The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E01

Episode Date: November 12, 2017

It's episode 01 the Season 10 Premiere! On this week's show we have five tales about sinister seniors, intimidating islands, and terrifying train tracks. "Grandma's Tub"‡ written by M.L. Hotz and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Erika Sanderson & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 00:02:20) "Half Moon Island"† written by Annemarie Hartnett and performed by Kyle Akers & Addison Peacock & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:24:40) "The Boy Who Cried Sheep"¤ written by Irene Stark and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 00:53:20) "The Whistling Girl"† written by Sierra Cvach and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 01:11:00) "Row Boat"† written by Jeffrey K Blevins and performed by Peter Lewis & Alexis Bristowe & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:50:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the NoSleep Live Tour 2018   Click here to learn more about M.L. Hotz   Click here to learn more about Annemarie Hartnett   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & David Cummings¤ "The Whistling Girl" illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham Audio program ©2017-2018 - 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

The following audio horror presentation is intended to frighten and disturb. Join us on this dark and unsettling journey at your own list. Because behind these doors, there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On the show this week, we have Five Tales. about sinister seniors, intimidating islands, and terrifying train tracks.

Welcome to the premiere of Season 10. We've hit double digits, and we're all so glad you've joined us for this special season. It's hard for me to believe we've reached this point, but of course it wouldn't be possible without our wonderful No Sleep podcast team who help create the episodes each week. And, of course, you are fantastic fans who support what we do. And a big thanks to both Brandon Boone and Phil Mikulski who created this season's theme music, stirring symphonic strings, gentlemen.

We've got a lot of special stuff in store this season. We've got bonus episodes planned, the Yule Tide Christmas episode, and you just might hear some voices from the past, and not just the ones in your own head this time. And don't forget, you can see us live next February and March for the Sleepless 2018 tour. Fun and festive frights all season long. So, my friends, it's season 10. It's episode one, and the stories are ready.

Let's start the journey. In our first tale, we meet a woman who recounts her younger days when times were tough and family was all she had to cling to. But as we learn from author M.L. Hots, it was the caring for her grandmother which filled her with anything but familial warmth. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Erica Sanderson, and Aaron Lillis. So while you might enjoy a nice warm soak, you'll want nothing to do with Grandma's Tub. Growing up, I lived in a three-story Victorian with my mother, little brother, and what I think was my grandmother.

It was a big, ancient house, especially to a kid my size, and it always belonged to my grandmother. We moved in with her after my parents divorced, which was also the last time I saw my dad. That kind of thing is common nowadays, and there was nothing unusual about single parenthood. I think I was too young to really think much of it, anyway. The first time we sat down for dinner, cold pizza and silence, was pretty much where my memories began. Things weren't terrible in the sense that I knew there were kids that had it worse. My mom was as empty and dark as that house sometimes. Sparsely decorated and with the blinds always drawn tight,

it seemed to more a cave than a house, with a residual moistness to really drive it home. Grandma suffered chronic migraines, so we had to keep it dark. She couldn't get around well anymore either, so no extra furniture or knick-knacks were to be left around. The only time you can guarantee any emotional response from my mom was by leaving a light on or a toy on the floor. She'd go through all stages of grief at once before threatening to ground you.

It's not like the house was kept meticulous, though. Dust always ghosted under the scarce light sources like microscopic moths. Things weren't repaired as they broke either, leaving the kitchen a patchwork of wonky cabinets in the pipes or rusty chorus. Maybe it was because grandma's migraines made it difficult to do any work with all the noise it cause. Or maybe it was just my mom's penchant of locking herself in her room. room for hours a day, only venturing out to feed us or send us off to school. So we had some weird set of rules in the house, but outside, things weren't too bad. Mom let me play with the other kids on the block until I absolutely had to go to bed and didn't

care much about what I got up to as long as I came home. I also had to include my brother, Robin, but that was okay. He was a quiet kid and content with following the crowd, and we got along. We didn't fight like other siblings our age at all. Robin looked up to me, and I liked looking out for him. What also separated us from the other kids, and what I consider more of a blessing, was that we didn't have much in the way of chores. Sometimes we'd help when asked, but there was no set schedule, so we got a pretty free run of things. Do a few dishes one night or help mom sweep? That was all fine.

Sometimes, though, she'd asked me to do chores that I absolutely hated. Hated worse than taking out bags of dripping trash. or when my finger touched something slimy in the murky dishwater, or when I had to forego cartoons for math homework. The worst thing in the world to me was when mom asked me to help out grandma. I kind of sound like a terrible person when I phrase it like that, but what you have to understand was that my grandma was a total demon. Mom used the migraines as an excuse, but it went deeper than that.

I'd never, nor have I since, met someone that just oo-esied. utter hatred like that. I saw her even less than my mother, and she spent all her time locked up on the top floor doing God knows what in refusing any company. Sometimes I'd be forced into her presence, and every time it felt like she sucked away years of my life with those dusty old lips. Later, I grimly wondered what sort of person my father had to be that my mom would choose moving back in with this woman over staying with him. Grandma never had anything to say unless it was an order. No conversation, no regaling me with endless tales of her own youth or fairy tales or other grandmotherly things. Get me this, close that, keep it down, leave. Because of her migraines,

of course, I never saw her in the full light, which obviously gave me the creeps. She was always swaddled in shadow and the same dark blanket around her shoulders, making it difficult to see any part of her that wasn't her small, sharp nose and unblinking saucer eyes. I felt mean even back then. She was just an old lady with health problems, not a boogeyman. I shouldn't be thinking these things about her just because she isn't the stereotypical sweet old granny. Yet, I saw how stressed my mother was, having to dote on her all day, and I hadn't the best experiences with her, so my immature emotional capacity didn't allow me to feel too bad about it. My wariness of the old matriarch was probably kick-started by what happened when we first moved in.

I was exploring the house, awed by it in comparison to the tight, sterile condo we'd moved from, and turned into a dark hall and wittingly running nearly dead into her. Before I could distinguish her from the dark hall around us, she snatched my wrist. Those bony fingers were so thin and white, like worn chalk sticks ready to crumble away, but they dug into my wrist like a viret. Oh, sorry, Grandma, I didn't see you. There was nothing in her face then, just those big, unblinking eyes glinting out from the void within her shawl and the mounting pressure on my wrist. Hey, I said I'm sorry. Let me go. Mom?

It was like I was stuck in a dull-toothed bear trap. My mom appeared just as suddenly as Grandma had and managed to unhinged those bony claws, at which point I skittered away with her. without another word. I dimly thought I heard her scolding grandma, but I didn't care to stick around. Her grip left faint bruises. That was how I learned that the top floor strictly belonged to grandma, and as far as I cared, she could have it. I made sure to pass the message on to Robin. I think I gave him some story about how the wiring was faulty or the floorboards were rotting and he'd fall through the whole house. In my mind, it was better to scare him with passively dangerous things and not a danger bound by blood. I could still hear her walking around at night sometimes as the floorboards whispered to each other under each jerky step she took. So many nights I fell asleep with my pillow

on my head and my bedside lamp on knowing she'd never enter a room that could set out her migraines. She never came down for food or company. Everything she needed, my mother brought to her. Food, medicine, clothing. When she wanted something, she'd ring a bell, not a little tinkly thing. And but some wretched photo intercom haphazardly meshed about the house that shook our spines with a horrible tinny buzz whenever she pressed the call button. Schoolwork nights would be backed by the sound of that

damn bell going off, the slam of my mother's door, and tromping footsteps as she raced her way back up the slowly warping stairs, then back down to get whatever grandma wanted, then back up, then back down, and her door would slam shut again. The process repeated several times a night,

and it was no wonder mom never seemed to have any energy with all the stairs she had to climb. I was surprised she didn't grow Lance Armstrong thighs. Sometimes I'd come home and find Grandma seated in the study or the living room on the first floor. I never saw her come down there herself, and she never spoke to me when I encountered her. I'd just mumble a tiny, hi, Grandma, and then lock myself in my room until I knew she was back on the third floor. I mentioned we didn't have a set family schedule, and for the most part that held true. The only exception was Wednesday. Wednesdays were bath nights. This was the most important night of the week for grandma and by extension for mom, so important that they were always blacked out on

the schedule. Mom would ensure all weekly chores like bills or groceries were done at advance, and if she had had a social life, she would have used it then. My brother and I weren't even allowed to register for extracurricular activities that may interfere with Wednesday baths. At the time, I sort of figured it was some old people thing, that she absolutely had to have her bath then or else she'd, I don't know, get infected with viruses only old people can get and die or something to follow a similar chain of kid logic. But as many bath nights came to pass, the stench of weirdness built in the back of my nose. Most bath nights went the same. We'd come home from school, mom would make sure we were okay, had our homework ready, then pop some chicken strips in the oven, and rush up to grandma's personal bathroom on the third floor.

Robin and I usually spent the nights eating chicken strips and watching cartoons, but I'd always keep an ear out for anything odd coming from upstairs. One week, that changed. It was a Monday, and my mom was doing some cleaning on the third floor. I was in my room doing something or other not worth the memory space when I heard a series of bangs and a raw squeal from upstairs. It was my mother's voice in an agony of, I'd never heard. A rational fear of Granny be damned, I ran to my mother's aid. As I dashed down

those black halls, I tried not to look too hard at anything, feeling that if I looked just one inch out of place, I'd find my grandmother lurching out of the dark, Talon's ready. What I did find was almost worse. My mom on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood. I only say almost because thankfully she was conscious. Are you okay? What happened? I think I'll be fine. I just... Ow! I brought her a cloth to hold against the badly bleeding gash on her forehead.

She seemed more concerned with her foot. Lost my balance, cleaning the tub. Ow! Shoot! I think my foot's broken. I'll call the ambulance. Okay. Help me up. Won't they come get you? Let's make it easier on them.

Nothing about helping an adult woman with a broken foot down two flights of rickety stairs seemed like the easier route to me, but my mom clutched my wrist and God the vice of her hand was so much like my grandmothers. That alone silenced me and I heaved as best as I could. I didn't like it. My mom kept whimpering in pain and though she wasn't a large woman at all, I wasn't a large kid and it took all my strength to hoist her onto her good foot. Doing so, I happened to glance into the tub, ground zero for her accident, and when I saw what was left behind, I nearly fumbled my poor mother. She pulled something from the drain, all right. At first it looked like just a clump of hair, but it was almost gelatinous and far too dark and thick to have come from the balding and cotton-esque scalp of my grandmother.

It was stuck mid-slither from the drain, not entirely free. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I can make out chunks of something inside it, bits of white and gray. A new wave of strength hit me, and I knew I couldn't spend a second longer on that floor. The moment my mom had her arm around my shoulder, I had as hobbling away as fast as we could. Tuesday, the gravity of the situation hit me when my mom finally came out of her morphine nap on the couch. With her foot in a cast and bed rest a must, she wouldn't be able to make the two years. flight journey to grandma's room. She wouldn't be able to help with her bath. She realized the same as I sat with her, and she pulled me close. Honey, I know you don't like it, but it's really important to me

that you help me with grandma's bath tomorrow, okay? I didn't want to let my mom down. I couldn't let Robin see I was afraid either, so I nodded. At 6 p.m. Sharp, you have to go up to her bathroom. light her candles, you'll see where they go, and make sure none of the wicks crackle. The water has to be as hot as possible, filled halfway and with a bottle of her special bath oil. It's under the sink with her towel and soap tray, which you'll leave out on the closed toilet. Once that's ready, wait in the hall until Grandma enters the bathroom and gets comfortable, and she'll let you know when it come in. Stay with her until she says she's done.

then leave until she's left. Only return to clean, and then let her be. I couldn't tell you how relieved I was to hear that at no point did I ever have to bathe grandma myself. All in all, it didn't sound too bad. But then my mom grabbed my hand, not as firm as the night before, but direct enough to be serious. The one thing you have to be absolutely sure of is to never look behind the bathing screen. even if grandma makes some odd noises, that happens when you're old sometimes. If she asks for help, just call me on the intercom.

Let your foot. Just call me. She held my rest a moment longer, but it was the way she held my eyes that unsettled me the most. I didn't say it out loud, but I didn't think there'd be a problem. I had no desire to look at my grandma in the bathtub after all. Wednesday night came and I followed Mom's instructions with the kind of efficiency and accuracy only present in life or death situations. The candles, all plain, unscented beeswax, perched in globes around the bathroom.

Old rings of ash dotted the countertops, so putting them in their proper place was like cheating at a puzzle. When it came time to fill the tub, I hesitated. It was hard not to think of the way my mother had been sprawled on the floor and whatever that thing had been in the tub behind her. I realized there was still a little bit of blood on the tiles. and quickly scrubbed it away with my sock, and hoped Grandma wouldn't notice. I pulled back the bathing screen and looked sidelong into the tub,

daring only to look peripherally in case that glob of something was still there. Weirdly enough, it wasn't. I don't remember anyone coming out here to clean it after the accident, but I couldn't complain either. It probably just slipped back down the drain, and as far as I cared, that was a problem for later. Once the water was pouring in at a steady pace, I retrieved the oils. I'm not sure what I expected when I opened the bottle. Rose, lavender, standard old lady scent.

What I got was a full face of stench so powerful I felt my consciousness briefly attempted to flutter away from it. It was like someone used tea tree and iodine to clean a tuna factory. So much factory force in such a tiny vial. I hastily dumped it out under the tap and, it dyed the water a coppery brown. After watching the water seemingly putrefie for a few more minutes, I turned off the tap and I heard her. It was like she was waiting for the exact moment the water stopped before creaking her way over. I scurried out the door and waited in the dark of the hall as instructed. Grandma just stared at me with those big, pale eyes before she disappeared

inside the bathroom. It felt like an hour that I waited for the eerie silence to clear. From the sound of it, she was just standing in the bathroom doing nothing. Come. I don't know how she slipped into the tub so silently, but sure enough, the coast was clear when I cracked the bathroom door back open. That shawl of hers was bundled up on the ground by the toilet, and there wasn't a drop of bathwater out of place. The bathing screen was serving its purpose,

and I could only see her silhouette beyond. Her shadow was so bent and skinny, I couldn't help but to think of those squeaky rubber chicken toys. and I'd have giggled if I weren't so unsettled. My sense of humor seeped away into the dim, flickering candlelight and the smell of the acidic bathwater. Grandma had taken her tray into the tub, but since her towel still nested on the toilet lid,

I'd just slip down to sit on the floor. Like usual, Grandma did not speak. The silence was only ever broken by the slightest movement in the bath, but the sounds in her shadow were never defined enough to give me an idea of what she was doing. It was agonizing, sitting there, afraid of even breathing too hard lest it upset her. I was both bored and on edge, the worst combination. One of the candle wicks crackled and I almost leapt out of my skin,

first at the noise and then in the aftermath as I remembered mom's words about the wicks. But grandma did nothing, said nothing. Then another noise began. I remembered what my mom had said about old people noises, but I was expecting maybe raspy breathing or the occasional grunt. This sounded like a skinned watermelon being forced down a vacuum. At first, I wasn't sure what I was hearing. Maybe some of the water had begun to drain from the tub.

There was no way a person could make a noise like that unless... I hadn't heard many people choking before, but that's very close to what I figured it would sound like. I should have done as mom told me and buzzed her from the hallway. I wish I'd listened. It's hard to think straight when you're afraid your grandmother might be choking to death a foot away from you, though. It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission. That's what they say.

I pulled back the bathing screen. Grandma was there, or what I assumed could only have been, my grandma. What was in the tub looked little like her, or like a human in general. She was distorted, on cave. Her entire body scrunched into a pallid, wrinkly way to make room for her horribly, unhinged jaw. The stench behind the screen was an acrid mutation of the bath oils and seemed to be coming from her mouth, or rather the mass that slowly dislodged from her throat. It was like the lump I'd seen in the bath beyond my injured mother, but bigger and somehow even more grotesque,

probably because it was on the way out of a human body. She heaved and gagged on the thing, and that's when I noticed the pale shards within it. Not shards, I realized, as I examined the scope of what the hell this was? The closest identifiable mass to me was a mouse skull. That filled in the blanks on whatever else was trapped in that net of dark, slimy hair.

That was all I needed to see. I ran out of the bathroom, down the hall, and two flights of stairs into my mother's arms. She didn't reprimand me, just held me with a soft combination of understanding and disappointment. I didn't want her to have to go up there,

not with her foot like that, and grandma like that, but I was too scared, too disgusted to move. I couldn't do it. I beat myself up for being such a coward then, but every nerve in my body rooted into the couch. And that is where I stayed long until the night. We never really talked about it after that, not beyond knowing the glances we gave each other on Wednesdays. I never told Robin, and he didn't ask why I insisted on sleeping in his room for a week. Avoiding grandma went from an unconscious pattern to an active priority, and that's how I lived out the next few years. When I was a teenager, my grandmother passed away.

Just old age, they said. Looking at her in the casket, I believed it. She looked just like a normal old lady when she was in the light. I kept waiting for some government agents to show up and whisk away her body, or for the casket to suddenly go up in flames or something, but it never happened. Just a normal funeral, a normal morning period, and a normal life from there. I went to that top floor to help my mom clean up, and it was so much brighter than I ever remember seeing it. For the past few decades, I've tried to forget that strange event, or convince myself it was a nightmare,

my brain filling in the blanks of the medical reality of the elderly that I couldn't yet understand. But I've been rethinking it lately. A couple months ago, I moved back in with my mother in that same old Victorian. She hasn't been doing too well lately and needs someone to take care of her. My mom's never been that much of a bright and cheery person, but she seems so distant now. All she wants to do is sit, bundled in her shawl and stare. And her eyes seem so much bigger than I remember. Many places near the ocean can tell tall tales about the days of pirates and buried treasure.

Even the beautiful Canadian province of Nova Scotia has its legends, and as author Anne-Marie Hartnett shares with us, a small parcel of land just off the coast seems to prove that pirates were darker and more disturbing than Hollywood would have us believe. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Addison Peacock, and Erica Sanderson. So I encourage you to visit Nova Scotia, but by all means, stay off of Half Moon Island. They used to maroon men out there just before sunset, so there was no escaping.

Reggie stretched his arm over the space between our two Adirondack chairs and topped up my glass with that hellishly strong homemade wine he made. I took a sip and hid my cringe, then looked across the bay to Half Moon Island. It was obviously named for its shape. A small island, less than a mile long, that was rimmed with a... sand and pebble shore and had a thick copse concealing the middle. My back porch where we sat had a prime view of the eastern side of the island. At the moment the treetops glowed with the sunset behind it, a breathtaking sight from my deck. They couldn't have been very smart then, could they?

It's easy enough to swim over here to dry land. Oh, they were smart all right. They dropped them off around this time of the night just as the sun was going down. You don't want to be over there after the sun goes down. I suspected there was something behind the matter-of-fact way the old man spoke. And when I turned, I found a twisted smile through the salt and pepper beard. Bears? Can bears swim that far out?

Bears know better. Uh, natives? They'd know even better than the bears, don't they? With my scowl, Reggie's wheezing laughter taunted me. Did I ever tell you about the time a bunch of fellers went looking for Valentine's gold? I drank down my

wine and held out my cup for another, just to get through the rest of his story. No, but I've read it. They sent a party to dig for it and were never seen again. Now the restless spirits can be seen on nights when there's no moon. Oh, that's a bloody fairy tale. I glanced through the kitchen door and caught a smudge as Jen washed the dishes. I wish you would hurry it up and join us. Reggie never talked that seafolk balderdash around her. He charmed my wife with the old Gaelic legends his people had brought to the island. I heard her hum and as she washed, and then the clink of dishes. It would be a while yet before she sent them to dry and put on the kettle. Until then, I was stuck with Reggie's stories. I liked him, I really did,

but ever since he'd crossed the dirt road and offered me his hand in greeting, these performances were nightly. I suppose Reggie was part of the charm we were looking for when we both took teaching positions here in rural Nova Scotia, but I wasn't as charmed as Jen had been with Reggie. I just wanted to have a fine meal on the deck and drink some good. good reaseling with just me and Jen. Yet, here I was. And I had to admit he was my only real friend here. I waited for him to go on, but as usual, he didn't without prompt. Well, what happened to them? No one knows. The men left on the ship could hear them out there talking to one another, their voices as clear as if they were on the ship. And then the sun went down

and the screaming started. The crew sent a boat out to help. That'll be a little. That'll be a little. only added to the screaming, and no one else would set foot on the island until daylight. That's when they found them, the poor buggers. They found their bones picked clean as though they'd been out there for weeks. If you go to just beyond the forest where there's a big boulder with a tree falling over it, and you'll find what's left of the crosses used to mark their graves. What do you think it was? I wouldn't hazard a guess. I smirked. Not ghosts? I said I wouldn't hazard a guess. Settling back in my chair, I gazed out.

The sun had dipped out of sight now and left the purple haze in its wake. Half-moon island looked like it was made of nothing but shadow. A curse, then. Reggie took what I expect was supposed to be a slow and dramatic sip of his wine before he went on. One legend goes that it was Valentine's doing. Folks around here like to claim that Valentine was this debonair, A rascal of a pirate. It goes over real well for the tourists, especially with that foolish pirate festival they have every year. Truth is that Valentine was a real son of a bitch. That story of how

he came here and made a jolly pirate colony as bullshit. He gathered all the men of the town on the wharf and shot them in front of their children, then turned their wives into whores for his men. Half the people here are descended from his rampage of rape and murder. Well, they don't put that on the postcards. Ah, damn right, they don't. Nor what he did to the children when he was done here. He went to each house and handed their mothers a knife, told them that they could choose to let their daughters come with him and be sold to brothels, or they could cut the girls' throats

and spare them. Some mothers did the deed and had to live with themselves afterward. Others had to watch their daughters be carted off like the cattle Valentine had made them. As for the boys, he took the ones who were sturdy enough to serve them and did to the rest what he had done to their fathers. Jesus, Reggie, what kind of story is that? Closest one to the truth, I reckon. Some university fellow from England came over here one summer to do research on Valentine's time here.

Said he'd seen some papers Valentine had written before the museum. Mutiny that finally served bloody justice, and Valentine was a follower of the devil. John Valentine Brody putting a curse on that island seems like the sort of thing he'd do. Something's over there. Not even the rum runners of the old days would stay the night on the island. A satanic pirate using witchcraft to protect his gold? I had to say it out loud if for no reason than to chase off the creeping fingers that were making their way across my shoulder. shoulders. Reggie just took another sip of his wine.

Well, whatever it is, we're lucky it stays there on that island. Like you said, it would be nothing to swim across when conditions are right. Much to my relief, Reggie turned the conversation to the news. By the time Jen brought the tea out, the conversation had turned to politics, and Reggie thankfully piped down with Jen's chiding. Later, we crawled into bed. What did he spook you with tonight? I wasn't spooked. He was talking about Half Moon Island this time. I think he wanted to keep me up all night thinking about it.

Jen laughed as she tucked her dark curls up into a ponytail. Of course he did. So what did he tell you? Some bullshit about Valentine being a Satanist. She snickered. Sounds plausible. I scuttled deeper under the quilt. Better than your theory of giant nocturnal crabs.

She turned off the light and cuddled closer to my warmth. Neither one of us was yet used to how cold the nights were here. in Nova Scotia. From the depths of hell, hungry for human flesh. We live on the cusp of Satan's aquarium. God, the people hear in their stories. You love all this salt of the earth stuff, Sam. That's why you were so hell-bent on moving here.

She turned her back on me, pulling my arm over her at the same time. After a moment's silence, she brought me back from the brink of sleep with a nudge. Maybe that's what we heard the night we moved in. I'm certain that was a fox. Maybe it wasn't. It did sound pretty hideous. It was a fox, and Reggie is just trying to wind me up with his ghost stories. He's desperate for me to believe in one of these days.

Like you believe all those stories of women and white, he tells you. I don't believe them. I just humor him. A moment later, I felt her shiver, and she pulled me closer. A week later, with school holidays coming to an end, and with them, the freedom to enjoy my long and lazy days, I sat on the porch with my morning coffee and looked out at Half Moon Island with a case of cabin fever. Satanic pirates my ass, I thought. He probably told that story to keep folks from getting into their heads to build a house or cottage over there and spoil his view.

When Jen came in from her morning shopping, I had already packed the boat. She raised her brows as she came upon me on the dock. Are you running off on me? Who is the hussy? We're running off together. I thought you might like to become one with nature for an evening and sleep under the stars. She scrunched her nose. I laughed and stood up straight, rubber boots sinking into the soft sand as I planted my hands on my hips.

Can't you look at it like it's a holiday? A holiday doesn't involve sleeping on the beach. I lifted a brow and she groaned. Where? Half moon island. Satan's aquarium. Scared? Of course not.

But I'm not keen on being stuck on an island in the dark when we have a perfectly good house right here. I hopped up to where she stood on the grassy bank and slipped my hand around her waist. Would you make me go alone? You wouldn't. I would to spite Reggie so that next time he brings it up, And he will, I can tell him there's nothing over there at all. Or, better yet, I can make up my own horror story. I think I can do better than your nocturnal crabs.

Fine, but I'm not sleeping on the ground. Can we get the folding cotton there? Victorious and smug, I loaded the cot and everything her heart desired onto the aluminum boat. By suppertime, we were motoring toward Half Moon Island. Though far from looking thrilled, Jen smiled as she sat on the stern watching our little red house get smaller. Her bare arms and legs look spectacular, stretched out, and I grinned as I turned the wheel. Not only was I going to sleep on Half Moon Island for the night, I intended to spend a good part of that night making love to my wife under the stars on that supposedly unholy ground.

About halfway across, she straightened up and started waving with both arms. What is it? Reggie. She flailed both arms now, then giggled as she settled back. I think he was trying to get us to come back. Of course. He's about to lose some of his credibility. You're so mean. But she nonetheless laughed as she wobbled up to me.

She plopped down next to me and wrapped her arms around my waist. Did you change your mind? No, I'm going to the other side of the island. It wouldn't be a holiday if we could see our porch light shining from the shore. At least this way we can look out at the big blue Atlantic and pretend we're far, far away. Will you protect me if anything comes to drag me off? Of course. I'm a manly man after all, and manly men protect their women from...

Please don't say giant crabs. We decided to set up camp right on the beach. Pop-up tent, portable gas barbecue, and a cooler filled with hot dogs and beer. We'd brought our phones, but the signal was sketchy on this side of the island. Jen had brought along her iPad so we could listen to some of the music she downloaded until the battery went. To my surprise, it was Jen who wanted to go exploring first. We still have a couple hours of daylight. Besides, don't you want to see if there's anything in there?

Actually, yeah. Reggie mentioned graves. Even if he's full of shit, it would still be something to see. Maybe we'll get lucky and find Cupid's gold. Valentine's school, you mean. Y'ar, matey. We found a path and followed it. It led to a boulder with some graffiti sprayed all over it.

No graves. We headed off of the path. As long as we didn't lose the setting sun, we'd hit the beach and be able to find our way back to camp without having to circle the whole island. Jen pointed out the litter found in the brush. Looks like this place isn't as isolated as Reggie would have you believe. No one stays the night, though, or so he says.

They bowed over and take off before the sun goes down. I doubted this to be true. There were empties all over the place. This place would make a great isolated party spot. Still, it didn't seem like anyone had spent the night here. If there were kids partying into the wee hours, we probably would have heard them from our place. There was nothing on the island. Not a goddamn thing.

Just woods and trash. We broke through to the other side of the brush and stood looking across at our own house. We could just go back. I'd at least wanted to see some sort of historic relic to validate the local history that said Half Moon Island had been a hideout for seafaring outlaws over the years. My inner history nerds sulked. Come on. Now that I'm over here, I'm actually enjoying myself. I lifted my brows and she laughed.

I love Sheet Harbor, but it does get a little boring. This is a nice break together. I took her by the hand and held on to it as we headed back toward the boat. By the time we reached the other side, the sky had started to turn purple with the coming night. We fired up the grill and cracked open the beer. An hour later we were both stuffed and belching behind our hands As we sprawled on the beach mat we'd brought Gazing up at the glittering sky

I should make something up I twisted open the last beer I'd had four to Jen's two And I was buzzing enough that I knew there'd be no screwing around under that big sky Jen seemed pretty knackard as well Her lid's drooping as she smiled back at me Tell him you were visited by Valentine's ghost He told you where the treasure was and you even laid eyes on it

But you were sworn to secrecy. Break your oath? And Valentine will return and cut your tongue out. I was going to tell him that we saw something in the water and take a blurry picture. I bet money he convinces himself he sees something. We tipsily shambled around our small tent and made two sleeping cots and bags into one double. Then heaped an extra blanket on top. I don't think it took five minutes for us to fall asleep.

Jen shook me awake, hissing in my ear. Sam. Sam? I came out of sleep quickly as her jarring urgency broke through. What? What is it? I heard something. I turned my chuckle into a cough.

Oh, really? Did it sound like a giant? That's when I heard something. A shuffling followed by a chittering. I sat up right and listened while Jen wrapped one arm across my chest and grabbed a fistful of t-shirt. It's just an animal. Sounds like a raccoon. That doesn't sound like a raccoon.

I couldn't deny that the sound wasn't any. I'd heard the raccoons that congregate in our yard make. Baby, it's nothing to worry about. We're outside. There are things outside, even on a little island like this. Whatever was outside had come closer now. It's click, click, click was not far from our tent entrance. My alarm wasn't quite at Jen's red alert level, but I was nervous not knowing what it was.

It probably was an otter or a musk rat or something benign. But I figured a deer could swim over to Half Moon Island. If a deer could make it over here, then so could. with something like a lynx, could even be a coyote. In these parts, the coyotes were getting a reputation for attacking anything they thought they could take down, including sleeping campers and lone hikers. I'll have a look. She grabbed back onto me, clutching fabric and chest hair in a painful clench.

Don't leave me. I'm just opening the flap, Jen. Stay right where you are. She hunkered down and I slipped off the cot, then crawled towards the tent opening. I hoped whatever it was would be scared off by the light. I turned it on, flooding the small tent with a little. bluish LED glow. The reaction outside was instant. The thing lit out, a piercing shriek. It had been right outside the tent flap, and the nylon wall shuddered violently as our visitor

scrambled back. I heard the grates of our small barbecue clink as the whole thing was knocked over, and the rattle of our empties being scattered. I glanced back at Jen. She was nose-deep in the blankets with wide and terrified eyes. I'm going to open it now. My palm sweaty, I prayed I wasn't about to have my face knot off by wildlife as I unzipped the door and shone the light out. The moon was nearly full that night, but some clouds had moved in and snuffed out most of the natural light that would have otherwise shrouded the beach. I made a wide sweep with the beam but saw nothing. Then stretched out enough to point her to around the perimeter of the front part of the tent. I think I scared it off. I was about to turn back to her when a smudge of movement

caught my eye. I whipped the light around in time to see something dart a few feet in front of me, huffing as it went. Jen whimpered in the cot creaked as she pushed deeper into the sleeping bag. With my heart in my throat, I slowly moved the beam of light in the direction the thing had run. The second the light hit it, it squealed and took off to the right. I leapt back with a yelp. All I caught was long limbs, covered with fur, as it dashed on all fours away from the light. What is it?

Voice muffled and shaking beneath the covers. The thing outside chirruped again. It obviously moved back in once I retreated. I quickly zipped up the tent flap. We're leaving right now. I'll come back for it in daylight or just leave it or whatever. I don't care. What we're getting on the damn boat and going home?

But what is it? Some kind of animal. Coyote maybe. I don't really want to find out. The two of us moved quickly inside the tiny confines of the tent, long enough to throw on our coats and shoes and tuck our phones into deep pockets, all while the thing outside scampered about, occasionally darting close enough to brush against the tent.

The boat's not far away, I told myself. If we have to run, we'll still make it. All it'll take is a little push to get in the water, and then I can get the motor going. As soon as we were ready, Jen and I huddled near the tense entrance. I could hear the thing outside, scuttling in the sand, letting off a raspy growl every few seconds. My heart was in my throat, and it was a fight not to show my wife how scared I actually was. When I whispered to her, I did so with a calm that barely contained my fright. walk quickly. Don't run if you have to. They might go for the cooler when we've moved away.

She made a scared and strangled sound as she nodded her head and grasped the bottom of my coat. I faced forward and tightened my grip on the flashlight. I wished I'd paid for the heavy tactical one that could double as a club instead of a weak plastic solar-powered light. I unzipped and we both stepped out. The clouds had moved on and freed the moon from its shroud, and now the beach was lit up with silver. I could see now that there were actually two of the things about 30 feet away from our tent and near the shoreline. Two crouching animals watching us as they made those horrible throaty sounds. Jen's already labored breath picked up.

What are they? I shook my head. I didn't have an answer. They sure as hell weren't coyotes or lynx or anything I'd ever seen. In silhouette, their limbs were skeletal, appearing more insect than mammal. Their heads dome like without any hair and two small nubs on the side for years. I turned around to put my body between Jen and these things, walked backwards, flashlight into the ground to keep from startling them again.

We made it about ten feet before they started to move. One made a guttural sound and started towards us. The other answered in the yip and bolted off from the beach to the trees. Every part of my body went cold as I saw that body in silhouette. It didn't move like a coyote or lynx either. It moved like a human, scrambling on hands and feet. The same could be said for the one that slowly advanced on us. It struck its long arms out in front of it.

and pulled itself along, trailing us one hop at a time. Jen, lead me. I don't want to turn my back on this thing, but I can't get us to the boat without a pair of eyes. I can see it. It's not far. I could tell from the frustration in her tone that the boat looked much farther than it actually was. Painfully slow, we lurched towards the boat. The soft sand under our feet sinking with every step and threatening to trip us up. Every inch of my body was prickled with fear.

Behind me, Jen quietly cried as she. She led the way. Then the clouds once more crawled across the moon and we were in darkness again. I swore and Jen froze. Something just about it. I never took my eyes off the slinking figure ahead of me. I was too scared to put the light right on it. I didn't want to see whatever it was. I didn't want to know for the rest of my life what sort of thing lived on half-moon island. I tried to push Reggie's story about the treasure hunters out of my mind, but the creeping vision of bodies, flate of skin and muscle plagued me. How far? Close. And she streaked and grabbed on to me.

There are more of those things. I'd seen them. The darkness shuddered as they moved. They're clicking and grunting sounds getting louder and more frequent. Excited or agitated or maybe... Hungry. The one that had been following my footsteps bolted forward and three hops and growled at me. What I had thought were paws caught in the light.

And I had to press my lips together to keep from sobbing as I realized they weren't pause. They were small and bony hands. They weren't covered in fur but caked in mud and debris from the forest floor. It took another leap and swatted at my legs. I screamed and pushed Jen in the direction of the boat, shouting at her to run. I didn't look back as we closed the gap between us in the boat. Those things darted back and forth in our path yipping and snarling now. We evaded them all, but just as we were in the last few steps, Jen yanked me back.

She curled into me as I aimed the light at the boat. There was one right on the bow, punched as the first two had on the beach with skeletal limbs drawn close to it and head cocked. I could clearly see the thing for what it was. An emaciated child with dirty skin like leather, slack jaw revealing broken and jagged teeth. I'd say it gazed at us in curiosity, but the goddamn thing didn't seem to have any eyes in those sunken sockets.

The ones around us became bolder now, swooping in close enough. to spray us with sand and grit before darting off again. I kept my eyes on the one on the boat. The second it moves, we have to go right for the boat. You get in and I'll push. What if it doesn't move? Then we'll become another story for Reggie to tell, I thought, but I didn't dare say it out loud.

If we had to bolt for the damn bay and swim home, I'd risk hypothermia and drowning over whatever these things had planned for us. My panic rose as the things grew bolder, coming in close enough to brush against our bare legs, I held tight to my shaking and whimpering wife. I was sorry, so sorry that I had brought her here, but I was too scared to tell her.

It would bring her no comfort, just confirmed that there was nothing either of us could do to get off this fucking island. The thing on the boat gave off a wheezy rattle and sprang into the sand to circle us. I didn't waste a second. I grabbed a fistful of Jen's jacket and hauled her with me toward the boat.

Get in! The boat rocked as Jen dove in. I dropped the flashlight in the same. and threw all of my weight into getting the damn thing off the beach. It only took seconds, but I might as well have been moving a mountain. I went armpit deep into the cold water, and with Jen's help, I held myself in. It was a miracle that the motor started right away, and I steered the aluminum boat around the north end of the island.

They didn't follow us into the water. I wasn't a spiritual man, but I could have wept in prayer. They gathered. Sixteen small wasted figures, some scuttling back and forth, while other squatted. as they watched us go. Jen sank down next to me. She didn't care that I was soaked from the sea as she latched on to me and cried her eyes out.

I wrapped my arm around her, but I had to keep looking. I had to keep my eyes on those sickly things until they bled back into the dark forest on Half Moon Island. I wasn't surprised to see Reggie making his way down the hill to greet us when we reached the mainland about 20 minutes later. He reached his hand out and helped Jen from the boat and offered me his hand. I took Jen inside, drew her a hot bath,

made her a cup of tea and gave her a sleeping pill, then changed into something dry and joined Reggie outside on the deck with a bottle of whiskey. Did you really not know what was over there? I heard tell of devils or something. You believed it, though? I saw you trying to wave us back. I grew up, taught to believe in that sort of thing, but I wasn't sure until I saw the look on your face when you motored up. Glass clinked against glass as he poured out a drink. I looked out across the bay to the nightmare we had escaped. It was the chill. children. Hey?

You said Valentine put a curse on that island? He didn't. He cursed those children. Those boys he didn't take with him. He took them over there and killed them, or sacrificed them. Whatever he did, he left them there to protect it. Reggie's bushy white brows came together as he leaned forward. Are you putting me on?

Did you see the state that Jennifer is in? Does it sound like I'm putting you on? I finished off my whiskey and slammed the glass down on the railing. If you want to sit out here and spin you, your latest tall tail be my guest. I'm taking a pill and going to bed. And in the morning, I'm going over there and getting my stuff off that island. You don't have to. I'll go over. You can come with me, but I'm going over. The next day I left Jen to pack a few suitcases. She refused to stay at the house another night, not with Half Moon Island right outside our door.

I wasn't going to argue with her. Even if those things didn't follow us into the water, I didn't feel safe. We'd get a place in town and put the house up for sale. She tried to to talk me out of going back over for our stuff and reasoned that there was nothing of value over there, but I insisted on at least getting her iPad. I had no intentions of taking the tent or anything else. It would stay there as a warning for anyone foolish enough to try to sleep there. If the abandoned campsite didn't deter people as long as it remained, I hoped to sign Reggie and I fashioned would. Death after dark, beware Valentine's children. I added the date and my initials, but I doubt her that would convince anyone foolish enough to do

what I had done. I stood on the periphery of the forest where the children had come from. Reggie stood at my side smoking his umpteenth cigarette. Anyone else might have thought I had staged the whole thing, but not Reggie. He had scanned the prints in the sand and agreed there were small human footprints. I hope I don't live long enough to find out what happens to folks when you don't get off of here before dark. Come on, your woman will be looking to get into town before the sun goes down. That afternoon around supper time, Jen and I got in our car and drove away from our dream house. And I saw Reggie in the rearview mirror looking out at the sea.

Something about his pose gave me a queer feeling, though it wouldn't be another six years before I found out why. The very day the town doctor told Reggie he had terminal lung cancer. Reggie disappeared. His boat was found, beached a few miles up the coast a few days later. His body was never found and it was presumed he gave himself to the sea. That's bullshit. Reggie took his boat over to Half Moon Island and waited for the sun to go down. I went over myself a week after the memorial service.

I went early in the morning by Kayak. I found Reggie's initials, and the date painted on that sign. And I found a half-finished bottle of his homemade wine at the base. He went to see for himself what had driven my wife and I into town. To see for himself whether Valentine had really cursed those boys to protect his treasure. Reggie went looking for those children. and he found them. And his disappearance is now another story

people around here tell about half moon islands. It's time to rest on our dark journey. We thank you for joining us. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the nosleeppodcast.com

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