The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E04

Episode Date: December 3, 2017

It's episode 04 of Season 10. On this week's show we have five tales about deep dryness, fiendish forests, and medicinal memories. "My Son Brought Something Home From the Woods"† written by Harrison Prince and performed by Mary Murphy & Erika Sanderson & Dan Zappulla & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:02:00) "An Out of Place Artefact at Toltec Site Three"‡ written by Samuel J. Allen and performed by Jeff Clement & Elie Hirschman & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:36:00) "To Dust"† written by David Skulich and performed by David Cummings & Nichole Goodnight & Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 01:13:00) "Don’t Become a Fire Lookout in Montana"¤ written by J.P. Carver and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erin Lillis & Matthew Bradford & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 01:40:00) "After The Curtain Called"† written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Mick Wingert & Mary Murphy & Nikolle Doolin & Atticus Jackson & Erin Lillis & Peter Lewis & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 02:09:00) 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 Mary Murphy   Click here to learn more about J.P. Carver   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "My Son Brought Something Home From the Woods" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke 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 deep dryness, fiendish forests, and medicinal memories.

It's my pleasure to introduce a new voice actor to the show. Mary Murphy is an actor and voiceover artist who can be heard on Disney Jr.'s Octonauts, PBS Kids, Past, Present, Mouth Media, Leapfrog, Muzzy, and Various Audio Dramas and Audio Books. She recently appeared in the play near Nellie Blyne, and is currently performing with Quick with Quick Silver Theater. She also performs regularly with Fireside Mystery Theater and can be heard on their podcast series and Midnight Shorts program. Welcome to No Sleep, Mary. Thanks for sharing all your voices with us. And speaking of Mary's voice, she's leading off our first story of Season 10, episode four. The stories are ready, so let's start the journey. In our first tale, we meet a mother who is

concerned about her young son. As author Harold Prince explains, the boy seems to be far more interested in his imagination than real life. After a trip to the forest, the mother wonders if the lines between his imagination and reality are becoming blurred. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Erica Sanderson, Dan Zepula, and Jeff Clement. So let's hear this tale from the mother who tells us, My son brought something home from the woods. My husband and I always wanted our son to be adventurous. They wanted to watch him grow up asking questions about everything, seeking out answers and looking for adventure.

It seems like whenever parents have a deep desire for how they want their children to be, their children instinctively know and go the complete opposite direction. As Sam grew up, he became very introverted. and would actively ask when it was time for bed. He loved to sleep, and our doctor gave a lot of explanations. All the illnesses had been checked and crossed out before he said, I think he just likes to get away from reality.

He likes his dreams more than he enjoys life. This was at the age of eight. This actually depressed us as parents. What could be so wrong? So uninteresting about his life, that he would come home and just, sleep. The doctor recommended that we plan family activities that were geared towards him as a way to engage him in life. Give him something to be excited about after school. So, for our very first trip,

we decided we would go on a hike, and we considered this a mild introduction to our new family habit. When we told Sam where we were going, he was ecstatic. We knew then that hiking had been the right activity. On Saturday, we threw together some backpacks, lunch, water, and even a magnifying glass, so Sam could inspect everything closely. He was so excited the entire way there. We were all thrilled. When we parked at the trailhead, Sam leapt out of the car and almost ran up the trail without us. I had to call him back so we could keep an eye on him. The hike was short, maybe half a mile, but Sam tried to run it like a marathon. We kept calling for him to come back and check out this bird or this butterfly, or the log that looked like grandpa's face. He would come and look

to humor us, but then run ahead. Eventually, we gave up trying to point things out and let him just run through the woods. We were pleased that he had taken so well to the trip. For once, Charlie and I felt like we knew what we were doing as parents. Anyone who's a parent knows how that feels. We got to the end of the trail and ate our lunch. We were at a ledge along the mountain that was more like a hill. The sun was high overhead, and we could see over the trees for miles. Sam quickly downed his lunch, and we let him run off into the trees. Not too far. He obeyed, and we could always see him. From the rock where we sat,

I watched Sam while Charlie went to the bathroom. I watched Sam pick up sticks, swing them at bushes and tree trunks until the stick broke, and pick up another one. He picked one up that was too short to be swung, but he smiled wide at it and ran around with it in front of him,

using both hands. Finally, he ran over to me. Mom, feel this stick. feel so cool. Oh, yeah? I grinned, taking the stick from him. It was in the shape of a Y, and when I grabbed one of the sides of the Y,

it was perfectly smooth. It looked like someone had taken a knife and whittled a bigger branch down into this smooth, slingshot-shaped stick. The two sides of the Y were curved, almost like bicycle handlebars. That's very smooth. He looked at me funny.

and ran back into the woods to keep playing. We packed up lunch, stuffed everything back in the backpacks, and announced that we were ready to hike back. Sam came back without a fuss, and we began walking down the trail. Instead of running ahead, Sam lagged behind, still clutching the Y-stick. He held it in front of him with both hands as before, and was swinging it around slowly, as if it were a magnifying glass, and he were searching for something.

Come on, Sam. Charlie encouraged him gently when he stood in one place for too long. We both had to stop because he had fallen so far behind. He was pointing his stick into the trees, arms outstretched. He kept looking from the stick to the trees, as if trying to line something up.

We both waited patiently for a few seconds, but the heat was getting to us, and we were ready for an air-conditioned car. Sam, honey, let's go. Okay. But he didn't move. Charlie sighed and walked back to him. He put his hands on both of Sam's shoulders

and guided him down the trail. The whole time, Sam kept both hands firmly on the stick and tried his best to point it back towards the trees where he'd been looking. He didn't point it towards where he had been standing, I noticed later, but at a spot past the trail and into the trees,

always at one position. Charlie finally got him to where I was, and we kept walking. Sam eventually stopped pointing his stick and instead kept it down in front of him. Both hands still being used to hold either side of the Y.

We drove home, pleased that Sam was taking home a souvenir. Our day trip had worked. He was getting involved with life. We were one step closer to our adventurous sun. Over the next couple of days, lots of things started happening. They all seemed disjointed and not connected in the moment. Later, memory would connect them for me.

Sam went back to his sleeping routine. He would come home from school, go into his room, and play for a bit by himself while dinner was being made. I got him to work on homework, then served dinner when Charlie got home. After that, he went straight to bed by his own choice. This wasn't abnormal for him, so I wasn't any more concerned than usual. A few nights after we got home, I noticed that Sam's bedroom light was on, even though he'd gone to bed hours ago.

His door was closed, so I went to go and turn off his light for him. I figured he might have left it on when he felt. asleep or something. The second I opened the door, Sam leapt off the floor and jumped into bed, like he knew he was in trouble. It was only seven in the evening. I wasn't about to yell at him for not going to bed when he said he was. His rapid jump into bed had me worried, though. Sam, what's wrong? Nothing! I looked around the room and saw what I always saw. His toys were out and lined up in some game he must have been playing. Nothing was out of place or irregular.

You jumped up as soon as I came in. Anything wrong? No. Okay. He looked at me with untold terror in his eyes. Are you sure nothing's wrong? I can hang out with you for a bit if you want. He stared right through me.

His eyes wide. It took him a few seconds to reply. No, mother. I'm going to go to bed now. Can you turn out the light? I blinked. He's never called me mother in his life. I should have pushed myself in and sat on his bed

and talked until he admitted what was wrong. But I didn't. Charlie called my name and it distracted me. I wished him good night, turned off the light, and shut the door. Talking later on with Charlie about it, Charlie thought that maybe he had somehow discovered masturbation, even at his young age. When you rub around on the floor the right way, it just happens.

Apparently, that's how he had discovered it. So I talked the situation up to that. Sam also kept carrying that Y stick around everywhere. He always kept it within reach. During dinner, he kept it on the table. When I told him that sticks don't belong on the dining room table, he kept it on his chair next to him. He took it to bed and kept it next to his head. He even took it to school. I tried fighting him on it once, but he claimed he was taking it to show and tell.

I was about to insist that he leave it home, but he looked like he might cry if I came down firm. So I led him on the condition that if his teacher mentioned it to me, that I'd make him leave it home. He agreed. One day, Charlie was taking out the garbage and the bag caught on the door jam. The contents of the bag spilled all over the floor. And he quietly cursed and went to get another bag. That was when he found about 20 of Sam's toys in the trash. They varied from stuffed animals to action figures. Confused, Charlie asked me if I had thrown them away or was punishing Sam for something. I told him no, and was equally puzzled. Sam, for some unknown reason, had been throwing his own toys away.

Together, after dinner, we sat down with Sam at the table to ask about the toys. We saw it as a cry for help. They were selected. They weren't doing a good enough job, so they were fired. Their time was up. Charlie told Sam that we don't throw toys away because they cost money, and we don't waste things. Sam nodded, but I saw his hands clutched the sides of the Y-stick tightly under the table. He was stressing. Something was going on. We ended the conversation on a

light note, and Sam understood why we were upset. He promised not to throw away any more toys, then ran off to bed. I just remember thinking how strange the sentence was. Their time was up. that was an adult's line, not something you hear from kids. Sam's school sent an email to all the parents. About two weeks after our hiking trip, the principal pleaded with parents to not let their children come to school if their child was sick. As there was a very serious flu going around the school, he even admitted that five teachers and 30 students had been sick over the last week alone.

I showed it to Charlie, but he didn't find it as weird. as I did. Hand sanitizer breeds superbugs. Just tell Sam to wash his hands more often. The final straw for me came a few nights later. It was a Wednesday night when I woke up for no reason. Charlie was snoring next to me. But in a lull between snores, I heard a whisper.

Fear seized my throat. And I lifted my head off the pillow slowly to peer at the bedroom door. Someone moved in the dark, stumbling along, someone small and short. Sam, irritated, I got up and walked to the door. I saw Sam skip away, as if he were crossing a field of spiders and was desperate not to get any on his shoes. Sam! I walked out after him. I turned the corner into the family room, but he wasn't there.

I heard bare feet race across a kitchen floor, and that made me angry. A little shit was hiding from me. I walked through the family room and noticed that the clock on the wall was way louder than usual. Or maybe I was hypersensitive because I was exhausted. When I entered the kitchen, Sam was facing me. He stood next to the fridge, and the small LEDs on it lit up his expression. He was terrified. and his little Y stick was pointed right at me.

Sam, it's late. Go back to bed. I need water. He looked at me with wide eyes. It was an obvious lie, but one not abnormal for kids caught up past their bedtime. Okay. And get some water. Can you get it? He still clutched the stick and pointed it my way.

He must have seen my mom. look. Please. I walked forward, and that's when I noticed that he pointed the stick around me. He was pointing at something behind me. I whirled around really fast and stared into the empty darkness of the family room. The clock was still noticeably loud. It sounded like a person saying the actual words.

I looked around the room for a full 30. seconds, nothing moved. What are you doing up, Sam? I turned back to face him. He looked at me with real, true terror in his eyes. The stick was shaking in his hand. Sam. It's not time yet.

I'm not ready yet. For half a second, I wondered if he was pretending to sleepwalk. Then I wondered if he actually was sleepwalk. walking. Then my tiredness washed over me, and I got irritable again. It's time for bed. I walked towards him. Still, he kept his eyes behind me, and the stick pointed into the family room. Okay, okay. He took slow, unwilling steps towards a family room. I stood behind him, watching to make sure he went to bed. I saw his head look back. Back and forth, scanning the room as he entered.

He was looking for something. He looked back at me with uncertainty. Suddenly, he screamed. Mom, watch out! I instinctively whirled around, hands up and ready to attack whatever was there. Nothing. Nothing but darkness and the far kitchen wall. I ground my teeth and glared down at him.

He was still shrews. shaking, pointing his stick into the empty kitchen. I was beyond annoyed now. This stick had been out of control for weeks. I think you need a break from this. I snatched the stick from his hand. No, no! Sam practically leapt at me, but I jumped out of the way.

This was the only way, I assured myself. This stick wasn't healthy at all. No! He cried and yelled, following me. me through the family room and into the hall. All the attention that he pointed into the kitchen was now directed at me. He tried to jump and grab at the stick, but I held it above my head. I felt like a teenage older sibling teasing my younger brother, but this was necessary. I regretted waking Charlie up, but I pushed my way into my room, tossed the stick onto the floor,

and turned back to get Sam out. Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me, give it to me. me. He demanded without taking a breath. I pushed him out and shut the bedroom door. I flipped the lock on the handle and sighed. What's going on? I took the stick away. He was playing with it all night. Sam was pounding on the door. I convinced Charlie that we should ignore him. Let him tire himself out, and tomorrow we would lecture him. He verbally agreed, though I could sense that he did. He did. He did. He a degree inside. It took an hour, but Sam gave up and we went to sleep. The next morning, my throat felt like I had swallowed sandpaper. The flu, of course. My stomach rumbled and roused me out of bed. I found myself starting to run to the master bathroom after my stomach turned nauseous.

I puked up spaghetti from dinner the night before. Stumbling out of the bathroom, I stumbling out of the bathroom, I had to move aside for Charlie, who couldn't make it to the toilet and threw up into the sink. Not you too. I haven't been this sick since I was a kid. I rubbed my eyes, still tired from Sam's ordeal last night, and got in the shower with the lights off, hoping it would help my light sensitivity. Charlie decided to call in sick and rest for the day. I got dressed so I wouldn't lounge around in my pajamas all day, feeling even more sick. When I was completely ready, I unlocked the door and stepped out. Sam was nowhere in sight, which meant he had gone back to bed. Good. Sam, I hope you're getting ready for school. No reply. I went to his room and found the door shut, as usual.

I twisted the handle and pushed, but the door was stuck. The hell? Using my shoulder, I shoved hard against the door. I heard a clatter, and the door opened. As I entered, I saw three things right away. One, a chair had been placed under the door handle, preventing it from opening easily. Two, the window was wide open with the screen missing. And three, Sam wasn't in his room. We called the police immediately after searching the house.

from top to bottom. If we hadn't called them, I have no idea where we would have started. Should we have driven around, looking for him? Called his friend's houses to see if they knew where he was? The police were helpful. And I spent a miserable half day sitting by the phone, puking my guts out and worrying about Sam. The police were out driving around, searching for Sam with his picture taped to their dashboards. Charlie was dead asleep when I wandered into the bedroom, debating lying down, but I couldn't sleep while Sam was missing. The sickness would let me, of course,

but the guilt of falling asleep while this was going on was too much. I saw the stick, which had landed partially under the bed when I threw it last night. All this because of a stick? Maybe the doctor was wrong. Maybe he did have something wrong with him, but it was not. mental, psychological. Maybe instead of a doctor, we should take him to a psychologist. In an attempt to stay awake, I decided to search the house for the 15th time.

This time, I carried the stick with me. Sam? I said it loud enough to be heard while I walked through the family room, kitchen, and to the stairs. Maybe he was hiding in the storage room downstairs. Maybe behind a few boxes. Sam, I have your stick. I'm sorry I took it. Please come out. Mommy is really worried. You aren't in trouble. I descended the stairs, and halfway down, I thought I heard him reply. It was faint, far away. The words were impossible to make out. Sam? I cried desperately, spinning around on the stairs to try and figure out if he was upstairs.

or downstairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a leg dart around the corner at the bottom of the stairs towards the storage room. My hunch was correct. I sped down the stairs and turned the corner. The door was locked.

I tried to twist the handle, but he had locked it. Sam, honey, open the door, please. I pleaded, while reaching for the key at the top of the door frame. When he didn't unlock the door, I stuck the key in and twisted. The door popped open to reveal our pitch black storage room.

The room was in the middle of the house and had no windows. It contained our water heater and the control system for the heat and AC. The room was so large, though, that Charlie had built shelves for us to keep our seasonal decorations, our camping supplies, and extra food and water. Sam? I said more quietly. feeling uneasy. Something about the room was getting to me.

How does the clock tick, mother? I froze. The word mother made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Something's not right. Something's not right. Sam, come on out now. Lights spilled in from the doorway, but it didn't illuminate enough of the room for me to search.

I slowly stepped toward the center of the room, where a string hung down from a single bulb in the ceiling. With one hand, I kept a hold of the stick. With the other, I reached out to search for the string. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there somewhere. Suddenly, the door slammed shut, and at that exact instant, my hand brushed against hair, long, greasy, hair, at my shoulder height. Sam wasn't that tall.

The hair was tangled and long. I yelped and jumped back, startled by the door and the hair simultaneously. Do you know how the clock ticks? It came from my left, along the wall. The hair had been to my right. What else was in here with us? I was paralyzed. I couldn't see a damn thing.

My phone was upstairs, so I couldn't use that as a flashlight. The ceiling light was somewhere in front of me, and the door was somewhere behind me. Every time I started to reach out, I remembered touching the greasy hair and recoiled. Charlie! Instantly remembered the sound the clock had me the night before. It was the same voice, faintly a voice, and faintly background noise at the same time. Sam? I had to throw up again.

I swallowed bile and felt one more time for the string. It brushed my hand, and I jumped back before realizing that I was feeling string, not greasy hair. Resolutely, I launched my hand out and grabbed at the string. It swung into my hand, and I yanked on it hard. The single bulb buzzed to life, and something moved to my right. I screamed at the top of my lungs when I saw white and black. It's taken me a long time to place the shape, but now I'm certain. A deer skull partially covered by stringy hair, darted away from the light, circling behind me.

In absolute terror, I squeezed my eyes shut and didn't dare open them. In the battle for fight or flight, I turned into the ostrich, burying my head and hoping it I didn't see me. I started sobbing. I wanted to run for the door, but I was too scared to open my eyes. Mommy? Sam called for my left. I didn't respond. I was sobbing too hard. I'm stopped. Very, very, very slowly. I moved one finger and looked to the side. Sam was huddled up on the top shelf. I couldn't see his face. But I saw jeans and his favorite shirt. Come down and let's go. I can't. It's going to get me.

I tried hard not to sob again. Come and get me, please. I fought through the terror and stepped toward the shelf, still covering my face and using a small gap in my fingers to navigate. When I reached the shelf, I closed my eyes and held my arms up. Climb into my arms, Sam. I'll get you down and we'll go get your dad. I'm stuck.

My shirt is caught. Okay. Okay. Guide my hand to where it is and I'll let you loose. He paused. It's at the back of the shelf. You can't reach. I bit my lip to stop its trembling.

With both eyes still closed, I placed my hands on the top shelf and my foot on the bottom. bottom shelf. The stick was placed on the shelf so I could use both my hands. I hoisted myself up so I could reach and balanced precariously. Where is it, honey? I refused to open my eyes. Reach here. I could feel him rotate so I could reach over him. I did, and my hand ran straight into a mess of tangled, creasy hair. My eyes opened in shock. It stared back at me for only a millisecond. In that millisecond, it spoke.

Not with words, but in my head. The shelf under my feet collapsed. And as I fell, my hands pulled the shelf until it toppled over, coming down on top of me. I woke up in the hospital, much to Charlie and Sam's relief. It was a tumult of information and questions. They asked why I was down there. And instead of sounding insane, I said that I'd been searching for Sam again just in case.

Sam had been found walking on the road in the general direction of the hiking spot. He wasn't very far, thankfully, and was unharmed. When Charlie practically yelled, asking why the hell he had left in the middle of the night alone, Sam said he needed to find another stick to stop the monsters. The police were, of course, recommending that he talked to a psychologist. They'd overheard the conversation. Charlie didn't wake up until the police were at our door with Sam in hand.

That was about an hour after the shelf had collapsed on me. Sam and Charlie had gone looking for me in the house and found me under the collapsed shelving. Police had been right there, thankfully, and I was rushed off to the hospital. Some of my ribs were broken, and so was my left leg. The shelf that had collapsed on me Had held our camping tent The fake Christmas tree

And a few other half-empty boxes I was lucky that it wasn't the food storage shelving The door was locked when they got to it And the key wasn't in the lock So they had to break it down The second Sam saw the scene He apparently stood over me in a protective stance Looking all around

Charlie left to get the police before they left upstairs A couple of days after I got released from the hospital, and after Charlie had recovered from a flu that knocked him off his feet, I got to talk to Sam. I asked him outright what had been going on. It took a few minutes of him denying that anything was wrong. I saw the monster. You did?

I nodded. You and Dad never saw them before. When did you see them? Them? Sam told me what had been happening. for the last few weeks. He had stumbled upon the stick by literally tripping over it. It had spoken to him, and he took it to play with it. Whenever he had the stick, he could see the monsters. They were scary, but they stayed away when I pointed the stick at them. A few of them had

followed us home, walking alongside us on the trail. They came into the house at night and snuck around. They came into Sam's room, our room, everywhere. They told me that someone had to die. They told me that you had to die. So he offered the monsters' toy sacrifices to satiate their hunger, but they were unsatisfied. Whenever I had the stick, I could feel them try to grab me. But they stayed away whenever I had the stick. They kept telling me your time was up.

Whose time? yours, mommy? They sat with him at night and chanted tick-tock at him. They tried to convince him to put the stick down. They offered him candy that the big, blurry man pulled out of thin air. At school, they followed him

and said they would hurt people until he put away the stick. Five teachers and 30 students got the flu while they threatened that. He held on to the stick as often as he could. and patrolled the house at night to keep them out of my room. That was until I took the stick. Apparently, he had grabbed the stick from a skeleton in the woods. It looked like an animal skeleton.

He had seen another one just like it when he got the first one. So he was going to go back and get the second one so the monsters would stop smiling. One had followed him on the streets, he said. But now they were all gone. and after looking through the mess of the collapsed shelving, so was a stick. Sam told his psychologist about our conversation. His psychologist told me very angrily that I should not have admitted anything like that because it fed into his delusions.

He was being looked at for possible schizophrenia. I'm thinking I should be tested too. How else do I explain everything that happened? One detail stands out that I can't explain. I had unlocked the door to the storage room and left the key in the handle. So why was the key found dangling from the light bulb string? Archaeological digs can help us understand civilizations from the past and how they lived. But as author Samuel J. Allen shares,

when one archaeologist working on a remote dig site uncovers a strange object, he finds himself experiencing the past in the most disturbing manner. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Ellie Hirschman, and Atticus Jackson. So it's time to learn about the object, which is called an out-of-place artifact at Toltec Site 3. You might have heard of out-of-place artifacts before, possibly on some absurd history channel documentary about ancient alien astronauts, laylines, intergalactic travel, or other similar nonsense. The most common is that these items travel across vast and unexpected distances via trade, often illuminating previously unknown human connections,

or from the diaspora of ancient peoples as they move throughout the world. Other times it can be down to a lone traveler and their solo journey introducing new technologies or decorative techniques thousands of miles from their homeland. There are some that are a little harder to explain, and there's a wealth of literature, both academic and more speculative, dedicated to solving the mystery of how items are found in unexpected places. I'm no expert on the subject. My career in archaeology has been much more banal, but I like to think I have a story worth telling on the matter.

The following is my best recollection of how I found my first and only out of life. place artifact, and my subsequent efforts to piece together its history and explain its rather unique properties. The dust was thick and cloying in the afternoon heat, and I was drenched and sweat, cursing myself for agreeing to come to a dig in Mexico during mid-summer. The opportunity, as far as I saw it anyway, had been too good to pass up, though. We were working in what had been a tiny village, though even calling it a village was probably a stretch, about 15 miles from Tula, the capital of the Toltec Empire. I won't bore you with the complete historical details,

but the archaeological site I was going to had provided much of what we knew about this unknown and mysterious civilization, which began to decline around 900 years ago, though even that is debatable. The Toltec came before their more famous counterparts, the Aztecs and the Incas, and we knew very little about their culture, trade, and belief systems, which is what made the opportunity so attractive. This is my chance to piece together a lost part of history,

and I needed to go on just one more dig to complete my thesis work. A win-win, or so I thought. As a Seattle native used to constant rain and gray clouds, the idea of scorching yellow sun and endless blue sky had appealed to me. Not anymore. By lunchtime of day one, the skin on my face and arms was already red and modeled. Even with the copious amounts of sunscreen I'd meticulously applied. By day three, I was well and truly burnt. My skin peeling and so sensitive it was.

agony to carry my backpack, even on the short hike from the camp area to the dig site. My own fault for working without a shirt on. We'd set up plans and distributed the excavation equipment for three trenches at different points across the village over the first several days. One on the northeast side, which according to the ground penetrating radar our university had just expensively acquired, was likely some sort of town square or, area of congregation, and where our main hopes of finding some kind of breakthrough were focused. Another trench was placed over what appeared to be typical homestead, situated in the northeast

close to a small river. What remained was no more than a few blocks from a stone foundation, the clay, mud, and thatched roof long since eroded, but we hope to uncover animal bones, pottery fragments, possibly even corprolite. fossilized human shit, in case you're wondering, which would allow us a glimpse into lifestyle, diet, and family makeup. The final dig site was in the far southwest corner, which was the most remote and difficult to access location. The GPR hadn't really given us anything of particular note in the pre-analysis, but its close proximity to the forest edge was certainly unusual. Despite the lack of evidence for any solid structures in the surrounding area,

a defined circular arrangement of jagged rocks and weather-worn boulders surrounding the remote location suggested some unknown significance to this specific site. It was isolated, but at least the shade from the trees would give me some relief from the sun, so I decided to volunteer to take charge of what was to become Toltec Site 3, As it was the most difficult to access and coupled with the fact, few of us held in a real hope of unearthing anything worthwhile, it was just me and one undergrad who'd been assigned, a tall skinny kid named Max.

This was his first time in the field, and as soon as I met him, on the evening of day three, he seemed completely disinterested. I think he was just glad to be away from the main group. I'd heard rumors of Max's plagiarism, and lack of participation through his freshman year. Though as it was unconfirmed, I decided I couldn't hold it against him. But, true or not, the vibe from the rest of the teams left me in no doubt as to his unpopularity.

That wasn't any real concern to me. Not yet. I just wanted someone who'd work hard and do as they were told. Unfortunately, I got neither. On day four, the excavations began in earnest. I was up around six, hoping to make a quick start and break for lunch well before the sweltering noon heat. I left my tent and had to shield my eyes from the sun as it poked above the horizon, illuminating the surrounding hills and swaths of orange, amber, and gold.

It was beautiful, though not a good omen for my sunburn, I decided. The food so far hadn't been anything special, but the smell coming from the camp kitchen tent that morning was more than enticing. It was almost heavenly. After surviving the first few days on insipid prison-style stew and flavorless rice cooked in what looked like an oil barrel, I was grateful to start the day off with something more substantial.

After a quick breakfast of bacon and strong coffee, I went to find Max. His tent was undisturbed. His boots were outside, and there was no sign of movement. Without the convenience of a doorbell or knocker, the best thing I could do was to shout through the thin material and give his guy lines a little shake. Nothing. I tried once more, and after a few minutes,

I heard a faint stirring from inside. And a moment later, Max unzipped the inner netting and poked his head out. His scrawny chest bare. He spoke before I could admonish him for sleeping late. Bad headache. Can't work today. He sounded like a three-year-old. You better not be serious.

It's just me and you at Site 3. Sorry, I get these cluster headaches sometimes. Nothing I can do. I should be okay in a couple of days. He looked at me sheepishly before. for retreating into the tent. What could I do? The excavations had been planned,

workloads assigned and manpower distributed. Site three was so far down on the list of anyone else's priorities that I knew I wasn't getting a replacement. It was either scrap any work at Site 3 altogether, or go it alone. After a moment's deliberation, I decided on the latter. With me in sole charge, didn't have to second-guess any decisions,

worry about Max fucking anything up, and most importantly, would be the recipient of all the acclaim if by some miracle I found anything worthwhile. Selfish, I know, but this was the sort of thing that could really kickstart the career of an eager archaeologist

just about to receive his doctorate. I packed a sandwich and some fruit into my bag and made my way to the site alone. As it was the first time I'd made the first time I'd made the walk by myself, it struck me just how isolated Site 3 was, at least a 20-minute walk from camp and south, away from the small town we'd stopped at en route to resupply the food stores. There was an eerie calm when I arrived, and the silence was almost ominous. No bird song, nor the incessant chirping of cicadas from the dense forest, left me with a feeling

of unease. But I soon filled the silence with my trance. trusty wind-up radio, one of the benefits of working alone, and thought little more of it. The day itself was unremarkable. It was hot, of course, though the shade from the trees did help a little. I'd hand-dug a trench, six feet by three feet, to a depth of about two feet by early afternoon, but hadn't found anything worth taking a second look at. Though if there was anything to find, it would undoubtedly be much deeper. I took some photographs and made some brief notes on the process so far, recording measurements and positions which reformed the beginnings of a Harris matrix.

After breaking for lunch, the afternoon went much the same way, and I was beginning to think that Site 3 was going to be a complete waste of time. By early evening, I began using my trowel to scrape away the thick, dense mud buried beneath the softer soil for the first few feet of the excavation. My body was aching, and I wasn't at all looking forward to the prospect of another fortnight of toiling out here for nothing. Just as I was about to call it quits, the tip of my trowel brushed against something hard buried in the mud, which once exposed had been baked even harder by the heat of the day, at the southern end of the trench. My first thought was to ignore it until tomorrow, but curiosity and the desire for something, anything to report to the

other teams, got the best of me, and I knelt closer. As I carefully dug around the unknown object, I heard the familiar scrape of metal on metal. This sent my heart racing. I'd expected no more than a rock, perhaps ceramic or pottery at best. A metal artifact, very. this deep would be a rare find, no matter what it was. I moved more quickly then, forgetting the ache in my back and the growing cramp in my legs, and began stabbing at the dirt in my eagerness to unearth whatever this treasure might be. A few minutes later, I had uncovered a partial hilt and base of a thick, metallic sword. This wasn't something I'd accept. expected. What little I knew of the ancient weaponry of the Toltec was confined to decorative

prestige items of bronze, silver, and sometimes even gold. This sword looked to be a plain, functional, but nondescript steel, without a hint of flare or decoration usually associated with similar weapons of the period. I examined the unburied handle a little more closely and made out two distinct forms of inscription. One looked to be far eastern, maybe Chinese or Japanese, but nothing I was familiar with. The other was a complete mystery, no more than a few linear notches edged into the metal. I made a quick sketch in my notepad, copying in the symbols as best I could for later study. The light was fading fast, and although I wanted to excavate the sword in its entirety, I couldn't do so in the dark, let alone get back to base. Wary that if I got lost in the darkness,

it'd be almost impossible to find my way until dawn. I quickly gathered my equipment, hammered down a covering sheet over the exposed sword handle, and began the hike back towards camp. On my arrival, I made some brief pleasantries with guys from sites one and two, who were chatting excitedly about pot shards and colorful bead necklaces, but decided to keep the discovery of the sword hilt to myself. I really don't know why, even now. I suppose I could justify it by saying I wasn't quite sure what it was yet, or that I didn't want to tell half a story, but honestly, it felt nice to have this secret. I was also conscious of the other doctoral candidates taking too keen of an interest in what I had found, and mumbled about unearthing nothing

about a pile of rocks when pressed above my day's excavation. After a meal of hurriedly eaten bland and watery chili, I made my excuses and headed back to my tent. As I sat struggling with the laces of my muddy boots, my notebook fell to the ground. I opened it and studied the symbols in the dying light of the evening. The pencil drawings were crude, but close enough to what had been engraved into the metal.

I briefly considered asking Teresa, a more senior archaeologist on the dig who had studied at Hokkaido University in northern Japan, if she had any idea what they might mean. I decided against it, as this would lead to unwelcome questions about why I wanted to know, something I wasn't yet ready to explain. With my boots finally off, I unzipped the outer meshing and crawled into the tent. After the exertion of the day, I was eager for my sleeping bag and fell into deep slumber almost immediately. It was that night I had the first of many dreams to come, and I still remember it as clearly as if it happened only yesterday. A youngish man with wild, untamed hair blowing in the wind stood atop a hill overlooking a deep, untouched face. valley, the long dusk shadows hiding something strong across his back. As the sun dipped below the horizon, he made his way down towards a thick copse of trees.

After a few minutes of stalking quietly beneath the leafy canopy, he came upon a clearing. Above the breeze and the rustling of foliage came the sound of voices, speaking softly in a language I couldn't understand, in the light of a small fire, which sent shadows dancing into the growing gloom, a camp. The man waited, masked within the cover of the trees, silent, sentinel-like, until nightfall. It was getting colder. I could see the cloud of his breath on every rhythmic exhalation, and I, too, somehow felt the hint of a chill. The fire long extinguished.

He waited until the moon had risen high enough to illuminate the clearing and crept forward. It was then that I saw what he had slung from his slight shoulders. It was a sword. Sliding it slowly from the scabbard tied across his back, he approached the crowd of still bodies huddled close for warmth. It was hard to tell in the shadow. But from the intermingling of their breath, there looked to be around four adults and two small children. The young man held the sword at his side, watching the huddle of sleepers with wide eyes.

He was mouthing some unknown phrase over and over, like some silent prayer. His face, so serene while he waited for the moon to rise, had taken on deathly pallor. while his calm, rhythmic breathing became labored, his predacious stalking movements erratic. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to regain composure. With a sudden and unexpected quickness, he raised the sword above his head,

eyes still closed, and with both hands hacked downwards, ferociously, over and over. In a matter of seconds, the pile of sleeping bodies was nothing more than a red ruin. His eyes opened, and he surveyed the destruction around him. He saw a dying man lay prone beneath him, blood seeping from half a dozen wounds across his head and torso, trying in vain to sit up.

The wild man placed his foot on the man's chest and shoved him backwards roughly, before driving the sword through his right eye and into the hard ground below. The wild man stood motionless for a moment, leaning forward onto the sword for support. Then he fell to one knee as if in reverence before rising and ripping the sword

out from the base of the decimated skull before him. The eye socket, no more that a crue. crimson hollow. Minutes later, the wild man sat on the ground among the carnage, with the sword laid across his lap, trying to catch his breath. Grabbing the thick, blood-dabbled fur-skin cover from one of the nearby corpses, he lay on his back, the sword at his side, gazing upwards at the cloudless night sky. He had the strangest look on his face.

one I won't forget until my dying day. It was a mixture of fear, horror, elation, and something more. It was then I jolted awake, wrapped in my sleeping bag, once again drenched and sweat, despite the drop in temperature after sundown. My heart was beating fiercely in my chest, and I tried desperately to hang on to the memory of what I just dreamed. I used dream and not nightmare because I wasn't scared, not for one second. Quite the opposite. The dream had left me feeling inexplicably euphoric.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. I woke early, packed a lunch of dry jerky and chips, and then quietly made my way to site three, just as dawn began to light my way. I saw no need to wait for Max. It wouldn't do to have him slow me down. Not today, if he'd even show. The site was difficult to find through overgrown tangles of trees and bushes

along ancient paths left untrodden for decades. And as Max had never been to Site 3, I hoped he'd stay at camp and join another team for the day. If only he had, things might be so different. now. In my eagerness to get to the sword, I made what had been a 20-minute journey the day before and just over ten, though by my arrival I was breathing heavily and the ache of my legs had returned. All I could think about as I was striding towards Site 3 was pulling the sword from the earthen confines where it had lain for who knows how long and holding it in my hands.

I found the sight undisturbed, and the rapidly rising sun showered the trench in a soft pink and orange glow, the warmth, a welcome respite from the chill of the morning, along the shadowed paths which led to Site 3. The covering sheet was as I left it. I tossed it aside and went to grab my trowel. The digging that morning was tough work. The soil hadn't softened any overnight, and as I had no idea how to be able to be able to, long the sword was, if it was even whole, I didn't know how much time a full excavation would take. After scraping away the thick covering layer of mud, I found the point of the sword.

It was approaching three feet in length and looked to be at least four inches wide. I used the trowel to loosen the underside and carefully remove the excess dirt with a handbrush. I stood over the sword, now free from the dirt, and felt a shiver run through me as the sun was hidden by an uncharacteristic dark cloud blowing in from the west. It was only now that I could see the sword in its entirety. The two unknown symbols carved into the hilt were only a fraction of the delicate inscriptions which covered the grip, the crossguard, and the blade itself. I knelt to pick it up with both hands, expecting something heavy and cumbersome. But to my surprise, I could easily lift it with just my weaker left. I switched it to my favored right hand, swung it left, right, slashed downwards, and jabbed forward like I was in a medieval battle reenactment.

It was only then that it dawned on me that I was probably the first person to hold. hold it in almost a thousand years. And here I was treating it like a children's toy. In my haste to free the sword, I had completely forgotten to document the morning's excavation work, to take any photographs or log any notes or comments to review later. I decided to take some photographs and compile a thorough list of the myriad strange symbols adorning the ancient weaponry. I spent the rest of the morning sketching, paying particular attention to the far-eastern symbols, of which there were several, and some I became sure were Japanese, though I hadn't any idea what they might mean. This was certainly unusual, and just the sort of find which could

propel me into the annals of history, if I could contextualize it. Far Eastern swords, Particularly in Japan, were viewed as a symbol of their carrier's status, signifying rank, and were usually ornamental first and functional second. Not this sword. It was simple, unadorned. It had been made for one thing and one thing only. Killing. From the handle, remarkably still bound with plain beige colored hemp rope.

to the thick, mean blade, which looked impossibly sharp for something which must have been buried for hundreds of years. There was no doubt of its purpose. The style of the sword also perplexed me. It didn't have the typical European shape, nor did it resemble the Tachi or katana of Japan. It seemed both unique and unremarkable at the same time. Questions of origin and forging technique could potentially be answered by the marvel of radiocarbon dating, I decided, once the artifact had been transported back to the U.S. for further study and analysis. As noon approached, I felt the first pangs of hunger and decided to break for lunch under a rapidly graying sky. I ate on the ground beside the trench, the sword at my side, and as I chewed through the jerky, I

felt my eyes grow heavy in the growing gloom. I distinctly remember thinking I must cover the sword and the trench in case of rain. But before I could do so, my eyes closed and I toppled sideways onto the bare dirt into a deep and sudden sleep. I had another dream. The sun had just fallen below the horizon, and the twilight gloom revealed dark clouds overhead and out on a watery horizon. I saw the same wild man as the previous night, but decades older. His once youthful face had become weathered and deeply lined. His long, dark hair had turned to a damp, tangled gray. His arms were thicker too. Chest broad, and despite his advanced age, he moved quickly, straight-backed and confidently along the rocky shore of some unknown sea. He wore a heavy brown shawl, which looked to be

a mixture of flax and cowhide to protect himself from the downpour. The sword once again slung at his back. He paved the jagged rocks underfoot treacherous and slick from the rain and the pounding swell before him, little mind as he strode on towards a sheltered inlet a mile or so down the shoreline. Lightning cracked out over the waves, illuminating the dark and endless body of water in a blinding shock of brilliance. Minutes later, as the wild man approached the inlet, there was the faintest flicker of orange light from within, and a tendril of smoke snaked its way upwards into the night. He slowed his pace, navigating his way silent, predatorily towards the glow. Within a small cave, by the light of a dwindling fire sat a young man with dirty blonde hair, trying in vain to roast a rabbit

on a spit. Beside him a woman, though she really was no more than a girl, with a baby nursing and rest. The wild man stepped into view at the mouth of the cave, unsheathing the sword slowly from the scabbard on his back. The girl looked up, startled at this unexpected presence. The younger man, who was busy by the fire, remained oblivious until the wild man moved forward, menacingly scraping the tip of the sword along the rock walls. The shrill, he... sand echoed through him. He rose quickly, putting himself between the intruder and his family. His eyes searched the ground for a weapon of any kind. He shouted something low and guttural. His voice cracked in the last syllable, betrayed his fear. His hands were shaking as the wild man moved

ever closer. Out of time and out of options, the younger man charged towards the sword, bearing invader. As he came within range, the wild man drove the sword upwards through his stomach, into his rib cage and out through his back, leaving both the hilt and his hands dripping in red. He tried and failed to let him scream. His final gargling breaths choked in blood. The young man's eyes remained open as he started to convulse. And as the invader withdrew the sword from his gut, his lifeless body limped. The girl sat, horrified, motionless near the fire. I could see in the flickering of the dying light her big blue eyes, swimming with tears.

She looked down towards her child, swathed in soft furs, cradled in her arms, and up at the wild man. Her face pleaded with him, and she mouthed strange words I couldn't hear. He was unmoved. A quick slash, ended both mother and child. And the wild man took a place by the embers. He knelt to retrieve the skewered rabbit, still uncooked, and bit through fur and flesh and bone. After he had eaten the meager meal, he stripped the blood-soaked fur still wrapped around the baby and used them to cushion his head from the hard ground.

With the sword beside him, listening to the lashing rain and rolling thunder out across the waves, he slammed, and I awoke. In my waking days, I didn't know what was happening at first. Why had I fallen asleep? How long had I been out for? There was movement behind me and the distant sound of a voice, though I was still lost in the cave of my dream. My eyes opened fully to waning afternoon light, and before me, sharply prodding my shoulder and bellowing over me, stood Max. It was my turn to look up at him sheepishly. Yet as I did, his gaze lowered and he caught sight of the sword. Giving no chance to explain, he began a barrage of questions without waiting for answers.

Oh, wow. What is that? Did you find it here? Where did it come from? How old is it? I was still speechless, sluggish from my afternoon slumber, and couldn't manage more than a grunt and a cursory gesture towards the trench. as I rose. It looks old. What period is it from? Aztec? Inca? Can I see your notes?

You made notes, right? And took pictures? This could be big. Like, really big. He paused for breath. We need to tell the others right away. Did you find this today? Why didn't you leave it in situ?

Will we get a full excavation team out here? Think of the grade I'll get after helping on this excavation. His mouth parted in a grin. I made it to my feet feeling more awake. And why exactly would your grade be affected by this find at all? I looked past him at the trench. His grin wavered. Well, because I'm assigned to Site 3.

The find is as much mine as yours. We share the credit. That's how it works. Then came my fury. It wasn't his find. He hadn't lifted a single fucking finger to help. This was my find. my name would be the one in the books, the journals, the periodicals.

I'd be doing the interviews for Minerva magazine and consulting with Antiquities Management. Not Max. Not fucking Max! He squatted to the ground, rocking forward on his heels, arms outstretched towards the blade. Before his hand had reached the metal, I stooped quickly and firmly grasped the hilt. My eyes now level with his. And in that moment, I saw fear in them. And he must have seen rage in mine. I didn't know why I moved so fast.

Why I didn't want him to touch it. All I knew was that the sword was mine. The look of fear soon turned to panic as I moved towards him, sword in hand. He tumbled backwards, splayed on the dirt. I heard a distant crack of thunders, the sky darkened further overhead, and the air felt almost electric as I stalked towards him. The savage relic grasped tidily at my side. He tried to crawl away on his back, like some stricken crab, but could not gain any momentum. him. He pleaded with me as I stood above him, but with an action, not entirely my own,

I slid the sword into the center of his chest. His cries broke the deathly silence around us, and as I inched the sword deep, his hands grasped desperately the blade, leaving ribbons of blood seeping from his palms and fingers. I pushed downwards until I felt the hard ground beneath him. And as he took his dying breath, the ledge of rain flooded down onto me. And the thunder much closer now roared in my ears. 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 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 journey resumes its descent into the Sleep This night. This audio production is copyright 2017-2018 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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