The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E06

Episode Date: December 17, 2017

It's episode 06 of Season 10. On this week's show we have five tales about tongue-tied terror, aquatic assaults, and buried blackness. "Drool"† written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Addison Peacock & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:02:00) "The Frogs"† written by Emlyn Meredith Dornemann and performed by Eden & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:20:00) "Shelter From the Storm"† written by M.S. Byrd and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Addison Peacock & Dan Zappulla & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:38:30) "The Shark in the Pool"‡ written by Benjamin Robb and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Peter Lewis & Matthew Bradford & Erika Sanderson & Kyle Akers & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:00:50) "The Black Square"¤ written by Matt Dymerski and performed by Peter Lewis & Kyle Akers & Matthew Bradford & Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson & Mike DelGaudio & Atticus Jackson & Mick Wingert & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 01:43:00) 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 Marcus Damanda   Click here to learn more about Emlyn Meredith Dornemann   Click here to learn more about Benjamin Robb   Click here to learn more about Matt Dymerski   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Shark in the Pool" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody 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 Tale. about tongue-tied terror, aquatic assaults, and buried blackness.

Well, with this week's episode done, we're working hard on next week's big Christmas shows. So all I want to say this week is a big thanks to the folks who have sold out our live show in Atlanta next March. We can't wait to join y'all. We'll be skipping with joy down Peach Tree Street. And for the other cities on the tour, tickets are selling briskly, so if you're still, still looking for holiday gifts to give or receive, consider the gift of No Sleep Live this festive season. But you don't need a ticket for episode 6 of season 10. Have a seat. The stories are ready, so let's start the journey. In our first tale, we meet a woman who has recently recovered from surgery. But as author Marcus Demanda explains, she's having difficulty with some of the side effects,

which she finds to be in very poor taste. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock and Ellie Hirschman. So watch your mouth and make sure you don't drool. First entry. I can't help it. It's been going on for weeks now. There I'll be at work, pouring myself a cup of coffee, filing a report, calling one of my base schools.

and it happens. Spit, long trailers of it, creeping from the corner of my mouth like a secret I can't keep. Or I'll be at home, cleaning up, making sure Eli remembers his baseball glove before trotting off to practice. Fixing dinner? Droll. Thick enough to flick with a finger. Dripping into the frying pan with an audible hiss that ruins everything. It's maddening.

It's humiliating, and I cannot stop it. My psychiatrist knows about it. I've been seeing Dr. Weathers since the tumor was diagnosed as malignant. Yesterday, she recommended I write all of this down in a journal, so that's what I'm doing. I'm a single mom. My boy, Eli, is nine years old. And no judgment, his practice field is an eighth of a mile from the house and he walks with a pack of friends, always escorted by one of us moms.

We rotate. I'm a good mother. I have no idea where his father is, and I don't care. My ex-husband is a cheat and a liar. The divorce was finalized only last month right around the time I had the tumor taken out of my head and the drooling began.

I've been a vegetarian since middle school, but my husband wasn't and my son still isn't. I never forced it on him while his father was around, and all the efforts to convert Eli since his father left have failed. So there I was tonight, deep-frying a batch of breaded chicken for my son's dinner. For the first time in 17 years, the smell of poultry didn't sicken me. It actually smelled good. It smelled very good.

We sat down together. I've always insisted on that. We both had our green beans and our scalloped potatoes. But I had mushroom berginon, which is a pain in the ass to prepare it tastes like nothing these days. And Eli had chicken. I think he caught me looking at it, longing for it. He grinned at me, waved a piece of it in front of my face. Come on, Mom. You know you want this.

You know you want it. I was going to slap his hand away. Playfully, you understand, and give him a little smart ass of my own. But then his hand resolved. into sharp focus in front of me. Everything in the background blurring to distortion. I felt the drool coming.

I sucked it in. Then I saw his arm. I saw the half-dried, bloody scuff of his elbow. Eli liked to slide into the bases even when he didn't have to. I smelled the blood. I wanted it. I reached out and snatched his hand.

For a moment, I could see what I was going to do. Pull him in, hold him tight, bite his arm, rip it open. But I recovered myself. God, Eli, you go wash that cut off this instant. Bathroom. Baroxide's under the sink, then soap. Right now. Move it, Eli, it'll get infected.

He opened his mouth to protest. Dinner was fresh on the table. We'd hardly started. I held up my hand to shush him, then drew it back to brush away the drool. Now, Eli, I'll wait. Go? No arguments. He left. As soon as he was gone, I reached over to his plate and took a bite of chicken. I couldn't taste it, and I felt horrible about it. Writing about it now, I feel even worse. It was all I could do to brush aside the guilt when Eli returned, his cut, cleaned, and bandaged.

The doctor warned me about this kind of thing. After the knife goes in and the tumor comes out, Certain changes may occur. Anomalies both mental and physiological. It's to be expected, she promised me. The important thing is to document it. You might forget. Write it down and report it both to me and your regular practice. My days are full.

I'm back at work. I see doctors, my shrink, and my physical therapist. I've got Eli all to myself. There hasn't been too much time to over-analyze which is probably a good thing. I tried to live in the moment. Focus on dinner with my son. It was a task,

shoving down my fancy French vegetarian mushroom bergenion. The scent of chicken hung in the air like a bladed pendulum until Eli finished his dinner. It was a blessing, my son's appetite. But then, little boys can eat like men when they've got their favorite food in front of them. I helped him with his homework. We watched some TV.

He went to bed. I closed myself in my room, fired up the computer. I started writing this. I'm still hungry. God, please. Why am I still hungry? Second entry. Good thing for computers.

I don't know how I'd manage this with pen and paper. I'm wearing a bib tonight. I can't stop it. The backs of my hands are drenched. There's just too much. I slurp it back as much as I can, dry off as much as I can. I tried dehydrating myself, but my tongue would not let me. It cried out to me from the inside, a needful little worm.

An hour without water, and it was like I could feel the thing split from the dryness, forking down the front like the tongue of a snake. I may try alcohol. My hopes aren't high, but I still. seem to want it somehow. I can't explain how or why. The thing in my head demands it. Am I going crazy, doctor? I'm allowing Eli to sleep over out of friends this weekend. It's not safe having him here. I'd never hurt him. My boy is everything to me. But nevertheless, I was afraid of what I might do or of what he might see. I need help, but I don't want to be. I don't want to

to get it. I hope I'll be better tomorrow. I don't want to be locked up. This isn't my fault. Third entry. I never used to drink beer. My husband, Rudy, drank enough for the both of us. It was always the same swill, a local brew called Githsimony Home. It even had a picture of weeping Jesus on the can. I used to have to buy that shit by the crate, 36 cans to the box, and he'd empty two of those boxes in a week. The refrigerator was full. I didn't need anything, but Eli was gone, and I, well, I just had to go to the store.

I didn't know the reason at the time. I only knew that there was something there I wanted. I stuffed cotton balls into my mouth to stem the drooling, shoved a plastic bag full of them into my purse, and got in the car. It was almost nine o'clock. clock when I pushed my empty cart through the entrance of the true value grocery. In no time I found myself in the meat department. I pointed to the bloodiest raw steak I could find behind the glass.

It isn't really blood, Rudy used to tell me. It's myoglobin, a muscle protein, a byproduct of the freezing process. Don't look so grossed out, Lizzie. It sure as hell looked like blood to me. I put it in the cart. But it wasn't enough. I needed something else. I went to the beer aisle, expecting Githemone to call me home. But it didn't. I wanted Pab's blue ribbon. I had to have that.

Funny feeling that way since I'd never had it before. The cotton balls in my mouth swelled. I plucked them out, replaced them. I let the used ones drop to the floor. My eyes were watering. It was like crying. My tongue forced out the fresh cotton completely against the wishes of my own mind. I let them drop too, drooling, wiping my dripping eyes and sucking back spit.

I went to the checkout line, ignoring the looks of pure revulsion I received by everyone I passed. There was a man in front of me getting ready to unload his cart, but after one look at me, he steered into the adjacent lane and allowed me in front of him. I didn't care. The fit seemed to pass as I was driving home. The worm inside my head seemed to settle, knowing it would get what it demanded of me and soon. The drive required me to pass the local park, however,

and there was a little boy sitting on one of the park benches. He couldn't have been a day older than Eli. It wasn't Eli, though. It was Buddy Welsh. I would know. I'm the county truant officer. Buddy had missed 14 days of school in a row. His parents claimed the flu, but they hadn't sent in a doctor's note.

On Monday, if he failed to show up again, I'd be forced to make a home visit. What was he doing there? It was 10 o'clock at night. Stop the car then. The voice of the worm hissed in my mouth. I drove on. I fought the voice down. I went home.

But I didn't call the woman. police. Not then. I didn't even look up the boy on the school server where his address and his phone number were readily available to me. I had more pressing issues. I stumbled into the kitchen. I sheared off the plastic from the raw meat, exposing the blood, also called the purge or the weep according to Rudy, and descended upon it. I licked up the purge my tongue distending like an unhinged joint, writhing across the counter. The taste was faint. hardly a tingle, but the smell was rich and full. I left it on the countertop.

I took a beer. I found Rudy's bottle opener, pewter forged into the likeness of a buxom young beauty with no clothes on, and plotted upstairs to my computer. I had to check something. I was a cop. I had access to certain things, including the complete court records of anyone involved in crimes against children.

The story I wanted was, old, but I followed my instincts, drank my beer. It was pale and cheap, but I could still taste it. I could taste its bitterness with an acuity that might have made my gums bleed with pleasure. It was difficult to tell, smeared as they were in cold steak blood. I found what I was looking for soon enough. All the news fit to print on a recently deceased uncle of mine, executed in state prison by lethal injection. I'd hardly known my uncle John. Johnny, and I'd never delved too deeply into his history. I'm very grateful to the school system and the police department that my unwanted association,

my inadvertent relation to this monster, was never held against me in spite of the age of his victims, or the fact that the trophies he took from them were never found. Uncle Johnny had been in prison awaiting justice since I was in kindergarten. I never thought to visit him until the tumor, which called for the complete amputation of my tongue. He was on his last appeal when I went in to see him, and he'd been taking full advantage of every last legal recourse at his disposal. And I had taken full advantage of that. The law passed in 2006 allowed prisoners who died in custody to donate their organs, but only to family. This made the point of organ donation almost moot. Who knew when they might suddenly need a liver or a kidney

or a heart transplant. How could one coordinate the timing of a prisoner's demise with one's own illness? But my uncle was on death row, and I didn't need a liver or a kidney or a heart. All I needed was his tongue. Turns out, such a thing was indeed possible in modern medicine. The first successful tongue transplant was performed in 2003.

The recipient, it said, never fully regained his sense of taste, but he could eat normally. He could speak. He could live an almost normal life. Uncle Johnny was happy to oblige to demonstrate for the appeals court and the governor his desire to do good

for once in his life. Up until the very end, he maintained that he'd never eaten any part of his victims. One might almost believe it, considering there was nothing tucked away in his freezer or refrigerator when they came for him. Only raw meat.

and Pabst Blue Ribbon, but I know better now. I need to go out again. The worm in my mouth won't be denied. I have to go back to the park, to the boy on the bench, to Buddy Welsh. Had he run away?

Did he have nowhere to go? If I put him out of his misery, might I not silence the monster that wriggles behind my teeth that fills me with this unimaginable. imaginable desire. Can I not save Eli in this way? No, I will not do this. I will not hurt an innocent child. I have one other choice, but first I need to call the police. They'll listen to me. I'm the county youth truant officer after all. Fourth entry. I can do this. I have to. It's not so

impossible. It's not like this tongue is really mine. The reattachment point will be the place to cut. The tissue hasn't fully fused yet. But I don't think I can do it with a knife. I don't think I can do it with pliers. It has to be quick, and I have just the thing. A little handheld true cutter power saw, the one that makes the perfect cut in moments. It'll slice hardwood, plywood, laminated floors, This little motherfucking friend of mine can slice through sheet metal like tissue paper. The worm is kicking. It's almost like it's trying to fight its way out of my head and escape. No problem, little pink asshole.

Sit tight. I'm about to set you free. Drule coats the front of my chest in a blanketing sheen mingled with sweat. I've taken every painkiller in the house. The saw is plugged in. When my fingers stop slipping across the same, saliva-greased keyboard of mine, I'll dry them on cotton balls. I have lots of cotton balls. I have to be careful of my teeth. It would hurt like hell, cutting my teeth on this thing. God, please,

help me miss my teeth. I've called the police and the ambulance. I can hear the sirens. It's now or never. I'm going to switch on this son of a bitch and do this. Before I do, I've got Just one thing to say allowed while I still can. For you, Eli, fuck it. Here goes nothing. Bating your hook, casting your line, and sitting back to wait. It's all part of the relaxing recreation we call fishing. But as author Emlyn Meredith Dornamon explains,

when a woman and her young brother go fishing one day, the reason for the excursion is anything but relaxation. Performing this tale are Eden and Erica Sanderson. So reel in the fish if you can, because you're also out there with the frogs. To my right, there are loud cars and horns and constant sirens, but in front of me, there's a sign that says nature trail and faded yellow paint. It looks dingier every day.

As I stepped down the dirt and stone staircase, the trees blot out the sounds of the city. The trail follows the river, but I ignore what most people would consider perfectly good spots of cleared trees and still water for the place I always catch the most fish. The key to all of this is efficiency. There's a rustling behind me, and I hear uneven steps a ways back. I ignore it. I have my fishing pole. The frogs know it is in their best interest to let me fish.

To fish, I need to be. alive. But I've never heard one run before. Before I can start running myself, it has wrapped its arms around me and I raised my fishing pole to strike it with the handle. Tommy! It's just Toby. I stopped myself from cracking my little brother's skull with the end of my pole. Jesus, fuck Toby. I sigh and I can feel the tingle of adrenaline in my chest. Don't sneak up on me like that. You were supposed to take me with you. You were supposed to take me with you. The sweet smile of greeting is replaced with a temper tantrum face.

Daddy said you had to take me with you. He's carrying his expensive junior fishing rod and has a bandana tied around his neck. Dad doesn't know what he's talking about. I look at the sky and wonder if I have time to drag Toby home before the sun sets. If I did that, he'd kick and scream and we'd bring the whole forest with us. The frogs know if I fished and if I leave without fishing, We're targets. The frogs don't care if I plan on coming back later.

Toby can't go home. At least, in theory, will be more efficient. Daddy said you had to... I know what Daddy said. Daddy thinks you become a man at six. So on Toby's birthday yesterday, Dad gave him the most expensive junior fishing rod on the market. I had to fight Dad to get me a rod when I turned 11,

three years ago, and even then, I'd be better off with a stick and a string than the POS rod that he got me. Don't get too far behind me and be quiet. Let's go. Toby stands up straight and smiles a smile that's too cute to be bratty. I roll my eyes and try to keep up the tough big sister act. Once we're a little further into the park, we start to smell it.

The fish rotting on the sunbanked stones that line the river. Either I overfish or the frogs really like the flies and the smell. I pull my bandana up over my nose, which never really helps, but it makes me feel better. I look over at Toby to see he's struggling to keep a bandana on his nose because the knot is too loose. He must have pulled it out of my hamper before he followed me. I put down my rod and tackle box and kneel to retie it. I pull the first knot tight against his head. Too tight?

No-uh. I tie the second knot to keep it in place. Don't mess with it or the knot will come loose. If it falls off, I'm not retire. it. You'll just have to deal with the stink. I wonder if I'm being harsh or if I'm just trying to make him miserable so he doesn't want to come out here again.

I pick up my tackle box and continue down the path. Despite my slower speed because of Toby's short legs, we should have time to get to my special spot, fish, and get back before sundown. We only need to get five fish. Between the two of us

that shouldn't take long, maybe I'll catch most of them and Toby will get so frustrated he won't want to come back. I realize my mind has wandered when I hear a small chirp come from Toby and feel him tugging on my shorts. I stop just before I step in a rotting, mutilated raccoon corpse. Maggots crawl around in the crushed carcass, which looks like it has been smashed the way people stop grapes for wine. It smells out of place in the fishy rot. Toby wretches behind me, vomiting on his bandana. Come on, step over first. I step over it and hold my hand out to help

him over. He whimpers and shakes with the effort of not throwing up again, but he's a strong kid, so he takes my hand and steps over the mashed animal without managing to get much on his shoes. I tug him a little closer so I can untie his bandana and replace it with mine. I toss the soil bandana into the tree line. It's not like it can smell any worse here. He mutters a thank you, and we proceed. Why did they do that? I think because they want to make this difficult, they want me to know who is in control, they want to disturb me. I've never really explained the frogs to Toby. Dad still doesn't believe me. After a few years of trying to convince him that the frogs were real, I gave up and made my own fishing ritual. He still thinks it's a coping mechanism.

After that, I decided I didn't want to traumatize my brother. I was Toby's age when the dam was built and the frogs came out for the first time. I was playing with my friend Ollie in the park when a frog took him. I remember hearing his scream from the trees and being so afraid that I just ran. I didn't help him. When I got home, my dad didn't believe what had happened. He went on not believing me until they found out what was left of Ollie's body. Kids were banned from the park shortly after, but that didn't really matter because nobody really wanted to go to the park where a kid was murdered anyway. They had searched the park for any kind of animal that would do this, but they never found them. Nobody believed the six years.

year old who said she saw frogs take Ollie. The cops gave up quick, moving into richer, wider missing persons reports. I just had to give them an alternate food source. So as soon as dad bought me a rod, I started fishing. We're walking past the decaying dam, which hasn't had any upkeep since Ollie died and people stopped coming to the park. I stopped Toby and point to the few remaining bits of concrete that stick up above the water. People wanted to fish Toby, so they built a dam to slow down the

water, but the dam woke up the frogs or made them angry or something, and now I have to fish for them or else bad things will happen. Oh. He says it like I've said the most obvious thing. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head, and I embrace myself for the onslaught of follow-up questions that I am sure is coming. But he is quiet the rest of the way to the spot. Maybe he thinks I'm crazy like dad does.

To the right of the trail, there's a steep drop down about three feet. feet to the dingy water. Knowing that the footing will be tricky for Toby, I have him crawl up in my back before I start to descend. It's harder to balance with his added weight and holding onto the trees as I go down is tricky when I'm holding my rod and tackle box as well as his clunky junior rod, but it's manageable. Using a couple trees to control my fall, I let my boots slide down the slope until they're about to touch the muddy edge of the river. My free hand grips one of two trees that form a thin V. I tossed the tackle box in the rod, and then, and I toss the tackle box in the rods through the V and onto the sand on the other side.

Hey! His rod lands with a thumb. It's fine. I turned a little to let him down near the bottom of the V. He passes through easily and I follow squeezing past the two trees. After months of fishing around the river, I've had the most luck here. The water's still because of a small cove and there are two fallen trees that the fish like to hide in.

Toby has to run to check on his fancy fishing rod to make sure my toss didn't break it. Not like he would know if he would know if. it was broken. Bring it here. I hold my hand out for his rod. When he gives it to me, I open my tackle box and start making his rigging. He watches me as I thread and tie the hook. What are you doing?

I'm making it so that you can fish. You can't just throw some string out there. I start to squeeze on the weight and he asks what it's for. So the bait stays down. What's the bait? Dad was showing me a bunch of colorful ones at the store. I raise an eyebrow and roll my eyes. Dad really has no idea.

I've never fished with those expensive fancy lures. They look pretty and do as little as possible. We use live bait. What? I nod towards the styrofoam container in my tackle box and attach the bobber to his line. Look in there. Don't touch. Ew, what are those? I hand on the finished rod and grab a pair of pliers to bait my hook.

Leeches. Don't touch. They stick to you and drink your blood. I gently grab a leech with the pliers and carefully push the hook through its back and out its sucker. Like a mosquito? Sure. Do I get a leech? The leech squirms on the end of my hook, a perfect, lively lure. In a second, I need to show you how to cast.

Oh, I know that part. He pitches his rod, and I quickly grab his hands before he can swing it forward. Don't do that. If you were alone, you can catch that. however the fuck you want, but when you're with other people, you need to be careful. There's a really sharp thing

on the end of that line and it could get caught on either one of us if we're not careful. I grabbed the hook and show it to him, pointing out all the little barbs. Do you want that stuck in your butt cheek? Happens all the time when people are stupid.

He shakes his head and very carefully brings the line back around to where he can keep an eye on the hook. I show him how to pitch his line by tossing me in into the water. The logs are close enough that even his little arm can toss the line into them.

Standing on the edge of the water, he focuses on the line for a while before his gaze starts to wander. That sign says no efficient. He points to the rusty metal sign nailed to one of the trees. It's more of a suggestion at this point. I cast out into some weeds

and sit in the sand almost no one comes to the spark anymore anyway, so there's nobody to enforce the rules. Now what do we do? I gesture to myself in my free hand. We do this. That's it? That's it.

He huffs in frustration and sits down next to me. Despite his apparent boredom, Toby is surprisingly patient. He reels in when I reel in and starts to get the hang of casting the way I showed him. He gets frustrated, though, when I catch two fish before he manages to catch any. Why don't they like me? He throws his beloved rod to the sand in frustration. There's a tug on my line and I reel in my third carp. I unhook it and leave it to flop in a small hole I dug in the sand

where its buddies have already succumbed to lack of water. Toby, if they knew where they were going to end up, they wouldn't like you at all. But Tommy, we've been out here for like six hours. We've been out here for an hour and a half. I hook a new leech. Toby throws himself down in the sand and decides he'd rather stare at my catch and pout than keep fishing. Whatever, he can do what he wants. I go back to paying attention to my rod, but as soon as I turn my head away, Toby shrieks.

He is staring at a pair of large black eyes staring out at him from the shadows of the trees. The sun is low enough by now that the rest of the frog is not visible. Just as glittering, hungry black eyes the size of tea saucers. It is making a rattling noise that sounds like dry bones and a shaker. It is hungry. Toby, watch my pole. He doesn't respond. He's too afraid, lost in the deep black eyes reflecting the red of the sunset.

I say his name a little louder and he snaps out of it, backing up towards me, not taking his gaze away from those eyes. I hand in my rod and approach the hole where my most recent catch is still flopping weakly. I grab it firmly by the tail and toss it in the direction of the frog. Its rattling noise is replaced by crunching snarls and a grateful but ominous moan. When I take my rod back from Toby, he instantly puts his hands over his ears. I try to ignore the sound or at least look like it doesn't bother me. It doesn't do either of us any good to both be afraid. I jerk my line in an attempt to make the leech more appealing.

We need to get out of here before the rest of the park finds out where the food is. But we still need to catch two more fish. Once the sound dies down, I nudge Toby. Grab your rod, get going. The sooner we catch the fish, the sooner we can go. Why? Why isn't this enough? You caught three holes.

I am thankful that Toby is upset enough to not want to come back here, but hearing my brother cry still lays on me. I don't know, Toby. I just know it's not enough. I have to be sure. I know you're scared, but please help me fish. He nods like a nervous bobblehead and grabs his rod. When he goes to cast, though, his pitch barely makes it to the water. Tears of fear and frustration still linger in his eyes.

I hand him my rod and pitch his line for him. Calm down, little bud. You know people do this to relax. I chuckle a little, but Toby just focuses on his line. I wonder if Toby even really knows what he's afraid of. When you're a kid and your imagination runs wild, something rustling in the dark can be anything. but I doubt whatever Toby's imagination is coming up with is worse than the reality of the frogs.

Toby doesn't have a tragic backstory. The frogs have not left the park in his lifetime. I made sure of that. There's no reason for him to be here. There's a tug on my line and a reel-in fish number four. Just one more and we can go home. I throw my catch into the trees in case there are any particularly quiet frogs. If they were going for quiet, they give us.

up their sneakiness when at least two of them quickly rustle their way to where the fish was thrown. There's the sound of tumbling and fighting before one takes the first crunch and lets out a moan. Toby whimpers but continues to fish. I return to my rod and pretend I'm not listening for the rustle of more frogs between the trees. I catch the last fish when there's only a sliver of sunlight left. I quickly pack up my tackle box and throw the last three fish into the forest, hoping all of these get eaten so my spot doesn't smell so much like rot when I can. come back. Will Dad make me come back here? I don't know the answer to that. He seems to understand and

stares at his expensive fishing rod, then looks at me with very tired eyes. I think I'm just too little right now. I hold my hand out to him. Well, for now, let's go home. We'll talk to Dad tonight. He energetically hops to my side at that and I pull him into my back so we can climb back up to the trail. I keep him on my back as I head toward home. I try to hide my shaking from Toby while his hands are wrapped around my neck. It will be dark before we get home, but we fished so the frog should leave us alone. Their violent treatment of the raccoon is scarier in the dark, though, so the protection that comes with following the rules does not seem so absolute. I keep Toby on my back so we can move faster, even though I am getting tired, and he seems to be getting heavier.

The stench of the rotting fish should be worse during the day when they can be baked by the heat, but the smell is definitely worse now. Without my bandana, it's almost unbearable. I try not to choke on it. There's a rustling behind us, starting quietly with probably one or two frogs, but it gradually becomes louder. And I wonder if every frog in the park is behind us. We're about two minutes from the end of the trail. I strain my ears in an attempt to hear the comforting sounds of sirens and car horns, but I can't hear anything over the rustling of the frogs.

Then frogs start to rattle and I start to run. Something wet is dripping down my neck and I realize Toby is sobbing. He's quiet in my ears under the racket of the frogs. My feet catch on a root or a rock or something and Toby and I tumbled to the ground. My tackle box bites into my ribs. I hear one of our rods snap into. Blood starts to fill my. mouth. Toby's hands dig into my shoulder and his screeching covers the loud, low rumble that is

too close. His hands slip and he grabs onto my shirt. Something's pulling him away from me. As I turn to grab him, the seams of my shirt ripped and he is gone. The sound of his scream fading fast. As I start screaming his name, I feel goosebumps rise on my skin and my spine feels like a lightning rod as my brain connects the dots. Toby fished, he didn't catch anything. Almost everyone carries a device with a camera in it these days. It's great for documenting the special events in our lives. But as author MS. Bird shares,

when a group of friends have a getaway at a cabin, it's an audio recording of the events which we now encounter, and we're left to wonder what brought about the horror we shall hear. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Addison Peacock, Dan Zapula, and Atticus Jackson. So keep this in mind. Sometimes it's not just rain you need to avoid when you seek shelter from the storm. I don't know how to start this. It's not like I've ever recorded my last words before.

It's quiet here now. I hope that's good. I don't know what's good and what's, I don't know, the eye of the storm. If you're hearing this, it probably wasn't good. I guess I need to start thinking like a dead woman. I love you, mom and dad. I'm sorry I couldn't save them. I'm sorry I couldn't save myself.

If this reaches the police, My name is Aaron Sanders, and I'm a witness to something. I don't know. I don't know. I wish I could, but I can't. If I die, if I'm dead, it wasn't an accident. If anyone else did, that wasn't one either. Something terrible happened here tonight.

I'll try to describe it as clearly, And as calmly as I can. There were four of us here when the night began. Me, my brother, Grant, his fiancé Derek, and my girlfriend, Susan. We came out to the cabin yesterday to spend a weekend together, enjoy the fresh air, and celebrate Grant's engagement. It started off so well. But I guess every story like this starts off the same way.

No one ever thinks. You never think. No one expects everything to fall apart so fast. Okay. Okay. Sorry. I'll get back to it. Don't even know how much time I have. I need to get this out. Oh my God, this place is huge. Has that fireplace always been here? Did you bring a lighter? Because I don't know how to work a fire. No, but I was an Eagle Scout, remember? I'm all about survival skills. I thought it was just marrying you for your money.

But it turns out you're useful to. You want to take a break from making jokes and help me get the stuff upstairs? I'm coming. Scouts honor. Babe, do you need any help? I'm fine. Could you get the rest of the stuff from the car? Sure thing.

This place is still totally the same. It's weird. I know it's been since I was a kid, but it's like I was just here. Nostalgia is a hell of a drug. How much wine did you bring? Enough. Enough for a human? Or enough for a bear?

Do bears drink wine? God, I hope so. That sounds hilarious. That's what hibernation is, I bet. Just a bear getting blackout drunk and accidentally sleeping through the winter. I'm really glad you could get away for a bit. Hey, I can unchain myself from the keyboard sometimes. Could have fooled me.

I'm here, right? You're here. I thought you liked all my research materials. The stories. I like you reading me stories. Not locking yourself in your office for days at a time. It's like I live alone lately sometimes. Are you recording this?

No. Yeah, okay, I am. I just had it running. I don't know. I thought we were going to unplug for the weekend. I left my laptop at home. Okay, well, I like having memories on record. What do you want me to do?

Take pictures? I was just surprised as all. It's vacation. You can do whatever you want. No, I'll turn it off. Aaron, come on, it's fine. Relax. I'll get you a drink. White or red? Surprise me. Damn it.

What's up? Look at the sky. I can't, asshole. Shit, sorry. It's fine. It's only been, what? 25 years? You're still adjusting. What's wrong? The sky's looking pretty dark.

Those clouds are about to burst. I guess it'll be storming all night. Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Shit! What? What happened?

There's a dead possum? I think in the bathroom. I didn't even see it until I sat down to... It was just looking at me. But not? Because hello, dead. But fuck! Scared the shit out of me.

What the fuck? How'd it get in here? It probably felt the storm coming and wanted to get inside somewhere. Animals sense that sort of thing sometimes. And its poor little heart couldn't take it. Oh, I don't blame it. I wouldn't want to be out in this. I hate thunderstorms. That makes four of us.

Better open the white and the red. Who else wants a drink? Cabin getaway. Day two. It has been storming since yesterday afternoon. Current time. Seuss? Current time?

Um, 7.43 p.m. Current time, 7.43 p.m. Food supply is still plentiful. Alcohol supply has been depleted significantly. Moral is high and drunk, with the exception of Grant, who is being a cranky asshole. Fuck off, Ken Burns. Sorry I'm not into the barefoot contessa. If you watch Eina with me, I'll watch that show you're obsessed with. Which one? The one with the meth and the dad from Malcolm in the middle? Deal. soon to bewetted bliss. Compromising over cooking shows. I like it. It's soothing. Crackling fire, rain outside, Caprice salad recipe on the TV.

I could fall asleep to this. My ass is falling asleep. Left cheek, completely numb. What are the odds I convince the rest of you hermits to come outside and explore with me? It's raining. So my hair gets wet. I'm not that vain.

I'm not making Aaron go out in that. I'm not made of paper. I know, but it sounds pretty rough. And it's comfy in here. This is true. Derek, you coming? Sure. What's a little water?

Let's go, Eagle Scout. Don't wait up. Want me to make you a sandwich or something? I'm starving. I wouldn't turn down a grilled cheese. You got it. I didn't want to say anything before, but I'm getting kind of squirrely myself. I was hoping we'd get some hiking done this weekend.

You're such a stereotype. Maybe. Or maybe I'm an academic who wants to get outside for once instead of locking myself in my office all damn day working my ass off. Writing about ghost stories? You never really talk about what you do all day. Not quite. More like folklore.

Cultural memory. Just all that boring stuff. But with ghosts? Sometimes. Maybe. Maybe ghosts. Maybe something bigger. Something worse.

Spooky. Did I ever tell you about Roanoke? When were you in Roanoke? Never. It's thesis adjacent. What about it? You should do some reading about it when you get the chance. I don't know how comprehensive my explanation will be after that much wine.

Okay, but now I want to know is to think. Curiosity peaked? Okay, I'll do my best. So, in 1586, a group of 108 or so colonists under the direction of Ralph Lane was left on the north end of Roanoke Island. They were supposed to establish a settlement with the understanding that more men would come the following year with additional supplies and more people to fill the colony.

Sure? So 1587 rolls around, and the new men in supplies arrive in Roanoke. 115 men in total. And you know what they found? What? Nothing. One single skeleton

out of the 108 people who had occupied the settlement. And nothing else. Nothing except the word Croatohan carved into a tree with no explanation. And? And what? Over 100 people disappeared. With no remains or explanation, it's not like they were all dead from some illness or as if they starved.

They were gone. And there has never been a comprehensive explanation. They were never found. And the one skeleton they did find was never identified. And the weird American history with the woods doesn't get better from there. Do you know how many people have gone missing in national parks without a trace and never been found? No one has an official tally, but the number is estimated at a minimum of 1600. Shit.

I'm just saying, there's a lot to be said for the dysfunctional relationship between the American people and the wilderness we built on. It's not just a matter of one incident. at Roanoke. It's in our folk floor. It's in our disappearances and mysterious deaths now. It's not hard to imagine why people are afraid to go into the woods alone. Humanity's got ghosts out here, whatever those might be. How nice of you to tell me all this while we're in a cabin in the woods. Real fucking nice. Sorry. You got the storyteller in me all worked up. Eat something and stop freaking out. I'm all talk, don't worry. It's just a story. It's just a storyteller in me all worked up. I'm all talk, don't worry. It's just interesting, nothing to get spooked about. Okay, if you say so.

I do. I'd be worried if we were out in the middle of nowhere without, say, a house, a fire, and multiple smartphones, but I'd say we're okay. Hey, I know I'm being dumb, but could you go check on the guys for me? Not because of anything you said, just knowing Grant, he probably slipped in the mud and hurt himself or something. Sure. Could you do me a favor and run to our room for me then? I have a bottle of Baileys I was saving. I was thinking we could lure them in with Spike-Tot chocolate. It's just on the dresser right next to the bed.

Sure think. Stay dry. I went to the bedroom like she asked. Took me a little longer than expected. She'd actually left the bottle in her bag, but I eventually found it. It's familiar shape and heft giving it away. As I pulled it out of the back, my phone began to ring. away in my pocket. When I answered, it took me a moment to recognize the voice beneath the

static and the roar of wind and rain. Hey, are you okay? Grant? What's up? Are you okay? Yeah, we're fine. Are you coming back in? Yeah, it's not trying to find. The signal cut in and out, as if the call kept almost getting dropped. He sounded off, too, the bits I could hear. of him. Out of breath and like he was fighting to speak through a lump in his throat. We, you, out here, Derek. Are you okay? Is Derek okay? Please go. I don't help. I can't understand what you're saying.

And that was it. A sound like his phone hitting the ground or a rock. Or like him falling and taking the phone down with him. Whatever it was, he was definitely not okay. I called out to Susan, ready to assemble a rescue party or call the police. Suze? Something's up with the guys. I think Grant hit his head. I don't know. No answer. Only the sound of something heavy hitting the side of the house, like a fallen tree branch. As I made my way back to the living room, palms beginning to sweat, I became distinctly

aware that something felt very wrong. I could hear this whimpering, coming from the chair I'd been sitting in. It was like a starving child where a dog with a twisted leg, a wretched, painful sound, begging me to reach out to it with an open hand. Tenetively, I started to move toward the source of the noise. My palms made contact with skin. It was warm and the noise went silent. I explored finding familiar peaks and valleys, a sharp nose, a dimpled chin, a pair of soft lips twisted into a wretched, open cry.

Susan? Susan? I reached down to hold her in. my arms, comfort her, protect her somehow from whatever was tormenting her. But she felt wrong, flat, misshapen. I ran my hand down to where her chest should be, searching for the familiar divot of her collarbone. Instead, my fingers felt an unexpected wetness, pockets of torn flesh and a long series of bumps in a straight line all the way down her front. My stomach dropped and I felt bile creeping up my throat.

I'd lazily traced this line hundreds of times, sitting beside her on the couch, laying next to her in bed. It was her spine. Her head had been twisted completely around, the neck broken. and her paralyzed body leaned in this chair in a mockery of sitting down. The whimpering had been her final desperate breaths. I recoiled instinctively, unable to keep from screaming as the woman I loved fell from my grasp and hit the floor with a dull, lifeless thud. As I retreated from what used to be Susan, I stepped on something wet.

warm thick the coppery metallic smell filled my nose and I gagged the floor was absolutely slick with blood it was far too much

to just be from one person I wasn't about to stick around and find out the other source but the knot in my stomach told me I already knew who it was he didn't know where to go or what to do when I got there, but I had to get out of this cabin. The rain was deafeningly loud, heavier than ever,

but I'd rather have been in a hurricane than trapped inside with whoever had killed Susan. I tore through the kitchen and ripped the door open, stumbling out into the storm. I got what must have been five feet from the door before I realized something was truly, sickeningly wrong. Inside, the rain had been relentless, pounding on the tin roof. I'd expected to be soaked, but not only was I dry, the space around me felt arid, like the moisture had been sucked right out of the air.

I lived in Arizona for three years, and never felt anything like this. Behind me, the unmistakable sound of heavy rain on the cabin's roof started up again? This is going to sound crazy, but if I'm already dead by the time you hear this, no one can mock me for it. I was standing, completely dry, hearing it rain on the cabin directly behind me. Then, the disembodied rain cut off, and there was this sound. No animal I've ever heard of makes a sound like that.

It was like a person, whispering, and a creature growling, but coming from the same mouth. Hello, guttural, predatory sound in front of me, then behind, then beside, then all around. Something was circling me, and I swear to God I could feel it just watching me. I took a step back toward the open door, and a wave of hot, foul breath blew into my face from feet above my head, smelling of iron and rots and sickness. Slowly, deliberately, I backed up through the open door, listening for the footsteps of whatever it was as I went. As soon as I made my way back inside, I shut the door and locked it. My hands were trembling so hard I could barely get it shut, but I did.

It scratched at the door for a while, but slowly and quietly, like it knew it couldn't or wouldn't come in that way. I found a kitchen knife in a drawer, and I'm sitting here in a corner, listening as hard as I can for anything that might suggest I'm not in here alone. but I can't figure out, aside from everything that's happened, is the sounds on the roof. Was it ever raining? Or was something, whatever was circling me outside, somehow faking it, knowing that nothing keeps a group of people from leaving like an unexpected storm? Susan, God, I'm about to die and I'm still thinking of her. I can't stop thinking about what she said

about Roanoke, the colony Those hundreds of people there one moment and just gone Out in the woods Just like this So far from any kind of home She said She said

Humanity has ghosts out here In the mountains buried beneath the forest forest floor. We left a lot of primal fears in the wilderness when we built our first cities, and I can't help but wonder what else we left behind. Cities always have a light on, the candle burning. But out here, what might slink through the shadows, waiting for the sky to turn dark enough to hide, waiting for a storm to roll in? Do you hear that? Sounds, Like Ray.

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 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 sleepless 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. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.