The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E21

Episode Date: October 21, 2018

It's episode 21 of Season 11. On this week's show we have five tales about supernatural stalkers and automotive angst. "Never Wander Off in Robinson Woods"‡ written by Lincoln Merch and performed by Peter Lewis & Erin Lillis & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:03:20) "Wishes Really Can Come True"¤ written by Karen Park and performed by Mary Murphy & Kyle Akers & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:25:35) "The Long Fingers"† written by Brandon Meseure and performed by Atticus Jackson & Andy Cresswell. (Story starts around 01:02:30) "The Tappan Zee Bridge"† written by Alexis Bristowe & Henry Galley and performed by Addison Peacock & David Ault & Armen Taylor & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 01:24:10) "Anybody Else"† written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:38:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Lincoln Merch   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Long Fingers" illustration courtesy of Hasani Walker Audio program ©2018 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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 to your fear because tonight there will be... Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. joining us. On the show this week, we have five tales about supernatural stalkers and automotive

angst. I want to let you know a bit about our schedule for the coming weeks as we get closer to both Halloween and the end of season 11. First, next week's show, episode 22, will be our yearly Halloween episode with over two hours of tales to trick and treat you. Free for one and all. On Halloween itself will release the Season Pass 11 Halloween bonus episode. So between both the free and bonus Halloween shows, season past 11 members can look forward

to over four hours worth of ghostly and ghoulish Halloween tales next week. And then the following two weeks, episodes 23 and 24, the full length episodes will conclude with the final two parts of Marcus Amanda's epic summer series.

And if you're not caught up before the series comes to an end, head over to the No Sleep Podcast SoundCloud page, where you'll find the first 10 parts free to listen to. That's over seven and a half hours of storytelling, featuring Jessica McAvoy as summer and the fantastic production of Jeff Clement. And finally, we want to congratulate

our very own voice acting superstar Mick Wingert. Currently in theaters is the creepy family movie, Goose bumps too, Haunted Halloween. It's about two young friends who find a magic book that brings a ventriloquist's dummy to life. Well, that creepy dummy, named Slapby, is voiced by Mick himself. Congrats on such a great role, dummy. I mean Mick. And don't forget to check out Mick's great new anthology podcast, The Hidden Frequencies. The first five creepy episodes are ready for your ears right now. And so, with an enormous amount of haunted horror storytelling,

both available now and coming soon, it's time to kick off this week serving of scares. Because the tape is in the machine, the stories are ready, so let's press play. In our first tale, we meet a man recalling an event from a family outing when he was a boy. As shared by author Lincoln Merch, what was meant to be an enjoyable time in the woods with his family,

turned instead into a rather disturbing encounter. Making matters worse was the fact that his family, and even the man himself, question whether or not it really happened. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Aaron Lillis, and Nicole Goodnight. So pay heed to this simple warning. Never wander off in Robinson Woods. One who grew up along the northern border of Chicago, along the Displains River, is familiar with the local forest preserves. Some are just refuge for animals, while other areas allow people to rent small picnic shelters for parties during the summer months. Our favorite bit of these forests was named Robinson Woods.

In the winter we go sledding on a large hill in blown up inner tubes and then thaw our frozen bones over cups of hot cocoa, kept in a chipped plaid thermos my mom stashed under blankets in her old gray Buick. In the fall, we'd spend time walking through the wood to find clearings where we'd toss apples on the verge of rotting for the deer and whatever other wildlife would eat them. We didn't have much money while I was growing up, and time was limited with my mother. She worked three jobs while going to nursing school, not to make. mention the boyfriends, and, well, what I later came to understand as alcoholism as an adult. The rusty old Buick halted to a stop near the Red Forest Preserve Gates with a slight metallic groan.

My sister and my mom were the first out of the car as the door handles in the back had long ago broken off. My sister opened to the passenger side door while my mom fished around in the trunk. Heather and I hurried around to the rear of the car to see my mom swooping and reaching to collect the apples that had rolled from the busted sack they'd been purchased in a few weeks prior.

You know, it would be really great if you two would just eat these rather than throwing them out here? She shoved them roughly back into the plastic. I'm not made of money, and you two can stand to eat less junk. I looked down

and watched the gravel sway and part as I ground my gym shoe into the floor. A small pebble stuck in the gap where the rubber sole and cloth had once been joined. The sound of my mother closing the trunk startled me. I watched her walk towards the trail entrance, clutching the sack of almost rotten apples. Heather tugged on my shirt sleeve. Let's go, Zachary. I followed them both into the tree line. and we came up to a sign and a very large boulder with some writing etched into it. Nothing terribly interesting to a six-year-old with dyslexia and his eight-year-old sister. The leaves had just turned to bright yellow and fallen to carpet the entirety of the forest floor.

The contrast of the brown trunks and sun hanging high in the blue skies was breathtaking. I guess fall has always been my mind. favorite season for a reason. As our mother huffed and sighed along the trail, I slowed my pace. She had insisted that the day was supposed to be fun, but every movement, every breath, was done in a way that led me to believe she just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Heather, who didn't seem to notice or care,

walked at almost a slow jog to stay within a few feet of our mother. I walked even more slowly and soon found myself alone. Even back then, that was how I much preferred to spend my time. The only sound being the nearby traffic, airplanes overhead, crunching leaves, the constant buzz and hum of insect, and the occasional bird call. I was busy scanning the ground for my favorite forest treasures, chip monks, and acorns. Every few steps I'd bend down and brush aside a few golden leaves in hopes of finding an acorn to stuff in my pocket.

Then I'd stand up and randomly change direction, moving deeper into the woods further away from the trail. Hell, if I could entertain myself up on the roof for hours while locked out of my father's apartment by my stepmother, well, I could easily handle an entire forest full of random objects to examine. To a poor, neglected boy like me, it was like exploring Disneyland. The problem was, unlike Disneyland or the rooftops, when you are sick and alone in the forest, it's hard to get your bearings. There are no landmarks or signs or stairs or doors. It's just you and a bunch of trees and leaves.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something shimmer. As quickly as I'd been concerned about my solitude, it vanished into curiosity. I bent down and brushed aside the leaves. There, half stuck in the dirt, was a bit. a silver cross with a tiny loop on top. I picked it up and studied it, squatting over the spot. My feet cold from the air seeping in through the cracks in my shoes. They stood up and quickly spun around to face the sound. There, about 20 feet away, stood a tan man with long black hair. Instead of regular clothes, he was wearing what appeared to be a tan and red nightgown.

He looked at me, probably in much the same way, I was looking at him. I turned and started walking, suddenly thinking that it would be a good idea to catch up to my mother and sister. Not because I was afraid, per se, but because I realized just then how alone and separate I really was. After I took a few steps, I saw movement to my side. I looked and the man was walking with me, still the same distance apart. We walked and watched each other move. I grasped the cross in the palm of my hand, and we walked. I stopped again looking around, realizing that the woods around us had fallen completely silent.

Not even the wind moved to rattle the remaining leaves still on their trees. When my eyes returned to where the man was, he was still just looking at me. No real facial expression. He wasn't angry. He wasn't smiling. He was just watching me and blinking. I don't know how long we walked for. I don't remember feeling too cold or too warm or any sort of discomfort at all, really.

I don't remember stumbling or tripping, even though I never once looked where I was headed. We just walked together, but separated, observing each other. Watch it! I hadn't seen Heather and bumped right into her. She shoved me hard, sending me falling backwards. My mother grabbed my arm and yanked me up. Where the hell have you been? First you wander off and then you don't respond for over three hours

while your sister and I are calling after you. What were you thinking? I looked at her blankly, blinking. Then suddenly I remembered the man. I turned to point. I got lost and this man... My mom craned. neck around and then turned to my sister.

Man? What man? Heather, did you see a man? Why were you talking to a stranger? Your father and I warned you about weird men. I didn't see anybody. I found this. I remembered the cross, but it wasn't in my hand any longer, so I figured I must have put it in my pocket. I plunged my hand inside, but was only able to produce a blue crayon nub and a half-dozen acorns. My mom and sister stared at me. I found a silver cross under some leaves, and when I stood up, there was a man in his PJs, but he didn't have any pants, and he had really, really long black hair, and he walked with me. Uh-uh.

Heather rolled her eyes as she turned around to walk towards the car. A man without pants was following you in the woods? Here? My mom scooped me up to practically toss me into the car. We're going home. I'm calling your father, and we're filing a police report. I scooted towards the opposite window to look back into the wood. But there was nothing in the setting sun other than bare trees, yellow leaves,

and that large rock in the distance beyond a giant red sign I couldn't read. I never did find that cross. My parents did file a police report, but nothing ever came of it. There were no other sightings of a man with really long black hair not wearing any pants reported to the cops, strangely enough. The truth is that I never even really thought about this incident until recently. One day in late September, I stumbled upon the Halloween display at our local library. I've always had a thing for the paranormal, and once I'd finally learned to read, I became obsessed with reading about haunted history. Picked up a book on hauntings in Chicago from the bottom of the display.

Flipping through, my eye was caught by a chapter entitled Robinson Woods. My eyes darted across the page to a photo of a large rock with the words Alexander Robinson Robinson. Robinson etched into it. To the right, a photo of a large red sign. The same red sign I couldn't read as a child, but could now. Robinson family burial grounds. My hands started to tremble a little as I skimmed to the chapter, reading to myself softly and quickly.

Alexander Robinson, tribe named Chichipinquay. translates to blinking eye as he was known to have poor vision. He'd been the chief of several American Indian tribes, including the Potawatomi. After negotiating two treaties and helping to save American lives during the Fort Dearborn Massacre, he was given a two-square-mile chunk of land along the Displanes River on the border of Chicago. This is where he lived with his wife and 14 children. Alexander died on the reserve in 1872. He was buried on the land, and a large memorial stone was erected after the death and internment of his wife, Catherine, some time later.

The memorial is now home to 11 family graves. Since then, people have claimed to see ghostly apparitions of Native Americans and glowing orbs in the woods. In the winter, there have been accounts of people's... smelling fresh lavender and violet. I closed the book and stood there very still for who knows how long. I returned home to find my mother in the kitchen, seated at the table. A large, insulated cup held firmly in her hand. Her eyes were barely open.

Hey, Mom? She turned her head slightly, but didn't say anything. Do you remember the... Was the day when we went to the Robinson Woods when I was around six? To feed the deer. Just then, Heather walked in with her empty bowl. You mean that day you were kidnapped by the half-naked dude? Heather.

I wasn't kidnapped. He never even came near me. Zachary, you were gone for three hours. You said the guy didn't have pants. He was probably a pedophile, and you're lucky you weren't. molested like, like Heather was by that Jasper family that your useless father saw fit to leave you to with. Wow. You know what? Never mind. Heather followed me into my room. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything in front of drunky LaRue over there. I did it just to piss her off.

For what it's worth, I don't think anything bad happened to you that day. But Zach, you know that you had a crazy imagination as a kid. We both did. We had to. Anyway, I wish she'd lay off the booze in the bad-mouthing of our dad. Hey, Heather, fuck her from making light of what you went through. If I had had one ally growing up, it had been Heather. Thanks, Zach. Heather tried to smile, even though I could see the tears starting to form in her eyes. She turned away, though, before I could see her cry. Were my mom or Heather Wright, had I actually been molested? I know she was just joking, but being molested in the woods by some random guy,

it was far more probable than seeing the ghost of Alexander Robinson or one of his family members. If I had found that cross, why? And if so, why would the spirits of long-dead Native Americans care? Had he stopped me from removing an object from the forest that I shouldn't have? Had he just appeared to help a lost six-year-old find their way back to their family? And if any of that happened, what does it even mean? I flipped through the book to where I had left off in the library and turned to the page. It's...

Staring back at me was a drawing of a man. Alexander Robinson. And it wasn't the man from the forest. They looked nothing alike. I'd been so sure, so convinced that when I turned that page, the familiar face of the man from my childhood would be looking back at me. So what was it? had a defense mechanism, had I latched onto the idea of a ghost to protect me from the memory of a much more traumatic, all-to-flesh and blood interloper.

My eyes drifted down to the caption, even as disappointment and dread threatened to overwhelm me. Alexander Robinson born circa 1762. He lived to be 110. The subsequent section gave details of Robinson's death. Figuring, I might as well, anything to stop me from analyzing the incident as it now presented itself, I read on. Alexander Robinson finally met his end in 1873, under mysterious and violent circumstances. is practically bedridden at the age of 110, Robinson rarely left the house. So, when one morning his family found his bed empty, there was cause for concern.

It took hours to find Robinson's body. It was a grisly discovery. Deep in the forest he'd so loved to weigh off the beaten track. They found him strung up to a makeshift cross. constructed from solid tree branches. The flesh had been peeled away from his torso, stripped back in folds to reveal his rib cage and internal organs. Smaller branches had been inserted into his temples,

giving the impression of antlers. Each of his fingers had been vertically sliced into, as had both his feet. His lips, eyes, and nose had been removed. Discovered later in a hole in a nearby tree, both of his legs had been severed below the knee, then crudely stitched on backwards with weaving twine. Upon making this discovery, the man who found him

was set to fall to his knees weeping. It was a cruel, brutal, and unusual end for a beloved elder. wiped the sweat from my brow. Jesus Christ, this had taken a turn. No culprit was ever found to be responsible for Alexander Robinson's death. The only suspect was a drifter who'd been sighted around the reservation and forest a number of times in weeks prior to Robinson's murder. At the time, sketches were made of the stranger and posters were distributed attempting to track

down anyone who might be able to identify him, but to no avail. Only one of these sketches remains, currently owned by a private collector, who has provided a print for this volume. See Overleaf. With shaking hands, I turned the page. I saw the face before I saw it. I could picture him Gazing out from the book, his face blank, not smiling, but not angry either. Yeah, it was him. The man from the forest, so long ago, staring out at me with charcoal etched eyes, passive, and yet somehow infinitely terrifying. I felt now the fear I'd never felt back then as a child.

A fear I know for certain I should have experienced. The stranger watched me from the page around his neck. Drawn nearly two centuries ago was a small silver cross. For most people, a honeymoon is a time to travel to an exotic location and rest while enjoying good food and drink. But in this tale from author Carrey, and Park, we meet a couple who decided to spend some time in Central America, where they participate in the local traditions and customs, including religious ceremonies which end up being far more than merely ceremonial. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Kyle Akers, and Nicole Goodnight.

So before you're asked to make one, remember this. Wishes really can come true. A honeymoon is supposed to be the best trip of your day. your life, right? And you only get one. Well, that's not true. You can have as many honeymoons as you have weddings. But this particular honeymoon was a first for each of us. For Will and me.

And we went into it in good faith that it would be our last. When Will suggested that we spend our honeymoon taking a tour through Central America, I was skeptical. since I had been imagining a trip involving suntan lotion, fruity cocktails, sunshine, and sleeping late. His idea sounded like there might be some effort involved. Oh, come on, babe, it'll be awesome. Ziplining in Costa Rica, exploring ruins in Guatemala, surfing the beaches in Panama, we'll have a blast. I shook my head because what we did have was a mountain of student loan debt that might get in the way of Will's plan.

I just started a surgical residency, while Will was teaching piano and guitar to help out while he got his career started, the career he dreamed of, being a concert pianist. He was a beautiful pianist, really good. But it's tough to break into the ranks of musicians at that level, who are both in demand and earning a living doing it. He just needed his big break. His music was a big part of our love story, actually. We'd met when I got off the subway one summer day on my way home, after a double shift at the hospital.

He was playing obscure covers on an acoustic guitar inside the subway tunnel for tips. I was exhausted, and I planned to rush home for a badly needed shower and sleep, but was compelled to linger in front of him and listen to his music. as he stood there playing guitar in his worn in jeans and faded concert tea. I joined the small crowd and let the music wash over me. After noticing me, he quickly moved from playing moody covers to sad but complicated Spanish songs. Later he told me he picked these up during a study abroad in Mexico.

A musical choice that was clearly an effort to use his versatility of tongue and fingering to flirt with me. It worked, and soon after a chat against the subway tunnel walls and in exchange of numbers, I got to hear him play his true musical love, the piano. Although it was tough to find free time to spend together during my intense years of medical school that followed, we made it work.

And here we were about to go on our first adventure as husband and wife. It didn't take long for him to sell me a little. on the Central America plan. All he had to do was show me a few links with tourists posing with sloths and toucans, and I was all in. We started in Costa Rica, which was the most beautiful place I'd ever seen.

We walked through a rainforest and tried surfing for the first time. Monkeys tried to steal the beer and peanuts off our table as we sat under a tree on the beach at dusk. It was so romantic. romantic and such a relief not to have to think about hospital politics or surgery or deal with a competitive fast pace of my normal life. Will wasn't so lucky, though. When he had too much quiet time, he'd tend toward the melancholy.

Maybe it was a mistake to be away from the piano so long. This is going to be almost two weeks without a chance to practice. I've got three auditions in the next few weeks, and there's so much comfort. I bent across the table to kiss him quiet. You'll do fine. You're talented and practiced for hours every day. Anyway, it might do you good to take a rest day or two. You know, like athletes do. He wasn't willing to be cheered up.

If I don't start getting through some auditions, get some attention from an agent, I'll be stuck listening to bratty kids play fucked up versions of Fur Elise for the rest of my life. He took a long swig of beer. And that's not good enough for me. I'm better than that. I want the chance to show audiences how good I can be. Happy honeymoon to me, I thought, rolling my eyes. But no, that wasn't fair.

You may kiss the bride. Just the other day I had stood in front of all our friends and family and bowed to support him in good times and bat, to love the self-absorbed, moody artist will, as well as the upbeat and fun will. Instead, I just distracted him by running my toe along this calf under the table and gave him that look, the one that he can't resist. And soon enough, he was smiling and let me lead him back to our room for the night. By the time we got to Guatemala, I was completely relaxed.

And Will had gotten to the point where he could go a whole whole. day without worrying out loud about the piano. As we left Guatemala City for a mysterious day trip in our rental car, I kept trying to get him to tell me something about where we were going. Is it some ruins? Nope, ice cold. Another church? Central America was full of them. Still cold.

Something nature-related? Getting warmer. Mountains. some water. Red hot. We're going to Lake Atitlin, but not just to the lake. You'll see. I settled back into the musty rental car seat and let my mind wonder, watching the countryside go by.

Will consulted some scribbled notes he'd brought to help with directions, I supposed. And we eventually turned down a dusty street and stopped in front of what back home would be called a convenience store. He kissed me quickly, looking excited, and ran into the store. He came out with a paper bag full of purchases, and then spoke with the locals sitting out front. They pointed him toward the left, and he jumped back in the car, taking us in that direction. He counted the shafts as we passed each one and stopped in front of a small one with an open door. Smoke was curling out. Uh, should we call the fire department?

No, it's probably from incense or something inside. Come on, baby, we're here. I had no idea what was going on, but followed Will to the front door and peeked inside. And what I saw, well, it took a while for my brain to catch up with my eyes and make some sense of it. The one-room shack had no furniture other than a kind of throne. and sitting on that throne was something I can only describe

as a life-sized mannequin dressed in a ratty black suit. I squinted through the smoke coming from the incense and candles around it and made out, on top of its body, a mannequin head. It was less realistic

than that of a real mannequin, made of some kind of shiny plastic and more like a Halloween mask. It was pale white and almost feminine in its delicacy of features, but its expression was blank. The paleness of its face was emphasized by the black oiliness of its mustache angling down alongside its mouth, and the tattered black fedora it wore. The mouth was open, literally open, and was a black hole cut out and ringed by lips that were too red and too large.

It made me uncomfortable to see how the three locals in the room were kneeling in front of it. What are they doing? Worshiping it? What the hell is that thing? Shh. He's Maximon. Kind of a local god. The result of a mix between Christianity and indigenous gods.

People around here take turns hosting him in their houses. And if you get to, it's an honor. People from all over come to him. and give him offerings, things he's supposed to like, and then make wishes he supposedly grants. He looked at my face, not pleased with what he saw. What's wrong? I thought it would be fun, something different to do. He stepped across a threshold and pulled my hand to bring me into the room with him, but I resisted. No, it's okay. I'll stay out here.

He waggled the brown paper bag in his other hand. No, come on. It'll be fun. There's no point in just looking at him after driving all this way. Baby, please. I followed him inside, but stayed close to the door. Will approached one young guy whom I hadn't noticed before, sitting cross-legged in the corner on the dusty floor, bare-chested, wearing shorts.

They settled something. And then the bare-chested guy asked the other locals to leave. The three of us were in the room alone with that freaky thing. This is Juan. We nodded at each other. He was much older than I'd originally thought. Not a boy at all, as his limber body implied. But old's with a weathered, wrinkled face.

I shivered despite the warmth in the room. What do we have to do? Juan's going to help us do a kind of ritual. We'll make an offering to Maximon and get to make a wish. He began taking objects out of the paperback and lighting them up on the ground in front of the throne. Now, I'm not a religious person, and neither is will. And while I'll admit to throwing the odd penny into a fountain and crossing my fingers when I hope for something good to happen, my love of science makes me pretty wary when it comes to superstitions.

and asking a freaky man-sized puppet for a wish after giving it gifts was crossing the line. You go ahead. I'll just watch. Will turned to me, looking crushed. I thought it would be fun. A memory we can tell our kids about someday? The last thing I wanted was for Will to fall back into the artistic moodiness of previous days.

So I decided to humor him. After all, this was no worse than sitting on Santa's lap and asking for a new bike for Christmas. Right? No big deal. Okay, fine. You'll take me out for bottomless margaritas afterwards? You're on. Juan closed the door and the smokiness increased. But a small cut-out window allowed enough light to illuminate the pale face of maximum amidst all the blackness surrounding it.

Juan brought out four shop glasses full of brown liquid and gestured to us to drink two of them. I looked at Will, who shrugged and smiled. I sniffed at my glass. Some kind of strong alcohol. It needed to get through this, I thought, and shot mine back after watching the men drink theirs. It burned going down.

And before I stopped coughing, my glass had been refilled. No thanks. I gestured to Juan, but he insisted, and I had one more. It actually wasn't too bad. Kind of spicy and warm. Juan began a tuneless chant that filled the room. And through the haze of smoke, I watched as Will stood to portals.

the fourth class of liquor directly into the hole of Maximum's mouth. The liquid disappeared somewhere inside. Its red lips shined wetly with drops that hadn't made it through the hole. I looked down, and I realized I'd finished my third shot of alcohol. Thoughts slashed confusedly in my head. I was dizzy and as drunk as I maybe had ever been. I lay down in the fetal position on the ground, cushioning my head on my back, and watched Will put a small wad of Guatemalan Kitsale's carefully in Maximum's lap. Finally, he luted a cigar, took a few puffs,

and blew the smoke into the mouth of the thing. Will turned to me, the whites of his eyes red from all the smoke. Make a wish, baby. I did. I whispered a wish as I laid there on the ground. All I wanted to do after making my wish was close my eyes and sleep it off. And I guess I did, because I had the strangest dream. I dreamed I was stripped naked, the peeling off of my sundress, and the hard, cool earth against my bare back, felt almost real. I dreamed of being jostled, carried off the floor by more than one set of hands.

And I dreamed of being set on the lap of that thing. I could almost feel the scratch of its dirty, rough pants on the backs of my thighs, of the cool slickness of the plastic face against my cheek. I could almost feel the pressure as it turned its head toward me, pressing its red lips to mine. And the breathlessness from the way that stinking gaping hole of a mouth began sucking something from inside me. I screamed and sat upright.

I was in my bed at our hotel. Still dressed in the sundress I had worn to the hut, now damp with sweat. I was dying of thirst. He ran into the bedroom, a smirk on his face. You okay? Water, please. What happened?

He brought me a bottle of water, and I drank the whole thing in one go. You, my lightweight wife, had too much to drink. I remembered having a few shots and getting tired and lying down. Did I have my clothes off at some point? Did I sit on the lap of that thing of Maximon? What? No, Juan and I carried you to the car and I drove us back here. You've been out for a few hours.

Felt filthy and nauseated and couldn't wait to shower. In the bathroom, as I am dressed, I noticed something wrong. My underwear was on inside out. Before I could process what that might mean about my soul, called dream. A flash of white outside the bathroom window caught my eye. Someone was in the courtyard outside her cabin and had been peeking in the window.

I wrapped myself in a towel and looked out. A man darted behind a tree about ten feet from the window. The tree wasn't thick enough to hide him. I could make out dark clothing as he moved in strange, jerky movements to settle himself behind it. He bent his body slowly to the side. And as his face came into view, I went cold.

Immediately I recognized a shiny pale plastic mask under a shabby pedora. Maximum. Impossibly standing outside, he screamed and ran into the bedroom. We'll listen patiently to my ranting. and looked outside the bathroom window. Nobody.

Nothing was there. I swear, I saw that thing, that monster outside, looking in at me. You hear what you just said? Did you get a hold of some more of that corn liquor or something? I sighed. Scared I suddenly couldn't trust my own senses. I slept fitfully that night. My body aching.

and restless, especially my right hand. I asked Will whether I had injured it during my time passed out in Maximum's hut, but he said he hadn't noticed anything, that he and Juan had put me as gently as possible into the passenger seat of our rental car. The days between then and our flight home pass slowly for me, as I suffered from a feeling of unease and an inability to fully relax. with Will, who seemed to have finally let go of his worries about not having a chance to practice piano. I was ready to get back to my scheduled surgeries and hospital life, our friends and normal routine.

I planned to get a fellow resident to take a look at my hand, which was still aching and sometimes numb or tingly. I hope that going home would stop the unsettled feeling. burning away inside me. I couldn't stop wondering what had really happened when I was passed out in the hut, or whether Will was hiding something for me. It wasn't like me to let my imagination get carried away, or even entertain the idea that strange things I encountered might have an otherworldly origin. On the flight home, I finally brought up the topic I had been avoiding.

So, how did you even find out about that thing in the hut? I couldn't bring myself to say its name because it brought to mind those empty eyes, those shiny, wet lips, a face peeking in a bathroom window. Will shrugged. Maximon? When I was in Mexico, I met some tourists who had visited him. It looked like something fun to do with you. I'm sorry you didn't like it. So, after you gave those offerings, what did you wish for anyway?

He smiled. If I tell you, it won't come true. You know how it works. Why? You want to tell me your wish? I turned away as I shipped my head no, strangely hurt by his unwillingness to share. We weren't supposed to have secrets.

Not yet, anyway. We hadn't even been married a month. I had a late shift at the hospital just a few hours after we arrived home from the airport, but that was fine with me. The busyness of the ER would take my mind off the unsettling parts of our trip. As I gathered up my keys and phone to leave our apartment, I heard Will playing the piano in the other room.

He'd been warming up for the past half hour or so, but now let loose with a complex classical piece. I smiled at hearing how ten days away from the piano hadn't hurt. If anything, his music had a lightness I attributed to a break from constant worry. It was an uneventful night in the ER. The usual stitches, emergency appendectomies, and a gunshot repair job or two. I asked a friend to look at my hand, since I was disturbed by the way it cramped up when I was suturing or holding a scalpel. He snuck me into X-ray, and together we had a look at my films.

no fractures anywhere. What worried me was that in the bright lights of the exam room. The reddish patches on my hand were darkening to something closer to brown. It felt different than a normal bruise when I pressed it. That wasn't good. But I turned off my doctor mind toward it in order to concentrate on my work for the rest of the night. Before I knew it, it was time to head home.

home. I was looking forward to a small glass of wine and bed and took a shortcut behind the hospital through the parking lot to my subway stop. It was deserted at 4 a.m. I was, as always, vigilant when walking alone through this parking lot at night and jumped when another set of footsteps joined mine on the other side of the line of parallel parked cars. The steps had an odd cadence. as if the person were injured. They had no steady rhythm, and instead went from quick to slow to dead stop, and back again.

Almost like a dancer, but there was no joy in this dance. I sensed a kind of malicious play behind its rhythm. I couldn't see the owner of the footsteps. The lights were too bright on my side of the row. but I walked faster. My keys clutched in my throbbing and sore right hand. I turned to locate the person through an empty parking space.

Adrenaline rushed through my body as I recognized a monstrous pale face. Parking lot lights reflecting off its shiny red lips. Maximum. Here. The threadbare suit flapped on its skin. he wouldn't frame as it walked toward me on stick-thin legs. I dove down to hide behind a car, debating whether I should run to the subway or back to the hospital, crouching behind a tire. I bent forward so I could watch for its feet from under the car.

It jangled and danced along like a marionette, controlled by invisible strings, shuffling and jerking. Suddenly it stopped. Directly across for me on the other side of the car. I watched, but prepared myself to run. The second I saw that face drop to the ground across from me, it's gaping mouth hungering for something it wanted for me. It's blank eyes full of lies. I watched myself from the ground and hauled ass to the subway.

I pressed my back against the side of the almost empty subway car, my breath heaving in my chest, and got home as fast as I could. I didn't sleep well. What with my fears of losing my mind, hallucinating impossible monsters stalking me in parking lots, my aching hand and Will's piano playing. I asked him to stop so I could sleep,

but he requested I'd just put in earplugs since he had an audition later that day and wanted to be at his best I did and managed to get an hour or two of sleep I worked the afternoon at the hospital and before heading out cried in the shower as I tried to loosen up my hand

which was now in a claw-like position I couldn't break without a great deal of pain Will was already at his audition when I left for work earlier than I needed to, planning to have my hand looked at by another colleague. He was puzzled and frowned at the now dark purple-colored skin creeping down my fingers and approaching my wrist. I gasped as he flexed my hand, examining it. I have no idea what's wrong with it. Never seen anything like it. Well, except no, no, but it couldn't be. What?

Well, the closest thing I've seen to what you've got is frostbite. That was impossible, of course. Although he was right to say my symptoms were similar. I knew it as well as he did. But I hadn't been anywhere cold since last winter. Theories filled my head as I started my shift. I did my best to yank my mind back from probing the possibilities of what had happened during the lost hours in a dust.

hut in central Guatemala and whether the source of my injury could be found there. I tried to concentrate on my work, but I was horrified to find my right hand just wouldn't follow my brain's instructions as I attempted to remove a young girl's left tonsil. A hand cramped and throbbed. I took a break and dropped the scalpel I was trying to use, rubbing my hand. A nurse walked over to me. What's wrong, doctor? Let me see.

I held my hand out to her. She tore off my glove and sucked in a breath with shock as she saw how bad it was. You should get that looked at right away. I told my supervisor I was sick and went home early after letting Will know I was on the way. This time I took the long way to the subway with more people around. It was crowded with rush hour commuters, and I hung onto a pole, wondering what would happen to my hand. Then I saw it at the other end of the car. That white face staring at me from a gap in the crowd.

Maximum! Did nobody else see it standing there? I looked around at the other passengers, but everyone was bent forward, consumed by a device. Too busy to notice a monster among us. I had only glanced away for a moment. But when I looked back, it had reached closer to me. How could a mask with no expression give off such evil? I pushed my way to the door.

And as soon as it opened, ran out, even though it was one stop too early. I burst in the apartment door, no longer able to keep from crying, frustrated tears. Will's joyful expression turned to one of concern when he saw me. What happened, baby? I saw it on the subway just now. And yesterday, in the parking lot, Maximon, how is this happening? Why is it following me? I held my hand up to his face.

And my hand won't work. I can't operate. What did you do to me in there? In that hut? Will was petulant rather than some. supported. Nothing. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not sure why you're mad at me. I was hoping to take you out tonight to celebrate the fact that I kicked ass at the audition, landed an agent who thinks he can line up some performances for me this fall.

I stared at him. This stranger who wouldn't calm my fears about what I thought I saw, or help me take practical steps to fix my hand. Where was the man I had married? He handed me a glass of wine to match the one he had started on. Here, this will help. I took it in my right hand without thinking, and my all but useless fingers cramped so badly. I couldn't hang on to the glass. It tumbled from my weak grip, smashing into shards onto the table between us and splashing wine everywhere. I cradled my hand and rocked back and forth. Let me see. I held out my hand. I held out my hand, shaking. It was now almost black from the tips of my fingers to my wrist, as if it had been dipped in

that paint, black matte paint like I'd seen in a pair of shark-like eyes, burning from a white face. Baby, that looks terrible. I think it's frostbite or can cream, but that makes no sense. I couldn't even feel as touch. as he stroked my hand gently. As a doctor, I knew that deaden nerves were a very bad sign. This hand was all but dead,

and it would kill the rest of me unless I had the necrotic parts removed. But what was a surgeon with only one hand? Will must have read my mind. Don't worry. If worst-case scenario, your hand isn't okay, there are plenty of other fields you can get into as a physician, psychiatry, research, pathology. The way he rattled off that seemingly already thought-out list shocked me.

He knew how much surgery meant to me. I looked down at his hand touching mine. The extreme health of his hand in contrast to my dying one brought to mind a spectrum of terrible and, until recently, unbelievable explanations of how this might have come to be. He must have seen the realization in my eyes. Come on, baby. Let me take you to the hospital.

They can do whatever needs to be done to help you. I stood there, staring at him. I wasn't giving up my hand that easily. What did you wish for back in Guatemala? Will wouldn't meet my eyes. That doesn't matter now. Everything is going to be fine. I'll take care of you.

We need to get you to the ER now so they can save your life. I know you love your work, but it's not worth risking your life for it. His hand's not going to get better, and you need to accept that. I glanced at the wine he had bought to celebrate his recent success and wondered at the price he had paid for that success, the price I had paid. Tell me what you wished for. He reached out his hand for mine without answering. I gave it to him.

But hidden in it was a shard of glass from the wine glass I had just broken. I used the last of the strength in my fingers and muscle memory to cut him across his palm, making sure to sever the medium nerve of his right hand with the same precision I'd use in the operating room. He screamed as I sliced. And I was filled with relief. As I realized, the more he screamed, the more functional my hand felt, Not perfect, but better. I had been chased by what I thought was a monster,

when the real one was here with me all along. My hand is fully recovered now. It was amazing to see the darkness and numbness or seed hour by hour over the following days. I can't say the same for wills, though. A severed median nerve will never be fully restored. Not enough for its owner to be. a successful concert pianist anyway. Will and I are through, of course. I sold our place.

And next week, I'm moving back to my hometown, to work as a surgeon in the hospital down the street from the house I grew up in. It's funny. When I was in Guatemala, lying on the ground in that dusty hut, that's exactly what I wished for. To someday move back to my hometown and practice medicine there. Something I thought would never happen, since there's no way Will could leave the city and still have a career as a concert pianist. Well, I guess wishes really can come true. We've run out of tape. It's time to press eject and end the show. We thank you for letting us perform for you. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit

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