The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Hiatus Horror #2

Episode Date: April 3, 2016

We're in-between Season 6 and 7 so to tide you over during the hiatus we're presenting a story from Season 5: As Helen Remembered It by Marcus Damanda. "As Helen Remembered It" written by Marcus Damanda and read by Jessica McEvoy & Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin & Jeff Clement. Click here to pre-order Season Pass 7  Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio  Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin  Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings. Audio program ©2016 - 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

This is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories, you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment. You do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. Well, we're currently in between season six and seven.

taking a bit of a hiatus from horror at the moment. But that doesn't mean our devoted listeners have to go hungry for horror during our hiatus. So to tide you over until the premiere of Season 7 on April 10th, we'll be presenting one story each weekend of the hiatus. These stories were originally presented during season 5. On hiatus horror number two, we gain access to the archives of the FBI,

where a series of old diaries are being entered into storage. As author Marcus Demanda writes, the archivist decides to break the rules and record the events described in the diaries, and we get to listen in on what secrets they hold. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Mike Delgado, Nicole Doolin, and Jeff Clement. So let's meet the woman who wrote the diaries

in question and the events she recollects, well at least the events as Helen remembered it. My working name is JSW, tag number 648. At least that's what I put on the boxes. Officially, in my professional capacity, I don't exist. It's an odd job working the vault at the Quantico offices of the FBI. It requires the standard non-disclosure agreement and a pretty high level of clearance for a postgraduate intern like me. I'm a glorified photocopier, for the most part, and I spend my Saturday and Sunday nights alone in the small back office, immortalizing documents with a palm screener, then locking the discs away and forgetting about them. The primary source documents are then stored in steel, temperature-controlled lockbox shelves, filed by item number and date of addition.

Quite a lot of them are old and relate back to crime so cold that no one even remembers them, much less does any work on them. Sometimes the stuff I photocopy isn't in English. The thing I photocopy today, though, The only thing, which is strange for a Saturday, will be very, very difficult to forget. I don't think I will forget it. I don't think I can, and that's strange too. I'm very good at forgetting things.

My boss indicated the box and said, Just the ramblings of a long-dead crazy woman. Wouldn't even bother you with it. if we had something real to archive tonight. Feel free to cut out early when you're done. The label on the box reads, Item, diary, three volumes, red leather and unlined paper. Dated June 11, 1912 to June 11, 1972,

handwritten in black and red ink. Delivered to the Quantico offices of the FBI, April 12, 2015 by Maribel and George Jameson. Discovered among other books in a packing box in the attic of their home, 895 Wayne Wright Lane, Roanoke, Virginia. Relocated to Special Investigative Securities April 14, 2015. Original preserved, officially, quote, lost in the transfer. contributing parties compensated out of the auxiliary security trust fund, non-disclosure settlement reached with contributors.

All selections are to be photocopied, relevant sections electronically bookmarked. There's something wrong about this job. And now that I photocopied the relevant sections of the old diary before filing it away to be swallowed by time, I'm going to do something that can be only described as rash. I have no idea how old this vault is, but if it's any indication, there are computer disks on wooden racks here that are the size of vinyl records. There are actual Betamax videotapes, films on projector wheels,

and even an old reel-to-reel cassette recorder next to a bag full of unlabeled blank tapes. I took one apart just to be sure there wasn't enough metal inside them to set off alarms on my way out because tonight I'm going to record Helen's words and I'm going to smuggle them out of here I don't know why I don't know what I intend to do with them it's it's just crazy but it also seems right so here goes nothing June 11, 1912. I'm 15 years. Even as I record this milestone in my very first diary,

my pen hovers reluctantly over the beautiful cream-colored paper. I can smell the lamp oil as I write these first words by my open window, the fresh nighttime air lit by fireflies. It's so permanent, putting the words down. I cannot undo them, and so I tell myself I must be careful with my penmanship, and I must not lie. Let nothing ever come from me but the simple truth. For the most part, it has been a very agreeable birthday, and I am very happy. Luke Bridgewater was there, just in from law college and dressed as though it were Sunday, and he'd come straight over from church.

He was a perfect gentleman, as he always is. He brought me flowers as usual, and presented me with a most gaudy little music box, which I believe I'll leave closed, except for when he's around. Father let him kiss my hand, which was both awkward and sweet. Father would see me marry him in two years,

and I suppose I must. Only four years separate us. Those years won't matter so much when I'm older. At least, so says mother. I must trust her in this, as I do not yet believe it myself. But I received this special gift, this diary, from my special friend Alistair. He does odd jobs for my father and walks me home

when I'm done assisting Mrs. Traynor in the afternoons. Alasdair's fiction up that old schoolhouse He's very handy And very clever at finding work Wherever I happen to be When I confided in him last week That I felt the need for a diary He'd said nothing at all

He'd only smiled In that soft, sneaky way of his Got a touch of the devil that one Mother often says But I swear I think she's half taken with him herself. He comes from no one and nowhere. Just a boy off the trains, only three months older than me.

His parents and kin are dead. He will not say from what. And so he comes to us as a pair of trained hands, ready for a man's work. People do love him, though. He's so charming, with never a bad or false word for any one. one, not even for Luke, although I suspect they hate each other.

Father tolerates him. I still wonder that today, he even allowed Alastair into the house. It was a bold move giving me this thing. I've never had one before. Father certainly never would have given me a diary, although he has not specifically forbidden me from possessing one. Most days, it's all I can do to convince him to let me help teaching reading and writing to the little ones at school. But, like child rearing anyway, he always says in the end.

Someone's got to do it, I guess. In a community of farmers and farm hands, he's right. Someone does. But I have heard that teaching assistants, mostly up north, received. wages or even college credit. I also read, once I could secure the paper from Father, that the suffragettes marched on New York City last month. So exciting. Anyway, Alistair presented me with the diary right in front of Father and Luke. He was wearing his work clothes. He wouldn't be staying for cake with so much work that still needed doing, especially in the hayloft,

and drew it out from underneath his hat, which he took off with a flourish, like one of those wandering gypsies that fred about. When he placed it in my hands, our fingers crossed, and I could feel almost as much heat coming from Father as I could from Alastair. The tension was unbearable,

so I focused my eyes on the gift, this diary, with its hard leather cover and its lock and tiny steel key. Thank you, Alistair. He smiled at me. From the corner of my eye, I could see Luke studying the music box he had given me, which was on the cake table with my other gifts. I could see him frowning, but he said nothing, and Alistair gave no indication he even realized Luke was there.

Later, there was yelling from the hayloft. I heard it all the way from my bedroom. I could not make out the words, although I suspect many of them were quite foul, and I never heard Alistair at all. I can only picture him standing in silence, as my father soundly scolded him for daring to touch me, even just my fingers, in front of Luke. Father will never learn where I keep this diary.

No one will. Wednesday, June 12, 1912. Usually, the worst storms begin with only a little rain. How could I have known what today would be like when I got up this morning? The little rain is a metaphor, of course, which I now employ because I know Father disapproves of speaking in metaphors. Be direct. Say what you mean. Don't put on airs. Putting on airs is figurative language. Father, don't you know?

Oh my, what I would give to say that to him right now. I left the schoolhouse at the usual time, expecting nothing more than my usual day, my usual company. Alastair wasn't at the school today to walk me home, but Luke was, how was I to have prepared for the calamity that came later? I could not have known. I could not have prepared myself for it. He arrived just as classes ended. I saw him as I was coming down the porch steps,

saying my normal goodbyes and ruffling as many heads of hair as put themselves within range. More than half the little boys have an incurable crush on me, they must be said, modesty aside. And they receive whatever attention there is to be had, like little dogs. I do enjoy being appreciated. "'Where's how?' "'One of them asked.

"'And it was only then I'd realized "'my accustomed escort had been replaced, "'if only for a day.' "'Luc answered. "'Still finishing up at Miss Jamison's last I checked. "'Father still got hay that needs bailing. "'Father. "'He's not your father yet, Luke Bridgewater,

"'I thought. "'He held his hand out to me the second time in two days. I knew, or suspected, that I was supposed to take it. Father had permitted this only yesterday, along with the kiss, and so I did. It is not in me to be disobedient, wherever my innermost thoughts may run, nor to show discurtesy to a gentleman. I did not think so at the time, anyway. I thought of coming on my horse so we could ride together. Good thing you didn't.

I'm not exactly dressed for riding. I was instantly appalled by the rudeness of my comment, honestly spoken though it had been. I'm sorry, I started. He chuckled. No, you're right. I'm glad I remembered in time. Silence.

I'm trying. You do know that. Yes, you've been nothing other than kind to me ever since we've known each other. I reminded myself, it could hardly be considered his fault that he was older than me. It's just, I do not love you, I thought to myself. Not another word was spoken until I was delivered safely, as ever, to my own doorstep. I'll be going back to school tomorrow, first train back to Boston in the morning. I may not see you again until Christmas. I did not know what I was supposed to say, but I turned to face him before he left.

I stood at my door, wondering what words would emerge from my addled brain. Be safe, Luke Bridgewater. He tipped his hat. I will. You do the same, Miss Jameson. And he left. That was the little rain. The storm came later.

I thought I could write about it, but I cannot. Not in any detail. Poor Alistair. I thought father would kill him. I was sure of it. I cannot even write the words to describe it. It was terrible. Hmm.

There's a break in the diary here. It's a gap of empty space. It seems to indicate the passage of time. Handwriting looks like it's from the same hand, but as it resumes, Miss Jameson's flawless red ink cursive. It's replaced by lines hastily scrawled in black ink. He's there.

I see him. He's holding a lantern. Becane. to me. Just outside my window, on the road, I must go to him. If father discovers him before I do, I cannot bear to think of it. There is no time, no rational thought. I have to get him away from here. Again, more blank space, another lapse in time. The account resumes, now in manuscript form, yet almost illegible. It cannot be.

I will not accept it. I have not seen what I have seen. I have not done what I have done. I will hide it away. If it is true, after all, it shall be as though I discover it at the same time as everyone else. I will make it so, if only in my mind. I wish I were dead.

Now, Miss Jameson's red ink cursive resumes after two blank pages and the passage of a full year. The first two entries were torn out, but not destroyed, and they were probably slid back into the diary long after the writing resumed. The passages immediately subsequent to the first two are irrelevant and mostly chronicle her courtship with her eventual husband. It isn't until the first pages of the second volume of identical make and craftsmanship that Miss Jameson seems to reflect back on the night of June 12, 1912. At the time of this writing, she's married, and the mother of twin daughters, and living in New York City. Monday, May 17th, 1920. Fancy finding this at the local Woolworth's Forest.

Five and ten cents store. It seems a perfect match to the previous book, too often neglected with the demands of daily life. And it so often seems a waste of time, writing for an audience that does not exist. What would I do if these words should ever be discovered? It is an indulgence, fraught with foolishness and peril. But those are the thoughts that belong to Father.

I owe them to him. Today, I find myself with time for such indulgences, and for such perils. It remains nothing short of a miracle that I still have my first diary, mostly intact. But I never looked back on entries previously composed. The worth is not in the preservation of thoughts and events, I suppose, but in the calming effect of putting them down. Maybe not. I should not believe the truth of memories I see only in my dreams, if not for the first entries I had written.

Rereating them now, I know that I have buried something of my essential self and denied myself the truth I had promised when I began these writings. What gain is to be had by remembering such things? Nothing, Father would say. And so I shall record them in full, and to not apologize. Nothing in my memories suggests I was at fault for any of it.

I shall be like the suffragettes and claim my life as they have done. But I shall not wait. I shall do this now. This is what happened. I must hear a call that I did, in fact, hear the exact words that father unleashed upon Alastair after giving me the diary and taking my hand. they are not pleasant to bring to mind, nor to put them upon the page.

Leaning out the window, I listened for Alastair's voice, speaking in defense of his honor, but I did not hear him at all. From father, there was more, much, much more, until I could do not but retreat to my bed and rubbed the pillow and sheets about my ears. Alistair. How I wanted to console him. To apologize from my father's awful words. Alistair, without parents of his own.

How disappointed I had been when it had been Luke, who had come to collect me the next day. How relieved I had been to reach my home to be rid of him so that I could inquire after Alastair's well-being. By then, Alistair was stacking the tide and packed hay bales in the stable barn. I saw him through the ground-level window beneath the loft, an inside shadow by the dim light of dusk. Where is father? Mother was in the kitchen, cutting a slice of cake and laying it out on a napkin instead of a plate.

It was a day old, but likely still good. She did not put a fork in it. She poured fresh, warm milk into a glass. She put the glass and the cake into my hands. Your father was a monster last night, but he's gone for now. After the market to try to cash in on the seeds surplus, he took Benji with him, so they'll most likely be picking up some things as well. You run this out to Alistair and let him know we're good and sorry for him,

and for your father's unspeakable behavior. Benjamin was my older brother and Luke's best friend. It was good that he wasn't here. Still, I looked to the door, dreading to see Father's wagon pulling up, even as we spoke of me doing such a rash, unthinkable thing. It'll be more than an hour, and it won't be me, Alistair, wants this cake from.

Go on now. And so I went. I hurried to the old barn, carrying our peace offering ahead of me with my heart thumping like a horse spoiling behind the gates at the Maryland races. But when I came in through the wide front door, I did not, at first, see him. Alistair? Alistair Hutchinson? Up here. That's you, Helen? The question, as well as the tone, which was unaccustomed. Countably unconcerned, riled me.

Of course it is. Who else do you know that sounds like me? No one, no one at all. I could hear, rather than see, that smile of his, born of both good humor and mischief. His face appeared at the ladder hole, looking down. A mess of sweaty black hair and bright blue eyes regarded me pleasantly. He started down.

He wasn't wearing his shirt. I turned away, embarrassed. Lord Alastair! I kept my own smile in check. I heard him slide down the last five feet of the ladder. Is that for me? He peered over my shoulder. He smelled like work and horses and hay.

A good smell. It is. I was sent here to say how sorry we are, my mother and I. I was to tell you we regret my father's behavior toward you last night. Oh, I don't really blame him. Who am I anyway? I got no apprenticeship. I won't be going to law college.

I heard him retrieve his blue work shirt from a stall door and put it on, drawing his suspenders up after, but leaving the middle unbuttoned. I turned back around and gave him the cake. It should still be good. He took a finger's worth. He grinned with his mouthful, nodding. It's been a long time since I had cake.

Thank you, Miss Jameson. He wasn't a gentleman at all, which made me giggle like a girl much younger than 15. What happened to calling me Helen? Thank you, Helen. He set the cake down and nodded to the milk. I handed it over and he drank. Needed that.

Been at it all day in here. And, against all common sense and propriety, I approached him, stood right in front of him, looking into those blue eyes of his that seemed somehow to safeguard a secret pain behind all that mist. I truly am sorry. I am, and not just because mother sent me to say so. That's all right. It ain't like he's dismissed me. I'm still here, just... Not allowed to speak with me. What's he afraid of anyway? I'm sure I could not say.

He brushed my hair behind my ear with a casual hand. He took my hand and placed it on his chest. Then he pulled me close by the back of the neck and kissed me. Maybe this? My breath caught. I let it out, laughed a little. I suppose that's it. And then a shadow fell over us from the front of the barn at the open door. Benjamin was there.

And father, it's difficult to say in words what his face looked like just then. Father, I mean. Benjamin's expression was uncomplicated, a smuggled older brother about to witness justice being done. But I do remember that father was sweating, like Alastair was, even though it wasn't particularly hot for June. His teeth were clenched.

He was undoing his belt. I pushed him away from me. Go Alistair! Go now! Run! Alistair stayed where he was. His eyes darted between father and Benjamin, who moved to shut the barn door.

Light retreated behind it until the last thin, shrinking bar left us with only the light through the windows to see by. Father moved in. He made me stay, made me watch, as Benjamin held him down and father beat him. At first, it was only a strapping, not particularly worse than I had known Benjamin to have received himself at the end of my father's belt more than once. But father became frustrated when Alistair didn't so much as complain. Again, Alistair spoke not a word.

Father still wouldn't let me leave, not even when he took Alistair's pants down. Look at him, Helen. Look! Or I'll just kill him. Father continued beating him. I have no idea the count of blows, but it was horrible and indecent. Alistair's backside was striped and bleeding,

and still, Father beat him. And though he screamed, though he must surely have cried, Alistair still never said a word. Stop it, father! Please stop! That's enough. He's sorry. I'm sorry.

He tossed his belt aside. Are you? Then you tell this boy what he needs to hear right now. You tell him so he understands. Explain to him what your future holds. Say it. Helen. Alistair moved to stand to his.

up his pants. Benjamin forced him back over. And even he looked decidedly worried when father moved for the pitchfork on the wall. Father, I don't know. Tell me what. I was blinded by tears, by panic. What if I said the wrong thing? He had it in his hands. He brandished it at me. You know what, fucking harlot. Set this whoremonger straight, or you'll watch me scrape his cock off with this. I looked to Benjamin, silently pleading with him. Benjamin didn't move. Father took a breath, steadied his voice.

Put your legs apart, Alistair. Alistair didn't move. Do it. Or so help me, God, I will kill you right now. Mr. Jameson, please. Alastair's legs were shaking as he put them apart. Wait! Father, stop! I'll say it! Give me a chance to say it! And make it good, I said to myself,

or father really will kill him. He means that... Alistair will be dead and will all be ruined. Father stopped and waited. You shouldn't have kissed me, Alistair. It was wrong. I'm going to marry Luke Bridgewater in a couple years. He loves me, and I love him back. He's a gentleman.

He has a future. He'll give me a good life. It'll be good for my family. There's nothing you can do to change that, Alistair. I clutched my heart, fighting the dizziness and fear that threatened to overcome me. Alastair wouldn't believe it. I knew that, but he didn't have to. Only father had to believe it, and he only needed to believe it for the next few minutes.

I had to get Alistair out of here. Whatever came after, that had to be done first. Father nodded at me and drove the pitchfork into the unprotected flesh of Alastair's backside just once. Then he finally let Alistair go, shrieking, hitching his pants up and stumbling off into the fresh falling night. Father watched the retreat for a full minute until Alistair was wholly lost to sight. He then let the pitchfork fall from his hands, recovered his belt. Leave, Benji.

This much, I had fully expected. Where are you now, mother? I thought bitterly. Benjamin left. Your turn, Helen. And no fuss. We both know it's for your own good. I will not injure you.

He doubled the belt over and pulled it quickly talked, so that it made an echoing crack in the mostly empty barn. Even though I had anticipated its coming, it was also the first time Father had ever punished me in this way. I'd had it from Mother before, but never from him. I told myself that he must surely be tired now, that I was his daughter. And all of this rage stemmed from his love for me, from his desire to protect me,

if only in his own misguided way. You saw what he did. He's not himself. But it was swiftly done, and no true harm came to me, not to my body anyway. He sent me to bed after, straight past mother, who was setting the table without looking at either of us. There would be no supper for me, though, not that I wanted any. I wanted only to be by myself and to sleep if I could. While lying there, father came inside. I pretended to be asleep as he set Luke's music box next to my bed and opened it.

He hovered over me as it played through its cycle twice. Then he softly clicked it closed, kissed me on the, cheek and departed. Shortly, I heard him and Benjamin in the barn, finishing Alastair's work. Sleep would not come. After trying for hours to cry myself to sleep, impossible to tell for how long exactly,

with all the thoughts and emotions running through my head, I found that I could, with effort, positioned myself in the chair by my window and the little study table. I recovered the diary from its hiding place and opened it to where I had left off the day before. I recounted the events of the day as far as I could at the time. I was younger then. When I was 15, it was harder to write, or speak, or even think about ugly things, no matter how true. But what I did write did not take me too long.

I was grateful that I was not disturbed by my father again. There was still lantern light coming from the barn. Eventually, as weariness at last began to creep up on me, I heard the lantern crash down. I saw the barn go dark. Muffled curses, clean up, clatter and fuss, as father would have said. My eyes were shut. cutting of their own accord when the next light appeared.

He was holding it aloft, a glass jar filled with swirling little yellow green lights, living lights, firefly lights. It was Alastair. He was beckoning to me. The jar in his beckoning hand glowed so that I could see his face, although cut by shadow. The jar had a thin metal handle affixed to its lid, like a bucket. Six or more of these strange, on earthly vessels glowed in a basket at his feet. He hung the first jar on a branch of the tree nearest our house at the end of the lane.

Was I awake? Was this a dream? This image of Alistair made no sense, but I was afraid for him. In case it was a dream, I quickly scribbled a few lines in the diary as I tried to make sense of what I saw. He didn't call to me with his voice. He said nothing, just as he had so valiantly, and for so long, said nothing to Father. I left my house, and my bare feet in my nightshirt, straight through the open window I passed quietly as I could. I followed Alastair's light, still wondering if I was awake or asleep or somehow dead. The world had grown cold, even in the clear midsummer Virginia night.

Such a temperature would not suit fireflies. You have to go, Alistair. You cannot come here anymore. He retreated further back down the lane. Even as I followed him, he hung another jar, smiling over his shoulder at me. Alastair, this isn't safe. Father is not in his right mind. And I found myself at a third tree, far enough from my house to begin shrinking behind us. We were near the lake.

I hugged myself against the chill. Alistair had to say something. He had to promise to leave before I returned home. I had to know that he understood his life was in danger, that he must find his way, his life, outside of Haymarket, for both of our sakes. When I looked back, my house was barely the hint of a distant silhouette. And still I followed him until only one jar remained in the basket,

and he sat himself down by the lake. He looked straight ahead, out over the water. He patted the empty, grassy patch beside him. I went to him. Alistair loves you. Speak normally. Don't talk to me in the third person. I allowed myself to scold him a little,

even in the cold, even in the strangeness of this terrible night or dream. I'm sorry. His grin was slightly perplexed. I didn't, in truth, expect that Alistair would have any idea of what it meant to speak in the third person. It was a guilty pleasure of mine, leading the schoolchildren to ask questions by saying things I knew they would not understand.

Don't talk as if you're someone else. Wouldn't it be nice? if I could be. Wherefore must I be, Alistair? I sniffed, mildly impressed, skipped a rock, a plague on my house. I wiped a tear from my eye before it could fully escape. Do you love Alistair? I mean, do you love me? I could not answer him. My life is planned for me before I have lived it. I thought. And this. This is just a dream. If it's a dream, then never mind your life.

You can love me, if only just for this dream. He brushed my hair back. By the light of the fireflies, he lay me down, and I let him. Mostly, I did it for Alastair, or for my memory of him, as he must surely be far away by now. It was only a dream after all. Knowing this, a small part of me did it for myself. And another small part I did for my father.

I will do this father, I thought. Here, you cannot stop us. Only a dream, I told myself. There was very little blood. Later, the thing that was. That called himself, Alastair spoke, as I vainly attempted to clean myself and my nightshirt at the water. It spoke with two voices. One was plainly his.

The other was plainly not. It said, What if I told you I could fix it? I'm good at fixing things. You know this, don't you? Yes, you do. I can hear you remember it. What if I told you I wasn't scared of your father, or Benjamin, or Luke?

What if I told you I could make it so you would never be faced with this choice, that I could make your fear go away for all time? You deserve to be happy, Helen. What if I told you I could simplify things? What if I told you I already had? Part of me believes I should not recall such things. I remind myself again what will happen if these writings should ever be found. Truth they may be, but that won't keep me from incarceration at their discovery,

either in some unimaginable prison or in an asylum. But I have set forth on this venture. I will see it through. It is the simple truth. as I remember it. I ran from him, leaving him at the water. I did not look back. There was blood still on my nightshirt,

and also on my hands, which had worked so vigorously to wash it all away. But water, by itself, would not do the trick. I fled back down the lane, homeward bound, and though I could feel the ground beneath my bare feet, the strangely chilling air against my face, the mist escaping my lips. And though I could smell the pine wood and the hay, though I could hear my own breath, the awakening hoot of an owl deep in the woods,

although I knew I must be awake, I kept telling myself that this was a nightmare, one from which I must soon awaken. When I did, I hoped I would not scream and raise the house. I did not wish to worry my family. I did not wish to see, father. It came to me just then, as my house reappeared at the end of the lane. I remembered the noise from the barn,

the clatter and the crash of a lantern, the muttering and curses. And so it was there that I turned, childish and foolish as I knew it to be. How would I explain being outwearing only my nose, night shirt and the blood, the terrible, terrible blood. I went to the barn and not my own bedroom window. No one had come out there. At least, I had not seen anyone do so. I must be sure I told myself that everyone was all right. Even in a dream, it does not pay in the end to neglect to do

the right thing. There was a yellow-green light flashing through the window. I heated it, recognized it. I was frightened by it. And still I pulled the barn door open and found Alastair inside, still holding his last jar of fireflies. It's fine.

Both of his voices together, seeming to reassure me that none of this was real, that I was still safely asleep. It's already over, Helen. Be at peace. There's nothing you can do, even if you wanted to. No mist escaped his lips. He popped the tin lid from the jar of fireflies and released them.

They departed the jar in unusual order with impossible symmetry, a spiraling line of firefly light. that crossed and looped over itself in calculated weaves as though stitching and invisible tapestry. But this line had direction as well and wove itself as though leading me to the ladder, to the halof. Follow me. And unable to help myself, I did. As I ascended the ladder, they ensured the ladder. they encircled me, wrapping me in their glow, calming me, whispering to me songs of sleep,

of everlasting silence. Whatever is, is, they whispered, you cannot change it, embrace it. He was my unsettled account. Alastair was ahead of me now. from within the loft I slowly approach one of them anyway I reached the top of the ladder looking down

finding Alistair still unaccountably there I stepped inside and I saw father lying on his back his suspenders and his pants were down his hands clutched between his legs there was blood there the pitchfork was driven

through his neck straight through it and into the wooden floor underneath his head and when I realized that there was a creaking noise I looked up a verse so slowly

the first I saw of the second body was his feet fireflies encircled them flashing blinking as one spiraling up now to reveal his face

I feared I would see Luke there hanging dead tongue protruding face swollen and frozen in the rictus of death but it was not Luke at all Luke and I have been married now going on five years

now it was Alastair He must have killed father, then hung himself by the rafters with father's belt. The lights went out. The fireflies vanish. I was left in the dark, suddenly and starkly awake and aware. The thing that had led me here was not Alistair. A lot of us is, well, dad, all of us is not yet.

awake for a long long The thing that was not Alistair was dead too. Somehow I knew it. It had taken me. Stolen my childhood. Fucked me.

And it was dead. I settled one part of Alistair's account tonight. I had a good time tonight, Helen. We all do. Did you? The lingering spell of vanished fireflies suppressed my rising scream. Perhaps you will kill yourself as well.

We can make room for you to heaven. And you are, after all, the other half of Alistair's unsettled account. No, I said to the thing in my mind. I have done no wrong here. Great wrong has been done to me and to others. But I am innocent. I will not take my life. You will not take it.

I knew my way out, even in the black. There was still time to retreat, to make myself clean, to pretend to wake upon this shock, this evil, as everyone else would. In just a few hours, the devil has visited my house. I thought, returning to my bedroom window and hauling myself through it. Father's rage summoned him.

He has wrought great evil here, but he will not have me. I must forget this ever happened. I must remember to live. And so I have. Okay, this second volume of Helen's diary and later a third, we're largely filled with no further mention of Alistair Hutchinson. It isn't until the end of the final volume in Helen's last writing that he's mentioned again. There was, however, this oddity written several years before that. Friday, October 5th, 1956, Luke really was always

quite the gentleman, and I am quite content with the children we raised and sent out into the world. I can now live quite happily without him. Goodbye, Luke. Don't feel so betrayed. You got all you wanted, except perhaps one thing. The dead got that. And now, I'll wait. Okay. Helen would have been 75 at the time of this last composition. Her script is verified, although age has given it a slightly faltering quality. Sunday, June 11th, 1972. I saw him today. One last time.

I've waited so long. I've lived alive since he left me. He told me, dear old Alastair did that it really was him this time he needed nothing from me he only wanted to see me and for me to see him he promised that he had kept me safe the others wanted to end me long ago he said but he wouldn't allow it i told him i loved him and it was simply true. It was always true.

Sad. The things we want and can never have, the world can be so cruel, so unforgiving. I hope the kids are happy. That's it. End of diary. Helen Annabelle Bridgewater died on Monday,

June 12, 1972 at the Sunrise Nursing Home in Woodbridge, Virginia. Natural causes. But she's not what concerns me. I spend a lot of time in here. I know these shelves as well as anyone. What bothers me,

apart from being caught smuggling this tape out of here, is the box in this room labeled 1979 that also bears the name Alistair Hutchinson. What bothers me even more is the box labeled 1988 that bears the name Alistair Hutchinson. Bothers me most of all. In an archiving vault for cases that predate the internet, is the box with Alistair's name on it dated Thursday, January 22, 2015. The one labeled the incident on Garrison Road, Fairview, Virginia.

What bothers me is the possibility that the thing that took Alistair Hutchinson is still alive, if you would call what he is alive. What bothers me is that I believe what Helen remembered. We thank you for being with us for our devilishly dark tales. 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 the darkness pulls you away from sleep. This audio program is copyright 2015-to-2016, Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.