The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S12E05

Episode Date: January 13, 2019

It's episode 05 of Season 12. On this week's show we have tales about those things from the past which ceaselessly haunt us. "The Case of the Bassinet Children"‡ written by René Rehn and performed by Jeff Clement & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:04:45) "Spitting Image"† written by Meg Molloy and performed by Graham Rowat & Addison Peacock & Kyle Akers. (Story starts around 00:25:30) "Past the Bottom Step"† written by Elissa Ebersold and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:54:50) "The Withering"† written by Bruce Golden and performed by David Cummings & Graham Rowat & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 01:06:00) "The Wall of Smiles"¤ written by Geoff Miller and performed by Atticus Jackson & Erin Lillis & Elie Hirschman & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 01:21:40) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about PodCon   Click here to learn more about René Rehn   Click here to learn more about Elissa Ebersold   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Spitting Image" illustration courtesy of Krys Hookuh Audio program ©2018-2019 - 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

Hi folks, Cummings here. You know, here at the No Sleep podcast, we often present stories about people being in danger in their own homes. Now, when it comes to ghosts, demons or evil spirits, I'm afraid there's not much we can do to help. I don't know who you're going to call for that. But for the more earthly situations, which put you and your property at risk, there is something we can do to help you consider home security. At the start of the new year, it's time to think about things you've been putting off for far too long. Home security can be like that. You know it's a good idea, but there's always something holding you back. Well, now is the time to act and protect your home with Simply Safe Home Security. Simply Safe believes nothing should come between you and protecting your home,

so they've gotten rid of the reasons not to get home security. There's no contract ever. No price markups from any middleman, and no installation windows. Who has time for that? Most importantly, their system is engineered to do one thing brilliantly. Protect. So if a storm takes out your power, Simply Safe is ready. If an intruder cuts your phone line, Simply Safe is ready.

If they destroy your keypad or siren, SimplySafe will still get you the help you need. Maybe it's overkill. Maybe it's the last thing you want to think about when you're making so many other changes and resolutions. But with SimplySafe, you're always ready for anything. I don't know what's just broken into my house, but I'd better go check. And like me, you'd better get a jump on protecting your home at simplysafe.com slash no sleep. No time like the present, right? That's S-I-M-P-L-I-S-A-F-E dot com slash no-sleep to protect your home and family today with SimplySafe.

Simplysafe.com slash no sleep. Welcome to our sleepless sanctuary. You enter at your own risk and choose to be entertained with dark and disturbing horror stories. You have been warned for the dark outside. hours when you gales of horror to frighten and disturbed as the sleepless hours tick. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast Sanctuary. I'm David Cummings. Our service this week features tales about those things from the past which ceaselessly haunt us.

This week I'll have the pleasure of going to the Pacific Northwest as I head to Seattle for PodCon, the weekend of January 19 and 20. This is a convention not just for those who make podcasts, but for the fans of podcasts as well. It's not too late to get tickets if you're in the area. I'll be on a panel discussing the craft of voice acting, and I'll be doing a podcast along with Drew Ackerman of the Sleep With Me podcast. We'll combine a sleepless no-sleep story with Drew's sleep-inducing delivery to see if people will be lulled into sleep or into terror. And if you're planning to be at PodCon, please say hi if you see me wandering the convention center floor. I'll have some swag with me like postcards, pins, and maybe even some T-shirts to give away.

There will be a link in the show notes if you want to learn more about PodCon in Seattle next weekend. But if you're a fan of this podcast and can't make it to Seattle, we still have lots of treats for you. Namely, this episode. And now, it's time for our service to begin. Bow your heads and hear our words. In our first tale, we meet a man who recalls the summer when he was 12 years old. As author René Ren shares, the boy enjoyed spending the subject. summer away from the city and getting to know his elderly neighbors.

It was only later that he realized not everything was as idyllic as he thought. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement and Erica Sanderson. So don't kid around while you listen to the case of the Bassinet children. As kids, we often miss the obvious. It is only as adults that we catch on to certain events. in our childhood. It was the same for me during a specific summer vacation in my childhood. Only now do I realize what happened back then.

At the time of this story, I was 12 years old. I was a city kid, but my parents would spend the summer at their holiday home. It was not as fancy as it might sound. It wasn't much more than a small cabin located near town. I loved the wild plains, the forests, the farms, and many other rural things. At times I played soccer or other games with the local kids. At others, I went on little adventures. What I enjoyed the most was to ride my bike for hours on end.

I'd often followed the many dirt roads and paths that led here and there to see where I'd end up. One day, during another long bike ride, I met a friendly old couple. They seemed to be hiking along the dirt road in my direction. As soon as the old woman noticed me, she gave me a warm greeting. They reminded me of my grandparents, so I smiled and I waved to them. When I had passed them and was going to ride on, the old woman called out to me. Oh my, you can't go any further, little boy. You'll end up in the swamps.

Better turn around. I looked ahead and could already see that the dirt road seemed to become muddy. I nodded towards the old lady and thanked her for the warning. I turned my bike around, drove back toward them, and soon enough, ended up talking with them for a bit. They'd been hiking and berry picking in the area nearby, and were on their way back home. Their house was out here, near the edge of the forest, and not. too far ahead. They said they preferred it out here, away from the bustle of town. When they asked me about myself, I told them where I was from and that I was only here on vacation for some weeks.

It wasn't long before we arrived at a big old house, nestled perfectly into the trees that made up the edge of the forest. As we continued on, the old lady asked me if I'd come with them and if I wanted something to drink or maybe a snack. I thanked her but shook my head. The sun would be setting soon. If I was late again, I'd be in trouble with my mom. When I got home, my parents were already waiting for me to get dinner ready. I don't know why, but I never told them about the old couple I met.

Or I just forgot to mention them. It was a few days later that I found myself on the same dirt road as before. I hesitated for a moment, but then I thought I might as well pay them a visit. As I approached the house, I saw that they were sitting outside in a Hollywood swing. I waved and greeted them. As soon as she recognized me, the old lady was ecstatic to see me. Got up and walked towards me. So's come back, Herbert.

Her husband didn't move from the swing. What brings you back here to us boring old folks? I was a little shy as a kid So when they both spoke to me so openly I couldn't help but cast my eyes down I answered in a quiet voice that I was nearby And thought it was the proper thing to say hello Now aren't you a well-mannered young boy

Now then you want to sit down for a bit boy Herbert motioned towards the now empty spot on the swing After leaning my bike against a tree, I went over and sat down right next to him. His wife, whose name was Elsa, watched us for a bit. Then, nodding and beaming, she went inside. It wasn't long before my small talk with Herbert turned to birds and forest animals. It had been a lifelong interest of his ever since he was a little boy. After some time, he asked me if I had ever seen any forest animals for real,

like a badger, a deer, a fox, or even just a rabbit. I guess he remembered I was from the city. I told him that I had, but only from afar, or in one of the animal parks. Herbert laughed and said that I was in for a treat. With that, he got up in motion for me to come along. He led me into the house, up the stairs, and opened the door to a big room.

As I stepped inside after him, my eyes grew wide. The room was filled with all sorts of forest animals and birds. For a moment, I cringed back, but soon I noticed that none of them were moving. Herbert explained that I needn't be afraid. Those were all stuffed or better preserved animals. In younger years, he had earned a living by doing this. He had been a taxidermist. I remember that it felt a little weird to stay in a room surrounded by.

all these dead animals. Herbert let me look around for a moment and then started to tell me a bit about each of the different animals. Soon enough, my uneasiness at their sight vanished as I listened to his explanations. We'd gone through almost all the animals when the old man and I heard Elsa call out from downstairs. I could see how Herbert's expression changed and grew dark for a moment. Well, better look what she did this time. Shouldn't take too long. With that, he went out the door. I looked around some more and touched the preserved animals and their fur,

if only to make sure that they really weren't alive. Most imposing of all animals was a male deer with a huge pair of antlers on his head. At first, I only stared at the majestic animal, but soon I reached out for the antlers. It wasn't long before Herbert came back and saw me near the deer and told me all about this specific animal. Looking back, I think that old Herbert was happy that I was so interested in his preserved animals. In time, he led me back outside. With a laugh, he told me that we'd spent so much time up in the animal room that it was already getting late. I said goodbye to Herbert, and after waving to Elsa, I was on my way back home.

That night it took me a long time to fall asleep. My thoughts and dreams revolved all around the forest animals Herbert had shown me and told me about. The next day, right after lunch, I went out with my bike and drove straight to their house again. As I arrived, it was only Elsa who was there. She was sitting on the swing, busying herself with a bouquet of flowers.

Her face lit up in an instant when she saw me and waved me over. She told me Herbert wasn't around and had gone on one of his solitary walks through the forest. After listening to her for a bit, I asked her with downcast eyes if I could see the preserved animals again. Oh, of course you can, my dear little boy. It felt weird holding hands with her, but again I was too shy to say anything. As she led me up the stairs and into the room, she babbled on and on without her. end. Even after we entered the room, she kept talking about herself and how happy she was that I was

back. Say, would you like to see something else? Without even waiting for an answer, she told me with a big smile on her face that it was the old playroom of their kids. You'll be sure to enjoy it. Oh, yes, it'll be just your thing. A little annoyed, but also a bit curious, I followed her. What Elsa led me was a room that was almost as big as Herbert's animal room. Elsa was right. A playroom it was. There were toys everywhere. I was taken aback at the sheer number.

The room was filled to the brim with wooden blocks, puppets, dolls, teddy bears, toy cars, trains, and much, much more. It's fine. Go ahead. You can play with anything you want. I looked at her for a moment and then stepped into the room and looked around awkwardly. I was already 12 years old and most of the toys there seemed to be for younger kids. I couldn't bring myself to say anything to Elsa, though. As I walked further into the room, she told me she'd be back in a while

and I should enjoy myself for the time being. Soon after Elsa was gone, I left the playroom too. It was so boring. As I walked back in the direction of the animal room, I saw that one of the other doors in the hallway was slightly ajar. First, I only peeked inside, but didn't see anything since it was almost pitch black in the room. A quick glance around showed me that I was alone, and so I opened the door a little more. I was finally able to see that a variety of cribs and beds filled the room. A big black curtain covered the only room.

window. As I stepped inside, I noticed someone sitting in one of the beds. I jumped back and almost screamed. My first thought was that someone was sleeping in one of the beds. Soon enough, I realized whatever it was, wasn't moving at all. I laughed a little as I realized my mistake. What was sitting in the bed must have been a puppet or a big doll. Only moments later I noticed in the half-shade of the room that there were more of them. A whole assortment of these dolls were sitting or lying in the beds and cribs all around. Each of the cribs and beds had a nameplate attached to its front end. Here was Sam, followed by Peter and Marcel, then Tom, and on it went. I moved toward the bed with the name Sam on it to have a closer look. As I touched the puppet's arm,

It felt weird. The skin was almost too soft and didn't feel like cloth. I was a little weirded out, but soon my thoughts went from the doll to a little box sitting at the foot end of the bed. As I picked it up, I realized it was wooden. The name Sam was written on it in fine letters, same as on the nameplate. In the dark of the room, it took me a bit, but soon I found the lid and tried to. opening it. I rushed out of the room, and only when I was on my way did I realize I was still holding the box. Not knowing what to do and hearing Elsa's footsteps coming up the stairs,

I put it in my backpack. I told myself I'd return it later. I met up with Elsa who led me to the downstairs kitchen. She had prepared a glass of fresh lemonade and a little bowl of fruits. You must be thirsty, aren't you? It was then that her. Herbert, still wearing a pair of stout hiking boots, entered the room. Well, that's... He stopped when he saw Elsa and me with the glass of lemonade. His gaze rested on me for a moment. Then he went forward to Elsa with a sad expression on his face.

Elsa, your diabetes, the doctor said... Oh, Herbert, no, no, it's for the boy. He's going... Elsa, no. You know you... can't keep doing this. It's no good. With that, he went closer towards his old wife, who was still holding the glass in the bowl of snacks. She looked first at him, then at me, then at him again, before tears started streaming

from her eyes. It's all right, Elsa. I didn't understand what was going on at all. Finally, Herbert turned to me and told me that today wasn't a good day. I nodded and went to go, wondering what exactly had just happened and what was wrong with Elsa. I spent the rest of the day in town with some of my friends, and soon I had completely forgotten what had happened. In the evening, as I was getting ready for bed, my mom found the wooden box that was still in my backpack. I'd forgotten to put it back. Soon I found myself explaining to my mom how I had come into possession of the box. I told her about the sweet old couple I'd gotten to know and where I had met them.

Then I rambled on about Herbert's preserved animals. Lastly, I told her where I had found the box. I remembered that her face turned serious as she listened to me. Then she sent me to bed. That night I was awoken by people arguing. As I left the small bedroom of our holiday cottage, I found my mom in tears and my dad talking to many other people. When he noticed me, he sent me back to bed right away

and assured me that everything was all right. The next day, though, they told me we had to go back home. I never found out what actually had been going on that night. To tell you the truth, had almost completely forgotten about the whole thing. I found out the truth by accident. I was going through the library's archive for a university project. There, I stumbled upon an old newspaper clipping.

Going through year after year, something had caught my eye. The case of the bassinet children. Old couple found guilty in missing children case. The article talked about a bizarre and gruesome discovery at the home of an elderly couple. I started to skim it out of sheer boredom, but soon I read the names, Herbert and Elsa. It took a while, but then I remembered the old couple for my summer vacation. The date of the story was from about a decade ago, the same summer I had met them. At first I told myself it was a coincidence.

But soon, I couldn't deny the truth anymore. Through the decades, the old couple had killed at least 12 children of varying age. The police found the proof right in their house. It was the mostly preserved bodies of their 12 victims. As I read the word taxidermist, it clicked. Right then I realized what the room I snuck into must have been. I remembered how wrong the doll had felt. I shivered as I realized where I'd been back then,

in a room filled with the preserved corpses of all those children. I called my mom soon after. At first, she vehemently feigned ignorance, but then she told me what she and my dad had found in the box that same night. Inside, they had found pieces of memorabilia and a number of photographs. At first it was just photos of a kid outside, either alone or with a lady that must have been in her 50s. They were normal enough at first. Soon enough, though, there were photos of the boy unconscious.

and naked. She said the rest of the pictures were too much for her. She said they had called the police then and there. The couple was arrested that same night without any resistance. Herbert gave himself up. Elsa didn't understand what was going on. It was attributed to her suffering from an early stage of dementia. In a later article, I found Herbert's testimony.

They never had children, he said, medical issues. His wife never got over the fact. She loved children over everything. Since she couldn't have her own, this love soon became an obsession. Elsa would often invite kids to her house, play with them, and give them snacks. One day, though, she went further and drugged a little boy. He never woke up again. Elsa pleaded for Herbert not to take her baby away, to never take him off of her.

Herbert said, seeing and hearing his wife like that, he knew something had to be done about the body. Shaking his head, he admitted to a thing he should never have done. That was only the first one. Herbert knew she was sick, but there was nothing else he could do. do to protect her, and he'd never report her. I stopped reading there. The whole story made me too sick to continue digging into it. There is one thing I think about a lot these days. How close I must have been to becoming one of these kids. How did I get away? Was I lucky? At these times, I think about Herbert's behavior and what he told his wife that afternoon.

I can't help but think that it was all thanks to the old man that I am still alive today. Trying to reconnect with old high school friends is usually easy these days thanks to social media. But as author Meg Maloy explains, if a friend isn't on social, media, it can be hard to track them down. And like the man in this story, it can be difficult to know if your old friend really is who they say they are. Performing this tale are Graham Roet, Addison Peacock, and Kyle Akers. So if you recognize the person, it should be okay, right? Especially if they're the spitting image. Hi, Rebecca. It's David Harrison from high school. I don't know if this is your current email address, but since you don't have Facebook, I figured this was my best

shot. I'm sad we never kept in contact after I moved, but I want to let you know that I was moving back to Harker's Island. If you're still in the area, I'd love to catch up. I signed the email and hovered over the send button for a moment before clicking. I'd never intended to come back to the town where I grew up. If anything, I was trying my damnedest to stay away. Don't get me wrong. It's nice, but it's nice in the same way that the vast majority of coastal towns in the south are nice. Nothing in the grand scheme of things makes it special. There's nothing specifically wrong with it either, but my opinion was tainted by memories of going to school there. I didn't have a lot of friends.

I wasn't good at sports or academics or anything, really. The only reason I put up with going to that school was Rebecca Cavendish. She was weird, too. Got picked on a little for her obsessive interest in dolphins, but she was beautiful, and she was funny, and she was the only girl who ever spoke to me. We would sit next to each other on the bus over the bridge to the mainland every day without fail, and we'd just talk.

She told me about how she wanted to go into aquaculture and take over her dad's oyster farm, but her grades weren't good enough to get her into the specialized marine sciences school in Moorhead. I told her about my parents' divorce, how my mom and dad kept getting into arguments about who would get to keep the cats, and who would have to take care of me. When she was 16 and she got a tattoo on a whim while her parents were out of town, I was one of the only people who she showed it to. It was a dolphin, just like the ones on her trapper keeper and favorite jacket, and she kept it hidden from the teachers with a mix of long sleeves and makeup. When she showed it to me, I told her it was bad. ass. We didn't have any classes together, and we weren't even in the same grade, but she meant

everything to me. I always thought she felt the same way. But then I moved with my dad to Atlanta in my final year, and somehow Rebecca and I just fell apart. She never wrote, she never called. She never reached out to me on social media once that became a thing people did. When I wrote that email, I was sitting at the desk in my new apartment. It was a social. It was a social. studio, way on the outskirts of town where I could actually afford it. My desk was right by a window that I always kept unshuttered. I went to my desk and checked for a response in my inbox every day for a week. Nothing ever happened. And I always just ended up staring hatefully out at the sky. That's what I was doing when she showed up. Rebecca, or at the very least,

someone who looked exactly like she had the last time I saw her. Exactly as maybe too strong a word. She had different hair. I recalled it being brown, but now it was neon turquoise. She had a few more piercings in her ears, eyebrow, and one nostril. But other than that, she looked identical, like she hadn't aged at all since she was 17. We made eye contact. There was no recognition in the way she looked at I was fixated on that for the rest of the day. Was that Rebecca? Did she not remember me? Around 3 p.m. I went outside and walked back and forth past all the other apartments,

looking at the front windows through my peripherals. I caught a shock of that neon turquoise through the blinds of number four. Of course, I couldn't just knock on her door. I couldn't impose on her like that. I'd never been one to impose on others. So what I did was I broke into her mailbox. I don't know if she'd even have mail yet, but if she did, her name would be on it.

I took a couple of pins and a screwdriver, looked up a YouTube tutorial, and went out. Tampering with another person's mail is a federal offense. I turned around, and she was there, freshly rolled cigarette hanging limply from the fingers of her left hand as she looked down her nose at me. I was surprised. I hadn't expected her to sound like that.

My memory of Rebecca in high school involved a soft, airy voice with a fairly neutral accent, but this knew her or not her. The woman standing here in front of me now and smoking, she sounded different. It was undoubtedly similar to Rebecca's voice, but there was an unfamiliar harsh edge to it, a baseline of sarcastic vitriol delivered with a lilt, couldn't place. I didn't respond right away. I just stared at the cigarette and wondered if Rebecca was left-handed. I'm sorry, I just... There was no way to justify what I was doing. I put the pin and screwdriver back into my jacket. After that, I stood up and stepped back from the mailbox.

Ptsh, relax. I don't give a shit. Legality is a construct. Everything she said, sounded like it bored her terribly. She squinted and looked me over. I live in number six. My name's David. You very much do, and it very much is. There was a long silence while she continued to smoke. Finally, I extended a hand. And you are? She looked at it like I was holding a live tarantula out towards her, then raised her own hand. She appeared to really think it over, ultimately deciding not to shake with me. I got a good look. Her hands were beautiful, just like the rest of her. The only odd thing was the amount of dirt on her fingernails.

I tried to sneak a peek at her upper arm to see if the dolphin tattoo is visible. She sensed me looking and crossed her arms close to her body. Forgive me for not being forthcoming. She quirked a brow. You were just going through my mail, so I think it's more than sensible for me to assume you would be the type to stalk my social. I'm not. I just... You look exactly like my friend from high school, who I haven't spoken to in years,

and I can't tell if you've just aged really well and forgotten about me, or if you're just some weirdly identical relative. Trying to say it out loud just didn't feel right. Look, Davy Jones, you seem mostly all right. But if I see you digging around in my shit again, I will bring hell down upon you. Do you understand? I couldn't quite parse the way she chose to put sentences together.

She kind of sounded like a character from a 60s B movie who'd gotten lost. Sure. I began backing away towards my door. Not quite Rebecca held eye contact and finished her cigarette. I could have left well enough alone at this point, but of course I didn't. If she wouldn't tell me her name, I had to go back and find out. I left it until 3 a.m. when any reasonable human, myself excluded, would logically have been sleeping. All I was going to do was try the mail slot for number four again, look at one of the envelopes, and leave.

If it said Rebecca Cavendish, I'd try and engage. If it didn't, I'd leave her alone. It was a very simple plan. It should have been, anyway. I picked the lock, the same way I'd been planning on doing when she'd interrupted me. Slowly I reached into the slot, trying my damnness not to make any noise, and I pulled out an envelope. To the tenant of apartment four, it said. I caught myself before I could shout. What kind of bullshit out loud? They call me the wild day. I was about to grab another one.

My hand was back in the slot. When I heard it, I pulled out another envelope. To the homeowner. God fucking damn it! From the first day I saw her and she was the one as she stared in my eyes and smiled My ears perked up

That was a man's voice That was very clearly a man's voice It was weird enough that not quite Rebecca was singing in her kitchen at 3 a.m. But now I knew she had someone else in there singing with her. His singing wasn't bad, not at all, but in the context of him being in there with her, it felt like getting stabbed in the ears.

I never knew she could sing. She never told me she could sing. Why didn't she ever tell me? Why did this jerk off, of all people, get to sing with her at ass o'clock in the morning? The light was dim, but I could just make out one figure. Whoever it was looked bigger than Rebecca, a lot bigger.

That had to have been him. When he crossed the beam of light coming from the next room, I got the impression he was my height at least, and significantly broader than either myself or Rebecca. He stopped singing and turned towards the window. I ducked. That encounter weighed heavily on me. I stayed up almost until sunrise, mulling it over. I kept trying to remind myself that my new neighbor wasn't for sure Rebecca.

But after a certain point, it didn't matter. I could only think of her as Rebecca, my Rebecca, and I couldn't stand the idea of her ghosting me for ten years only to show up in my life again, with a boyfriend, and some kind of selective amnesia about who I was. I couldn't tell who I was more mad at, the guy for stealing her, or Rebecca for cutting off contact and forgetting about me. When I finally fell asleep, I had a dream where I pushed both of them off a cliff. Seeing not quite Rebecca in the parking lot or the communal laundry room was hell, because I wanted so badly to ask. I wanted to walk up to her, lean casually on something, and very calmly say something about what I'd heard.

But obviously, there wasn't anything that I could actually say to her or anybody. So I just hung back, smiled and nodded, feeling like I was going to explode. She could sense it. While I waited for my dryer cycle to finish, I kept one eye on Rebecca the whole time. She watched the washing machine spin, and her eyes started to glaze over. she yawned. God, for a second her mouth seemed so big. Bigger than it should have been.

I squinted, but tried to look like I wasn't paying attention to her. Then she started stretching her neck. You know, moving it from side to side the way you do when your neck gets stiff after sitting or standing in one place for too long? Rebecca's head tilted to one side than the other. Then it twisted the whole way around. I jumped and nearly slammed into the dryer. I looked back at Rebecca, and her head was completely normal.

She was staring at me. What's up, Slick? I'm fine. I thought I saw a snake. You need to smoke some weed or something. Rebecca rolled her eyes and left the laundry room. A sock fell out of her basket on the way out. I picked it up and thought about giving it back to her. I didn't.

The next time I saw Rebecca was while I was taking my track. out. I threw the bag into the dumpster, and she just kind of appeared behind me, ready to swoop in and plunge her arm into the bag I'd just tossed. Once again, her arm was covered by her shirt, and even if it hadn't been, she moved too fast for me to spot the dolphin if it was even there. She took an apple out of the trash can and bit into it like it was nothing. I cringed. It had brown spots. That's why I'd thrown it out in the first place. I noticed that again, she had very dirty nails.

Waste of a good apple. The bites she left behind on the surface of the apple seemed weirdly larger than they should have been. It had spots on it, so I didn't want to risk it. You're... Everything that's wrong with America. What's that supposed to mean?

You heard me. She ate the core. Food waste is choking the point. planet. That's why I live zero waste. I'm a friggin. Is that like being a vegan? She rolled her eyes at me and let out a groan that I felt maybe wasn't warranted. I eat meat. I eat meat all the time. Just nothing that was killed specifically for the purpose of being eaten. I wrinkled my nose. What? So like roadkill? That's honestly disgusting.

You don't have to do it if that's how you've found. real. She turned the stem over in her fingers, then she ate that too. I didn't know where to take the conversation, so I threw my other trash bag away and went back to my apartment. Everything this girl had done since moving in had been absolutely baffling. None of it felt like Rebecca to me, but then again, people change. I didn't know how the last 10 years had treated her. Badly, it seemed like, strangely, at the very least. I looked out my window, over the parking lot to where the dumpster was kept. I briefly considered going through the trash for a receipt or an old prescription bottle

or something, just for another shot at the name, but I realized there'd be no way to tell if it was hers. I looked out at the dumpster again later, multiple times, just about once every two hours. I had Googled Fregan. Apparently, these people get most of their food from dumpster. diving. I was curious to see if Rebecca would come back to fish anything out of the trash. Something about the idea of her eating more things that I had thrown out felt exciting. I didn't see anyone go out there until about midnight.

The shape I saw onto the light wasn't Rebecca. It was the man, the big guy I'd seen in her apartment. Without realizing it, I started clenching my fists. He was standing by a car. Her car. "'Asshole doesn't even have his own car,' I thought. "'What a joke. "'Probably works at Burger King or some shit. "'You don't deserve her, you clown.' "'The trunk was open. "'I still couldn't tell what he looked like,

"'save for the outline of his body "'and a sliver of dirty, tawny hair "'that caught the light from the streetlights above the dumpster. "'He pulled something out of the trunk, "'something big, wrapped in a blue tarp. "'I had a horrible thought, and I tried to push it away. No, that was just a rug,

or some kind of weird piece of furniture. I was being stupid, and my brain was being affected by the time of day and the creepy lighting. A human leg slipped out of the folds of the tarp as he hoisted it over his shoulders. Oh, fuck. I thought there was no way he could have heard me,

but he must have, because his head snapped upwards, towards my window. I slammed my blinds closed. I fell asleep in my chair, and didn't wake up until I heard a knock at my door. I got up, wiped drool off the side of my face, and smoothed my hair down before stumbling, disoriented to the door. When I opened it, there was Rebecca.

She had sunglasses on, but I could still feel hate drilling into me from the eyes behind them. Hey, so stop fucking spying on me? I'm sorry, you just... Okay, I thought you were someone else. You look exactly like someone I knew in high school. That's a shitty reason to spy. me? Well, also, your boyfriend is a hitman or something. Is that a better reason? Why won't you

tell me your name? She scowled at me. Remember what I said about raining hell down on you? Fucking meant it. I don't want to see you again. We live two doors away from each other. I don't care. Stay in your fucking apartment. Before she left, I yelled after her, unable to contain my curiosity. Tell me what your boyfriend's doing, scuttling around at three. Three in the morning in the parking lot. Rebecca glanced around, then turned back to me and gave me a conspiratorial look. I'm single. I gaped and watched her leave.

I closed the door as she went and bolted back to my computer. I don't know why I didn't do this before. I could have just saved myself the effort and done this first. I googled Rebecca Cavendish. I got a couple LinkedIn profiles that didn't look like her and a Facebook account that I'd already confirmed to do. didn't belong to her. I added Harker's Island to the search terms. The first result floored me. Carteret County unveils new library wing in honor of deceased former student. Without even thinking

about it, I clicked the link. Today, the Cavendish Reading Room has been officially opened at the Carteret County Public Library in honor of Rebecca Cavendish, the daughter of Harker's Island business owner Fred Cavendish, who tragically passed away eight years ago. My mouth felt dry. At first I thought, relax. Maybe they're related. Maybe this is her sister or her cousin. But deep down, I knew that the chances of someone, even a relative,

looking that much like Rebecca and living in the same town, was slim to none. I want to make the point that I'm not usually a man who believes in supernatural bullshit, but I was struggling to find a solution to this puzzle that didn't. It didn't involve possession, reanimation, or some creature wearing Rebecca's skin. It had to be one of those things, as crazy as it was to consider. That was the only explanation. That was how she was able to change her voice. Why she was so weirdly flexible.

Why she always seemed to have dirt under her nails. Why that guy... No. That was her. Why she had been dragging a dead body up to her apartment. I owned a gun that I kept in a locked safe under my bed. Just an old revolver, nothing over the top. Up until that point, I'd never even gotten it out other than to test it at the gun range.

I unlocked the safe and loaded the bullets, wondering how good of a shot I was. I hadn't been to the gun range in a while. Hell, I hadn't even taken the thing out to clean it since I'd left Atlanta. I burst out the door of my apartment and went down the two spaces to not Rebecca's. I aimed my gun at the handle. I had to wrestle with the trigger a little bit. It was rusty. God, it really had been ages since I cleaned that fucking thing.

The inside of not Rebecca's apartment smelled like rot. I coughed, held my gun with one hand and my nose with the other. You killed Rebecca, didn't you? I walked through the kitchen and stepped on something. I lost my footing for a moment, and when I looked down, I saw that I'd stepped on a bone against my better job. judgment I picked it up. It looked human and it was cracked, sucked clean of the marrow. When I stopped to examine the rest of the kitchen, I wretched. There were bones everywhere.

All picked clean and strewn carelessly over the countertops like the leftovers from a fucking Christmas turkey. I could only assume that this was the person I'd seen the creature carrying the night before. My stomach sank as I briefly considered how many other people had fallen and victim to this thing. The bathroom door. I ignored it for the time being, my morbid curiosity driving me towards the refrigerator. I looked over my shoulder,

keeping my gun close to my chest, and I opened it. Buried in amongst spotty produce and half-finished containers of putrid-smelling cream cheese, a faded blue Lisa Frank dolphin smiled up at me from a gray dirt-caked hunk of meat wrapped in clear plastic.

I felt bile rising in my throat again and barely made it to the sink. Once I'd more or less regained my senses, I ran to the bathroom and whacked the handle with my gun. The thing was there, looking exactly the same, though with skin that was waxier and fingers that were longer and sharper. It was a perverse vision of Rebecca now, a corrupted imitation of her beauty. It didn't seem scared, not entirely. It wasn't cowering or backing away from me anyway. It had a knife in its hand for protection, and its gaze was fixed on me. I know what you're doing.

David, put the gun down. No, you did something to Rebecca. You stole her body, and now you're after me. Who? I have to admit, that wasn't the response I had expected. Rebecca Rebecca Cavendish You killed her to take over her body

I was frantic Jabbing the gun in the air as I spoke No David I promise I didn't Its tone was measured It was talking to me like it was a hostage negotiator like I was the one who was dangerous and not the monster or

demon or whatever the fuck it was I told you I consume nothing that was killed specifically for the purpose of being eaten. Well, forgive me for not believing you. It moved, and I raised the gun up again. You had no problem lying about being a human. You would have no problem lying about fucking killing people.

You never directly asked, to be fair. Don't get smart with me, you sick fucking ghoul. Rebecca's eyebrows both rose. What gave it away? Its voice was still Rebecca's, unaltered. save for that weird, annoying effect. The sound of it was starting to make my toes curl. Show me what you really look like.

Show me! Show me what the fuck you are! It is your life. How fucking boring and lonely must your life be that you spend all your time stalking someone just because she looks like a girl who was nice to you in high school?

Get a hobby. get a hobby. Hearing the thing laugh was even worse than hearing it talk. It was such an ugly, deranged sound, like a pack of hyenas huffing nitrous. Proved my point. Proved my fucking point. You don't even know if that gun could kill me.

By the way, please put it down. The neighbors are going to call the cops on both of us. I meant to hit the creature's heart, but, as I said before, it had been a while since I'd been to a gun range, and my aim was terrible. My bullet clipped the thing's shoulder and went through the wall behind. Something sticky and green oozed out of its fresh wound.

And you're a terrible shot, too. Don't test me. Son of a bitch. You don't even take care of your weapon either. Oh, my God. I gritted my teeth. It was bad enough that this thing was probably going to kill me. But did it really have to judge my gun ownership skills on top of that?

Shut the fuck up. I held the gun sideways and opened up the barrel. There was some rust in a couple of the chambers. I had no idea why it was that rusty. I quickly wiped it out with my shirt and put the bullets back in before closing it. Luck, David, can you just leave, please? Shut! As I turned the gun over in my hand again, I fumbled it.

Before I had time to register what was happening, I couldn't breathe. And there was a horrible burning pain spreading through my chest cavity. I looked down and saw blood. leaking from a fresh bullet hole in my side. I dropped to the ground and crawled to the towel rack, grasping for a towel and uselessly opening and closing my mouth, trying to get as much air from my remaining lung as possible. Shaking, I grabbed a towel and pressed it to my side.

The creature, still pretending to be Rebecca, still wearing her goddamn face, crossed the small room and squatted down on the tile next to me. It was looking at me like a cat looking at a fishbowl. See where paranoia gets you, Davy Jones. You could have left me the fuck alone, and we would have gotten on fine. You living your life, me living mine. But now, you had to be a total fucking busy body and ruin everything.

I looked up at the ceiling inside. I have to move again now. Great. I wish I could have said anything. But all I could do was wease impotently and hold the towel to myself. side. My remaining lung was starting to burn. I couldn't breathe. I tried, but I couldn't breathe at all anymore. I mouthed ambulance. Seeing the distress in my eyes, it grinned. And now I could see for sure that its mouth was way, way too big. There were so many teeth. Its expression was one of realization of someone who just had the solution to all of their problems handed to them on a silver

platter. Its clawed hand hovered over the side where I'd shot myself. Maybe. It reached under my shirt and felt around the bullet hole for a loose piece of skin. I would have screamed if I could. The pain of its nails digging in and pulling was almost worse than the pain of getting shot. It raised its hand to its face, a small bloody chunk of me in between its thumb and forefinger, and ate it. I got a brief, horrible glimpse of its true face for a second. Rubbery, olive gray skin. Big jaundiced eyes set deep in their sockets, a shaggy mane of coarse yellow fur. The thing squinted, cracked its neck, flexed its jaw.

Its skin rippled, and when it went back to looking human, it wasn't Rebecca anymore. It looked like me. It stared at me with my own eyes, and it smiled at me, showing off, twisted, sharpened versions of my own teeth. See, David? Nothing that was killed for the express purpose of being eaten. For most people,

living in a haunted house would be a nightmarish experience they would soon want to escape from. But as we learn from author Alyssa Ebersold, one woman discovers that her house contains the spirits of two young sisters. As such, she's filled less with fear

and more with curiosity about what happened to those young girls. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Goodnight, and Erica Sanderson. So don't be afraid. There's nothing to fear past the bottom step. Could only hear the ghosts from down the hall. Their voices were ambient far away whispers, and most often they remained as such. At other times they were infantile screams, cries, and laughter that echoed indistinctly through the corridors. I knew there were several, and I could hear their footsteps thumping down the stairs,

rhythmic and descending like the low rumble of a passing train. Eventually, the voices moved about the house. They drifted aimlessly, calling only to each other in distinct childish timbers, but in indistinct conversations. As time went on, their voices matured to my ears, and their vagueness evolved into the giggles of two young girls and their parents. Their names were Olivia and Nicole. Ted, you're it!

No, you're it. I could see them appear and disappear as transparent wisps and flicker like candles through creaking doors that opened and closed without a human hand. When their amorphous forms transformed into the shapes of the girls, I was able to tell them apart. Olivia was the youngest, with beautiful red hair braided into pigtails. Nicole was the elder, with straight brown hair that went down to her waist. The parents I hardly saw.

Occasionally I heard the kids being scolded from what I suspected was the kitchen, but the girls lived their own lives in their bedrooms, the hall. They never meant any harm, the girls. All they ever did was play with one another. Sometimes in the night I could hear their ruckus before my sleeping pills would take hold. The padding of their feet creaked the floorboards, and I could hear their stifled, playful laughs through the walls. If their ghostly sneaking persisted, there would be the muffled scolding from their parents, and then the giggles would cease. They would retire to their rooms, one of which was mine, and they would sleep before I did.

I could never touch them. They were intangible to me. I wondered what had happened to this family. I only ever heard the girls roam the distance between the foot of the stairs and the hallway. Once they reached the bottom step, their forms would vanish as quick as morning fog. I didn't want to speculate about their untimely end. It was never nice to do so. But I couldn't help myself.

No one had told me of a fire or deaths in the house in recent years. There had been no break-ins. When my partner and I had bought the house, the real estate agent hadn't disclosed anything about haunts, murders, or deaths of any kind. Perhaps the girls had died elsewhere, and they had come back to haunt their childhood home. Perhaps it was a place of happiness and solace for them. Maybe it was the best they could do if they were to remain in limbo for eternity.

I thought of these girls often. How young they were. How tragic their story was. Whatever their story was. It saddened me, and without fail, served as a reminder to take my antidepressants. The questions eddied around my brain as I lay in weight of sleep to consume my consciousness, at least until I took my pills to help me do you. so. I wanted to know what had happened to these young souls. In their ghostly forms, they showed no

evidence of wounds, broken bones, bullet holes, or burn marks. They never seemed frightened of their parents, so a death caused by their parents, be it accidental or intentional, didn't seem likely. My worry for their girls and their presence eased my torturous loneliness as I waited for my lover to return from their long and seemingly infinite business trip. But all the same in a sort of oxymoron, thinking about them, hearing them, and watching them pass through me like shadows, made the constant ache in my chest deeper. I knew so little about the harsh truth of their terminus. I wanted to ask them, but ghosts don't know they're dead.

There came a time when I drew up the crime. courage to speak to the girls. It was a cold evening, or perhaps it was just their company. Whenever they were near to me in the past, I could sense the mercury line sliding down its tube, or at least I thought I could. It may have just been some kind of placebo effect or a wild imagination drawing inspiration from horror films I had seen. How exactly could a ghost steal warmth that never made sense to me. I sat and waited in the hall, letting the stillness surround me.

I hoped they would reveal themselves on their own. I could hear the ambient clink of dishes and the din of faraway conversation. They would be finishing their ghostly supper soon and their translucent forms would appear at the bottom step. They would effortlessly glide in either their deadness or their youthfulness, up the stairs into their rooms to play.

It didn't take long for them to appear. They first emerged as wisps, bounding gleefully upwards, taller, older, and more graceful than I had remembered. I could have sworn the youngest had been a toddler, or at least preschool age. I took a nervous breath and called to them. They looked at each other, confused, but continued on their way.

I called again, louder this time, focusing all my energy on communicating. My shout must have been effective because they jumped. The lights in the hallway sputtered as if surged with power. A light bulb close to me popped as it burnt out in the commotion, and then they looked right at me. They were frightened by me, and they gazed at me with wide eyes, mouth slightly agape. I reached out to them reassuringly.

Hello? Her sister huddled with her. I sat down on the floor, the boards creaking below me, and I looked them in the eyes as warmly as I could. How old were you? The younger sheepishly looked at me from behind a raised shoulder. I'm seven, and I'm twelve. Olivia loosened the grip on her sister.

I smiled, noticing the goose pimples on their bare arms. Did you go to school? I do go to school. I'm in third grade. Oh, of course you do. I shook my head, feeling slightly foolish as I realized my mistake. Olivia told me how much she loved grade three. Math was her favorite subject, but recess was her favorite class.

Nicole was moving on. to junior high at the end of the year. She liked learning about the presidents and ballet. I asked about their parents. What were their names? Mama and Mommy. Nicole gave a small smile. Susanna and Eva.

According to Olivia, Susanna was a liar, but I suspected she meant lawyer, an oral idiosyncrasy from a small speech impediment I detected. My suspicions were eventually confirmed during another one of our chats. Mama put a bad man in jail today. Eva helped save people from dying at the hospital, but she wasn't a doctor. According to Olivia, she was like the patient's mommy too.

She took care of them. A nurse, most likely, I concluded, every night as I lay in my empty bed, desperately longing for my absent partner's warmth. I would say, sweet dreams, to the girls, and they would giggle. I took my pill to soothe my swirling thoughts of loneliness, and I would fall into a dreamless sleep, a likely side effect of my medications. I hoped they had dreams in the afterlife.

The girls' lives were cut short due to tragedy. At the very least, they should be afforded wild imaginations and vivid escapes. Every day I called out to the girls. and before they would notice me, the lights would pulse. And every day the girls would model their dress-up costumes for me and look just a bit older than the day prior in doing so. Or tell me about the cute boys at school. The girls became my friends, my routine.

I never did anything else or was excited for anything else, except to talk to the girls. One cold, rainy day, they did not appear for me, and their absence made me far more despondent than I'd like to admit. I waited for what seemed like forever for them to reappear. When night came, I curled up in bed and listened to the distant rolls of thunder and the rain gently pelting the window panes. The loneliness was unbearable without either the girls or my partner around for evening companionship.

Without them to talk to, all I did was sleep. Simultaneously, I was so overwhelmed with that sadness in their absence, I found it difficult to rest, and I needed the comfort of an extra pill, or three. Days went by without a glimpse or a sound of Olivia or Nicole. But one afternoon, I was stirred from a deep sleep by the hollow voice of a woman calling my name. It echoed, but I finally found its source at the bottom of the stairs. There, on the bottom step, stood a strange woman in her twenties with brown hair tied up in a bun. I sat down at the top step. Could the stranger be one of the parents, or another ghostly resident?

The ghost called to someone I couldn't see. I could never see the ghosts past the bottom step. Then she looked directly at me with a friendly smile. Um, hi there. Hey. Do you not recognize me? Why would I? She looked away from me past the bottom step.

I told you we weren't crazy, Liv. A second woman materialized on the bottom stair, with long Auburn hair tied back into a ponytail, and she too looked up at me in recollection. I stared them in the eyes and was struck. suddenly by their eerie familiarity. A chill went through me, and somewhere down the hall, I heard a light bulb suddenly shatter. Ghosts don't know.

They're dead. As our service concludes, we send you away with our blessings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the No Sleep Podcast.com to learn about our season pass program.

Over 60 hours of content for only 1919. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week in our sleepless sanctuary. Copyright 2018, 2019, by Creative Reason Media, All blessed 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.