The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E23

Episode Date: November 4, 2018

It's episode 23 of Season 11. On this week's show we have five tales about distracted drivers, horrendous habits, and stemming Summer. "Little Lost Amy"† written by Dan Fields and performed by Corinne Sanders & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts around 00:04:00) "Velvet"¤ written by Sierra Cvach and performed by Kyle Akers & Jesse Cornett & Nikolle Doolin & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 00:22:00) "I Should Never Have Started Smoking"† written by S.S.Livia and performed by Addison Peacock & Kyle Akers & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 00:48:50) "After the Lifeboat"† written by Jazzmin Forrestall and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Mary Murphy. (Story starts around 01:08:00) "The Summer Solstice"‡ written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Jeff Clement & Nichole Goodnight & David Ault & Erin Lillis & Nikolle Doolin & Armen Taylor & Kyle Akers & Dan Zappulla & Atticus Jackson & Addison Peacock & Mary Murphy & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 01:34:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast Illustrated trading card sets   Click here to learn more about Dan Fields   Click here to learn more about Jazzmin Forrestall   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Velvet" illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham Audio program ©2018 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This audio program presents horror, which is frightening and disturbing. You left us into your mind at your own risk. The sunlight fades to darkness. The frightful tales creep into your mind. It's time to give 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 distracted drivers, horrendous habits, and stemming summer. The last couple of weeks of October were a very busy and successful time here at the No Sleep podcast. A huge amount of thanks go out to the No Sleep team for collaborating on two amazing Halloween episodes, totaling five hours of audio horror content, not to mention the two live shows we did in Toronto. Thanks for your tireless efforts, team. And to you, our great listeners, we're grateful for the many, many people who took advantage of our flash sales

and purchased season passes and bundles. We hope you enjoy all the extra content therein. And the Call of Cthulhu Contest has been our biggest contest to date with more entries than ever before. Truly, Halloween stirs great passion for horror, and we're so glad to be able to share it with you. And speaking of sharing passion projects with you, I want to make sure everyone is aware of a great new project being headed up by one of our great illustrators, Charlie Cody. Over the past four years, the No Sleep podcast has featured nearly 200 individual original episode illustrations,

crafted by a small group of very dedicated, incredibly talented people from all around the world. Now, for the first time ever, 17 of those contributing artists have joined four. and come together to bring the haunting visuals of the No Sleep podcast out of your screens and into your hands. The No Sleep Podcast illustrated trading card sets. Featuring many terrifying illustrations from the No Sleep podcast, this premiere series of 120 premium trading cards also features brand new designs and artwork created by some of the podcast's most talented contributing artists. Whether you're a long time, fan of the No Sleep podcast already familiar with its impressive body of original horror illustrations,

or whether you're feasting your eyes on these nightmarish visions for the first time, there are lots of new things to be seen by everyone. Check the show notes for a link to the Kickstarter for this exciting project. These trading cards are going to be a highly sought-after collection of cards, so don't miss out. Make sure you get a chance to own your very own No Sleep podcast illustration. traded trading card sets. And so, even though Halloween is over, the horror never ends here.

Because, as always, the tape is in the machine. The stories are ready. So let's press play. In our first tale, we meet two sisters who find themselves driving past a rather bad car accident. As we learn from author Dan Fields, the older sister appears to be in the appears to be insensitive to the crash and has to explain there's a good reason why she didn't stop to help, especially when she saw the young girl at the side of the road. Performing this tale are Corinne Sanders and Alexis Briscoe. So if you want to help, just make sure you're not stopping

for Little Lost Amy. I saw her a few years ago, if she exists. It was raining and I was riding in a car with my cousin Rhonda, but I got a good look. If I ever see her again, I'll know. Mom was sick in the hospital back then. For several days, we'd sat with her as often as we could. Rhonda offered to take me out for a few hours, to see a movie and get a burger at the mall, so Mom and her sister and dad could have some time. Mom and Aunt Judy said we were all so stir-crazy it was a good idea. I wasn't sure about leaving Dad. He looked at looked like he might want to come with us, but he kissed the top of my head and smiled and told us to get lost for a while. Rhonda was 17, so she treated me. The movie was all full of crazy

sex for the first half, and then the husband and wife and girlfriend spent the second hour plotting to stab each other. I won't spoil who died and who went to jail, but neither of us enjoyed it as much as we thought we would. We didn't talk about it during lunch. We talked about our family and I realized Rhonda felt a lot closer to my mom than I'd known. I was glad she had invited me along instead of bugging out on her own. By the time we headed back to the hospital, it was raining pretty hard. Mom and dad would have told us to stay put until it let up, but the change of scenery had worn off. Both of us were anxious. We had no idea what was going to happen to My mom.

We passed a bad wreck. A pickup truck had gone up the sidewalk into the front of an office building. A taxi sat in the right lane with the back corner toward the curbs wiped off. Paramedics and cops were running around in the rain, trying to take care of things before they got soaked. Rhonda was in the far lane, so we cruised past without having to stop. She barely even slowed down. Just before we got back into normal traffic, I spotted the little girl. at the bus stop. It wasn't a shelter with plastic walls and a roof like they have in cities where

it snows. This was a plain bench next to the bus route sign. I also saw that sign had been knocked away or just rusted off the pole. For all I knew, the route had no buses running on it anymore. The girl looked close to my age, maybe a little younger, between eight and 11 years old, wearing a nice dress, tights, and shoes. She looked ready for an old-fashioned slumber party, complete with the straps of a small pink backpack over her shoulders. Instead of waiting somewhere out of the rain, she just sat and sat there getting drenched. I couldn't see her face, which was pointed down toward her lap, covered by wet hair. She was blonde, I think, although the water darkened her locks and made it difficult to be sure.

Rhonda was signaling to get in the curb lane, so we would have passed right by her, except at the final second she changed her mind and stayed in the center lane. She hit the gas to beat a yellow stoplight. Downtown traffic is no picnic, even when it's dry, but even so. Rhonda, do you think we should have stopped for that girl? What girl? Rhonda was lighting a cigarette, the first I had ever seen her smoke. She kept her eyes on the road not looking.

at me. I was a little shocked by her expert handling of the cigarette, but more by how she'd obviously sped past the stranded girl on purpose. I know you saw her. I saw you look at her and hit the gas. I think she was in that wreck, and

someone should help her. Rhonda huffed out smoke through her nose. Fine. I saw her, and excuse the hell out of me if I'd rather not get involved. She wasn't in any car wreck, for starters. She was 50 feet away.

Was not? And why would she be all by herself, waiting for the bus in a storm? Rhonda shot me a glance, finally. Kiddo, before long, you're going to start noticing a lot of kids don't have it as good as we do, growing up with your mom and dad and my mom always around for us. I didn't answer right away. I hoped things were not about to change anytime soon, especially not with me and my mom. I didn't like the smell of Rhonda's cigarette, but just...

She couldn't roll the window down with it being so wet. She must have felt me looking at her because she got pissy with me out of nowhere. Look, if you're planning to hassle me about it, you can just drop it now, because I'm not in the mood. We've got too much going on without having to worry about some little girl needing a ride. Anyway, there's cops all over there if she needs help. Yeah, 50 feet away. You're too young to understand this, but you don't pick strange people up in your car. Even kids?

Are you listening or what, stupid? I just said no strange people. Bitch. The way she looked at me then, I thought she would flick her cigarette at me. Instead, we drove on to the hospital in silence. Mom was asleep in her room, so there was not much reason to stay. I held her hand for a few minutes while plans were made. Rhonda and I had school the next day, and Dad wanted to stay a couple more hours and talk to the doctor about some test results. I drove to Rhonda and Aunt Judy's to stay the night.

I was doing that about every other weekend, so I had clothes and everything over there already. I knew Aunt Judy could smell smoke in the car, but she didn't bring it up as I expected her to. Instead, she talked about things the nurses had told her. Nothing either hopeful or worrying, just useless things nurses tell family members to tide them over and keep them calm.

Aunt Judy had a big frozen lasagna in a little bit of, roll of cookie dough. Plus, there was a funny movie with Goldie Hawn on TV, so we got our minds off the day better than Rhonda and I had managed earlier. We were settled into a routine of comfort and distraction that year. Sometimes Dad would join the three of us for a board game or something, but it was usual for either him or Aunt Judy to stay with Mom at night. I had just gotten into bed with my headphones, trying not to hear all the hospital sounds in the quiet creaking of Aunt Judy's little house when Rhonda poked her head in the door. She didn't ask to come in and I didn't invite her. That's not how things worked between us. After staring in at me for a minute, she walked in and

sat on the edge of my bed. She wore a faded pink Floyd t-shirt for a nightgown. I'm pretty sure it had been her dad's, but I never asked. You'll probably get all smart ass when I tell you, but listen, there's a girl in my class named Greta. She started in the middle of the year, so she started in the middle of the year, so our teachers broke us into study groups for a week or two to help her catch up on the work. She's trying to get a softball scholarship, and she had to transfer in because the program at her school was canceled. Once, when the other girls in our group were absent, I asked her more about it. I guess we're sort of friends now. I don't know. She's, she's all right. Anyway, Greta used to go to another high school across town. I don't know anyone else who goes there,

but sometime over the holidays, their softball coach was out driving. in the west suburbs or whatever, to pick up uniforms and equipment for the new season. He drove into a telephone pole on the side of the road, somewhere around Villa Park or Elmhurst. I'm pretty sure he ended up at the DuPage Hospital. When the ambulance got to him, the damage to the car didn't look serious. Then they looked inside. Up to then, I thought Rhonda was putting me on, trying to laugh off the weirdness of the day, telling me a bedtime story to mess with my dreams.

The way she stopped and got herself together, though, I began to think she was telling the truth. At least she believed it was true, even when the story got harder to swallow. I'd seen her in school plays, and she wasn't much of an actress. Inside the car was dark, almost black with blood. Greta's coach was behind the wheel, pale and shaking, like he'd been cut open to drain. Even if he'd hit the steering wheel with his head, it wouldn't have explained the wrong. raw skin torn away from his cheek and neck. He looked like a dog had attacked him.

When the medics took him out and stuck him in the ambulance, he said things that make no sense. Did you see her? He whispered to one of them. With his neck all ripped up, he could barely talk. She says her name is Amy. The medics tried to keep him relaxed and quiet, but one of the police came over to ask if he'd been driving with a passenger. She was just there in the street, he said. I didn't know.

I didn't know. Oh, Jesus, did I kill her? That was when they tried to get a statement from him, because it sounded like he was worried about killing this Amy person. It was more like he had meant to kill her. He was in bad shape and needed, like, transfusions and skin grafts to put his throat back together. All the while, he kept babbling to his doctors and nurses between presuppers. He had been driving in the city, cutting through a neighborhood street when he passed a corner with an abandoned lot. It looked like a house had burned down there a long time ago.

Standing right in the corner was a little girl all by herself. She had long pigtails and a blue party dress. The guy repeated those details a couple times, like it was the main thing he remembered. The girl didn't look happy, like someone going to a party. She stared up at the street with the corners of her mouth turned down and didn't seem to see the man in the car until he pulled up alongside and asked if everything was okay. Not really, said the girl.

I'm lost. My auntie used to live here, but the house is gone. He must have been weirded out by that. Who wouldn't be? But he offered to give her a ride and help figure out where she was supposed to be. She climbed into the passenger's seat without thinking twice. The coach told the doctor he'd worried about that, the way she went in a stranger's car without argument, but teaching her street smarts wasn't really up to him. He drove slowly, looking for a police station, tried asking her a bunch of questions about where she came from, but the only two things she told him were,

I'm Amy, and I'm lost. Everything else he tried to ask, she just stared at him with that weird little frown. Right away, he'd seen something was off about her face, like the mouth was too wide or the eyes too small. She was at a cute age, seven or eight years old, but just missed being cute herself. She had the kind of features you grow into, and even then they might not turn out so great. Finally, he told her something like, look, Amy, I'm sure you're scared, but I don't want you to worry. I'm going to make sure you get someplace where you're okay.

That was what finally made Amy smile, except she didn't have a pretty, preschool picture smile. Her lips drew back farther than they should have. He saw the cheekbones roll under her skin, like hinges on a gate. He said the grin could cut clear across her face from pigtail to pigtail, as if someone replaced the bottom half of her head with something else's jaw. The teeth were thin and jagged. He swore she had a second row of them too, like a shark has. The girl came at him with her arms like a wide hug, jaws clamping onto his neck. He didn't remember anything after that, the ripping meter swerving into the pole. All he remembered was the smile on little lost Amy.

The cops never found a trace of her at the scene. Nobody in the neighborhood near the crash site recalled a girl in a blue party dress. All the blood in the car seemed to belong to the coach. Later, a medic found a piece of yellow hair ribbon in the back of the ambulance. He thought it might have dropped from the coach's hand. That brought lots more questions. The cops didn't believe the monster story, but they started to believe a young girl might have been involved some way.

Whatever they found would be bad for the coach. They went through a ton of missing child reports, but there were no strong matches to follow up. The guy survived, but he didn't show up at school again. I don't know if they planned to press charges against him or not, but a day or two later, he was gone without a tree. race. Lots of kids said he killed himself. Greta thinks he just got the hell out of town. I know they say never pick up hitchhikers, but I guess they usually mean guys with cardboard signs

and hooks for hands, people who just got out of prison or whatever. You never hear anything like that about lost children. It was clear to me that Rhonda had bought what this Greta person told her about Amy, and whoever had told Greta I never found out. Still, it was crazy. A scaredy-cat yarn to tell on campouts like Buckknife Johnny or the baby on the meat hook. But Ronda seemed so sure, so convinced that it worried me. I tried to look up about the accident on the computer, but there'd barely been any reports about it. I found one suspicious car crash in the suburbs with a former high school sports coach, whereabouts unknown. I stayed up late every night for a week, looking for something else to prove what Ronda had told me. The only story that came

close was about an older lady they found murdered at a highway rest area. It happened three years before Rhonda told me her story, just before Thanksgiving. This old lady Ethel was driving from Elgin to visit her sister in Rockford. A snowstorm in the morning had made her late leaving home. Since she was running behind, she pulled into the rest area to take a pee break and call her sister on the pay phone. She mentioned what time she planned to arrive and also made some comment about a child standing around unsupervised without a proper winter coat or anything. The last thing Ethel's sister remembered her saying was that she was going to find that poor little girl's parents and give them a peace of her mind.

About six hours later, the sister got worried that Ethel hadn't shown up, and she called the highway patrol. They figured out pretty quick which rest stop she'd called from, and sure enough, her car was still parked there. Ethel's body sprawled across the front seat, was covered in slashes and cuts. Her clothes were shredded. Big chunks of skin were missing from her face, neck, and shoulders. It made a good-sized headline, especially in the Rockford paper,

and for a year the troopers were on the lookout for the rest-stop-ripper. Some drifter they dreamed up with a charming smile and a carpet knife, probably asking travelers for help with a flat tire or a dead battery. People drove straight through Elgin and Morango and Dundee, peeing in coffee cups and pot bottles when they had to, but never stopping anywhere near the place Ethel had been killed. The lack of witnesses to the murder made people's imaginations run even wilder. There had been no signs of other drivers stopping there that day.

Ethel's comment on the phone had been the only mention of a little girl with no coat, something that should have attracted attention at the time of year. By the time Rhonda went off to college, the story had shifted to the back of my brain. It settled in the place where scary movies and random morbid. thoughts go. Now Rhonda's married and lives in Kansas City. I don't think we talked about that night again, even once. I can't say I ever believed the story 100%, but it got hold of me for a while. I have new small cousins now, and I've done a lot of babysitting. I like kids, mostly. But from the day I got my driver's license, I feel a special kind of nasty shiver when I drive close by a

stranger. I pray that I won't cross paths with anyone who really, really needs my help, because I'm pretty sure I'll keep on driving no matter what. That goes for every shape and size of person. I remember how Rhonda left that little girl sitting in the rain, and the older I get, the more sense it makes. Driving down any street in the world, it's amazing how many strange people you see, just standing by themselves. When driving through the more rural parts of the country, it can be a treat to see some of the wildlife blending in along the highways. But in this tale from author Sierra Savak, we meet a man who has an odd encounter with a deer, or should I say, encounters. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Jesse Cornett, Nicole Doolan,

and Peter Lewis. So try to enjoy the deer from a distance, don't get close enough to see, They're velvet. I've been driving for hours now. It's late and I'm far from anywhere I've ever been before. Somewhere in Idaho, I think. Somewhere in the dark. There's only the road and the darkness and the growl of my car's engine. The radio stopped picking up anything worth listening to a while ago.

When I turn it on, it's only static. Static and a lone minister on the AM band, preaching to the silence of the night. I've never been to Idaho. I don't want to be in Idaho either. I was supposed to stop at Salt Lake City for the night, and I didn't. I visited, I pulled up to the parking lot of the shitty motel I'd made a reservation at,

and I sat with my engine rumbling, staring at the light spilling out from the lobby. I couldn't see anyone at the front desk. Maybe if I had, I would have gone inside. If there had been somebody, another human, someone to talk to someone to see it like I saw it

but nobody was there so I sat and I waited hoping maybe they'd come out from the back no luck not after half an hour so I got back on the road and kept driving

I keep thinking about stopping my eyes feel raw sandy I'm so tired I want to sleep but I don't want to take the risk I can't stop I haven't stopped

since I got gas in some podunk little town in the middle of Utah It had been daylight then And that thing was still there anyways Standing behind the gas station Its head poking out from around the corner Staring at me It just kept staring

The woman at the other gas pump looked at it Her hand on the nozzle as she filled up her Jeep Then she turned to me and remarked that she hadn't seen One of them cuties in the town for some time. The fact that she saw it should have been a comfort, but it wasn't. I just kept my eyes on it. I didn't want to look away. I didn't want to blink. I just waited for my car to fill up, and then I got in, and I drove. It's a deer. Maybe I shouldn't be afraid of a deer. They're picturesque, aren't they? People love them, the quintessential, beautiful, wild creature.

How many Christmas cards have deer on them in some snowy landscape? How many quaint paintings lived in retirement homes and remote hotels with deer standing in the fog. There was always some serene bullshit, some dark woods and a doe and two fonds by a river. No one thinks of a deer as threatening. No one apparently but me. I'd been on a road trip. It's all I wanted to do for ages. I grew up in a rural town out in Minnesota and I never really left it. It had been my dream to visit some national parks, see the country I'd lived in, but never explored. I'd scrimped and saved, got everything in order, took two weeks off from work and packed my car. I was halfway through it now. I'd been

down in Arizona, seen the Grand Canyon from both the South Rim and the North Rim, and I'd meant to go to Bryce after staying the night at the Grand Canyon Lodge. Now that I think about it, maybe that was the first time I saw it. In the early morning dark when I'd been packing up my car, I'd been so eager to leave, to go to the next place that I barely noticed the world around me. Had it been there too, watching me from the trees? They were deer at the Grand Canyon Lodge. I'd seen a few of them grazing by the edge of the road when I'd driven in. Just mule deer.

Nothing special. Maybe that's when it started, but I didn't notice it, really notice it, until I hit the rest stop. I don't even remember where it was. somewhere along a stretch of Highway 89 in Utah. I pulled over because I had to piss, and I didn't pay much more attention as I jogged into the restrooms. Hell, I didn't even notice it until I made my way back to my car in the parking lot. It was only once I'd gotten inside and put my keys in the ignition that I noticed the deer.

It was still as stone, standing in the shade of a little patch of trees. A buck, antlers stretching high above its head. I'm not a hunter. Never had the guts for it, so I had no idea if the buck's rack was impressive or not. It seemed impressive to me at the time. It just stood there staring dead at me. And I stared back. Odd to see a deer and a rest stop, but not so odd that I couldn't shrug it off.

So I stared back for a minute, waiting to see if it would move, sniff the air, shuffle away, decided it had better, more deerish things to do. It didn't. Those eyes didn't blink And it didn't shift I wasn't even sure if I could see it breathe I gave up that first time That still motionlessness got to me

And I shook my head twisting the keys And the ignition I threw the car into reverse And I peeled out of that parking lot I wanted to see Bryce Canyon Take a few nice pictures And head to Salt Lake for the night I had an itinerary to keep two

And many miles to eat up before I could stop Something I didn't know before this road trip. Road sounds were soothing. The growl of the engines, the hiss of the wind, the different textures of pavement underneath my tires. Even when the radio stations dropped out in rural areas, I still had that music of the road. It kept me focused.

Reaching Bryce felt like it took no time at all. And that was the second time I saw it. I didn't see it at first. I parked first. Got out of the car and dragged my phone with me. intent on getting some selfies that I could post on Facebook so my parents would know I was still alive. There were other people there. It was near nine in the morning. And even if most of the tursts weren't up and wandering, a few early birds were meandering around. The air was fresh and a gentle breeze

brought the scent of pine to me. Even in Utah, there were pine trees. I didn't know why that had surprised me. I had grown up thinking of the southwest as all cow bones, cactuses, and tumbleweed. I guess that was part of why I wanted to take this road trip. I followed an old couple as they hiked down the wide red dirt trail, listening to the pleasantness of their conversation. A simple back and forth, reminiscing about some trip they'd taken a few years before. I guess the park hadn't changed that much in the intervening years.

I'll admit I kind of zoned out walking after them, absorbing the lonesome song of some desert bird. It was picturesque, gorgeous. the kind of place you could sit and lose yourself in for a long time. Oh, Gerald, do you see it? I looked without thinking, following her pointing arm to the deer standing out near the cliff's edge. It stood behind the trunks of two towering pine trees. The deer!

I see it, dear. Get a picture. That deer. It couldn't be the same one. That's what I thought at the time. I swore it couldn't be the same. but it stood the same as the buck I'd seen at the rest stop, stared the same. It didn't even move when the old woman lifted her phone and snapped a picture. The flash went off. It must have been on manual, even though it was sunny as hell.

The buck didn't even blink. Stupid, I thought at the time, to be unnerved by a deer. With hushed voices, the old couple wandered a bit further down the path. I stayed watching that deer, wondering where the rest of its herd was. I raised my phone and took the picture. The synthetic shutter snap felt like it echoed, and I caught the deer far away behind the trees. For a moment, that was soothing.

It appeared in the picture like any deer would. Of course it did. It was just a deer. What was I freaking out about? Only then I looked up, and the deer was closer. The same position it had been, but past the trees now, almost on the path. Suddenly my heartbeat was rushing in my ears.

I hadn't heard it move. I hadn't seen it move. If it had moved, I would have seen it on the viewfinder in my phone, wouldn't I? Those big, dark eyes stared at me. It was hard not to run back to my car. I managed to stay at a walk, glancing back over my shoulders. It didn't move after that. And when I got back to the parking lot, I'd lost sight of it.

It was only when I got back in my car that I tried to laugh it off. I tried to shake off that creeping feeling as it slithered down my spine, the way my skin pebbled with goosebumps in the desert heat. It was just a deer. I was just imagining things. I had to be. I was stupid to think it was anything else. So I drove to the next viewpoint.

I only got a handful of steps away from my car before I spotted it in the trees, that dark nose facing me, those deep eyes, the antlers that had awed me before. I took a picture then too, even though my head. hand shook. And it happened again. Of course it happened again. It slipped closer somehow, like it had warped past the obstacles in its path, like it had always been there, and I'd hallucinated it farther away. If it weren't for the pictures I had, the head peering from behind a tree trunk, I could have believed it had been there all along. After that, I just got in my car and drove. It's been getting stranger. I mentioned when I saw it at the gas station, didn't I? That woman had seen it

too. Sound pleased as punch. I guess she didn't look at it as long as I did, because as stared at me from behind the gas station, I noticed the change. It was taller, maybe, narrower, and its antlers were a little sharper. I wanted to take a picture then too, compare them, but I didn't want to see what would happen if I did. I didn't want to trigger the slip or warp or whatever it is. I didn't want that thing closer. It was at the hotel too, not quite in front of my car, off to the side, something I could have missed if I wasn't looking for it. It stood between cars in the parking lot on spindling legs, those dark eyes reflecting green in the light from the lobby. Its antlers forked from stretching into the sky. I didn't want to give it my full attention then.

I kept it in the corner of my eyes, praying that somebody would come to that bobby desk, praying that I could make a run for it. Obviously that didn't happen. If it did, I wouldn't be rushing through Idaho, trying that to nod off. I keep noticing shapes outside of my car from the corners of my eyes. Things in the shadows. It got worse when night fell. After the sun died the sky orange, then pink, then purple. Flickering movement in the corner of my eye, things that I don't want to acknowledge. But I keep imagining that it's a long-leg deer chasing after me. I keep thinking about the green glow of its eyes. What if it's worse now?

What if it's not a deer anymore? The sea of empty darkness on either side of the road isn't helping. Once in a while a car passes going the opposite direction, but as the night grows later, those blinding headlights come few and far between. The grittiness of my eyes is only getting worse, and I start to tear up when I think about stopping. I should have taken my chances in Salt Lake City. I should have run inside and hoped for the best.

My fingers fumble for window controls in the cold wind from outside buffets my face. It wakes me up a little bit, but not enough. I'm so tired. Every time I blink, it's harder and harder to open my eyes. I just want to sleep. I just want to wake up and have this be a nightmare. The car shutters and a roar comes from the outside. My eyes snap open and I almost scream, but there's not enough air in my lungs.

All that comes out is a panic squeak as I remember. rip the steering wheel around, pulling my car off of the rumble strip on the shoulder and back into the center of the lane. My chest is tight, and I can feel my heartbeat and my teeth. It's hard to pull in breath. I don't even know when I fell asleep. It could have been only for an instant. I could have died. What the hell am I supposed to do? I don't want to stop. I can't stop. That fucking deer will be there again watching me. What happens if I fall asleep? Where will it be when I wake up. But I can't keep driving either. If I do, I'm going to pass out again, and I'm going to crash. Shit, I almost crashed already. I almost lose it when I pass the sign.

Rest area. There's a rest area in a mile. Do you or not, I have to stop. My heart is still thundering with adrenaline when I veer off the road, taking the exit for the rest stop. The parking lot is barren when I pull in with a screech. No cars, no peace. No peace. people, not even a semi-truck. And I'd grown to expect at least one semi at every rest stop. The building isn't too far away, and it's enclosed too, a little visitor's area, like a lobby before the bathrooms. Glass doors, glass windows lit up like Christmas. I turn off my car. When the engine stops, it feels like my heart does too. There's nothing, no sound aside from my breath. I could sleep in the car.

Did I want to sleep in the car? The deer hadn't bothered me when I'd sat out front of the hotel. Maybe it would leave me alone. I glance up just for a moment and I freeze in my seat. I can see it in the rearview mirror. It's behind me, the deer, barely more than a shadow. It stood in that same damn position, still as stone. Its eyes are fluorescent green, not just.

reflecting the light from the lobby now. No, they're glowing all on their own. The antlers. There's something wrong with its antlers. It's too dark to see properly, but it doesn't matter. I can still tell the shape is wrong. I can't blink. My heart is beating so loud it might as well be doing a fucking tap dance. And then, for the first time it moves. Unsteadily. Jerky like it's remembering how limbs worked. steps forwards. Closer. Closer. One pointed foot after another. It tilts its head back and I think I scream too, but I don't know. I kicked my door open and I run. I run for the light. I run for the restrooms. My shoes slapping on the pavement. Every step I assume I'm going to feel hooves

coming down on me, but I'm going to get bitten or something. Stomp to death, I don't know. I tumble through the glass doors and into the lobby. My shoes squealing on the tile as I slide back towards the vending machines. The glass doors behind me thumb shut and I make the mistake of turning. Why I fucking turn, I just do. It's there.

Cressed right up against the glass, those wide eyes still yellow, green and hair and it's drooling. Long ropes of thick saliva hanging from its mouth. It's got skin on its antler skin. sheets of it, bloody and raw dangling between the prongs. That blood cascades down its head, matting its fur in dark patches. Again, it moves, that wiggly, awful jerking even worse than the

light. Its legs are longer, narrower, bending with its weight when it walks back and forth on the other side of the glass. Its muzzle drags across the glass, leaving a long smear of Viscous spit blood. I'm sobbing. I can't help it. I can't fucking help it. I don't know what's going on. I don't know how it can exist.

It's just a deer. It's not a deer. I don't know if it's ever been a deer, or if I just wanted to see it as something normal. Something I could shake off. It steps back, retreating into the shadows. But I can see its glowing eyes.

Two orbs in the darkness watching me. It doesn't blink. It's never blinked. I realize what it's doing a moment before it does it, and I sprint towards the men's room. I shove open the door and squeeze inside, pulling it shut after me. The door has a lock.

Thank God. Think whatever the fuck is listening, because the door is thick and metal, and it has a deadbolt. I turn it and press myself against the door as the deer crashes through the glass outside. The tears won't stop coming. I think I'm hyperventilating

because I genuinely can't breathe. I push my back against the door as my knees give out, and suddenly I'm sitting on the cold floor. It stops right outside the door. No more sound, no more movement, just my gasping sobs, until I hear a deceptively gentle huff at the bottom of the door. It's smelling. It's smelling for me. It knows exactly where I am. I shove myself away, dragging myself across the floor until my back hits the first stall.

I try not to sob louder. It knows. What if it tries to break down this door just like the other one? What if it does break down the door? What the fuck then? I'm going to die. I'm going to die in a fucking rest stop in the middle of fuck all nowhere, Idaho. If it starts to pace, I can hear it.

Back and forth just outside the door. And it's making sounds now, this weird low, chuffing noise. Like it's gasping for air. or laughing. I clap my hand over my mouth. Every part of me is trembling, shuddering like a leaf. What else am I supposed to do?

It doesn't go away. It just keeps going. Back and forth, back and forth. Smelling me. I wait. And I wait. I don't move. I will not move because I'm afraid

and because I don't want it to hear me. Like that'll make a difference. It's been stalking me all day, whatever the fuck it is. But some part of my brain, the brain that knows that I'm prey, tells me to stay still and stay small. Don't move, and maybe it'll go away. I stay like that until my ass goes numb, sitting on the hard floor.

I stay like that. My hand clapped over my mouth, covered in tears, in mucus I refused to wipe away. I don't move, and it feels like ours. The wild, raw fear dulls just enough. And I close my eyes, only for a second. I jerk up, putting my hands over my eyes. It hurts like a pin forced through my eardrum.

And when the echo dies, I can hear heavy hoof beats as it runs. I stay still on the floor, unwilling to move, unwilling to bring attention back to myself. I huddle up, listening to the screech of metal getting torn apart. I stay that way even after the crunching stops. I stay huddled in that fucking corner until I hear the distant growl of a semi-truck engine. My knees hurt when I finally rolled to my feet.

I scrambled to unlock the door and I yank it open. On the other side of a door is an overweight man, a trucker in an off white shirt and baggy pants. He's standing in the middle of the lobby, staring at the shattered glass across the floor and the long smears of blood, his hand on his balding head. He turns to face me, eyes wide. Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?

There was, um, a deer. No fucking shit. That's what's left of your car in the parking lot? What? I stopped short as soon as I see my car. All at once, the crunching sounds made sense. The hood of my car is caved in. Both lights have been kicked out, the windshield covered in spiderweb cracks. One of my side mirrors is a few feet away from the front door of the restaurant building. The mirror cracked all the hell. What you do, son? It a dare just hard enough to piss it off?

I lick my lips trying to think of what to say. What the hell do you say when you've been stalked by a demon deer? He's already given me the lie, I just have to agree. Yeah. Yeah, it ran right through the lobby. The trucker kicks at the broken glass scattering. Well, shit. Did you already call somebody?

Don't imagine you're getting far in your car now. No, I'll call somebody. You call somebody, I'm going to piss, and then I'm calling the state troopers. Somebody's going to want to fix this shit up. I almost run after him as he crunches his way over to the men's room door. I don't want to be alone, not this soon, not this quick. Instead, I just stand there like an idiot, watching him go to the restroom. I stay in the lobby looking into the darkness, searching for those sickly yellow-green eyes.

I'm looking so hard that I jump a mile when the men's room door opens a few minutes later. The trucker gives me a weird look, but he doesn't say anything else. He steps around me and he heads back to his truck. Only then do I venture out to my car. My phone is still in the passenger seat where I'd left it. My keys are on the floor. I don't remember dropping them. I grab my phone and dash back to the light and perceive safety of the lobby.

I pray that something like AAA is close enough that I can get a tow. I sure is hell don't want to stay here overnight. I keep my eyes on the semi-truck too. The light is on in the cabin, and I can see the trucker on his phone. The trucker stays in the cab of his semi until the state trooper pulls into the rest stop almost 20 minutes later. And then he goes on his way. I appreciate that, even if it was probably just to make sure I wasn't going to try to take off in my car. I don't know.

Maybe he thought I busted the place up. I couldn't have looked trustworthy pacing back and forth in front of the bathrooms. The trooper is all business when he gets there. But he does take a moment to stare at that. the ruined arrest stop. I walk with him as he circles my car, taking notes of the damages while I stutter my way through the lie about hitting a deer.

My hands are still shaking. I don't think they'll ever stop shaking. The trooper pauses at the front of my car, tilting his head. I stop my story watching as he kneels. I open my mouth, words clogging up at my throat, and he reaches into the grill and grabs something. He tugs, and with a wrenching sound,

if something comes free. Something long and point. and covered in bloody flaps of skin. He turns the antler this way and that in his hands, like it's normal, like it's an everyday thing. Wrong time of year for deer to be shedding velvet. I don't say a word. I wait, watching him take notes,

ignoring the bloody antler he leaves on the pavement. I think I see a shifting in the shadows at the edge of the parking lot, just beyond the trooper's cruiser. But I don't look up. I refuse to look up. I keep my eyes welded to the trooper because I'm afraid of what I might sea, glowing eyes, or long-pointed legs bending under their own weight, or amplers, sagging with bloody velvet.

Most of us have one or two bad habits, but there are few less desirable than smoking. And in this tale from author S.S. Livya, we meet a woman who is trying to quit, but it's not just for her health, it's for the health of those around her, too. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Kyle Akers, and Peter Lewis. So I think we can all agree with the woman when she states, I should never have started smoking. I should never have quit smoking. Honestly, I should never have started smoking in the first place.

If I hadn't picked up that first cigarette all those years ago, none of this would have happened. Everything would be normal. I wouldn't be. I wouldn't have... I'm so sorry, Mike. My sweet, sweet Mike, you'd still be... A week ago, my boyfriend, Mike and I,

went to a music festival down south. We had been dating for about a year and had quickly fallen for each other. It was a perfect year. So why not decide to go on an adventure and drive over 600 miles down south to see a couple of bands, sleep in a tent that was too hot

and watch the masses get totally trashed. It really did sound like fun. It was also our version of Mardi Gras. You know when you get out all your sins and get really fucked up so you can be clean for the next couple weeks? We're not religious or anything, but we were going to transition

to a more healthy lifestyle once we partied it all out at this festival. For me, this meant quitting smoking. A habit that had been pretty consuming for the past 10 years of my life. And despite it being a pretty disgusting habit, Mike loved me. Smoke and all. So, this is it.

After this week, no more cigarettes. Okay, babe. I'm serious. I know you don't like it. Of course I don't like it, but, you know, it's your thing. You're... My thing? So what? I'm smoker girl?

You know what I mean. You are you, and I love you for you. I support whatever decision you make. But you don't like it. Ugh. The smell, okay? I really don't like the smell. Well, you'll never have to smell that nasty smell again after this week.

Pass me my lighter, babe. Here you go. I meant it, too, to quit smoking, which if you haven't tried to do, it's hard. It's really, really hard. The final night of the festival was my last night of nicotine and chemicals. Mike had been by my side all throughout the festival, and I could tell he was exhausted. It was 4 a.m., and we had to pack up and leave by noon.

It's okay, babe. Go to bed. I'll be in in a bit, okay? You sure? I can wait up with you if you... No, my sweet, sweet man. Go to sleep. It's my last sig.

I should honor this very last cancer stick alone. Okay, Jay. I love you. I love you too. Mike went into the tent, and I watched as he turned the lantern off, plummeting our little campsite into darkness. I reached into my pack and grabbed the last cigarette. I took a moment and became aware of the ritual I had created for myself.

Slowly placing the butt into my mouth, I raised the lighter to the end of the cigarette and flicked a small flame coming to life dancing inches away from my face when out of the darkness I heard a man's voice God a light

His voice was older Deep It cracked like the flame in front of my face That hadn't lit the end of my cigarette yet And when I turned around to see who was asking I saw nothing but darkness. Yeah, where are? He slowly approached me, moving into the light of my tiny flame like a snake.

Oh, here you go. I reached the flame out towards his shape. His skin was almost gray, almost the color of dirty ash. His eyes beady and black. He had no eyebrows or eyes. eyelashes, and his facial features looked like they had been molded onto his face, but out of a material that was naturally rough, like concrete mixed with sawdust, but hadn't dried right. He was wearing a strange hat, one of those ridiculous oversized striped top hats straight out

of Dr. Seuss, and a cloak with what I assumed was the Milky Way printed on it. I couldn't see his feet. I had seen some strange people doing stranger things over the past few days that I just assumed he was one of those people who enjoyed the be-weird no-judgment aspect of festivals. So I made no judgments. He placed his cigarette between his cracked blue-gray lips and pulled as the tip of my flame met the end of his sig. Thanks.

Oh, don't hold off on my account. He was referencing my life. lack of smoking. I was so struck by his movements, like the act of taking a drag from a cigarette was so natural to him, like he'd been choreographed in this dance since he began existing. I say existing because this guy was one I could not imagine being born, or even prepubescent. I took my cigarette and placed the butt between my lips, flicking the lighter back to life. I lit the end as I took in that last first drag. There's something glorious about doing something you've done thousands of times for the last time.

I felt my lungs creak and moan under the weight of the tar I was drenching them in. But the head rush is what I tried to really focus on. The type of lightheadedness that you welcome after carrying around pounds and pounds of heavy thoughts worries, hopes, and dreams. For one second, to forget the weight of those endless thoughts and to feel as if you could float through the atmosphere to join the stars as they dance and twinkle. You're really enjoying that, huh?

His deep, cracked voice pulled me down from the stars. I had almost forgotten he was there. I thought he'd left, but I guess. I guess I got carried away in my own thoughts. Oh, yeah. It's my last one, quitting tomorrow. Ah, how nice for you. Me, I live and breathe these things.

It's no longer a little habit, but, uh, well, it's become a way of life. What is it you've chosen to be your last? Um, just, um, just one of those, natural tobacco blends, the yellow pack. Oh, well, you must try one of mine. It's 100% natural. In fact, I grow it myself. I treat it myself.

You could say it's my own little factory blend. Without the factory, of course. Here, take one. Let this be your last. It'll be worth it. He held out a hand-wrote. old cigarette. I noticed that the sky's breath was heavy and labored, but without the urgency of an elevated heart rate. A heavy smoker, I figured. So I took the cigarette cautiously, wondering whether or not

it was laced or safe to smoke. Mike was five feet away, so if anything went wrong, I would just run screaming into the tent, right? I took my sig out of my mouth, gently touched the burning cherry onto some of the early morning dew, and threw the butt into our trash bag. I placed the man's cigarette into my mouth and lit it. The moment I took that first drag, I could feel the heavy black smoke creep down my throat and into my lungs, as if the smoke had formed hands, no, claws, and were scratching and thrashing my insides. It felt as if rusty nails were being plunged into my upper back, invading my lungs and heart. And when I exhaled, the smoke really did come to life, wrapping its snake-like translucence around my neck.

Choking me. It's happening. The smoke was killing me. I could feel myself fading away from reality. It was climbing from my neck up, invading my mouth, nostrils, and eyes. eyes, and all around me I heard laughter, heavy, deep, labored laughter, just as invasive as the smoke. I screamed and passed out. Jay, are you okay? That loving voice pulled me from the endless darkness. I woke up gulping in air like I had never appreciated oxygen before as I had in that moment. Oh my God, Mike.

Yeah, baby, I'm here. What happened? A man, he gave me a cigarette. I think it was laced with something. You were screaming bloody murder, Jay. Did he do anything to you? Like, try to... No, he was just a creepy dude.

I think it was PCP or something. Are you sure? Doesn't that stuff last for a while? Yeah. I don't know. Maybe I just need to sleep for a couple minutes. I'm probably just de-haping. hydrated and exhausted.

How's about you sleep? I'll pack up. Sleep in the car, so the AC is on. Packing up shouldn't take more than 20 minutes. Okay. I love you, Mike. Thank you. That must have been one hell of a last cigarette, huh?

Well, at least I never want to smoke again. The next few days were grueling. The craving wasn't so much the problem. No. It was the withdrawal symptoms that just hit me like the flu. My body ate. My head hurt. I felt lethargic and lazy. I was tired all the time. But worst of all, I felt like I couldn't breathe, like something had wrapped itself around my lungs, tightening every time I moved. I almost thought about calling my mom to ship me my childhood

inhaler. It was three days since we got home from the festival, because, I was physically and emotionally a mess, Mike had offered to stay in my apartment with me until I felt better. The past few days, I had been lying in bed while Mike went and came home from work. I took the full week off, and because we came home in the middle of the week, I fortunately did not have to be anywhere. It was Friday evening. The first time in days I felt I had the energy to take a shower. As I readied myself to shower, I started sweating, like some weird heat flash. I sat down, feeling dizzy and hot. I could feel myself sweating, not one or two dribbles of sweat down the side of my neck, but full on drenching myself. I took as much of a breath as I could manage and

climbed into the cold shower. There was a loud hiss as I stepped under. As I stepped under the cold. I was a loud hiss as I stepped under the cold stream of water. Eventually, I felt okay, and after washing the grease out of my skin and hair, felt almost human again. It wasn't until I got out of the shower that I realized, despite the fact I'd just taken a freezing cold shower, there was steam on the mirror. By then I'd cooled down a bit, but was still very warm. I put on some pajamas and sat in front of the fan just as Mike was coming home. Babe, you're not going to believe this. Are you all right?

Yeah, just a little overheated, that's all. What's up? Apparently, like, ten people died at the festival this past weekend. Oh, my God. What happened? How? It's really weird. They say it was carbon monoxide poisoning from cars and trailers. But all of the people who died were either in their tents are found outside.

The only thing they all had in common was that the autopsy showed their lungs were physically charred, like they were set on fire. Carbon monoxide poisoning doesn't do that, does it? Not to my knowledge. I think they all took something or smoked something. You said a random dude gave you a cigarette that last night? Yeah, he came out of nowhere and was super creepy. You smoked a hand-rolled cigarette he gave you, right?

Yeah, but I only had one drag. Made me feel like the smoke was physically trying to murder me. I think. I know it's crazy and insane and probably not possible, but I think that guy, his weird cigarettes did this. Killed those people, I mean. What? You're right. You are crazy and insane. I'm still alive, babe. Not charred, just really, really hot. Jay, stop distracting me with your hotness. I'm trying to solve a murder mystery here.

Well, maybe you need to inspect for clues. Oh, capital idea, my lady, yes. I must inspect your hotness. hot body for clues. Wow, Jay, you are really hot. Yes, I know. We were just about to do something about it. No, but you're really hot to the touch. Do you have a thermometer?

Babe, I feel fine. Just a little warmer than usual, that's all. And that's when I reached out for Mike. I just wanted to give him a kiss to show him I was all right. But the moment my lips touched his, he started screaming. Oh, what the fuck? It's, I'm, it burns. Oh, what the fuck?

It burns. His lips began to blister, like someone had just thrown burning tar in his face. The blisters pussed and spat, spreading across his face and down his neck. I tried to grab water to throw up. on him, but nothing worked. He was burning alive. His skin literally melting off the bone, which had started to char. I couldn't do anything.

Mike, no, no, no, no, no, please no, Mike! He had become a puddle of melted skin, muscle, liquids, and charred bone. And then the last bubble popped, releasing a clad. cloud of black smoke that stretched into a familiar snake-like rope. It crept slowly towards me as I watched in horror, unable to move, unable to scream, completely paralyzed by fear and sadness. The smoke invaded my mouth and nose. I could feel it inspecting my insides, my esophagus burning, my lungs catching fire. And then, it was over.

And for the first time in days, I felt strong. It took a couple of days to realize that the strength I felt only lasts for so long. And when people started to come to my apartment to check up on me, they would burn and melt. And that smoke would rise from their... their stinking, melted flesh and burnt bones and find its way into my nose and mouth. I don't know what's happened to me. I look in the mirror and see gray cracked skin, beady black eyes and charred lips. I have no one left.

I refuse to live my life sucking the smoking souls from my family, my loved ones. my little brother gave me the strength to get in my car to drive down south. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I've heard rumors of a mysterious man who looks like a charred corpse, wandering around looking for his next smoke. Addiction is a sickness, and I plan on ending it for both of us. We've run out of tape.

It's time to press each other. and end the show. We thank you for letting us perform for you. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program, over 60 hours of content for only 1999.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when we'll insert another tape and press play. This is copyright 2018 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted

without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.