The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E05

Episode Date: July 1, 2018

It's episode 05 of Season 11. On this week's show we have four tales by authors from the LGBTQ community in celebration of Pride month. "Long Night at the Nursing Home"† written by Tara A. Devlin and performed by Addison Peacock & Nikolle Doolin & Erin Lillis & Mary Murphy & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:02:40) "Home Grown"¤ written by Olivia White and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Graham Rowat & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:39:30) "Transformation Tuesday"‡ written by Scott Savino and performed by David Ault & James Cleveland. (Story starts around 01:24:25) "Containing Secrets"† written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson & Mick Wingert & Dan Zappulla & Corinne Sanders & Armen Taylor & James Cleveland & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:53:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Tara A. Devlin   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about Scott Savino   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ Pride Episode illustration courtesy of C.M. Scandreth 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 left 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 you to 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 four tales by authors from the LGBTQ community in celebration of Pride Month. As we acknowledge and celebrate the contributions of our talented LGBTQ contributors, I'm honored to turn over the hosting duties to some of our voice actors from that community. And so, let's welcome Mr. David Alt to the captain's chair. Many thanks, David. Now, with the recent seventh birthday episode, there were many of the sleepless privately and publicly showing their gratitude for the amazing family that's built up around the podcast, thanks in no small part to Mr Cummings.

I know that there is a sizable LGBTQ contingent to that family. After all, I've flirted with quite a few of you. And yes, I do mean you. And the constant support that we get from the rest of you means so much. to be publicly supported in the way that we are, to be represented in the stories, not just for those of us who are out, but for those who are not in a place to be out or who feel it's not something they're comfortable with yet. Representation is important so that we can see that we're not alone,

even when sometimes we can feel it. So thank you, David, and thanks to all of you for being part of this amazing, crazy family. In our first tale, we meet a woman who's feeling that working with the elderly is getting a bit repetitive. But as we hear from author Tara A. Devlin, it's not just the residents who are feeling like life is going nowhere. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Nicole Doolin, Mary Murphy, Nicole Goodnight, David Cummings, and Erica Sanderson. So tuck yourself in, Put your teeth in the glass of water next to your bed because it's going to be a long night at the nursing home. The longest shift you've ever worked.

For me, I recently worked several days straight. Or was it weeks? I don't even know anymore. Because, to be honest, it was the same day over and over. I don't mean that metaphorically, but literally. Let me explain. I work the night shift at a local care home. The job itself isn't that difficult.

I prepare and distribute medications, monitor the elderly residents, clean the facility, and do more paperwork than should be legal or right. But this particular day changed my life. My workday starts at 9 p.m. I check in and get the news about what happened that day, prepare any medications that need to go out, and then begin my rounds.

Like I said, it's not that difficult, but it is lonely. Aside from myself, only two other carers work the night shift, and on this particular night, one of them called in sick. Hey, pretty lady. Hey, Betty. I greeted my smiling colleague as I arrived. Betty was my favorite person to work with. She was always so happy.

no matter what the situation was. Ben's called in sick. Again? Again? He was a trainee, only 21, and had a penchant for partying. The night shift worked in his favor so he could pursue his interests more freely, but the frequency with which he called in sick was alarming. I couldn't see him staying on much longer.

Gonna be a long night then, huh? Little did I know. I made my way down the halls, distributing medicine, stopping to chat with some of the elderly folk who were still awake and lucid. There was Mr. Jones in 1A, a stubborn man who refused regular bedtimes because he was old enough to decide what was good for himself. He told me about how his son came to visit that day with his new baby girl. He was a grandfather again. There was Mrs. Crabapple and 2D, a sweet old lady with Alzheimer's, who thought I was her daughter. daughter more often than not.

She told me about a lovely movie she watched earlier that day. Or perhaps it was the other day, they all blended together, where an old man was visited by three spirits to make him change his ways. I smiled and nodded, gave her her pills, and moved on. Mrs. Anderson and 2F was also awake, although she wasn't very chatty on this particular night. Odd because she usually never stopped talking. I saw someone. No good can come of him.

Who? She clammed up and said no more. I told Betty about it when I returned to the staff room, but she brushed it off. Probably just chasing shadows. The rest of the night was uneventful. I did my cleaning rounds. I did paperwork. I did more rounds than I did even more paperwork.

I said goodbye to Betty, who was working an extra shift to make up for Ben's absence. and then walked out the door. Only, I didn't. I was walking down the hallway again. Hey, pretty lady. I stopped, dead in my tracks. I said goodbye. I walked down the hall.

I opened the door, and I was back again. Did I zone out and turn around without realizing it? Betty pulled me back to reality. Are you okay? Was I just here? It was a strange question, but it was a strange situation. I looked up at the clock. It was 8.55 p.m.

You just got here. Our shift's about to start. Are you sure you're okay? She looked concerned. I tried to smile, but I most definitely wasn't feeling it. Yeah, sorry. I put my bag down and caught up on the events of the day. Everything was exactly the same, right down to the tone Betty used.

Unsure if I was dreaming or not, I nodded and agreed at the appropriate points, and in a days I went about gathering the necessary medications for distribution. Mr. Jones told me about his new granddaughter. Mrs. Crabapple gushed about that movie she watched, and Mrs. Anderson glared as I entered. I saw someone. I sat down in the dark canteen and put my head in my hands. What on earth was going on?

I pulled out my phone. It was just after midnight. I couldn't call my girlfriend, not now. She'd be asleep. Maybe I had a really life-like dream. Maybe I was dreaming now. I went back to the staff room. Betty, can I ask you something?

Sure. What's up? She was eating a sandwich, going through a large pile of paperwork on the table. Have you ever experienced deja vu so bad that you felt like you were reliving the same day? I can't say I have, no. Why do you ask? I shook my head and shrugged. Nothing. Never mind. You've been acting strange tonight.

Did something happen? No, no, I'm fine. A little tired, maybe. Come to think of it, if I really was reliving the same day, then I hadn't slept for around 17 hours. I mean, my body felt fine, like I had woken up only a few hours earlier, but my mind was getting foggy. Be careful. The night shift can get to you, you know? I sat down and began filling out some papers. The exact same papers I filled in the night before.

I took a pen and scrawled one. on the corner of the desk. I went about the rest of my night, again, grabbed my bag when it was time to leave, and braced myself. See you, Betty. Hopefully not soon, I thought as I grabbed the handle and walked back into the hall.

I dropped to my knees and tears began to well in my eyes. Not again. Hey, pretty. Are you okay? I got up and walked back out the door, I was in the hallway. Again and again, I ran through it. I jumped through it.

I went head first. I went backwards. I went sideways. I went every single way I could think of. I could see the outside. I could feel the cool breeze blowing over my face. But the moment my body was through that door, I was in the hallway again.

Something was keeping me here. Something was making the night blue. I needed to find out why. I went through the motions, but this time I tried to pay more attention. Betty caught me up on the day's events, but there was nothing that sounded out of the ordinary. Mr. Kane sprained his ankle while walking in the garden, and he was currently under bed rest. Mrs. Johnson's family called to say that they would be missing her visit tomorrow, her 54th wedding anniversary, but could we arrange a cake for her?

The plumber would be coming in the morning to check out one of the leaking toilets near the canteen, and one of us would have to cover Ben's first rounds. That was me. I looked at my desk. The one I scrawled was gone. My eyes darted at every shadow, every movement, every sound as I tried to figure out what was going on. I enjoyed the night shift. It was quiet.

It paid well and allowed me to save for my future with my girlfriend, Joanna. The residents were, for the most part, friendly. And despite the routine, Every night was a brand new adventure, except for this one. Mr. Jones beamed as I checked on him. I'm going to be a grandfather again. A girl. It was exactly the same each time.

Even the intonation. I congratulated him and moved on. Mrs. Crabapple greeted me. I watched a movie today, you know? Oh, yeah? I handed her the cup of medicine and filled a glass with water. Let me guess, three spirits came to visit an old man. No, it had dinosaurs, really big ones.

Well, that was new. Come to think of it, last time I saw her, I was so confused that I wasn't paying close attention. But I don't recall her mentioning the same movie either. She said something different each time. Was Mrs. Crabapple involved somehow? She was the only one who wasn't acting according to the same script each time. Something moved in the corner of the room. I turned, but nothing was there.

No, that was a lie. I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but it was like a shadow fell upon the room. Nothing I could see, but I could most certainly feel it. I saw someone. I made straight for Mrs. Anderson's room. Her bedside lamp was on, and she was scowling at the wall. She glanced at me as I walked in, but remained silent.

Mrs. Anderson, this might sound strange, but did you see someone suspicious around here today? Mrs. Anderson was a busy body, but she was also sharp as a tack in her old age. Perhaps meddling in everyone's business kept her mind well-oiled and in good working order. recognition flashed behind her eyes, followed by fear. I did. No good can come of him. This had to be it. Who? Mrs. Anderson, who was he? She turned back to the wall, glaring at it as though her life depended on it.

The TV was off, and that side of the room, dark? No good. I realized she was looking in the direction of her. Mrs. Crabapple's room. Just a few doors down. I placed a hand on her shoulder. Why is he no good? Mrs. Anderson, please. I need to know. She said nothing more, just continued to stare at the wall. I sighed, leaving her medicine by the bedside. As I reached the door, she turned to me once more. Be careful. He knows. He knows. Knows what. She fell silent. Anger mixed with fear in her eyes. She turned to the wall. She would say no more. I sighed and closed the door behind me. No matter how I looked at it, Mrs. Crabapple was involved in this. She was the key. She was the only person who seemed to be moving of her own free will each time. But what was it? How was this little old lady with Alzheimer's managing? Managing

to keep the nursing home locked into a single night over and over. It made no sense. Nothing made any sense. I called Joanna. The phone rang a few times before her bleary voice answered. My heart jumped at the sound of her voice. It felt like it had been days. Technically, it had been.

For me, anyway. Hey, sweetie, it's me. No, yes. No, not really. I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice again. It was a terrible lie, and she knew it. Three hours ago. I know.

Three hours ago for her. Three days ago for me. Tears welled in my eyes. I'd never see her again if I couldn't escape this god-forsaken loop. Are you okay? Did something happen at work? Joe, I need to ask you a strange favor. What did I even want to ask her?

I had no idea what was going on. I was stuck in an endless workday, and the only clue I had to work with was Mrs. Crabapple, the only person who appeared unaffected by it. Then there was that sense of foreboding as I entered her room. But how did I know I wasn't imagining it because of this whole strange situation? Be careful.

He knows. I couldn't get her involved. I needed to figure this out myself. Could you check? that I finished doing the washing. Sure. Hey, are you sure that you're okay? I tried to sound cheerful.

I'm fine. I'll see you in the morning, okay? I love you. Her voice was concerned, and I hated to lie to her. But the feeling in the pit of my stomach told me not to get her involved. I poured through everything I could think of during my break.

I googled time loops, Alzheimer's and the paranormal, even shadow men. Mrs. Anderson said he, which meant she'd seen a person, he knew. I didn't know what it was he knew, but this man and Mrs. Crabapple were the keys to unlocking the mystery. I spent the rest of the night searching for this man she spoke of. I looked everywhere, including all the places I don't usually visit during my shift. There was nothing. The end of the night approached and I made my way back to the staff room. Another night wasted and I didn't feel like I was getting any closer. What are you still doing here? Your shift is over. I tried to muster up a

smile, but I couldn't find the energy. I was tired. I'd been awake for days. It was a feeling I can't put into words and it's not really a feeling most people would ever have the joy of experiencing. My body began each shift awake and alert. But my mind, my mind never slept. I'd been awake for several days straight. And it was becoming more difficult to tell left from right, up, from down. Maybe if I never left the building, the day wouldn't reset. The night began anew every time I walked through the door, right?

What if I just stayed put? I closed my eyes. I want it to sleep. I'm just going to rest here a bit, okay? Sure, suit yourself. You sure you're okay. You seem a little out of it. Everything okay at home?

Yeah, no, I'm fine. It's just been a big night. Okay. Well, I'm just going to get some of this paperwork done. I can drive you home if you like. Sure. Sounds great. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the hallway.

The clock said 8.55 p.m. Motherfucker. I screamed and I kicked the nearby trash can over and threw the visitor's book against the wall. I grabbed the snow globe sitting by the reception window and smashed it, sending glass flying everywhere. My arm was bleeding, but I didn't care. I was tired. I was frustrated. I was angry beyond measure. I would murder everyone in the place if it meant I could. could finally get some rest from this never-ending nightmare. Jesus, what are you?

Betty never got to finish her sentence. I ran at the door head first, sending myself through the glass. I waited for the explosion of pain, but there was none. I opened my eyes, and I was lying on the floor in the hall. My arm wasn't bleeding. The trash can was upright and the window unbroken. I stood up and ran to Mrs. Crabapple's room. Betty's greeting fading into the distance.

It was just up ahead. Just a little further. I turned to the corner and flung the door open with a bang. A man was standing above her bed. His hand rested above her chest as she lay unmoving. What are you doing? The words trailed off as he vanished into thin air. No.

not vanished. More like he faded into the shadows. Mrs. Crabapple took a large gasp and appeared to spring back to life, coughing and grasping at her chest. Mrs. Crabapple, are you okay? I helped her sit up, searching the room for any sign of the man, or what had looked like a man anyway. There was nothing, but I could feel eyes on me. Something was still there. watching, waiting.

Oh, hello, Judy. How's little Timmy? Judy was Mrs. Crabapple's daughter. My heart was pounding in my chest. Little Timmy's just fine. Listen, can you tell me who that was just now? Be careful. He knows. What do you mean, dear? Did you know I watched a movie earlier today?

It was very good. That sounds lovely. Perhaps you can tell me about it later. But there was someone here just now. Who was he? Just now? Oh, I don't know anything about that. But I did see Mr. Winston earlier. A lovely young man said he had a gift for me.

I wonder what it is. She smiled up at me as though expecting me to hand her this gift. Mr. Winston? That told me nothing. Who is this, Mr. Winston? I don't know. Do you know where my gift is? Oh, I'm so excited.

I wonder what it is. We were alone in the room, but we weren't. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my skin crawled. Mrs. Crabapple began talking to herself. My chest, it feels so much better now. I'm sorry? there was this awful pain, but now it's gone. She smiled before turning back to the TV.

Has my game show started yet? If I was to believe that the man I saw standing over Mrs. Crabapple could fade into shadows, then was it really such a stretch to believe that the same man had also done something to her? That he or whatever he had done was what was causing all of this? When I entered the room, she was lying frozen on the bed, his hand over her chest. When he disappeared, she woke up like all was fine. Something was tying this event to the night repeating over and over. How was I supposed to end it?

There was laughter somewhere in the distance. Not in the facility, though. It was inside my head. That's the only way to describe the sensation of it, because I didn't. I didn't hear it. I felt it. Somewhere deep inside me. It wasn't mocking. It was mirth. Amusement at a situation coming together. Another piece being put into the puzzle. A puzzle so close to completion. I was the last piece. Or perhaps I was the first piece. Did it matter? All pieces were required to complete the puzzle, and I was just one of them. I went to see Mrs. Anderson. I saw him. She was sitting in the same spot on her bed, looking at the wall.

She startled as I approached. Who is he? What is he want? What is going on? He's no good. I've seen him once before. Next time, it'll be me. What do you mean next time? Who is he?

What does he want? His name is Mr. Winston. She turned back to glare at the wall. Wait, Mr. Winston? So, the man I saw standing over Mrs. Crabapple's body was the same man she saw earlier in the day? Nobody knows his real name, but we call him Mr. Winston. Those of us who have been here long enough to see him before anyway.

You've seen him before? When? I don't remember exactly. Maybe one or two years ago. Mr. Parker got sick. He should have died, but he didn't. There was a cancer in his lungs. There was little the hospital could do, so he returned here to live out his final months in as much comfort as he could. That was the first time I saw Mr. Winston. He... She paused, trying to find the words. Words that brought back painful memories. He put his hand into Fred, Mr. Parker's chest. He was lying in bed cold. But when he touched him, it was like he sprang back to life.

It was a miracle. It wasn't. A tear fell from her eye, and she angrily wiped it away. It was a curse. People aren't meant to. to live forever, especially not those of us here. The day repeated, and I saw Mr. Winston stick his hands in his chest over and over, each time bringing him back to life, that's not what God intended. Man is not supposed to live past his time. How did it end? How did the day stop repeating?

Another tear fell from her eye. him. I froze. It was the only way. We're not supposed to live past our time. He, Mr. Winston, he picks someone who's about to die and saves them. But there's a catch.

They're not supposed to live past that day. Not supposed to affect the lives of those outside their reach. They're trapped. We're trapped. We can't leave. We can't move on until that which is not supposed to be has ended. I had so many questions that I didn't even know where to begin. Okay, so if Mr. Winston is causing this,

why are you and I the only people outside of Mrs. Crabapple who are aware of what's going on? Mrs. Anderson lowered her gaze. It means that when your time comes, Mr. Winston will come for you, too. I blinked a few times in response. Unsure how to answer that. What do you mean?

I'm next. I've seen him twice now. No one's ever seen him more than that. Who else has seen him? Everyone here has heard of him. Some say they've seen him. Others say they haven't. But those who see him at least once always see him.

one more time. On their final day, then it begins again. Her face was wrinkled, worn out. Bag stooped under her eyes and her skin sunk around her cheekbones. How many extra days

had Mrs. Anderson lived through in her lifetime? I turned to look at the same spot on the wall. Okay, if you had to kill Mr. Parker, as you say, to end the loop, Why haven't you finished this one? You know he's there, don't you? I do. Have you ever taken a life?

No, of course not. It's not that easy, even when it is someone who's supposed to be. She left the sentence unfinished. I can't. Not again. Not again. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she hid her face behind her hands. I stood beside her, scratching the back of my head, at a complete loss as to what to do for the first time in my life.

I walked to the canteen in a daze. I sat in the darkness trying to gather my thoughts. Mrs. Crabapple died. Only this Mr. Winston character found her before the staff did. The residents knew of him. He was a nursing home, urban legend, you might say. This wouldn't end until Mrs. Crabapple died again, this time for good. Could I do it?

Could I kill another human being? Even one that was supposed to be dead already. I opened her door with a creek. She smiled at me from the small desk in the corner. Mrs. Crabapple, you should be asleep. She put the pan in her hand down. Sorry. I haven't felt this good in years, so I couldn't sleep.

The pain in my hands is gone, too, so I can even write again. No, I couldn't do it. She had no idea what was going on, and it was the happiest and sharpest I'd seen her look for years. Maybe I could get to this Mr. Winston before he got to her. Let nature take its course. That's lovely, Mrs. Crabapple. Just lovely. I closed the door behind me and made for the entrance.

I planned the route in my head. I needed to reach Mrs. Crabapple's room as soon as possible. On this round, I ran straight for her room, just in time to see him standing over her. I needed to be even quicker. If I could stop him, I could stop the loop. The loop needed to end. How many hours had I been awake now?

Days? Weeks? I ran for the door at full speed. As I threw it open, I continued without losing step. It was straight down the hall, a right turn, straight down the next hall, a left, and then the second door on the left. I ran like I'd never run before. My feet pounded the ground beneath me as my heart pounded in my chest. My lungs constricted as I sucked in whatever air I could.

It didn't matter. I just had to reach 2D. I flung the door open. The man, Mr. Winston, thrust his hand into Mrs. Crabapple's chest just as the door hit the wall. He turned to me and smiled. I was too late. Just like before, he faded into darkness.

And then Mrs. Crabapple woke up. I walked away. My feet dragged and my knuckles dragged. That was as much speed. as I could muster, and it would never be fast enough. I would never reach her in time. And he knew it. That smug smile. If you want this to end, you'll have to kill her. He had chosen that time specifically because he knew I would never reach her in time. I could try again and again, and every time I would see him reviving her.

smiling at me, waiting for me to make my choice, live like this forever, or kill an old woman under my care. It didn't matter that she was technically already dead. I took this job to care for people, to help those no longer able to help themselves. I stood by the back door, looking at the rear garden. A few small lamps cast a dim glow over the colorful flowers the residents liked to spend their final days by. They were vibrant and full of life. A reminder of younger days and better times. I was achingly tired. I wanted to lie in the dirt and fade away. Feel it all end. The blissful release of darkness, an end to the never-ending pain. It wasn't physical pain. My body was full of energy. My mind, however, was on the brink. How much more could it take? I went back to the staff room.

Betty was doing her rounds. I opened the medicine cabinet and pocketed the blood pressure pills from the back. This would do it, but could I do it? it, I could crush the pills and hide them in a drink or mix them in with some food. Crushing them would cause her body to digest more than it was capable of handling at once, leading to fainting and then causing heart failure or respiratory difficulties. She would be asleep. It would be a painless death. Mrs. Crabapple had a weakness for lemon cakes. Nobody would notice a single cake missing from the canteen stores.

How many days had it been since I last saw Joanna? How many more would it be if I didn't do this? Would it continue forever? Several years passing from my mind while a single night passed for the rest of the world? That was no way to live. I had to do it. The canteen was dark. I made my way into the back,

grabbed a cake from the next day's stock and whipped up a quick icing for it. She had a terrible sweet tooth. There was no other way. I ground up the pills, mixed them into the icing, and poured it over the cake as my heart tore in two. Mrs. Crabapple was a gentle soul. She didn't deserve this. No one deserved this.

I knocked on the door before entering. Mrs. Crabapple, it's time for your medicine. The door slammed behind me, making me jump. I heard it was your grandson's birthday, so I brought you a cake. I hoped beyond hope that for once her mind was still clouded and foggy. She looked confused for a moment, and then broke out into a big smile. Oh, you shouldn't have. No, I really shouldn't.

As I handed her the plate, I could have sworn the room itself vibrated around us. There was that laughter again, but I was the only person who could hear it. Perhaps Mrs. Anderson could hear it too. Mrs. Crabapple swallowed her pills and then started digging into her cake. Each bite was a stab in my heart. I couldn't look. I made it my job to know the residence. I never thought I'd need to use that.

knowledge like this. Who doesn't love lemon cake? I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. She put the empty plate down on her bedside table. I haven't had dessert this late since, oh, probably my 20s. Thank you, dear. It was delicious. I fought back tears. This would be the last time we would ever talk. The last time I would ever see her all going to plan. Mrs. Crabapple? Yes, dear? Thank you. My, what for?

It hit me that Mrs. Crabapple was unaware of what was going on. She wasn't restricted to the loop script like the other players in this game, but she had no idea what was going on either. She didn't know that Mr. Winston had dropped by to pay her one final visit. She didn't know that none of this would end until she passed on as she was supposed to. A tear escaped, rolling unbidden down my face for being a pleasure to work with. I sat by her bedside and listened to stories of her youth until the time came. When it did, I let the tears roll freely.

There was no shockwave, no flash of lightning, no giant. it boom or anything to signify that something had changed. There was no more laughter in my head, nor could I feel anyone watching me from inside the room. Mrs. Crabapple died of an overdose I gave her, her second death that night. And just like that, it was over. I rang Betty on the intercom and took the rest of the night off. I opened the front door, took a tentative step forward. And when I opened my eyes, I was standing outside by the flowers of the front garden.

I went home, hugged to surprise Joanna as tightly as I could, and cried until I could cry no more. I fell asleep in her arms. And the next day, I got Ben to cover my shift. He owed me. One day, Mr. Winston is going to come for me. That's how it works, apparently. I just hope Joanna isn't around when he comes.

Hello, sleepless. This is Addison Peacock. And if you ask me, there's no better way to spice up a relationship than a romantic camping trip. In our second story, Olivia White weaves a tale of a couple on the outs, taking a trip into the forest and finding an unexpected place to rest. This story features the voice talents of Jessica McAvoy, Graham Rowett, Erica Sanderson, and David Cummings. So be careful wherever you go because danger can come from far away places, or it could be homegrown. When I finished my botany PhD, I wrote my dissertation on the Sola Cordes tree. It's a lone tree, estimated to be 300 years old. It grows on a hill in southwest Maine.

It's the only Solicordis tree in the state, and the only tree in the area for three square miles. My then-boyfriend, Art, called it the loneliest tree. I never told Art this, but I always envied the tree's isolation. It stands looking over a small village, a timeless sentinel rising above the world. When I was there for my studies, I never felt lonely. I felt free, free from the complexities, the drama, the heartache, just me and the

sola cordis keeping me company, silent companions. And then I would leave the tree and go back down the hill and back into my real life. It was the twilight of our time together when Art and I decided. to go camping. It was a last-ditch attempt to repair a relationship that we both knew had run its course. Neither of us willing to be the first to admit that it was over. We were both too stubborn, too invested to let's go without a fight, although fights were something we had plenty of in those days. We'd been high school sweethearts, together since we were sweet 16.

Our relationship had endured a period of long distance while we both attended separate colleges. We'd been together through the death of my mother, through all the ups and downs of life. Apart from one indiscretion on Art's part when we were 21, neither of us had been with another person. Art was the only man I'd ever loved, the only man I'd ever shared my body with. I guess it was hard to let go of that. I'd tried to move on from the cheating. I really had. I'd even convinced myself that it was okay.

I'd forgiven him. That it hadn't changed anything. Then the subject of having kids came up. I wanted them. I wanted to be a mom. Art said no way. Not just, not now, but never. I was devastated. He'd said otherwise in the past. I tried to make the best of it,

tried to convince myself that art's needs could become mine. Then one day, in my 23rd year, it struck me that I no longer loved him, and I could tell from the way he looked at me that art had felt the same for a long time. Still, I deluded. myself. The getaway to Regent Falls National Forest might change things. Deep down, I knew it wouldn't. But hey, I thought, nothing to lose from spending a week in the woods with a man I'd once loved, right? In retrospect, I'd been naive. The problems had begun on the drive-up. Four hours stuck in the car with Art after an argument the night before over something petty I could barely even remember. He was treating me to the usual sullen silence I'd learned to look forward to when something

hadn't gone his way. The tension in the car was palpable. Art drove, focusing on the road with a steely determination. I gazed out the window at the passing countryside, feeling dejected and miserable. A light smattering of rain hit the windshield. Storm dark clouds loomed overhead, mirroring the mood in the vehicle. I hated the silence and longed to break it with something, anything. I knew better than to turn the radio on. Art claimed that music distracted him. When I saw the sign for a rest stop up ahead, with an hour to go until we reached our destination, nation. I took the opportunity to speak without chastisement. Hey, can you pull in up there? I need to

pee. Art sighed. Eyes flicking down to the large soda I'd bought near the start of the journey. Jeez, Alice, told you not to get that. Dude, I got a drink. And I got to pee. Can't help my bladder. You're like a child. When I felt his hand on my bare leg, just gently squeezing my thigh, I knew that I was forgiven, at least for now. Art pulled the car into the gas station, and I got out, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs and take in the fresh air. It was muggy out, too hot despite the light shower. The air felt charged, and I knew we were due for a storm. I scuffed dust as I headed past the pumps and around the side of a small, run-down gas station, where a sign pointed to the bathroom.

Inside, I wrinkled my nose. The place smelled strongly of disinfectant, although there was no other evidence of anyone having cleaned. Black mildew stains crept up the tiles, and the floor was sticky under my trainers. I winced, hurrying. past the occupied stall and into the other free cubicle. Thankfully, there was toilet paper, and the conditions weren't too bad. I quickly peed, washed my hands, then exited into the lot. I could see Art inside the gas station browsing the chips and headed on in. As we walked down the aisles, Art tucked his hand into the back pocket of my shorts. A gesture I'd long since learned was defensive

and possessive on his part. I looked around, unsure of the source of his sudden insecurity. The gas station clerk was a tall, thin guy who looked around our age, with lank hair that hung over his shoulders. His eyes were fixed on me. When he saw me looking, he made eye contact. I glared back stubbornly, and it was only Art's hand on my ass guiding me away that broke our staring contest.

Art whispered to me as we stood in front of the soda cabinet. That guy's checking you out. I noticed. Fucking hick. Chill, babe. I slipped my arm around his waist. We finished picking out a few additional snacks and supplies and headed to the checkout, Art hoisting the basket up onto the counter.

Art fumbled in his pocket. for his wallet as gas clerk stared pointedly at my chest. I pulled up the hem of my top self-consciously. We paid and left. As I climbed back into the car, I glanced over at the station. The clerk stood in the doorway, watching us, a sly grin on his face. Shaking my head, I dropped into my seat and waited for art to start the car. We reached Regent Falls Forest around midday and immediately began our hike into the woods,

Art grumbling about the other car we'd seen in the dusty parking lot. They better not be out here partying and disturbing the peace. I knew exactly why he wanted isolation. He didn't like the idea of any male campers possibly gaining my attention. Art was a city boy through and through. It was me who loved the island. outdoors, and I'd always gotten the impression that he felt emasculated somehow when it was me who took charge out in the wilderness. In turn, he'd call me things like, my little florist,

when I told him to watch out for poison ivy or not to lean against certain trees. I paused to take photos of a peculiar-looking sumac. You're kind of obsessed with flowers. It was the kind of mindless assertion I'd come to expect from him lately, and it was beginning to grind my gears. We really had nothing to say to one another. I have a PhD in botany. Of course I'm obsessed with flowers. Art moved over to me and slid his arm around my waist. Hey, hey, let's not fight. He leaned in and kissed my cheek, too forcefully and wretched. wet. His saliva

itched my skin in the gentle summer breeze. I longed to reach up and wipe away his touch, but he was regarding me with needy eyes. I skipped ahead further into the woods, the heavy backpack on my shoulders chafing against my skin.

Beaches lined our path, towering above us, occasionally punctuated by voluptuous white ashes. I snapped, photo after photo, while art looked around aimlessly. I took a number of samples, cuttings of saplings, a few flowers to press. After a few hours hiking, we paused to refresh ourselves on the banks of a stream, slipping off our shirts and splashing cool water on our dusty, sweaty skin.

Rested up, we proceeded on. We'd walked this path a number of times during the course of our relationship. It led through the trees and deep into the hardwood forest, a secluded and isolated route on which we rarely saw other people. That day, we'd encountered no other hikers. There was no sign of whoever owned the car. Bird song and quiet calm serenaded us as we crunched through the undergrowth. Finally, we reached our usual camping spot. At the entrance to, we were the clearing, we both froze with dismay. Two tents were already pitched up. It was no surprise, really. We'd been lucky to have it to ourselves all the other times. It was the perfect spot. The stream ran close by. There was an open patch of grass upon which sunlight streams down,

and an overhang of branches for sitting in the shade. Now, the remnants of a bonfire sat central between the two tents. We stepped gingerly over. Art wrinkled his nose at the smattering of litter on the ground. Not exactly environmentally friendly, are they? He whispered, but loud enough for me to cringe. I shushed him and called out.

Hello? No answer. I noticed both tents lay open, clothes and sleeping bags strewn around inside. The campers must be nearby. I listened for the sound of footsteps, or perhaps splashing from the creek. Nothing. Guess nobody's home. I headed over to the other side of the clearing and dropped my pack on the ground, already unfastening it to start erecting the tent. Art scurried over. What are you doing? Being ready to set up? Wait, we're not camping here now.

Not with these guys right there. Oh, come on. There's plenty of space. It's the only spot to camp for miles. They're not going to care. I care. I want the place to myself. I want you to myself.

What if we, you know, want to get frisky? I rolled my eyes. While we'd spent many a passionate night in this very clearing, I wasn't feeling particularly in the mood. Sure, that had partly been the point of this trip, but in truth, I'd been quite relieved to see the other campers. I knew things were over between Art and I. There was no sense prolonging it.

Besides, it looks like a bunch of dudes. Do you really want them spying on you while you pee, washing the creek, whatever? I hoisted the backpack back onto my shoulders. Anything was easier than standing there arguing. But if we can't find somewhere else to camp, we're coming back, okay? Art managed to cajole me into two more hours of walking before we finally found another suitable spot.

By this point, we were deep into the forest, maybe deeper than we'd ever trekked. I made sure we were careful about keeping our bearings, noting down landmarks and drawing a rough assimily of our route on the map. As usual, Art hadn't even considered this, and looked at me with a mixture of awe and chagrin whenever I stopped to update our location. The new campsite was, conveniently, still positioned beside the creek. If push came to shove, all we'd have to do was follow the waterline back to reach a spot we were familiar with. Here, the stream ran much faster than our preferred

spot, and deeper too, the center of the water a dark obsidian pool. Hot, sticky, and aching after our prolonged trek, I stripped down to my underwear and go then, ignoring arts impotent protestations that someone might be around watching. The water cooled me, flowing over my skin, loosening my tight muscles. I sunk beneath the surface, bare feet touch the water. rough, stony sand. A fish brushed against my knee. My eyes flew open, squinting against the water. The object before me startled me so much that I quickly kicked to the surface. Temporarily, I lost my bearings, splashing around until I was facing the bank from which I departed.

Art was up in the clearing, pulling out the tent. I swam to shore, gathered up my discarded clothes and joined him. I fished the towel out of my pack. I saw the weirdest goddamn thing. Hmm? Yeah, under the water. There was an armchair. What? For real, like some old armchair. Still had the cushions and everything. Did you sit in it? He'd given up on his attempts to unfold the tent. He gently tugged at my towel where I held it closed over my breasts. I shivered. Not now. I wrapped myself tighter in the soft flannel fabric. And no, I didn't sit in it. Damn thing creeped me out. It's just a chair. He acted as if the chair was responsible for my rejection of his advances. A chair underwater in the forest, yeah.

Who the hell brings an armchair all the way out here, only to dump it in a row. river. Fly tippers are out of control. We set the tent up and ate a late dinner as the sun set over the trees. I couldn't explain it, but something about that chair had set me on edge. Such an ordinary, mundane object in a place it really shouldn't be. I drifted in and out of consciousness as Art lay snoring softly in the sleeping bag beside me. In my dream, I sat in the chair, unable to move, cold water filling my lungs. I awoke gasping for breath. Beside me, Art's sleeping bag lay discarded. I dressed and crawled out of the tent. Art was scrambling eggs over the camp stove. I screwed up my face and distaste.

Art loved eggs. I hated them. We used to joke it was the only difference between us. Sad in retrospect. I buttered up a bread roll and ate that. How about we do some exploring today? Art seemed cheerful this morning, enthusiastic. It reminded me of the good old days.

Too little, too late. but I couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia. I kissed him on the cheek, hiding my sadness. Sounds good. We'd only been walking half an hour when Art spied the chest of drawers. It sat there nestled amongst some ferns, white paint flaking, unevenly positioned on the bumpy forest floor. We headed over to it hesitantly.

This is so weird. Art reached out to try. try one of the drawers. Don't touch it! Art ignored me and slid the top drawer open. He peered inside. Empty. So were all the other drawers.

The wood felt solid, though, not waterlogged and rotting like I'd expected. Despite the peeling paint, the thing could have been dumped there just yesterday. It was a big old heavy thing, though. and transporting it there would have required a truck, and there was simply no way for a vehicle to get where we were. The only other option was that it had come from a place nearby. Could there really be a house out so far in the woods? We saw a ladder after that, propped up against a tree,

wooden, but again in surprisingly good condition. And then another chair, a rocking chair, this time lying on its side on some loamy ground. By now we were both confused and a little perturbed. Finally, up ahead I glimpsed wooden slats from between a thick copse of trees and could only imagine what furniture we were about to stumble onto next. We pushed our way through the thicket and what we saw took my breath away. A house loomed before us.

its fresh white paint winking in the July sun. Stairs led invitingly up to a front door with luxurious stained glass panes. The house stood three stories tall, a tower on the left-hand side topped by a weather vein that squeaked gently in the light summer breeze. Lace curtains adorned the windows, and I could have sworn I saw one twitch on the upper floor. It was an old house. Queen Anne architecture, Art remarked, but it wasn't a neglected one. It looked happily lived in, vibrant.

And if the house itself wasn't indication enough of current occupants, the garden surely was. Flowers of myriad colors sprouted out from carefully placed beds, and on the right, a vegetable garden flourished. tomato plants grew from furrows, surrounded by rows of cabbages and carrots. In the far corner, I saw an herb garden. The scent was divine. My heart ached from the beauty of the place. It was my dream house, like someone had plucked from my head my childhood fantasies of a future marital home. The clearing in which the house sat was surrounded by trees, and I was a oasis in the forest, as if the trees themselves had parted to allow for this perfect slice of paradise. I could feel tears of joy pricking my eyes. I looked at Art to see his reaction.

He looked more bored than anything else. We'd better go. This is private property. No way. We got a knock. If only so I can tell them how beautiful their house is. God damn, Art. This is where I want to live. It's where I've always wanted to live. I used to dream about it. Living somewhere like this, a partner, a dog, maybe a kid. Arch looked around the clearing.

It's a bit remote, isn't it? I bet they don't even get internet. I laughed, feigning horror. Oh, no. guess I can kiss goodbye to all those Instagram followers. I was already heading towards the steps leading to the front door. Wait, you're actually going to knock? I ignored him and climbed onto the stoop.

The house had one of those pull-cord doorbells, only adding to the charm. I'd always loved them as a kid, too. I pulled it, and a cute tinkling noise sounded from within. A croaky female voice called from inside. Hello? I couldn't place exactly where in the house it came from, but it must have been very close. Oh, uh, hi, ma'am.

We were just walking in the woods and came upon your house. My friend and I just wanted to tell you what an absolutely beautiful property you have. Oh, my dear, thank you. Now, we don't get many visitors out here, Could I trouble you kids to come in? I've just put a pot of tea on. The door's open.

Come on in, and I'll be out shortly. Art had joined me on the stoop now. He raised a skeptical eyebrow at me. I gave him a sweet, defiant smile and opened the door. Inside, luxuriously carpeted steps led up and around to the second floor. On the left, the door to the living room sat open, while a door on the right remained closed. Pictures adorned the walls, covering the hallway and leading upstairs. They were all photographs of plants.

I gestured excitedly to art. Another botanist! Or a photographer. Or both. Some of the plants were exceedingly rare species. certainly not indigenous to the main forest. If an occupant of the house had taken these photos, then they'd traveled all over the globe to do so.

They were exquisite. I gasped as I saw a photograph of a Western underground orchid. And there, a St. Helena Olive, a plant which hadn't existed in the wild since the 90s, and had since become entirely extinct. and an old photograph of a cry violet. They'd died out in the 1930s. As we headed into the living room, I was in heaven.

The living room was cluttered but homely. Knickknacks and ornaments dotted the shelves. Strange little sculptures made of glass and wood. Shapes I couldn't quite place with forms I struggled to parse. On the far wall, I saw family photographs. too far away to make out any details. A mahogany coffee table took center stage atop a rug that looked like rich green grass.

A grandfather clock ticked away in one corner, five minutes past one. A door led off into what I could see was a dining room, and beyond that must have been the kitchen. I looked around for our host, keen to meet her. Of the old lady there was no sign, although I heard the clacking of crockery coming from the other room. It was then that I noticed that an armchair in the corner was identical to the one I'd seen in the river. I walked over to it as Art stood disinterestedly examining his nails.

I ran my hand over the cushion. Something sticky and damp coated my fingertips, and I withdrew. A thin, viscous substance licked my skin. I sniffed it. It smelled sweet, sap-like. I wiped my hand on my shorts, frowning. From the kitchen, more clattering than silence. Art and I stood there as the clock ticked away.

Finally, sighing, Art called out. Hello? No reply. You think she's okay? Art shrugged. I decided to head on into the kitchen. Maybe I could give the old lady a hand. I strode through the dining room,

my trainer squeaking on the hardwood floor. The kitchen was empty. Rustic wooden cupboards dotted the walls, and a small, uneven table sat dead center of the room. room. Something about the kitchen seemed off to me, but I couldn't immediately place what. As I stepped into the room, I stumbled. The floor underfoot was spongy and uneven. Reaching out to steady myself, my palm hit the table. The wood flexed under my touch, like soft sapling flesh. A sickly, heady smell was beginning to invade my nostrils.

It smelled like freshly cut grass, blossoming trees. A door led into the back garden, and I frowned again as I realized that a tree had grown up directly outside the door, making it impossible to open or function as an exit. Functionality. That's what was bothering me. As soon as I realized that, the problem with the kitchen became obvious. There was no oven, nor was there a sink. No appliances at all, in fact. I looked around, studying closer. No electrical outlets.

I tried one of the drawers. It slid open with a rasping sound. The drawer was empty. I tried another and another. Then a cupboard. Two. All empty. Art, check this out.

I waited for his reply, but it never came. When I headed back into the living room, Art was gone. Still not as immediately concerned as I should have been. I began examining the living room more closely. We'd been in the house for a few minutes by that point, but the grandfather clock still read exactly the same time as it had when I'd first looked. The ticking emanated from somewhere inside, and it wasn't entirely rhythmic after all. It sounded inconsistent, like someone or something, trying to make the sounds of a clock.

I walked to the family portraits on the wall, and that's where I really froze. That strange, earthy, sappy smell was growing stronger, and my head was already spinning when the details of the photos photographs made me recoil. At a distance, the photographs appeared to be of people's faces, but it was only when you got closer that the truth revealed itself. They weren't faces. They weren't even people. They were simply shapes, smudges and blossoms and growths, shades that when they came together created the facsimile of a human visage. They appeared. They appeared. They appeared. appeared to be made of mold or damp, something dark and smeared, smiles like warrels and bark, eyes like knots. I backed away, desperate now to find art and get out of there. In the hallway

I spun around, looking for my boyfriend. The front door was closed. Surely he wouldn't have gone outside. I tried the other downstairs. door, but found it locked. Then I heard a voice. It was supposed to sound like art. I could tell that much. It was close enough to art for me to do a double take, but the words sounded strange, as if coming from the throat of someone unfamiliar with human speech. I'm upstairs. The voice didn't sound like it was coming from upstairs. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere, emanating from the walls, the floor. This time, it was the old woman's voice, croaky still and raspy, dry and dusty.

Somehow, instinctively, I knew the two voices had come from the same source. I wanted to leave. I wanted to do nothing more than turn tail and run to get out of that place. The smell was really starting to get to me, too. Like spores were drifting into my brain. Confusing me. Seducing me. I wanted to leave.

The sickly scent of nectar wafted down from upstairs. Feet sank into what should have been solid steps as my breath hitching in my throat. I made my way up that a cursed staircase. The photos of plants bubbled vibrantly. on the walls, piercing the fugue that was seizing my brain. The air felt thin, like the oxygen had been stripped from it. I hurried on up, one hand on the banister to prevent myself from falling. The same liquid substance I'd felt on the armchair coated the rail. I wondered if it was toxic somehow, getting into my bloodstream through my skin. My heartbeat felt erratic, heavy.

Upstairs, a short hallway led to one single door. I blinked, my vision hazy. It looked like the door was rippling, forming before my very eyes. It swung open. I moved forward, my limbs seemingly being guided by an unseen force, a marionette unable to act on my own volition. I found myself in a bit of a bit of a manorne. bedroom, although it was no bedroom fit for human habitation. A wardrobe and a chest of drawers sat

against one wall, sagging and mulchy. Grass sprouted from the floor, soft under my feet. And the bed. The bed was a raised dais, perfectly square, walls of bark-shod wood holding rich, dark-brown earth. In the earth lay two bodies, half submerged in the dirt. Neither were art, thank God. It was two older men, naked, apparently dead, pale, greenish skin, which had already started to rot. They gave off the worst smell, decaying vegetation mixed with human remains. Sprouts grew from the men's ears, noses, mouths. Roots had erupted from their flesh, burying themselves into the earth. White, unseeing eyes stared up at the ceiling. My hand flew to my mouth, and I stifled a cry. At the sound of my voice, one of the men stirred. I screamed. His head turned towards me,

and he fixed me with a roomy stare. His mouth opened, and I noticed with horror that a plant was trying to force itself over his tongue, growing there deep in his throat. The sound didn't come from him. It came from everywhere. It came from the house. My eyes darted around, desperate to find him. Behind me, I heard a scraping, tearing sound.

I turned to see the wall in the hallway splitting open, roots and leaves framing the crack that now formed. Behind me, I sensed movement and hurried out of the bedroom, throwing the door shut behind me, afraid to look. The new room off the hallway horrified me the most. It was clearly supposed to be a child's bedroom, but it was still in the process of being formed. plants sprouted from the floor, already taking the form of toys and teddy bears. A cupboard pulsed and bubbled out of the wall, squeezing itself into existence, opening up like a flower blossoming in the sunlight. In the center of the room stood a crib, its bars formed by thick, thorny vines that emerged from the floor. Something was inside.

I heard a gurgle, a moan. And this time it did sound human. I was desperate not to look, but I knew I had to. And the crib lay hearted. His body had been folded impossibly to fit the small, cramped space. His legs bent backwards underneath him in a way that must have broken his hips and spine. He should have been dead. He had to be dead.

And yet there, folded into impossible angles, with roots and vines already forcing their way into his flesh. Art looked up at me, pathetic, pleading. He raised one shattered arm towards me, and I reached for him in turn. Blossoms began to sprout from his flesh. The skin splitting and tearing as already his body began to compress further. A crown of flowers slid around his skull, and I watched in horror as they pressed tighter and tighter against him. His skull cracked like a walnut, and I screamed, turned and ran, thundering down the stairs, leaping two at a time, slamming into the front door. I fumbled with the handle, eyes blinded by tears.

sobs hitching ragged in my throat. I threw the door open and blissful sunlight streamed over my face, fresh air flooding into my lungs to replace the thin, fungal miasma I'd been breathing. I hurtled down the front stoop, feet thudding along the garden path. Beside me, the vegetable garden boiled. The ground churned and a shattering, thundering crack sounded somewhere behind me. followed by the sound of the earth rending. I shrieked and pressed forward.

I was almost at the edge of the clearing now, almost into the forest beyond. Even though I had no idea if the forest meant safety, I had to try. I pulled up short, just a few tantalizing feet from the tree line. A hillock of dirt was rising from the grass, wooden tendrils emerging from below

like a spindly mole. I watched in horror as arms unfurled, and the leaves curled outwards, the tree growing forth impossibly fast. It towered there, eight or nine feet, stretching its branches like it had awoken from a slumber. The bark was sticky, pulsating, split in the center to reveal a green, shuddering organ

that I can only assume was a heart. From somewhere within the great tree, a familiar voice croaked, the voice I'd taken to be an old woman, the voice that had called us forth. She said a single word, a word that caused me to dart forward, brushing past the monstrosity, careening into the forest, the sounds of falling trees and collapsing earth ringing in my ears. How or why the house let me go, I'll never know. I ran through the forest for what seemed like hours, branches whipping and scratching my skin, until finally I reached an area of cell phone reception. My call to the cops must have sounded demented,

and yet the rangers still came. Two other men camping in the general area had just been reported missing, too. Their campsite turned out to be the old clearing art and I used to use. The Rangers showed me photographs of the men, and I was sure they'd been the guys I'd seen in that bedroom. It took five hours, but eventually I managed to retrace my steps to the location where the house had been. Instead of the gorgeous house and garden I'd fled from, now the ground was an empty clearing of freshly tilled earth. While the other men combed the ground, looking for any sign of what might have happened,

one of the Rangers took me aside. He was an old guy, very old for a ranger, in fact, with a long white beard and sad, tired eyes. When I was a boy in these parts, my grandma used to warn me about the forest. She told me if you strayed too far, you'd never come out, because the four. Forest was lonely. She watched us, human civilization, and she wanted what we have, Holmes, family, love. They never found the three men. I should have been a suspect, but somehow I wasn't.

Art's parents blamed me, of course, but I think they would have found some way to do so no matter what. this was nearly two years ago now. I stayed in touch with that ranger. His name was Pete. He died this year, just a month ago. A while before he died, he went back out to that clearing where the house had been. He sent me photographs. The place was populated by bushes and saplings, growing from that tilled earth.

In a few more years, you'll be a little bit more years. never have known that it was anything other than another part of the forest. I never returned to that forest. Instead, I returned to the Sola Cordes, the loneliest tree. There, I planted three seedlings, one for art, and one each for the two other men. I've never been back since. I have no idea if they've grown. But in my heart, I know they have. For I still remember the word the forest spoke to me on that day. One word.

One simple word. Family. You've run out of tape. It's time to press eject and end the show. We thank you for letting us perform for you. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full length, versions of our audio program. Please visit the no sleep

podcast.com to learn about our season past program. Over 60 hours of content for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when we'll insert another

tape and press play. It is copyright 2018 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All right. 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 reasoned media.