night, making wrong turns every five minutes until they found themselves on a wooded road that Mr. Mays' friend was certain that his grandparents lived off of. Mr. Mays described the road as basically a dark path to hell. I wasn't entirely sure how true this was, because he got very excited and about. bit ridiculous with his explanations of the trees that almost tried to grab the car and the red eyes of countless animals looking at them from the darkness. Regardless, the typical horror

tropes worked on most of the class. Everyone was terrified. So the group of guys drove on this dark road for about 15 minutes before they came to a clearing and a small building, and a small building with lights in it and what seemed to be a silo. They figured that, at the very least, the people who lived here would be able to help them find where the guy's grandparents lived. The whole idea of everyone knows everyone in these hick parts of the country fueled this hope.

They pulled the car up near the building, realizing when they were out of the car that it appeared to be like the kind of places where one would store a whole bunch of chickens, not a home. Still, the lights were on, so they figured they would give it a try. They approached the building as a group, looking in the semi-open sliding door to find a big, empty room. Hanging fluorescent lights lit the room like it was daytime,

so they couldn't see a soul. There were no cars, but one of Mr. Mays's friends was convinced, convinced he'd seen someone as they pulled up. So they decided to go inside and see if there was an office or something where someone might still be working. Why else would they have this huge place lit up like that? There were no doors on the inside of the building. Again, it was just a giant empty hall. So the group roamed around the property and over towards the silo.

As they got closer, they noticed what appeared to be a cellar door. At this point, I remember Mr. Mays telling the entire class to learn from his idiocy. He told us that he hadn't seen many horror movies before that time and didn't think twice about approaching a creepy cellar door in the middle of a dark, scary, foreign place. He said that approaching that door was one of his biggest regrets. Mr. Mays let the whole class know that he was going to tell us as much

as he deemed appropriate about the experience. He felt that we were mature enough to handle it, but advised anyone that was squeamish to leave class early. Several students quietly gathered their things and walked out the door. A couple of them being stoners who saw this as an opportunity

to smoke behind the school before their next class. I didn't even give the announcement a second thought. Like I said, I was and am a sucker for this kind of stuff, and Mr. Mays was telling a story better than anything I had ever conjured up. I wanted to learn from this guy, even though I didn't believe much of the story. After the class had thinned a bit, Mr. Mays continued with the story.

He told the remaining few that he and his friends opened that cellar door, releasing a smell that he only described as, The most putrid thing my senses have ever experienced. The group was no longer concerned with finding the owners of the property, but was now set on finding the source of that smell. They went down the steps into the cellar, which was lit by single bulbs spaced sporadically along the ceiling of a long hallway. No one spoke. Things had gotten too strange. The walls were lined with metal sheeting, similar to the roofing on farms. The hallway itself was crooked, and the ceilings constantly lowered and rose, like a tunnel,

that was hastily dug and then never touched up. There were sections where the boys had to almost crouch in order to pass. The worst part, Mr. Mays told us, was that the light bulbs continuously flickered, sometimes acting like a strobe light and making it very difficult to move through the winding and unstable hallways. In hindsight, he was certain that, his mind was playing tricks on him, but he remembered seeing flashes of things that couldn't be

there. He said that when you are that focused on something, or if you are that nervous, your mind can do that to you. It can simply revolt, showing you things or people that aren't there. He continued to describe the hallway, and I was on the edge of my seat. The halls were windy and seemed to go on forever. Mr. Mays guessed that they were somewhere under the creepy forest they had driven through when they found a door, but he couldn't be sure. He said that they came upon a door after walking for what felt like a mile. It was simple and wooden, but it looked like it belonged outside of a suburban home. It had a nice design, seemed to be freshly painted red, and had a very nice knob and knocker on it.

It was a door that belongs at the entrance to a nice house, not one that would be sitting in a dirt tunnel in the middle of nowhere. His friend walked towards the door, moving carefully because of the flashing light bulb and the increasing uncertainty about the stability of the surrounding one. walls. He turned to the group, the rest of which were nervous at the very least, and attempted to lighten the mood with a laugh before he said, I should probably knock first. Mr. Mays' friend grabbed the steel knocker and hit it against the door several times, mockingly but quietly uttering, is anyone home? The group waited about 30 seconds. before their tension broke. The guy next to the door shrugged his shoulders and went to walk back to his friends,

but as he did, the light bulb between them surged and exploded. The boys shielded their eyes and looked back to find their lone friend by the door. As he lowered his hands, one of the metal sheets of the makeshift roof dropped. The edge of the sheet fell directly on the boy's forehead, slicing it open and sending a wave of blood down his face. The impact apparently knocked him out, and he fell back against the door, knocking it open in the process. The entirety of the group rushed through the dim light to their friend, barely noticing the seemingly pitch black room that now lay before them. Mr. Mays was the first to make it to his friend's side. He lifted the guy's head into his arms, immediately taking off his jacket and putting it over his forehead to attempt to stop the bleeding.

Once the group had calmed down, Mr. Mays noticed that the arm that had been bracing his friend's head was soaking wet. He was confused about this and was attempting to sort it out when one of his friends' friends, started talking. He said something along the lines of, the lights to go, when Mr. Mays took notice. You know when you turn off a light, he told the class, and everything is almost pitch black, except the light of the bulb dying out or cooling down. It was like that, but there were so many of them. At least 20 light bulbs had lit the room seconds ago and now only looked like little stars in the darkness. That was definitely terrifying, but that wasn't the scariest thing. There was still a very dim light coming from the hallway behind them, and though it was weak,

it lit the room up just enough to see the shape of tens of people standing less than ten feet in front of them. Mr. Mays's friend went to say something else, as one of the bulbs to their right flickered to life. Let me interrupt at this point to say that Mr. Mays was a generally playful guy. He had that tone of voice that makes you want to respond. Basically, he could say, let's go jump off a cliff, guys, and you would want to respond with, All right, Mr. Mays, show us the way. That's a ridiculous statement, but it gets the point across. He was a charismatic guy.

The whole story up to this point had been told like a campfire story. He had the voice inflections of someone attempting to be mysterious and skisiness. Gary, which worked, but was noticeable. At this point in his tale, I recall that changing completely. He was no longer attempting to spook anyone. I could tell that this section was difficult for him. Either he was a very good actor, or it was really a terrifying memory for him to relive. He told us that the light bulb came to life and illuminate.

the group of people in front of him. In the dim light, he could see children, at least 20 of them, in just the visible light. They were all dressed in nightgowns that looked to be tattered and torn, stained dark with something. Their hair was long. Every single one of them looked like they had not had a haircut

since birth. Some of the children were almost completely abey. obscured by the length of it. Every single one of them didn't appear to have seen a shower or a nice bath in their entire life. Mr. Mays told us that the most terrifying part of the whole thing was that none of the children were moving. They were all standing, staring, most of them only visible from the faint light reflecting off of their eyes.

His whole group was paralyzed with fear for several seconds when they heard what sounded like an animal in the distance yelping. The way it was described was like the sound of a dog crying, multiplied by ten. This spurred the group to life, just as the children began to step forward. His friends grabbed the injured one and lifted him out of the room

and into the hallway in an instant. Mr. Mays took another second to move and had difficulty finding his bearings. He reached to his left in an attempt to find a wall to lean against and ended up finding a handle, then pulled hard, never losing his vision on the children. He bolted for the door right as he noticed what he had grabbed onto. A showerhead protruded from a cement wall, reaching maybe a foot into the room.

There was something leaking from it, but it was too dim to tell what it was. He realized that it had been leaking onto him, but he didn't care. There were now children stammering towards him as an animal cried in the distance, and his friend was seriously injured. As he left the room, he made a point to emphasize that he could make out several more showerheads on the wall near the single dim light bulb. This is why I call them the showers. Mr. Mays told the class. I was transfixed, sitting as far forward as my desk would allow, bracing for more.

I slammed the red door behind me. He said, and ran through the hallway faster than I have ever run before or since. I made it back to the car, and we drove out of there like a bad out of hell. A couple of students snickered at his use of the word hell. So, when you're out tricker-treating tonight, make sure that you know exactly where you're headed, and don't go out to any abandoned farmhouses. I mean, there aren't many around here,

but you're all smart kids, except Jerry. The class laughed, and the mood lightened as the bell rang for passing period. Mr. Mays turned the light on and thanked everyone for listening, reminding them about the paper due next week, and told us to have a safe and happy Halloween. Students all around me were a buzz with theories about the story they had just heard. I bet it was some sort of crazy Nazi hideout, said one girl. I think they were all ghost babies that were killed by a dog, said another.

I couldn't theorize in the slightest. I was still caught up in the moment. The way that Mr. Mays had told that story and the detail that he included in it left me feeling like we didn't get the whole story. A couple days later, I stayed after class and asked him about how it really ended and what happened to his friend. He laughed and said that his friend was fine and that it was honestly, he whispered this part,

probably due to some of the drugs they were on at the time. Mr. Mays winked at me as if to say, Don't tell anyone about the drugs bit, kid. And I smiled and left. I lived in that town for another couple months and then was rapidly moved halfway across the country to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I twisted the story around and told it around campfires as I got older.

And it was always a hit, but I always changed the ending, letting the friend die of blood loss or from being dragged away by the children. It wasn't until college that I got a chance to talk to Mr. Mays again. I went to college in northern New York, not for any reasons associated with this story. College was a fun time for me. I continued being the same ham that I had always been. It wasn't until sometime around my junior year that I ran into Mr. Mays at a bar that I frequented. Initially, I couldn't be sure that the person I saw laying with his head buried in his arm at the bar was Mr. Mays. The only trait that grabbed my attention was a sweater that he used to wear on his birthday during class.

The shirt simply read, I'm the birthday boy. I told my group of friends to grab a table and that I would join them in a second, then walked over to the man at the bar. Mr. Mays, I said, and the man looked up. The man took a second to look at my face before he smiled, put a hand on my shoulder, and said, Hey there, son, how have you been? I could smell some strong whiskey on his breath, and his cheeks were flushed. The look in his eyes told me that he was three sheets to the wind, and probably had no idea who I was. Mr. Mays, it's Jack.

I was a student of yours for a couple of semesters about six or so years ago. His face changed a bit, and a genuine love. look of recognition set in. He took a calmer tone, smiled, and said, How have you been, Jack? We talked for a solid 20 minutes. I told him what I had been doing for the last several years, and he told me. Apparently, he was still teaching at the same school, doing the same old schick, as he called it. I asked if everything was all. I asked if everything was right, and he said that they were as good as they ever have been or were ever going to get. It took me a while to realize that I was an adult that was having a conversation with another adult.

Every time I had spoken to Mr. Mays previously, I had been in the student-teacher relationship, but now I was just a guy having a drink with a friend at the bar. My friends eventually left, and I continued to drink with Mr. Mays. He told me all about his divorce and his kids, things that I never would have asked or cared about previously. But now I cared. He was a real person to me, not just an idol anymore. This was a guy who had real problems, not the infallible teacher that I once thought he was. It had been several hours before I even brought up his story about the showers.

I told him all about my history with urban legends and scary stories, and he just laughed. When I mentioned the story that he told us years ago, he almost seemed uncomfortable. He finished his whiskey, signaled for another, and then turned to me and got very serious. Listen, Jack, I don't know why I kept telling that story year after year. His words were slurred, or my hearing was messed up. We were both sufficiently blitzed at this point. That was what my therapist told me to do when I was younger. I had to tell people it, to come to grips with it or some shit.

He took a big swig of his drink. Wait, your therapist? I said. Mr. Mays laughed heartily and looked at me. Of course, Jack. You think that something like that wouldn't fuck a person up? I was confused, but smiled nonetheless. Things had checked. just gotten very strange.

But I mean, you said you were all on drugs or something, right? No one was too terribly hurt. You were all okay, right? He got almost cartoonish with his sadness in the next several seconds. Of course we didn't, Jack. Why do you think I'm here right now? I was puzzled, quickly filled with a thousand questions that I wanted to ask him, but I let him carry on. Tim, fucking, he didn't make it, Jack.

He laughed. His laugh turned suddenly to tears. Fucking took him they did. I don't even know. Cops told us we were just drunk, that he wandered off and got taken by the wildlife. He didn't know. He didn't see it, Jack. I was absolutely stone-faced at this point. Mr. Mays was carrying along like I knew the actual story, but I didn't. His friend disappeared.

I didn't know. I wish they had found the body, though. Then we could have shown them. He sighed. That's a bad place, Jack. I don't know anything else to say. It's a... He carried on for a couple minutes more about his friend

and the fun that they had before they went on that trip. And I let him talk. It was only a few minutes later that his phone rang. Oh, sweetheart. He whispered into the phone. I'll be out in a second. I... He gagged.

Love you, baby. The person on the other end hung up the phone, and Mr. Mays got up to leave. It's been nice. I see you, Jackie. You've got a good head on your shoulders, boy. Make sure you use it. He began to walk out of the bar.

Mr. Mays. I yelled after him. Yeah, Jack. He turned back towards me. Where'd you say all that shower's business took place? Hell, didn't I mention it? is somewhere outside broken bow Nebraska fucking hell on earth if you ask me

Mr. Mays walked out of the bar after waving to me running into the wall before eventually finding the door that was the last time I would see him I'd never be able to tell him the impact that he had on my life or rather the impact that his story had on me. He'd never know about the trip we took after graduation, almost mimicking the one he and his friends had made. He would never know that the things he saw at that place were real.

Why? Well, he died about a month later. His liver failed on him. It's all right, though, because his family was with him in the hospital. little room. He got to die around people that cared about him, and that is all I can ask for a man like that. I didn't find out that Mr. Mays had passed away until a couple months after the funeral service. Initially, I was going to seek out his family in order to send my condolences, but it wasn't as if Mr. Mays and I were best friends or anything like that. So I refrained. I continued. I continued. I continued. through my college career and graduated a year or so after our bar meeting.

Graduating with English as my major wasn't a mistake, but it wasn't exactly something that landed me any sort of immediate jobs after college. Now, I had saved a pretty solid amount of money while I was in school and decided that I deserved a bit of a vacation, if you will. I took my spare cash, got together with my college buddy Steve, packed up and hit the road, aiming for somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. I had lived near Littleton, Colorado when I was younger, and remembered loving the area, so this destination was as good as any.

The trip was a success. We made it somewhere around Esty's Park, Colorado, and found a cheap place. cabin that we rented for about a month. The days were filled with lounging, hiking, and generally things that involved little to no work on our parts. After our rental was through, we packed up again and headed our way back east. Sometime during this trip, we had met up with a couple of Estes Park natives in one of the local bars. We never typically hung out with them or anything. like that, we just had conversations now and then over drinks and food. One night, these guys were paying their tab and packing up to leave awfully early.

They were usually there until the wee hours of the morning. When we questioned them about it, they told us that they were headed to a little get-together with some friends of theirs, and they invited us. Having nothing else to do, we hopped in the car and followed us. followed them to the party. The party itself was very low-key and ultimately inconsequential to this story. However, the important thing about it was that at some point in the night, we were all sitting around the fire and swapping ghost stories. At this point in my life, I wasn't as much of a ham as I was in my younger years. But with a little bit of encouragement, I started on a couple of

stories that I remembered telling in my youth. Eventually, I made it to Mr. Mays' story about the showers. Every time that I had told it after hearing it from Mr. Mays, I had spiced it up a little bit, but out of some sort of subconscious respect for my former teacher, I went straight into the version that he told my class in my sophomore year of high school. The group enjoyed my stories for the most part, the showers being the mutual favorite among the partygoers. Steve and I left for the cabin at around five in the morning, and he asked me about that story on the drive home. I told him all about Mr. Mays, that class, my love for everything horror-related and whatnot, and he suggested that we try to find the place on our return trip to New York.

Initially, I was reluctant, simply because I didn't feel like aimlessly wandering through Nebraska for days, looking for some old farm building that was probably demolished at this point. But a couple of days before we left Colorado, I told Steve that it sounded like fun. We weren't going to be able to do another trip like this for a long time, so I figured we might as well make the best of it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought of it as a little tribute to Mr. Mays. A guy that, in retrospect, helped me realize that I wanted to be a writer. Anyway, we left Colorado and made the long, boring, and barren drive to Broken Bow Nebraska,

or hell on earth, as Mr. Mays had put it. We found a motel in town and hung around for a couple of days, venturing out a hundred miles or so in any given direction each day after that. I had remembered Mr. Mays telling us that it was somewhere outside of Broken Bow, but I don't think he got any more specific than that. We tried asking the townsfolk if they had any information about the showers, but we were usually met with Blanky. Stairs or Eye Rolling when we told them what exactly this place was. The only person who seemed to know anything about it was an older lady that worked at a gas station on the outskirts of town. I don't recall her name, but this woman was just one of those cheerful old people, very helpful and generally interested in what anyone had to say to her.

Steve had started talking to her at checkout and she asked, about our license plate, commenting about the fact that we were very far from home. We had nowhere in particular to be, so Steve and I ended up talking to this woman for about 15 minutes, at which point we brought up our hunt for the place known as the showers. Initially, the name didn't ring any bells with the woman, which made sense, seeing as Mr. Mays had just given it that name after his experience there. But when I began to describe the details that I remembered from his story, the friendly old woman interrupted me.

Her tone was not scornful or mean in any way, but she became very terse and deliberate with her words from that point on. People don't deal with anything relating to that sort of business around here. here anymore, she told us. That was a long time ago. Following her statements, she attempted to be cheerful again, excusing herself to the restroom, and wishing us the best on our return trip to New York. Steve and I returned to the car without a word. Both of us were thinking about what the lady had said. again she didn't seem to be angry at all she just didn't want to hear another word about it we were driving back to the hotel before steve said something i mean if i had to live in a place associated with an urban legend or something like that i would totally mess with anyone who asked about it he said i mean eventually you'd just get tired of people asking about it

and so you'd just try to scare them and get them to shut up, wouldn't you? I agreed with Steve and kept driving, but the whole experience wasn't sitting right with me. If this was some sort of well-known legend in the area, why did no one else in the town seem to know anything about it? But I managed to shrug it off. Mind you, neither of us was scared of finding the showers. This little excursion on our road trip was more like a scavenger hunt,

a cap off to an overall relaxing vacation. Steve and I were basically like tourists, hunting for the site at which a famous movie was filmed or something like that. We went into the whole situation with little to no expectations and a fleeting hope that we would be able to find this place. We spent another day in broken, before we took our next trip out to try to find the showers. Nebraska isn't as terrible of a place as some people make it out to be,

but it really isn't all that exciting. We found a bar and spent some time there, and that was just about the extent of our activity on our days off. When we did get back on the road, we decided that we would attempt to stay off of main roads for as much of the day as we could. I knew that there was no way that this place was going to be off of the highway, and I remembered some detail about a dirt road in Mr. Mays' story,

so we went looking for those. This was a fairly futile effort, most of Nebraska, his dirt roads. It was seven in the evening when we came upon a small but thick forest. I used the term lightly, but for Nebraska, this place, was like an oasis. The trees were full and thick, surrounding most of its insides in darkness. The sun was setting, and even though we had run into a few of these random crops of trees, we agreed that this one showed more promise than any of the others. There wasn't really a road, but there looked to be a path where a dirt road might have been

at some point, so we drove along that. If the car was able to handle the rocky mountains, a dirt path in Nebraska would give us no trouble. We moved slowly and carefully along this trail, making sure to clear any fallen trees in the road or rocks that would render the car useless. When the sun finished setting. It was pretty dark in this place during the day, but when night came, it was something else entirely. I had an inkling at this point that we had found the right place, but I didn't want to jinx it, so we continued onward. I didn't realize it at the time, but the little bits of light that managed to penetrate the canopy of this miniature forest

actually did make it look as if the tree branches were trying to grab the car, just like Mr. Mays had mentioned in his story. I'm still convinced that he made up the part about the animal eyes, though. The most aggressive creature we saw in the woods was a dead rabbit on the side of the trail. It didn't have any obvious signs of death. It just looked like it had simply laid down and never bothered to get up. We drove around in the darkness for quite a while before we found a clearing. We had to move several smaller clusters of branches out of the way before, but right in front of our exit was a giant, dead, monster of a tree.

There was no way we were moving this one, so we got out and turned on the bright headlights in the hopes that it would illuminate the area in front of us. There was a feeling of excitement mixed strangely with fear when I saw what lay 50 feet beyond. the clearing. There, lit, partially by the headlights from the car and the little bit of light from the crescent moon, was what appeared to be an old barn house. This wasn't a typical farmhouse. It was larger than the barns that I had seen in films and didn't have any sort of crest. It basically looked like a small warehouse. I wasn't entirely sure at this point if this was the place we were looking for, but this was definitely the closest we had come. I moved through the brush until I was roughly 20 feet from the entrance, at which point all of the growth seemed to stop.

I don't know if the owners had done something to the soil, but the whole structure had a border around it that was clear of any sort of plant life. I approached the entrance to the building, a large sliding door, as Steve came up behind me with two flashlights in hand. So you were just going to run off into that place in the dark? He laughed. I gave a half-hearted chuckle and grabbed one of the lights from his hand. Mine was a little but pretty bright flashlight. It was the kind that hikers would most likely fasten to their backpacks,

just in case they were stranded at night. It worked well enough. I grabbed the metal doors with both hands, holding the flashlight with my mouth, and gave it a tug. It moved slightly, creaked a little bit, but there was no way I was doing this by myself. Steve came up from behind,

set his flashlight on the ground, grabbed the door, and said, One, two, three. We pulled at the door with all that we could, muster. Once we had managed to move it a couple of inches, it must have latched back onto its track because it slid very easily, stopping hard with a loud and echoing thud when it was completely open. Steve picked up his flashlight and walked behind me. I had already moved inside. The inside of the structure was exceptionally bare, almost troublingly so. I wasn't entirely sure. I wasn't entirely sure,

how far we were from the nearest home or small town, but there wasn't even the slightest bit of evidence that anyone had been in this building for years. There were no broken beer bottles or empty bags of chips. There weren't even any animal droppings or eager plants that managed to grow here. The room was expansive, larger than your average farm, but not the warehouse-sized monstrosity that I believed Mr. Mays had described in his story. I was sure that it was simply a holding area for farming equipment or something similar at that point. Disappointed, I wandered near the entrance while Steve ventured into the expanse of darkness. As I was running over the details of the story in my mind, something struck me like a sack of bricks. In Mr. Mays' story, there was a silo near the

barn. I ran outside, my eyes adjusting easily because at the very least it was brighter outside. I looked in all directions running around the perimeter of the building. Surely if there was ever a silo near this place, there would be some evidence of it somewhere. But despite my hopes, there was nothing but a cluster of thick bushes on one side, brush and dirt everywhere, and the forest that we had come from. I walked back into the building, frustrated and tired. Steve was still excited, eagerly running around inside of the building. Even if I could just find a showerhead or a pipe, he said.

Then we'd know it was true. Just keep looking with me. I didn't want to ruin his excitement. I had told Steve the story several times. but obviously he didn't realize that this just wasn't the place. The building was weird, yes. It was out of place and oddly pristine, but it wasn't the location of the showers.

I let him explore for a little bit before I called him over. This was probably as close as we're going to get, man, I said. But this isn't it. Remember the silo? His face went from excitement to disappointment in an instant, much like a young child who didn't get the presents he wanted on his birthday. I patted him on the shoulder. This is still pretty cool, though.

I mean, we could still tell people that we found it. I was reverting back to my old habits quickly. Steve laughed. Yeah, man, I guess we could. It is definitely creepy enough. We should get some pictures as proof, you know. I agreed with him. I'm going to go grab the camera really quick, he said as he bolted out the entrance of the building.

I was left alone. It was very quiet when I was alone in there. I could hear the faint sound of Steve running through the brush and to the car, but once he was far enough away, everything was quiet. I remember not even hearing wind or the chirping of crickets as I walked deeper into the dark, flashlight in hand. I was convinced that there had to be something. As I approached the far corner of the room,

the sound of my feet scratching against the dirt was interrupted by a soft, hollow thud. I stopped. trying to figure out what it was. I put my foot down hard against the ground and hurt it again. I stomped one more time, realizing that the floor that I was standing on was covering something hollow.

I walked to the wall of the room, looking carefully at the floor to try to spot any holes or gaps. As far as I had known, it was solid ground that this thing sat atop, so I was convinced that I had found a hatch or a basement or something. I heard Steve coming back through the brush as I shouted, Steve, come over here, it's hollow. As I went to say the word hollow, I hopped a little bit,

hoping to recreate the sound so that he would be able to hear it upon entering the door. The second that my feet made contact with the floor, I felt it give out beneath me. The memory of the fall is fuzzy, but I do recall hearing wood splinter. I remember seeing the light from Steve's flashlight falling away into complete darkness. It wasn't a long fall, but I must have fallen in a terrible position because I know that I lost consciousness for several seconds at least. When I woke up, I was staring at a bright light.

For an instant, I had thoughts about approaching the fabled light at the end of the tunnel. I was angry at myself. You died in Nebraska, Jack? Wow, you do know how to fuck up. My self-deprecation in the afterlife was interrupted by what sounded like Steve's voice. Jesus, Jack! Jack, can you hear me? Dude, wake up! Please, wake up!

He screamed. I managed to lift my head up off of the floor just enough for him to celebrate. The pain in my head was immense, but it was outweighed by the pain shooting through my knee. I knew I had a concussion, but the pain in my knee was just so much more pressing. I looked around until I found my tiny flashlight, then sat up. and reassured Steve. I'm okay. I just hurt my knee.

I bumped my head too. Really hard. Thank fuck, man. I thought you were dead. Imagine that, though. Dying in fucking Nebraska? It'd be awful. His words made me laugh a little,

but I stopped myself. The slightest shaking. hurt my head and made me incredibly dizzy. I guess a rope, said Steve. What? I asked quietly. Should I go get a rope to get you out of here, or do you see a ladder? I looked around the walls that sat in front of me. They were smooth cement.

There was no way that I was climbing out of here. Yeah, get the rope. rope, I told him. It's buried under all of our stuff. I think it might be in my red climbing bag, but I'm not sure. Steve nodded, telling me to hang in there, and that he would be back in a little bit, and then he ran off. The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

After the sound of Steve's feet scraping the floor above me faded away, I was only able to hear that buzzing that occurs in total silence intertwining with the pulsing in my head. I pushed myself over to the nearest cement wall and braced myself against it, resting and breathing deep in an attempt to calm myself. The cement was unnaturally cold against my back. It was summer, so I only had a t-shirt on, but it felt like ice even through that. Again, this observation was primarily made after the fact. In the moment, it just felt good to lean against something. I sat there, waiting for Steve in this underground basement, and I began to feel uneasy.

I felt like an idiot for falling down here. I felt pain from my injuries as well. That all seemed to fade into one emotion in an instant when I heard what I heard what I could only identify as breathing somewhere to my left. I convinced myself that it was my injured mind playing tricks on me for a few moments, until my mind decided to rapidly replay Mr. Mays' story. When I had first heard it in that classroom years before, I was more impressed than I was scared.

But now, sitting in a dark basement in the middle of the middle of the same. Nebraska. I felt something that I hadn't felt in a long time. It couldn't even be summed up in the word fear. As I sat there, I felt all-encompassing dread. I pointed my flashlight to my left, the direction from which I thought I heard the sound. The light didn't reach the other wall. It was too far away. But I was comforted to see absolute. nothing there. I breathed deeply for a couple more seconds before I heard another noise in the darkness. It was very quick, and I cannot be sure that it wasn't my own body moving around without my noticing, but I thought that I heard a scraping sound not ten feet in front of me. It sounded

like the noise your feet make when you are walking across a dirt-covered floor. Before I could react, I heard the breathing to my left again, closer this time. There was no way this was real. I hadn't seen so much as a spider web in this building, and now I was convincing myself that something next to me was breathing. I was angry at myself for getting so worked up. I told myself that the human brain is constantly hallucinating. I told myself that while in silence or darkness the brain will make sounds to fill the gap

or make you think you see things that aren't there. I channeled my inner skeptic in order to calm myself. It worked. It worked until I saw a flash of something in front of me. I can't be entirely sure what it was, but I heard the accompanying sounds of, feet scraping against the floor, and I began to swell with dread. I decided that the best course of action at this point was to turn off my flashlight, assuming that if they couldn't see me, they couldn't get to me, whatever they might be. I turned off my flashlight and was left

in complete and total darkness. The bulb of the flashlight faded as it cooled. and I put it into my pocket, simultaneously pushing back against the cold cement wall in an attempt to stand. I managed to get up on my feet, well, foot, and found that I couldn't stand to put any pressure on my injured knee. I limped to the corner, humming to myself, trying to break the deafening silence. I called for Steve, as loud as I could manage. but heard no response. He was probably in the back of the car, still hunting for the rope. There had to be a ladder or something somewhere.

I continued to hum, and my heartbeat, which had been beating almost out of my chest, slowed to a manageable rate. I moved along the cement wall, keeping my whole body against it and the weight off of my injuries. knee. I had traveled what I guessed to be about 10 feet when my head made contact with something in front of me. I tumbled to the ground. My concussion must have amplified the pain because it was blinding. I reached both hands to my forehead when I felt something warm and wet with my fingers. I searched for a cut anywhere on my forehead, but couldn't find one.

I desperately searched for my flashlight as I sat up and tried to get back against the wall. I grabbed the light in my right hand, bracing against the wall with the other. I turned it on and pointed it into the darkness where I was just lying. The floor was wet, but the dirt had muddled the color of whatever the liquid was. I tried to get my eyes to focus on the puddle, tried to convince myself that it was my blood when I saw another drop fall into the puddle. Words lack the ability to describe the way I felt when I heard the drip noise again and saw yet another tiny ball of liquid fall into the puddle.

I think I knew, even then, exactly what the source was, but I was endlessly trying to convince myself that I was. wrong. I lifted the flashlight up and pointed it at the source of the liquid. What stared back at me was a pipe that protruded at least a foot out from the cement wall. The metal was rusted and cracked. Little bits of the liquid began to seep from them. At the end of the pipe was a simple showerhead aimed down towards the ground. You know that feeling when you're stomach drops. In this case, I think mine literally did, because I vomited immediately. It got all over my shoe, but that wasn't the least bit important at the time. I ignored the pain in my knee

and shuffled along the wall as fast as I possibly could. I heard noises, but I can't be sure if it was just the sounds of my own movement or something around me. I managed to duck under the next shower head. This one was higher up on the wall and seemed to be leaking the same liquid that the other one was. I felt like I was moving along something infinite. Every now and then I would have to duck or move under another metal bar, another shower head. They began to pour more profusely. They began to pour more profusual. but the liquid was too thick to come out easily. The room began to smell. I remembered immediately the way that Mr. Mays had described it.

I grabbed my shirt and put it over my nose, trucking onward, but it didn't stop the smell for an instant. It smelled like vomit. It smelled like shit. It smelled like burnt hair. It smelled like wet hair. It smelled like wet. rot. I was still moving against the wall when I fell into some sort of outlet. I hit the dirt ground hard,

adrenaline coursing through my veins. The pain still managed to break through though. My flashlight was still in my hand. I aimed it and examined my surroundings. Sitting in front of me was a doorway. There was a door there, though it looked aged. now. It had a nice little design on it, a doorker, and a knocker that looked like a snarling demon. Red paint was peeling from it, flaking off and falling to the ground in front of me. I clumsily rose and busted through the door, narrowly missing a piece of hanging sheet metal in front of me. I was crawling now. There was no way that I could run. The walls and ceiling were lined with metal, the kind that you would see on the roof of a farm.

Large pieces of wood seemed to brace the sheets, holding this makeshift tunnel together. I couldn't risk sliding against that and possibly cutting myself on the metal, or hitting the wood and causing a cave in. So I crawled. I pulled myself for what felt like miles. running into walls every now and then because the path seemed to curve like a snake. I had no idea where I was in relation to the hole that I had fallen through, but I told myself that there was an exit at the end of this.

Had I not been crawling, I would have surely hurt myself far worse. There were parts of the tunnel in which the ceiling dipped down to maybe three feet above the ground. It hadn't caved in because the ceiling still lined it. Someone had built it like this. This, again, is in hindsight. I didn't care at the time. I kept telling myself that there was nothing behind me, but I swore that I heard feet scraping only a few inches behind my own.

My jeans would brush against my legs every now and then, making it feel like someone was touching me. And even now, I still can't completely convince myself that someone wasn't. I crawled and crawled until I reached an upslope. With joy, I looked ahead of me. There was a cellar door. The door was made of wood. I knew this because I could see light through it.

I couldn't be sure, but I thought, it might have been the light from the car's headlights. Besides all of that, I was just so immensely happy to find an exit. I crawled all the way to the door and threw my shoulder into it. It budged, but didn't open. I began to scream, but my throat seared with pain. The most I could manage was a harsh, crying noise. It sounded like a harsh, a dying animal. I collapsed in exhaustion and pain, my eyes staring at the slits of light before me. I was so close to being out of here, I could taste it. It was in that moment of silent defeat that I heard a noise that was, without question, something moving in the tunnel. It sounded

like something was being dragged across the floor. It would move, pause for a second, and then move. Had nothing left in my stomach to throw up. But I began to gag. I gathered myself slightly and tried to steady my hand enough to focus the flashlight into the tunnel. What I saw, I can still not rationalize. I know what I saw, but I cannot convince me.

myself that it was actually there. I can't stop telling myself that I saw a child in a dirty sleeping gown. The gown was stained with something dark and brown, with occasional splashes of a deep red. The child was extremely frail, like the pictures that people might see of a Holocaust victim. I could only make out one eye, brightly reflecting the light of my flashlight, in between huge tufts of long, dirty hair. It reached down beyond the fingertips of the child, which were caked with dirt. The boy or girl, I'm not entirely sure which, moved towards me with difficulty. It wasn't breathing hard, but it seemed that every movement of every muscle took every ounce of strength the child had. The thing that froze me, though, was the eye.

It was only visible because it was reflecting my flashlight. But even in that glint, I could feel anger or deep hatred or something like it. This is the point in which the English language really lacks the right words to explain the situation. I could tell that this child meant me harm. Whether it was a hallucination or not, the thing was getting closer. I started to cry. It was getting closer and closer when I heard a voice from behind me. Hey, spread the voice.

It was Steve. I was certain. I tried to talk back, fully intending to say, Open this up and get me out right now. However, given my current state, I'm sure it just sounded like garbled nonsense. I clawed at the door, pushing against it with everything that I had,

and finally breaking eye contact with the touch. child. As I did this, the flashlight rolled down the slope, coming to rest somewhere near the child's feet, the voice asked, you're talking about? I closed my eyes. I remember hearing a reply along the lines of, but my own screams of frustration drowned it out. I was mumbling like a maniac when the voice told me calmly, Rest for a second. I'll get it. The statement took a second to settle in,

at which point I closed my eyes tight. Steve, just do it, please. Please, just get it open, please. I whimpered. Just get me out of here. My voice was beginning to get louder. Steve, God damn it, open the fucking wooden door. I opened my eyes for a split second to see nothing but black hair dangling in front of my face.

A small glint of light hidden in the mess of tangles. I slammed my eyes shut and screamed with every ounce. of energy I had open the fucking door the door behind me gave way and I fell on to the dirt taking in a breath of fresh air my eyes were still closed but the first thing that I did was scramble to find the cellar door and close it once I had done that I took a deep breath and opened my eyes I saw the bar in front of me, illuminated by the headlights of the car. My head was pulsing with pain. I was covered in dirt and liquids that I didn't even care to know the origin of. My knee was, at the very least,

dislocated. But despite all of that, I was out of the tunnel. I took a deep breath, buried my head in my hands and said, Steve, why didn't you just fucking open the door? I waited for a response, but none came. Steve, seriously, I began. I was fucking clawing, screaming for my life, I said as I looked behind me. My stomach must have been on the verge of falling out of me,

at this point because it shifted again. The only thing behind me was the large mass of bushes that I had seen while examining the perimeter of the building. I was angry. Steve, this is not the fucking time. Come out of the fucking bushes! I was getting ready to stand up when I heard a yell from the front of the building.

A flashlight bobbed up and down in the semi-darkness. Steve was running into the open door of the structure, yelling my name and telling me not to worry. I must have lost consciousness at that point. When I woke up, Steve was standing over me, desperately trying to wake me up. His words were almost incoherent, at least to my ears. He helped me to my feet and began to walk me to the car. As we walked away, I saw my flashlight sitting just outside the cellar door. The light was fading.

Steve brought me back to the car and then drove me to the nearest hospital. I fell asleep, but he told me that he drove around for an hour before he found a main road. I don't think I ever told him the whole story. I believe he thinks that I was just injured from the fall. He never really asked about it, and we didn't stay in contact for much longer. It's not like we deliberately parted ways. We just sort of stopped hanging out after that trip and went our separate ways. I have never been able to fully understand what happened that night.

There are many things that I can explain a way as, being hallucinations, but there are still many things that don't make sense. The showerheads were there, and they were leaking something. The door was real. The tunnel was real. Most everything else can be semi-rationalized if I can convince myself that I had a very bad concussion, a very, very bad concussion. But the one thing that I couldn't have imagined was that cellar door was locked and then it suddenly wasn't. I am still as skeptical as I have ever been, but I believe in what happened to me at the showers.

I'm not a hermit or a social retard because of this. I drink a lot, but I am still functional. but I will never return to Nebraska. No one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. I don't watch horror movies either. There is absolutely nothing entertaining about being so desperately scared. That's it, really? There is no typical ending for my story.

I was changed by my experience, yeah, but there is no way to change any. about it or fight back against it. I can't even convince myself that I wasn't just seeing things. Believe me, I've been trying for years. Our sleepless tales have come to an end. Thanks for sharing the darkness of the night with us. Join us again in two weeks' time when we unleash more disturbing tales designed to afflict your night with no sleep. To continue your sleepless experience, visit the no sleeppodcast.com.