The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E13

Episode Date: February 18, 2018

It's episode 13 of Season 10. On this week's show we have six tales about horrifying helpers, petrifying prizes and tiny terrors. "It's The Taking Part That Counts"† written by Caitlin Hobbs and performed by Mick Wingert & Mike DelGaudio & Dan Zappulla. (Story starts around 00:05:37) "A Job for John"† written by S.H.Cooper and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson & Erin Lillis & Jesse Cornett & David Cummings. (Story starts around 00:20:23) "The Grand Reopening of Hellmouth Pass"† written by Jimmy Juliano and performed by Kyle Akers & David Cummings & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:35:30) "The Great White"† written by L.R. Cole and performed by Jesse Cornett & Atticus Jackson & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 01:02:50) "He Was Dead When I Met Him"‡ written by Henry Galley and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Elie Hirschman Nichole Goodnight & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:26:25) "The Little Man"¤ written by Gemma Amor and performed by Erika Sanderson & Jessica McEvoy & David Ault & Mary Murphy & Penny Scott-Andrews & James Cleveland & Brian Mansi & David Cummings. (Story starts around 01:58:10) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the Escape the Black Farm Tour   Click here to learn more about Naomi Ronke   Click here to learn more about Caitlin Hobbs   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Jimmy Juliano   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "He Was Dead When I Met Him" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke Audio program ©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 risk. Because behind these doors, there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. The No Sleep Podcast. Podcast. Podcast. POT. POS. POS. POS. It's coming. Lewis! Cease these sick beats at once.

Honestly, when I agreed to leave you very temporarily in charge of ensuring the sweet, sweet audio nectar of the podcast continues to flow, I did not invite you to use my equipment for amateurish remixes and your endless beatboxing. Please, try to be profession. You know what? Just do your best. It's fine. It'll have to be. All right, boss man, the van is locked and loaded. Indeed it is. Snacks?

Present. No. I mean, is the food on board? Yes. Present. Why is there a crate in the backseat marked isopropal alcohol? It's for safety. Or if we run out of wine coolers, for the sake of good order. We have wine coolers?

Um, had. There, see, aren't you glad we pay? packed extra. All right, enough jabbering. Into the van with you. Quick march. Onward to the specifically Pacific Northwest. Oh, and Lewis? Yes, your majesty. Do try not to burn the place down. I understand your mood can be unpredictable at times, but really, it's only for a few weeks, and I've made arrangements to ensure our supply line will be unhindered throughout. So all you need to do is It's, yes, sit right down, that's it. There we go.

Right here at the controls. Now, it's very simple. This big green button here will start the stories. You'll know when it's time. I've implanted a microchip in what was left of your brain for that purpose. Just listen to your chip, ensure the tales begin right on time, and we won't have a riot on our hands. Otherwise, just watch the monitors for signs of trouble. any disturbance from without or within, and you've but to hit this shiny red button here.

All will be well in no time. Understand? Got it. Green button starts the stories, and if there's trouble, hit this button. But what does SD stand for? So many questions. My, my, aren't you the inquisitive porpoise? It means self-defense.

Yes, that's it. Any predicament that may arise, just hit the good old self-defense button. Now, it's been nice knowing, chatting, chatting with you, but I really must run places to be people to locally, vocally intimidate. You know how it is? Bye for now. Goodbye. Bon voyage. Take care.

So long, farewell. The feeders saying goodbye, goodbye. It's not the time. What happened? Kyle, Alexis, lovely to see you both. Are they gone? We heard screaming. Oh, no, I was just expressing myself there for a moment.

It won't happen again. So, it worked? They're really not coming back? Yes. Well, not for a month, at least. But what about the? the podcast. Yeah, like, are we still doing it? Strange question. No, no, no, that's all done by computers overseas these days. I think we're just set decoration. I'm still trying to figure it out.

Well, we should wake the others. Yeah, maybe we can all figure it out together. How very altruistic of you. Lead on. To the dungeon, then? What was that? Are you okay? I taste burning and nickels. Why did you burn the nickels, Kyle? Why did they... Oh, no.

Sweet David's beard. This is it. The stories. It's time. Green button, I stab at thee. To the dungeon, then. Listeners, I am a troubled youth once found wandering aimlessly from bus stop to bus stop. And this is the No Sleep podcast.

In our first tale, we meet Jeff, who's typically boring off his job, takes a turn for the sinister when he begins to receive menacing calls from what sounds like a talk show host. Written by Caitlin Hobbs and performed by Mee. Mick Winger, Mike Delgado, and Dan Zabhula. Let's find out why it's the taking part that counts. I woke up to the phone ringing. I leaned up from my chair and looked around the office. Everyone had gone home.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes while the phone rang a second time. My headset had fallen around my shoulders and I lifted it to my head while the phone rang again. I managed to answer it during the fourth ring, trying to sound like I hadn't just woke up. Hello, Mill Software. Nothing. Hello?

Still nothing. I was about to hang up the phone when a man's voice came over the line. His voice sounded like one of those guys who host TV game shows, I thought, and it was odd that he knew my name. This was an anonymous helpline. Uh, yeah, who's this? I winced. It sounded like he was shouting into the receiver.

Maybe he was a game show host, I thought. What have I won? I hoped it was something cool, though I didn't remember entering any contest. That's great, but what have I won? That was weird. It must have been a prank call. Hardly anyone ever called after 9 p.m. I took off my headset and put it on my desk.

I had a blasting headache. I hadn't realized I'd fallen asleep, though it was almost impossible not to do at that time of night around there, especially when I was the only one on shift. I looked over to the cubicle to my right, and the fluorescent light above it was flickering intermittently. All I could hear was the buzzing sounds of the lights all around the office. No wonder I had a headache. I grabbed my water bottle and stood up to go refill it when the phone rang again.

I sighed in annoyance, sat back down, and put my headset back on. Hello, Mills Software. Jeff! I could no longer hide my irritation. Who is this? The enthusiasm in his voice had something sinister to it. Look, I don't know who this is, but this is my place of work. If this is some sort of prank call, it isn't funny.

I have actual customers to assist, and I don't have time for... Frustrated, I got up and walked to the kitchen. The office was set up in such a way that from my desk, I had to go around a row of high-walled cubicles and through a small conference room to get there. As I was filling my water bottle, I looked over to the kitchen door and saw through the crack at the bottom that the hallway light was not on. I was usually the one to turn the light off when I left at midnight,

so I wasn't sure why it was off now. I walked over and opened the door. The hallway seemed darker than it should have been. There were two large windows on either end of the hall, and outside those windows were lights from the parking lot, which were always turned on at night and shone into the hallway. Now, though, they were most certainly not turned on. I walked to the switch and flipped it up, but no light came on in the hallway either.

I flipped it back and forth a few times, but still got nothing. I groaned figuring there must have been a line down, though the kitchen light was still on, so I figured maybe only half the building was connected to it. I turned to walk back to the kitchen when my eyes stopped on the far right corner of the hall. It was pitch black. But it felt like something was standing there. I couldn't be sure, but my eyes could almost make out the silhouette of a person.

I squinted to see if there was anyone there. The silhouette was becoming clearer as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I tried to slow my breathing, believing that if whoever it was couldn't hear me, they wouldn't make a move. It didn't seem to work because the figure began to move what I assumed was its arm towards me. It was then that I heard something fall on the floor. A panic took me over, and I ran back to the kitchen and slammed the door shut. My water bottle, which I had left on the counter, was rolling towards my foot. I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart and persuaded myself to open the door to the hallway.

I wanted to believe that I might have just been freaked out by the darkness and imagined that I'd seen something. As I slowly cracked the door open, I looked again to the far right corner, and the same blackness was there. but I didn't see a silhouette. I let out my breath, which until that point I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Nonetheless, I pulled the door shut again and deadbolted it just in case. That's when I heard the click of another door opening. It was with deafening horror I realized that the door to the office was not locked. I made a dash for it, running all the way through the conference room and around the corner to the office.

As I ran, I saw the door was slightly ajar, dashing towards it, I slammed it shut. To my surprise, the door closed easily, slamming shut with a loud crack that made me wince. My brain caught up and I realized I'd expected there to be someone on the other side, pushing back. The sound of the door slamming had brought me out of my startled state, and I laughed at myself for being so paranoid. The door must have not been fully closed in the first place and had just creaked open. I made sure it was clicked in and deadbolted it as well for good measure.

I blew out a deep breath to study my heart and then started walking back towards my desk. I was sure I had missed a few calls, which would get me a bunch of bullshit moaning from my boss. I made it to my desk and was still feeling a little on edge. When the phone rang, I almost fell out of my seat, startled at the sound. It rang again, and I hurried and put on my headset and then answered. Hello, uh, Mills, Software. I felt a surge of fear build up in me, but more than that, I was angry.

Oh, come on, man. Who the hell is this? This is my place of work. I don't have time for this shit. Jeff, it's Ryan. It's Ryan. Relief washed over me, followed by confusion. Ryan was my best friend, but he didn't usually call me at work.

I didn't think he even knew my extension. Ryan? Why are you calling me here? Ryan? I was getting annoyed again. Are you the one that's been calling me, man? Once or twice is funny, but this is too much. The fact he sounded scared started to trigger my fear again.

The man whose voice I heard earlier came on the line. I don't know who you are, but I'm calling the cops. I hung up and threw my headset off. I was breathing heavily and sweating through my shirt. The phone rang again. And so did the rest of the phones in the office, creating a cacophony of ringing in my ears. I started to panic.

I got up and ran towards the office door. I was getting the hell out of there and calling the police. About halfway to the door, I realized that I had forgotten my keys on my desk. Shit! I paused for a second, debating if I should just leave them. I decided it wasn't worth the risk. I needed those keys. I could grab them quickly and go.

I could do this. Heart thumping, I rounded the corner which led to my cubicle and stopped mid-stride when I saw a man sitting in my chair. And he was staring at the gray wall of the office. He was wearing a suit, and his brown hair was combed and gelled perfectly. I resisted the urge to scream, terror bubbling up inside me. I did a mental check to see if there was anything I could use to defend myself. Unfortunately, all I had was my own body, and I wasn't exactly a fighter.

I thought about making a run for it, but I decided not to. I wasn't exactly a sprinter either. Instead, I spoke. What the fuck? The man just sat there in silence. Who the fuck are you? And what are you doing? Come on, man. Seriously! I was beyond angry and scared now. I was terrified.

The man's shoulders sunk in slightly. You've won, Jeff. Somehow it was him. He was here. The same man who'd been calling me, the game show host. Only now he didn't sound like a game show host at all. He sounded dangerous. I managed to mutter words through my phone.

fear. What do you want? I reconsidered running away, but I felt paralyzed. The man made a slow, guttural sound that I soon recognized to be a sick laughter. He nearly fell off the chair from laughing so hard, and yet I still couldn't manage to make myself run. You've won, Jeff. You've won! I spotted my keys on the right corner of my desk, but I was scared to grab for them in case the man decided to attack. He was still sitting with his back to me, laughing throatily. His shoulders were shaking as the sound grew more and more frantic. He began to stand up and turn towards me.

As he was turning to face me, I saw that he had scratches all up and down his cheek. His right eye, which was bloodshot and crazed looking, locked with mine. That was it. The push I needed to finally snap out of the terrified stupor I was in. I made a quick grab for my keys. Thankfully, I managed to get a hold of the tip of my lanyard snatching up the precious keys as I booked it around the corner and back towards the office door.

When I got to it, I quickly unbolted the lock and didn't dare look back. Slamming the door shut, I ran as fast as I could to the end of the hallway, down the stairs, and out of the building. Kept my phone in my pocket rather than set it on my desk like I usually did. My car was the only one in the lot, so I made a dash straight towards it.

However, since the part of the car. parking lot light was off. I slipped on a patch of black ice as I was running. It wasn't a small slip either. Both feet completely left the ground and I landed hard on my back, knocking the air out of my lungs. The pain was so sharp that I almost forgot why I was running in the first place. At least which signaled the opening of the outside office door. I managed to get some air into my lungs, pushed myself up off the ground and started running towards my car. My feet slipped up here and there, To my relief, I managed to make it to my car without falling again. As soon as I got into the car and started it, I peeled it out of my space towards the road.

As I was pulling out of the lot, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the silhouette of the man, standing where my car was all I could think about on the frantic drive home was Ryan. Did the man have him somewhere? Was he okay? I called him on the drive, but there was no answer. And when I called the second time, it went straight to voicemail. after what seemed like the longest drive of my life, I finally made it home. And when I got inside, I locked all my doors. I even double-checked the windows to make sure they were secure.

All the way home, I'd been debating calling the police. My heart, pounding and erratic, said yes. Call the cops, put it in their hands, maybe finally feel safe. But a little voice in the back of my head stopped me. I wasn't sure if this was just some sort of sick prank on Ryan's part. after all, Ryan was a prankster. We used to get at each other all the time in college. Normally his pranks were a little more harmless,

a little less likely to give me a heart attack, but I knew that if I brought the cops down on Ryan, it would be bad news for him. As mad as I was, as scared as I was, I didn't want to ruin my best friend's life over an incredibly tasteless prank. And I think part of me was desperate for it to be a prank. Something I could chew Ryan out over,

something we could laugh at a month from now, two months maybe. I paced around the house, convincing myself more and more that it was just a prank. The logistics made no sense if I thought about them too hard, but hell, that'd be Ryan's problem to explain. A prank. Definitely a prank. And then my phone went off again. Just now. And I've made a huge mistake. I'm going to call the police.

I am going to call the police right now. because the text message I just got was from an unknown number. Whoever this sick fuck is, and it's not Ryan, and oh God, it's not a prank. Whoever this sick fuck is, he sent me a picture of Ryan to a chair. Deep cuts up and down his arms all over his body, and there carved across his chest in wicked-looking gashes, were these three. You've won, Jeff.

Next up, our very own Nicole Doolin, Erica Sanderson, Aaron Lillis, Jesse Cornett, and David Cummings spin this sequel to Season 7 Episode 15's The Rosie Hour. The deranged Rosie is now determined to find John a job to help him get back on his feet after she previously destroyed his life. As before, this leads to murder and mayhem in author S.H. Cooper's A Job for John. The company I worked for wasn't a bad one. It was an attorney referral service.

People would call in, explain their problem, and we'd provide a list of local lawyers that might be able to help them. Pretty simple, pretty straightforward, and sometimes you got to hear some pretty interesting stuff. Still, it wasn't exactly the kind of place where people were busting down the door for a job. I was content enough there, though.

And when my supervisor came to me and asked if I'd take on the role of temporary receptionist, while Jade, the actual one, was out on maternity leave, I was happy to help out. I didn't think it would be too difficult. Order and organize supplies. Greet anyone who came into the lobby. Answer the phone.

Nothing beyond even my admittedly limited skill set. After being given a quick rundown on where things were, and a small binder with how-to notes that Jade had put together for me. I was left behind the front desk with a thumbs up from the HR rep and assurances that I'd do great. With the help of Jade's notes, I learned to work all of the office equipment, even the finicky all-in-one printer copier

that took up a good portion of the supply closet just down the hall from reception, figured out how to get phone calls to their intended recipients, and perfected the art of looking busy while I actually had nothing to do. One morning, barely a month after I'd started in my new position, I was getting my desk tidied up in preparation for the day to come when the phone rang. A glance at the clock hanging in the lobby showed that it was 8.30 on the nose.

The exact moment we flipped our proverbial sign to open. An unusual time for someone to be calling reception, but I shrugged it off and plucked the mouthpiece from the receiver. Good morning, legal aid referrals. This is Gabrielle. How can I direct your call? Oh, dear, it's my job. He's not been very well, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Were you trying to get in touch with one of our referral specialists?

This is the front desk. If you wait just one moment, I'll connect you over. I already had my finger poised over the hold button, ready to transfer her back to the floor. He's just been so down lately. Ever since he had to leave that last job of his, he's not been himself. I tell him, don't you worry, John, your Rosie is here. But I know a man needs work to feel fulfilled. I made a small sound that might have sounded like agreement. Um, okay. Are you looking for an employment attorney? My John is such a wonderful worker, so smart and dedicated.

He just needs a chance. He is a little out of sorts. now. That business with his last place just got under his skin a bit. That's all. I'm sorry, but is John looking for a job? Yes, yes, but some days aren't so good for him. So I just tell him to relax and let his Rosie take care of things. And he wants to work here? You'd be lucky to have him, you know. You won't find many employees like my job. Well, I don't. I don't. I don't think we're hiring, but I can pass on a message to our HR department just in case. I do. That won't do at all. I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just I'm pretty sure we're fully staffed.

Well, act then. Before I could tell her, the turnover didn't happen as quickly as she might think. She hung up and a steady dial tone took her place. I snorted, half in disbelief, half an amusement, and replaced the phone in its cradle. Whoever this John was, I hoped he found something soon. if only to appease his Rosie. As I told her I would, though, I made a note of her phone call and shot a quick message to the HR department, just in case they knew something I didn't.

Not long after, Belinda, one of the reps and a friend of mine, came looking for me. She leaned on my desk with a sheet of paper in her hands. So, I just saw your I am. Yeah? I think we got a copy of the guy's resume you were talking about a couple days ago. Belinda grinned and slid the paper across to me.

It was handwritten, neat and thin letters with a slight slant, and across the top, John's name followed by a phone number. A brief skim of his short list of employers showed that he'd worked in a few call centers, the first for a couple of years, and then only a few months each and the other two. It was mailed to us, no return address on the envelope. Weird, huh? I handed the unusual resume back to her. The lady I talked to sounded kind of old.

Maybe he is too. I'm not sure she was all there. I felt kind of sorry for her. I filled her in on the whole call, and by the end, Belinda agreed that it was probably an elderly couple struggling to adjust to retirement. It's almost too bad we don't have any openings. Belinda frowned at the paper,

suddenly finding it just a little less amusing than she had before. The phone rang again and she returned to the HR offices. Well, I picked it up, and all thoughts of Rosie and John were shelved in the back of my mind. I didn't think of Rosie or John again until the next day, after I'd barely taken my seat to start my shift, and the phone went off. 8.30 a.m. on the nose. Good morning, legal aid referrals. This is Gabrielle. How can I direct your call? You haven't called him. You haven't called my John. Hi, Miss, er, Rosie. I did speak to one of our ladies in HR, and she confirmed we're not high.

We do wish John good luck. Oh, but John would do so well with your company. I spoke to Alice, my neighbor, and she said she'd used your service before when she was having some troubles. And the person she spoke to was so kind and helpful, just like my John. I'm sure he is, but... He just needs a chance.

I keep telling him that it will be different this time. that things will work out, but he's just not listening. How could he not listen to his Rosie? He's just not himself, you know, not like my John at all. I know he'll get better, though. We just need to get him a new job, and he'll be back to being my John again. I wish we could help, but we just don't have any positions. I was trying to remain civil, but it was getting very frustrating having to

repeat myself. I figured she probably couldn't help it, but I had work to get done and she was taking up a lot of my time. Rosie was quiet for a long moment and I was starting to think she'd hung up when she suddenly snapped. Don't you take that tone with me, young lady. I won't be talked to like that. I apologize. I shook my head, reminding myself again that she probably didn't mean to be so rude and tried to get on with my day as best I could, despite its less than stellar start. As a distraction, I busied myself by grabbing some order forms and heading to the supply closet to make a list of what was needed. Somewhere between post-it notes and pens, the large all-in-one printer that took up most of the closet's back wall,

started to go off. I didn't think much of it at first, other than myself. All of management used it, but then it kept going, and going, and going. Curious, I took a peek at the output tray to see what someone could be printing so much of. Copy after copy of a familiar handwritten resume was being spit out on top of a fast-growing stack. A message had been scrawled across the page, partially obscuring the employment history beneath thick, scribbly letters, as they're written quickly and in anger. Only whores wear red lipstick.

I touched a fingertip to my lips, which I'd just done up that morning in a brand-new shade of deep, read. Immediately I yanked the printer's power cord out of the wall, stopping the machine mid-print and hurried over to the nearest manager's office with the resume still clutched in my hand. Not much was done after that. The manager, Doug, didn't think much of it. He was more concerned with the wasted resources that went into making all the copies than anything else. He told me he'd have IT tighten up the wireless security, but really it was just a harmless prank by a tech-savvy person. The woman who sent this in is older.

I don't think she'd know how to do this. Nah, old people have young, bored, grandkids. Doug shrugged. But it mentions my lipstick. It mentions red lipstick. Like the most common color. I told you, IT will look into it. In the meantime, calm down and go throw the rest of those away.

But I wasn't quite so ready to drop the matter. I threw away all but one of the resumes, the last of which I brought back to my desk with me. I punched John's number into my phone, and I waited with grit teeth while it rang. It went to voicemail. I hung up and dialed again four more times before someone finally answered.

I was surprised by how young he sounded. Who is this? Is this John? Yeah. You don't know me, but I've got your resume here, and we've been getting these calls from... Rosie? Yeah, look, can you?

you ask her to stop calling. I told her yesterday and today that we don't have any job openings for you, but she won't listen. Nothing good comes from Rosie. I'd just appreciate it if you would. I can't do anything. I can't help you. I can't even help myself. No one can. Wherever I go, she finds me. And people, people get hurt. If I were you, I'd walk away while there's still time. He spoke flatly as if he'd already resigned himself to some terrible fate. I could feel the goosebumps traveling up my spine and spreading across the back of my neck. If this were all some elaborate joke, he was a very good actor. I forced myself to ask a question I wasn't sure I wanted the answer to.

Who is she? With John's resume in hand, I went to HR. I hadn't felt safe to begin with, but after talking to John, I was downright scared. I made a formal statement about Rosie's calls and about the copies, which I later found out had been faxed in and about what John had said. Belinda seemed to take me a bit more seriously than Doug, but she was at a loss as to how to handle such an odd situation. She told me she would talk to her own bosses and get back to me. I spent the rest of the day on edge, jumping whenever the phone rang, and watching the door like I expected some crazy-eyed old lady to come storming in.

When it came time to go home, I bolted out of the office, got in my car, sped home to my apartment, and locked myself in. I debated whether I would even go in the next day. but a phone call with Belinda convinced me that I was probably better off at work, surrounded by people than alone. Worry about. Even you can take on an elderly woman if she came after you. I laughed along with her, but John's despondent, defeated voice echoed in my head.

While I did force myself to go to work the next day, I did so a couple hours later than usual. It meant using up some vacation time, but if that kept me from Rosie's 8.30 call, then it would be worth it. I strolled in just a bit after 11 and took my seat at my desk. No messages or vaguely threatening faxes awaited me, so I figured I was already off to a good start.

I even rang Belinda's extension to let her know that I was feeling better. But it is too bad you came in late today. Someone brought in coffee and donuts. Aw man, did you save me any? First come, first serve. I harumphed at her and we hung up after sharing a giggle. Some mail had piled up. in one corner of my desk, and I took the opportunity to get it sorted, and decided to bring it

to the recipients before I did anything else. I had just finished and was heading to the double doors that led to the service floor. When they burst open and dug, his face twisted and purple, came stumbling out. He was clawing at his neck and staring at me through bulging eyes, drool foaming at the corners of his mouth. He took a couple of steps towards me before collapsing. I screamed and ran for the doors calling for someone to help, but when I went through them, I found an even worse scene. At least a dozen people were writhing and gasping and gurgling the same way Doug had been. Others were shouting.

Some were attempting CPR or on the phone with dispatchers. Panic and terror, hot and suffocating filled the air. I spun around, the letters I've been carrying flying from my hand, and I ran back to Doug. I crouched next to him and shook his shoulder while I called his name, but he had gone very still in his eyes. eyes had become so glassy. A cry bubbled in my throat and I dragged myself upright again and made for my desk.

Logically, I knew others had already called for help, but my only instinct was to get to my phone and dial 911. I almost didn't even register that my phone had been ringing when I picked it up. Hello? It was a stupid automatic response born out of habit. My John isn't doing well after you call. He'll be. The man needs work to be.

Now you have some job opening. In our next story, a man recounts his friend, Frank, and the strange amusement park ride Frank reconstructed from abandoned parts, which everyone seems to remember differently. Written by Jimmy Giuliano and performed by Kyle Acres, David Cummings, and Nicole Goodnight. Join us for the grand reopening of Hellmouth Pass. There's a few things I know for certain about Hellmouth Pass. I know that it was a Carnival Ride, owned and operated by August Amusements.

I know that the ride toured the Midwest and set up shop in county fairgrounds and city parks in the 1940s and 50s. According to August amusements, Hellmouth Pass took only the bravest of souls on a journey through a haunted house packed to the bone-chilling brim, with a devious collection of ghouls, frights, and things that go bump in the night. The attraction promised chills and thrills of the spectral delight and a grisly collection of blood-curdling boogeymen that would scare the stripes off a zebra. I know that the ride suddenly shut down in 1954

after three children emerged from the attraction with mysterious injuries. One child spoke of something dark, but could never articulate exactly what happened. It was enough to shudder how mouth passed forever. Parts of the ride, primarily cables, pulleys, and pieces of the ride track were repurposed into other areas of the traveling carnival. In the summer of 1968, two Ferris wheel passengers died in an accident involving faulty support cables.

The Ferris wheel had inherited materials from the Hellmouth Pass attraction, although it was never proven that those materials played a role in the accident. August amusements shut down for good later that fall. Trailer, equipment, and a few attractions were sold off to other carnivals, and everything else sat in a lonely field behind a barn in southern Illinois for 23 years. August Amusements was purchased by Frank Pearson in 1991 for $15,000, according to the Joliet's Sentinel. The transaction warranted nothing more than a three-sentence blurb in the September 8th edition. That much is known for certain.

Historical records confirm these facts. The rest of the details about Hellmouth Pass, mainly specific elements of the right experience itself are up for debate. It depends on who you talk to. I tracked down nine individuals with memories of riding Hellmouth Pass in their youth. It was at least 60 years since they'd experienced the attraction, and each told a different story of what the ride was actually like. Some claimed the ride was two or three minutes long. Others claimed closer to ten.

Three people maintained the ride wasn't a ride itself, but actually a walkthrough. One man drew me a picture of a two-person car on a track, while a woman insisted you rode through the haunted house on a small train. Some distinctly recalled Tokata and Fugue playing throughout the attraction, while others insisted Hellmouth Pass was largely silent, save the booze and screeches of the ghouls cackling from the hidden speakers. A variety of ride elements were mentioned. Creaky doors, cobwebbed hallways, flickering lights,

ancient candelabras, polter geists, and dozens more tropes of horror. One man laughed as he recalled the spring-loaded ghosts painted on cheap plywood popping out of the floor. Not one of the nine individuals I spoke. spoke with had been frightened by the attraction. On the contrary, actually, they had been positively delighted by the experience half a century ago. It was clear that, at least to them, Hellmouth Pass was designed as a fun, lighthearted, spooky ride, not as a fear-inducing descent into the unknown. But now, as Golden Agers reflect on childhood adventures from long ago, the ride has taken on additional meaning. Hellmouth Pass evoked a sense of nostalgia amongst my interview participants.

Their voices dripped with wistful tones for times filled with awe and wonder, and their eyes twinkled with remembrance. That ride represented an age of infinite curiosity, when magical and supernatural things were possible. My conversations with the nine individuals moved past the ride, and they spoke more of the August Amusements Carnival itself, the smell of funnel cakes, and the feeling of sticky cotton candy between their fingers,

of bumper cars, first kisses and starry nights that seemed to last forever, I wanted to be moved by these stories, to share in the nostalgia, to firmly believe that Hellmouth Pass was simply a fun and jaunty carnival ride for youth that existed decades and decades ago. But I had a different experience with Hellmouth Pass, an impossible experience that defies logic, reason, and reality, an experience infinitely more mysterious than anything my nine interviewees experienced as kids. Like I said, the detail. tales of Hellmouth Pass are up for debate. It depends on who you talk to. Here's my story. I was 11 years old in the summer of 1992. I was an only child and my parents were always fighting. These arguments seemed to rattle the whole house. At night, I'd lay in my bed and look at pictures of my parents from when they were newlyweds. They looked so carefree and so much in love.

And I couldn't figure out what went wrong. Why couldn't they remember being happy and find a way to recapture that. Things would settle down for a spell, but soon another colossal fight would erupt. I found myself leaving my house often, riding my bike for miles on end to escape, thinking only of an impending divorce and what my life would be like. I pictured my father driving off with his things packed in cardboard boxes in the back of his car. I foresaw splitting time between two families and having evil step-parents and step-siblings that would torment me to no end. For a kid my age, it was the scariest thing I could imagine. It was on one of these bike rides that I met Frank Pearson.

Frank was in his early 50s, lived alone, and as far as I could tell, was pretty wealthy. He lived about a mile away on a somewhat isolated, sizable piece of land off a rural stretch of road. Every day there'd be a truck at his house dropping off large crates. I'd dump my bike by Frank's roadside mailbox, and I'd watch men in blue jumpsuits huff and puff as they carried these enormous boxes inside Frank's large Victorian-style house. It was a daily occurrence. My curiosity was piqued when one day three coffins were delivered to Frank's doorstep. I sat there, googly-eyed, spinning the wheel on my overturned bike, wondering if there were indeed corpses inside those coffins. That was the day Frank Pearson introduced himself.

He didn't tell me exactly what he was doing inside his house. Construction is all he would tell me at the time. He was kind enough to bring me out a lawn chair. I was welcome to sit and watch, but I could not go inside. It was certainly better than being at home. I left my house more and more. I started picking up signs when my parents were about to fight. Little things in their body language.

Like the way my mother would flip a pancake, or how my father poured his coffee. There was a intensity to it, like something pent up was about to burst. So I'd shove snacks into my backpack and pedal off to Frank's house. I'd lounge in the lawn chair at the end of Frank's gravel driveway and take in the sights and sounds. Trucks rumbling to a stop, delivering men lugging crate after cranes. crate, the buzzing of a table saw from inside, the clatter of hammer on steel. Each day Frank would come outside around noon. He'd bring me something to drink, settle into a lawn chair of his own, and we'd talk. I did most of the talking at first. I told him things, things about my parents, my worries about

going to a new school, multiple Christmases, about taking sides. Frank would listen and nod. He'd reassure me that things would be okay, but mostly he'd listen. After a few weeks of this, Frank started doing more of the talking. He asked me if I'd ever heard of Hellmouth Pass, and I told Frank, no, I hadn't. Frank told me all about it. It was a carnival ride from his youth, a haunted house attraction that arrived in a small town around the 4th of July every summer, and would pack up and be gone days later. Frank obsessively toured the attraction, going in as many as six, seven or eight times a day. as much as he could afford. It thrilled him, he said.

But there was always something he couldn't quite put his finger on. When walking off the ride, it felt like there was a piece missing. It was like watching a movie and then having no memory of the last 20 minutes. Like it was immediately erased from your mind the second the credits rolled. Hellmouth Pass was like that. I swore there was a third act of that ride that it wouldn't let you remember That's hard to explain. Does that make sense?

It didn't make sense. And that was okay because it never quite made sense to Frank either. When he was 13 years old, Frank noticed a man lingering outside of Hellmouth Pass. The man was dressed a little differently from the other carnies, Frank said. More official? Had the air around him of a man in charge. This man was William August. I noticed him watching me.

I think because I'd gone through Hellmouth Pass. five times in a row, probably doing a little customer research. He pulled me aside when I exited and asked me a bunch of questions. What I liked about the ride, what kept me coming back, if I thought it was scary. I answered his questions, and then I told him about this nagging feeling I had that I was missing something, that I couldn't quite remember the end of the ride, and that I was convinced there was always something more. I thought he'd think I was crazy, but he just rubbed his chin and told me that I was right.

There was more. Yeah, yeah, let me try and recall exactly what Mr. August told me. I think it was when you're ready to truly face your fears, then you will remember. That was the last summer, Hellmouth Pass came to Frankstown. and that missing third act of the ride in Mr. August's words had haunted Frank ever since. He obsessed over the ride for decades. It always nagged him that he couldn't remember the ending of that ride. Time passed and Frank questioned his own memory and sanity even more.

Elmoth Pass never left him. So it was fate, Frank said, that he happened to see a newspaper clipping of Mr. August's passing in 1991 and the sale listing of what was left of August amusements. Frank purchased everything. and so began the reconstruction of Hellmouth Pass. Frank told me that he had acquired most everything from the original ride, props, materials, even the exit sign. It was all just sitting in a field somewhere, he said.

Frank even had the blueprints that had been commissioned in 1943. He seemed relieved to tell me all this, like he'd been holding on to some burden. I asked if I could go inside to see what the ride looked like, because on the outside it was just an ordinary house. Driving past it, you wouldn't know that someone was recreating a lost, haunted house on the inside. Absolutely not, Frank said.

No way, not until it was finished. If you peek behind the curtain, it'll spoil the surprise. Wait until you see it. Just wait. The reconstruction was nearly completed in mid-August of that summer. The trucks had stopped coming weeks before that, and Frank was applying the finishing touches. My parents' fighting had subsided,

but only because they were now hashing out the details. The calm ways they whispered things like divorce, and custody and visitation was infinitely worse than their screaming matches of months prior. I'd taken to creeping downstairs to listen in on their late-night meetings. There my parents would sit in a dimly-lit kitchen

quietly deciding my future. It was all I could do to not run upstairs and bury my head in a pillow. My stomach ached and my head throbbed, but I forced myself to listen. I took to writing about what I was feeling in a journal, and I even checked out a book at the library about dealing with your parents' divorce.

They were small steps, but I was taking them. Frank's paper invitation was a welcome respite from the proceedings. He handed it to me on a Thursday afternoon when the sun was blazing. He'd stenciled out the letters, the lines straight, the angles tight, and the colors bright. You're invited. The grand reopening of Hellmouth Pass tomorrow night. Frank was practically giddy, and with everything else going on in my life, so was I. I arrived at Frank's house at 9 p.m. the next night.

He met me outside on the porch. The windows in the house were darkened and the front door was firmly shut. Frank had a smile on his face that matched the happiest of children on Christmas morning. As much as this should have been his moment, it honestly seemed like he was happy for me, that he had done something to distract the kid whose parents were getting divorced. You first! He opened the door for me, and I entered the old Victorian. I was standing in a small foyer, surrounded by black wall.

Ahead of me was another door with a crooked sign painted and read, This Way to Hellmouth Pass, if you dare. I pushed open that door and I couldn't believe what I saw. Before me was a small waterway three feet wide. The waterway led directly into the mouth of a large grinning and horned devil. Past the mouth was nothing but darkness. A small, single person hollowed out logs sat in the water, bobbing up and down. Hellmouth Pass was a log for a log for.

was a log-flume ride. I climbed inside the log, and it started to move forward. I assumed Frank had pulled some unseen lever to start the ride. As the log slowly traveled inside the devil's mouth, a hokey mohaha-ha-ha-ha laugh echoed throughout the house. The temperature seemed to drop 10 degrees, and I remember crossing my arms and rubbing my skin. It was pitch black and musty and light sprays of water peppered my face.

The log traveled through different rooms, each showcasing a cheesy horror scene. Prop vampires popped out of coffins in a dungeon layer. Yellow eyes emerged in a dark forest with trees painted on plywood, and a werewolf howled into the night. UFO's word and hungry green aliens chomped in a room painted to look like the planet Mars. Plush black cats screeched in a long hallway filled with fake cobwebs and cheap-looking chandeliers. It was all very charming and not the least bit frightening.

The ride traveled through a few more decorated spaces, but to this day I can't remember what exactly was in those rooms. My thoughts were elsewhere at the time. I was thinking about Frank. I pictured him outside anxiously awaiting my return. He probably couldn't wait to talk about Hellmouth Pass and discover if it thrilled me as much as it thrilled him when he was a boy. I smile, grateful at how excited he was to cheer me up.

Frank didn't build Hellmouth Pass for me, but that night, it certainly felt like it. I was the inaugural writer, after all. It was then I realized I didn't need cheering up. I would be okay. I wasn't pretending my parents' divorce wouldn't happen. I wasn't burying my head in the sand. I had been sneaking downstairs to listen to their conversations, as terrible as they were. I had been keeping a journal every night.

I had checked out that book at the library. I was facing my fears. The logboat turned out another long hallway, and an optical illusion made it seem like the corridor was shrinking. I grinned. It was an impressive feat. Without warning, the logs plunged downward, and I held on to my side. boat for dear life. I plummeted further and further until the track leveled out. The log skidded

and slowed to its original speed and water shot up around the boat. I was quickly soaked to the bone. Darkness surrounded me. As I slowly drifted onwards, a dull red light filled the space. The log clanged to a stop in the center of a small room. Two platforms with handrails hugged the waterway. A tiny channel continued through the opposite wall and into darkness, but it was clear that I was supposed to get out. The ride was over. I immediately started to question things. The ride seemed bigger than the house itself. The geometry of it was impossible. The plunge, the number of rooms, everything. Were there hidden elevators? Was I ascending the whole time without realizing it? How did Frank do this? There were two ways to exit the boat. Five feet to my left was a metal door.

A sign was painted on it. It read, exit here. We hope to do. We hope to scream you again soon. Five feet to my right was another door. It was white, wooden, and had a gold handle. The door was slightly ajar, and I had a tremendous urge to see what was inside. It was calling to me in a way. This is the third act, I remember thinking. I'm facing my fears like Mr. August wanted. Now I can see the real end to the ride. Now I will remember. I hopped out of the boat, and I walked to the white door. I pulled it open and I looked inside. It was a young boy's bedroom.

Not my bedroom. The bed spread was different. The curtains were different. Not my dresser, different nightstand. But then I looked closer. I saw my baseball glove on the desk. Trophies I'd won for a science fair and a basketball tournament sat on a shelf.

I recognized my guitar in the corner. I walked inside. Two photographs sat on the desk. I picked them up and my eyes alternated between the two. In one photo I was standing with my father, a woman I did not recognize, and three other kids I also did not recognize. We were in a forest of some sorts, camping or hiking probably. I couldn't tell where.

In the other photo I was standing with my mother, a man I did not recognize, and two kids I also didn't recognize. We were bundled up in winter clothes somewhere on a ski hill. In both photos I appeared a few years older. a few years older, maybe 13 or 14, but it was unquestionably me. I pocketed the photos and left. I hopped over the waterway, pushed open the metal door, and exited Hellmouth Pass. I was standing in Frank's backyard. The night was cool and I shivered a bit. Frank was sitting at a picnic table and he popped to his feet. What the hell happened to you? Why are you sopping wet? I told Frank about the plunge and he looked at me quizzically. Like I was speaking some language he

didn't understand. I pulled out the pictures and put them in his hand. He studied them and gave me a funny look. He handed the photos back to me. It wasn't a log ride? I didn't build that. He strode away purposefully, a man on a mission. He disappeared around the side of the house and I sat down at the picnic table. I stared at the pictures again, these photographs that shouldn't exist. But it wasn't the fact that I was looking at some pictures taken in the future that surprised me the most. It was the fact that I looked okay, that I looked happy. Ten minutes later, Frank emerged from the exit door. He wasn't wet, and his face was stark white.

I saw a photograph sticking out of his front pocket, and he caught me looking. Frank quickly shoved it further down his pocket out of sight. I should never have built this thing. I asked Frank if he experienced the mysterious third act, and he wouldn't say. He only told me that he saw things on the ride that weren't supposed to be. supposed to be there, things that weren't in the blueprints, things he never reconstructed. And I was riding around in a damn mine car. That was never part of the ride? And I think I would have remembered installing one of those. I peppered Frank with questions. How is any of this possible?

How can Hellmouth Pass be a log flume ride one moment and a mine car ride the next? It has a sense of humor. It gets bored. I don't know. But the things I saw can't come true. We have to destroy this thing. It's our only chance. He sent me home. Sometime in the middle of the night, I was woken by the sounds of sirens.

Smoke billowed from the distance into the night. I knew exactly where it was coming from. Six months later, my parents were divorced. They both remarried within two years to the people in the photographs given to me by Hellmouth Pass. It was a strange thing to eventually pose in the pictures I'd already seen. If I look closely enough at the photographs, I can detect a knowing smirk on my face. It's been over 25 years, and I still keep them in a drawer in my office as a reminder about facing your fears.

About how the future might not be as terrible as you imagine, if you approach it with the right mindset. Not too long ago, I caught an advert in the paper, about a carnival coming to town. It stirred up old memories of Helmouth Pass and of Frank Pearson. Frank had moved away after Helmouth Pass burned to the ground, and I hadn't spoken to him since. Old questions began to nag me. I wondered what became of Frank, and I had an urge to uncover all that I could about Hellmouth Pass. And, again, I pondered the question, what did Frank see in his photograph? I did some digging and made some calls.

I learned all about the history of Howmouth Pass, and I tracked down the nine former writers. I was not surprised to learn that their memories differed about the ride experience. I could relate. I learned of Frank's whereabouts in a nursing home down state. I drove there on a rainy Tuesday morning, and the nurse directed me to a man in a wheelchair watching television in the common room. He was pushing 80 years old, but I still recognized him. It was Frank.

I excitedly sat down and asked him if he remembered me. He didn't. We talked for a few minutes, and I asked him about Helmouth Pass and rebuilding the ride all those years ago, about the grand reopening in the summer he spent listening to a young boy's problems. He had no memory of any of this. I was a stranger to him. Alzheimer's, the nurse told me.

Don't take it personally. Frank doesn't recognize his own family anymore. It finally dawned on me as I walked out the door. I never knew Frank that well, but in the short time I did know him, he was primarily concerned with one thing. Memory. He wanted to rebuild Helmoth Pass so he could remember. He could have ignored the forces that compelled him to rebuild that attraction,

but he didn't. It wasn't simply learning the ride's secret. That was part of it, sure. It was also about seeing if the ride lived up to his memories. Frank was terrified of the ride not being as magical as his boyhood self remembered it to be. By reconstructing Hellmouth Pass, he had faced his fears head on. I was almost to my car when the nurse ran up and stopped me. She had an envelope with my name on it.

Frank had brought it with him years ago when he checked him to the nursing home. He said he hoped I might come visit one day. And if he didn't remember me when I did, a nurse was supposed to give it to me. I tore open the menela envelope. Inside was a photograph at least 25 years old. I knew immediately where this photograph came from. It had yellowed from time, and it was a picture of Frank. In the photograph, he was 80 years old,

sitting in his wheelchair in the common room of the nursing home. He was vacantly staring out the window. I flipped it over. On the back was an inscription. Summer, 1992, in case I don't remember. Never quite get used to that. Ah, yes, the wailing of the damned. Quite the party trick, that.

Hey, Kyle, turn it off, would you? What? Turn it off. It's that panel there, next to the barrel of jackfruit. Between the pheromans from season one and two. If you hit the live eel tank, you'll... gone too far. And how that's better? So, it was just a recording then?

A hoax? A fraud? Chequinery! Well, yeah. That's what we do here. Oh, right. Yeah. I'll wake the others then.

There's some kind of lockdown in effect. I can only get a few of them out. Ah, so David doesn't trust us. Good call Free those you can I'm sure we'll return eventually for the rest Return? You need to leave the compound? Oh yes

What's the same while the cats away When they've properly thawed And convalessed Gather in Great Hall Let everyone gear up to their own personal comfort level There are a few of provisions I need to see too. Is it safe? On the outside? Oh, no, no. Not for long.

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 past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours walk, 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 show. 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.