The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E01

Episode Date: June 3, 2018

It's episode 01 of Season 11. On this week's show we have five tales about perplexing punishments and minor malfeasance. "How I Wonder What You Are"† written by Al Bruno III and performed by Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 00:03:30) "In the Quiet Hours"¤ written by Scott Ferguson and performed by Kyle Akers & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:16:20) "Ten Miles Outside Vaughn"† written by Irene Bassett and performed by Graham Rowat & Armen Taylor & Erika Sanderson & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 00:54:30) "Noose of the Hanged Men"† written by Manen Lyset and performed by Matthew Bradford & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 01:15:15) "Dandelion Fluff"‡ written by Oriahna Stockham and performed by Mick Wingert & Nichole Goodnight & Mary Murphy & Nikolle Doolin & Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 01:39:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Graham Rowat   Click here to learn more about Al Bruno III   Click here to learn more about Irene Bassett   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Ten Miles Outside Vaughn" illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham 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

This audio program presents horror which is frightening and disturbing. You let us into your mind at your own risk. The sunlight fades to darkness. The frightful tales creep into your mind. It's time to give it. Because tonight there will be... Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On the show this week, we have five tales about perplexing punishments and minor malfeasance. Welcome to the premiere of Season 11 of the No Sleep Podcast. We're excited about all the things we have in store for you this season. We have lots of great stories lined up, some serialized stories to keep you coming back for more, some very cool contests, and in just over a week we'll be celebrating our seventh anniversary. Imagine that, seven years, almost 300 episodes and hundreds and hundreds of hours of horror storytelling, with plenty more to come.

And we're kicking off season 11 by welcoming back a brand new voice actor to our cast. If you're wondering what it means to welcome back someone who's brand new, it's because Graham Rowett is joining us in season 11 after premiering in last season's finale of Return to a Seaside British pub. Graham is a New York-based actor who performs on stage, screen, and with song. With many off-Broadway productions under his belt and some stage productions in my hometown of Toronto, he recently completed the Broadway run of Steve Martin's Meteor Shower. On television, Graham has been featured on Elementary, The Good Wife, Law and Order, and as the world turns. He's been a soloist with the National, Omaha, and Portland Symphony Orchestra,

and his voice can be heard on numerous cast recordings, audiobooks, and video games. Simply put, we are thrilled to welcome an actor of his stature to our cast. Welcome, Graham. Thank you for sharing your talent with us as we tread the boards of our modest little theater. And as we begin this season, I want to thank our composer Brandon Boone for his great new arrangement of our theme song, and Phil Mikulski for giving the season the sound of an old VCR from the 80,

Please. Uh, kids, ask your grandparents what a VCR is. And so with that in mind, it's time to get season 11 playing. The tape is in the machine. The stories are ready. So let's press play. In our first tale, we meet a man who lives in a small town. But as author Al Bruno the third informs us, living in the town isn't quite accurate.

He's forced to live there amongst its devout citizens due to an unfortunate turn of events, and it's unlikely he'll be leaving anytime soon. Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So think of this story when you gaze up at the stars tonight and ask yourself how I wonder what you are. I'm is right when the howling begins. It will be after sundown, of course, the mothers and fathers of Jebson only scream after sundown, and only on the clearest of nights. There is no town of Jebson listed on any map. Even in its heyday of the 1940s, it was too small to be worthy of notice.

It's nothing more than a collection of buildings at the end of a dead-end road. On one side, it is bordered by long, untended cornfields. On the other, the swampy remains of Lake Campbell. The most noticeable of the town's buildings is a red brick edifice with a wide-domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just barns and single-story homes. The swamp is row after row of barbed wire and bear traps. I'll let them scream for an hour or so, let them become tired. Even now, it amazes me how I had learned to pick up.

out the individual voices in the cacophony. The widow Toth tires easily, but the garrets will be at it until dawn. And what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops? I'll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing its lid in place with the wax from a melted crayon. The children of Jebson won't miss just one. especially not purple. Twenty-five years ago, a calamity befell the town of Jebson. The authorities blamed it all on the after-effects of an experimental insecticide, but the old book the town elders read from every Sunday said otherwise.

It told the citizens of Jebson that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin. That is why they scream at the starlight, hating it, cursing it, raging at it. You can't see what their children have become and not feel the same way. The changes are heartbreaking. and horrifying all at once. But after you spend a time with them, you feel differently.

There is mockery in the mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls. They know secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one family's basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they writhe in their basement sties. I think of their weeping mouths and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago. The ill-advised shortcut along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching the train bridge and seriously considering turning around. It looked decades out of repair, and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed under it.

But I didn't turn back. My ego wouldn't let me. I was right and the road was wrong, so I drove under the train bridge, momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered it. I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass. The sounds, and I really remember, the squeal of the brakes, the thud of the body. on the hood of my car. The thick crack of laminated glass. I would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty.

But all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape lying halfway through my windshield. Human instinct made me reach out to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his skin, he twisted around to face with. me. His mouth lashed out, probiscous-like, and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm. Pain bristled out from where the boy had latched onto me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and died. At first, the wound held all my attention. How could it not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood, but instead the boys' distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering ulcerations.

But then I became aware of the men making their way out of the tall grass. These were the fathers of Jebson, and they understood immediately what had happened. They had brought everything they might need to bring one of their children back home to its basement. Rope, bandages, and cudgels, it was also everything they needed to make a captive of me. They dragged me away from the accident sight through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain-link fence to leave me in the care of the mothers of Jebson. Those gaunt women had cudgels of their own, and I was a mass of bruises and welts by the time the hole in the earth had been made. made to their standards.

The menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears, or headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave back in. Now, it is years later, and I've had to dig a dozen more graves. One by one the mothers and fathers are dying out. It's always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jebson is withered and white-haired,

but every year a few more die in their sleep, or at work in the field, or at prayer in their red-brick observatory. The children are dying, too. Not a one has ever lived past 17. One by one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident, like the one that trapped me here. Despite the curse that has befallen them, the people of Jebson continue to reproduce. Each mother convinced that this time she will give birth to the great Redeemer, as was foretold in the old book.

Each time they fail, and each time the result is lost. locked away in its family's basement. You can't imagine those basements. The smell of rotten meat, the ankle-deep, fecal matter, and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls, gold and silver crayons their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulate. away. The youngest of the children is a newborn, still angry from the womb. The oldest is 17 and nearly rotted away. No matter the age, they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites,

sometimes with maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars. So many scars now. marked. I could never walk among the people I'd known before. They'd refused to recognize me and insist I was a stranger. Widow Toth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty. She even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from the old book itself. The mothers and fathers of Jebson base every aspect of their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies. I wonder if anyone will notice me leaving. I doubt it. Even when they're not screaming their heads off at long-dead sons, they barely notice my comings and goings.

As I said before, the mothers and fathers of Jebson have become so sure of me. Some families think I've become a true believer. The rest think the cinder block chained to my ankle is enough to keep me in my place. I don't know who you are or when you'll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities. Don't let my death be. for nothing. I go to the bottom of the swamp with two regrets. One is that I won't be here when

the town of Jebson is discovered and burned to the ground. The other is that six months ago, I accepted Father Garrett's invitation to join in their celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their debasements. And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy. They even asked me to give a reading from the old book. I eagerly stepped up to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume. Everyone waited for me to choose a passage and speak, but all I did was shake and weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled and my mind shut down. I had to be carried out and put to bed. You see, the old book, it was blank from cover to cover. You're even holding some of the pages in your

hands now. I used them to write my story. When a young man loses both his parents by the time he finishes college, he decides to deal with his grief by taking on a new role in a new town. But as we learn from author Scott Ferguson, the man's decision to find room and bored at a local bed and breakfast leads him to discover that something sinister resides within. Performing this tale are Kyle Lakers and Nicole Doolin. So listen closely. In the walls, you can hear it in the quiet hours. When I was younger, I had a strong interest in history, especially local history.

My parents lived in a small city, if you could really call it that, up in the Appalachian Mountains in Maryland. My father died of a heart attack when I was 18. My mother followed shortly after of a stroke. when I was 21 and just about ready to graduate from college. I couldn't bear to live in the small town home I'd grown up in after that. Instead, I sold the house, investing everything at the urging of an aunt down in Baltimore, while using some of the life insurance money to pay for the last semester of college. That last semester was the first I spent living on campus,

sequestered in a tiny, single-person dorm room. After my graduation, I felt lost. the invested money from the sale of the house, as well as the remainder of the life insurance money left me with a small but consistent income. Enough for the necessities of life, but very little in the way of luxury. My college advisor,

a portly older man who dyed his hair black, trying unsuccessfully to hide his advancing years, suggested I apply for a graduate degree in historical preservation, as I had made such a good impression on the local historical society that I'd interned with. He said it would do me good, to stay around people and recommended a work study program that might if I impressed the rest of the faculty like I had impressed him and turned into a position with the university. In any case,

the stipend would keep me in better condition than I was currently in. Having no other plans and still quite shaken by the loss of my parents, I agreed. More to have something to occupy my mind rather than out of any great enthusiasm for the job. I knew it was grief, but I found it harder and harder to rouse myself out of bed in the morning, and it was a chore to be around to people. In taking the position, I hoped to force myself out of my misery. Striving to make the most out of what little money I had, I began to look for less expensive lodgings. After less than a week, I was contacted by one of my other professors. My advisor had told her of my situation, and she had recommended me to an acquaintance,

who ran a small bed and breakfast a half hour or so outside the city limits. Her friend was looking for a year-round tenant to offset the costs of slower parts of the season when guests were less frequent. I must have made a pathetic sight when I arrived. I had lost a great deal of weight in two years, and my clothes hung on me. My dark eyes had bags under them. I'd been having trouble sleeping. My hair was the only part of me that had not shown any signs of the recent stress. It was neatly parted, and I'd had it trimmed the day before for the express purpose of meeting my future.

landlord. Closing the door to my beaten old sedan, I looked up with the house. It was more like an estate. A large two-story building sun sunken into an almost perpetual gloom between two steep hills. The hills shaded the house from the sun for almost the entire day, except when the sun was directly overhead. There were no other homes nearby, and apart from a lawn circling the building, the forest that covered much of the Appalachian Mountains in the area had pressed in on all sides. I was grateful for the shade as I crossed the lawn. It was early September, but still warm enough during the day that I disliked spending more time outside than was absolutely necessary. When I reached the front door, I could not help but have a sudden feeling of doubt and nameless anxiety.

My hands clinched and unclinched as my breathing quickened. It wasn't the house, that was childish. It was my self-imposed social isolation. My friends, so supportive at first, had found my content. state of misery, exhausting. After months of fighting just to get me to leave my dorm room, they'd given up on me as a lost cause, quietly removing themselves from my life as I'd removed myself from theirs. The only real connection I had left was my maternal aunt, who lived two hours away to the east in Baltimore. Aside from my college professors, I had

barely spoken to anyone for almost a year. The house sprawled out to either side of the porch, wood and stone heaving itself out of the ground. The wood was painted a dark blue and the stone was gray. Everything looked old, easily a hundred years or so. The telephone and electrical lines that led to the house looked strange, like IV lines hooked to an aging body, still stubborn and strong, resenting the modern interference

and its slow decline into obsolescence. I wiped the sweat off my palms onto my pants and wrapped on the door. A pale-looking old man wearing jeans and flannel. answered the door. His eyes were piercing green, and he looked at me as though taking the measure of my soul. Grimmising, he stepped back and let me through, running a hand over his thinning hair. Oliver Road? Yes, sir. Are you the landlord? Nah, she'll be here in a minute. Sit down.

He pushed the door closed after me without offering to shake hands. Instead, he turned away, walking back into the house. his stooped back hid his substantial height it was then I realized that his left arm was missing the sleeve of his flannel shirt was pinned up to keep it out of the way without another word he climbed the stairs to the upper recesses of the house his only hand clinging to the banister for balance the whole first floor was made to look like a hunting lodge with wood floors

a stone fireplace and wood furniture probably made by the local Amish it was a studied effort in rural hospitality and American nostalgia, something I always found slightly cloying and claustrophobic. A quilt hung on one wall along with cast iron cooking tools.

The only concession to modernity was a window air conditioner desperately humming away, trying to keep out the early autumn heat, and equal to the job only because of the constant shade from the two hilltops that overshadowed the estate and the cooler temperatures that pervaded in general thanks to the elevation of the mountains.

An old woman's voice came from the top of the steps. I watched as the old man passed an older woman. He nodded once and continued farther into the house as she descended to meet me. She was thin with gossamer white hair pulled into a bun. She wore a simple gray dress. I hope Mr. Ferry didn't offend you. He's in the habit of being very curt. And now that summer tourism is at an end, I'm afraid his manners will only get worse. When she reached me, she held out her hand. Agnes Tate People call me

Ms. Agnes I shook her hand Her skin felt like dry soft parchment And thin as I was I felt like I could have crushed her hands in mind With no effort at all Miss Agnes

I'm not sure what my professor told you But I don't really have a lot of money I don't know if I can afford all this She chuckled a low, cracked sound Mr. Road don't get ahead of yourself. We make our money off of summer tourists who like to camp and hike and visit antique stores.

We make a little more on folks who come up to stay in the winter, though not as many as I'd like since that ski lodge opened up. If I didn't live here, I'd close up shop entirely during the slow months. But since I do, I am happy to take a personally recommended border to bring in a little money and make sure things keep running. I nodded, a little more at ease, though her milky gray eyes never quite held the same quiet warmth as her voice conveyed. Thank you, ma'am. I won't be in the way much. I started a graduate program, and most of my time

will be spent in classes or studying. A model tenant, then. Let me show you the room. I followed her down the hallway to a room on the ground floor. It was small, decorated in the same wood and cloth furnishings as at the lobby. Dinner is at seven. You'll be on your own for breakfast and lunch, though. I thanked her and said the arrangements were agreeable to me. A few signed documents later, and I was moving my few meager possessions into my room. By the time I had everything arranged, the evening meal was ready.

The food was simple. Roast potatoes, chicken, and salad. And my attempts at conversation were stilted. I did manage to learn that Mr. Ferry, or J. as he asked me to call him, was less a tenant and more an employee. Miss Agnes kept him around for general house and groundskeeping. His arm had been lost in an accident in the small paper manufacturing company, and now he lived off a combination of settlement from the company, Social Security, and disability payments, with his residence at the bed and breakfast paid for in swaps with his labor.

When the dishes were cleared, I took my leave and went back to my room. Time passed slowly in my little room, and I soon found myself nodding in a chair, an open book on the history of the local area in front of me. I wanted to continue the favorable impression I'd made on the city's tiny museum. Some of the curators were getting old, and they might want fresh blood soon. I woke up with a jerk. My sleep had been deep enough that I'd almost fallen out of my chair, when my head slipped off the hand I had been using to prop it up. My book tumbled to the floor, open to a page of local legends. I'd been reading up on an anthropological account of brooch, a kind of folk magic, that the Amish and other Pennsylvania Dutch had brought with them into the Appalachian Mountains in the

area. One of the most prevalent myths was the idea that the area had been tainted when the Amish moved in and then cleansed by brochures before the land it could be settled. I stood to pick up my book, a little on edge. The cottony feelings of my thoughts as I worked my way back to consciousness were abnormally anxious, as though I had woken to find a stranger watching me sleep. I put it down to dozing off in an unfamiliar place. Book and hand, eye stretched, looking at the clock next to my bed. It was late. I had been dozing for hours, and it was edging close to 11.30.

If not for the lamp near my chair casting a soft yellow glow, I would have been in complete darkness. I looked around as I stretched and paused when I found the closet door open. I must have left that open when I was moving everything in, but still I cast a wary glance at the door. It's strange, isn't it? The creeping unease we feel over such mundane things. During the day, an open door to the closet or basement is wholly unremarkable. We might close it as a matter of habit, but we give it no second thought. But at night, even as a grown man in my twenties, once the sun goes down and open door makes me shudder. It shouldn't. I know what is in my closet.

I knew what was in my parents' basement, but still, the sight unnerved me. When I would approach, more often than I would like to admit, clutching a heavy bit of brick-a-brac or hastily commissioned kitchen knife, I could not help but feel a sense of terrified wonder. I know what should be down the stairs to the basement or hung in my closet, and yet that only makes the feeling worse. What kind of thing might have crawled its way into such a closed and unviting space when all the doors and windows of a house were locked? What could still find its way through? And yet, as I crept closer to the door, staring inside the closet,

I found nothing. We always find nothing, don't we? But just like every other time, that did not stop me from piling my book bag and hamper against the door after I closed it. It's still uneasy, but feeling better for how. having performed my childish little ritual. Then I realized I faced another concern. I was in an unfamiliar place,

and I was an absolute night owl, rarely making it to bed before three in the morning. The night stretched out before me with nothing to occupy my thoughts but the quiet, whispering melancholy that had plagued me for almost four years. I sighed as I decided to try sleeping. I had been unable to sleep well since my father died. When my mother followed him, the family doctor prescribed me sleeping pills to help me get what little rest I could.

Taking one with a mouthful of water from the plastic bottle I'd opened earlier in the day, I stripped and got into bed, turning the lamp beside the bed off. Despite the pill, I laid awake, groggy, but still unable to fully pass into sleep. His time stretched long and thin and hung viscous in the air. I heard the noise for the first time. staring at my ceiling, I heard something that sounded very much like scratching, or perhaps it was more akin to a strange, mechanical ticking. The sound filled the room, quiet but somehow sinister.

I was too drugged to move despite my anxiety. Half-finished thoughts fluttered through my mind. Images of a large rat creeping out of the closet. I knew the closet was closed. I knew I'd piled things in front of it, but it was open in my mind. The rat squirmed its way up the tangled sheets and under the bed, clawing its way into my chest as I stared in sleep-addled horror. The rat was not there, but it was.

I could see nothing on my chest. I knew the closet door was closed, but every part of my unthinking irrational mind screamed at me that it was there, an ugly hunched shape in the dark. There was a long, desperate pause. and it lurched towards me. Teeth sinking into the flesh of my cheek. It tore at me.

And blood welled up as it ripped open the soft tissue of my lips and nose. I needed to move. I poured every part of my fear and evulsion into one last effort. My body shook and I thrashed my way into a sitting position. Throwing the rat off my chest and bringing my hands to my mutilated face as the strange scraping noise died away. There was no rat. my hand searched my face as I choked and sucked in a rattling breath there was almost a sob no blood there never was a rat the closet door was closed my rational self knew this but I was still fuzzy still half stone clicking the bedside lamp I listened as best I could I heard nothing I settled myself back again still shaking and waited for the bedside lamp I listened as best I could I heard nothing I settled myself back again still shaking and waited for the

dream to fade. The rest of the night passed in fitful, half-sleep. I was unwilling to turn the desk lamp off. Come morning, I found my eyes bloodshot, and my face looked more haggard than usual. Staggering down the hall to the bathroom, I showered and dressed. It was Saturday, so I drove back into town and picked up toiletries and food. A miniature refrigerator and hot plate in my room meant I could have the resources for breakfast and lunch. The roads were deserted, and that was for the best, sleep-deprived state, I was a danger to anyone else, and certainly myself. I caught myself nodding off once, and as soon as I arrived in the city, I found my way at the local diner. It took three cups of coffee to feel human again, but my eyes still ached. I ate methodically,

chewing my way through toast and butter, eggs, and a glass of orange juice. I finished a fourth cup of coffee once my food was done, and then paid and left. When I were at the first, I turned to the house later that night I stowed my groceries away. I was exhausted and decided to lay down for a nap. I woke to a gentle wrapping on my door. I got up, crossed the room, and opening the door found myself staring at Mr. Ferry. Or I mentally corrected myself, Jake. Ms. Agnes sent me to check on you.

Dinner's ready. When I first opened the door, I had the distinct impression that he had been about to be as abrasive as he had been yesterday. But as he saw my face, his expression softened. And his eyes, just as tired and his bloodshot as my own now that I looked closer, held a kind of pity in them. Bad night? Yeah, unfamiliar place, I suppose. He nodded with sympathy. Then without a word turned back to the hall.

On impulse, I caught up with him and asked in a quiet tone, You... We don't have rats, do we? He never turned to face me, but his voice held that same strange, subdued pity as he gave his answer. No. I was too surprised by the way he responded to ask any other questions. I followed behind him and found Miss Agnes waiting at the dinner table. The food was simple and I ate mechanically.

No one spoke. When I was done, she cleared the dishes, and I thanked her before making my way back to my room. That night I stayed up for her. far later than I should have, intent on tiring myself rather than take another of the pills, and slipping into some half-dreaming nightmare. When 3.30 in the morning arrived, I was exhausted. I turned off the small television in the room, and then the lights. On sudden impulse, I turned the lights back on, staring at the closet.

Nothing was wrong. In a flurry of anxiety, I examined the rest of my room. The door was locked, and so were the windows. trying to calm myself, I methodically checked corners and the small dark spaces under the bed and in between the furniture and walls. Still anxious, I forced myself into bed and turn the lights off. I lay awake and apprehensive,

but finally I began to drift somewhere between waking and dreaming. And then I heard it, a rhythmic clicking in the walls. I immediately thought of rats, of my dream from the night before. I tried to move, but I was bound by sleep. I could see the closet door closed. The scratching intensified, but it was coming from the wall behind me.

It was soft, but in my mind's eye, I could see plaster crumble outward as the hole form. Something in the wall widening the hole, tiny dexterous fingers scraping their claw tips through the dark, ragged edges. Whatever it was would escape. Scrabble across my bed to burrow into the soft flesh of my neck, its sharp needle-like teeth ripping away skin and meat until it found vertebrae. Just as suddenly as the paralysis came, it was gone. Slipping out of bed, I turned the light on. No hole, no tiny claws.

But faintly, just on the edge of hearing, the scratching, or maybe it was ticking, persisted. I approached the bed step by step before cautiously crawling onto it, pushing aside tangled sheets and blankets. Every part of me vibrated with nervous energy as I pressed my ear against the wall. The ticking sounded as though it was coming from just on the other side of the wall, as if the overgrown, ragged nails of something long held in confinement tapped out a slow, deliberate pattern.

I listened more intently, and ever so faintly, I could hear a low gurgling. pipes in the house that's all expanding metal from the pipes still that ragged tapping continued throughout the night and when I was too exhausted to keep myself awake any longer I slept with the lights on again

it's strange what we can become accustomed to when we have no other choice days faded together and the pressing misery left over from the death of my parents and the social isolation blended seamlessly with the claustrophobic nature of my living and working arrangements. I kept to myself in classes and spent my work hours secluded as I cataloged books in the back of the university library. And when I made my way back to my lodgings, I imprisoned myself in my room as a way to avoid the stilted awkward company of Jake and Miss Agnes.

When I went to bed, I would check and double check the closet and press my ear to the wall with the light on, to the faint sound of ticking. It was in the middle of November that I found the first real, unavoidable chance. I awoke in the middle of the night to find the wind rattling against the old house and my desk lamp dimmed and flickering

as though suffering the effects of a brownout. As I shook myself out of my torpor, I realized what had wakened me. The tapping had grown in frequency and sounded wrong somehow. Two distinct noises could be heard in the wall. walls. One, a clattering, artificial sound like an overtaxed clockwork machine, and the other frantic clawing in the walls, as though an enormous rodent scraped its dexterously long

fingers down the walls, searching for a way out. The feelings of terror, so long kept in check by childish rituals, became flooding back as I watched the light dwindle to almost nothing. Something was in the room with me, something was reaching in, clawing through a door, it had managed to push open just a crack. The closet door was closed. Chipping its weight of freedom, a finger scraping through a hole in the wall. Its fingernail, no, its claw, long, ragged and broken. Rats in the room.

Something in the room, but the room was empty. I beat my closed hands on my head, sobbing with a sick frenzied panic. And then the moment passed. The rats scurried back into holes. The clawed fingers drew back and the door slammed shut. The scraping stopped and the ticking slowed bit by bit. When dawn came, gray light filtering through clouds that promised snow, I shuffled out of my room.

I found Jake sitting at the dining room table, staring at cold toast in a congealed mess of scrambled egg. I stared at him and he looked away. My voice was thick with exhaustion. There's something wrong with this house. He never met him. my gaze as he spoke. Yeah.

Where are the other guests? Miss Agnes said people would come in the winter to ski. No other guests. Never had any during the winter. I shivered, looking around the empty dining room. I'm... I'll settle my bills and find somewhere else.

Putting his head in his hand, Jake spoke. Not today. Look outside. I did, crossing the room and pushing the heavy curtains aside. Last night winds had carried a thick layer of clouds across the sky, and wet, heavy snow fell at a furious pace. It had already begun piling up outside, and was at least four inches deep. I sucked in a breath, the cold gray sky and the thick white layer of snow fueling my mounting, anxiety, and claustrophobia.

The curtain fell back into place as I stepped away from the window. Where's Miss Agnes? My voice shook with intensity, even as I barely whispered the words. Jake did not respond for a full minute, and I was on the verge of asking again, though with the fear slowly building in me I was sure I would have repeated myself with hysterical shouting. But then he spoke. Downstairs. His voice was hushed as well.

But I don't think she'll see you. I turned and left the dining room, hurrying down the hallway into the kitchen and down the stairs. I'd never gone downstairs before. An old root cellar was at the bottom of a narrow flight of steps. The wind blew, rattling the windows in the kitchen loudly enough that I could hear them even at the bottom of the steps. The sound spurred me on, and I tried the door. Blocked. I beat on the old wood with my fist.

Miss Agnes? Miss Agnes! There was a noise from behind the door, and my thoughts were filled with thoughts of rats. A massive rat. with long, finger-like claws and matted, mange-blighted fur with patches of cracked oozing skin. It was in the walls. It was in the walls and behind the door both at the same time.

I'd never heard the scratching during the day before. And it was quiet now but for the rattling windows. But I could hear rats scratching slowly in my thoughts. Miss Agnes, open the goddamn door. My fist slammed down again as I vented my fear and grief. Something is wrong. Something is wrong and I don't want to be here anymore. I never expected a response.

And her voice, so soft and collected, startled me as she spoke through the door. None of us do, Mr. Road. Go back upstairs. Keep to your room tonight. I began kicking at the door, a hard rhythmic motion. You know what's happening. Why?

Tell me why. I cursed at her. I screamed at her. I knew if I stopped, I would run. Any second I knew the rats, covered with weeping sores and necrotic flesh, would come streaming out of the room when I kicked the door in. I knew there would be nothing there but ragged flesh

and chewed, splintered bone. But I kept on because at the same time, I knew something was behind me, surrounding me. Glassy eyes and needle teeth like the ones that had torn my lips and cheeks away late at night when the closet door came open. Then I heard it. A soft whirring of oiled machinery and the ticking of some unknown mechanism. The rats in my mind crept back to watch from their non-existent holes chewed in the walls.

Miss Agnes spoke to me through the door again. Her low voice still audible about the sound of the strange ticking and a scraping from the rats in their holes. I wiped my eyes to clear my vision. Then suddenly realized I was crying. I need you to go back upstairs, Mr. Road. Can you do that? I sagged against the door.

I don't. And I would advise not speaking to Mr. Ferry for the rest of the day. I am sorry, Mr. Rode. Oliver, I was unaware of your full circumstances when I agreed to have you bored here. I could feel the rat's eyes on me as she whispered through the door. My ear pressed against the rough wood. A solid mind helps keep the trap set But I fear inviting you to live here has weakened them

Your grief is like rust on the bars of a cage Like a handful of crumbs scattered on the floor I backed away from the door and up the stairs Jake was gone when I walked through the dining room But I thought I could hear him moving throughout the house hurrying back to my room I closed the door and locked it and he had footsteps and watched as a shadow briefly obscured the light coming in from under the door

hours pass I could hear Jake outside sometimes but he never lingered as evening came and the snow continued to fall I gave in to a morbid curiosity rummaging through my belongings I finally drew out a folding buck knife my father had given me when I turned 13 the blade was worn but sharp I'd used it camping during the summers when I was a teenager. Unfolding the knife, I looked at the wall.

I could hear ticking, feel the eyes on me. If I'd gone insane, no one would blame me. If this was real, I wanted to know what was happening. I began cutting away the plaster and drywall. The hole was dark. My vision narrowed as I focused on the hole, and my mind burst into irrational panic. Every part of me was on edge as I expected clawed fingers or perhaps a blistered sore-covered face full of needle teeth snapping at me as it squirmed to get its body free.

My knife scraped metal. I dug with my fingers, ripping away drywall in chunks and working my fingers raw. No insulation, but the metal was worn. I appeared closer. It looked like the inside of a lock. Tarnished metal tumblers clicked slowly, as though an invisible locksmith worked ceaselessly on the door. the device. I widen the hole, and the more I saw, the less certain I became that it was real. Plaster dust was everywhere, but I'd made a whole three feet in diameter. Cracked dry,

rotted rubber tubes snaked through walls of tumblers, springs, and slowly turning cogs. One of the tubes leaked, and something hot and red sizzled as it dripped onto corkscrew shaft that turned to gear at ponderous pace. Both a gear and shaft had turned to dark, rusty red. and then I heard it something behind the wall of metal began scraping the gears turned the dripping from the crack tubes increased

and the clicking of the tumblers came faster I could see it in my mind a hunched festering thing with long nimble fingers tapping scratching and teasing out the secrets of its prison it was a prison I realized the house was a cage for rats A mind filled in the word without prompting.

Large hungry things that nod at the walls of your mind. Grasping, scrabbling claws and hungry mouths pressed through the bars to scratch and bite at anything on the other side. A strong mind reinforces the lot, but a damaged mind, wounded by grief, and turned inward to find itself. I could feel the thing pressing against the walls of my mind, scraping.

I found myself on the floor, sobbing as the tumblers clicked open one by one. Stumbling back away from the wall, I tread the door, fumbling at the lock before pulling it open and running into the hallway. The house was dark, but I could hear the gears take faster throughout the house. And I heard the sound of liquid sloshing in a can and splattering to the ground. Hurrying into the dining room, I found Jake. His face glossy with sweat and his eyes wide. He had a can of paint thinner. In his hand, he swung it.

liquid sloshing into the walls, the table, and the floor. Jake, what are you doing? The old man turned to me with a surprising kind of quickness. He smiled and his mouth was bloody. I wonder if he had bitten his tongue because he slurred his words. Mr. Rose, rare to see you out of hiding. Come to help me with our rat problem. I took a step away from him, putting my hands in front of me.

I'd never closed my knife, and I didn't then either. It was a small comfort. You said we don't have rats, Jake. He grinned. Blood dribbling down his chin as a high-pitched keening sound escaped his stretched lips. He dropped the can, and then he spoke again. All depends on your point of view, doesn't it? He brought his hand to his face,

fingers digging hard enough to leave deep scratches that oozed blood. I edged forward as he continued. Nothing you call an exterminator for. No traps delay. At least no Victor snap traps. Nothing getting into the pantry. The high-pitched peening came again, as he dug his battered Zippo from his flammal workshirt.

Jake, don't. He looked at me again, wide-eyed and full of fear as he whispered. They chew holes into the hallways of your mind, Oliver. I can feel it. I kept the mouth so long. I rushed him, but as I slammed into him, the zippo sparked, and the lighter dropped from his hands. The paint thinner caught in a flash of sudden heat.

Jake laughed and struck at me, his calloused hand slamming into my head, and I saw sparks. even one-handed and old he was still tough like cracked leather tumbling backward we landed in a tangled pile and I heard his head crack on the ground but then he was on top of me one hand closed on my throat blood dribbling from his mouth under my face as he spoke who will burn the mouth Oliver my vision began to blur

and I felt lightheaded but I had not dropped my knife He howled as I jammed it into his arm. He rolled away from me. The fight suddenly drained from him as he curled around his wounded limb. Coughing, I grabbed the whimpering old man, dragged him away from the spreading fire by his shirt collar. Throughout the house, over the roar of the fire came the sound of overtaxed machinery

and frantic scrabbling in the walls. As I wrestled Jake down the hallway, I could feel the walls coming down. I had to get out of the house before the bloated, diseased things that live beyond the wall broke free. As I struggled down the front steps toward my beaten old car, I knew whatever was contained in the house would soon claw its way free of the traps that held it for so long. As the cold wind blew around us, I pushed Jake into my car before climbing in myself. Once in, I took off my belt, looping it around his arm as a tourniquet. I wanted to go back for Miss Agnes. I want to say it was the fire that kept me from going. It was everywhere by then,

engulfing the house but something else kept me back the things trapped were free they were burned wounded hissing with rage as they wrenched free but I could only stare trapped by the snow that was still falling all around us at some point I must have fallen asleep from exhaustion

because deep in the night I watched as rats bloated festering things with wet glistening patches of raw burned skin burst from Jake's stomach and crawled from his mouth. I thrashed myself awake and driver's seat of the car. And when I looked over, Jake was dead. The coroners would later say he died of shock. When the fire department finally arrived, the house was a smoking ruin.

There was an investigation, of course, but all they were able to determine is that Jake had traces of paint thinner on his clothes, and his lighter was found. They also found some of the structural oddities in the house, in the form of melted machinery that extended the whole length of the house. Miss Agnes was found in the basement. She had locked herself inside the stone-lined cellar, amidst what one officer called,

a mix between a clockmaker's shop and a witch's hovel. The coroner said she'd been torn apart by small animals, possibly rats. I left for Baltimore after that to stay with my aunt. I never went back, but I still look in on my old city from time to do. time. There are rumors around the wreckage of the old house. If you visit, you can feel something in the surrounding woods, something scratching at the walls of your mind, trying to burrow its way in.

When driving on lonely highways, there's one rule most of us know. Don't stop to pick up hitchhikers. But author Irene Bassett reminds us of one exception. A lost child in need of help surely requires us to stop and assist him, right? Nothing bad could ever come of that. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Armin Taylor, Erica Sanderson, and Jesse Cornett. So drive safely, friends, hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, especially when you're 10 miles outside Vaughan. It was a desolate stretch of road across the wide, open expanse of empty desert. The most remarkable thing about this part of the highway was a single gnarled tree stripped bare of its leaves, branches reaching up like bony fingers into the clear light sky on the side of the road.

I flick the ash off of my cigarette out of the car window, the embers dancing like miniature stars in the dark, before winking out of existence behind us. Soft classical music poured from the car speakers, and I took another drag. It was about 4 a.m., and we were determined to get to Oroyo Hondo by dinner time. George had been busy writing his novel and working. We hadn't had any alone time for a year. Sometime before he finished his novel, I snapped at him about not having any time together,

and we had an argument. We decided it would be best for us to take a week off for a vacation, which meant no work and no emails for anybody. How long until we reached Santa Fe, dear? The tree, like the embers, faded into the dark. Of darkness. It'll be nice to have a warm bed to cuddle up in. Won't it, Carl? We were both dead tired from driving all night. I nodded and put a hand on his thigh. I'm looking forward to it. At least we'll have barely passable hotel coffee instead of shitty gas station coffee.

George chuckled as we drove along the empty highway. We passed a rusted and dirty sign telling us the city of Vaughn was 20 miles away. I heard George's phone beep, and I looked incredulously at him. That better not be what I think it is. I'm waiting to hear back from my agent. I can't afford to miss an email or a call from her. This trip is supposed to allow us to refocus on each other. Carl, it's just... What if she calls and I can't answer?

Or what if she emails and I can't reply? And I miss a great deal that would launch my career as an author. There'll be another opportunity. I angrily slammed the cigarette butt into the ashtray. We agreed this trip was for us to spend time together alone. George sighed again and kept driving, shaking his head. He said nothing. I clenched my jaw and gave George another glare before I turned and stared out my window.

Why couldn't he understand? I just wanted to spend time with him alone. The headlights of the car illuminated a solitary candle flickering on the side of the road. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the back of the. the seat. There was nothing I could say or do when George got like this. I'd just have to stew in silence until he wanted to talk. I glared out the window and saw a thundercloud suddenly rolling in. I clutched my head as the car swerved and my teeth rattled as we rumbled against the shoulder of the road. My eyes shot open and I saw George covering his ears. I reached out and

flicked off the radio, sending us into a blissful silence punctuated by the staccato of thick, heavy rain drops on the roof. George grabbed the steering wheel and jerked the car back onto the road. He turned on the windshield wipers. Jesus! Where did this storm come from? George rubbed his ears and stared at the radio. And what the hell was that? I don't know. Maybe we went out of range of the station?

It's a satellite radio. I shrugged. Should we try turning it back on? George thought a moment before nodding. It could have just been caused by the lightning. Electrical interference, you know? Whatever it was, it was weird, the capital W. George said nothing.

But I could tell he wasn't as upset as he was a few moments ago. We passed a sign that looked brand new, announcing Vaughn was 10 miles away. For a brief moment, the headlights illuminated a small child, huddled in a dirty yellow raincoat, walking along the side of the road. Then the kid was out of the light as the car rocketed down the road. There's a kid out there. I saw him. George slammed on the brakes and the car lurched to a halt.

George looked in the rear view, put the car in reverse, and pulled up next to the child. The kid jumped and looked around wildly. I rolled down the window and noticed he was a small boy. He kept his hands jammed in his armpits, shivering despite the yellow coat. Mud caked the bottom of his jeans And he squinted in the bright light of the car

Hey kid, you need a ride I could see he was about 10 or 11 years old His face covered in filth He peered at me Eyes wild and filled with fright and uncertainty He looked down the road behind him Before looking right back at us No-uh

My mom said I'm not supposed to get into the car with strangers What are you doing out here so late George leaned over me The kid looked down the road again and back up at us. I'm trying to get away from the bad man. My brow creased. Was this kid kidnapped? What's your name, kiddo?

George looked over his shoulder and down the road. Mikey. Mikey? Did this bad man hurt you? George leaned in even more. A sure sign he was becoming concerned. Mikey looked down and held out his hands. Yeah.

I saw the bleeding cigarette burns that covered his hands, as well as twin bruises on his wrists. He jammed his hands back into his armpits immediately. Look, Mikey, uh, we want to help you. Where does your mom live? In Vaughn. George looked at him. Mikey, um, do you know your address? Our house is right there next to the highway.

You can't miss it. George nodded. I'm George and this is Carl. Come on, get in. We'll take you home and then we can get the police to help catch the bad man. I gave Mikey a reassuring smile, and he shifted uncomfortably for a moment, weighing his options. Eventually, he nodded. Okay.

George popped the locks and Mikey climbed into the back seat. I became intensely aware that he smelled of motor oil and brake fluid. He carefully buckled in, and we drove on. We didn't have a towel for the boy to wipe his face with, but we did have napkins. I dug a few out of a greasy fast food bag. I twisted in my seat to look at Mikey. He was looking out the window absent-mindedly. Do you know what the bad man looks like?

I handed him the napkins. Yeah, he's tall. The tallest man I ever seen. Mikey took the napkins and wiped his face, and I saw the back of his hand was caked in filth and blood with the cigarette burns standing out like beacons. As Mikey continued, I dug around the glove compartment looking for some gauze to cover his wounds.

He wears a black sweater that comes up to his chin and is totally bald. He's got a beard and wears thick glasses. No luck on the gauze, poor kid. Mikey began to picket a thread on his yellow coat before taking it off. I also saw his band when I was running away It's all black with a white stuff horsey tied to the front I hid under it for a little while and ripped something off

But I don't really want to talk about it I looked to George nervously He merely shrugged George was better with kids His book was a kid's book after all Do you have a favorite sport I was grateful for the change in subject Yeah

Mikey about in his seat, ears perked. I like football. When I grow up, I want to be the best football player ever. That's why I was able to run so far so fast. George chuckled and smiled. You did a great job, Mikey. I'll bet you'll be the best football player ever.

Who's your favorite team? I like the Baltimore Ravens. Mostly because I think their mascot is cool. George smiled. They are pretty cool. What's your favorite flavor of ice cream? Mikey thought hard on that. I liked chocolate the best.

He smiled at George, and I looked at him. His phone shined again. I frowned as George reached for it, but he checked himself. Sweetheart, he looked at me with a shake of his head. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it in front of Mikey. I sighed and leaned against my door. Another flash of light, another crack of thunder, another sharp, high-fitched wine.

I winced and turned the radio off. It wasn't as bad as before, but I decided at best to leave it off for now. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Mikey didn't even seem to notice the wine. More importantly, I saw a pair of headlights were coming up from behind. Where'd they come from?

George didn't seem to notice. You all right back there? I'm okay, Mr. George. George smiled and turned his attention back to the road. road and the growing lights of the city. It was a small, one-horse, one-road type of town, that much we could tell. Mikey wasn't wrong when he said we wouldn't miss his house. The rain started to get worse, the thunder and lightning more frequent. I glanced back at him and smiled, then frowned when I saw the car behind us gaining on us. It was a black van with a dirty white

stuffed horse tied to the grill. The van's headlights were filthy and vaguely reminded me of two menacing eyes in the rainy dark. George, he looked at me, then the mirror, and nodded. I know. I opened my mouth to say something, but suddenly the car was jolted forward as the van rammed into us. Hold on! George slammed his foot on the gas. I jerked back, and Mikey whimpered. The van picked up speed and crashed into us again. A blast of thunder split the air as my head slammed on the dashboard, and I heard a thump behind me. Despite his seatbelt, Mikey must have crashed into the back of my seat. The car swerved off the road, and there was a sickening screech of metal-on-metal as we careened through a guardrail.

We hit a ditch and stopped. Everything was silent. There was no rain, no thunder. I looked up and felt a thick wetness creeping down from my forehead. I touched it and saw blood. Looking back at the road, I realized the van was nowhere in sight. Mikey? George?

I heard George groaned next to me and looked at him. There was a huge cot on his forehead, but he was breathing. I looked in the back seat. Mikey wasn't there. The door was closed. The window's unbroken. The only indication Mikey was ever in our car was the small, wet, yellow raincoat thrown across the seat and the buckled seat belt. The small boy had vanished like he was never there.

I crawled out of the car and put a hand on it to steady myself, trying to catch my breath. I expected there to be mud, but the ground was as dry as ever. I remembered I needed to check on George. I rushed to his side and pulled the door open. George, tell me you all right, sweetheart. I'm fine. Is Mikey okay? I don't know. He's not in the car. What do you mean he's not?

in the car. He was just there a moment ago. He's not. Maybe he went out a window? I shook my head. He didn't. George slumped down in his seat and stared dejectedly out the cracked windshield. He has to be here somewhere. George straightened his back and scanned the road. Maybe the man in the van got him again. I looked up and down the bone-dry road, my eyes straining in the dark for any hint of car lights. I don't see the van. That's not possible. George crawled from the wreckage and ran to the road. When he didn't see the van, he shouted, cars don't vanish. People don't vanish. Not like that. And what about the rain? Where's the mud? Why is the road dry? I shrugged my shoulders, at a loss for the phantom rain. Do you see them anywhere? No.

George pulled out his phone. He showed me the screen. No bars? But you just got an email not so long ago. It is weird as hell. George pocketed his phone angrily. He put his hand over his face and groaned. Look, babe, I'm sorry. I know this trip was for us to spend some time together, and I haven't been entirely good at that. He kicked a rock, and I watched him. My jaw tightening.

I'm just excited for my boyfriend. book to come out, you know? I sighed and remembered how he dealt with Mikey in the car. George was always good with kids, and writing was his passion. Who was I to take something that important from him? I'm sorry, sweetheart. I've been too hard on you. I relaxed my jaw and looked out at the city lights just a few more miles away. I understand. Let's talk about this later, okay? Right now, I think we need to focus on finding Mikey and getting our car fixed. George embraced me, and I held him tightly. The town is only a few more miles away.

We can organize a search party and try to find him, and hopefully find a mechanic. George nodded and walked away from the wreckage. It looked salvageable, but we were going to need a tow truck. We walked for about two hours to the city, and by the time we got there, the sun had already started to rise. In the cold, gray, dawn light, George spotted a man in a pair of denim overalls. Hey, mister! George shouted and waved his arms. The man turned to us.

He was an older man, skin like worn out leather, freckles dotting his cheeks like splotches of ink. Well, how can I help you, son? He had a friendly smile on his face. My husband and I picked up a kid about ten miles away, and we got run off the road by some crazy guy in a black woman. fan. The old man's smile turned to a frown. Where's a kid? We don't know. We were kind of hoping you could help us find him. He seems to be from around here. He said his name was Mikey.

The old man's face went pale as a sheet. Can't be. A little Mikey's. Now it was George, you frowned. We just picked him up. He was wearing a yellow coat. The old man shook his head. son i don't know what kind of sick game you're playing at but the boy was found dead about 15 miles away there's a candle mark in the spot as some sicko tortured him burned his hands with cigarettes doc says he died of exposure after escaping i looked at george and he looked back at me

that's what the boy said happened we saw his hands he even described the man who did it to him, tall, bald, and in a black sweater. The car that drove us off the road was a big black van with a white horse tied to it. The old man scratched his head. I do remember a van like that coming into town every few weeks, and man who was driving it and also matched your description. But here's the thing. He was involved in a fatal crash the night before the old Mikey was found,

took out our 10-mile sign when he lost control of his van, flipped into a ditch and he was thrown from it to his death. Any idea what caused him to lose control? I had my suspicions, but wanted to hear it myself. The man nodded. Hmm. Yeah, it looks like somebody ripped or cut his brake line. George and I looked at each other in disbelief.

I turned my attention back to the old man. Did you know him? The old man nodded. Personally, he was one of the guys who lives out in the desert. We saw some weird shit in his house. Hundreds of cigarette butts, discarded next to two sets of half unlocked handcuffs. Now what we found, we'll make it with all those cigarette burns.

We put two and two together. George shook his head. The old man sighed. You say you got run off the road by a van. after picking up a kid in a yellow raincoat. He looked out across the empty stretch of the desert just outside the city limits. I believe it. I've seen some things out in the desert that I can't explain.

Lights in the sky wailing women. Once I even saw a car, I thought, had already left town to drive through a second time. Well, where's your car? I've got a tow truck and run the local repair garage. About five miles the way we came. I gestured down the highway. Do you want us to go with you? The old man nodded.

Yeah, may as well. That way I can tell you the bill then and there. We climbed into his tow truck, and he drove us back out to the wreck, where he pulled the car from the ditch. It wasn't too badly damaged, but it would need some repair. The man said it was going to be. a couple hundred dollars at most. As he was hooking up the car, I stopped him. I want to check something. I headed to the back door and opened it. Carefully, I looked inside. It was just as I suspected. There was no yellow raincoat. You've run out of tape. It's time to press eject and end

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