The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast Halloween 2017

Episode Date: October 31, 2017

It's our Halloween 2017 episode! We have four Halloween tales to celebrate the night of the dead. "Ghost Lights"¤ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Addison Peacock & Atticus Jackson & Nichole Goodnight & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:02:50) "Jack O'Lantern Road"† written by Jacob Healy and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:23:00) "Bottom of the Barrel"‡ written by Olivia White and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Dan Zappulla & Peter Lewis & Addison Peacock & Nichole Goodnight & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:38:20) "Voices"† written by Michael Whitehouse and performed by David Cummings & David Ault & Jessica McEvoy & Peter Lewis & Nichole Goodnight & Jeff Clement & Matthew Bradford. (Story starts around 01:26:30) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the NoSleep Live 2018 tour   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ Halloween 2017 illustration courtesy of Sabu Audio program ©2017 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Intended to shake you up. Listen at your own risk. And tonight's there will be, brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us for our Halloween 2017 episode. We have four tales to chill you and thrill you on this Halloween night. Before we launch into our Halloween episode, I want to send a big old jack-a-lantern of thanks to everyone who came to our Halloween live in Toronto show on Sunday.

We had a full house at the Great Hall in Toronto, and it was so much fun to perform for everyone. There were people there from the west coast of the U.S., the Midwest, of course, plenty from Toronto in the surrounding areas, and there was even a lovely couple who came all the way from Sweden to see the show. We so appreciate everyone who came and gave us so much love. And those folks got to hear the live version of the final story on this episode, Voices by Michael Whitehouse. We know you'll enjoy the studio production of it as much as we enjoyed bringing it to you. And so, with the jack-a-lanterns lit and the candy dished out, it's time to settle in as we present No Sleep Halloween 2017. In our first tale, we meet some friends who can't resist testing an old urban legend

on Halloween. But as we learn from author S.H. Cooper, these friends don't just go to an old cemetery or dilapidated house, they row into a swamp to see if the legend is true. And as you can imagine, a swamp isn't the easiest place to make a quick

getaway if needed. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Atticus Jackson, Nicole Goodnight, and Jeff Clement. So maybe it's best to stick to shelling out candy on Halloween rather than looking for ghost lights. I don't remember whose idea it had been. At first, it seemed we were planning the same old Halloween festivities as every previous year.

But then, someone mentioned the swamp and its ghost lights. And suddenly, trick-or-treating didn't seem quite as appealing. Todd owned a dinghy. Little more than a rust bucket with a motor. really. But it would do the trick. We just needed something that we'd carry the four of us, the two boys, me, and Kelsey. I admit I was a bit disappointed when our plans changed. I'd already spent most of October hand-making my steampunk-inspired costume, but we were 17 now, a bit old to be parading door-to-door for candy. Besides, the others made those ghostlights sound.

Sound so interesting. So spooky. A real Halloween adventure. What are they? Really, I mean. Swamp gas? Some kind of insect? I was in the back seat during our drive to the boat launch.

I'd heard rumors of the lights before, but never paid much attention to them. It wasn't really the kind of thing I was interested in except for one night a year. Sh! Kohl shushed me from the front. It'll be more fun if I tell you when we get there. I sat back with a resigned sigh, and Kelsey giggled, a telltale sign of her growing nervousness. She had never been very good when it came to scary things, but her crush on Todd meant she was willing to do just about anything to get him to notice her. We'd all been friends since we met freshman year, and thus far, her attempts to flirt had been unsuccessful.

I was convinced that Todd just wasn't interested, but she believed if she just got him in the right circumstances, things would change. Apparently, her idea of Wright was being crammed into a tiny boat in a dark, mosquito-infested swamp in the middle of nowhere. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. Finding the turn-off to the boat launch was a bit difficult in the dark. The signs were small and poorly maintained,

And we had to double back a couple of times before we realized that the dirt path we kept passing was what we were looking for. Cut between a line of trees, it almost seemed too narrow for our car and trailer, and we were all tense as we slowly crept along the bumpy trail. The launch itself was just a clearing in the middle of the woods, with a short, unstable-looking pier jutting out into the murky edge of the Everglades. Kelsey and I got out, while the boys' first. figured out how to get the dingy into the water, and we were immediately set upon by hungry, buzzing insects

that no amount of slapping or hand-waving could chase away. We muttered miserably about whether this had been such a good idea after all. It was pitch black. We were being eaten alive, and the more we watched Todd and Cole work together, the less certain we were that they really knew what they were doing. Eventually, they fumbled their way to success, and we piled into the small boat, Kelsey and I at the front, and the boys in the back.

Todd had brought a few flashlights and a larger lantern, which we used to carefully navigate away from the launch. Cole was directing Todd from a map he brought, telling him when and where to turn. There was a quiet out in the swamp that I'd never experienced before. Other than our voices and the hum of the motor, which Todd kept low and slow, there was a complete absence of anything human. Insects and frogs chirped all around us, the occasional bird called out from somewhere in the shadows. The water rippled and splashed against the dinghy.

But there were no cars. No dogs barking in the distance? None of the nighttime noises that I was used to. Unconsciously, I huddled closer to Kelsey, and I felt her do the same. We were completely isolated out there, completely cut off. We wound our way through mangroves with their gnarled roots, reaching up from beneath the surface, and over thick beds of lily pads.

More than once, I could have sworn the lantern caught a glint off of a beady eye just before it slipped, completely silent, under the water. You sure a gator can't tip this thing? Yeah. Not much further. Somehow, I didn't think stopping would make me feel any better. True to his word, they cut the motor not long after. We were drifting in the middle of an open area of swamp

surrounded by a circle of tall, thin trees and tangled swamp vegetation. Kelsey's flashlight flitted around, jumping towards every splash or croak, and I wasn't much better. The uncertainty about coming that I'd felt When we first arrived, had grown into full-blown regret. You gotta shut your lights off.

I think that's a good idea. Kelsey looked like the mere suggestion made her want to cry. Come on, Kels. We don't want this trip to be a waste. When he smiled at her, she immediately melted into a giggling fit, and her flashlight went out. You too, Dem. I was more reluctant, and gave the swamp a few more once over. before they convinced me to turn it off.

I hadn't seen any gaiters headed our way, but that was the thing, wasn't it? You never saw them. The Jaws theme ran through my head, and I swallowed hard as the lantern, our last source of light, was switched off. I clung to Kelsey's arm, and she did the same to mine. Although there was some moonlight overhead,

it didn't do much except exaggerate shadows. and when something splashed in the water nearby, we both yelped. Todd and Cole just laughed. Okay, okay. Even though Cole was only a few feet away, he was just a featureless shape against the night. What do you guys know about the ghost lights? We all mumbled some variation of not much,

and he clapped his hands once, making us all jump. So I take it none of you have heard of Jackson Wade. No. Good. I could hear the grin in his voice and he cleared his throat. A real showman. He's the reason we're out here tonight. They say you can see the ghost lights at least a few times a month,

but never as clearly as on Halloween, when the veil between our world and the spirit world is thinnest. And Jackson Wade himself becomes visible. I briefly wondered how long he was, He'd been practicing that speech, but that thought slipped away when he started to tell his story. Jackson Wade, Cole claimed, had been the only son of a wealthy farmer. Although he was handsome and charismatic, he showed little interest in the family business, or in settling down with a wife.

Instead, he preferred extended stays at the Wade Winter Home, a modest manner on the edge of the Everglades, where he would hunt and fish and ignore his responsibilities. While Cole spoke, a small flicker over his shoulder caught my attention. A tiny pinprick of light, barely noticeable, had appeared some ways off from our boat just in front of one of the trees. I blinked a few times, believing at first that it was just a trick of my overactive imagination. But every time I opened my eyes,

It was still there. His behaviors started to cause problems between him and his father, who thought Jackson was lazy and a disgrace to their name. Both of his parents pleaded with him to come home to Orlando, but Jackson refused. I was listening to call, but my gaze remained fixed on the little light. Unbeknown to his parents, or to most others outside of the house, Jackson had developed a fascination with blood and pain and death,

one that he initially only pursued with the animals he caught. Servants started to find small gaiters with their eyes gouged out, and most of their teeth pulled around the property. Wingless birds, skin squirrels, turtles missing most of their shells. Initially they tried to blame other wild animals, but all of them knew the truth, even if they were too afraid to say it out loud. After months of writing letters trying to get Jackson to come home, his father sent his personal attendant down to the winter house to force Jackson's return.

The last time the attendant was seen was when he was getting into the carriage bound for the Everglades. Before you could continue, Todd let out a strangled sound. And our dinghy rocked with his wild pointing. Knock it off. Kelsey squeaked. Not even her crush on him could override her fear. Guys, look, I see something. Holy shit.

I didn't need to turn, though. I knew exactly what he was seeing. The light over Cole's shoulder had grown into a hovering orb about the size of my fist. It cast a pale, dim glow that reflected off the water below. Kelsey was digging her nails into my arm and had buried her head against my shoulder, so I wasn't sure if she had seen it too, but I didn't say anything. I didn't want to frighten her anymore. Maybe we should go.

No, not yet. Just let me finish the story. As soon as I'm done, we can go. Yeah, we can't leave now. They were both so caught up in the story and the lights. that they didn't seem to realize just how terrified Kelsey and I were. Then hurry it up. I tried to ignore the light bobbing behind Cole.

Fine. Jackson, tired of both his games with the animals, and of his father's demands, only let the attendant get as far as the manor's front door. He struck the man from behind with a hammer and dragged him unconscious out to his rowboat. The two disappeared into the swamp. Only Jackson returned.

After that, after Jackson had his first taste of human blood, others started to go missing. First, it was a couple of vagrants, people that it was assumed no one would miss. But then one of his own servant girls disappeared, which made the rest of his staff afraid and restless. Rumors started. Nicknames like Mad Jackson started to circulate. and those employed at the manor house started to slip off in the night before they too became victims. Mr. Wade had already been on edge after a month with no word from his attendant, but when whispers of his son's suspected antics reached him,

he decided that it was time to go down to the Everglades himself. He set out from Orlando, accompanied by a group of men hired to bring Jackson home. Jackson realized that his time was up. but he wasn't about to hand himself over so easily. He ran out the back to one of his rowboats and tried to escape into the swamp. But the other men followed. They pursued him right here to this very spot. And when they arrived, they found themselves in Mad Jackson's playground.

Bodies of the missing people, or what was left of them, were all around. The lights pulsed all around us, illuminating our pale, frightened faces. And in that brief moment, I could have sworn I saw the outline of a person hanging from the tree. I shrieked and Kelsey cried out, clinging even more tightly to me. When Todd audibly gulped, I couldn't pretend it had only been my imagination. Mr. Wade's attendant, identified by the ring still on his bony finger, had been strung up by his arms and left to dangle with his feet in the water. Gators and fish and bugs had eaten away his flesh and torn at his bones until only an incomplete skeleton was left. One of the vagrants had been tied to a tree with his belly sliced open and left for the critters to find.

The other had had his arms and legs cut off, and all the pieces of his body were hung up in the branches like decorations. They found the servant girl last. Another pulse of light, more shapes in the dark, like swaying limbs and broken bodies. Mad Jackson had hoisted her up high over the water by her waist, but not before he covered her in small cuts and honey. He left her there, alive and mostly unhurt, to be swarmed by hungry insects, and to starve and to bake in the Florida sun. When Mr. Wade saw what Jackson had done, he shot his own son and let his body fall into the swamp, where he left it to rot, just as Jackson had done with his victims.

The lights mark the places where each one died. Most people say they're the trap spirits of those he killed, but there's another theory. A more sinister one. Some suspect that they're Jackson's ghost lights, that he makes them burn to attract people like us, the curious, the thrill seekers, fresh blood to feed his lust. He's still always hunting, they say. But he's never more active than on Halloween. As soon as Cole finished, the lights blinked once, twice, and then extinguished,

plunging us into total darkness once again. Kelsey started to cry against my shoulder, and I wrapped an arm around her reassuring me. Can we go now? I felt around the bottom of the dinghy for my flashlight. Give it a second. I want to see if they come back. Kelsey's really upset, man. Just one moment. He was cut off by a loud splash off to our side.

And our little boat became completely silent and still. Is that? Kelsey, too terrified to say any more. Couldn't finish her question. But we all knew what she was going to ask. Get the light. He didn't sound like he was having much fun anymore. We've got to be.

get out of here. There was a scramble to find the lantern and flashlights, and Todd struggled with the motor's pull cord trying desperately to coax it into life. All the while, the splash and creek of oars was getting louder, closer. My fingers closed on the lantern, and I was quick to switch it on and hold it up, trying to light up the swamp around us. But the darkness seemed to swallow it up. We couldn't see more than a few feet around us. We couldn't see the source of the sound. We couldn't see what was coming right for us. Kelsey sobbed and screamed at the boys to go.

Finally, the engine roared into life, and Todd shouted for us to hang on while he swung the boat around, away from the creeks and groans of the approaching rowboat, and we tore recklessly back through the swamp, barely missing the same tangled roots and reaching trees that we'd passed on our way in. I only looked back once, just long enough to see the outline of a rowboat's hull,

illuminated by four small glowing orbs. Afterwards, once we were back on dry land and surrounded by light and life, we were able to convince ourselves that we'd imagined it, that Mad Jackson and his ghost lights had been a result of too much Halloween spirit, and Cole's talent for storytelling. Kelsey refused to speak of it altogether. It was easier that way. No need to explain it away or justify it if you pretended it hadn't happened at all.

Even still, I stay away from the swamp now. Regardless of how much we try and tell ourselves it wasn't real, or that it didn't actually happen, I know that it was. And it did. I'm certain of it. Just as certain that if I were to go back, if any of us were, Mad Jackson wouldn't be quite so willing to let us go a second time.

If you live in an area with a road called Jackalanturn Road, you just know it's going to figure in on Halloween. In this tale from author Jacob Healy, we meet a man who decides to drive down said road to see if the rumors about it are true. What he discovers makes for a very chilling Halloween tale. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett and Erica Sanderson. So hop in the car with us as we head down Jackalanturn Road.

In eastern Utah, trapped in the got-for-sick and emptiness between Salt Lake City and Denver, there's a stretch of highway known as Jackalanorn Road. and is 24 miles in length and rarely used. It was more popular in decades past, but now it only provides folks with a very roundabout way to reach Arches National Park. Pretty much the only people who drive on it these days are hopelessly, hopelessly lost.

This is the story of the first, and only time I drove this stretch of highway a great many years ago. It is not a long story, but it's a true one. And it's taken me a long time to tell. I suppose you've come here to be frightened for a bit to hear about the things that go bump in the night and the story ought to do the trick. But when it's over and you've gone about your day, I hope you bear in mind. Reality holds far more terror than any legend ever could.

I grew up about 15 minutes north of where the road begins in a small town called Cole Flats. The name was perfect. Cole production was the only thing keeping up. us afloat and the place, unlike much of Utah, was flat as a goddamn pancake. There weren't many kids at my grade school, so everybody talked to everybody. This meant that when one kid had a story to tell, it wasn't long before everyone had heard it. I'm not sure who first brought the tale of Jackal-Entern Road to my school, but I do remember who told it to me, Barbara Kingsolver, who last I heard was the widow of some wealthy old rancher up in Heber. Anyway, oh,

Barb and I were nice friends back then, and I noticed one day that she seemed to rather put out. During break time, I asked her what the matter was. Well, I'm just worried about tonight. Tonight. Once tonight. Barb pointed at the calendar on the wall of the classroom. October 29th, my family is driving on, driving on Jackalandum Road tonight. She clearly expected this revelation to have some effect on me. Myself, I had never heard of such a road and had no idea why October 29th was supposed to be such a bad time to drive on it.

I'm sure my blank stare gave her all the permission she needed to jump into the story. Oh, you don't know. I thought everyone knew. Well... She dove right into her tale. To hear her tell it, back in the 1930s, our very old grade school had held an event at an old barn near the side of the road in question. Nobody knew it as Jackalander Road in those days. Anyway, this barn, it was all decked out for Halloween festivities. The students were there on a Friday, October 29th, because the holiday happened to fall on a Sunday that year. Children ran around gleefully in their costumes,

trading treats and playing games. As was often the case in those days, there weren't enough grown-ups there to watch all the kids. So nobody noticed when four of them wandered right up next to the road, dressed in homemade skeleton costumes and carrying orange jackal anard buckets to hold all their candy. Well, of course, these children were struck by a passing vehicle, and each one killed instantly. Years later, I did my research and found that the dreadful accident had indeed occurred. However, not many of the details of Barb's story had been correct.

The accident happened at the end of August during back-to-school festivities. The driver claimed that the heat waves emanating from the road blurred his vision, and that he didn't see the children until it was too late. According to at least one deputy, a man's breath indicated there may have been another reason his vision was blurred. I've still no idea how these details work their way into the schoolyard legend, but, according to Barb, every October 29th, these four children return to that road,

holding their orange jack-lantern buckets, and seek for revenge on any poor souls who happen to be driving upon it. It wasn't true, of course, but I didn't know that then. Barb's story, she told it very well indeed. Shelled my neck hairs every time I passed the entrance to Jackalenton Road, even long after my grade school days had passed. And it comes a time in a man's life when he is inspired to put away his childish fears. I suppose this night was one of those times for me.

I was 26 years old in visiting my folks up in coal flats. I left their place a little after midnight and planned to drive through the night to get back home to Phoenix, where I'd shacked up with a young lady I met at school, who later became my wife. She hadn't come with me, though. My folks didn't know about her quite yet. It was near the beginning of this drive that I became aware I would soon pass the entrance to the terrible old road from my youth. God, I hadn't thought of that in years. It wasn't exactly on the way, but it wasn't terribly far from it either.

I suppose it was more nostalgia than anything that got me to make that fateful left turn. The first thing I noticed was how bumpy the road was. The other pavements in the area had the occasional dip, it's true, but this road in particular was no fun to drive on. It was clear it hadn't been kept up, and why would it? Local legend or not, nobody drove here anymore. I winced as my Buick lurched along the road. Sure the old girl would fall apart at any moment. A brown signpost greeted me, bathed in my headlights.

Next gas, 40 miles. I just filled up a few minutes before at the old Main Street station and called flat, so that wouldn't be a problem. There were no other signs on the road, just the occasional rusty mile marker. I'm a bit of shame to admit. I actually felt cool, conquering my childhood fears like that. It wasn't even October 29th, but still, it was my first time on Jack Lantern Road. I had a beard now, and I wasn't even scared. Yep. Grade school me would have

thought that was all pretty neat. The shadow lurked in the distance, the old barn, I thought. Those hairs on my neck stood up again. It's not that I was scared exactly, it's just that I knew what had gone down there all those years ago. I don't know if you've ever been to a place where something horrible happened once, but lots of those places have a weird feeling about them. Call it superstition, if you will. That's the only way I know how to say it. I slowed down as I passed the barn, hoping to get a better look. It was on my right side. I craned my neck and saw it there, perched on its crumbling foundation, abandoned as a building ever was. I should have sped away right then and there.

I pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car. There had always been a sort of morbid curiosity about the place, and I wanted to get a closer look. I latched the door and took my first and last step onto Jackalentern Road, gravel crunching underneath my foot. I stood with one foot in the car and one out, staring intently over the roof and toward the barn, only just illuminated by the brilliance of the milky way above.

The crickets chirped loudly, and that was the only thing I could hear. I became a little nervous. I was completely alone, more so, I thought. Something caught my eye, a flicker, a little glimmer of light from the left side of the barn. I blinked, thinking I had imagined it. I hadn't. There it was a faint orange glow. Two of them, in fact.

My mind went wild. Jackalanards. Any pretense of being cool dropped at that moment. I practically leapt back in my car and slammed the door behind me. I closed my eyes and shivered. There was no way I'd seen what I thought I'd just seen. Was there? As a matter of fact, I hadn't.

There were no jacks. lanterns on the road that night. Sure enough, when I appeared back through the passenger side window, and they were gone. I chuckled to myself, Jesus, man, be cool. I figured it was just my mind playing tricks on me. It wasn't. What I had actually seen, I later learned, were flashlight beams. I turned the car back on, shaking my head. As I began to pull forward, I flicked my headlights on, Then I slammed on the break, hard. A group of men, perhaps five or six, were standing in front of me in the road, blocking my path. They were dressed in dark clothes, wearing hoods or ski masks.

I could see their eyes reflected in my beams. A couple of them held bats, and the one in the back carried something that looked like at least in the shadows, like a ball and chain flail. They stood about 50 feet in front of me. I heard a pop from far away, and something cracked into the side of my Buick. The gas tank display lit up on my dash. Had someone shot at my car? I screamed like a woman.

You better goddamn believe it. I ducked down in case any more shots were fired and reversed hard. After a moment, I spun the car around at a quick three-point turn and sped in the opposite direction, or at least I tried to. Another group of men blocked my path, looking every bit as frightening, as menacing as the first group. They walked slowly towards my car.

In my rearview mirror, I could see the other men walking towards me too. I looked out the window and saw two or three more approaching from the barn. I began to hyperventilate. Was this it? I thought of my girlfriend, sound asleep hundreds of miles away.

I was supposed to be on my way home to her. I began seriously to doubt I would make it anywhere near there. Looking back and forth between the groups of men, I thought wildly that I'd rather take my chances with a bunch of dead school kids. Another shot rang out. I must have missed the car, but it was enough. I knew I had to move. I'd have to drive into them.

But surely they'd planned for that. Surely they had a way to stop me. It seemed too easy, too obvious, and yet it also seemed like my only hope. I reversed again, getting dangerously close to the group behind me. A couple of them, I think, realized what I was up to and started running toward the car. One of them smashed their bat into the back driver's side window when I sprung that Buick to life and aimed it at the men in front of me. More gunshots.

The back passenger window collapsed into a shattered heap of glass. My foot pressed so hard on the pedal I worried it might snap. A couple of the men got out of the way instantly. A couple more stayed for a time. But none of them seemed interested in being flattened by two tons of American-made steel. And by the time I'd reached them, they were all on the side of the road. I could hear their voices jeering at me through the broken back windows as I sped past, flying down the lonely road from whence I'd just come.

My car broke down at the end of Jackalander Road. Gas had been pouring steadily from a bullet hole in the side, and I'd been doing more than a hundred the whole way back. I never drove the old girl again. I hitched a ride from the first car I saw. People were more trusting in those days. Go figure. I headed straight to the station.

The sheriff called in some backup from bigger towns up north, and they went to investigate. By the time they'd gotten there, all the men had cleared out. What remained was an enormous stockpile of the most horrific weapons imaginable and a whole lot of bodies. There was a woman from Littleton, Colorado, who'd been reported missing just a few days before. In fact, several missing person cases were solved in that barn. They'd all been mutilated in strange and ritual ways, and I was almost one of them. Life is short, I realized.

So I ended up introducing my girlfriend to my folks a few weeks later. We've been married 46 years now. We had a couple of kids, and when they were young, I told them scary stories, just like the ones that were told to me. To be honest, I don't see much harm in tales about monsters and ghosts. It's good for the soul to be a bit frightened at times. I reckon, especially when it's all just make-believe. But these days, the only stories that frighten me are the ones on the news, the people gone missing.

Young people with a whole lifetime ahead. Cars left abandoned on the side of the road. I don't need much imagination. See, maybe some of the legends are pretty bad. But it's tough to know for sure because real life, well, it can be ever so much worse. It might be uncommon to hold a high school. reunion on Halloween, but author Olivia White shares a tale about a woman who suffered a Halloween ordeal in high school. When she learns that her now very successful high school crush is

going to be at the reunion, she knows she'd best attend, even with the painful memories still lingering in her mind. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Dan Zippula, Peter Lewis, Addison Peacock, Nicole Goodnight, and Atticus Jeff. So even though the term is synonymous with the worst things, sometimes there can be even more at the bottom of the barrel. Who holds a high school reunion on Halloween? I was sitting at the kitchen table, heads still muggy with sleep, staring forlornly into my cup of black coffee. I looked up. My brother Dan stood in the doorway, the male held in one hand.

What? Who's having a high school reunion? My head hadn't quite caught up to the present. We are, apparently. Dawning horror crept across my face. Oh, no. Oh, hell no. No, we are not.

Dan beamed his wide, lopsided grin. Chilled out, oblivious Dan. He didn't understand. He'd had fun in high school. He'd played football. He dated cheerleaders. He'd been popular. I'd been the weird nerdy girl who somehow, inexplicably, also happened to be the twin sister of the star quarterback. If you imagined that being Dan's sister gave me an easier ride by proxy, you'd be wrong. If anything, my proximity to the precious golden boy sent ripples of resentment through my peers.

especially those of the female variety. I vented all this to Dan as he poured himself a bowl of cereal. No, Misha, I'm sure you're just exaggerating it in your head. I rolled my eyes. It wasn't that Dan didn't care. It was just that he was so optimistic, so willing to see the good in people that sometimes he had a hard time accepting

that the world could be, frankly, shit. High school sucked. My life back then sucked. If you hadn't been so busy chasing Candace Newbert, you'd have noticed. It was a low blow and I knew it. Dan took it with his trademark amused, shrug. It wasn't that bad. He paused and looked at me intently. Was it? I nodded my head. It really was, bro. Dan sat down and began to tuck into his cereal.

Well, okay, look, maybe going to the reunion will help you. I don't know, be at peace with it or whatever. I'm sure everyone's changed a lot in ten years. You gotta come, ma'am. I'll look like an idiot if I show up without my twin. You mean you think I might be able to put in a good word with Candace for you? Dan blushed, scratching the back of his neck. No, I, you guys are still friends, though, right?

We were. Candice had pretty much left me alone in high school, and when we'd found ourselves at the same college across the country after graduation, we'd struck up an unlikely, yet incredibly meaningful friendship. If Candace is going, I might consider it. Hey, you know who else might be there, Michael Blackcastle? Now it was my turn to blush. My long-standing teenage crush on Mike Black Castle had been an integral part of my formative years.

Dan had known about it, of course, and would tease me relentlessly for having the hots for the weird, distant, creepy kid who, I retorted, had the soul of a poet and the face of an angel. Yeah, I was a cliche as a teen. Mike had as much of a hard time as I did in high school, if not harder. He was into books and wore black and listened to shoe gaze. So of course he was a fag, a queer, a prospective school shooter. You name it, they throw it at Mike. He took it all in his usual, quiet, graceful manner. The insults, the chidings, the beatings.

Mike just took it and kept to himself. And then one day near the start of senior year, the bullying stopped as if it had never occurred in the first place. And now, Michael Blackcastle was the most successful of us. You totally still have the hots for him. I do not. Besides, he's like a celebrity now. Dude, you literally have all his books upstairs. Considering you brought next to nothing else back from New York, I know what this means.

but come to the reunion. Maybe you can finally hook up with them. Okay, maybe Dan wasn't entirely off the mark. But I loved Mike's books, too. We'd been friends in high school, in so much as two awkward, shy teens of different genders could be friends, and most of our conversations had revolved around our love of horror. While my adult life was simply a horror show,

my goals was one of literal. literary mastery and dark occult storytelling which had taken the world by storm. Five books, all New York Times bestsellers, a movie and a miniseries in the works, millions of followers on Twitter. The Michael Black Castle of 2015 was a very different person to the quiet kid I'd known in school. Flemoyant, outspoken, romantically linked with at least three different Hollywood actresses, seen dining out with Taylor Swift? Yeah, sure, Dan. I really had a chance with Mr. Celebrity Author. Say you'll come. I won't take no for an answer. Dude, it's like a month away. Let me think about it. Nope, I want a yes now or I'm kicking you out.

You wouldn't dare. Given the state of this place when I got here, you need me. Right, Mom. But seriously, come. Ugh, fine, fine, I said. I threw up my hands in exasperation, already regretting my agreement. Once I'd said yes, Dan would never, ever let me back out of it. He'd make my life hell. Haddonwell Hall, the site of our high school reunion, was about an hour outside of town. We drove in silence, Dan at the time.

the wheel, me tugging at my black skirt self-consciously, feeling very much like a fish out of water without my usual jeans and t-shirt. Crisp bronze leaves drifted from the trees, floating gently to the ground in the fall breeze. Kids and adults rushed back and forth, dressed in gaudy seasonal costumes, whooping and cheering as they made their way up garden paths, candy bags clutched tightly in their hands. It was October 31st, Halloween. The month had passed quickly, too quickly for me to really think about the reunion. Now, though, with the reality of the event upon me, I descended into a nervous funk.

Not for the first time in the last four weeks, anger at my ex-boyfriend Lyndon bubbled up inside me. If it wasn't for Lyndon, I wouldn't be here. If it wasn't for Lyndon, I wouldn't be crashing in Dan's guest room, working a part-time waitressing job in my old hometown, trying to avoid explaining to my parents why staying with Dan was slightly less embarrassing than having to move back in with them. If I hadn't come home one day, back in New York,

to catch Lyndon in bed with my friend Lorna, I'd still be there. I'd still be working my board. but reliable secretary job. I'd still be convincing myself that I had a life, that I wasn't just a failure. Now, driving to the familiar Haddenwell Hall to see people I hadn't spoken to in ten years,

to face their eyes of judgment and interrogative questions, it was hard to feel like anything but a screw-up. Dan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as we passed the sign that told us Haddenwell Hall, was another three miles. The suburbs had made way to countryside now. The fields golden and burnished by the setting sun. Haddon Woods lay on the horizon,

the vast grounds behind the hall where, every year as high school students, we'd been carted for the Bobby Lewis High School Halloween fair and dance. I'd hated those things. Hated them with a burning passion. So of course it was only, natural that the much maligned school reunion would involve my peers trying to rekindle the magic we'd felt back then. Mostly, I'd hated the Halloween events because I'm an introvert. I'd be expected to go,

put on a cheerful face to the people who hated me, and do a damn good job of convincing the teachers that I was having a wonderful time. I'd be expected to wear a costume, to make a spectacle of myself. And worst of all, I'd be expected to participate. The Halloween fair and dance had games and activities, and the teachers would make damn sure that their awards appreciated the hell out of them, given the alleged expense and effort that had gone into creating them. I somehow doubted the fair cost the school that much. There was a ghost train, which didn't even have a train in it,

where we'd walk through the woods as members of the staff dressed as fiends and monsters would yell and hoot at us, trying to elicit a response. There was a shooting gallery. Air rifles chained to a metal table, for which the prize was nothing more than a sense of accomplishment at hitting a target. There were stalls selling cakes, bric-a-brac, Halloween stuff, candy. There was a petting zoo, with three bored-looking rabbits and a guinea pig. There was a costume competition. And of course, there was apple bobbing.

Apple bobbing was the other reason I had such unpleasant memories of the Halloween fair. It was the one game I didn't mind participating in, and I was actually good at it. The best of my class, in fact. It didn't matter that some of the girls teased me for having buck teeth when I could bite an apple out of a barrel like a champ. For one glorious, wet minute, it didn't matter. As soon as my head hit the water and my lips felt the shiny green skin of a Granny Smith, I was lost in my own world. In freshman year, I managed to fish all six apples out in 50 seconds, a class record. In sophomore year, I didn't beat my own record, but nobody else did either.

In junior year, I was sick with the flu and missed the whole thing. In senior year, that's when apple bobbing was ruined forever. It was my turn at the barrel. Dan had just finished, ending up with a paltry too. Never deterred, he'd scoot it off with his buddies, hollering about how he was the best. This just left me standing there alone in the forest clearing with Mr. McKenzie, the gym teacher, and a group of kids who had yet to have their turn. That group of kids was the bane of my life.

Becky Rogers and her meathead boyfriend Steve Horviss, who liked to think he was Dan's pal just because they were on the team together. Then Melody Crother and Chantelle Watson, Becky's little lackeys. I hated the four of them, and they hated me. They were the primary source of my bullying, my ostracization, my misery. And worse, they, along with a couple other boys from the football team, were the ones who made Mike Blackcastle's life a misery too. Speaking of Mike, I looked around for him. I was kind of hoping he'd be around to see my apple-bobbing skills.

I could just about make him out, off through the trees, wandering near the entrance of the ghostwalk. Had I been a little more confident and a little less surrounded by my more, mortal enemies, I might have called him over. But alas, it was time to dunk my head in the water. I rolled up my sleeves, trying not to look at the leering faces of Becky, Steve, and co as I did so. I got something you can get your mouth round. No, you haven't. Of course you gotta have her apples. Rebecca, I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Mr. McKenzie wasn't amused. Sorry, sir. I ignored her and moved to the barrel, placing my arms behind my back.

Mr. McKenzie nodded for me to start. The coldness of the water hit me as soon as my face touched the surface. Air caught in my lungs. No time to pause. I felt an apple brush against my cheek. Quickly, I twisted my head, the apple moving to my mouth as if magnetically drawn. I bit in. sweet juice flowing over my tongue.

Swiftly, I withdrew, tossing the apple to one side with a flick of my neck. I repeated the feat once, twice, three times. Four apples done. The fifth proved more elusive, knocking against my teeth and bobbing downwards. After a couple of impotent bites, I finally got purchase and triumphantly threw the apple to one side. I'd been counting in my head. I was on 31 seconds with one more apple to go. This was incredible.

This was going to be a record breaker. And there, there bobbed the sixth apple, directly in the center of the water, perfectly positioned for a bite. I leaned down, submerging myself in the inky black water for a final time. My teeth closed on the apple. Too fast, too eager. I bit through the skin, sending the apple. skirting away from me down into the depths.

No, no, I wouldn't lose this. I wouldn't mess up my last chance to set a new record. Stay calm, Misha. Calm and collected. Unwilling to wait for the apple to float back up, I dove my head in deeper, as far as I could reach without toppling into the barrel. Water was splashing up and over the side,

soaking my top, but I didn't care. There it was. touching my lips. I almost had it. Everything was muffled. The sounds from around me receded into almost nothing, buffered by the water and wood between me and the outside world. I was drifting, floating at one with the barrel of water. The apple was an extension of my body. We would be united. I thought I could hear voices. Muffled. imperceptible voices from beside me. I told myself it was encouragement that my peers,

finally, were showing me some respect. I had to force myself not to laugh under the water. And as I twitched, holding in a chuckle, the apple planted itself straight between my lips, poised for me to chomp down on. I big carefully, my teeth dug into the flesh. I felt a hand on the back of my neck, another on my shoulders, two more hands gripping my wrists, yanking my arms back painfully. I struggled to rise up to proudly display the final apple, but I was being held there.

My mouth opened instinctively, and the apple drifted away. I tried to pull backwards. More hands were on me now, holding my head under. I tried to yell for help. Stupid mistake. Water flowed into my mouth, my nose, my lungs. My eyes flew open. There, in the depths of the barrel, I saw that perfect green apple.

With my arms restricted, I tried to use my legs to propel myself backwards, hoping to pull the barrel over with me. I'd get soaked, but I'd soak my antagonists in the process, and that small promise of victory was enough to give me. renewed strength. I felt the barrel rock, the friction from my chest, pressed painfully against the rim of the wood, just enough to make the receptacle move slightly. Then someone was behind me. Different hands grabbed my wrists. Rougher, bigger hands.

Steve. Steve. I assumed it was Steve anyway, pressed against me, pinning me from behind. Through the water, I could hear him making jeering, grunting sounds. I felt him bash against my ass once, twice, three times, and the high-pitched female voices hooding in amusement. I'd never thought about whether it was possible to cry underwater, but that day I found out it is.

Sobs erupted from me, forcing me to inhale even more of the liquid. My vision started going black. I was drowning. I was actually drowning. This was it. This was how I was going to die. Murdered by my bullies while I bobbed for apples on fucking Halloween. My chest hurt, the rough wooden rim of the barrel cutting into my breasts.

Steve was still bumping up against my behind. I didn't even dare to think of what a state I must have looked. Wet and struggling. Through the water, I could hear Steve's whooping. Suddenly, painfully, hands tangled in my hair and pulled my head up. I gasped in gulps of fresh, clean air, sputtering water, desperate to draw in the oxygen. Blissful air filled my lungs. But I was still pinned, still being manhandled.

I barely had time to recover my breath. before I was being pushed back into the barrel. This time, within seconds of breaking the surface, I felt Steve's rough hands gripping my waist. My feet slipped on the wet mud as I tried to kick out at him. He was lifting me, lifting me upwards and forwards. I tried not to scream, tried not to open my mouth, knowing this time I had to conserve my breath.

The hands, Beckys, I assumed, let go. of my hair. As she released me, I felt myself being propelled forwards, my legs being lifted higher and higher. The rim of the barrel scraped painfully against my chest, the sharp prickle of splinters digging into my skin. I felt my body shifting vertically, Steve's hands hoisting me. I felt my skirt fall down over my hips. Even in the cold water, I burned with shame and fury. I heard a girl laugh, loud. and shrill. Check out those granny panties. Real sexy.

I kicked my legs hard. I wasn't trying to get free. I knew I couldn't. I simply wanted to hurt someone. Anyone. How dare they? How dare they do this to me? How could they be so evil?

Whoa, steady on. Of course he's kicking. And then Steve released me. I fell, I fell, and I fell, and I fell, downward into the water like a jackknife. I braced myself for my face to hit the wood. Was my nose going to break? Would my teeth snap? Would I die here like this?

It felt like I was falling forever. Eventually, my cheekbrushed the bottom of the barrel. Nobody was holding me now. I could feel water lapping around my upper. turned thighs. I could feel the chill fall breeze on my exposed legs. My eyes flew open. I could see nothing save for the black, impenetrable darkness of the inside of the barrel. It was tiny. I knew it was tiny. And yet I had the vague sense of being in a cavernous underground antechamber, as if the darkness extended for miles in all directions. Is this it? I asked my mind. I asked my

You lose your sense of direction when you're dying, don't you? My eyes stung from being open underwater. I opened my mouth to yell, to scream, I don't know. Bubbles erupted from between my lips, floating away up my body, towards the surface. I felt myself falling. One second I was there, close to drowning, upside down in a barrel. And the next, the barrel was toppling. water gushing around me.

I slumped, hard against the side of the barrel as the water flowed away. My body pinned my right arm, the wooden sides pressing against my elbow so badly I thought it'd snap. Then I was being pulled, pulled by my ankles, my hips, my arms, until I was lying face first in the mud and the grass, and finally then did I start sobbing. deep, mournful sobs that racked my body. I knew Becky and Coe must be watching me, laughing. I didn't care. They'd nearly killed me.

I could feel grazes on my chest, my arms, my legs. Being allowed to cry was the least I deserved. Someone was sitting me up, gently, carefully. I raised my mud-splattered face, and looked around. Becky, Steve, and the others had gone. Through the water and ringing in my ears, I could hear a loud commotion outside of the clearing. But I didn't care about that. I cared about my rescuer, his soft hands on my arms, his face, full of concern, looking down into mine. I cared about the mud caking his shoes and smearing the bottom.

of his pants as he crouched to check on me. Michael Black Castle. Are you okay? I nodded as he gently guided me to my feet. Then, with his pale eyes on me, I shook my head and burst into tears again. We stood there in the clearing while I shivered and told him everything. Mr. McKenzie, why wasn't he there? Mike looked away.

Down to the side, he seemed worried. Uh, Dan, your brother, he and some of his friends were fooling around climbing the trees. Dan fell. They think he's broken his leg. Ambulance is on the way. He's fine, though. Seems fine. Everyone rushed over there when it happened. I guess you were underwater. Everyone, besides Becky and her dickhead boyfriend, You gotta tell someone they could have killed you. I was stretched, freezing.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to forget about it. And besides, I was worried about Dan. In the end, I told people I'd slipped while bobbing for apples and pulled the barrel onto myself. Shortly after that, Becky and Steve eloped together. It caused quite a scandal. the time. Rumors abound that Becky was pregnant with Steve's child, and they'd run off to Vegas

to get hitched, something that a series of letters home to their parents confirmed, Candice would tell me later. At the time, I didn't care. I was just glad they were gone. And with them gone, Melody and Chantel faded into the background, minions without a leader. Then we graduated. I got the Hell out of Dodge. And it wasn't until I met up with Candace again that I even thought about Becky or anyone else. It had been six months into our friendship when I told Candice the story. I'd been scared to. Becky and she had been friends, albeit not close ones, and I don't think I could have coped with Candice disbelieving me. Instead, she nodded sagely. Doesn't surprise me. Those guys were messed up in high school.

And now, ten years later, at the exact same place in which my near-drowning had occurred, I might be about to face them again. The fall weather was crisp, nice. We milled about outside, taking in the very accurate recreations of our high school Halloween fair. Dan greeted various former classmates with enthusiasm, and to my surprise, I found myself genuinely happy to see a few of them. them. It was strange how the passage of time affected things. I had been friends with some of them. I hadn't hated everything about high school. People remembered me. People smiled when they saw me. It was only the thought of Becky and Steve that tweaked the cold dagger of anxiety in my chest.

Candice came skipping up. We hadn't been together face to face in a year, and my happiness at seeing her overwhelmed any thoughts of my bullies, none of whom even seemed to be present at the reunion yet. Candice chirped, kissing me on both cheeks. I'm so glad you came. Well, if it isn't Dan the man. Good to see you again, pal. You're looking after your sis? Dan scuffled his shoes and mumbled something. Yeah, I was still watching out for him. Candice reached out and ruffled his hair. You still got that high school crush, huh? Dan shot me a look of betrayal. I held up my hands, laughing.

Oh, come on, Dan. I've known you had a thing for me since we were 16. She held up her hand, displaying a shiny engagement ring. Bit late now, though, I'm afraid. A couple of Candace's old friends passed by, and she turned to greet them. Dan grabbed my arm. You never told me Candace was engaged? So much for insisting you were over your crush.

Her fiancé's great, though. You'd love her. Maybe she's here. Dan's eyes widened, and he looked around. Maybe too eagerly. Candice turned back to us. Hey, babes. So is Jenna here then?

Candice shook her head, flicking her red hair away from her eyes. No, she's making me suffer through this alone. bitch. Yeah, well, you can blame Dan for my suffering. I didn't want to come. He dragged us along. I guess we can all blame Michael Blackcastle, really. Blame a Michael? Why? Is he here? Not only is he here, but he's the one who hosted this whole shindig, frowned all the money for it, everything. Took the reunion committee totally by surprise. Apparently it's doubling as a book launch part. He's inside. Locked away in a room filled with copies of his new book, so I'm told. A spike of excitement burrowed its way inside me.

Michael has a new book? I had no idea. And you, his number one fan. Careful. Last time you were here, you broke your leg. Don't make me force you to recreate that. Last time you were here, you poured an entire barrel of water over you. yourself, you massive cluts. Candice and I gave each other a look. I laughed, trying not to sound awkward. Christ, that was embarrassing.

You embarrassed? Never. A whirled around at the sound of the voice. There he was, in the flesh. Michael Black Castle. My heart gave an involuntary spasm. Ten years of distance had done nothing to quash the attraction I felt towards him. Seeing him stood there now, tall and imposing, a far cry from the quiet shy boy I'd known.

It made my head spin. His smooth, delicate jaw twitched into a smile. I tried not to moan in pleasure at the sight of his cheekbones. Doing my utmost to prevent myself from trembling, I was in the presence of my own. of my literary idol as well as my teenage crush, I presented my hand for him to shake. Michael smiled again and stepped forward, pulling me into a firm, deep hug.

When the embrace ended, he leaned back to look at me, his eyes traveling up and down my black dress. You look absolutely stunning, Misha. I flushed. I'm just grateful they didn't push for costume. I did try. What's Halloween without a little masquerade, after all? I'd heard Mike's adult voice in interviews, on TV and online, but in person it was even more seductive. Deep, low, like every word penetrated you and wormed its way deep inside, vibrating you to your core.

I felt myself getting a little flustered. Dan and Michael shook hands. We were just talking about the time that Misha dunked herself. I cringed. Like Candice, Mike knew the truth behind that incident. I hoped he didn't think Dan was being insensitive. Mike's smile was still fixed on his face, however. Well, I've made sure we have apple bobbing, just for you.

He looked at me. His eyes twinkled darkly. Try not to get too wet tonight, though. My mind whirled with conflict. On one hand, I wanted nothing more than to melt away at the obvious innuendo. On the other hand, Mike knew. Encouraging me to bob for apples felt cruel, spiteful. Cruel or spiteful?

No, it couldn't be that. He must have just assumed I was over it. Hell, I should be over it, I told myself. Or maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe he'd heard my false narrative so many times over that year that he'd started to actually believe it. We mingled for a little while longer. Candice Dan and myself made the rounds while I kept one eye on Mike, watching as he worked the crowd. He was so different to the boy I'd known.

and yet in his presence I still felt familiar, safe. I could still see the boy who'd held me that day, who'd made sure I was okay, who'd pleaded with me to tell a teacher what Becky and Steve had done. The sun finally set, and electric lights fizzled into life from the nearby trees. Orange, black, and gold paper lanterns adorned the branches. On the paths, rows of Jacqueline,

interns flared brightly. The crowd let out gasps, then applause rose up. In the center of the crowd, beside the drinks table, Mike tapped a fork against his glass of champagne. As some of you know, I have an ulterior motive for bringing you here tonight. I know, I know, I'm a shill. At this, a ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. Felt a spike of anger. So, many of these people had treated Mike poorly, and yet here they were, now he was famous, eating up his every word. Still, Mike seemed okay with it, so I figured I should force myself to be as well. Mike was talking about his new book, about how signed copies would be available after the festivities, preempting the novel Surprise Nationwide launch at midnight. I couldn't

help but feel a fan girl thrill at this. Some of my online friends were already crazy jealous that I'd gone to school with Michael. They'd lose it when they found out I'd been there front and center at the latest launch. Before that, we have a Bobby Lewis folk hero in our midst. He was gesturing at me. I looked over my shoulder, wondering who he was pointing to. Misha Landavall, come over here and take a bow. mesmerized by Mike's stare, I was unable to do anything but comply.

I walked to his side in a daze, my former classmate's eyes on me. I bowed self-consciously. What am I here for? He smiled at me, wide and gleaming in the lantern light. I'm told by the faculty that Misha here still holds the Halloween Apple-Bobbing record. You've all been having fun bobbing for apples like we used to as kids, but Misha hasn't had a go yet. So what say we give her a chance to break her record, huh?

A cheer went up from the crowd, far more enthusiastic than they'd ever been about my record at the time. Mike took my hand in his. His touch was electric. I was powerless to resist as he guided me through the, crowd and towards the clearing. Our classmates followed us, whispering excitedly. The old familiar clearing had been transformed. Twinkling fairy lights hung around the trees, glowing and pulsing in the night. Large lambs had been set up around the outside, pointing in towards a barrel which

sat central. Save for the throng of bodies squeezing in behind us, the rest of the clearing was empty. Mike led me beside the barrel. When he let go of my hand, I felt a pang of childish disappointment. I wanted to reach out and snatch it back. Instead, I gazed down into the barrel. Six Granny Smith apples floated there, bobbing on the obsidian surface. A wave of terror swelled up inside me as the reality of the situation hit. Why was Mike doing this? to me. Was new celebrity author Mike actually a sadist? Was he about to get a kick out of tormenting me? Unknown to almost everyone else present? I couldn't buy it. I couldn't. The Mike I knew donated vast sums of money to charity. He established initiatives to help kids in need. He signed

books for hours, sitting there as fan after fan handed over battered paperback copies of his best sellers. And in my dreams, he still thought about me. As if reading my mind, Mike leaned down and whispered in my ear. I've kept tabs on you, Misha. I see you promoting my work, talking about me online, supporting me. You were there for me when nobody else was. None of these posers hold a candle to you. I'm just sorry I got there too late that day. Sorry I couldn't stop them.

I wanted to make it up to you. I didn't understand, but the words sent a warm glow through my body. If Mike thought that letting me bob for apples, that helping me break my record,

was going to make it up to me, then whatever. Hell, maybe it would. Maybe reclaiming my sense of teenage pride would be a good thing. God knows I didn't have much else to be proud of right then. Wordlessly, I moved my hands behind my back. Everyone watched me. Candice and Dan stood to one side, wide smiles fixed on their faces. I stared into the barrel. Was it the same barrel? And watched, hypnotized, as the apples bobbed on the surface. I submerged my face in the water.

A bit an apple. I withdrew, tossing it aside. Every submersion was like a baptism, washing away the trauma, the anger. The apples were drawn to my mouth like they were meant for me. I was being cleansed. With every apple I collected, the crowd cheered. Finally, only one apple remained.

Mike's fingers brushed against the palms of my hands. His touch was soft, encouraging. I plunged my head in, too fast. The final apple spun away, drifting downwards into the depths. I didn't care. It didn't matter if I broke my record or not. I'd already achieved what Mike had in... I watched the apple go, eyes open and stinging against the cold water.

The apple drifted down and hit something, spinning away. Silt at the bottom of the barrel displaced. Something in the water cleared. My vision became less blurry. Slowly, slowly, pale shapes emerged from the darkness. They were deep below me, occupying a space that should have been Earth. Two figures, down in the darkness. staring up at me.

Their hair floated in halos around their heads. Their eyes were wide, staring at me. Their mouths open in silent screams. They were pressed together, cramped into a thin space in the darkness. At first, I thought they were dead. Then Becky, Steve's mouth began to move. I could just about read his lips. He was mouthing.

Becky stared up at me with pleading eyes. I held my breath. The final Granny Smith settled on the bottom of the barrel, yet still somehow high above Becky and Steve. I wondered for a second whether the bottom was glass, and they'd been somehow trapped down there so I would see. But if so, how were they alive? How were they breathing?

That's when I realized something else. I'd recognized them instantly as Steve and Becky because they looked exactly the same as the last time I'd seen them. They hadn't eloped, hadn't got married in Vegas, they hadn't left town, they hadn't even aged. But they hadn't died. Whatever had been done to them had left them trapped down there in the blackness, beneath the bottom of the barrel, never aging.

never dying. I stared down at them, and a look of recognition passed across Becky's face. Her expression transformed into one of pure pain and misery. Through the water, from somewhere deep below, I heard a muffled, persistent scream, as if a chasm had opened beneath them. They were dragged down and down and down, impossibly far, until their bodies were little more than dots. Far away, as they drifted down, the apple drifted up.

It bobbed towards me, straight into my mouth. The skin knocked against my teeth. Instinctively, I bit down, then quickly pulled out of the water. The crowd stood silent. Forty seconds, a new record. Everyone roared with joy. Mike leaned down and whispered something, masked by the sound of the crowd. I turned to Michael.

I was shaking from equal parts, excitements, and fear. Was that real? Did that happen? Michael gave me his most charming smile. I couldn't help but see a wolf-like expression in his face. He was driven, determined, intense, more so than I'd ever seen him before. It was as real as you or I.

All my childhood, I was tormented by people like them. People who had no place putting me down. You and I, Misha, we're special. We are different to them, better. And that day, when I found you in that barrel, I knew I had to prove it. So what? They're trapped in there?

I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't. One look in Michael's eyes told me I was wrong to disbelieve. It was true. Oh yes, trapped for as long as I will it. And what you saw, well, that wasn't their punishment. That was their respite. The things I can do to them, to anyone like them.

Well, Misha, this is just the beginning. I'm capable of so much more. I've done so much more. You couldn't even begin to imagine. Like you, too. I'd like you to know, to see. I'd like to get to know you again, Misha. The look passed from his face, and he was just Michael again, just that bullied kid I'd known in school.

But reflected in his eyes, I could see the tormented grimaces of Becky and Steve trapped down there in the dark. In his voice, I could hear the tortured screams. I could see black magic dancing there in his pitch-dark pupils, like Halloween lantern swaying in the trees. I knew two things in that moment. One, I was more in love with Michael Black Castle than ever. And two, I was deathly, terribly afraid of him. In our final Halloween tale, we visit a small town radio station doing a Halloween call-in show. As author Michael Whitehouse explains, when the callers are asked, to share their ghostly experiences, the hosts assume all the calls will come over the phone. Joining me for this tale are David Alt, Jessica McAvoy, Peter Lewis, Nicole Goodnight,

Jeff Clement, and Matthew Bradford. So if you ever ask people to share scary stories, always keep your ears listening for voices. You're listening to Windham Radio with your host Ed the Head Bridges. Or tonight, should that be dead Ed? That's right, folks. It's Halloween night when ghosts, ghouls, and atrocious fancy dress outfits come out to play. I'm joined, as always, by my recently appointed sidekick, Jimmy the mouth. Good evening. Sparkling banter there, as always, Jimmy, tonight as we take you from 8 p.m. through to the witching hour, we want to hear from you. Call in and tell us your terrifying tales, whether it was a bump in the night. a crazy stalker, or having to listen to Steve's breakfast show in the morning,

we want to hear all about your frightening experiences. The lines are now open, and to get you into the mood this Halloween night, here's Thriller by Michael Jackson. Okay, Ed, we're off the air. Bring me a coffee, would you, June? I'm your producer, Ed, not your servant. Yeah, but if you play your cards right... Don't make me puke.

You mind getting Ed a coffee, Tony? Uh, sure. I know I'm new to the show, but would it kill you guys to act like I'm actually here? Sorry, Jimmy, would you like a coffee? If you don't mind. Just milk, thanks. Make sure you don't mess up my order this time. And be sure to spit in it, Tony, if the mood takes you. We'll do.

You know I can still hear both of you in the booth, right? Oh, sorry, Ed. We'll switch off the booth, Mike, next time we discuss poisoning your food. Don't ever apologize to Ed, Tony. He'll never let you forget it. Don't be too hard on the kid, June. I like him. A seal of approval if I've ever heard one.

He's 36 and a seasoned audio engineer. I'd hardly call him a kid. Milk and three, Tony. Hop to it. No problem. By the way, there's some intermittent static on some of the caller lines. I'm not sure why. Seems to have cleared up for now, but we'll need to keep an eye on.

it. Yeah, I heard that on my headphones. What's causing it? It's probably a loose connection somewhere or a bad line into the station. I'll take another look when I get back with the coffees. Well, June, we're off the air for the next couple of minutes, and here we are alone at last. I'm still here, guys. You might as well be a piece of furniture, Jimmy. I resent that. And I resent the station manager thinking that I need a wingman. No offense, Jimmy. but before I came to this crummy little station in the middle of nowhere, I won three national radio awards, all on my own. Wasn't that like ten years ago?

They still count. How many of you got? Don't listen to him, Jimmy. He's just sore his career has gone down the crapper like the rest of us. Thanks, I think. So, June, what say you and me get a little late night drink after the show? This is going to be a long night. And so what you're saying, caller, is that something invisible ate your donut while you weren't looking? Your words, caller, not mine.

Come on, listeners. One more creepy story before the news at the top of the hour. Someone has to have something good, or I just might shoot myself on the air for the publicity. We can only hope. Or I can do it for you, Ed. I can see the headlines now. Aging Shock Jock shot by upcoming radio star. You'll need to get in line first, Jimmy.

You hear that, listeners? My own colleagues are plotting to murder me. June, tell me we've got something good. We have Kevin from Hensworth on line three. I've gotten on to who lives in Hensworth. Rivening stuff, Jimmy. Kevin, save me from this gang of morons, would you? Do you have a scary story, seeing as it's Halloween and all? I don't know if it's scary, but it's certainly strange. When you've seen June and Tony in the booth, you'll know I can handle strange. Oh, thanks, Ed. Tony. Go for it, Kevin. It happened a couple of years ago. One night I was walking my usual way home at stories that the landowner, Fred, lost his marbles a few years previous, and people

would see strange things going on there. You know, lots and stuff when there wasn't anybody around. But I don't believe in that kind of thing, so I used to walk by the old barn at night and it never bothered me, except for this one night. You see, it was dark. There aren't that many street lights on that stretch of road. The field was on my left and I had this drink. I had to stop for a second and look out at the barn. Heard what? I got to tell you.

Ordinarily, I'd have minded my own business, but the scream sounded like a kid. I couldn't just ignore it. What did you do? I climbed over what was left of an old wooden fence and took a closer look. Did you see anything? Who's the host here, June? Shut up, Ed. This is interesting.

Go on, Kevin. Uh, yeah, I saw some. The big old barn. The barn doors were almost closed, but there was just enough room for me to peek my head inside. I'll never forget it. What was it? It was real dark, but I heard the wooden beams creak above me. The barn had a second level, and I could see something moving around up there, like the shadows of two people.

They were fighting. One had a hold of the other one. I heard another scream. This time I knew it was coming from a young girl, so. So I opened the doors and ran inside to stop whoever was hurting her. But before I could get to the stairs, something fell from the top. It was the girl. Either she fell or...

She was pushed. Thrown, more like. I closed my eyes when she fell. There was no way I could catch her. I heard her cry out and then stop. He even felt the ground shake a little like a dull thud when she hit. But when I opened my eyes, there was no one around. No girl.

No one up top, neither. Just the sounds of the creaking barn. That's fascinating, Kevin. What do you think happened? Hurry it up, Kev. We've got a news break coming up. Well, I heard some talk afterward about why the landowner lost his marbles years previous. You see, his daughter went missing.

And do you think you saw what happened? Yeah, like an old tape recorder playing a back or some. You think someone covered up her death then? Worse. If I had to say who the other shape up top was, I would have to say it was her old man. I think he killed her. Okay, thanks, Kevin.

Before we get sued for accusing someone of murdering their own daughter and covering it up, we'll be right back with more of your creepy stories this Halloween night after the news. So call in and do your best to scare us. It's 11 p.m. and you're listening to Winderm Radio. Halloween night on Winderm Radio with Ed the Head Bridges.

We're off the air. I've never hosted a Halloween call-in before. This is fun. A bit like when I was a Boy Scout and we'd tell spooky stories around a campfire. Don't encourage them, Jimmy. These crackpots are there to be made fun of. That's what I'm here for. I'm still unsure what your purpose is.

Take it from a pro. You need to start offering a little more. Give me something to play off of. It's only my third show, Ed. I'm still learning, and besides, I think you'd be surprised how many people are out there listening. I mean, how many want to hear something creepy without us butting in with a joke every five seconds? I agree. It makes for good radio, I think.

I wonder if that guy really did see something, or if he was just drunk. I don't know. But Jimmy, keep at it. It's nice to have someone on our show who actually respects our listeners. I still can't figure out where this static is coming from. I didn't get to where I am by handling everyone with kid gloves. June, I made my name by mocking listeners, not cozying up to them. Jimmy, stick with me.

June might be the producer, but I've three national radio awards on my shelf. So you keep saying, isn't there an expiry date on them? No, they're forever, and I'll take them to my grave, so you best get used to it. Anyway, I have to say, I find all this paranormal stuff fascinating. I mean, what if it is real? I'm here to entertain, Tony. I don't care if it's real or not. What I do care about are good ratings.

Listeners want me to make fun of people. This crummy old station is on its last legs as it is. Enough of the listeners get bored, and we're all out of a job. Who's out of a job? Sandra? What are you doing here, baby? I'm here to protect poor Jimmy from your bad attitude by the sounds of it. You hear that, Jimmy? My own wife thinks I'm running you down. Seriously, you should be in bed, honey. Why'd you come down to the station? Has something happened? I, uh, well, can we talk in private?

Sorry, Sandra, we're about to go back on the air. Is there any chance it can wait? No, I... Look, this sounds crazy, but I was listening to the show and got a little freaked out. Oh, honey, don't worry about these idiots calling in. It's all a game. They're either looking for attention or members of the Tinfoil Hat Society. It's not the callers. It's two minutes until we're back on the air, Ed. Maybe I should wait. No, go on then. Tell me, you look real shook up. What happened? I was listening to your show and right in the middle of one of your calls, I heard something. Heard something? Like what?

A voice. Oh, you mean my sparkling instrument? Ed, please, this really scared me. It was probably just a bit of interference. We get that at the station from time to time. The equipment's old. Damn place is falling apart. God knows it's not like it was back in New York.

Nothing is. Ed, it wasn't a random voice. It sounded like my mother's. What? That's crazy. That old bag's been dead for seven years. I know she has, but it was her voice. I swear.

You're letting your imagination get the better of you. Don't let this sort of rubbish get into your head. I really don't have time for this nonsense. You could be a little more sensitive, Ed. Sandra seems genuinely upset. Mind your own business, kid. What did the voice say, Sandra, if you don't mind me asking? Tony, don't make things worse.

It's okay, Ed. Tony, the voice was garbled, like static or something, but I was sure I heard the word tonight in there. And then, my little girl, it was definitely her, my mom. She used to say that all the time to me. I used to look after her before I met Ed. It was tough going. That's an understatement.

Whenever she would bark in order at me, she often finished it off with a spiteful, my little girl. Could have just been the interference we've been getting on the lines tonight. We've had some intermittent static a couple of times. Maybe we should ask if Harold down at the front desk heard it too. He usually has his radio on when he's on duty. Harold wasn't at the reception desk when I came in. Oh, that lazy bastard.

Probably off sleeping in a closet somewhere. World's worst security guard. Insecurity guard. Ha, that's the spirit, Jimmy. You'll get there. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about Sandra. Sure, you maybe heard a voice. But it was probably coming from another station.

The frequencies in between. Sandra, I'm working, baby. It's Halloween. You were alone in the house at night, listening to a bunch of unhinged people talking about ghosts. Your mind's playing tricks on you. That's all it is. Why don't you go home, get some sleep, and I'll be back in a couple of hours. I don't want to be alone. I know it sounds nuts. You know what she was like.

She's dead. I'm not sure even that would stop her. Why don't you sit in the booth with June and Tony Sandra, if you like? It's no problem. Then Ed can take you home when the show's over. Jimmy. You're killing me. Don't tempt us, Ed. Sandra, we could do with the company.

It'll take our minds off of Ed's usual rubbish, and we can all see out Halloween together. All right. Honey, go sit with them. We'll talk later, okay? If I'm not going to be in the way. No, no, of course not. And please, get that idea out of your mind.

It wasn't your mother's voice. It's just like Tony said. Some interference. Okay. Just go through the, that door. It'll take you into the booth and you can watch through the glass. You're on, Ed. Back again with Dead Ed and Jimmy the mouth for tonight's ghoulish proceedings. Oh, nut job confessions. Yes, Jimmy. Finally, the penny drops. Halloween is

upon us and we want to hear your ghostly experiences. Who've we got up next June? We've got Daryl. Hi, Daryl. What's your story? Hi, Jimmy. I'm working night shift and was listening to the show, and it reminded me of something my grandpa told me years ago. I thought you might find it interesting. The station? Now you're talking. Go for it, Darrell. Grandpa used to listen to all the big radio shows when he was a kid,

some lights out, that sort of thing. Anyway, seeing as he lived in the local area all his life, he also listened to Windarm Radio. Though I think it had a different name back than the 1940. Is this going to be the Dale? Morgan's story by any chance? Yeah. You know about that then? Everyone at the station does. I don't.

The voice you just heard is that of my beautiful wife's. It's Bring Your Wife to Work Day, and I was the only idiot that showed up. Who is Dale Morgan, then? Daryl, please go on. Jimmy and Sandra don't know the story, and I'm sure most of our listeners are too young to remember. Okay. Dale Morgan was the station owner back in the day. He started Wind Arm Radio, built a...

it up to be a pretty big deal. The building you're broadcasting from, it was actually around even before then. Not sure what it was. I heard it was a publishers or printing press, something to do with book. I do know that Dale moved the radio station in there during the 30s. He managed to get a lot of big stars to come to the station for guest spots. Arch Obler, Ernest Chapel, Willis Cooper, people like that. So that explains all the old photographs lining the lobby downstairs, the station's Hall of Fame. I don't recognize the names, but I'm sure some of the people you mentioned must have been among them. So what was so scary about Dale Morgan?

Well, Dale had an auditorium built in the basement, an old theater so that comedians and singers, musicians, they could perform in front of a live audience. My grandpa said that gave the show a really great atmosphere. Anyway, at some point, Dale Morgan fell in love with a radio actress by the name of Gloria. He was up in his office listening to the radio history at the exact same time. That was when he realized... What did Dale Morgan do? I guess it was all too much for him.

Hearing her voice on the radio as she performed while he read her letter breaking it off, he took his revolver from his desk drawer, ran down the stairs to the base. where the theater was. The audience, Dale charged onto the stage and shot Gloria six times at point-blank range. That's terrible. Well, the worst part was the audience thought it was all part of the show. So did the listeners. I guess it wasn't long after Orson Wells did his War of the World's broadcast,

tricking audiences across the country into thinking there was an alien invasion. People were skeptical of radio shows for a while after that. And so Dale Morgan simply slipped off the stage and headed out of the theater to rapturous applause. I remember being told about that when I first started working here a couple of years ago. I don't think they ever caught Dale Morgan, did they? Well, that's the strangest part. There were rumors that he used his money and influence to charter a plane out of the country. Others believed that he just hitched a ride out of state out front of the station.

And no sign of him. That's quite a story. Is it really true? Yeah, it's true, as far as I know. Most people at the station get off on telling it to people when they first start here. No one told me. Well, Jimmy, now you're officially in the gang. Thanks for your call, Darrell.

We'll be right back after these messages. What the hell was that? There's definitely something failing in here. It's that interference again. It sounded like what I heard earlier when I heard my mom's voice. That wasn't your mom's. Sandra? She's dead and gone. And good riddance. We're off the air for the next few minutes in any case. Try to figure it out if you can, Tony, while we're on a break.

Damn, the board just went out. What? You're not going to be able to take calls until I get this fixed. I need my tools. I think I left them in Studio 3 down the corridor. Someone better get it sorted soon. Otherwise, listeners are going to be subjected to Jimmy's monotonous conversation. Tell you what, Ed, why don't you entertain the listeners on your room? rone after the break. I'll go with Tony to get his toolbox, stretch my legs. After all, you don't need me, right? Um, maybe you should stay. No, no, no, no, no, no. I'd only get in the way. Besides, it's getting pretty crowded in here with your ego. You really should stay, Jimmy. Don't let him get to you.

I'll keep Tony company. We'll be back in a minute. Tony. Sure, it's just out here. Windor radio. You're listening to Winderm Halloween Radio. And welcome back to Winderm Radio. It seems the station has some of its very own gremlins tonight, but as it's Halloween, I think we can accommodate them for a while. Our phone lines are currently down, and I've been temporarily abandoned by Jimmy, but the show must go on. Coming up next, we've got some...

Oh, he really is a piece of work. I needed a breather. Ed, you mean? Yeah, but his bark is worse than his bite. So where are these tools you need? Just down here. This station really is something else, not what I'm used to at all. It is always going on about that, about hating how old the place is. I don't mean it in a bad way.

The wood paneling, the flaking paint, it all adds to the atmosphere of the place. I bet the station was a grand sight back in the day. No doubt, all six floors would have been bustling. Was that story the caller told true about Dale Morgan? I'm not sure. I've never heard a recording of when he killed the Gloria. on the air, but plenty of people tell the story, and I know the station manager's office on the top floor is affectionately called Dales. What I do know is that everything else the caller said was

correct, even about the old theater in the basement. It's still there. Really? Yeah, it's seen better days, though. Most of the aisles and seats are filled with boxes now, as is the stage. It's just used for storage. The other rooms on the floor are where you'll find the archives, old shows dating back to the 30s. Oh, it's a real shame something like that isn't being used. Yeah, a bygone era, I guess. Well, don't be too quick to feel sorry for the place. You might be next. What? Well, rumor has it that the station might be going under. But I just got here. I know. It's nothing definite, but look at the place. I mean, we're cutting back on everything. When I started a few years ago, we had way more people working here.

Now, we use one studio most of the time, and most of the building lies empty. It's on its last legs. Did you hear that? Yeah, it sounded like something being dragged across the floor. Must be someone else on this floor. There's only us. Didn't Ed mention the security guard, Harold, at the front desk?

Yeah, maybe. Harold, is that you? The building is deathly quiet. at night. I wouldn't be surprised if it has rats running around. You're probably right. My toolbox is in here. It's around here somewhere. I'll just wait here. Uh, Tony? Yeah. There's someone walking around out here. There we go. Hopefully I can fix the board with this, unless it's the, uh... Is that footsteps? Yeah. Harold, if that's you, stop fool.

lean around, huh? Is it just me, or are they getting nearer? Sounds like they're just around the corner. They've stopped. Who is it? It has to be Harold. He's the only other one here. I think I can hear something.

What? Something just brushed past my arm. So, listeners. This is great radio, Ed. Shouldn't Tony and Jimmy be back by now? I'm sure they'll be back shortly. It's 1130, and we're slowly approaching the witching hour this Halloween night. Since we don't have any access to our phone lines, for now we should entertain our listeners with stories of our own.

Sandra, do you have any frightening tales to tell that I don't know about? Maybe. Excellent. You see, listeners, after six years of marriage, there are still new things we can learn about each other. So, Sandra, tell our listeners about your ghostly experiences. It feels weird talking about this on the radio. Oh, come on, honey. It's Halloween.

Get into the spirit of things. Don't let him force you if you don't want to, Sandra. Oh, lighten up. When else will you be on a radio show? Okay. Great. It was when I was a little girl. Dad had run out on us.

At least that was the story my mom had told me. It was just me and her, and we were living in an apartment in Brooklyn. Was it a creepy place? Not really. Not at first, at least. I don't mind admitting this to the world, but my mom was strict. Too strict, in fact. A real piece of work, more like.

Yes, Ed, she was, but she was still my mom. At first, the apartment was fine. I missed my dad, but mom kept telling me he was never coming back. Then that it was somehow my fault that he ran away. That's terrible. You were just a kid. Yeah, I was only nine years old at the time. Sandra, this all seems mighty personal.

If you don't want to talk about it on air. No, it's okay. I always try to be as frank about it as I can. My life got so much better when I finally cut her out of it. In some small way, I hope others might do the same if they're in an abusive relationship. That's very brave of you. Yes, it is. Now, the apartment? It wasn't a creepy place, but there was this one closet I dreaded. Like a lot of kids, dark places got to me. My mom knew it. As time went on, she persuaded herself that Dad had run out on us because I was. was a bad kid, and so she'd blame me for anything and everything. What's that? Just some static again. I'm sure Tony will fix it when he comes back. So, Mom blamed me for the slightest thing in the apartment.

At first, it was for me not cleaning my toys up, or making a mess, as kids often do, but then it got worse. She started blaming me for things I didn't do. What sort of things? She'd go into the kitchen and find sugar spilled across the worktop. magazines thrown around the living room, towels dragged out of the linen closet and placed around the apartment, but none of that had been me. I bet that old hag had done it. Mom, that's what I thought at first.

She would hit me, scream in my face, take my toys away from me, always finishing with the same twisted line of, then you'll learn, my little girl. But, and I can't say whether this was just wishful thinking on my part, somehow trying to avoid. blaming my mom, but I was certain it wasn't her either. Then who was it? Something that stayed in that closet. You heard it here first, listeners. My wife was being set up by the boogeyman.

Head! Don't be so insensitive. I think you hit the nail on the head, Sandra. You were looking to give your mom an excuse. The truth was, she was doing these things just so she had a reason to hurt you. Maybe, but... I had this growing fear of the closet in the hall. At night, I'd run past it to get to the bathroom.

Sometimes I'd just hold it in, so I didn't have to go near the closet until morning. Did you ever see anything? Sort of. Mom had been especially cruel to me the previous few days. It seemed to be getting worse. Things being moved around, me being beaten for it, I felt helpless. Then one night I woke up and I could hear something outside my door in the hallway, shuffling around. Like, someone too worried.

weak to lift their feet off the ground while walking. I'll never forget that sound, like bare, calloused feet being scraped along the floor. Then I heard my mom cry out. I thought she was hurt. It overwhelmed my fear and I flung the bedroom door open wanting to help her. There in the hallway, I saw something slam shut the closet door with a bang. And my mom came running out of her room enraged. I'd never quite seen her that bad. Apparently she'd kept some of the letter. that dad had sent her when they were first in love. She woke to find them pulled out of their hiding place and torn to pieces, sprinkled like rain all over her bed. Oh, Sandra. My mom grabbed my arm, shouting and screaming at me. She dragged me across the hall floor, and that's when a cold terror

washed over me. She wasn't just going to hit me like she had before. She was going to put me inside that closet, where that thing, which had no doubt torn up the ladder deliberately, was hiding. I screamed for her to let me go, that I didn't do it. But all she kept yelling was, you'll learn, my little girl. As we got close to the closet, I saw something sticking out from the side of the closed door. A crueble piece of once-yellowed cloth, and that thing had returned to the closet had caught part of its rags in the door. I started to cry, but my mom didn't care. She only felt I needed to be punished.

She threw open the door. Inside the closet the light was off, but I could feel like something was in there waiting for me. In a moment of complete fear, I jammed my heel against my mom's shin. She let go of me and yelped in pain. Riggling loose from her grip, I made it to the front door and headed out into the corridor outside of our apartment. And found a collection of neighbors standing in their pajamas and dressing gowns, all woken from the commotion. Did your mom come after you? Yeah.

with a big smile on her face, pretending to care for me in front of our neighbors. Thankfully, one of the neighbors suspected I was being mistreated and refused to let my mom take me back inside. I feel like I owe that woman my life. If she hadn't intervened, I'd have been thrown inside that closet with that thing. After that, I was put into a foster home by social services for a year. It wasn't great, but at least my mom couldn't touch me. By the time I was returned to her, she was living in a house. in a different place. At least I could be glad of that, that I didn't have to face what was in the

closet. That's quite a story, honey. Are you okay? Yeah. When I asked if you'd ever seen a ghost, I didn't realize I'd be getting... It's okay. Probably the stress which made you think you saw something. You can say that, and I don't blame anyone else if they think the same, but I know what I saw. You're listening to Winderm Radio. We'll be right back after these messages. Halloween night on Winderm Radio with Ed the Head Bridges. We're off the air again. You okay, Sandra? Yeah, it's just...

Who's that? I don't know. Maybe it's Jimmy and Tony. No, they'd just come in. Harold, is that you? Why won't they answer? Lock the door. Don't be so stupid.

Come in, will you? There's no one there. What? Oh, let me look. No, Ed. Stay away from the door. I can't see anyone. The lights are off out here. Get back inside, Ed. Hello?

Ah, there's no one here. I better see you. Oh, Jesus! Got you, Ed. Oh, the look on your face. Are we on a break? You're a pair of assholes. It was just a joke, Ed.

You scared me, too. Oh, sorry, Sandra. I thought you would enjoy us playing a prank on Ed for once. What's with the faces? You all need to lighten up. When you've quite finished, what took you so long? We thought we saw a herald skulking around somewhere. Yeah, and...

And... Yeah, it doesn't matter. Something happened, didn't it? We heard some footsteps, followed them. That was it. That was a little more... to it than that, but it must have just been Harold doing his rounds. Didn't you see him?

No, but it must have been him. You know what he's like. I'm still surprised the station manager hasn't canned him for drinking on the job. Don't be. He's a distant cousin of the owner. Ah, that explains it. Jimmy, you don't look so sure. It's nothing, honestly.

Let me take a look at this board now, see if I can fix the problem. Get the callers back on the show. Trick or treat on one. Winderm Radio. Welcome back, dear listeners. Midnight is fast approaching this Halloween night, and sitting alongside me once again is the ghoulish figure of Jimmy the mouth. Greetings, ghosts and goblins.

I have returned from the Netherworld to annoy Ed, Amali to his scrooge. Quite. Tony is now in the booth working his magic to get the phone lines back up, but in the meantime, Jimmy, we've been telling our own ghostly stories. Tell me, have you ever seen a ghost? Maybe. You look a little pale all of a sudden, Jimmy. Everything okay?

Something happened out there in the corridor, didn't it? It's probably just my imagination. Almost definitely, but do tell. While Tony and I were walking to Studio 3 so he could get some tools, we heard some footsteps. We thought it was our resident security guard, but whoever it was didn't respond to our shouts. Then, I swear to God, I felt as though someone brushed past me. pushing slightly on my arm. After that, I was pretty freaked out.

The footsteps wandered off and we tried to follow them, but when they got to the stairs, they headed back towards the lobby. So we assumed it was Harold with his headphones on again. Great, Jimmy. Broadcast to the world that our security guard Harold stumbles stumbles, wearing headphones,

listening to who knows what. That'll deter crackpot fans. You don't have that many fans, Ed. Is that the sound of my own wife laughing at me? Oh, you know I love you. Just as well. If I can break you two lovebirds up for a moment, Jimmy, do you really think something pushed by you in the hall?

Sure felt like it. Maybe it was in my mind all that Dale Morgan talk earlier, shooting his mistress and never being found. This old station is creepy enough without thinking something bad happened here. It's not the only time. Really? I wasn't here when the whole Stanley incident happened, but June, you were, weren't you? Yes, I was.

What's Tony talking about? It was seven or eight years ago. A couple years before you started here, Ed. No one in the station ever mentioned it to you? Not that I recall. I'm sure some of our long-term listeners will have read about it in the local papers, but I actually knew the guy. Well, if we're no nearer to getting the phone lines back, All right. Tony, I'm working on it.

Well, then, please do tell us what happened, as long as it's a spooky tale. It creeped me out, that's for sure. And I don't think the station staff at the time ever quite felt the same about the place after that. Ooh, this sounds juicy. It's more tragic than anything else. I was just an intern at the time. I was working in the advertising department. We had an advertising department?

The station was more successful back then. Advertiser fees were still pretty good. People were hopeful that radio was on the upswing at that point. Turned out it was a false dawn, at least for us. What with the advent of podcasts and streaming services, things continued to deteriorate. But I'm getting off topic. Anyway, things were good at the station for a while,

except for the occasional electrical issue. staff used to complain about issues with the electricity. It didn't affect broadcasts. It was never that bad. But on some of the floors, the lights would flicker. Powerpoints would play up. The air conditioning seemed to have a mind of its own. And no matter how many times the boss has called in an electrician,

they'd never find the cause. I swear, this place will burn to the ground one day if they don't fix the wiring. I've seen the lights flicker the last few weeks since I've been here from time to time. That sort of thing must be common in buildings this old. Maybe. But at this time, there was a lot of talk about the place being haunted. Rumors, idle chat, you know, the sort of thing. Doors opening and closing by themselves.

Footsteps. Some of the older staff said the trouble went back to the 1930s, with most of the strange goings, focused on the basement. Where the old theater is? Yeah. At that time, we had copy machines down. there and a stack of files and archived recordings. A lot of it is still there, in fact. But people give it a wide berth. At that time, a guy called Stanley was in charge of the archives. He'd make sure

everything was correctly stored. If the station needed any older recordings, he was the man to talk to. He was obsessed by the history of the place and had tracked down old vinyl and real-to-reel tape recordings of radio broadcasts going back to the 30s. All he could ever talk about was completing the collection and hoping that one day he'd stumble across old recordings thought lost. So he was a weirdo then. That's the phone lines back on, by the way. So, listeners, feel free to call in.

Great. And no, Stanley was not a weirdo. Maybe a little eccentric, but a lovely guy. well-meaning, always doing charity work around the town, in fact. That was what he was passionate about. A week didn't go by when he didn't have some new cause to fight for. Collecting donations to keep the old Windarm church going, a food drive for those hit hardest by the financial crash,

sponsored events to raise money for the needy. That was Stanley. Kind. Maybe a little too religious for some, but always thinking about other people. That's what made what happened such a shock. What happened? When the stories were doing the rounds about the basement,

people hearing footsteps, lights going on and off, and such, Stanley was staying down there in the old theater later than anyone else on weeknights, working on flyers and other promotional stuff for one of his causes. Whenever someone asked him if he'd ever seen or heard anything strange there, he'd go pale and avoid the topic. No one thought much of it at first. But we started to notice that he was becoming less and less involved with other people,

which wasn't like him. Withdrawn, giving one-word answers to anyone who attempted to talk to him. Then the mumbling started. Mumbling? Yeah, that's right. I remember hearing about that. It freaked people out as far as I remember. Stanley would walk around the building, dropping archived tapes off to those who needed them.

But as he did, he'd be whispering old hymns to himself. I heard him on more than one occasion just repeating a line from one I knew, abide by me. He'd just repeat that, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. Well, the station manager got wind of this and was worried about his state of mind. although I suspect the manager at the time was more worried about how well Stanley was looking after the archived tapes. The manager went down there and found Stanley asleep in one of the theater seats in front of the old stage. Turns out, he wasn't just staying late. He was living down there.

For how long, no one knew. When he was told he couldn't stay in the old theater outside of office hours, well, he freaked out. threw things around, yelled at his boss. I heard he even got violent. He was fired on the spot and the police had to take him away. One of his friends spoke to him after he was fired, and Stanley confided in her that he was hearing voices occasionally,

especially down in the theater at night, footsteps pacing the boards on the stage with no one to be seen. But instead of getting psychiatric help, he turned to scripture, and it seems he fell into some sort of manic episode. Another nutcase taken out of the radio game. Eh, it happens. It was worse than that, Ed, as far as I know.

Go on, Tony. The board's lighting up now. I'll screen some callers while you finish what happened. Besides, I don't think I have the stomach to go on. Sure. Well, as far as I know, one night there was a break-in at the station. The on-duty security guard was knocked out. When he came to, he called the cops.

They arrived and combed the building, but they didn't find anything. I mean, nothing. Was it Stanley who broke in? According to the security guard, yeah. Apparently, Stanley walked into the building in the middle of the night, straight up to the guard with a big old smile on his face. He got into a conversation about how he needed to go down to the basement and get something he'd forgotten when he was full.

fired. The guard told him no. Stanley grew mad and smashed him on the side of the head with something heavy he had in his pocket. When the cops reviewed the security footage, sure enough, they saw the entire thing. Stanley comes in, attacks the security guard, then heads down to the basement. But here's the creepy part. At least I thought it was creepy. When he got to the basement where the theater is, the security camera there just stopped working. The last image of Stanley was him standing, looking up at the camera and grinning. Why do I get the feeling they never found him? Oh, they found him all right. About three weeks later, the staff on the fourth floor started to notice a smell. I know one of the maintenance crew who looked into it. He removed a panel

in one of the offices where the smell seemed strongest. It was like rotting meat, rancid. He crawled inside and along the wall. A pipe ran along the cavity, and so he squeezed past it. There was barely any room to move in there. His eyes were stinging with the stench, and that's when he saw Stanley, his face peeking out from around the corner. Apparently, the maintenance guy knew that Stanley was dead.

immediately. His forehead was a purple color and his eyes had swelled with a sort of yellowish pus dripping from them. The maintenance guy said he'd never forget it. When the paramedics and fire brigade got Stanley out of there, they reckoned he'd been hiding in the walls and got stuck. He'd been there for days, caught between two pipes at the corner. The staff on the fourth floor couldn't understand why he didn't just call for help. It would have taken him days to die. They would have heard him if he'd yelled during the day, but he didn't make a sound. That's crazy. The craziest thing was after his death. A local newspaper reported that they found old reel-to-reel tape, the type the station used decades ago to record shows stuffed in his mouth.

supposedly the autopsy revealed that he had a hundred feet of the stuff in his bloated stomach what would possess a guy to do something like that stanley must have been in a manic state he hid inside the walls carrying several reel-to-reel tapes and then when he got stuck well he consumed as much of it as he could i just had an interesting thought go on sherlock Well, what if Stanley was trying to hide something on the tapes, something he didn't want people to hear? Well, I don't really know what to make of that story. But June's tap in the glass, so that must mean we have a caller. We have Tom from Winderm itself. He says he has some interesting information about the history of the station. I'm not so sure we should keep talking about the station. Maybe we should move on to another caller.

Hello, Tom from Winderm itself. Good evening, Ed. Tom, you listen to the show much? As a fan, do me a favor. Don't be adding to my wife's delusions this evening. I'd like to be able to go home after this and get some sleep. And what's that, Tom? A message. A message? From whom?

Okay, buddy. What's the punchline? Do you want to... Might as well, Tom. Oh, very nice, Tom. Thanks for the dramatics. Cut him off, Ed. Anything else you like to add, Tom?

They said that you're all going to die. tonight. Yeah, I got that part. What exactly did they say? This guy sounds like a record, a broken one. We're coming for you. Tell them all. Do you look for we spoke and they heard us? Stop! If you think you're going to frighten me, you need to do better than that, Tom. Who, who are you then? The guy that died in the walls? What's left of him? This is nonsense. It's a crank collar.

Edward. I'm trying to cut them off. Why isn't my board working? Why can't I cut this call off? Ed, the power to the board is out. We aren't broadcasting anymore. That's not possible. Cut them off.

June! I can't. There's no one on the line. That was a joke, right? Tony, did you put all this together? It's not me. It doesn't make any sense. The power to the booth is gone, except for the lights.

We shouldn't have been receiving anything. Nothing should be coming from those speakers. There's something in this station. Can't you feel it? Calm down, Sandra. There must be a reasonable explanation. Maybe there is someone else in the station. We heard their footsteps earlier moving around.

It could be one of the staff. Maybe they hit a speaker somewhere in here and they're just playing a joke on us. You know, a Halloween trick. find out who? I'm going to kick their ass. No, this isn't a hoax. The board's completely dead, and yet voices were coming through the monitors. It's not possible. It's, it's something else. Like what? Ghosts? I'm not saying that. All I know is that what we heard shouldn't have been possible. I want to get out of here. What was that? Sounded like a window being broken. Where the hell is Harold when you need them?

Maybe Sandra is right. We should leave. All of us. If it's not Harold out there, then there is someone walking around who shouldn't be. What about the show? To hell with the show. There is something on this floor, and I don't want to wait around to find out what it is. I'm not leaving this booth until we finish the show. I changed my mind. Let's get out of here. I can't get a signal on my phone. Anyone else? Me neither. It's getting close.

Okay, we get out this door, turn right, straight down the stairs. We'll reach the lobby, and then we can get out the front door. Agreed. As producer, I'm canceling tonight's show. Open the door, Jimmy, before those footsteps find us. You see anything? No. Some of the lights are out.

Wait, remember what you said earlier, June, about what happened to Stanley? Didn't flickering lights and footsteps come before it? It's just a story. It's got to be. Hold on. I... Yeah, I've... Got my flashlight. Let's get out of here.

Everyone be as quiet as you can. Head down here to the stairs. When I get out of here, I'm going to burn this place to the ground. It's coming from behind us. Can you see it? I'm not sure I want to. Let's just get to the staircase and down to the ground floor. Wait, I see something. There's someone walking towards us.

What's that rustling sound? I see him. Hey, asshole! There are five of us and one of you! Why won't he answer? What's that noise? He's... he's covered in something. My God, it's old reel-to-reel tape. Stanley!

It can't be! Why's he stopped? This has to be a joke. It has to be... Stanley? What's left of him? What do you want? Run. Get to the stairs.

We're nearly at the stairs. Keep going. Left here. We're at the staircase. Let's get downstairs and get the fuck out of here. Wait. Up above, there's someone coming down the stairs. He's going to throw that girl.

Don't! Down the stairs. To the lobby. But the girl, you can't help her now. Nearly at the lobby. We're on the ground floor. Through the doors, just around this corner, and... Harold?

Oh, Thank God. There's all kinds of crazy shit happening in the station. Call the cops and meet us outside. Harold? Why isn't he responding? He's just standing there. Harold, turn around so we can see you, will you? Out of the way, Harold. Into his face.

We can't get past him. What do we do? Oh, why. Stanley's coming down the stairs. Stay away, Harold. Don't come any closer. The only way is down. The basement. Come on. Grab those boxes.

Help me barricade this door. Yeah, pilots on top. Ledge the handle with this. There, nothing's getting in here. And we are not getting out. Stanley's at the door. He can't get in. Up the stairs.

Okay, is this some sort of weird initiation into the station? This cannot be real. That cannot have been Stanley. It was. Or, as he said, what was left of him, I'd remember his voice anywhere, and he was repeating that same hymn he used to before he died. Tony, what are you doing? Look, over here.

What is it? It looks like writing burned into the wall. We were listening for so long. We followed your voice. We spoke, and they heard us. What does it mean? Wait a minute. Wait a minute.

Hold on. I know this sounds crazy, but did anyone notice that everyone we've encountered tonight was mentioned on the radio show? Now's not that time for this sort of... Listen to him, Ed. June, you told the story about Stanley. So did you, Tony. And we encounter him on the phone. We ask him if he's Stanley and he says what's left of him.

Then we see him in the hallway outside the studio, covered in clumps of reel-to-reel recording tape, just like how you described. Tony. Yeah, but I don't get what this has... The first caller we had told a story about witnessing a young girl's murder. He saw two apparitions, a man and a young girl. The man threw the young girl to her death. We just saw the same thing above us on the staircase. Exactly. Several times tonight we've heard these things say we followed your voice. Now, etched into this wall, we were listening for so long. But who was listening? Who or what I don't know, but everything we've experienced so far was

mentioned on the radio show before we encountered it. And what about poor Harold at the front desk? Poor Harold? You always said he was an idiot. Yeah, but his face was torn to pieces. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Good to see you're developing a conscience. Don't you see?

We mentioned Harold several times tonight while we were in the booth. Maybe that somehow involved him. Maybe everything we've said has been manifested. This is crazy. What about the footsteps we heard earlier? And what rushed past you in the corridor when we went looking for my toolbox? Who knows? Maybe it was the start of it, whatever it is. It started off weak and got stronger as we kept talking about ghosts and terrible events,

on Halloween of all nights. Or maybe it was Dale Morgan, the station owner, who shot his mistress live on the stage in the 1930s. I don't know. Oh, God, no. Honey, I don't know what Jimmy's been smoking, but we did not bring these things about. It's either a prank or I don't know what. No, you don't understand, Ed. Every horrible story we've told tonight has been brought to the fore by something rotten in this building.

Something that's been listening to every word we've said. We've seen Stanley, poor Harold, the young girl being thrown, but we haven't seen my mother. And I told that story tonight on the radio. My voice going out on the antenna to God knows what. This isn't real, Sandra. Do you hear? It isn't real. Now get a hold of yourself. How long did you say this station has been broadcasting? Nearly 90 years, I think.

That's a long time to be broadcasting. All those voices, all those stories, all those words. Didn't want to the callers say that the place was a publishing house even before that? That's right, yeah. I'd never heard that before. Maybe all of it together left something behind. A trace, like when Stanley said he was what was left of him. A voice, a shadow. Footsteps. Somehow, they've come together tonight. Disembodied at first and now very real. None of this Yuri Geller bullshit is helping us get the hell out of here. June, you've been here the longest. Any other way out of the building? Yes. There's a fire escape on the other side of the basement. There should be a set of stairs leading up to the street outside. Let's move. Lead the way.

We're going to have to go into the theater. I can deal with that as long. as we get the hell out of here. Sandra, hold my hand, honey. I'm getting you home if it kills me. Lead the way, June. Okay, let's move quickly, but be as quiet as possible. There's a lot of junk down here. Can hardly see where I'm going.

Like I said before, we only use the basement for storage and the archives. Which way now? Left or right? Left. Are you sure? Yeah. The lights are flickering. It moving. Faster. The lights are out. I can't see.

Tony, your flashlight. Yeah, got it. Oh, thank God you grabbed it back at the studio. Otherwise, we'd be stumbling around here in the dark with who knows what waiting. Okay, Tony. Light up ahead so I can see where we're going. We're not far from the theater. On the other side of it is the fire escape.

Along here. Wait. What? What is it? The door to the old ticket office is open. Shouldn't it be? We keep all of our oldest recordings in there. The station manager usually has it all locked up,

but the door is lying open. Isn't there another way? No, we have to go past it. Let's edge along the opposite wall then. Keep our distance, one at a time. I'll go first. I am the producer, after all. June.

Don't get all sentimental now, Ed. I'll just shimmy along the wall facing the door. Who's next? I'll go. Be careful, Tony. I couldn't see anything in there. Just an old desk and some cabinets. I guess I'm up.

Here goes. Did you guys hear that? There's something in the room. Help! It's got me! Help! Jimmy! It's dragged him inside the room.

I can't get the door open. It's no good, Ed. Something's jammed the door. We can't leave him. We have to. But he's my partner. The best thing we can do is get out of here and get him help. Let's move.

I'm sorry, Jimmy. We'll come back. I promise. We're nearly at the theater. Come on. What the fuck was that thing that grabbed him? I've never seen anything like that before. I have.

I was nine. What? The thing in the closet? I wish I'd never told that story now. I don't think any of us are getting out of here alive. Honey, I'm getting you out of here. Don't worry about that. Nearly there, June?

Yes, through this door. This is the theater? Yeah. Although, it's usually filled with junk. Where have all the files gone? Someone's cleaned the place up. It looks like the theater is ready for a performance. Where's the fire escape, June?

Move your flashlight over to the right. Yeah? Yeah, that's the door there on the other side. Let's go. Keep hold of my hands, Sandra. Don't let go. I have this horrible feeling that we're being watched. Oh, no. That isn't us. It sounds like the footsteps Jimmy and I heard earlier. I think there's someone on the stage. Tony, move your flashlight.

I see him. He's dressed in an old suit, covered in cobwebs in dust by the look of it. Why isn't he moving? He's just staring at us. We're almost at the fire escape. Keep going. Ignore him. His eyes seem so cold. His skin is so pale. Don't look at him. Nearly there. Just a few more feet. What was that? The theater chairs, look. It's as if people are sitting down in them.

But there's nobody here. Every seat is down. What are they waiting for? A show, by the looks of it. Tony, keep your light on the fire escape. June, something's got her. I can't see it. June! Help me! Come back.

Come back. Tony, no! Come back! Anything! Me neither. Do you have your phone on you? Maybe we can use the light. Yeah, yeah. Hold on.

There. Oh, it's not very bright. Remind me to get a new phone when I renew my contract. Point it at the floor so I can see where I'm going. We're nearly there. There's the door. Just a few more steps. Something grabbed my phone and smashed it on the floor. Hold on to me, Sandra. Don't let go.

I won't. I love you, Ed. I love you too, honey. How sweet. I've got you now, my little girl. Mother? No. Ed, stop here, please. I can't see. Let go of her. Sandra, honey? No. I can't see a thing.

Keep moving. Keep moving. Got to keep moving. Oh, my leg. I can't walk. Who's there? What do you want from me? My name is Dale Morgan, Ed.

I can't see you. You needn't see me. You need only hear me. We certainly heard you. But you left. You ran away somewhere and lived out your days. Part of me may have, but this part remains. What?

What do you want? We followed your voice. Now we will add it to our own. Get your hands off me. Go! No! Windham Radio Station was found empty without a single trace of its shock jock Ed Bridges or his production staff. Some believe this to be an elaborate Halloween scam, but this reporter remains perplexed by these events.

It has now been several weeks, and the local police seemed to be at an impasse. Rumors had been circulating that the radio station was due to be closed, but in the aftermath of this peculiar mystery, listening figures have been significantly higher. So much so that the station recently issued a press, release, stating that it will continue to broadcast for the foreseeable future. The station manager was quoted as saying, if those missing are never found, their families and friends can rest assured that their legacies will live on through their voices and recordings, which we will cherish in our archives and which will continue to affect our

listeners out there forever. You're listening to Windham Radio with your host, Ed the Head Bridges. Or tonight, should that be dead Ed? That's right, folks. It's Halloween nights when ghosts, ghouls, and god-awful fancy dress outfits come out to play. Come out to play. Come out to play.

And so, another episode has drawn to a close, and our nightmares dissolve into the ether. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our Season Pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all

for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our dark tales will envelop you in a nightmarish, swirling fog. This audio production is copyright

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