The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E24

Episode Date: May 6, 2018

It's episode 24 of Season 10. On this week's show we have five tales about ferocious forests, pressured prisoners, and sinister songs. "Hideaway"† written by Holly Dionis and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy & Erin Lillis & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 00:02:45) "All That Moves Us"† written by Evan Dicken and performed by Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 00:18:35) "The Wash"† written by Justin Short and performed by Mick Wingert & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:38:45) "Look for the Silver Lining"¤ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Jesse Cornett & Elie Hirschman & Erin Lillis & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:01:00) "Exodus of the Damned"‡ written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & David Ault & Jeff Clement & Jesse Cornett & Erin Lillis & Peter Lewis & Mary Murphy & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 01:23:40) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Evan Dicken   Click here to learn more about Justin Short   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone - Accordion music courtesy of Travis Vengroff Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Hideaway" illustration courtesy of Hasani Walker 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 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 Cummins. Thanks for joining us. On the show this week, we have five tales of... about ferocious forests, pressured prisoners, and sinister songs.

This is our last episode before our season 10 finale, and I'm proud to announce next week's finale will be the long-awaited sequel to the tale, known as a seaside British pub. C.M. Scandrath's tale is a sweeping return to the pub and the regular group of mystical patrons. You won't want to miss the tale, over two hours long and free for one and all. And if you haven't heard the original tale, check your feeds on Monday. We'll release a standalone episode with the original story so you can get acquainted or reacquainted with the barmaid as she works in that strange establishment. As we're close to bringing season 10 to a close,

I want to take a moment to thank you, our great listeners and fans, for your tremendous support. The feedback we've received for season 10 has been overwhelmingly positive. We've been inundated with so many messages of encouragement about how the stories and productions continue to get better and better. We're thrilled that you continue to love what we do. As always, we're committed to working our hardest to bring you the best audio horror fiction we can. We're excited about season 11, and we can't wait to share with you folks some new and exciting forms of storytelling. But all this talk about finale's and the new season shouldn't distract us from the first. most important topic at hand, episode 24. It's locked and loaded. The stories are set, so let's start

the journey. In our first tale, we meet a woman who is in need of a break to get out and clear her head. But as we learn from author Holly Dionis, perhaps a walk in the woods isn't the best idea when women in the area have been reported missing lately. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, Jessica McAvoy, Aaron Lillis, and Mike Delgado. So if you need a break, I'd suggest keeping well clear of the hideaway. Many would say it was a dumb, thoughtless act for me to go out hiking in the forest, alone when there'd been a spout of disappearances in the area. You'll get no argument for me.

My self-preservation instincts have never been the best, especially when I'm upset. And oh boy, was I upset that dream. brisily evening when I stormed out of my apartment and drove to the secluded forest car park at the base of Mount Lucas. Walking the Lucas Forest Trail alone as dusk falls is, was my comfort food, my favorite place in the world, other than maybe my childhood bed and the place I've spent many an hour alone with my thoughts. A place that means so much to me that apparently not even the rash of women disappearing in town over the last six months was enough to dissuade me.

I'd like to say I was being defiant, that I was taking a stand against this kidnapper slash probably serial killer, that I wasn't going to let some sick guy, and statistically, serial killers are likely to be men, sorry, but you know that, dictate my actions. But the truth is, I wasn't thinking about it at all, wasn't thinking about the perpetrator, wasn't thinking about the six missing women or where they might be. I was just thinking about how I had to get out of my apartment. Had to get away from, well, life. You know how it is sometimes. Things build up. Things I'd rather not speak about. Not now, anyway.

Rain tickled the tree branches as I crunched down the gravel path. My footfalls heavy and braced with anger. The air was misty with the weather refreshing and purifying. I walked. I couldn't tell you how long I walked, but I know it had started to get dark when I realized that maybe I'd walked a little too far into the forest, and a little too deep off the worn trails. Nothing alarming, I've done this plenty of times.

I've never gotten lost yet, but enough to make me think I should probably start making my way back down the mountain into my car. Cresting on the lower peak of the mountain, I entered a clearing. Christ, I was high up. I could see the whole town from here, through the gaps in the trees, a sprawling maze of twinkling lights silhouetted by the amber sunset. I stopped them, taking in the scenery. This is what I came here for.

This reminder of the beauty of existence. Ironic, really, given what came next. Perhaps I tarried too long in that clearing, sitting on a loamy log I'd found, because the next thing I knew, the sun had completely set, and the moon was out, peeking through a gap in the clouds. Clouds which appeared to be very, very dark and angry, boiling with a storm.

I barely had any time. time to process the storm before it was upon me. The heavens opened. Turential downpour burst forth. The kind of rain that hammers, the kind of rain that hurts. Thunder roared. Lightning split the sky. And there I was, surrounded by trees, halfway up a mountain. Trusty flashlight in hand now, I hastened into the forest as if believing I could outrun the storm, but it was above me, around me, and the only shelter I had came from the tall redwoods I now darted between. The rain was no signs of letting up when I stumbled upon the cabin. I'd never seen it before. It looked like it had once been some kind of hunting lodge, or a very misguided vacation home, perhaps, but now it

had fallen to ruin. Shutters hung off the windows, a portion of the roof looked in danger of collapse, and the wooden stairs leading up to the front door were rotted and broken. Nearby, lightning struck, sparks flying off wet bark, a heavy branch crash into the ground. I barely had time to think. to take in the cabin's appearance. I was off, darting up the broken steps to the front door. In that moment, the rundown building was as appealing as a five-star hotel. The front door was unlocked. It swung open with a wet creek, warped and swollen wood, screaming in resistance,

as it scraped the dirty floorboards inside. And dirty it was. Shining my flashlight around, I took in the interior. The hut was sparse of furniture, save for a torn and filthy armchair in one corner and a broken coffee table beside it. The air stank of damp, the musty atmosphere catching in my throat and making me cough, but it was dry. A cursory glance around showed me that the roof wasn't leaking, on this room at least. A couple doors let off elsewhere, but I figured I didn't have to go through them.

I could just wait out the storm. Inside, the door forced back into its frame to protect me from the storm. I stood there dripping wet and feeling wretched and unsure what to do. My flight through the forest had left my muscles aching and a stitch in my side, and I longed to sit down and ease my weary body. But the armchair, torn and moldy, was not an appealing prospect. I decided to explore the other rooms. If I was going to wait out the storm, then there was no sense in standing there like an idiot.

Tentatively stepping across spongy floorboards, I proceeded past the filthy, open-neutral. fireplace to the door leading to the room at the back of the house. I glanced at the hearth longingly, wishing I had some logs and firelighters. I was freezing, something I hadn't noticed until my arrival in the house. Glancing around at the dry, dusty wooden surfaces, however, I decided that lighting a fire probably wouldn't be a good idea, even if I could. The whole place looked like it could go up like kindling. Instead, I pried open the door. What lay beyond had, at one time or another, in a kitchen, judging from the rusty sink on one wall.

Now, though, it was just an empty room, a single broken chair sitting directly in the middle. The sight made me shiver for reasons I couldn't explain. The chair was positioned facing the door, and even though one of its legs were missing and nobody could possibly be sitting on it, I had a strong sensation that somebody, somebody unseen, was doing exactly that. I decided to move the chair. I didn't like the idea of this invisible person sitting there looking into the main room, where I'd no doubt be waiting out the rain.

Without thinking, I strode into the room. Beneath me, I felt the floorboards crack and give way before I even processed what was happening. I landed on my hands and knees. Broken wood and dust scattered around me. My palms were stinging, and when I inspected them, I saw dirt kicked to raw flesh with my blood. brushing my hands on my coat I kneeled back and looked around. The first thing that caught my eye was a broken shard of the plank I'd stepped on.

Lifting it up, I stared at it frowning. Unlike the old rotten wood I had expected, this looked new. I hadn't broken through it due to its age, but rather due to the fact it was thin plywood, clearly incapable of supporting a human's weight. The next thing that caught my eye was the fact that my flashlight, now fall into the floor, had illuminated something, something that caused me to reach out with shaking hands and grasp the torch, shining it around. I was in an underground room that seemed to stretch out to be beneath the entire cabin. Rough-hewn stone walls boxed me in. Lansing up, I realized the floor above was only about four

feet up. The room was little more than a crawl space, certainly not big enough for anyone to stand up in. And as such, the others in the room with me weren't standing up. They were sitting, backs against the walls, positioned roughly equidistant apart. One of the figures had slumped, so she was laying on her side. The others all sat upright, hands by their sides, heads bowed down. They were naked, and my first reaction, before the fear hit, was to blush and look away. But that only lasted for a split second before I took in their rotten flesh, their emaciated frames, a story that the bodies told.

Each was in a different state of decomposition. The first, the first victim, I realized later, was barely held together. A gaping wound lay open in her side, leathery flesh ragged over bone. Another woman's hair had begun to fall out. Her scalp wrinkled and shrunken. Her jaw was hanging off loosely, so it looked like she was grinning. The most recent corpse, whose face, I recognized from the most recent missing person's appeal,

and this was the moment wherein I realized there were six female bodies and who those bodies must be, didn't look like she'd been dead for long. Her skin was bluish-white, lips pale and pinched. She was the one laying on her side, and I wondered then if she'd fallen after death or had laid down to die. A scream began to escape my lips, and I threw my hand up to cover my mouth.

In the back of my mind, I didn't want to disturb them, didn't want to intrude on their final sleep. It was then that I noticed the smell. You'd expect a pit of six dead bodies to smell vile. That wasn't the case. The pit smelled of lilacs, lilacs and a faint trace of salt. And beneath that, an unusual burned smell like toast. Not entirely unpleasant were it not for the circumstances. I tried to stand already fumbling in my pocket for the cell phone I knew I had to use to call the cops.

Pulling it free and glancing at the screen, I saw I had two bars of reception. For the first time ever, I felt grateful for the ugly cell mast they'd installed near the foot of the mountain that we'd all protested against. I unlocked the phone and began to dial 911. I froze, my finger hovering over the call button. movement caught my eye six bodies twitching and flexing as of testing out their limbs for the first time the women the missing women the corpses were beginning to stir in our hideaway

intrude upon the sisters you've done it now I screamed then long and loud and with no care for disturbing anyone living or dead The corpses, the women, were beginning to crawl from their positions now, dragging dead limbs across the dirt floor. I heard the crack of bones as one of their arms bent impossibly, flexing where joints shouldn't be. The oldest corpse, her ribs exposed, began to wriggle across the ground like a worm, her ribcage scraping the earth beneath. The others crawled or dragged or shuffled. none of them standing in the low, claustrophobic basement.

Dropping my flashlight, I screamed again and flung myself to my feet. With no choice but to turn back to them, I tried to scramble up through the hole I'd made when I'd fallen through the floor. I couldn't see the women, but I could hear them, gibbering and scraping and cracking their way towards my flailing body. Fingers caught my ankle. Fingers that didn't feel human. Bony, impossibly long fingers,

that caused me to let out another shriek, not just in fear but in pain too. For where she, it touched me, I felt an agonizing corruption, like death itself was pressed against my flesh. The thing squeezed my ankle, and I felt the nerves in my foot die, as if it had been plucked clean off. With the strength I didn't know I possessed, I pulled myself up through the hole, using the remaining muscles in my leg to wrench myself from the creature's grip. Half running, half stumbling, I dragged myself out of the cabin, stumbling and screaming onto the soaking grass outside. The mocking cries of the women echoed in my ears.

Thoughtlessly, I put my weight down on my dead foot and collapsed, falling hard onto my face. Then I lay there in the wet grass, waiting for them, waiting to feel their hands on me, until at some point I passed out. I woke up here in the hospital. as you can see, well, they couldn't save my foot. It's okay. You don't have to keep looking away from it. So did it help?

This is the third time I've told one of you this story now. Have they found the cabin, the women? I've told you everything I know over and over. I think it's only fair that you give me some answers now, Detective. So here's the problem. Yes, they did find the cabin. And it was exactly as you described. We even found your flashlight.

But there weren't any bodies there, Melanie. There's no sign of any bodies. Are you sure you didn't... Well, everyone's on edge these days with the disappearances. And you, well, with your... My problems, you mean? My depression, you mean? Yeah, no.

Sorry. Depression doesn't make you hallucinate a basement filled with reanimated corpses. And what about my... foot. What happened to that? The doctors have no idea, do they? I guess I imagine that too. Guess that stump isn't real, huh? No, no, I'm sorry. I don't mean... We'll keep looking, Melanie. We are taking you seriously. And God knows, we don't have any other leads right now. I think I need to sleep now. I'm exhausted. Thank you for your time, detective.

Okay, just call if you need anything, yeah? My card's on the table. Thank you, detective. Oh, God, it's not real. It's the shock trauma, they said. It's not... From us. When a woman learns of her ex-boyfriend's disappearance, she ventures into the forest to a spot she thinks he may be.

But as author Evan Dickon explains, the spot contains a series of strange stones, stones which are best left untouched. Performing this tale is Addison Peacock. So let's learn about the stones and about all that moves us. It's hard to find because it's on the inside. But sometimes it swims across my vision like those little bits of stuff you see when you look at a bright light. Before you ask, I'm not crazy.

Dr. Hertzler saw it too. Must have scared the shit out of him because he sent me to a specialist. Only when I went to the address, there was just a Taco Bell. And when I tried to go back to Herzler's office, the receptionist told me he retired last year. Now I can see all of them, all the time. I don't even have to concentrate. There are a few hundred outside my car.

Right now. They're either creeping closer or getting bigger. I'm not sure if perspective applies to these things. Wait, let me back up. I knew I shouldn't have gone back to the stones. It wasn't that I was worried about Colin. Yeah, we dated for a long time, he was always way more into me than I was into him. After the breakup, I'd see him around the

crystal bar, or out at the motocross track north of Nelsonville, or when everyone went out to the woods with Cliff to drink and blow shit up. We'd talk about the weather, or whatever superhero flick was playing at the movies 10, both of us looking for a way out of the conversation. I suppose we could have used the breakup as an excuse to avoid each other, but Logan is a pretty small town, even for Ohio. It would mean our friends taking sides. I suppose it was nice of him not to press the issue, since they would all pick him, but it pissed me off anyway. I don't want charity from anyone. So when he stopped coming out to parties, my first reaction was relief. I mean, it was sad when he lost his job at the co-op, but that was his choice, right? Nobody ever made Colin do something he didn't

want to. After the eviction, they say he went out into the woods and didn't come back. I helped search for him. Spent a whole weekend in the Hawking Hills with police and dogs and our mutual friends shouting Colin's name along with the rest, even though I knew damn well exactly where he was. I waited a week or two after they'd given up. Not because I was paranoid they were watching me. It just took that long for the guilt to trickle through the cracks in my relief. Seeing all, those people broken up when he went missing, just more on me. When his mother cried at the vigil, whenever one of our friends would raise a beer or tell a story about Colin, when they put that picture of him by the motocross track, everyone was asking how. Collin was a hunter, a hiker, a

full-on outdoorsman. How could he just up and disappear into the hills? Well, I knew how. I just didn't know why. So I went back, even knowing how dumb it was, even knowing the stones were probably what disappeared him. I drove out near Tar Hollow, abandoned my car on a dead-end dirt road, then climbed hours up to where the oak and maple gave way to rows of quiet pine. You ever been in a pine forest? It's a strange thing, green even when all the respectable trees have tucked in for the winter. No crackling leaves. No bright weeds slipping up into the sun. No earthy woody smells.

Just silence, shadows, and the sharp tang of bleeding sap. Walking on pine needles, I always get the feeling. I'm in a library or a theater after the lights have gone down. You know, one of those places where everyone is neck deep in whatever they're doing and you're supposed to be quiet and respectful. When he'd brought me here after prom, Colin said the place used to be a Christmas tree farm. It made sense what with the pines being in neat, even rows,

but the farmer had picked a hell of a place. Would have had to haul every damn tree to the road by hand. There was no way a truck was getting up here. The stones. Shit. The stones. They were in this little clearing. Rows of pine bending around it like the trees were edging away.

The ground was hard, black. and full of little holes, like the hunk of lava rock Aunt Aaron brought me back from her honeymoon to Hawaii. There were four or five stones, and sometimes more, depending on how long you watched them. It was like one of those magic eye pictures. You'd stare for a while. Then all of a sudden it was like your eyes relaxed and another one would just slide into view. The stones were this silvery gray color, shimmery and murky all at once like the coi in that fish pond over at the Dawes Arboretum. They might have been ten or fifteen feet high and were cut in a sort of wobbly rectangle that always seemed to be leaning toward you no matter where you stood.

After prom, Colin had dared me to touch them. When I didn't, he'd gone up and laid a hand on one, then another. Soon as he touched the second stone, there was this low vibration. like a jet flying overhead, but without the noise. He said it tickled, but the rumble just made me feel like I was going to vomit. I thought he'd brought me up there to make out or get drunk or high. Instead, we just sat and watched the stones. After a bit, it almost seemed like there were five.

Then six. Colin told me he'd seen seven once, but that it took us. hours. To be honest, I was pretty freaked out by the place, especially when I started to see things slithering at the edges of my vision. I told him I wanted to go home, but he was obsessed with the damn things. He said they let him see into people, like what they wanted or how they'd react or what they were thinking. That's how he knew he should bring me here. That's how he knew I would never tell anyone about the stones. He was wrong about that last one.

I'm telling you, ain't I? I'm not sure what I expected to see when I went back to the stones. Colin's body. A message scratched in the rock. Something. But it was just the same as it had been years ago. There was this little depression where the pine needles had been scuffed around like someone had been sitting there for a long time.

To this day, I don't know what made me hunker down and stare at the damn stones. Maybe curiosity, maybe guilt. Maybe I didn't have a choice. It only took a few minutes to see the fifth one. The sixth didn't come until long after sunset, sneaking from the moonlit shadows near the back of the clearing like it was late to a funeral.

I watched the stones until almost noon, until the shapes that the corners of my eyes took on form and substance. But I still couldn't see that. the last stone. Finally, hunger and thirst had me up on shaking legs, ready to call it a day. When I turned, the seventh stone was right behind me. That's when I saw them for the first time. No, wait, that's not right. That's when they saw me. There were maybe 20 of them. They looked like people, but all stretched out with skin like braided rope and too many fingers. There were no joints in their arms or legs. The limbs were loose, flexible things that bent every

which way when they moved. And their faces, holy shit. It was like I was looking into a hall full of funhouse mirrors. My face reflected over and over, each distorted in a different way. Somehow they were all around me, moving slow and careful like waiting herons. I think I screamed. It wasn't like I woke up or anything. There was no break. I was just suddenly there. The whole thing rattled me pretty bad. I definitely screamed then, long and loud. My upstairs neighbor, Mr. Kennedy, came running down, still in his boxers and t-shirt, his hair blowing every which way in the wind, frantically asking if I was a Okay. He had brought a dozen of them with him. I stared at him, at them, sliding their long,

ropy fingers into his mouth, his ears, his eyes, rearranging the muscles of his face, turning his head, opening and closing his jaw. It's hard to describe, but his head just sort of unwound like it was a ball of string. I could see his concern, his irritation at missing Sunday football, the eight cores he'd already drank, the four more he planned to, everything. I really wanted a beer, so I made him bring me one. It was easy when I could see inside his head. The choices were all laid out. The words that would make him leave, the words that would make him my friend, the words that would make him kill himself. I said the words that would make him get me a goddamn beer. Things were creepily easy after that. I couldn't make anyone do anything.

I wanted, but I could certainly push them in the right direction. I'm not going to talk about what I did, because it doesn't matter. Also, I'm a little embarrassed. What's important is that I kept seeing them around. Not often, but enough to scare the shit out of me. They never actually hurt anyone as far as I could tell. Still, they were always touching people, rubbing up on them, wrapping their long arms around people's necks and torsos moving them.

Whenever they got close to someone, their faces would change to match whoever it was. It was unsettling, especially in crowds. It got so I couldn't go out without seeing at least a few of them. I couldn't block them out. It's hard to explain. The best analogy I can come up with is that it's like reading. You know, like before you could read, none of the words may be. made sense, then afterwards, they couldn't not. Try to look at a word without reading it. But you can't.

It's like I was some sort of bug lamp. I'd go to work or out for drinks or whatever, and they would just flock toward me like zombies. I might be with 10 or 15 regular people, but there would be crowds of those things, jostling and slipping around each other as they tried to touch me. The longer I was out, the more would appear, sliding from my peripheral vision like they were stepping from a bank of thick fog. They didn't touch me, but they were all over everyone else. Worse, the more I saw, the more I saw what they were doing. I remember this show on the Discovery Channel. There was this scientist. I think his name was Dr. Kakou or something. He was talking about how most of the universe is made up of stuff we can't see. Dark matter.

or dark energy or something, I don't remember. The way they figured out this stuff existed was because there was a lot of things science couldn't explain. Like why the galaxies didn't fly apart or why everything in space was so much more massive than it was supposed to be. So they came up with dark matter, something we couldn't see or experience,

to explain the unseen forces that move the entire universe. What if it's the same way with us? I can move people with the right words, the right touch, But it's nothing compared to what they can do. I've seen them shift people around, a twist here, a turn there, and my friend Cliff goes from laughing to shouting to crying. You ever feel sad for no reason?

Happy? Angry? Ever act on it? How much of what we do is us? How much is them? How can we know all that moves us? I should have done something sooner. Call me a coward, but the thought of having those dry, papery hands.

hands on me, inside me? What would you have done? Yeah, they were all over everyone else, but they left me alone. It was easy to believe I was safe. Then my tooth hatched. It had been bothering me for a couple days. I went to see a dentist. There were none of them in the waiting room, which was fine by me.

But when I went into the back, the whole examination room was packed with them, like they couldn't wait to get inside my mouth. You can be sure I turned right the hell around. So the next night, I woke up with a sharp pain in my jaw. There was a little pop, and I felt something unfold in my mouth. I screamed, of course, and it went skittering down my bed and onto the floor. When I turned on the light, there were maybe 20 of them crammed into my bedroom, leaning over my bed like delivery room doctors.

I had a good shout. Then threw a lamp at the closest one, and it just sort of slid out of the way. That pissed me off, so I took a swing at it. The thing tried to slip away again, but my arm sort of bent. Not at the elbow, but midway down my forearm. I felt the punch connect. Didn't do much, but the thing seemed surprised. Hell, they all did.

The things disappeared, but I was more concerned about my arm. The bones felt all loose and springy like green wood. I could bend it back so my fingers touched my elbow. More than that, I was hungry. And I mean, hungry. There was nothing in the fridge, but a dozen eggs. Didn't bother me, though. I popped open the styrofoam and ate them like grapes,

crunching the shells in my mouth and slurping down the thick gummy yolks. Afterwards, I felt better. and worse. I went down to Collins' old apartment and asked around. Neighbors told me he pretty much hadn't gone outside for the last month or so before he disappeared. They could hear him screaming, though. When the police came, they found he'd ripped out most of the drywall like he was searching for something in the walls. I still didn't know what the hell had happened to him, but I was pretty sure I was headed down the same track.

After that, they came into my apartment while I slept and did stuff to me. Like take all my hair, pull off my finger and toenails, open me up, and move stuff around. Sometimes I could hear my tooth skittering around in the walls. I used to tape my mouth shut at night, worried that it would come back and take the rest. I tried to make my landlord forget I hadn't paid rent in months, but I couldn't focus. The way his lips moved across his teeth was damn near the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. It was all I could do not to slip my fingers inside his mouth.

Then they put that thing in my eye. I still didn't know what they were doing. All I knew is they wanted me to see them doing it. That and I had to do something before I ended up like Colin. I figured since the stones were what started this whole mess, they might be the way to finish it. I broke into my buddy Cliff's shed and stole about a dozen quarter sticks of dynamite

and a big plastic tub of gunpowder, fixing to head up to the pines and blow the stones to hell. It was a pain in the ass, lugging all that shit up the mountain. Worse, there was a bunch of them following me. I kept waiting for them to get in my way or straight up take me apart, but they didn't.

If anything, they seemed excited as I packed all seven stones with powder and poked the dynamite down into little holes around their bases. I've blown up enough shit to be careful. I made sure to give myself plenty of time to get back before I lit the damn thing. Like someone tossed a handful of glitter in the air. When I went back, the things were gone. Or at least I couldn't see them.

I about flew down that mountain. They were waiting for me at the bottom. Hundreds of them. Creeping closer, getting bigger, whatever. Then it hit me. I'd only blown up the stones I could see. The nearest of them is just a few feet away now. Or maybe it's always been beside me.

I can't tell anymore. That's why I'm calling. That's why I'm telling you all this. I don't want to just up and disappear like Colin. You've got to send someone up here. Level the whole mountain if you have to. Whatever it takes. They're inside the car.

They had my face, only I don't look. Calla was right. I can see that now. I shouldn't have told anyone, but it's too late. What's done is done. They want to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. They want us to... And do well. It's admirable when people want to go to less developed countries to teach the locals and help them learn.

But as author Justin Short shares, sometimes the places can be somewhat volatile, and you need to keep this important advice in mind, never get lost in a foreign country. Performing this tale are Mick Wingert and Erica Sanderson. So no matter how bad it gets, remember this. It will all come out in the wash. Her English wasn't great, but I understood her one-word command perfectly.

Strip. I stood in a dim bathroom the size of a parking space. The walls and ceiling were black with mold. The tile cracked and brown. A porcelain shower was in the back, and she pushed me toward it. She pointed to my belt buckle. Strip. I didn't fight it.

It was humiliating, sure. But a machete is a pretty good motivator. I made quick work of my shirt and jeans, but my thumb hesitated at the waistband of my boxers. She snarled, and red mucus formed in the cracks of her lips. A twisted, hairy hand reached for me. She didn't have to repeat her request. I stripped.

I tried to fold my clothes on the countertop, but she snatched the pile from me and tossed everything into the hallway. Her eyes looked me up and down, and she pointed to the shower. The curtain was pink vinyl. It was done up in polka dots and poodle skirts, with an enormous Roy Orbison right in the middle. I pulled it back and stepped inside. I couldn't ignore the black foot stains on the floor

or the yellow ring around the drain or those fruit flies that climbed the slippery walls and clung to the shower head. I turned the faucet on and tried to think of brighter things. Brighter things didn't come. Instead, I shook my head at my own stupidity. It was my own fault for ending up in this mess. I made the rookie mistake of rookie mistakes.

Got lost in a foreign country. You don't get lost in a foreign country, man. You just don't. Shower time was over. I turned off the faucet while I tried. It was stuck. With the water still running, I threw back the curtain. She stood by the sink.

Her eyes glazed over her expression, unreadable. Could I have a towel? Hanyo, I think that's the word. She pointed to the shower. What? I held my hands out. I'm done. She pulled the machete from the folds of her blouse.

What? I made the international gesture of surrender and retreated to my place beneath the showerhead. The water rained down and the thoughts came back. Lost in a foreign country. Lost in a foreign country. I'm such an idiot. Two days ago, I was teaching English to locals somewhere south of Hino-tepe. I walked into town for a can of milk and decided I'd explore the place.

Soon the pavement turned into gravel. Rows of mailboxes and bike racks gave way to steel guard towers and electric fences. Then screams, Spanish cursing, gunfire, explosions. I ducked into the woods to wait out the craziness. Must have taken it. too many turns. I came out on the other side and found myself in a land of crocodile-infested rivers and gated fortresses. Flags with skulls and crossbones flew from the turrets. Suddenly, a machete in my back, a command to walk, a hairy hand tossing my university credentials into the

brown river, pulling my wallet from my pocket, throwing it into a conveniently located swamp. We marched. I got sick and tired of looking at my mushy. skin. Enough. It was monotonous. I opened the curtain again. She was still there, staring into the mirror and humming something. Done. The machete flashed through the air. But why? She lunged at me. A blade came within a few inches of my needle, but it was clearly meant to be a warning. She missed on purpose. I stepped back inside. The water beat against my... skin, I felt rubbery and sunburned, but otherwise I was all right, confused, annoyed, but physically unharmed. I was waiting for the right moment to try again when the curtain

swished to one side without a touch. She stepped inside, fully clothed, machete at the ready. She skirted her way along the outer wall and stood against the hard porcelain. The water soaked her clothes as she watched me. She pointed to my abdomen. But clean. Wash. Lady, I'm washing. She stared at the soap on the wall rack. I took it as an implied order and lathered up.

Then she eyeballed the shampoo, and I obeyed her silent command. This continued for an hour. Finally, she stepped out of the shower, and I followed her. She slashed my shin with the tip of the machete. Worst. I hopped back in. To pass the time, I watched the time. my blood run down the drain.

It was only a slight scratch, so it didn't take more than a few minutes to stop leaving. It was about this time I started wondering why I hadn't thought to overpower her yet. She was only an old woman, after all. Extremely creepy, yes, but harmless aside from the machete. Was I really going to let someone like her control me? Was I that much of a coward?

I was naked. If it wasn't for that, I told myself, I'd already be miles away. I like the sound of that, miles away. She'd be dead and I would be free, really free. I'd be back in the States, cuddled up with my wife watching rom-coms and dreading Monday morning. Rookie mistake, man, you don't get lost in a foreign country.

Miles away. Miles away. I realized I was hungry. My eyes burned. I was wrinkly and parched, and I needed a break from the constant. hammer of water. I pulled the curtain back. I need to eat. She frowned and shook her head. No eat. Just wash. About two hours later, I tried to overpower her. Didn't end well for me.

I left from the shower and grabbed her neck. Before she could react, I smashed her forehead into the countertop. An instant later, her fingers were at my throat. She sent my face on a collision course with the brass sink. I think one of my molars is still out there. After the face-mashing, she grabbed me around the waist and hurled me back toward the shower. I crashed through the curtain,

nearly busted my nose on the showerhead, and tried to grab something to keep my balance. I missed and ended up flat on my back with a pain in my tailbone. I stayed there for a few minutes, thinking about how it could have gone so wrong. I mean, I'm a decent-sized guy, and she threw me around

without ever breaking a sweat. The shame was real. But it wasn't quite as painful as the constant sting of hard water. I don't know what the constant water will do to a person's body, but it made me feel like a microwave suitcase. I was parched, too. I took small sips from the shower head, but it never satisfied. Just made my tongue feel hot and dirty.

It must have been late. My knees throbbed, calves burned. It was the kind of... of pain that could only be satisfied with a good night's sleep. I needed rest, a warm, dry bed. I decided I would pretend to pass out. I dropped to the tile and curled up in the fetal position, allowing my eyes to roll back in my head. I thought it was quite convincing. The curtain flew open and her shadow enveloped me. Woosh!

My vision was blurry. I was pretending to be unconscious after all, but I saw her hand shoot down toward the floor. The next instant, soul-shaking pain. She grabbed my family jewels and twisted doorknob fashion. My head jerked backwards and hit the porcelain. She squeezed again. I reched and wanted to die. On instinct, I lashed out with a free leg.

I felt it collide with her ankle, and I kicked with all my strength. Her body crumpled to the tub beside me. Dizzy mess shot through me. Tears clouded my eyes. It felt like she had removed my navel and jammed it somewhere below my intestines. It was beyond unpleasant. I was too numb to move, but I did it anyway. As her elbow clanged against the filthy, bug-smeared shower floor,

I grabbed the machete. It sliced deep into one of my thumbs, but her grip was loose. The red spray from my thumb nearly blinded me, but I found the wooden handle, lifted the knife, and scented into the folds of her thick throat. Blood rocketed upwards, flooded my nostrils and splashed against my lips and eyelids. I felt it on my...

Stabbed her again. Blow the ear this time. Strings of skin and slivers of pink tissue stuck to the blade. Redness coated the walls and ceiling. What happened next? Made me question my sanity. She stood up with blood spouting from her. her throat, she stood up. I started after her, and she slammed my body into the wall. My sore

tailbone collided with the rim of the tub. She retrieved the machete without a fight, stepped back into the bathroom, and closed the curtain behind her. I watched her through Orbesen's hairdo. She stood in front of the sink. Her eyes fixed on me. The blood from her wound covered her neck, covered her blouse, and stained her skin. It dripped down her back and trickled to the floor like urine. The blood stopped flowing. A purplish clot sealed off her neck. It was seriously freaking out.

This was impossible. What was she exactly? No human could live through that kind of injury, right? I fantasized about special forces rescuing me. I envisioned them busting through the windows and shooting the old lady and smashing the shower I had to smithereens and taking me away from there. My wife was always there at the end.

Arms open, a book tucked under her left elbow. But instead of jeans in a t-shirt, she wore the blood-stained blouse of the strange old woman. Daydreams. In reality, all I could do was watch my blood and her blood circle down the drain. The fruit flies became scarlet and drowned in the redness. Some of them tumbled over the edge into nothingness.

Lucky insects. How many days passed? Three or four maybe? Her body rotted. She became dark and swollen. Her stomach and face grew to twice their normal size. She was an expectant corpse mother, third trimester ready to give violent birth to a puss and slime baby.

Her wound was red and open and small, white bugs crawled in and out of her throat, and she opened her mouth to tell me to wash I could see them wriggling on her tongue. Worst of all was her smell. It was something between sulfur and roadkill. She never moved from her sinkside position. I guess she didn't trust me alone. At one point, she turned the faucet on and ran her hands beneath it, swung her arms from side to side, cradled something I couldn't see, and hummed what almost sounded like a lull. I mumbled things. Was so sick,

Pobresita. Still, she never took her eyes off me. Not like she needed to. I was too terrified to run by this point. I was starving. I was shaky and sweaty, but I didn't dare make a move. My body was cracked and raisined.

My skin was all wrinkles and ridges and fjords. I could barely move my joints. It hurt to open my body. eyes, hurt to close them. The steam from the water made me hallucinate. Strange rainbows danced along the grout lines. Glowing orbs rose from the drain and popped before they reached the ceiling. I didn't mind, though. Took my mind off the nightmare in front of the sink. I held full conversations with vinyl Roy Orbison. I told him everything. Fears, dreams, married life, the whole mess. I performed his greatest hits.

Threw in some Johnny Cash and Carl Perkins and listened to his critiques. I bawled when he told me about 1988. We formed a plan together. He told me about the loose curtain rod. The days blur together, so it's hard to remember who said what. I pretended to stretch. Felt the looseness of the wood. I diminished by this point.

My rib bones protruded. My saliva no longer formed. I was always on the verge of passing out. I yawned loudly, and she heard it. Whoa. As she said it, her rotten tongue fell from her mouth. It landed on the tile with a splat. A maggot scattered.

She bent over to pick it up. Her fingers fumbled on the floor. Now! I ripped the curtain rod from its place, held it like a spear, and lunged. She was just standing up, her hands struggling to cram her cram her chest. tongue back between her teeth. The rod caught her in the abdomen and pierced the bloated skin. Her dead tongue rolled from her mouth and slid down her face. I continued my charge. The tongue landed on my naked chest, the maggot squirming among my chest hairs. I gritted my teeth

and tried to ignore it. I was too nutrient deprived to waste energy vomiting anyhow. The tongue slipped down my chest and onto my abdomen. By this point, I was in the hallway. I gave the curtain rod a final thrust and felt it penetrate the cheap drywall on the other side. My hands were free. I used one to throw the tongue off my pelvis the other to smash the maggots and flies on my torso.

Pinned. I didn't waste any time. I grabbed my bundle of clothes, decided I didn't have time to put them on, and ran down the hall. I found the creaky stairway, the same one she forced me to climb all those ages ago. I pounded down the steps,

praying they wouldn't cave in and send me to a rat and snake-filled basement, concrete stoop out front, and hit the grass. Exhaustion took off, focused my weak eyes and saw her stumbling down the steps. The rod still lodged in her stomach like a flagpole. Tonglless, she screamed at me. The words were unintelligible, but I have no doubt she was telling me to wash. I picked myself up and ran. I say picked myself up like it was that simple.

Every muscle in my body cried out when I pushed myself off the ground, closed of their own accord. They begged me for rest and stood up. Far edge of her property, near the huge eastern window, there was a bridge. I hobbled along in that direction. I tried to increase my pace, and she waddled along after me. Flakes of her skin dropped as she followed. Her throat started bleeding again. It stained the grass and gravel.

I stumbled over clumps of grass, over rocks, over saplings. I continually turned my head to check her progress. She was near. I heard her grunts and smelled her nastiness. I saw swirling lights. I felt tweezers in my chest. It was so simple and uncomplicated. Her footsteps roused me.

Her hands were on the stone railing inches away. I forced to. I forced myself back to my feet and used the bridge rail to steady myself. She was gaining on me. I looked over the railing. The river was crowded. A dozen crocodiles lined its banks, and more of them clawed at the man-made barriers

or poked their snouts through the holes in the chain-link fence. I couldn't go any further, so I waited for her. When she was two yards away, she raised the machete. Her fingers turned to mush. The machete dropped The curtain rod smacked against the ground And made her lose her balance

I grabbed one end of the rod And pulled her back to her feet Then I shoved her against the railing I let go And her broken body Overbalanced Her fall And watched her splash

The crocodile swarmed her flashing teeth And scaly jaws pulled them under Soon Only Roy Orbison remained But little by little he sang until finally. According to the nice lady at the consulate, that's where the authorities found me,

but naked and fast asleep, alone on a bridge overlooking a river of crocodile. I think I'll put something like that on my tombstone. Nice epitaph. Sounds hardcore. They gave me some clothes and took me to the consulate. My teacher buddies came by and hugged me and told me they were so glad I was alive,

but they seemed uncomfortable around me. And I could tell they were relieved when we said our goodbyes and they were free to go. Oh, well. There were some legal stuff to take care of and a really long interview with some people from the State Department, but a day or two later, I made it home. I try not to think about the woman. It doesn't make sense for something like her to exist, so I figure it's healthier not to dwell on it.

I still feel the scratcher of her tongue against my hip bone. The feeling's never really gone away. I still hear the water late at night and feel the harsh pinpricks as I try to sleep. My wife has been understanding. She doesn't ask a thousand questions, doesn't put pressure on me to talk about it. Real awesome of her. She humors me too. She's tolerant of my sudden interest in Orbison.

I play him before bed every night and she hums along like it's the best thing in the world. I don't tell her he cures the feverish flashbacks. It's just good stuff. Then his voice fades away and it's off to the bath, not the shower. 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 past 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.