The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E17

Episode Date: September 23, 2018

It's episode 17 of Season 11. On this week's show we have five tales about frantic families, familiar flyers, and frightful finals. "Dead Air"† written by M.J. Pack and performed by Addison Peacock & Mary Murphy & Atticus Jackson & Alexis Bristowe & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:03:20) "My Dog Freddy"† written by Nick Snyder and performed by Matthew Bradford & Mick Wingert & Kyle Akers & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts around 00:30:00) "The Test"‡ written by Tom Hawkins and performed by Alexis Bristowe & Nikolle Doolin & Addison Peacock & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 01:01:15) "Whispers in the Woods"† written by Michael Marks and performed by Dan Zappulla & Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 01:26:00) "The Mystery of William Wilson"¤ written by Troy H. Gardner and performed by Kyle Akers & David Ault & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 01:50:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Sennheiser AMBEO Smart Headset Contest Answers   Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack   Click here to learn more about Michael Marks   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Dead Air" 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 let us into your mind at your own risk. The sunlight fades to darkness. The frightful tales creep into your mind. It's time to give it. Because tonight there will be. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On the show this week, we have five tales about frantic families, familiar flyers, and frightful finals. We are very happy to congratulate the winner of our Senheiser Ambio headset contest. We had over 300 entries and almost all of them correctly guessed the 3D sounds we recorded. So congratulations to Haley Frost. She'll be hearing and recording great sounds on her new headset. Way to go, Haley, and thanks to everyone who entered.

And I have a big announcement to make regarding Halloween. Last year, we did a live show in Toronto to celebrate the Halloween season. This year, we're getting intimate. Very intimate. We're proud to announce two live shows at Gin Mill in Toronto on Friday, October 26th, and Saturday, October 27th. Both shows are from 8 to 10 p.m. Joining me will be Jessica McAvoy, David Alt, and Nicole Goodnight, along with our maestro, Brandon Boone. We'll be sharing Halloween stories in the upper room at the awesome gin mill gastro pub in the historic Bloor West Village.

It's a cozy and intimate room with only 60 tickets being sold for each show. So come hang out with us, share some custom no-sleep dark beer, and signature no-sleep cocktails the fine folks at Gin. Mill are making for the show. We'll have t-shirts, pins, plus a very exclusive gift for every person at the show. Tickets will go on sale Friday, September 28th on our website. More details coming soon via our social media accounts on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. That's No Sleep Live at Gin Mill in Toronto. Halloween has never sounded sweeter. So that's plenty of treats for you. Now it's time to present our tricky stories. You see, the tape is in the machine.

The stories are ready, so let's press play. In our first tale, we meet a woman who shared a sentimental tradition with her grandmother. As we learn from author MJ Pack, they fondly spent time listening to their old AM radio together. But when she decides to listen to the radio again, she discovers the sound of someone in need of help. Someone from a long way away. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Mary Murphy, Atticus Jackson, Alexis Bristow, and Nicole Doolin. So listen closely. There may be voices out there in the dead air.

I had a really special bond with my grandmother. A lot of girls will say that, but I think ours was deeper, different. We had this. electric connection, a current of energy that ran between us like crackling live wires. When she passed away at the ripe old age of 92, I should have just been happy to have her as long as I did, but instead it felt like I'd lost a limb, a part of me that had always been there and left an ache in its absence. We used to listen to AM radio together. It was our thing, you know. One of my earliest memories is a long ago Christmas when all the other grandkids were

running around, hyped up on sugar and the high of toys fresh out of their packaging, ignoring my grandmother as she sat near the antique radio she kept in the living room. Family members chattered all around us, but she had this look of determination on her face as she pressed her ear to the speaker, trying to hear over the racket of holiday chatter. She turned the dial slowly, paused to see if the station held any interest for her, then continued to turn it in a careful, practiced motion. I was only four, but I was instantly drawn to it. To her.

Something about the way she was in her own little world, despite all the activity around her, just seemed so soothing. I remember toddling over to her and plopping down by her feet. I remember pressing my ear near the speaker, too, and mimicking the resolve I'd seen her wearing. Grandma smiled at me. She ran her free hand, the one not turning the radio's dial, over my hair, and said, Will you help me listen, Alice? And I did.

I helped her listen for that Christmas and many years to come. We never stayed on one channel very long, but that didn't matter because we had something special. something just between us. We listened to AM radio together, and I grew up knowing that it wasn't what you heard that mattered. It was who you heard it with. After her funeral, I went home, the deviled eggs I'd eaten at the post-barial reception

sitting heavy in my stomach. I knew she was gone, but it was so hard to keep on going like everything was okay. How could it be okay when I was. I was never going to sit at my grandma's feet again, watching her delicately wrinkled face as she scanned the stations with unending patience. A few years ago, I'd bought a record player, one of those all-in-one deals where you could play albums or CDs or cassette tapes,

but I knew I really wanted it for the radio. It was made to look old-fashioned, but it held none of the elegance that grandmas did. A leftover from the days when household entertainment was required to function as both decor and furniture. I found myself staring at it then. My feet aching in their black funeral pumps. My eyes raw and red from crying. I sat on the floor in front of the radio,

removing my heels so I could cross my legs. Before I knew what I was doing, I had switched it on and taken the tuning knob between my fingers. The familiar sound of static and a faintly alien hum filled my living room. I relished it for a moment before I started to turn the dial,

slowly, just like Grandma used to. It never took very long to hit the religious holy rollers, the ones who shouted of Jesus' love and hate in equal fervor. I never cared for what they had to say, but I adored the way they spoke. Each word elongated and over-enunciated until it seemed to have a whole new meaning. The dominion of God

you the faithful and holy ones in Christ God's glory. I listened to the man boom on about something called a quickening and raising the dead up from hell before turning the dial again. Next stop was a commercial for a restaurant in Spanish. Apparently they had fajitas al-Gronde. A velvety-voiced man described this fantastic dish, and an artificial high-pitched voice agreed with him. I instantly pictured a cartoon aunt wearing,

a tiny sombrero and laughed despite myself. I turned the dial again. Classical music now. Something very authoritative that made me think of troops storming the beaches at Normandy. It could have easily gone along with those black and white newsreels they used to show before movies back in Grandma's Day. I felt a twinge of sadness, but somehow it didn't hurt as badly as I expected. The radio was doing what it always had. or without grandma here. Its gentle, staticy hum was soothing. I kept turning the knob, letting the different voices and music wash over me. I half expected to look up and see her sitting on the couch above me, smiling. I passed a twangy country station, and then suddenly

I hit a patch of fuzz, followed by a keening whine. It droned on even though I passed it. I should have passed it. The stations weren't. that far apart, and yet the radio whine, a sound that seemed to buzz through my very bones. Shit. I turned the dial back and forth, trying to get away from the terrible noise. When it seemed like I couldn't escape it, I finally gave up and reached for the power knob to turn the radio off. Help me. I was so surprised I fell back on my butt, nearly taking the knob with me. Surely I hadn't heard what I thought I did. It was just my well-trained ears looking for voices in the static as I had since I was young. That was surely what it was, just a mistake.

But the wine faded away, leaving nothing but dead air in its place. And what I could have sworn was the sound of someone breathing heavily. Another moment passed as I sat there, legs crossed like a child, staring at the faux vintage speakers of my radio. Water's high. I felt my mouth go dry. The first one had been a man, very clearly a man in distress if I was being honest with myself. And the second was a woman. I heard them talking again, quietly to each other as though someone had put a hand over the microphone so they could speak privately.

It's a radio play. Here, put your ear to it. See? Just let me do it. It's a radio play or someone fucking around on a CB? SOS. She spoke with confidence, but there was something behind that. Something that told me she was trying to hold herself together.

SOS, we've... No. Fred, stop! Speak! He sounded as though he had already fallen apart. It was horrible to hear. He almost seemed to be drunk. His words slurring together, but it was stretched thin by panic.

If it was a radio play, it was a good one. His voice was much louder than hers had been, as though the microphone was right up against his mouth. Please, oh, it's rising. I got to my feet and turned off the radio. I don't know how long I stood there before I left the living room, went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. It was a radio play.

That's all it was. or someone trying to screw with the few people who still listen to AM radio. And I suddenly needed to make a sandwich, do the laundry, clean the bathroom, do anything except think about that radio and what I'd heard come from it. I went to bed early that night, but sleep didn't come. I laid beneath the sheets and stared at the ceiling. I thought about the voices and the static. The man and the woman, it's not real.

Someone wanted to scare you, and they did a good job. but now you can forget about it and go to sleep. Instead, I got out of bed and padded quietly to the living room. The radio sat there on its little table, silent and waiting like a snake ready to strike. I had left the dial tuned to the station if you could even call it that, where I'd heard the voices. Carefully, knowing it was the wrong thing to do, I turned on the radio. Help! Her voice was still steady yet undeniably afraid.

Help us quick. The water's getting in. I can feel it. You're right. He sounded more drunk than ever, but I was certain he wasn't. Fred, no, Fred, come here. Just a moment. It's hot. I just need to get out. Oh, Fred, please. 5-8-3-8. Send us help. Help, I need air, Amelia. I need air.

It was too much. I knew now this wasn't a radio play, or even a cruel joke. They were in distress. That much was obvious. But without a transmitter, it was only a one-way show. I couldn't respond. I couldn't comfort them. Hell, I had no idea where they even were, or if I could send an ambulance to them. I was stuck in my living room, in my pajamas. Useless.

Amelia, Amelia, things are bad. And why, and why, and why, and why, and why. Let me out of the air. I shut off the radio again. It was too much. Couldn't take it. The next day, I called my best friend, Maggie. I wanted to listen more to see if they were still there.

But I couldn't do it alone. When I answered the door, she gave me her patented Maggie look of disapproval. Have you even slept since the funeral? I guessed the makeup I'd slapped on. didn't hide the dark circles under my eyes. Not really, but it's not because of... Oh, Alice. Before I could finish, she pulled me into a tight hug.

I know you miss her, but she's in a better place. I fucking hated that phrase. I'd heard it a thousand times since Grandma had died, and it never failed to make me angry. But I needed Maggie's help, so I ignored it. Yeah, I know. That's not why I called you, though. I need you to do something.

for me. Anything. Good old Maggie. She couldn't resist a victim in need. I led her to the radio in the living room and motioned for her to sit on the couch. Okay. Just listen. I took a deep breath. I turned on the radio. I waited. Nothing. The dead air hummed with what became an infuriating buzz. Maggie stared at me with an equally infuriating look of empathy. wait a minute I held up my hand so she couldn't start telling me how it was okay

everyone grieves in different ways Alice just wait a fucking minute okay the static droned on I think she gave me about five minutes a lot longer than I would have given someone else in my place before speaking again

what am I supposed to hear Alice I pressed my ear up against the speaker and listened for another few seconds before sighing and turning back to her Nothing. It was stupid. Forget I even said anything. I sat beside her on the couch. She pulled me into another hug. It's okay. I let myself be hugged because, in all honesty, it felt pretty nice. You're grieving. Everyone handles it in different ways. I rested my head on her shoulder as she went on, and I thought about the voices on the radio.

The people I couldn't help. If it was real, and by now, yes, I was sure that it was. Then they had most likely died in whatever terrible accident they'd been in. That was why the station was empty now. It wasn't that I'd never heard it in the first place. I could still hear them, the fear in Amelia's voice, the delirium in Fred's. We hugged for a little while, visited for a little longer after that. And as soon as Maggie left, I turned the radio on.

One last time, I figured, to be sure. To be absolutely positive, they were gone, and there was nothing I could do. Take it away, Howland. I jumped, both surprised by his immediate response and confused as to what they could even mean. He hadn't been here when Maggie was. There had been nothing on the airwaves, so how could it be I was already hearing him again? There was a cry of hysterical laugh. before I heard Amelia again.

N. Y. N. Why is this even possible? My empty living room didn't answer. It was almost as if they'd picked up exactly where I'd left them. N. Y. N. Y. N. Y. I could faintly hear Fred mimicking her in the background.

Fred was losing it. Mary. Oh, Mary. God damn it, Fred. Amelia sounded for the first time like she might be losing it too. Please shut up for the love of God. New York, New York. Oh, if they could hear me, Mary! I switched off the radio. I waited a few minutes. I switched it back on.

I switched off the radio again. I couldn't make anyone else hear it. Somehow I already knew that. Maggie's presence had caused them to go away. But when I came back alone, they were right here waiting for me. Couldn't help. There was nothing I could do but listen. I sat down in front of the radio and crossed my legs.

I watched it as I had when I was a child, and Grandma controlled the dial with an almost magical ease. But I didn't touch the dial. I listened. I can't reach the airport. No one's answering. I can't get through to anyone. Waters me deep.

This was the first time he sounded at all like he really knew what he was saying. This was the voice of a man who had surfaced from insanity just to see how bad things really were. Let me out. Let me out! There was the sound of another struggle. I could hear Amelia telling him no. A thick thump is one of them pushed the other somewhere in what I now assumed was the cockpit of a plane. The airport, the water, the radio. they had been flying and they crashed, most likely into the ocean.

I thought of the Malaysian plane that went missing earlier in the year and shuddered. Somehow I knew this wasn't the same plane, but they had almost certainly suffered a similar fate. Where are you going? We can't bail out, Red. The water's coming up. Just look. Another thump, followed by a cry that was definitely Amelia. It might have been my imagination. But I thought I could hear the sound of fingernails scrabbling against glass and metal.

Oh! Ouch! Fred kept babbling, lapsed back into delirium. Are you so scared? You won't even try? You won't even try. You won't even try to get out! Oh, Jesus.

There was a sudden, eerie silence. What? Amelia shushed him, getting closer to the microphone. I heard something. Hello, hello. Is anyone there? My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth, but I forced myself to speak again. I'm here. But she said next made my blood run cold.

This is Amelia Earhart. South 391065C. EMJ3B, Z-38, Z-13-3-8-6338. I stared at the radio. This was a joke for sure. Someone was fucking with me. But no, I'd listened this long that I knew it was no joke. And how the hell was someone fucking with me when they could hear me through the radio? What kind of joke was that?

How would anyone pull off something like that? I didn't know what she'd just said. Didn't understand any of it because of course I didn't. It had been meant for an air traffic controller or an airport, someone who knew what those codes were. It's who she thought I was, not some dumb 27-year-old girl whose grandmother had just died, whose grandmother was the only reason she'd even switched on the radio in the first place. Hurry! The hope in her voice broke my heart.

I'm sorry. I can't. What else could I say? How could I explain that we were separated not only by thousands of miles, if my memory of where Earhart was lost was correct, but nearly a hundred years? that what we were doing was scientifically impossible, that she'd been declared dead in absentia since my late grandmother was a girl.

Are you there? I'm here. Now Fred was babbling again in the background. George, get the suitcase in my closet. Hear me! Can you hear me? She was trying to speak over him. Mary, hey, Mary, Mary! Fred had the microphone now, and he was screaming into it.

He started to say, more and broke down in tears. When someone spoke again, it was Amelia. As if she hoped whoever heard it might try a little harder to find her, yet they're a little faster. You can't be doing this. I touched the faux-vintage speakers of my radio. This is impossible.

Fred, please. There was another scuffle before Amelia exhaled sharply. I'm sorry. What did you tell me to do? What do I do? I didn't say anything. I had pulled out my iPhone and was looking up Amelia Earhart, trying to find out more information. I hadn't even thought about her since I was a kid, and we learned about her in the passing way you learn about everyone who was once important to America.

I couldn't even remember when she'd gone missing. SOS! 1937. Grandma would have been 15. Will you help me? I stared at the black and white photo. of a woman with short, curled hair. Not pretty in the conventional sense, but striking nonetheless.

She was smiling like she knew something you didn't. Will you please? I swallowed down the lump in my throat. I can't. There was a long pause. I felt a hot tear slide down my cheek, and I wiped it away with the heel of my hand. I wanted to turn it off.

Didn't want to hear anymore. But something in me knew that if I did, I could never listen to the AM radio again. It was selfish, but I knew I'd lose my soothing place. The thing my grandmother and I had shared and still meant so much to me. If I didn't listen to the rest, Amelia would be here every time I turned the radio on, right where I'd left her, begging me for help. All right, all right. I'm sorry.

I knew she'd stopped listening to me. And I had to keep listening to her. What are you doing? Amelia's voice again, further away like she was looking elsewhere. Amelia, here. The door, quick, let me out. It's knee-deep. You can't. Stop. I can do it. I can make it. I can make it. You have to help me. A ton of a big shit.

I remember thinking at least they had gotten out. At least they had a chance. before Amelia said one last thing. Are you here? I knew she was talking to me, even though she sounded far away. I'm here. I'm here. Tell them, New York. Tell them, Debbie.

Tell New York. The same dead air I'd heard when I switched on the radio for Maggie. They were gone. I sat in front of the radio, cross-legged, stunned. my grandmother's name was Betty. It's taken me a long time, but I think I've figured it out. I think I know what happened. I think maybe on that day in 1937, my grandmother heard it first,

listening to the radio like any kid her age would have done back then, scanning the channels, looking for something good. I think she heard them, Fred and Amelia. I think she would. was the only one who heard them. I think she felt as helpless as I did, sitting there with no power to do anything except listen as two people met their untimely deaths in the Pacific Ocean. I think it haunted her. It's just a theory. All I know for sure is that my whole life, my grandma was listening to the radio, scanning the channels, looking for something. And then I joined her,

A little girl fascinated by how her grandmother's fingers turned the dial. I was the very reason she couldn't hear it anymore. But I like to think I helped. Maybe she needed not to hear it sometimes. With me there, she couldn't. That theory I proved to myself with Maggie and countless others after that. But she did hear them again. I know it.

Because I discovered what grandma did. The next morning, when I turned on the radio to begin searching for a new station, I heard Fred again. And even though I should have changed the station, even though I wanted to, I couldn't. I always knew my grandmother and I were connected. Every time it ends, it starts over again. Fred begs me for help.

Amelia tells him to put his ear to the radio to see that it's working. It all starts over again. And the reason I can't turn it off, the reason I can't change the station, the reason my grandmother spent all those years with her ear to the speaker trying to find the transmission, every day I think they can hear me a little more. They've stopped calling me Betty.

They ask me. They ask Alice for help. Every day I try to calm them down. promise them it will be okay. Maybe next time I can actually help them. I think I can get Fred to shut up so Amelia can focus. I think I can tell Amelia to switch frequencies, maybe find an airport or someone in the airwaves who can rescue them.

They've been jumping around, never on the same station twice, not since the first time they looped back to the beginning. I have to find them. So, I sit. My ear pressed to the speaker, turning the dial, turning the dial, turning the dial, turning the dial. Maybe next time. When dealing with the loss of a parent at a young age, it can be helpful for a child to have a pet to take care of. In this tale from author Nick Snyder, we meet a boy who is delighted by his new dog,

even though the dog is decidedly unlike any canine you've ever known. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Mick Wingert, Kyle Akers, and Corinne Sanders. So try not to act shocked when the boy introduces you to my dog Freddy. What I'm about to tell you isn't something that's easy for me to discuss. I'm sharing my story because I want to know that I did what anyone would do in my situation. Of course, I've already seen several therapists. But their job is to make me feel better, to fix me. I want to hear what normal people think.

You see, my therapist just tells me that the guilt I feel isn't rational. Survivor's guilt, they call it. I am not a survivor, though. What I am is a killer. I found that out very young. My early childhood was spent in what you might call a sheltered environment. Our home was a small house surrounded by a dense forest in the middle of nowhere. The closest town was a small community known as Whiskey Flats, and that was several miles away.

I'd never been to town. Hell, I hadn't even been more than a 20-minute walk away from home. In short, my humble home was all I knew for the first 11 years of my life. If I had to put a label on the location, I would call it isolated, or maybe forsaken. Despite some notable events, my life in the woods was very comfortable. The smell of pine needles and rain still come back fresh when I think about it. My father used to be a veterinarian, but his real passion was writing.

Through no small amount of effort, he managed to make it into a successful career. My parents had enough money to move out into the peace and quiet of the Pacific Northwest before I was even born. In the privacy of our new home, he had the perfect environment to hone his craft. Knowing all this, you might not be surprised to learn that I was homeschooled. My father handled my English and history education. After my father's classes were over for the day, my mother took over with mathematics and scripture. I'm not exactly sure how they did as teachers, but I was reading small books at four years old,

which I'm told is quite young. Once scripture class ended, I was free to spend my time in any way I wanted. Usually, I would run around the woods until it got dark and my mom called me back home, at which point I'd happily read a good book until drowsiness set in and took me hostage. My only knowledge of the outside world came from the books my father allowed me to have. This was my daily routine, until around my eighth birthday. My mother began suffering dizzy spells around that time. time. These would last several minutes, and then she would be fine if not for a nagging headache.

Then, one day, she just collapsed while making breakfast. As she fell, her head collided with a corner on the counter. She hit hard with a sickening thud. Within no time, there was a horrific amount of blood. Screaming, I ran to get my father from his study. By the time we made it to her side, she was already gone. We buried her in the backyard with choked sobs and a flood of tears. My father took her death even worse than I did, locking himself up in his study from morning till night. He only came out to feed me, and when he did, we barely spoke to each other. This went on for almost a month.

The next time my father drove into town for supplies, he brought back something. I had never seen before. A dog. I was in the backyard, sitting on a fallen tree near my mother's grave. Footsteps crept up behind me. Peter, I brought something special for you today. I didn't turn to look at him. I was way down by grief, and I couldn't imagine that changing any time soon.

Can I just get it when I'm back inside? Please, Peter, turn around and look. I promise you're going to love it. When I turned around, I was confused at first. There was a curious creature on all fours at my father's side. What is it? My father laughed. I could see the hint of joy in his eyes.

Peter, this is a dog. Your dog, if you want it. This was completely unexpected. Until now, I had only read about dogs. I knew that they were furry creatures. creatures that walked on four legs, couldn't talk, and were often called man's best friend. I thought that was exactly what I needed, a friend. I literally jumped for joy and ran over to them.

The dog shied away from me timidly. What's its name? Can I name it if it doesn't have one? He laughed again. It was nice seeing him this happy. I'm sure he felt the same way looking at me. He is your dog, son. You can name him what?

Ever you want. Something wasn't quite normal about this dog. He didn't look at all like I had imagined he should. Hey, Dad, why doesn't this dog have a tail? He's missing fur, too. I thought they were supposed to be covered in it. He looked taken him back for a moment. Oh, well, this dog is a rescue, son.

He's already pretty old, about seven, I think. His previous owners didn't take care of him very well. They didn't feed him properly, and that caused most of his fur to fall out. Even worse, his tail was bitten off by another dog in his litter. This poor thing's been through hell, Peter. He's going to be much happier with you. But he might be shy at first. This made sense to me at the time.

I could see some nasty scars on the exposed skin, both fresh and bold. And carefully, I reached out to pat his head. He recoiled slightly with every contact. Weak whimpering began to escape from his throat. It was as if each touch caused him pain. I looked to my father with worry in my eyes. No, no, you're not hurting him. Like I said, he's going to take time to get used to you.

How about you take him for a walk, and think of a name for him. You two need to get to know each other. Our trip through the woods took much longer than if I was alone. I had to perpetually monitor my pace or I'd leave the dog far behind. It was almost like he wasn't used to walking at all. Eventually, we arrived at my favorite spot, a cave that extended about 50 feet into the hillside. I had spent countless hours running around that cave, pretending it belonged to pirates. There were pirate-related scribbles all over the walls and various colors of chalk.

firmly planted on a boulder at the mouth of the cave. I searched my mind for the names of my favorite fictional characters. Finally, I had a winner. Oh, I know what I'm going to name you? Without warning, the dog opened its mouth and spoke to me. I already have a name. It's Freddy. This was so unexpected that I nearly fell off my perch. I didn't know much about dogs, but I knew they did not talk.

You can talk? That's crazy. Freddy looked at the ground. I can talk, just like you can. Yeah, but you're a dog. You're not supposed to be able to talk. Hearing that seemed to make him oddly sad. His head hung low to the ground and he wouldn't look me in the eyes. I wanted to comfort my new friend. I could already imagine us going on adventures.

Me and my talking dog. I left my perch and crouched down low at his side. to try and make him a little more comfortable with me. Hey, Freddy, don't feel sad. We're not like your last donors. I'm going to take real good care of you. I promise. We talked for a while that day.

Well, I did most of the talking, but I didn't mind because I knew that this friendship was going to take time to build. When we returned home, I immediately rushed to tell my father what I had discovered. Seriously, Dad, he can speak. I swear on Mule. He looked at him. Freddy, his face stern, almost furious. When he turned back to me, most of the rage had left his

eyes. It was almost as if he was angry at Freddy, and I was the afterthought. Peter, don't be silly. Dogs can't speak. That's just something in children's books. You should know better than that. I was taken aback. It didn't make any sense to me. He should know I wouldn't tell such an unbelievable lie. And why was he angry at Freddy? I'm telling the truth. Freddy say something. Freddy stayed silent and averted his gaze. I felt mildly betrayed.

If I didn't get his help, I might get in trouble. Dad, I swear to... Peter, you have committed the sin of invoking one of the gods to give credit to a lie. You'll be lucky if I don't decide to put you in the sin box. His eyes pierced my ego in the way that only a parents can. My expression resembled Freddy's as I sunk my head. I'm sorry, sir. That night, Freddy and I had been sent to bed without dinner.

Freddy had been tied to a tree just outside my window. I wanted to keep him with me. But my father said that dogs need to be kept outside or they begin to think that they're people. The next morning, my schooling resumed with my father teaching the classes that my mother used to handle. I practically exploded out the back door and ran to Freddy as soon as I was able. He was curled up and sleeping under the tree we had tied him to.

His hind legs were moving slightly as if you were trying to run. I gently shook him awake, which proved to be a mistake. Help! I'm in here. I'm trapped down here. He shouted more or less the same thing repeatedly. I shook him even harder and stared into his eyes. It was like he was a... a trance. I heard my father slam the back door and turned my head to see him stomping towards us. Shut that fucking dog up!

I had never heard him yell like that before. Suddenly there were tears in my eyes. I was only eight after all. Dad, something's wrong with Freddy. I woke him up and he started doing this. My father pushed me away from Freddy and dealt him a savage kick with his stomach. Freddy screamed as the combat boot collided with his frail body. After the impact, he stopped speaking and merely sobbed between bouts of coughing. My father got down low, grabbed Freddy's face, and forced the dog to look at him in the eyes. I saw a rage so deep on his face. It was hard to imagine he was the same person.

Barking, you stupid fucking mutt! He shoved Freddy's face into the dirt as he spoke. spoke the last word. I moved to protect my friend. Couldn't you hear him, Dad? He wasn't barking. He was asking for help. The back of my father's hand struck my cheek so hard that I saw stars. I fell to the ground and began to sob. That's enough, Peter. I won't hear any talk about Freddy speaking again. He is a dog! My father paused his rant to spit on Freddy's crumpled form.

Just a dog, nothing more. I didn't understand why my father was acting like this. Nothing made any sense. I was completely dazed by the physical punishment. I didn't even struggle as he dragged me to the sinbox. It wouldn't have helped to struggle anyway. It never did. A sin box was a structure about the size of an average closet.

The walls and floors were covered in mirrors. The floor was shaped like a steep pyramid, which made it difficult to stand or sit comfortably. In each corner of the box, there was a drain, so any human waste could be hosed out later. As my father locked the door, I heard his voice from the other side. You are sentenced to a week in the box for the sin of disobeying your creator. With that, my father left me completely alone, banished from reality. There was no light in the box, but you still saw things. Your senses attack themselves in the dark.

The mind conjures up terrible things from your deepest fears and reflects them on every wall. The scripture says that it's the reflection of your sins, when in reality you're just going bad shit insane. Comfort was an alien concept inside the box. Every morning my father would bring me water. I wasn't given food. On summer days, the box got so hot that water was all I could think about. It cooled down somewhat at night, but I could almost always hear screams coming from the corner drains. I could tell the voices were speaking English, but it was entirely too distorted to make out any clear words.

This made sense to me at the time. To understand that, you would need to know what my parents had taught me. Sin boxes were built with drains that led to Kide's domain. Those drains were what allowed your sins to get sucked away. Kide was the most commonly mentioned evil deity in the scripture. I knew that he ruled an underworld full of tormented souls, and he fed on sin. I thought that it was only natural that you would hear sounds of suffering coming from the drains. When my father finally granted me my freedom, it was the late evening.

I was intensely thirsty and nearly delirious. The tendons in my legs ached from the long-term abuse. My father embraced me. You are redeemed in the eyes of your creator. That was all he said before he carried me inside to the dinner table. We ate in complete silence. As I steadily shoveled food in my mouth and my sanity slowly returned to me, I had an epiphany.

I realized that my father couldn't understand Freddy at all. Only I could. This could only mean one thing. I could speak to animals. I had read about things like this before. In my eyes, this explained everything. After dinner, I went outside to feed Freddy. My father hadn't fed him much while I was in the box, and I could tell he was starving.

He didn't seem to want to eat the dog food at first, but in the end, he cleaned his dish and drifted off to sleep. I stayed with him a while, petting his head now and then. The hair on his head was matted and rough to the touch. It was a reddish color like mine, only Freddy's hair was curly. I ran my fingers along the scars and the stitches on the back of his hind legs. I winced as I examined his front paws and saw the still-healing scars on the end of his head. of each digit. As his chest rose and fell with the calmness of sleep, his skin stretched tawed over each of his ribs. I couldn't imagine just what kind of hell this poor dog had been through.

As I laid awake in bed that night, I prayed to several of our gods to let Freddy have a happy life. Despite that, Freddy was gone the next morning. That stupid fucking dog! Almost falling flat on my face, I leaped from my bed and grab my shoes. I ran outside to see my father's truck peel out and speed down the road. My father returned less than 20 minutes later. He hefted Freddy into his arms and ran inside. There were large cuts all over Freddy's stomach,

and they were practically gushing blood onto my father's chest. I stood frozen as my father rushed past me and carried Freddy into the study. I heard the door lock behind them. I didn't see Freddy for several days, and I asked my father about him often. Apparently, he had found Freddy stuck on top of the razor-wire fence on the edge of our property. That would have been almost a mile away. God's know how he managed to climb up there. Eventually, Freddy was released to the backyard, but things were far from normal.

He had discolored bandages all over his stomach, but that wasn't all. There were also bandages around his throat and between his legs. No matter how much I talked to Freddy, he never spoke to me again. Concerned, I asked my father what had happened. Well, Freddy's been misbehaving so much lately that I didn't have any choice but to neuter him. He said that frankly, like he was telling me why he made pancakes instead of eggs for breakfast. I was confused. What does neuter mean?

He sighed and explained the process to me in great detail. When he was done, it made sense to me after a fashion, but still I had questions. What about the wound on his throat? My father's face was slightly pained by this question. Sometimes when a dog has problems with barking, the owners may choose to remove the dog's vocal cords. Without them, the dog can't bark at all. Hopefully things will be quiet around here again. This news deeply depressed me.

I had only just discovered my ability to communicate with animals, and now my only animal friend wouldn't be able to talk ever again. A week passed, maybe longer, and Freddie only seemed to get worse. The bandages on his stomach stink and were stained brown within hours of changing. My father pulled me aside at breakfast. Peter, I'm sorry, but Freddie isn't getting any better. I knew this was coming. Freddy barely moved anymore, and those bandages were ugly.

The news still heard all the same. It was like losing my mother all over again, and it was about to get worse. He's in a lot of pain, Peter. He need your help. You want to help, Freddy, don't you? I wiped away the tears growing in my eyes. Yes, sir. He reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol he must have grabbed from our gun room.

Normally, I wasn't allowed to touch the guns unless it was a training day, but he held it out to me anyway. Go ahead, Peter. You need to take his pain away. He's your dog, and that means you have to be the one to do it. He's your responsibility, remember? I knew he was right. With a heavy heart, I made my way outside to Freddy's tree.

He saw me approaching and stared in silence. The pistol clearly visible. He was so weak he didn't even move his head. I could see the acceptance in his eyes. Even though he was just a dog, he knew what the pistol was for. With a weak smile on his face, he closed his eyes, and I fired six shots closely grouped into his center mass, just like I had been taught. I sat with my friend for a while with his head in my lap. I had tears streaming down my face, not unlike the blood slowly oozing from the bullet holes in Freddy's chest.

I wondered if I'd ever get a chance to use my ability again, if I would ever talk to another animal. Maybe Freddy was the special one after all. He was certainly special to me. That night we burned his body on a bonfire. The scripture says that animals don't have souls, but I knew that Freddy had one. I stood my vigil in silence, save for the roaring flames and crackling of embers. In the end, I watched his bones sink into the blaze, and a sense of loneliness consumed me. My father didn't teach me any classes the next day.

Instead, when he opened the door to my room, he had something else in mine. Peter, wake up. There's something you need to see. I trudged my way out into the living room, and I was shocked to see what was waiting for me. There was a tall woman with red hair just like my mother's, but this woman was much younger. She had her eyes cast to the ground with... sadness etched into her face. Her middle finger was missing, so I could tell that she had been married in the ritual of joining. The wound looked fresh, so I knew it had been recent.

Peter, starting today, this is your new mother. We got married last night. Why don't you say hello? These days I did as I was told, and without any arguments. Hello, mother, I'm Peter. please to meet you. Hello, Peter. Please to meet you. She didn't give me her name, and I never learned it. My father's face lit up with pure joy. Looking back, he probably didn't think the introduction would have gone well.

On the floor behind her was another surprise, a creature with the form I recognized. This dog didn't have a tail either, and it was also missing most of its fur. Its front paws were much like my own hand, but the fingers were less than an inch long and had no knuckles. Each digit bore a wound on the end that had been stitched up. I reasoned that was where its claws had been removed. There was also a big scar on the back of each of his hind legs. I would later learn this was because his Achilles tendon had been severed. Like Freddy, this dog also had bandaged wounds between its legs and on its throat.

It seemed like my father wanted to skip some steps with this new pet. I was disappointed by the thought that I wouldn't be able to talk to this dog either, but I was so excited to have another friend that I almost didn't care. Can I name this dog too, Dad? He laughed. It had been so long since I heard him laugh. Of course, Peter. He's your dog now.

I named him Freddy, just like the last dog. and just like every dog that came after. They were all Freddy, and I will always look back on them with fondness, even though I know the truth now. I didn't have any idea back then, though. I awoke one morning to hear strange sirens in the distance, and my father yelling. I heard him shout, please, but I didn't yet know what that word meant.

With a crash, my father kicked open the door to my room. Peter! The end of days is upon us. Kide's army is here. By this point in my life, I was already 11, and I was an expert in the scripture. I knew even before he told me that the sirens heralded the coming of Kide in his army. Soon, the other gods would manifest, and the end war would finally take place. Without wasting any time, we made our way to the gun room.

My father strapped on his holy Kevlar body armor, and my mother helped me into mine, With protection covered, my father grabbed his holy AR-15. It was the one gun he had never allowed me to use on training days. I was told that the bullets were blessed by friend and were made of fire itself. Now I know that they were something called tracer rounds. Women were forbidden to use weapons, so my father ignored my mother and handed me a semi-automatic AK-47. It was my favorite weapon on training days. We made our stand near the cave I had played in so many times before.

I saw Kide's army slowly advance through the woods, and I opened fire. I laughed like a demon when I saw one of them fall. I had put a bullet right through a center mass. Blood gushed out of the wound, covering his dark blue uniform. Glowing bullets riddled the hillside from my father's holy weapon. Our booming gunshots echoed through the woods like our fury made into sound. They were so deafening, I worried that our enemies couldn't hear me laugh as they died. My first mother would have been proud.

A couple more soldiers fell. I remember thinking the battle was almost too easy. But in an instant, everything fell apart. My mother had put a stolen pistol to the back of my father's head and pulled the trigger. His brain splattered me from behind. Blood dripped down my neck and back, even under the vest. I turned around to see her pointing the gun at me. Not so fast, you little shit.

Put down the gun. Shocked, I fell on my backside, completely unable to process what had just happened. Drop the fucking gun! I dropped the rifle. My new mother started sobbing with an expression I can only describe as ferocious bliss. Before long, Kide's army had me restrained. They put me in their car and drove me to the Whiskey Flats Police Department. On the drive, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen Freddy that day.

Eventually, I learned that my father had slid his throat before coming to my room that morning. I was 11 the day I heard the sirens. In the three years since I met Freddy, there had been six more dogs. It hurt less every time I had the sirens. to kill Freddy. I had grieved less each time. Killing got too easy. When I killed those two police officers, I didn't feel anything but joy. I like to think that I'm different now, but I don't really know. I haven't killed anything or anyone since. Over the years, I've learned all about the horrors that took place in my childhood. My father,

had written the entirety of the scripture to control us. Beneath his study, he had a mostly soundproof room with cages filled with women and children. The screams I had heard in the sinbox originated from that room. I was told how he'd transformed them with brainwashing, torture, and surgery into dogs. When the police raided our home, they missed a tripwire in my father's study that triggered an unlawful. IED that killed three women and four children in the basement. Some revelations hit me harder than others, like how my biological mother died in childbirth.

In short, I learned that my entire life had been a lie, or maybe a sick joke. Now, I'm 22, and it's taken me many years of therapy to get to where I am today. I've had relapses where I sometimes find myself, slipping back into scripture brainwashing. My therapist says that I've made remarkable progress, but I'm not so sure that I even deserve to get better. Not everyone gets what they deserve, though, and I have to move on. I still own the land that I grew up on. I don't live there,

but I like to visit. When I was rescued, I went to live with my grandparents, my birth mother's parents. I'm so grateful that I've had the chance to learn so much about her from them. I know next to nothing about my other mothers, and I'll always regret never taking the time to really learn who they were. On a more positive note, I have a real dog now. He's a little Scottish terrier, and I bet you've already guessed. His name is Freddy. If run out of tape, it's time to press eject.

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