The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast Halloween 2013 Bonus Episode

Episode Date: October 31, 2013

It’s Halloween 2013 and time for our third annual Halloween Bonus Episode! The episode features five stories to listen to by the light of the Jack-o'-lantern.The Season Pass features an extra Halloween bonus episode exclusively available to Season Pass holders."Pretty" written by Mike Provo and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:02:00)"October 30th" written by Donald Moffat and read by David Cummings. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:11:00)"A Walk Home on Halloween" written by Alexander McHugh and read by James Cleveland. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:23:20)"Tempting Fate" written by Edwin Crowe and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:38:00)"Hunger" written by William Dalphin and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:07:10)Click here to learn more about Peter LewisClick here to learn more about Edwin CroweClick here to learn more about William DalphinPodcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise notedThis podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2013. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to the third annual Halloween bonus episode of the No Sleep Podcast. Featuring stories from such authors as William Delphin and Edwin Crow. With narration from Peter Lewis, James Cleveland, and me, your host, David Cummings. It's All Hallows Eve, a night when we open the door to the darker realms, both outside and within us. As the candles glow deep within the jack-o-lanterns, join us as we present five tales to make this a night worthy of the Halloween spirit. We begin our journey with a tale from author Mike Provo, who recounts a tale on behalf of

his wife. Her Halloween encounter is far more trick than treat. Peter Lewis narrates the tale for us as we learn just what it takes to make oneself pretty. This is my wife's story. I keep telling her that she needs to tell people, but she refuses and insists that I would be able to tell it better anyways. That's my thing, she tells me, so fine. I'll do it. I had to work Halloween night, but my wife and some of her co-workers got dressed up and went out to the clubs.

My wife loves Halloween. She loves wearing costumes and seeing other people wearing costumes and she's just into the whole scene. She loves sick and twisted horror movies like Saw and the human centipede and shit like that. She went out that night as zombie Amy Winehouse. The clubs there was the usual sea of people. Most were in costume. Most of the girls wore sexy, skimpy, and revealing costumes, while guys' costumes ranged from superheroes and video game characters

to zombies and evil clowns and everything in between. According to my wife, there were very few scary costumes, but one guy did stick out in particular. As my wife put it, he managed to be super fucking creepy without really trying at all. He stood off by himself in the club, a total wallflower, which made the whole effect he was going for that much creepier, I suppose. He really wasn't wearing a costume. He was in jeans and a pea coat,

basically the sort of clothes you would expect someone to wear on typical autumn day here in our city. He was just wearing a mask. The mask was that of a woman's face. It literally looked like a face that had been freshly skinned or ripped off. some young woman. It was bloody and even a little moist. My wife said it was obviously meant to look fresh. The mask was held on to the man's face with a piece of twine that had been sewn or stapled to the temples of this woman's face. My wife never actually saw the man's face and he never took the mask off. He was able to drink using a straw through the mouth hole. The area around

the mask, including a thick black beard he had underneath, was glistening with fake blood. The whole effect was so creepy and bizarre, my wife couldn't help but go up and compliment him on his awesome Halloween mask. When she approached him and complimented him, he responded by shouting, I'm pretty. My wife just laughed and went back to her friends. They finished the night off at a different club and eventually came home for the night after the clubs had closed. The next day, my wife and I were sitting on the couch together. She was watching the local news, and since I get all of my news from the internet, I was sitting there with my laptop. Suddenly, my wife almost chokes on the glass of water she happened to be drinking, and gasps.

No fucking way! I glanced up from my screen at her. Shh, watch and listen. She grabbed for the remote and turned the volume up. On the TV, our local news anchor was reporting. There was a picture of a young woman on the screen. Police say the young woman was last seen leaving work Tuesday, October 30th at 5.30 p.m. Friends and co-workers reported her missing after she failed to show up to work on Wednesday morning,

and all attempts to locate her were unsuccessful. She is described as 5'4, weighing 125 pounds. She has dark hair and blue eyes. She was last seen wearing black dress pants and... That is fucking her! my wife cried to me. I had no idea what she was talking about. That sick fuck was wearing her face.

I need to make a phone call, she said, grabbing her phone and frantically dialing. Are you phoning the police? I asked, starting to get the idea. I'm going to phone Megan first. She saw the guy too. She replied, and then waved me off as she pulled the phone to her ear.

Hey, Megs, are you home? Yeah, are you watching? watching the news by any chance. Oh shit, uh, hang on. My wife holds the phone away and turns to me. Can you bring up the local news website and see if they have the story on there? I did as she asked, and sure enough, I found the website along with the story of the missing woman. My wife looked at the screen and saw the woman's face again. She then gave me a very grave and serious stare that I've never seen before. She was more sure than ever. My wife relayed the information to Megan and had her look at the website too.

Immediately I could hear Megan freaking out on the other end of the phone. Okay, I'm going to hang up and call the police. You should do the same. My wife then hung up the phone and just nodded to me. Yep, this is really happening. She called the police and was put through to a tip line that had been set up for tips about this woman. She told the person on the tip line about the guy at the club, where and what time she saw him, and the best description she could give of him, which really wasn't much. To her relief, the person on the tip line informed her that they were getting lots of calls,

all stating the same thing. So many calls from people who had seen this guy with the mask that the police were acting on it. All the nightclubs in our town are connected to a central security database. When you enter a club here, the first thing that happens is you go through. a metal detector. Then you get a quick pat down. Then they take your ID and scan it and ask you to look straight at a security camera that takes your picture. I guess the idea is they can ban someone from all the clubs in our town if they start shit in just one of them. The police went to the club this guy was reported at and using the database and security footage, they were able to ID

him and track him down. They went to his apartment with a search warrant, and when no one answered the door they let themselves in. They found the guy hanging in his front hall closet. He was naked wearing nothing but the mask. In his bathroom, in a bloody bathtub, they found the missing woman, Sahn's face. She had apparently been dead since Halloween morning, and he had hung himself sometime early November 1st, probably around the time that the young woman's disappearance was hitting the news. This, incident. would have been enough on its own to scare my wife silly. The fact that she had conversed with a psychotic killer, albeit briefly, as he had only said two words to her,

was enough to cause some severe anxiety. The next morning, my wife, who hadn't worked since the day of Halloween, went to her car to drive to work. On her windshield, under one of the wipers, she saw a note. It was a little soggy as it had been raining the last couple of days. She picked it up, thinking it was from one of the neighbors. She opened it and read it. It was a note that would have made most women's hearts flutter. It made my wife go weak in the knees.

The note read very simply, You're Pretty. As we continue on, we learn of the terrifying experience from author Donald Moffat. His encounter will make you want. to lock your doors tonight, especially when you hear what he went through the day before on October 30th. It's a nice morning. I sit on the porch immersed in the paper. I like to read on the porch before the day begins. It wakes me up more than coffee ever could. I'm scanning over the local section of the times. So-and-so is going to be inauguration.

as mayor soon. The park needs to be safer, says citizen. I'm reaching the end of the page when a noise alerts me, and I glance up. A small girl is standing at the end of the stepping stone walkway that leads up to my porch. She has a white dress on, and a white veil falls down over her face, hiding any features. Strange. I feel uneasy. It could be the fact that the sun isn't completely done rising behind her,

or perhaps that my vision isn't quite up for it so early in the morning, but she appears grainy and washed out, like an old photograph. The effect is unsettling. She stands and doesn't move. I call out, Hello, are you lost? Do you know where your parents are? No response for a second or two.

Then she cocks her head. It's not Halloween yet. Halloween is tomorrow. I'm just trying on my outfit. I'm confused. It's the middle of July. I'm on the porch in shorts and a t-shirt. October is months away.

I'm sorry? I ask aloud. Are you sure you aren't lost? Let's find your parents. She goes stiff. Don't touch me. I'll tell my daddy, he'll hit you really hard. Stop it.

I had previously been beckoning to her, but I stop. I draw back, uncertain of how to deal with this situation. The child turns and runs. I tell myself I should chase after her, but I don't want to. I'm too unsettled. About a month later, it's in the evening, and I'm sorting through the attic. I sift through a pile of old bedspreads and uncover a small box.

It's unfamiliar to me, but that's not unusual. The first year I moved in, I found loads of things belonging to previous owners. I open the box up and see that it contains old, photographs. I reach in my hand and pull out one that catches my eye. It must have been from someone who lived here a number of years ago because it's an old Polaroid picture that's taken on a worn-out sepia tone, and the picture itself is slightly blurred. When I focus on the subject, I smile. It's a photograph of a little girl sitting in a yard surrounded by piles of leaves. She has a huge smile on her face and appears to be enjoying herself.

Something else catches my eye. There's a light blue sedan parked almost out of sight in the corner of the picture. A shadowy figure is just noticeable behind the wheel. The car is familiar, but I don't know from where. I place the picture back in the box and pick up another. The girl again. Now she's on a swing set in a nearby park that I sometimes take my niece to. It looks like her mother is pushing her.

In the parking lot, I can see the sedan again. The shadowy figure seems to be looking in the direction of the girl. I'm a little unnerved by it, but perhaps it's just a relative. I pick up another picture. My heart skips a beat. knocking the smile from my face. It looks to be early fall, and the girl is standing on the sidewalk at the end of the walkway leading up to my front porch. She's wearing a white dress with a thin veil hanging over her face.

The picture is washed out and grainy. I swallow hard and feel a chill run down my back. The sedan is in the picture again. It appears to be idling almost out of sight of the photo at the edge of the curb on the other side of the street. The shadowy figure is staring at the child again. I can just make out a slight upturn at the corners of his lips. I shudder involuntarily. I know why the sedan is familiar.

I've seen it idling in that same space. spot before. There's a wrap at my front door. The sudden noise nearly gives me a heart attack. I take one last look at the box of pictures, then bury it beneath all the sheets I found it under. I have no intention of ever looking at it again. I rush out of the attic and down the stairs to my first floor. I'm spooked and leave all the lights on behind me. My mind doesn't process that it's strange to have someone knocking this late. I just hope that it's someone who I can sit down with, a rational human being who can allay my fears.

No luck. When I open the door, there's nobody there. A chill goes down my spine and I shout at the night. It was just teenagers ding-dong ditching. At least that's what I whisper to myself silently. That's enough. I begin to shut the door. As I'm closing it, my eye is drawn to a blue sedan idling at the end of the road. I open the door to get a closer look, but it pulls back and drives away.

I slam the door shut and run to my couch. I turn on the television and get a fitful. night's sleep. October 30th. I'm lying in my bedroom, trying to fall asleep. I had spoken to a friend since the events of two months ago and decided that I was overreacting to a series of unusual coincidences. However, tonight, I feel uneasy again.

I stare up at the ceiling and try to imagine it as an impenetrable barrier, keeping anything out of my room that I don't want. I haven't returned to the attic since that evening. I'm worried the picture won't be there anymore, or maybe something worse. My phone rings. I give out a gasp of surprise, then feel embarrassed. I lean over and pick it up off my nightstand. Hello?

I inquire in as calm a voice as possible. possible. Record treat. Comes a hollow voice on the other end of the line. I freeze. It feels like the cold sweat that's been beating on my forehead all night has frozen as well. I'm about to choke out a response, but someone else does before I can. Just trying on my outfit.

I'm breaking down in my bed. I feel like I'm going insane. sane. If I so, I'll just have to come back later. Returns the empty voice. I've had enough. I slam the phone back down on the receiver and jump out of bed to put on my shoes. I'm going to the police to report this.

As I slide into my sneakers, I hear a knock. It's not coming from downstairs. It's coming from the door of the bathroom adjoining my room. adjoining my room. I began to whimper and squeeze out tears from the corners of my eyes. Check or treat? It was the hollow voice from the phone. Empty, cold.

I can feel it crawling into my head, curling around my consciousness and constricting it. The sound of it was driving me insane. I sprint out of my room and nearly break my neck grabbing onto the banister at the top of the stairs and spinning around it to go crushing down the steps. I dash through my kitchen and up to my front door. I fumble with it, trying to get it open. I hear sounds coming from upstairs, slow, dragging footsteps. I moan and try to shut out the sound, focusing. on the door. Finally, I regain my motor skills enough to turn the knob properly and step out into the

night, slamming the door as I leave. A little trip over a little girl standing on my porch. She's dressed in all white with a veil hanging over her face, frozen in place, immobilized by fear, and feels frayed around the edges. I can't. No, I don't want to comprehend what's happening. A hand reaches out from one of the little girl's sleeves and grabs a hold of my wrist. What little blood that was left in my face now completely drains out.

I look down at the hand grasping my arm with a morbid understanding. It's not the hand of a child. For Halloween journey continues as we try to make a lonely walk home. Author Alexander McHugh recounts a story about just who or what. He encountered on his journey through the quiet streets of London. narrator James Cleveland reads the tale for us about what happened during a walk home on Halloween. I had just moved into my current flat in Rains Park, Southwest London, and was still fairly unfamiliar with the area.

My current bosses and supervisors know that I'm still fighting a losing battle with the underwhelming reliability of Southwest trains and, as a result, have a less reliable time game. when it comes to arriving at work, a battle that I had hoped to circumvent with the purchase of a bicycle. Sadly though, all too often the London weather, and my inherent idleness, jointly conspire to once again force me to take the trains to and from work. While some people are more than aware that the trains keep me from arriving at work on time, not many of you are aware of the troubles I have returning home. That is to say, I have many a time found myself stuck at Clapham Junction with no train to take me back to Raines Park. In these circumstances, I have to take a bus to Wimbledon Common and walk the remaining three miles on foot. It is actually quite a pleasant walk. London doesn't have many hills.

If I walk along the ridgeway, you can actually occasionally catch a nice view. True it is of Croydon, but a nice view nonetheless. Now, to call Wimbledon Village a privileged area would be an understatement. The driveways are home to sports cars and luxury utility vehicles, so you can imagine I have very uneventful walks home. I rarely see anyone on the trip, apart from the odd dolder couple, perhaps walking home after a late night dinner party, or even a person walking their dog. The neighbourhood is quiet and it gets to bed early.

And that night was just like the others, initially. I'd gotten off the bus at the War Memorial, walked through the village centre, turned onto the ridgeway. My phone's batteries had died somewhere between Wandsworth and Southfield, so I had to do the walk without music, and this always made it seem longer. My usual practice was to walk along, look at the houses, and try and guess what the people that lived in them would be like.

fast car business types SUV and toy still in the front yard larger family that kind of thing I was playing my game and decided to have a cigarette so I stopped I was searching for my lighter and looking around when I noticed that I wasn't the only one on the street now this was unusual but hardly alarming

what was strange however was that the person wasn't the sort I had grown used to seeing. It was a young lady. She appeared to be drunk, or it was tired perhaps. I light my cigarette and paused for a second, just a quick second, to judge if she would be capable of making it home by herself. Or perhaps she would need me to see if I could call someone for her. It was at this point I realized that she was crying. I started to walk over to her to make sure she was all right. She stopped walking immediately, frozen. I noticed she was in some sort of Halloween costume, a schoolgirl in fact. As I got closer, I began to realize that she was in fact around the age of 15, 16.

She was deafly white. Her makeup must have been professionally done, or she had spent an incredibly long time preparing it. I began to decide that perhaps her friends had made fun of her costume, and she had run off from whatever party she'd been at, drunk and upset. I began to start feeling a little bit unnerved when I noticed that she was staring directly at me as I approached. I can assure you that in a city the size of London, we have an unspoken rule of avoiding eye contact with strangers at all costs. It was at this point I assumed that she was under the influence of something other than alcohol, and I decided to be a bit more cautious. I stopped about four or five feet away and spoke to her.

Are you okay? You seem a little upset. Are you in any sort of trouble? Nothing from her apart from that stare. Have you had a little too much to drink? Maybe some smoke? Yeah, right. I know hallucinogens when I see them.

Still nothing. Do you need a taxi home? Do you remember where you live? At this, the girl began to cry again, but this time she was absolutely wailing. I could feel her raw sense of despair. It actually flinched at the sound. It was positively unbearable. She was dancing on the border of hysterics, perhaps even putting one foot along the line to see what would happen. I was stunned. I wanted to console her and run in equal measures. I wanted to comfort her and chastise at the

same time. All I managed was a meek. Why are you crying? She must have heard me somehow because she began to draw herself back from the edge of what could only be described as a complete breakdown. She was still heaving and sobbing, but once she brought her eyes up to mine and said, very softly, to die! Now, I have been unfortunate enough to witness death firsthand on more than one occasion. Suffice it to say, these events have always left me with a lot to think about, and I, in fact, had come to terms with my own mortality quite early in life. It struck me that perhaps, like too many of us had, this young lady had someone close to her die recently. Perhaps she was going through the same dark realizations that follow being in the company of death. The same

thoughts that keep children up at night and the pews full at churches. I wanted to let her know that everything would be fine, and that death was simply a part of life. All I managed, however, was a slightly incredulous. I know. At this point, she seemed slightly taken aback, almost angry. She responded, You are going to die, and he is going to kill you.

Alarms went off in my head. I began to feel more than a little threatened. I decided right then and there that talking this girl down from whatever bad high she was on was no longer my responsibility. Had not the venerable Hunter S. Thompson himself warned as of the danger of underestimating the ability of a drug to take control of a person? Good luck, I said, and with that turned and began to walk away. After about five steps I quickly looked back to see her still standing there. She put her head down and began to audibly sob again. I quickened my pace and had shortly walked along a natural bend in the road, leaving her out of sight.

I had been left agitated. I remember putting my headphones back in my ears and trying to listen to music from my phone, only to remember it was out of power still. I was still two miles away from home. but at the pace I was walking I was confident I could cover the ground in less than 20 minutes. The less than two minutes later was when I first heard the shouting. It was a man's voice, and layered within it was an excruciating sense of malice and rage. I couldn't quite place where the voice had come from,

but it seemed as so he was at some distance behind me on the same road, possibly from where the girl had been. I immediately realized that I was to be the victim of some sort of Halloween prank. I didn't, however, slow down. I imagine this was the point where I was supposed to get scared and begin to run and I was determined not to play along. Again, the man yelled, this time it seemed to come from significantly closer. Now the voice seemed to have come from somewhere quite close behind me, that is to say, at the volume I would have expected to have seen the man addressing me, but I was still very much alone on the street. I was also walking quite fast. I was also walking quite

so the person yelling at me must have run quite fast. Yet, I had not heard any other footsteps. There was obviously more than one prankster, and they had hidden along points on the street. I quickly decided to be rather a poor sport and cut off the main road down Thornton Road at the Swan Pub. I hate to admit that their practical joke had gotten better of me, and I did not want to see what they had in store for me next.

I had made it to the front of the second house on the street when that terrible voice shouted at me again. You are going to die! This time the voice seemed to have come from the entrance of the street less than 80 feet away. Perhaps a last chance at scaring me before I disappeared into the darker side streets. Since these streets were darker,

I decided I would lose no pride in starting to jog down the hill. I knew it was all probably fun and games, but the ferocity of the shouting left me worried that it could in fact be dealing with a real maniac. True, it would have been interesting to be a part of the most elaborate mugging I have ever heard of, but that voice just left me with the impression of true hatred. I didn't want to meet the person, people rather, that could mimic and channel such malignant feelings of will. I had made it to the curve where Thornton Road changes, when all of a sudden...

I will kill you! This time, the voice, the same voice that yelled, seemed to be directly to my right. He must have been hidden behind the fence of some house, or perhaps even hidden within the house. I had obviously walked right into their trap. I broke into a sprint at this point. Pride be damned I began to run quite fast and then faster, straight downhill. At this point, I was actually beginning to panic. My mind was playing terrible tricks on me.

It seemed as though the voice was always. All around me, constantly yelling, constantly screaming. Up ahead was the main road, Warple Street, to be precise. Well-lit, busy, I could hail a cab and be home in minutes. But the voices, the immensity. I hate you, you, cowardice. I die, die, die! Every second, all around me, the adrenaline must have been heightening my

every sense. I admit I was scared, and it seems as though for some reason that terrible voice was booming off every surface in the street. It felt as though I was simultaneously running away and into that mad rage. The voices felt like gusts of a terrible hot wind pushing its venomous anger at me. I couldn't take it anymore. The voice seemed to make me share that same immense anger. I thought to myself, am I the one shouting? And I felt like a victim. I wanted to kill the people that were playing this mad trick on me. I felt the hatred.

Time to die, cow! I hate you! I decided I had to give up. In one quick moment, I decided I would stop running as fast as I could and have a cigarette and wait for the rest. people to show themselves. Come what may, I needed answers and a smoke. I quickly stopped my run and spun around. The car beat as it raced past exactly where I would have run to had I not stopped at that exact moment. I felt its air pocket ruffle the back of my hair as it

sped past. In my blind panic I had run past the sidewalk, the main road and onto the actual road. I had avoided running blindly into the road and being run down by inches. I looked up the road where I'd come from. Darkness, silence. Whoever had been there was now gone. I lit my cigarette and took a few moments to calm down. Smoking had saved my life that day, friends. I went home after that.

Nothing more happened to me. But as I was standing there trying to calm down, working through the panic and adrenaline, I seemed to remember I felt like I heard a soft whisper. Perhaps just my imagination. I thought I heard a girl's voice softly saying, Not such a coward after all. It wouldn't feel like Halloween without a chance to gather with friends and tell scary stories and creepy, urban legend. Author Edwin Crowe weaves a tale for us about a well-known legend that may have more basis in truth than you might expect.

We discover that it's best not to try to experience these things for ourselves. Otherwise, we risk tempting fate. Detective Martinez dragged on his filter-tipped cigarette, watching the fiery chair. rapidly descend to the orange paper. He heaved a deep sigh on the exhale, regretting having to work into the wee hours. The spent cigarette tumbled from his hand, landing on the wet tarmac with a fizz.

He reached inside his raincoat and withdrew a fresh pair of surgical gloves. Snapping them onto his hands, the odor of latex billowed up. Un 45 a.m. The detective said into his dictophone. Pinevale Road Rail Crossing, vehicle discovered south side of the tracks. Bloody Mary! Bloody Mary! The two brothers chanted into the bathroom mirror.

They held their breath, a pregnant pause, before finishing off the ritual. Bloody Mary! The room was very dark, the only light coming from a plug's safety bulb, just enough for the brothers to make out their faces reflected back to them. Josh, Ben's younger brother by a clear six years, strained his eyes as he searched the mirror for Bloody Mary. He stared at his doppelganger, with a morbid hope his face would change to that of a haggard crone, or, a bloody ghost. His heart raced. I thought you said something was going to happen, Josh said, pouting, turning to look at his brother. Ben kept his eyes locked on the mirror. It will, it will. Trust me, just keep looking.

He gasped. Josh watched as his brother's face contorted with terror. What? What? Josh returned his gaze to the mirror, frantically scanning their reflections for something that would freak his brother out. Then he saw it. There it was, a third face. Pupiless eyes hopelessly gazed into the abyss,

wrinkled skin that appeared leathery to the touch, a mouth open in a silent moan, The scraggly, straw-like black hair. The crone. Bloody Mary. Josh drew his hands to his face in utter horror and screamed. A scream so piercing, it would have fitted the apparition more than a 13-year-old boy. The low moans of the monstrous hag cut through his shrieks, scaring him further.

He felt his body numb. as he panicked, tears beginning to gather in his eyes as his fright peaked. With a click, the lights came on. Happy Halloween, little bro! Ben said, bursting out laughing, shaking the rubber Halloween mask in his brother's face. Josh lowered his head, his lip quivering. his reddened eyes appeared lost, his young mind trying to come to terms with the act of deception. Ben caught the devastated look on Josh's face and his smile disappeared.

Oh, Josh, I'm sorry, I thought it was going to be a bit of fun, he said before hugging his still shivering brother. The door opened wide as Andy. Ben's friend swung into the room, holding onto the frame. So he fell for it then, he said, grinning. Fuck off, Ben mouthed over Josh's shoulder. Andy rolled his eyes and exited the room. So they're asking me to believe that the guy just lies still for the whole movie. He doesn't fart, cough, or sneeze?

Ben said, remonstrating with the TV. It would have been quite a different film if he had farted. Shh, this is my favorite part. The two of them watched intensely as Carrie Elvis's character steeled himself before savagely sawing through his own ankle. Ben beamed. I like this because he feels so helpless. He makes the horrifying decision.

to amputate his own foot, which in the end is futile. Look at the hope in his eyes. He pointed, sitting on the edge of his chair. Hope makes people do insane things. Do you think he would do that if there was no obvious route of escape? That's what makes it so good, and when the hope is finally taken from him, all the more enjoyable. He continued to smile, leaning back. in his chair. Sometimes, man, you scare the shit out of me, Andy replied, clearly disturbed by the conversation. Oh, relax. Oh, hey, Ben said, seeing his brother at the bottom of the stairs looking sheepish.

Are you feeling better now, buddy? He nodded slowly. That slow nod kids do when trying to recover from humiliation. Any wrong words would send him running back up the stairs. Do you want to come and watch the rest of the film with us? Are you sure that's a good idea, Ben? Sure it is. It's Halloween. The parents are away. What better thing than to show an impressionable teenager some of Jigsaw's twisted games?

Andy shook his head. Josh sat on the floor, just feet from the teens. TV. Say, squirt, are you still up for going to the magic road tonight? He nodded again, not turning, not taking his eyes off the TV. Ben checked his watch. It was 11.15 p.m. If they were to get there for midnight, they'd need to leave soon. The detective scribbled in his small notebook.

Rain-drops painted the page infrequently as the last of the story. clouds left the area. Were there any signs the driver was under the influence? It was raining heavy when I got to the scene. Any possible tire tracks were already gone. Sheriff Jones responded, standing on the side of the road, well away from the train tracks and the car. Any sign of a struggle?

No, sir. It appears the car stopped with some composure. Martinez approached the car and reached for the handle. It's locked, Jones said. The car jostled, the suspension doing its best to keep the vehicle steady on the uneven dirt roads that led to their destination. Ben dipped the headlights as he saw lights approach from the opposite direction. So you still looking forward to this, Josh? Andy asked, turning his head. Josh nodded again slowly, but his mind seemed elsewhere.

He stared out of the side of the car into the darkness beyond. Is this really how we're going to spend our Halloween? Andy asked Ben in a hushed tone. I'm sorry I have to babysit tonight, but you knew the deal before you came over. Who knows? This could be fun. Andy scoffed. You know it's an optical illusion, right?

What? The magic road? Yeah. I guess some of them are, but this one is different. I guarantee you, if we stop the vehicle and it moves on its own, it's going downhill. It's basic physics. Basic physics for a real road. Not a magic road, Ben said, smiling and winking. Taken aback, Andy inquired,

Are you winding me up? You can't possibly believe that there's such a thing as a magic road. Haven't you heard the local legend? The one where ethereal children push a stalled car off the tracks, just in time as an approaching train thunders past. Oh, that's what they all say, ethereal children. Do you know how stupid you sound? I'm just saying, them's the stories.

Well then, how do you explain the number of people whose cars were not whisked away by fairy children and get hit? Etherial children? Whatever. What happened to them? Maybe they just wanted to die. so the children didn't save them, have clearly lost it. Andy said while shaking his head. Come on, Ben conceded. It's just a bit of fun.

Where's your sense of adventure? Ah, we're almost there. The car came to a halt at the stop sign of the T-junction. The roads had been dead. Only one car had passed them on the whole journey. The car pulled onto the tarmac of the main road. It almost sighed with relief at the smooth surface. A railway crossing sign lit up briefly, reflecting the light from the headlamps.

We're here, Ben said, slowing the car, parking directly on the tracks. He got out, the cool October air chilling him, the beginnings of a rainstorm, his face. He pulled up his hood and plunged his hands into his pockets. Looks like it's starting to rain, Andy said, poking his head out of the window. Do you mind if I stay in the car? Do what you want, man. Ben checked his watch. He made it five minutes before a train could arrive. The detective grunted reaching for his wallet. He rifled through the car. He rifled through the credit cards and store cards, looking for the most useless one among them. He pulled out his gym membership card, still as pristine as the day he was issued it.

I knew this would come in handy someday. He joked as he poked the car through the gap of the door, fishing for the unlock mechanism. He winced, visualizing his movements with a mental picture of the internal system. Aha, he exclaimed. And my wife said, why join a gym? You'll never use it. The detective opened the door, leaned in, and paused. Uh, sheriff?

Yes? Did you look inside the car? No, sir? Like I said, it was locked. Did you shine a flashlight around it at least? "'No,' Jones said, confused. Martinez stood upright, silently shaking his head. He punched some digits into his phone.

Fucking rural motherfuckers. "'Excuse me?' the sheriff said defensively. "'Hi, yes, Detective Martinez. I need a forensic team now. Yes, I know it was for an abandoned car. Twenty minutes? Thank you. He put away his phone and sparked another cigarette. Fucking amateurs.

On the horizon, a light flickered, a bright white light, becoming more steady as the train that it was attached to approached. Here we go, Ben said, getting back in the car, He put the key in the ignition and closed the electric windows. After withdrawing the key, he opened the door and threw the keys into the bushes behind them. What the fuck are you doing? Gotta make it realistic, don't I? Ben released the parking break.

Are you fucking crazy? Go get the keys. Calm down. The train is miles away. yet. Train? What fucking train! That one, Ben said, pointing out of Andy's window.

His jaw dropped at the sight of the bright glowing object drawing nearer. This isn't fucking funny, man. Open the fucking doors! He said, frantically pulling on the handle that just flapped in his hands. No, you said it was all physics. nothing else. Open the fucking door. Josh began to cry.

Make them stop. Make them stop. Andy, calm down. You're upsetting Josh. Make them stop. He bawled, clutching his hands to his ears. Make who stop? Open the fucking doors!

Andy interrupted. leaning over Ben to get to the central locking. The button impotently depressed, lacking the power to activate the mechanisms. The rain began to lash down. The storm that had been brewing had erupted. The voices, they sound scared. What voices? I don't hear anything.

You win, Ben. You fucking win. This is a magic road. Now unlock the damn doors. Shut up. Josh is trying to tell me something. The children's voices. Ben turned around in his seat to look at his brother. Ha! I fucking told you.

Didn't I fucking tell you? He cried out, pushing Andy on the shoulder. The beacon of the approaching train began to brighten the interior of the car. If you have a punchline to this joke, now would be a good fucking time. Ben laughed, cupping his hands on the rain-covered window. It's working. It's working. Make them stop.

Josh continued to lament, lying down on the seat in clear agony. What the hell is how? happening? Andy said, shocked, watching as the car began to roll off the tracks. Oh, it's too late. We're not going to make it. He said, pinching his eyes shut. The locomotive's horn blared out, warning the car of its impending collision. Andy braced himself, imagining the car's integrity giving up instantly on impact. At least it would be quick, he thought, before a certain calm washed over him. Ben said with delight,

What a fucking rush! With trepidation, Andy opened his eyes, one by one, ducking as if he was worried the sky would fall. You're a fucking asshole, you realize that? The rain continued to lie. the car. But Ben didn't reply. His face was that of shock. He was looking at his brother. Andy turned to look at the subject of his friend's terror. Oh shit. When the forensic team arrived, one sleep-deprived, angry man got out of the car. He retrieved his kit from the back seat. Where do you want it, boss? Look for Prince on the

the back of the car. Martinez asked. I'm not sure how successful we'll be. It's rained a lot. He replied, wishing he was still in bed. Just do it, Dan. The detective replied, taking out another cigarette. Hey, boss!

The forensic guy shouted. Did you find something? He replied, walking over to the crime scene with the unlit cigarette protruding out of the side of his mouth. Nothing. Nothing? Well, you did say you might not see anything. Some partials around the handle, but they're too degraded.

Otherwise, completely clean. No one's touched this tonight. What's the inside of the car look like? Three bodies, all male, two in their late teens, early twenties. one around 12, 13. They approached different sides of the car, each slipping on new latex gloves. Lacerations on the neck on both bodies, looks like the main cause of death. Dan said out loud, examining the body closest to him,

while comparing identical wounds on the other. Bruising on the shoulder suggests they were held back, probably before their necks were sliced. He stopped, a confusion took over his face. What the hell? He unclipped a small flashlight from his belt and shone it on the bruises. The contusions are too small for adult hands. They appear childlike.

They gazed at each other before turning in unison to the child in the back seat. He sat there motionless. He had bled from the ears. His eyes were shut. Hey, kid, you there? Martinez asked. Yo, kid, do you think he did that? Inspecting the boy's hands, Dan replied.

His hands are a match, but I can't see him overpowering both of them on his own. It's fucked up. The detective announced, standing up. began to light his cigarette. Hang on, boss. I think he's breathing. Kid, the kid! Sheriff, get him out of there.

Martinez demanded. You've left him in there with dead bodies. Oh, if you don't get fired for this, he trailed off. The embarrassed sheriff scuttled over to the car, opening the unlocked door. Hey, buddy, I'm a police officer. officer, I'm here to help you. Do you know the names of your mummy and daddy? The child did not respond. He spotted the blood from the little boy's ears. Can you hear me at all, son? The boy said nothing. Okay, the sheriff said, raising his voice, but trying hard not to sound threatening.

I'm going to lift you out of the car. Is that all right? Right? The boy remained silent. As carefully as he could, Jones put his hands under the boy's legs and back, and gradually slid him out of the car. It's going to be okay, boy. What's your name? But there was no response. I'm going to take him back to the station, he said to Martinez, holding the child in his arms. First thing you've done right all night, Sheriff. The detective watched the small town sheriff put the boy in the back of his patrol car. He turned back to Dan, who was back in the car looking over the bodies. The rain had receded, replaced by clearing skies and ice-cold wind.

He looked up at the stars, as if looking for some reason why this had happened. When he looked back down, the patrol car was disappearing into the distance. A dance music beat erupted from Martina's pocket. He pulled out his phone. What is it? The boy, the sheriff said. I'll put you on speakerphone. Say it again, boy.

Was the children? The boy said, almost in a trance, quiet and full. but loud enough for the detective to hear it over the phone. What was the children? Jones asked. They deal your friends? The boy nodded. Children, son?

We didn't see any. The ones that pushed the car. The boy nodded. They said... He went silent. say? The sheriff pushed, consciously turning away from the road to look him in the eye. Martinez was fixated on his phone, mouth slack with alarm. They said they...

The boy began to cry. Why they gave me... He took a blood-stained knife from his coat. That's a... We're safe. The sheriff asked, his voice breaking. The voices? Are they still there? The boy nodded.

Sweat gathered on the sheriff's brow, a cold sweat that numbed his skin. What are they saying? Tears rolled down his cheeks. I don't want to tell you. Oh, you're safe now, son. You can tell me. The boy looked away timidly. Jones gripped the steering wheel tightly. looked dead ahead, only taking his eyes off the road to look at the child in his rearview mirror.

Nervously, he asked. What, what are they saying about? Say you should have taken me out of the child. What child should see that? Martinez couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sheriff Jones, stop the car. Stop the fucking car! But he did not listen.

Don't say things like that, son. That's not nice. The detective listened to the phone, watching the taillights of the police car almost disappear out of view. They have a message for you. Message? The sheriff asked with a wobble in his voice. The sounds of gurgling and spluttering were sent through the phone line

as the detective watched the patrol car swerve off the road. The line went silent. Sheriff! Sheriff! Martinez shouted down the phone. All he could hear through the phone were the sounds of children laughing. We sued our Halloween episode with a final tale from author William Delphin. For some people, all people. All the Halloween frights put together can't equal the fear evoked by a visit to the doctor.

But in this tale, it seems the doctor is the one who has something to fear, especially when dealing with a person's insatiable hunger. As a doctor, I'm bound by doctor-patient privilege to not disclose the specifics of what I'm about to tell you. but as a human being, I feel compelled to share. This is, without a doubt, the most horrific story I've ever had the displeasure of being a part of. It was 2009, and my schedule that day was light. I was just finishing up my lunch when I got a call from a friend and colleague who had his own practice in the same building as me. Sometimes we would send work each other's way.

when we knew the other could use it. I was a bit elated at the prospect of him calling me because I had just been going over my books and stressing a bit. Are you busy right now? I'd like to send someone up to you. No, my afternoon is barren. What are the details? It's a walk-in.

From the look of it, an eating disorder. Her mother is concerned. aiding disorder. Those can be unpleasant. I'd actually had a bulimic throw up in my office once when I stepped out momentarily to check my calendar. Still, I needed the work. All right, send her up. I tried to tidy up my desk to make my office look more presentable and professional while I waited. Ten minutes ticked by and no patient showed up, so I stepped out to go looking at. I looked at for her. When I got to the hall, there was a small contingent of people standing around the elevator. They were talking amongst themselves.

What's going on? The elevators broke, someone said. Hmm, shit, I bet she's on there, I thought. What floor is it stuck on? The 10th and 11th. Yeah, that would be about right. My colleague's office was on the 10th, three floors down. I knew from experience that it could be anywhere up to an hour before they got the elevator working again. I hoped she wasn't claustrophobic. Returning to my office, I called downstairs.

What's up? My colleague asked after picking up. She's stuck in the elevator. He laughed. What's her name? Amelia... he paused. Amelia D. Something. All right, thanks. If you got any impressions on her from your brief visit, maybe you can share them later. Over drinks? Sure. I... No, don't tell me. I want to form my own opinion first.

Okay. True to form. An hour and ten minutes later, I heard a loud cheer from the hallway, indicating the elevator had started working again. I should go make sure she's all right, I thought to myself, and went out to join the throng of people standing around in the hallway. There were a lot more people by then, and I couldn't make my way to the elevator doors or even see them from where I was, but I could hear it when the elevator dinged, indicating

it was stopping on our floor and the rolling mechanical sound of the door's opening. There was a loud gasp from the crowd of people, followed by a lot of jabbering. Holy shit! Someone said quite loudly.

People started hustling away from the elevator, shoving past me. I struggled against the tide and made my way to where a number of people were standing around, staring, into the elevator cab. As I approached, I could smell this stench.

It was like stumbling into the apartment of a recluse who hadn't come out or bathed for years. It rolled like a wave out of the elevator and cascaded over everyone in the hallway. A young man in a business suit, who looked dressed for an interview, was covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. I skirted around him to see into the elevator. The woman in the elevator was not at all what I was expecting. Massively obese, she looked like she weighed somewhere around five or six hundred pounds. Her face was so puffed up, her eyes were barely visible, just two dark dots above her cheeks. She had frizzed out brown hair that still had curlers in it.

The notion that I was smelling a recluse seemed all the more plausible at the sight of her. Her mouth was covered with what looked like greasy barbecue sauce. There was even some sort of gristle at the corners of her lips. There was more of it all over her hands and wiped down the front of her shirt. It looked like she had come straight from an all-you-can-eat-rib buffet. Clenched tightly in one of her hands was a big black trash bag that sagged full of something that seemed to slosh around inside it. The smell coming out of it was nauseating. The woman stepped out of the elevator, her eyes and nose runny with tears and mucus.

I stepped forward while everyone else backed away, horrified. Amelia? I asked her. She looked at me through her beady, little piggy eyes. Her cheeks covered with that vile red gunk and streaking with tears and opened her mouth. For about three seconds, I had the horrible notion that she was going to vomit an entire barbecue on me. I was hungry, she stuttered with a thick southern accent. The young man in the suit heaved involuntarily at the smell of her breath and then

strode away trying to maintain his demeanor. That's okay, I said, reaching out to help her. Do you want to talk about it in my office? Seeing me reach out to her, she clenched her black trash bag tightly and hugged it to her chest. The contents of it made a sickening squish sound. I could taste my own lunch in the back of my throat. Is that yours? I asked. I'm not going to take it.

She started sobbing, this horrible, almost hob-like squeal of a sob. Honestly, I didn't want to touch her. I wanted to go back into my office, lock the door, and pretend I was glad my afternoon was completely empty. The smell wafting off her and off that bag of spoils was going to be permeating every crevice in my office for days. I just knew it. Still, this was a human being that had come seeking my help, and I was not about to turn her away. My office is right down the hall.

Why don't you come with me? I started walking. In my head, I said, well, if she doesn't come with me, fuck it. She can go back to her apartment that's probably filled with roaches and feces, and who knows what other ungodly things, and I'll find someone else to help. But she followed me, lumbering on legs that stretched the limits of the sweatpants she had on. I held the door open for her, and she waddled in,

needing the contents of that trash bag in her thick sausage fingers, making it belch and splurch. She stopped and just stood there in the middle of my office. The elevator got stuck, she mumbled. Yes, I'm sorry about that. I hope you were all right. Thank goodness you brought something to eat, yes? She started crying again, squeezing her trash bag,

and I was afraid it was going to explode and leave, God knows what, all over my office floor. She nodded as her face turned red, and tears poured out of seemingly every pore of her head. I went and got her a box of tissues and handed her a couple. She tried to take them while still holding on to the bag with both hands. Would you like me to hold that? I offered, praying she'd say no.

She shook her head. What do you have in there? I finally decided to ask. She huffed and snorted, trying to inhale all the fluid back into her face. Using one of the tissues, she mopped her eyes and mouth, getting blotchy red smears all over the place. Left, left. leftovers. She stuttered. Then her chest started heaving and she threw her head back and started bawling again.

Her face was like a fountain. She was so utterly miserable and I really started to feel bad for her. Look, getting stuck in that elevator was obviously pretty traumatic. Her weight. Her weight, hit a crescendo. So why don't we postpone things until you've calmed down a bit? She struggled through her sobbing. You, you want to meet with me? Well, yes, but not today. Why don't you go home and try to relax?

I don't think you're in the right frame of mind right now to talk, but I want to help you. So let's schedule an appointment for later this week. How does that sound? I walked back to my desk and got one of my cards. Her mouth was quivering and she looked ready to collapse into a pile of screaming phlegm, but she was calming down a bit, just nodding more than anything, and she took my card with the same sticky fingers holding several drippy tissues. Thank you, she said quietly. I couldn't read her face at all.

Her features were so red and swollen and wet that she seemed almost blank and expressionless. Do you want me to escort you down to the lobby? I asked. in case something happens with the elevator again. It should be all right, but I don't want you to be nervous. She shook her head. That don't seem like a good idea. Okay.

And with that, she turned around and waddled out of my office, slowly, sobbing slightly, slightly every now and then. With her went that sloshy black trash bag, and with them both went that putrid aroma of filth and squalor. I literally breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the door clicked shut. She never called me back. It was a week later that I finally got around to having drinks with my colleague from downstairs. We were relaxing, having a couple of beers, and I suddenly remembered her. Thanks, by the way, I said. For what? For Amelia. Who? Amelia. Ealing disorder? Last week you sent her up to me, remember? Oh, right, he sipped his beer. The one who got stuck in the elevator. How did that go?

She was a wreck, sobbing and practically hysterical. I talked to her into rescheduling, but she hasn't called me to make an appointment. Did you talk to her mother? No, I didn't get any information from her. I gave her my card. What did you think? Classic food dependency. Definitely a binge eater. Her face was just all... No, not the mother. I mean, Amelia. What? What did you think of Amelia?

I'm telling you what I thought. Amelia, the scrawny 12-year-old girl you think is a binge eater? What? No. No, that's not... And then it hit me. Was her mother with her? Yeah, I sent them both up to you. They were in the elevator together? He looked at me, and the same dawning realization came over his face.

Needless to say, she never rescheduled. Amelia D. something. Nor did her mother. The nameless obese woman I met that day at the elevator, smelling like death, covered in gore, and carrying her trash bag of sloshing leftovers. Thank you for joining us for this Halloween bonus episode

of the No Sleep Podcast. This episode was produced by David Cummings and featured music by David Cummings and Brandon Boone. For more information about the No Sleep Podcast, please visit the nosleeppodcast.com. Oh yes, I almost forgot. Have a happy Halloween.