The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E10

Episode Date: August 5, 2018

It's episode 10 of Season 11. On this week's show we have five tales about suspicious students, repulsive releases, and filthy functions. "I Felt The Baby Kick"† written by Blair Daniels and performed by Alexis Bristowe & Nichole Goodnight & Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:01:55) "A Person in the Rain"¤ written by Jen Marshall and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Elie Hirschman & Erin Lillis & Nichole Goodnight & Jesse Cornett & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:20:10) "It's A Match"† written by M.J. Pack and performed by Mary Murphy & Addison Peacock & Armen Taylor. (Story starts around 01:17:30) "Body Fluid Bingo"† D. Williams and performed by Nikolle Doolin & James Cleveland & Erin Lillis & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:39:00) "Jasper the Gasper"‡ written by Henry Galley and performed by Addison Peacock & Mary Murphy & Jeff Clement & Jessica McEvoy & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 02:05:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Blair Daniels   Click here to learn more about Jen Marshall   Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "I Felt The Baby Kick" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody 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. 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 suspicious students, repulsive releases, and filthy functions. It's August, and you know what that means. It means it's time for me to tease you. We have a contest starting soon and you'll need to keep your ears open for this one, both ears in fact.

You'll be hearing about it in upcoming episodes, so that's all I'm going to say for now. Like I said, it's a tease. not teasing about the tales we have for you now, so let's fire up that old VCR, because the tape is in the machine. The stories are ready, so let's press play. In our first tale, we meet a couple who are trying to recover from the trauma of a miscarriage. But as author Blair Daniels explains, despite all evidence to the contrary, it seems life finds a way, and the pitter-patter of little feet might not be far off. Performing this tale are Alexis Bristow, Nicole Goodnight, Mike Delgado, Godio, and Erica Sanderson. So get the nursery ready as soon as you can exclaim, I felt the baby kick.

I straightened my skirt, smoothed my hair, and walked into the bedroom. Guess what today is? Uh, Sunday. It's July 20th. I held the necklace, wrapped in a red paper and a pretty pink bow behind my back. So? My heart sank. It's our anniversary, Mia. Oh, I forgot. I slipped the gift back into my pocket and sat down on the bed.

The memory loss was minor at first, forgetting to buy bread at the grocery store, missing a doctor's appointment, that kind of thing. But then it was getting lost on our street, forgetting what house was ours, then coming out to her family all over again. I shook the thoughts from my head and snuggled up to her. Do you want to watch some TV? She smiled back at me. Sure.

The symptoms started when she got pregnant. The doctors insisted it was just a coincidence, but I disagreed. She never wanted to be the one to carry our baby, but I had been too stubborn, too selfish to give in, and now I was paying the price. Hey, do you want to feel the baby kick? Mia, don't you remember? I reached for her hand. Two months ago. The red in the toilet.

The rush to the doctor. The impromptu funeral we had within the cold walls of a hospital room. Oh, come on, it'll cheer you up. And before I could stop her, she grabbed my hand and pushed it against her belly. And against the palm of my hand, something poked back. My face paled. My heart began to pound. We have to go to the doctor now.

I jumped out of the bed and stumbled to the floor. Amy, what are you talking about? She followed me as I stomped down the stairs, yanking my jacket off its hook. I'll explain on the way, but I didn't. Dr. Ambrose paced the room and handed her a small strip of paper. I want you to hold this stick, Mia, and tell me what you see. I see one line, but... Dr. Ambrose, why am I here?

Is the baby okay? What you're holding is a pregnancy test. Two lines means pregnant. One line means not pregnant. You're making me hold someone else's pregnancy test? Ew! That's your pregnancy test. He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his glasses.

Mia, you miscarried two months ago. I know this must be hard to hear, but... The doctor paled. Well, I feel him kicking. See for yourself. She lowered the blanket across her belly and grinned. Our eyes widened. The skin of Mia's stomach stretched and extruded as if something small and pointed were pressing against it.

Dr. Ambrose extended a shaking hand. I feel it. Mia smiled. Dr. Eberley did a great job, didn't she? Oh, what a strong, healthy baby. Dr. Eberley? The doctor who did the artificial and... insemination. Dr. Ambrose jumped off the bed.

I'll be right back. He came back a few minutes later, his face white enough to match his coat. This is going to sound very strange, but there is no Dr. Eberley practicing medicine in this state, or this country. Mia's belly convulsed again. This time, she didn't smile. Dr. Ambrose walked over to the table and picked up a small box attached to a probe. This is a fetal doppler. He extended the probe towards her.

We're just going to listen for the heartbeat, okay? Mia nodded. Her eyes locked on mine. I smiled back. The probe touched her belly, and after a few minutes of poking and prodding, a steady heartbeat filled the room. Dr. Ambrose sighed in relief. A smile flickered across me his face.

Hope coursed through me. Could it be? our baby alive and well Dr. Ambrose dropped the probe It bounced off the bed and clacked onto the floor Then he ran to the door Mandy, get in here Mia turned to me

What was that? Just the heartbeat But it sounded like scratching Like when Pabble sharpens her claws I didn't hear it An ultrasound technician rushed in Rolling a heavy piece of equipment across the tile floor They're just going to take a quick peek, okay?

I could hear the quiver in my voice. Mia looked back at me with fearful eyes. Is the baby okay? Yes, yes, the baby is fine. She smiled at me, a warm, beautiful smile. And I faked one back. This is going to feel cold, okay, honey? The technician squirted jelly onto Mia's abdomen, and then applied the probe.

An image appeared on the screen, gray lines and curves, sweeping through swathes of black. I leaned forward, trying to make sense of the image, but it was so jumbled. There's the head? A round object appeared on the screen. It looked remarkably like a normal baby's head from the ultrasounds I've seen online. I breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed me his hand. The technician moved the probe down. A mess of pointed, sharp lines.

Not the natural curves of tiny little arms and legs, not the natural curves of tiny little arms and legs, not cute miniature hands and feet, not anything that looked remotely human. My God. And then the screen went black. The technician fiddled with the dial. That's so weird. It just stopped working. Let me try to...

It's okay, Mandy. That's all I needed to see. Dr. Ambrose began walking to the door in motion for me to follow. The hallway was cold and quiet. The footsteps of patients, the murmur of the nurse's station, were muffled and distant. Mia's in danger. My heart began to pound. I felt the tears burn in my eyes. Hospital spun around me.

If we act quickly, we can safer. Dr. Ambrose adjusted his glasses. We have to remove it, as soon as possible. Remove? You mean kill? Well, yes, it would die in the same. the process. I turned to the window.

Mia was lying on the bed, one hand on her belly, smiling, and I could hear through a door, a muffled lullaby. I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks. If that's the only way, then I guess we have to. Whatever it takes to save her, I... I can't... I can't... I can't lose her. I...

I love her so much. So... So fucking much, I... He turned, as if looking away from me could somehow staunch my grief. I stood there, sniffling back my tears as he began to walk down the corridor. Shoulders slumped under unseen weight. Uh, wait, Dr. Ambrose. Uh, the ultrasound.

Have you seen anything like that before? He didn't look back. I think we should buy him one of those cute rattles. Mia caressed her belly. You know, the ones that have colorful beads inside and the plastic ends are good for teething. That sounds great, Mia. And we'll do. Mia looked up as Dr. Ambrose rolled the metal card across the floor.

What's going on? He's just getting some stuff ready. Mia bolted up with such force that I jumped back. She stared at the tray and the metal instruments that gleamed on it. What are you doing? Don't worry. I'm just going to check on the baby. He walked towards her, needle in hand. No!

Mia! She lunged at him. I tried to hold her back, but she easily swatted me away, suddenly much stronger than before. She grabbed Dr. Ambrose's shoulders and shoved him aside. He collided with the cart. The instruments clattered to the ground. He stumbled up, but slipped and fell back down, his head making a sickening flack against the floor. That was when Mia ran.

Down the hallway, she sprinted, faster than I've ever seen her go. Mia, come back! Two nurses intercepted her, one grabbing her shoulders, trying to pin her against the wall, and the other tried to use her bodyway to knock Mia off balance. But she shoved them aside as forcefully as she shoved the doctor and ran towards the exit. When I got there, I yanked the door open and screamed her name. But there was only darkness. I turned around and ran back into the halls, dizzy with anger,

The nurses stared at me, some calling out asking if I was okay, others calling security to alarm them of the runaway patient. I think they expected me to sob in the doorway or run after her, but I didn't. I was too angry for that. I threw open the door of Mia's room and charged at Dr. Ambrose. He was slowly stumbling up, one hand clutching his head. I charged towards him. Tell me what's happening to her. I swear to you, if you don't tell me what's going,

on right now. I'm going to... To... Going to what? I can have security escort you out of here in the blink of an eye. I eyed the knife on the ground, but thought better of it. I'm going to sue your ass for malpractice if you don't tell me what the fuck is happening. There are things at work here, Amy. Things you couldn't understand. Couldn't understand?

What? Why? Because I don't have a fancy medical degree? Because I'm just some dumb wrong. God what? My voice crumbled into sobs. This is my wife. We're talking about Dr. Ambrose. The woman I've been in love with since I was 19 years old. The woman that was worth being kicked out of my own house for.

Please, if she's in danger, I need to know how. He nodded. And for the first time, I saw kindness in his eyes. Sympathy. Sadness. Okay, follow me and I'll tell you on the way. Shouldn't we call the police or... I know where to find her.

They don't. Soon, we were walking through the forest on the outskirts of the hospital. The flashlight bouncing over the shadows. Two years ago, that's when it started. Someone approached me when I was working at the clinic on Bird Street, saying they were developing an experimental fertility drug, and that they'd heard of my work, and that they would love to have me on board.

I was stupid enough to let the flattery blind me. So I made the necessary arrangements. I informed the patient and she gave her consent. They gave me a vial of clear fluid and told me to add just a few drops when I did her artificial insemination. Then it was the biggest mistake of my life. I glanced around the forest.

Mia? But I was left with silence. Her pregnancy seemed normal at first, healthy. But then, like Mia, she miscarried. When she came back a few months later, clearly still pregnant, I just... I don't know. I assumed I had made a mistake, and she didn't actually miscarry. What happened to her?

A week after the appointment, she disappeared. A few days later, Later, they found her body in these woods, in the clearing up ahead. No trace of the pregnancy. So it killed her. A gust of wind blew through the trees, and they shuddered. So did I. I assume, but officially her cause of death is unknown. Dr. Johnson, my colleague, who performed the autopsy, went missing the next day. He looked up ahead towards the clearing. but not before cremating the body. So, Dr. Eberley...

Dr. Eberley doesn't exist. These people, they've changed their strategy. Instead of infiltrating the doctors, they find lay people to pose as medical professionals. We fell upon a clearing, dappled with moonlight. I think about her every day. Her widower, her parents. Mia?

Mia? Mia? But the thumps were too loud, too great to belong to a five-foot-two woman. Sh! Dr. Ambrose held a finger to his lips. He clicked off the flashlight. In the murky shadows, I could make out something. A mess of pointed, sharp lines.

The shadow shifted and shook, and then they were gone. And in their place, something small and white lying across the clearing floor. Mia! I took off, stumbling over the uneven ground, my feet slipping over the dry leaves. Mia! Mia! Amy! No! I fell to the ground. It was only her hospital gown, stained with blood and dirt.

The police found Mia the next day. She was one during the outskirts of the forest, naked, bloody and bruised, but alive. So back to the hospital we went. She's fine. Dr. Ambrose tucked the blood pressure cuff away. There's not a thing wrong with her, save for the... He trailed off and gestured to the mix of dirt and blood caked on her face. Mia grinned.

I collapsed onto the chair by the bed and started to cry. So she's going to be okay? Absolutely. And what about the... I glanced at Mia's stomach, which was noticeably smaller. It's completely gone. No trace of it whatsoever. Mia and I returned home that afternoon. As I tucked her into bed with a tub of ice cream and turned on the TV,

I finally asked the question I'd been dying to ask. What happened out there in the forest? I don't remember. She may not have remembered her night in the forest, but she remembered everything else, where we lived, what I liked at the grocery store, For all intents and purposes, Mia was fine. We even had a little anniversary celebration.

Everything was back to normal. At least, that's what I thought until tonight. At 3 a.m. I woke up in an empty bed. The door to our bedroom hung open and a sliver of golden light shone through. Mia? I threw on my jacket, ran down the stairs, and opened the front door. The taillights of her car glowed in the darkness,

disappearing behind a bend. I jumped in my SUV and followed her. Mia took three rights and a left, heading down a secluded street that bordered the woods. She pulled over at a curb. I cut the headlights, scooted down in my seat and watched her. She stepped out of the car and walked towards the trees. Then she lowered something into the grass.

Straightening up, Mia cast a final, longing look at the forest. Then returned to her car and drove off. heading, I suspected, back home. I climbed out of my SUV, approaching the patch of grass on shaky legs. Around me, the woods rustled. The night felt alive. There, placed carefully on the ground, was the offering my wife had left behind. I squinted, peering down at it in the darkness.

It was a rattle, with multicolored beads, wrapped in a pretty blue. Loubo. Being a school teacher is a difficult and often thankless job, but being a substitute teacher can be even worse. Just ask author Jen Marshall. She shares how one teacher was filling in for a class with some highly imaginative students, including one student who wasn't there at all. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Ellie Hirschman, Aaron Lillis, Nicole Goodnight, Jesse Cornett, and Nicole Doolin. So teach the children well, and let them show you a person in the rain. The extra desk was my first clue that something was wrong.

Nobody was sitting in it, and it wasn't on the seating chart. Yet, there it was, in the middle of the left-hand row. I know it might not seem like a big deal to some people, but the seating chart is the substitute teacher's Bible, A life preserver and a sea of similar names and children who all look essentially alike. If it's not on the seating chart, it's a problem. A major problem. There was definitely something wrong in that classroom.

Whose desk is that? It's Sadie's. The boy who spoke sat in the front. He wore glasses and a sweater. His hair was combed to the side so meticulously it could only have been done by his mother. I rechecked the seating chart. Sweeter boy was Miles. No mention of a Sadie.

There's no Sadie in this class. Why is there a desk for someone who's not in this class? Because she's dead. Maybe it was a prank. If so, I'd have to quash it immediately with extradct. Extreme prejudice. On the other hand, if the children really had lost a classmate, I'd need to react with sensitivity and compassion. This is what makes subbing so hard.

Well, it's clearly a distraction. I'm moving it out of the classroom. The desks were the heavy, old-fashioned kind with the hollow storage area under a wooden top that lifts up and down. A serious finger-smashing hazard. I dragged it around the back of the room, its metal legs screeching on the linoleum floor like the gates of hell opening. Struggling and slipping in my dress shoes, I wrestled that monster into the hall and left it at the top of the stairs. I peeked inside. It was empty except for a single blue crayon with child-sized bite marks and most of its label peeled off.

The children pushed the remaining desks together to fill the gap in the row, then spent the morning on schoolwork. Their teacher, Mrs. Cross, was recuperating from a back injury. She'd planned every part of every day, an endless series of projects to keep the kids busy. I texted her. Erin, your sub. Anything I should know about Sadie.

While I waited for her response, it took a look around. There was a big old clock above the classroom door, the type that's inside a cage bolted to the wall, like you'd see in a gymnasium. It ticked so loudly, and the second hand moved so unevenly, so sporadically. It felt like an eternity between ticks, the next one coming only when it seemed it never would. It was going to drive me nuts. The classroom was technically in the attic, up a flight of stairs and isolated from the rest of the school. It was a huge space that included a long, dark hallway lined with hooks and cubbies, leading to our own personal bathroom.

Except for its size and the luxury of a private restroom, it was all perfectly ordinary. But it didn't feel ordinary. Maybe it was the lighting. There were only a few high, small windows on one wall and flickering overhead fluorescence that went out periodically. Old wiring, I guess. It was cold in there, too. Always cold. The place just felt off,

like riding with your non-dominate hand, or how it feels when you touch something wet that's not supposed to be. Attempts had been made to spruce it up, of course. A carpet with a cheerful hopscotch pattern ran the length of the hallway to the bathroom, and a mural covered the rear wall of the classroom. Floor-to-ceiling butcher paper the kids had de facto.

decorated with colorful drawings. Still, these small improvements were negligible, like trying to soak up a flood with a hand towel. When the bell rang for lunch, we went to the cafeteria and then to the playground for recess. The children ran around while the teachers looked at their phones. We weren't allowed to use them inside the school. When I was growing up, teachers used to smoke during recess,

so I suppose this is an improvement. Mrs. Cross had texted back. I worked on projects I planned. No need to do anything else. I replied. What about the extra desk? Miles says it belongs to Sadie. Mrs. Cross.

Furniture not our problem. Contact custodian. Great. Evidently, Mrs. Cross wasn't going to be helpful. And to make things worse, when we got back from recess, someone had moved the empty desk back into our classroom, put it right back in its spot in the middle of the left-hand row. What the hell?

Who moved that desk back in here? The custodian? The voice belonged to a girl whose name I thought was Emmeline. Possible, but unlikely. How would he have known where to put it? No. It had to be students, which meant it was definitely a prank. Anxiety gripped my stomach.

I think it was someone in this room. Does anyone want to tell me about it? I can wait all day. The children squirmed. The clock ticked. Finally, Miles raised his hand. It was Sadie. I thought she was dead.

The kids whispered and shifted in their seats. I ran my finger down the seating chart, stopping randomly on a name. Not supposed to talk about her. Why not? Because she's a ghost. My phone buzzed. I instructed the kids to continue with their projects. It was another text from Mrs. Cross.

In college, I majored in a college. education with a minor in psychology, so I knew all about gifted children. Basically, they're smarter than you, and better than you in any number of unimaginable ways. This one could be a musical visionary, an artistic prodigy, or a charismatic, manipulative genius. That one might have a supernatural memory, or no physics like most people know breathing. You can never tell what you're dealing with. Just before class ended, I called Miles up for a private chat. Gifted children in need recognition, encouragement, and the opportunity to share. Thanks for telling me about Sadie. Was she your friend? Certainly not. She's a dreadful girl. Besides, she died ages ago.

What happened to her? Miles rolled a pencil back. back and forth on my desk, watching it. Don't be afraid, Miles. You can tell me anything. He stopped the pencil. Will you believe me no matter what? Yes, I trust you. I know you wouldn't lie.

A huge smile spread across his face, but he turned away quickly to hide it from me. That's how boys are, you know, always trying to suppress their feelings. When he looked back at me, all the tension had left his features. He almost looked happy. May I have a snack, please? Mrs. Cross keeps my preservative-free fruit leathers in the large bottom drawer.

I eat one whenever I feel the effects of energy depletion. The drawer was stocked with a zillion packets of food designed for every dietary need. Gluten-free, nut-free. sugar-free, fat-free, you name it. I handed Miles a nasty-looking fruit atrocity. He nodded briefly before regaining sufficient energy to continue. Sadie was an angel in the school play. When it was over, she forgot to return her candle to the prop room.

Miles took another bite and looked thoughtful. Isn't it strange how everyone assumes angels have candles? The idea is absurd. I nodded like I had. had an opinion on the matter. Anyway, she took her candle to the attic, where they used to keep the props, and she got locked in. It was dark as a black hole. There weren't any windows yet. She couldn't see anything, not even how to turn on the lights.

What happened to her? She died, right here in this room. It used to be the attic. Did you know? That's so sad. Well, she shouldn't have been running off by herself, should she? Unpleasant things happen to children who wander. I guess that's sometimes true, but I don't think... The janitor found her curled up on the ground, still wearing her angel costume and holding the candle. She'd scratched her name into the floor almost three times with her fingernails.

Didn't anyone hear her? Didn't her family look for her? I haven't the faintest idea, but she's a ghost now, and she wants something. I can feel it. What? What does she want? He gazed at the clock over the door, as though trying to formulate the right words. I waited patiently, thinking about Sadie's cruel death, alone in a place filled with people, in the dark, holding a candle she could never light. What had happened to the words she'd carved into the floor?

Had someone sanded them out? or were they hidden beneath the linoleum that now covered everything? The erratic seconds ticked by, and finally Miles spoke, a fraction of a second before the dismissal bell rang. She wants to hurt us. Then the bell screeched, perfectly timed, like a jump scare in a movie. I almost wet my pants. Miles grinned.

The kid had a flare for the dramatic. Before he left that day, he gave me a secret hug. It was one of the proudest moments of my teaching career. After all, the kids had gone home. I took off my shoes and pushed the desk back out into the landing at the top of the stairs. I put a note on it this time, asking the custodian to move it to storage. The school seemed too quiet, and I admit, I was a little freaked out by what Miles had told me. Of course, I didn't believe his account wholeheartedly.

I'm not crazy. And I'm definitely not naive. But don't most ghost stories have a basis in reality? At home that night, I did some internet research. I found only one student at the school who'd passed away, a girl named Abigail Potter. It was about ten years ago. Supposedly, there was a butterfly garden named in her honor somewhere behind the school.

I didn't find anything about Sadie. The next morning, I arrived at school to find the extra desk back in our classroom, squatting like a smug toad in the middle of its row. My note to the custodian was gone. I left a message with the front office, pushed the desk back out the door again, and taped a more emphatic message to it. On my way back in, I studied the mural on the back wall. The drawings were typical for grade schoolers, dragons, rainbows, emojis, cats, basketballs.

In between the pictures, though, the word Sadie had been written over and over in groups of three. The weirdest part was that the very last E was always missing, like this. S-A-D-I-E. S-A-D-E. M. A. A. D.I. M. M. S. A. D.I. Miles had said S. D.A. D. A. M. S. A. D. R. A. S. A psychological assessment. My favorite has always been the draw person in the rain test, or DPRT. You ask your subjects to draw a person in the rain, but you give no additional instructions, which allows for complete artistic freedom.

Then you analyze the drawings. Excessive rain indicates high levels of stress, fear, and feelings of being threatened. The use, absence, and effectiveness of umbrellas and raincoats gauges the capacity to cope and the belief in one's ability to survive. While the children drew, I peruse. Mrs. Cross's past lesson plans. Her class was always doing something cool. Research projects, field trips, poetry contests, science experiments. The last Friday of every month was Blanket Fort Day, which sounded like the best thing ever. Tucked in the back of the lesson plan book,

I found a magazine clipping with Mrs. Cross written above the title, like someone had cut it out and saved it for her. I couldn't tell what publication it was from, but it was about school hauntings. Ask anyone about the schools they've attended, the article said, and they'll have a ghost story about at least one of them. Guaranteed. Reading further, I learned that child ghosts tend to attach themselves to something solid, often a physical place where they had good memories, like a school, or perhaps to a smaller object that was important to them. The writer used a pack of baseball cards as an example. A young boy in South Texas had been killed by a schoolmate for stealing his baseball cards.

The schoolmate went to prison, the cards were lost, and the boy's spirit haunted the school. Years later, the cards were found hidden behind a shelf in the library. It was only after they were destroyed that the ghost finally left. It made me think of Sadie's candle, the one she'd paid the ultimate price for trying to return, the one she'd been holding when she died. I had so many questions. Was the candle still in the school? Why had Mrs. Cross kept the article? Why were her students afraid to talk about Sadie?

And was there anything in the snack drawer besides gross kid foods? I dug through the snack stash again, hoping I'd overlooked something, like chocolate. All I found were a few loose screws rolling around the bottom of the drawer. Their threads of powdery white. Miles got up to use the pencil sharpener mounted on the wall. The kid never moved his arms when he walked. Just kept them tight to his sides, his back stiff and straight. He looked like a serial killer in a movie.

When he stuck his pencil into the sharpener, there was a deafening crash. It took a moment to understand the sound had nothing to do with Miles. It was the clock. It had fallen off the wall along with its metal cage, shattering on the floor. We were stunned into silence as the clattering and clanging of clock pieces died down. It had missed Miles by an inch. Grabbing his shoulders, I looked at a little. him over for injuries. Are you okay? He nodded. Everybody okay? The rest of the children

cowered like trapped rabbits, their eyes huge. The clock was obliterated, fragments everywhere. All that remained on the wall were powdery plastered holes where the screws had been. How'd that happen? It was Sadie. It was Miles. Emily pointed an accusing finger at him. When he looked at her, she crossed her arms and stared at the floor. Do you mean Miles made the clock fall? Emily shrugged, keeping her eyes down. She thinks I made Sadie come.

She thinks it's my fault. Like Abby. I was 98% sure there was no Abby in the class, but I couldn't look at the seating chart again. The kids would think I hadn't learned their names yet. The wailing boy was one whose name I didn't know. Other kids were sniffling, progressing swiftly toward crying. Okay, class, hand in your drawings.

It's time for P.E. I glanced at the clock before remembering it wasn't there anymore. Everything is fine, I promise. That turned out to be a huge lie. Remember how the DPRT is a reflection of mental state? Well, judging from their drawings, those kids were anything but fine. They'd drawn deluges, thick black scribbles of torrential rain, lightning, floods, leaking raincoats, broken umbrellas, hair sodden and stringy and soaked, eyes squeezed shut against the downpour.

Their results were all. off the charts, astonishing stress levels, an alarming inability to cope, authentic fear. Luckily, with my background and training, I knew how to help them. The smile box. I'd invented it for my final grade and applied classroom child psychology. It was a wooden box covered in cheerful wrapping paper with a mail slot at the top and a small locked door in the back. Kids could confidentially share their secrets, comments, and questions by putting them in the box. Open communication without repercussions. That's the smile box way. Ever since I'd started at the school, I'd felt I had a higher reason for being there.

Like, there was something I was meant to do. It wasn't to watch the kids complete project after project. It wasn't even teaching. It was healing. We were going to establish trust, conquer fears, and rebuild stability. By the time Mrs. Cross came back, the children would be so happy and carefree, she wouldn't even recognize them. I brought the smile box in the next day, set it up on a side table, and explained it to the kids. Just because it's against the rules to talk about something doesn't mean you can't write about it. They were busy with another project, but they kept glancing over, unable to concentrate on anything else.

It was so exciting. Soon after, we had a rainy afternoon, which meant indoor recess. While the kids watched a movie, I went through the smile box. As expected, it was a huge success. Emmy didn't wash her hands after she peed. I saw you texting and were not supposed to have foot. bones in school. My mom doesn't wear her seatbelt. I look like a horse. Sadie pushed Mrs. Cross down the stairs and made her hurt her back. Spelling bees are dumb. This should be called

the Miles Box. He's the only one who uses it. S-A-D-I-E. S-A-D-I-E. Halfway through our rainy-day movie, we heard something, a stomping noise, like someone hopscotching on the carpet in our back hallway. I thought it was one of the kids heading to the bathroom, but they were all sitting on the story rug, eyes on the TV. They hadn't even reacted. When we heard it again a few minutes later, I stood up so quickly my chair shot out and hit the wall behind me. The children jumped and looked at me, startled. Pieces of chalk fell from the chalkboard tray to the floor. Moving swiftly across the room, I paused next to the opening to the back hallway. The children watched. The overhead lights blinked, went out, came back on again. I could hardly stand it. That hopscotching,

the rhythmic pounding sound, a thumping cadence like the throbbing and pulsing of a horror movie victim's heart. Taking a deep breath, I swung around the corner, prepared for anything. There's nothing there. The hallway was empty. The sound had stopped. Continuing to the bathroom, I flung open the door, flipped on the light. Empty.

I hurried back to the classroom, ignoring all the coats hanging on hooks. I know I should have checked behind them, but I'm not. I couldn't. They looked too much like children standing in a row with a little girl in an angel costume among them. I told the kids it was nothing when I returned to the classroom, but they'd already turned back to their movie. The only other employee at the school, even close to my age, was Holdorf, the art teacher. Nobody called him Mr. Holdorf, not even the kids. It was just plain Holdorf. Every day he wore tan corduroys and scuffed brown shoes with thick rubber soles. Unattractive but silent.

Teacher shoes. Holdorf kept a lumpy clay heart paperweight on his desk. It was glazed shiny red with veins and arteries like a real human heart, but one made by a child. I could never stop playing with it whenever I went to his classroom. Don't break my heart. He'd wink as he said. this. He laughed when I told him everything that had been happening. Sadie's back, huh? You've heard of her? Is she real? There was a girl named Sadie who died in the school law. So in that sense, yes,

she was real once. But there's no evil angel ghost with a revenge curse. That part is decidedly not real. Revenge curse? The thing about writing her name, you know. I shook my head. Holdorf explained while doing the wide-eyed arm-waving people do to sarcastically indicate something mystical. Writing her name three times opens the door for her to come into our world. Once she does that, she will kill us all. because it's not fair that we get to live and she had to die.

That's scary, Holdorf. He leaned forward in his chair. It's not real, Aaron. The kids are playing a joke on you. You know that, right? No way. They're not faking this. They're afraid.

You can't argue with the draw. person in the rain test. We've had Sadie stories in the school forever. Why would the kids suddenly be scared now? Maybe nobody ever listened to them before. Look, who told you about Sadie first? Holdorf rubbed his eyes. Was it Miles?

Yeah, so? There's your culprit. You smelt it, dealt it, Aaron. Wise words. You're saying this is Miles' fault? He took the DPRT tests too, remember? That kid has taken a million tests. His intellect has been probed and prodded his entire life.

Don't you think he's learned how to manipulate results? That's ridiculous. Miles is an angel. Holdorf shook his head and laughed again. That's what they said about Sadie. After school, I sat in my darkening classroom thinking, and watching the sky turn pink through the line of high windows. Blaming Miles seemed ludicrous,

like accusing a bunny of killing a wolf. Just the other day he'd given me a fossil, he'd found. He wanted to be a paleontologist when he grew up, and he said he was going to name a dinosaur after me. Does that sound like someone who would deliberately trick a teacher? I pulled Miles' DPRT drawing from the stack. Truly, it was the most distressing of them all. Every inch of paper was obscured by blue scratches that I assumed represented driving rain. There was no discernible person, no raincoat, no umbrella. Poor Miles. Poor baby.

And yet... And yet, he was a strange little duck, with his antiquated speech patterns and his psycho-killer walk. And he had known an awful lot about Sadie. Plus, he had the means. He was regularly excused from class. to participate in gifted activities, and he was always skipping recess or staying after school unsupervised, working on specialized assignments. I imagined him roaming the halls at night,

stopping by our classroom for a snack. Before I could stop myself, I went over and searched his desk, and the first thing I found broke my heart. It was a baggie with a pair of tidy whiteys sealed inside. Written on the outside was, Put me on in case of pee-pee emergencies. Love, mother. X-O-X-O-X-O-X-O-X-O. Oh, Jesus, Miles, I thought.

You can't keep this in your desk? If bullies saw this, they would eviscerate you. I spun around a few times, unable to decide what to do. the whole time holding that baggie with its terrible first-person message from the underwear's point of view but signed by his mom. Finally, I put it back, sliding it all the way down to the pencil graveyard at the bottom. Some people might interpret that baggie as an indication of an unnatural mother-son relationship. Not me. I don't buy into that Norman Bates nonsense. All it proved was that Miles was a guileless, unsophisticated boy with a disturbing lack of self-preservation skills.

How could he be messing with me when he didn't even realize how severely he was already messing with himself? It exonerated him in my book. Holdorf was wrong. As I lowered the desktop, I saw something familiar. A blue crayon with a few children. chomp marks, and part of the label peeled off. Had Miles taken it out of the extra desk? No, that was silly.

Every grade schooler in the country probably had one just like it. I checked the smile box next. It was full. I sat on the story rug and pulled out all the notes, giddy like a kid with her Valentine's box. It didn't last. Each piece of paper had a single word written on it. Sadie, except for one, and that was even worse.

Abigail Potter, victim of slaughter, fell off the slide and broke her neck and died. She wrote that name two times plus one, and that's why her worthless life is done. Was this the Abigail Potter of the eponymous butter? Butterfly Garden? Was she one of Sadie's victims? I thought back to the day the clock fell and Emily mentioned someone named Abby. Was this the same girl? I texted a picture of the ghoulish poem to Holdorf.

He replied. Abby was a student at our school, maybe a decade ago. There used to be a fire escape with a big bentles slide attached to the side of the building. Nobody was supposed to use it, but kids always played on it after hours. One night, Abigail fell off and broke her neck, passed away a few days later. Horrible. All of it. I shivered, remembering an earlier smile box message, the one about Mrs. Cross and how Sadie had pushed her down the stairs. The next morning, we received a visit from Principal House.

She breezed in. The children sat up straight as she strolled through the classroom, picking up items from their desks, examining them and setting them back down. I hear we've been having some mysterious occurrences. Damn that Holdorf, the traitor. He must have told her. The kids have been a little scared.

We heard strange noises. Children, have you been frightened? Have you heard strange noises? I couldn't believe it. They were traitors, too. Principal House looked at me with exaggerated curiosity. It was a thumping sound coming from the hallway. Well, this is an old building.

So I suspect you've been hearing the pipes. It didn't sound like pipes. Water pipes. Heeding pipes. She stared at me. Her features perfectly still except for one eyebrow, which went up slightly. It's impossible to disagree with a face like that. Then again, it's natural for pipes to clang and bang in an older building like this. Principal House gave me a big smile.

She turned to the class. Children, as you are well aware, there is a sad and misguided fiction in this school, passed down from generation to generation, a hoax used to frighten new students and more gullible faculty members. We must refrain from indulging in such frivolous nonsense. Ghost stories have no place in an institution of love. and will not be tolerated. Do I make myself clear? Yes, ma'am? When she left, I followed her, closing the classroom door behind me. We stood at the top of the steps.

Did Mrs. Cross fall down the stairs? Is that how she hurt her back? Yes. It happened right here. She gestured toward the stairwell. What a little? A nightmare. She landed halfway down, but we couldn't move her. Liability issues. We had to wait for the EMTs. What happened? Did somebody push her?

Goodness, no. What an awful thing to suggest. There was jostling, certainly. Some accidental bumping with all the children going downstairs to lunch. That's why it's so important To always walk single file Single file, not a pile That's my motto One by one, walk don't run Principal House gave me a look of grudging admiration No more ghost stories

She pointed at me before heading down the stairs No ma'am We didn't talk about Sadie after that I stuffed the smile box into one of the cubbies. The children worked on projects. We went to lunch and recess and PE and music over and over an endless, monotonous rotation. We pretended to forget all about Sadie, but she didn't forget about us. It wasn't long before we heard that sound again.

I was in the bathroom, one sudden. Suddenly, there it was. That stomping, like the sound of witches dancing around a fire, their faces grotesque in the light of the flames. I cracked the door open, hoping to catch the perpetrator in the act. But the hallway was empty. The lights flickered, went off, and then on again. I headed back to the classroom, this time checking behind each coat. About halfway down, I found. miles. I nearly had a heart attack. His hands were clenched into claws on either side of his face, and his hair stood on end from the static of the coat fabric. What are you doing here? I guided his arms down to his sides, but he didn't unclench his claws. I was going to the bathroom, but there was

something scary in there, so I hid. It was me in the bathroom, my mind. It was me in the bathroom, You knew I was in there. He nodded. Did you make that noise a few minutes ago? The thumping? He stared past me, eyes unfocused. It was you. Yes, it was me in the bathroom.

We've established that. I straightened his glasses. I let him go. If I kept him from the toilet too long, he'd have to use his emergency baggie, and nobody wanted that. When I returned to the classroom, I told the kids it was the pipes. Clanging and banging is natural for pipes in an older building like this. They watched me with worried eyes.

Wednesday morning and Sadie's desk was back in the classroom. Oh my God, I thought. Oh, my God! Who was doing this? Why? And since when had I started calling it Sadie's desk? It was an empty desk, not Sadie's desk. The extra desk. The empty fucking extra desk. A person could go crazy in this place. I called the front office, told them again about the desk. They wrote out another work order. I'd started to push it out of its row when I noticed somebody had vandalized the mural.

They'd added capital E's in blue crayon, filling in the final letter of Sadie whenever it was missing. Some were small and meticulous. Others had been made with big slashing strokes, tearing the butcher paper. I studied the kids as they came in and took their seats. Who would notice the mural? Who would pretend not to? Which reaction indicated guilt?

But nobody even glanced at it. After they went to music class, I went to get Holdorf. He paced in front of the wall, squinting, hands in the pockets of his corduroys. I don't. Is this one of your psychological methods? It's a version therapy or something. What do you mean? Did you add the E?

It wasn't me. I'm trying to figure out who it was. That's your handwriting. You make an E with the three lines pointing upwards. I noticed it right away because I thought it was cute. They're like little birds and landscape painting. Look! From his pocket.

he pulled the receipt I had written my name and phone number on when we'd first met. He pointed to the first letter of my name. He was right. It was similar. I felt dizzy. Somebody imitated my handwriting? No, that's not what I'm saying at all. Are you feeling okay?

You should lie down. No thanks. I'm kind of busy here. He watched me for a moment too long. Oh, I get it. This is a joke, right? Why would it be a joke? Because you did this, Aaron.

What a condescending bastard, Holdorf was. I should have noticed earlier, back when he'd tattled on me to Principal House. Not to mention how creepy it was that he kept that receipt in his pocket. Did he have an unhealthy fixation on me? Maybe he just never washed his pants. And he was acting like I was the crazy one? Yeah, I was kidding. Ha ha.

Thanks for your help, Holdorf. You're the best. He lingered indecisively, hands in his pockets again, probably fondling my phone number. I steered him out the door to the top of the stairs. How satisfying it would feel to push him, I thought. To watch him fall, his hands scrabbling for purchase, to hear his scream, his snapping bones. Instead, I let him walk away,

his rubber sole teacher's shoes squeaking, not nearly as silent as he thought. I sat on Sadie's desk and studied the defaced mural. The children couldn't have done that. They were too afraid. But could it really still be a prank? It was such a stupid risk. First, there was the danger of getting caught.

And second, why gamble with the possibility of accidentally releasing an evil ghost child into the school? It's like stepping on a crack or walking under a ladder. If you have the choice, why not avoid it? I tore the mural off the wall. It came down in the long, satisfying strips. Then I went back and shredded it some more, separating each blue E from the rest of the name. Halfway through, I stopped, immobilized by a thought.

Had Sadie done this? Had she figured out a way to finish her own name and bring herself into existence? No. It didn't work that way. Take Bloody Mary as an example. Supposedly, she'll appear if you repeat her name while staring into a mirror in a darkened room.

But she can't say her own name to make herself appear. If that were the case, Bloody Mary would be popping out willy-nilly in dark bathrooms around the world. Of course, I realize it's not a perfect analogy. I'm not crazy. I know Bloody Mary isn't real. Blanket Fort Friday.

I brought sheets and blankets from home and we draped them over the desks and chairs. The kids crawled around underneath like groundhogs, giggling and whispering. They worked on their projects inside the forts. I played music on my phone. Such a perfect activity for a rainy day. Miles had made a hideout off by himself under a table. Gifted children need space and time. to create their narratives and fill their own silences.

He peaked out and motioned me over. Are you angry with us? Of course not. Why would you think that? You took down our mural. We both glanced at the back wall. I'm going to put up fresh paper, and on Monday we'll start a new mural

and make it the happiest one in the world. Miles seemed pleased, but then he frowned. I dreamed about Sadie last night. She was floating in a dark place, dark as a black hole. She was singing about bluebirds. When I got closer to hear the song, she pushed me. I fell for a long time, like Abigail Potter. My mom said I was screaming so loud I woke her up.

Oh, Miles, it was only a dream. You're safe. He touged the blanket out of my hand, closing off his fort. When he spoke, his voice seemed distant. Mom said she'll take me out of school if this doesn't stop. What? You have to stop it. Please. Don't worry, Miles. I'll take care of it.

He wouldn't let me open the flap, so I patted his shoulder through the blanket. I went back to my desk, thinking about my early days at the school, and how I'd suspected I I had a higher purpose for being there. I'd helped the kids begin the healing process, yes, but now I knew even more was required of me. I had to take Sadie down. But how? I'd kept a few pieces of the mural,

some of the bits with a blue E on them. I studied them closely, hoping for a clue. They really did resemble birds in a painting. Little blue birds. But it didn't mean anything. At least nothing I could discern. Underneath the mural pieces, I found the magazine article Mrs. Cross had kept,

the one about how child ghosts sometimes get attached, leech-like, to an object they'd loved. My eyes fell on Sadie's desk, now covered with a pink sheet, and I wondered. We didn't hear the hopscotching again until late afternoon. Oh, that ominous rhythmic thumping like savage drums in a dark jungle. The banging and echoing, rising and falling, closing in from every direction, menacing, inescapable.

Those poor kids, they wouldn't even look outside their forts. How good it would feel to run through that dark hallway, flinging aside the coats, ripping up that carpet, or maybe just covering my ears and screaming, whatever it took to stop the noise. Instead, I turned up the music, folded my hands on my desk, and smiled, biting my time. Whenever it's raining at dismissal, we gather the students inside the front entrance of school and escort them one by one to cars or buses, holding an umbrella over their heads. It's always chaotic. and I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to most of my students, not even miles.

I never even saw him leave. Everything felt wrong, like I'd forgotten something important, and the feeling stayed with me as I went back through the school, up our stairs and into the classroom, dripping water all the way. I leaned my umbrella against the wall, took off my raincoat and threw it over a chair by the radiator. The kids had taken down all the forts except Sadie's. The first thing I did was check inside it. That's just common sense.

Like looking behind a hotel shower curtain or making sure the backseat of a car is empty before driving. Everyone does it. And if they don't, they should. Outside, rain kept falling. The room grew darker. The school descended into silence. When I thought everyone had gone home, I pulled off the sheet and sat at Sadie's desk. I opened the lid.

Nothing inside, not even the blue crayon. Behind me, I heard rumbling, maybe thunder, maybe ghostly feet running on carpet. The lights flickered and went out, and the desktop slipped from my grasp, smashing the fingers on my other hand. I screamed. It was easy this time, pushing Sadie's desk across the classroom, even in the dark, even with my injured fingers. I didn't slow down as it shrieked across the floor, or when I reached the stairs. I just shoved that son of a bitch straight over the top. Crashing was like music as the desk fell to the next landing.

The lights flickered back on, and I saw it down there. vanquished and broken, Sadie's favorite thing. I lurched back into the classroom, clutching my injured hand to my chest. Had it worked? Was she gone? How could I tell for sure? I rode on the chalkboard. Sadie, Sadie, Sadie, Sadie. I turned toward the back hallway, waiting. It was empty now.

silent, dark as a black hole, and I jumped, staggering backward into the chalk tray, my upper back slamming against the chalkboard so hard it forced the breath out of me. I grabbed my handbag, ran out of the room and down the stairs, dodging the remains of the desk. Once outside, I realized I'd forgotten my raincoat and umbrella. No way was I going back up there, so I ran to my car holding, my handbag over my... Physically, I was miserable driving home. Soaking wet, my smashed hand throbbing and my back aching from bashing it against the chalkboard tray. Emotionally, though, I was triumphant. In my apartment, I went to the bathroom mirror to see how nasty the bruise on my back would be. I almost passed out.

Across the back of my sweater, smeared but legible, were the words, Sadie, Sadie, Sadie, Sadie. I wrestled it off and held it up to examine it. The writing was backward, so in the mirror it had appeared forward. It was a print of my own handwriting from when I'd fallen against the chalkboard. I smiled, feeling silly. but also imagining the kid's reaction when I recounted the story. I thought of research we could conduct with mirrors, projects we could do. But I never got the chance.

Principal House called the next day to inform me the school didn't need my services anymore. Children are frightened. We've received complaints. I know, but I fixed everything. I took care of it. They won't be scared anymore. Your children will be speaking to a psychologist. If I may, I'd like to suggest you do the same.

I closed my eyes. Sometimes I wondered if I'd made things worse. What if destroying the desk hadn't worked? What if Sadie was still there, unfettered and free? I wouldn't be there anymore to protect the kids. What would they do without me? I pushed the doubts from my mind. I'll pack up your belongings.

You may pick them up from the front office during school hours. Please do not contact the children. I didn't go right away. I couldn't deal with it, I guess. Then, last week, I was digging through my handbag for a cough drop, and I found a blue crayon, label peeled off teeth marks it reminded me of miles so i finally went to the school and got my stuff everything had been neatly packed into a cardboard box raincoat umbrella notebooks sweaters

and the smile box there was something inside it i unlocked it pulled out a folded piece of paper and opened it. At first it seemed like nothing but blue crayon scribbles covering the page. Then I realized it was a drawing of a person in the rain shown from the perspective of high above and behind.

It was a woman without a raincoat or umbrella, her hands holding something over her head. On her back, smeared but legible, was the same word three times written backwards. Sadie,

Sadie, Sadie, Sadie. 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-sleeppodcast.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. Production is Copyright 2018 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of a reproduction of a podcast. This audio program is permitted without the written consent of creative reason media.