The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S13E04

Episode Date: July 14, 2019

It's episode 04 of Season 13. On this week's show we have tales about unwanted connections between family and friends. "Eggshells" written by Daniel Hale (Story starts around 00:06:05) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - David Ault "The Barn Fire" written by L.P. Hernandez (Story starts around 00:19:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson, Jen – Jessica McEvoy, Cultist 1 – Peter Lewis, Cultist 2 – Graham Rowat, Farmer – David Cummings "Mom and Dad" written by A.E. Stueve (Story starts around 00:39:45) Produced by: Jeff Clement TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Mom – Addison Peacock, Madison Lariby – Nikolle Doolin "Can Spiders Actually Lay Eggs Under Human Skin?" written by Rene Rehn (Story starts around 01:05:00) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Narrator – Addison Peacock , Lisa – Nichole Goodnight, Nurse – Mary Murphy "Tick" written by M.J. Pack (Story starts around 01:36:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Carrie – Jessica McEvoy, Man on Ledge – Peter Lewis, Mike – Dan Zappulla, Cashier – Sarah Thomas, Guy at Store – David Cummings, Molly – Nichole Goodnight, Frank – Atticus Jackson, Carrie’s Mom – Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the book, "Dear Laura" by Gemma Amor   Click here to learn more about the podcast "Calling Darkness"   Click here to learn more about L.P. Hernandez   Click here to learn more about A.E. Stueve   Click here to learn more about Rene Rehn   Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "The Barn Fire" 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

Ugh, what is that smell? Jessica, get down here. What's up, boss? Didn't I put you in charge of keeping things clean down here in the dungeon? I granted you freedom to live in your own place on the condition that you clean this place. It stinks down here. I thought you meant you only needed me to clear away the human bones from Peter's cell. I didn't know you wanted me to clean up everyone's waste.

Well, of course I did. If we don't change the straw in the cells once a month, this place becomes unbearable. Maybe we need a better system than straw. I can't afford to install plumbing down here. What if I start feeding everyone less so they don't, you know, soil their cells as much? You barely feed them enough now. What we need is some sort of litter box for them. Wait, you might be on to something.

Litter boxes could be a great solution. I don't know. That's a lot of litter. Might have to go to the pet store and haul it back here. Oh, the time and expense. No, listen. I've discovered a great new type of litter called Pretty Litter. No more running to the pet store or storing heavy, opened bags of cat litter in my closet.

You mean you get your cat litter delivered? You bet. Pretty Litter is Kitty Litter 2.0. It shipped right to my door in a small, lightweight bag that lasts me the entire month. And Pretty Litter has next-level odor protection. It uses super-absorbent crystals that actually trap and conceal odor and moisture. No smell, no mess. Forget about that dirty clay or compost that's completely gross to clean up.

Interesting. You have, what, two cats at your place? How's pretty litter work for them? Three, actually. And yeah, they love it. It makes cleaning up after multiple cats so easy. The litter actually absorbs all liquid waste, so there's nothing to clean up. And for solid waste, it actually dehydrates it, so there's no icky scooping.

It's just there. It's compact. It's gone. It's done. It's out of my life. But the best part's probably that it can detect medical problems in your cat. See, it changes colors if it detects anything unusual about your cat's health. So knowing how common kidney disease and urinary tract infections are in cats,

it's really a relief to know that my sweet little beans are healthy. Well, if it works so well for your cats, I'm going to subscribe to Pretty Litter for the dungeon. You won't be sorry. Jessica! Yes, Bossman? You're right. Since switching to Pretty Litter, the dungeon has never smelled better. But, uh, Jessica?

Uh, yes? Someone still needs to clean the litter boxes. Here's your scoop. Oh, dear. Do what I did and make the switch to pretty litter today. By visiting pretty litter.com and use promo code no sleep for 20% off your first order. That's pretty litter.com promo code no sleep for 20% off. Pretty litter.com promo code no sleep.

You're doing this at all. on risk. Ready? Ready for the dark tales when we dare not close our eyes. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast video store. I'm David Cummings. Our VCR is ready to play stories about unwanted connections between family and friends.

I'm sure many of you are familiar with author Gemma Amour, who has shared number of her tales with us on the podcast. Stories like foliage and Girl on Fire. Well, Gemma has recently released a new horror novel titled Dear Laura. Every year on her birthday, Laura gets a letter from a stranger. That stranger claims to know the whereabouts of her missing friend Bobby, but there's a catch. He'll only tell her what he knows in exchange for something personal. This gripping novel will be perfect to read in the summer sun or in a dark bedroom.

Check the show notes for a link to where you can order this captivating new book. And Gemma is one of the creative forces behind the podcast, Calling Darkness. You may recall I mentioned this audio drama podcast when it first launched. It's a devilish blend of horror and comedy and features six women who attend an acting seminar at an old mansion only to discover. there are things more diabolical than being actors. The podcast recently wrapped up its first season, so if you haven't yet joined the girls, you can binge all 10 episodes now.

As always, a link is in the show notes, or search for Calling Darkness wherever you find your podcasts. And speaking of podcasts, it's time to start this one. So turn down the lights and grab the remote, because it's time for our feature. presentation. In our first tale, we meet two brothers who share a bond. This bond, unfortunately, revolves around a childhood trauma that happened to one of them before the other was even born. In this tale, shared with us by author Daniel Hale, we discover some truth to the old adage,

you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Performing this tale is David Alt. Easter may have been and gone, but for this one sibling duo, the scars of the holiday will leave them walking on eggshells. Hello, Nate, it's your brother. No, no, no, don't get up. Sorry. That joke never started being funny, did it? You know me? Can't help myself.

Are you awake? Tap once for... Oh, yeah, yeah, you are. It's hard to tell sometimes these days. You know, I don't remember the last time you opened your eyes. Am I that fucking ugly? Sorry. Sorry, yeah.

Mom and Dad couldn't be here. I told them not to come. Figured you'd prefer it that way. They both send their love. You know that. But it's, um... It's Easter today, Nate. Yeah, it's your special day.

Remember how mum used to say that? The day you were conceived. She was so proud of that. damn weird and annoying, like we had to celebrate your birthday on both ends of the year. Never mattered what day Easter was actually on that year, and I can't remember honestly what day it was when they got you, but she'd still have to crow about it like it was a miracle. You remember Easter supper when we were kids. Of course you do. You were always the centerpiece.

Mum would wheel you out special for the occasion, give you pride of place at the head of the table where everyone could. could see you. Did you like that? I used to wonder. They'd keep you in your room the rest of the time. Hardly anybody ever went in there without mom or dad's say so. They used to make me go and play in there just so you wouldn't be lonely. I would have preferred to have been on my own if it was me. We did an egg hunt at home for Alan and Olivia. Bad idea. More than a dozen chocolate eggs between two kids and they still got into a fight about it. Might do the church's Easter service next year instead if I can talk Alison into it. That's another thing mum made us do, isn't it?

Every Easter she'd have me share my chocolate with you, and half the time you wouldn't even eat it. Just let it fall out of your mouth. Was it because you didn't like chocolate, Nate, or because you couldn't get it yourself? I wish you'd told us how... I wish you could. Last time I got to do a proper egg hunt on my own, was the Easter you were conceived.

Have I ever told you that? I'll always remember it. It was the last time mum and dad took me to the church for Easter service. I never took us back after you were born. Old Reverend Philby used to call you the Easter boy. Philby the Bilby, eh? That's a face I haven't thought of in a long time. But you never went to church on Easter.

I wonder if they still do the service the same way. Philby never conducted it himself. He always had a guest vicar to do it. The Reverend Osterhays. You never met him, more's the pity. I only ever saw him on Easter. He was this thin little guy with a pink bald head and big round glasses.

He had ugly little buck teeth too, very prominent in a sort of high, breathy voice. He spoke quietly and weased a little when he gave the sermon. Oh, God, those Easterings. to sermons. I still remember them. Primitive cultures once believed that the world hatched from an egg.

Each egg hatching is alive. Every rabbit spotted is alive to come. Every chocolate eaten is life's fleeting moments. Too little savored. It was more like a lecture than a proper son. sermon. He was strange, yeah. Do you know, I don't think Father Philby liked him very much. He never hung around when he came for Easter, wouldn't see him again till the next Sunday, and by then Oster Hayes would be gone. I've no idea what church he came from. We missed the sermon that last Easter, the one before Mom and Dad had you. They were arguing Dad told me they'd overslept, but I could hear them through the wall. Couldn't hear what they said, but. Couldn't hear what they said, but. but mum was crying when she came out of the room. By the time we got to the church, the sermon was over,

and the other children were out on the lawn hunting for eggs. Osterhays was waiting in the church with the parents. The idea was the kids had an hour to find as many eggs as possible. They'd bring them back to their parents, and they'd all paint them together. Then they'd give them to the Reverend. Some of the other kids were already running eggs back to the church before heading out for more. Dad got a basket off the reverend for me, told me to go and find some eggs before they were all gone.

Well, you know what the church is like, all those hedges, big rolling lawn that butts up right to the edge of the woods. A lot of places to hide an egg, even without a bunch of kids who'd gotten a head start on you. And they were vicious, those kids. I got tripped and pushed and shoved out of the bushes. I got the basket knocked out in my hands twice, and Wesley, Hogan, yeah, that fat brat even stepped on it at one point. Meanwhile, I'm seeing kids running back to the church with their baskets full of white and brown eggs going as quick as they could without breaking any and then running back out for more.

You want to know the stupid thing, Nate. They were normal eggs, not chocolate or anything, and you didn't get anything for finding the most eggs or painting the prettiest eggs. You could bring a sackful of them back to Oster Hayes and there'd be no guarantee you'd win. He'd pick one egg and give it back to you with a big chocolate bunny for your trouble. I don't know how he'd picked which family won, even after all the Easter's I'd been to by that point. It all looked pretty random to me. By the time the hour was almost over, I'd about given up.

Mum and dad hadn't seen me back in the church since we'd gotten there, and so I was sure they'd given up too. But the thought of Mum just sat there by those bowls of unused dye, her eyes. still read and you know how dad looks when he's disappointed or do you i'd never been sure but i couldn't face that not empty-handed so i did what little boys are best at i picked a fight with the one nearest to me and that just happened to be benny grenigan who was biggest by far of our year and had the eggs in his basket to prove it. All I had to do was give him a shove, and he turned around and started smacking me. He dropped his basket into the bargain, the eggs went rolling, and the other kids got involved going after them. I'm surprised more of the eggs didn't get smashed, to be honest. As it was, the ground was

covered in yellow fluff and broken shells when parents started pulling their kids off each other, and I got away with precisely one egg and just a little bit of yolk on my shirt. I was a little worried for a moment that Grenigan would tell until I saw his dad bringing him back inside, big red mark still on the right side of his face. Serves him right. So I brought the egg to mum and dad. They didn't look as happy about it as I'd hoped, but mum still took it and dunked it in some dye. It came out quite pretty, too, all these blue and green swirls like the sun trying to set as the clouds come apart. And when it was died, she wrote on it with a white crayon, a name. When she was finished, I got into line with the other kids and their newly dyed eggs. At their head of the line was the Reverend Osterhays.

The line was moving quickly as the Reverend took each egg that was handed to him. The kids who finished walked past me to go and sit with their parents, crying or looking confused. Nobody had won yet. I hate being the last do anything, but I hated being the last in the last inviating. that line most of all. The worst part was watching the girl in front of me handing over her eggs. There must have been nearly 20 stacked in her basket, and she handed each one to Osterhaze. The Reverend would bring each egg up to his face,

turn it this way and that running his fingers over the shell, and then he would let go. He smashed every one of that girl's eggs, and she ran back to her parents in tears. My feet crunched and squelched as I stepped on the remains of all the eggs rejected by the reverent. Every egg but mine. He took it from my basket before I could hand it to him, eager. He looked it over right up close, so it was almost touching his face.

I'm sure I could hear him sniffing it. He traced the name mum had written on it with his fingers, then he touched the tip of each finger on his tongue, tasting. them. He looked at me. He looked at Mom and Dad. Then he very carefully set the egg back in my basket and nodded. The look on Mum's face might have been the happiest I've ever seen her. She and Dad both hugged me hard, neither really noticing that everyone else in church was silent, except Osterhays. A new life, he said.

save it Of course I had to go and drop the egg on the way back to the car Mum wanted to keep it Preserve it I guess give it to you when you were older But I swung the basket too hard and it hit the tarmac Split apart The thing inside I guess it was a fetus

Like a little malformed baby chicken It looked wrong I mean, I'm not an expert or anything, but it looked wrong, broken. Its back was all crooked and sort of twisted out of shape. Its head was too large. Its eyes sort of overinflated and bulging out of their sockets. It had no mouth that I could see, just a bare nub of skin, and its legs were sort of melted together into this kind of long, ropy tail.

And it was moving. Soon as it hit the ground, it started trembling all over, thrashing its little tail, banging its head against the ground. After a moment or two, its eyes went cloudy. The flesh on its face stretched like it was trying to open its mouth, and then it lay still. I wanted to bury it, but Dad wouldn't let me, said Mum was upset enough as it was. So we just... Left it there. When you were born, I didn't think.

I mean, it was a good 20 years before I ever thought of that last Easter service. Mom and Dad never let me go again, never took you at all. I'm sure it occurred to them that something was wrong, but they always told me it was just because I started that fight. Osterhaze? Was that why? Because I stole the egg? Was that why he did this to you? I was just, I, well, I didn't know.

Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I think I think I have to. Mom and Dad talked to me about it once. I thought them about it, got them to go off the idea, but I don't think either of them could do it now. I love you, Nate. Will you let me tap once for yes? Being a cop can be tough,

especially when you're the kind of cop who gets sent out to investigate mysterious blazes in the middle of nowhere. In this tale, shared with us by author L. P. Hernandez, we meet one such cop, who's not only dealing with the strange events of the evening, but also struggling with his past. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Jessica McAvoy, Peter Lewis, and Graham Rowett. So tread carefully if you investigate this tale. the call and join us as we discover the cause of the barn fire. The call came in at about 11 p.m. on a Tuesday night. Man says it's a barn fire about a quarter mile from his property.

Says it'll probably burn itself out, but he's worried about the people there. Said he couldn't see him well from his porch and they were running around and making a lot of noise. Copy that, Jen. It's fire coming too? Negative. Fire's on a call across town. Engine 2 is in the shop. Let me know if you think otherwise when you get there.

Copy. On my way. What's the address again? Nah, let's see. The man said we could use his address. Says you'll reach the barn before you reach his house. It's going to be 374 County Road 21. How copy? I typed the address in. It was only about four miles away as the crow flies, but the path was mostly back roads scaling rugged terrain. I had been in the area on call once before and recalled how quickly the town lights dissipated.

A mile or two into the drive, and the town was just a hazy, sherbet-colored glow out my passenger window. That's a good copy. Be about 15 mics. That's one five mics. Copy that. There was little radio chatter that night, despite the full moon. Tuesdays are typically slow, but full-moon nights are unpredictable. Maybe it was the thin mountain air.

Maybe being a couple thousand feet closer to that silver, vapid world was the... tipping point. I turned off asphalt onto a dirt road that still bore the pockmarks and divvets from the spring thaw. They threw in my brights. Within a quarter mile it began to feel like real wilderness. Bristlecone pines leaning over the path. The moon glimpsed for brief moments through furry branches. Silky banners of fog caressed the trunks of trees and snaked across the road. The car jolted and shuddered as it dipped in and out of potholes. I found myself gripping the steering wheel so tightly, the blood drained from my fingers. Jesus! An oak stood in the center of the road with strands of dewy grass hanging from its antlers. I jammed my foot

onto the brake pedal and the cruiser skidded for a moment before finding traction. The beast was uninterested in how close it had come to losing its life. It dipped its head, almost as if in acknowledgement, then vanished into the brush. My heart rate decelerated, and I checked the map. I had only driven half a mile, but it felt much farther. My inclination was to assume the barnfire was teenagers, but it was a school night and there was nothing else happening in town. It wasn't prom or homecoming. It was late September. Fall encroached as night descended, sending thin tendrils of chilled air through the residual heat of the day.

It was a forgotten time of year, between seasons, between holidays. I drove the next mile with my chin hovering over the steering wheel as I scanned for animals. The radio fizzed and popped. The signal interrupted by the distance. in thickening woods. In pockets, the fog was so dense I slowed the car to a crawl, dreading the thunk of a raccoon meeting its end. The foliage retreated, replaced by meadows with waist-high grass, painted steel gray by the light

of the moon. I saw the glow of cooling embers ahead on the left and assumed I found the barn. It was beyond the reach of my spotlight, and no additional details were visible. I rolled down the window. My headlights flickered, and the monitor of my tactical computer froze. I tapped a few keys and the entire unit shut down. At the same time, my power steering went out, and the engine died. The cruiser coasted a few dozen feet as the road angled slightly downward.

When its momentum expired, I pulled the parking brake. I triggered my radio, but there wasn't even a burst of static. I was alone with no calm, but recalled dispatch mentioning the man who placed the call lived up the road. With a shrug, I left my car where it was and headed out. The high grass obscured much of what was left of the barn. I cupped my hands around my face and pressed my nose to the window, but there just wasn't enough light. My belly felt as though it had been filled with writhing caterpillars, and the sensation extended to the tips of my fingers.

I felt the same fear a decade before. Prior to a patrol in Afghanistan, two men didn't return from that patrol. And I sometimes felt a part of me stayed on that desolate road with whatever was left of them. I opened the door and resting on the butt of my weapon. I walked to the edge of the dirt, eyes straining to make sense of the pale shapes in the grass. The barn had partially collapsed. and there were isolated nests of fires here and there. I didn't recognize the noise for what it was.

It blended so well with the natural sounds of wind and rustling branches. It was only when it stopped that I realized I had been hearing it since I stepped out of the car. Fog huddled around my knees as I skipped over the embankment and stood in the tall grass. To that point, it seemed harmless. I considered returning to the road, walking to the house, and calling the station. The churn in my stomach subsided. Looking back now, I wish I'd followed my instincts. Instead, I trudged through the constricting wet blades of grass to investigate.

The night air was cool, almost cold, yet my palms were sweaty. The grip on the butt of my weapon felt slick, oily. The drone was all around me. What I must stick for boulders were people, naked people, on their knees with their heads buried in the grass. Jesus, fuck! I knelt next to the closest person who did not seem to be contributing to the whirring drone noise. A voice called out, and I stood, and returning to my weapon. We present these offerings to you, O Lord.

He was backlit by the embers of smoldering wood, as well as minor blazes that still burned. The man was nude, his penis partially erect as he hoisted a large bowl over his head. So that you may see us, Lord, so that you may taste of the flesh once again, Lord. The gathered mass lifted their heads in unison. So that you may consummate, Lord. He faced the barn and placed the bowl on the ground, then retreated a few paces. For a moment, nothing happened. I turned back to the silent man on the ground at my feet.

Sir, can you explain what's happening here? He could not, as I soon learned. The man was bald, his age disguised by shadows. He smiled, white teeth glowing faintly. and a torrent of blood streamed down his chin. He opened his mouth for me to see that his tongue was missing, replaced by a twitching stump. His eyes vibrated with manic energy, and he tilted his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed a mouthful of his own blood,

so that you may taste of the flesh. I backpedaled and unholstered my weapon. There were too many of them. If they turned their attention on me, I would not have enough bullets to defend myself. The man who had placed the bowl in front of the barn began to speak in a foul language. It was harsh and chaotic, full of spit.

His voice grew louder, more urgent. The gathered mass stood and began to make guttural noises that somehow merged in with the first man's speech. I attempted to count the people, but was distracted by the spectacle. Nude men and women of every age, enraptured, frothing, in anticipation. A man that doesn't feet to my right collapsed. For a moment, my humanity overtook my fear. I returned my weapon to its holster and jogged to him.

His body was artfully arranged on the pillowed grass, one hand grazing his brow. and the other rested on his belly, which rose and fell with his increasingly shallow breaths. His legs were slightly parted to reveal the leaking wound where his genitals had been, so that you may consummate, Lord. His eyelids fluttered, and the space between breaths increased. I whipped my head around, looking for my car, looking for help.

The car was dead, as the young man. was about to be, and help was not coming. I returned my attention to the group and its leader, whose voice was struggling to rise above a whisper. I assumed his earlier words corresponded to the two wounded men, and guessed there must also be within the group, a member missing his eyes. My mind was transported to the quagmire in Afghanistan. I remembered the specialist who manned the turrets.

that night, the subtle shift in his countenance when he succumbed to his injuries. The terror on his face metamorphosed into a serene resignation. I remembered the gentle wisps of hair above his lip, the clusters of acne on his cheeks. When he could no longer speak, he mouthed the single word he had repeated as the life drained from his body. Mom, I shook my head. The chanting ceased. The group members shuffled forward, collecting in a mass behind the leader.

They faced the barn and stood in silence. The man without a tongue was on his hands and knees, head connected to the earth by a thick band of blood. Whatever was about to happen would be worse than what I had seen to that point. I scanned the path of the road, searching for the houselights. The fog was fully formed by then. like a gentle gray sea. The leader pulled a small burning plank from the ruins of the barn. He placed it in the bowl with the donated organs,

and that seemed to be the catalyst for what happened next. There was a structure in the center of the barn, a deeper black than the surrounding darkness. The sound reminded me of an ice storm the previous November, as the branches of trees surrendered to the weight of the ice, they snapped, popping like gunfire before plummeting to the earth with an extended sigh. The smoldering fires grew in size. Flames climbed the cracked and blackened wood of the barn, revealing the general shape of the structure within. It appeared to be an edifice of substantial size.

The few remaining walls of the barn collapsed, and only the statue survived the demolition. The leader dropped to his knees in submission, and the gathering repeated the exercise. I was the only person standing. The sound of splintering wood persisted, reaching a crescendo as the black shape transformed into something I did not understand for some time. I am grateful for the cloud cover. Had I seen it in the light of the full moon, I might have deposited my eyes in the offering hall. It was a chimera of sorts. Its various appendages called from multiple species.

It had the head of a goat and the antlers of a stag. It was bipedal, with thick fur-covered legs ending in hooves. Its torso was mostly human, though the hair was more like a pelt. The beast's antlers might have grazed the ceiling of the barn, had still been standing. I stumbled backwards, landing in the arms of a man who spilled hot tears on the back of my neck. I felt his body press into mine. Do you see him?

Do you see him? I did see him. I saw a creature of pure power. When his antlers swiveled in my direction, I felt less significant than a single grain of sand in a desert that touched every horizon. I sensed his cosmic intelligence, the knowledge of eons. He had taken form on earth at the beckoning of this group of adherents, who spoke his name with salivating tongues.

Do you see? The gods surveyed his flock, antlers cutting canals through the mist. The leader held the offering bowl above his head. arms shuddering. The man's fingers burrowed into the flesh of my arms. I see. I see. The God accepted the ball and reached within.

The sound awoke me. I blinked the sleep from my eyes, aware at once of a throbbing near my occipital bone. I rubbed the back of my neck as my ears pinpointed the source of the noise. I was wondering if you were going to show. Show up. The old farmer wore a robe and held a copper mug of something that steamed in the chilled morning air. He tapped the window again and motioned for me to roll it down. Instead, I opened the door and dismissed him for a moment as I scanned the hillside.

Very little was left of the barn, though a few stubborn coals still burned. The smoke, a similar gray as the fog. my mind recalling the images of a few hours ago. The people? The old man shrunk. I guess they left. Wasn't my barn anyway. To tell the truth, I've never met the owners of this property.

I always assume they were rich folks from out of state. You didn't see anything? He sipped from the copper mug. I went to bed after I put the call in. Appreciate you coming out. What were you doing in your car, if you don't mind me asking? My fingers grazed the hard mass at the base of my skull. I don't know.

My cruiser died on me, and I went to investigate the fire. The people there. People, I... You didn't see anything? Nope, went to bed and had the most wonderful dreams. I directed my gaze at him. Dreams? He nodded.

His smile nearly touched his dangling earlobes. His face was so wrinkled it was difficult to believe the skin had ever been smooth. You dropped this, by the way. He thrust a small book into my chest and shuffled into the mist. I looked toward the ruins and the sloping land behind. There were paths carved in the grass, one wider than the others, disappearing into the fog. They would fade in time, removing all traces of the madness of a few hours ago. The book of Muzor.

The title was embossed in minimalist gold script. I flipped through the pages as I returned to the car. My clearest memories of Afghanistan are of silence. It was so rarely peaceful in that country. Beyond the screech of inbound mortars and the roar of the 8-10 were the no noises of everyday life, motors, children, lots of goats. It was typically quiet in that sliver of time when nights surrendered to the dawn. Even war has a shift change, I guess. I longed for silence. When I found it, I wrapped it around myself like a protective blanket, safe from mortars,

safe from bombs, insulated from the final whispered words of a dying teenager. Mama, I found the silence again, in the words of a book. The book described a vast and empty void, the lightless expanse between stars. There, the silence was absolute. It described a sleeping god drifting through the void. waiting to hear his name spoken again. Our parents can be a source of great love and support, but they can also, well, mess us up. Never is this more true than the case where the parents are darkly powerful magic users.

In this tale, shared with us by author A.E. Stovie, we meet a man who can accurately be described as a son of a witch. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Atticus Jackson, and Nicole Doolin. So put up your warding spells, light your sage, and let's hope the apple does fall far from the tree, lest you end up like mom and dad. I've never read a story about witches in the suburbs or ghost plaguing McMansions. There are never haunted neighborhoods full of brightly colored split foyeres and ranch houses. Kids running down the street, laughing about whatever it is kids laugh about, sun shining, a park nearby where the smacking sounds of bats hitting balls can be heard if you listen closely. More laughter, dogs barking, cats meowing, squirrels, squirreling.

These places do not appeal to witches and ghosts. They appeal to middle class families seeking wholesome fun and nostalgia. His stories can be believed to find a witch one has to stumble through the dark, dank woods at night, probably during a full moon. To face a ghost, one has to break into a dilapidated house sagging into itself at the end of a dead-end street

and stumble into a pentagram painted in blood on the rotten wooden floor or something. In my experience, that's bullshit. The only things that you should be scared of in the deepest forests in the world, are predatory animals like Dorothy's infamous tigers, lions, and bears. To be fair, there are several things you should be scared of in a creepy house that's falling apart, not the least of which is tetanus. No ghosts, though.

Ghosts and witches are more powerful where there are people. If there aren't any people, then there is no reason for ghosts and witches to be around. Who are they going to scare out in the middle of the woods, or a house few ever enter. When you think about it, the idea that these sorts of monsters would be far away from humanity is laughable. They have a job to do, after all. Nightmares to make.

And I know for a fact they live in the wholesome mix of nuclear family neighborhoods with wide streets and Ford or sedans galore. I know this, because my mom, was a witch, and she was mean. You could ask the ghost she kept trapped in the house with us. He was my dad. It's strange the way things seem normal to kids.

My sisters, Sarah and Sammy and I didn't know any better. It was our life. It was the way things had been since we were born. How could they not be normal to us? You grow up with chickens, getting murdered in your kitchen sink while your mom chants in some long-forgotten languages you eat your fruit loops, and it's strange when you go to your friend's house and eat chicken and sort of spread its blood over the kitchen floor to curse the Schwan's man. It was normal

when my dad died, and he was still there, but in two forms. His withering, dying, yet somehow soggy body and his ephemeral spirit, stuck and miserable, wandering the house and crying. When my mom told me not to worry about it as she peeled off pieces of his skin, ground his organs and gouged his eyeballs out while carving strange symbols into his pale, sunken chest, it was just how things were. She was making medicine to make. make him better. The thought that he could not be better never crossed my mind. That's the way it was. Though if I can remember anything I thought was strange before I knew it was strange, it was the way she brought out the worst in people right before she destroyed them. She had this

power that no one could see. It was hidden behind the veneer of normalcy. It was magic. It was this bit of her magic that set me off to wondering if things were different elsewhere in other houses up and down our street. I was seven when the woman who lived next door to us, Madison Larrabee, picked a fight with my mom. It was summertime, really hot, melting eggs on the sidewalk hot. It was fairly early in the morning, I think, because Larrabee wanted to take my mom off guard. That's funny. My mom was always on guard. Larrabee walked over to our front door in high heels of all things, in an outfit my mom didn't approve of. Slinky, she called it. What a whore would wear.

Larraby was angry about something. I wish I could remember what. A strange smell, maybe, all the yowling cats who seemed drawn to our yard. My sisters and I being too loud, one morning when we were playing in the backyard. The backyard was the only place we could freely go. The other doors in the house were always locked. The enemy lives out there, Mom said whenever we tried to go out to the front yard. You did not need to be alone unless I say you need to be alone. Mom told us whenever we wanted to enter our bedrooms and it was not bedtime.

Locked doors everywhere. I didn't understand it, but seeing Larrabee all bulls, algae-eyed and angry pounding on our front door, I was fine with all the doors being locked. Larraby could have been mad about anything. The cats, maybe the chickens, we were weird. I mean, at that point, Dad had been dead for at least three months, and Mom had been focusing most of her energies on bringing him back to life. So we had a lot of chickens and a few goats in our garage. Fiona Smith. Larrabee was a woman who was used to scaring people.

Mom was not scared. She wrenched the front door open and shoved the storm door in Larraby's face, snapping her vice grip like it was a weak rubber band. Larraby stumbled back. Her heel caught in the slot between the boards and our porch, and she yanked her foot out, looking like a drunken donkey in a tight dress and braying like one. You got a problem?

My mother was a beautiful woman. Larrabee was trying to be. The difference was stark. Larraby, dressed like she was headed out for a fancy brunch, and my mom looked like a hobo. She wore her ratty red robe and a pair of matching pajama pants. There were tattered and torn black fringes on everything, but it hid the blood stains from the various chickens and other animals

she'd sacrificed on the regular pretty well. She also had one of Dad's old t-shirts on. It was probably in Metallica or something like that. He loved his heavy metal. After he died, she wore all of his old t-shirts. She said there was power in it, control. Well? A bit flustered, as much by my mom's appearance as her tone,

Larraby tried her best to hold her ground. She said something, stumbled over her complaint like it was a field of dog shit. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I don't remember what her complaint was, because my mom made it that way. It doesn't matter anyway. After Larrabee's rant, Mom crossed her arms over her chest and leaned on the doorframe. You sure you want to start this with me? It didn't sound like a challenge, at least not to me. My sisters and I were there, half listening to some cartoon video I'd put in the VCR, played at its lowest volume possible.

You started this. How did I do that? Larraby said something that's foggy now. Mom stepped out of the door and stood face to face with her. Do you think I'm scared of you? She took another step closer so that Larraby had to take a step back. You think I'm anything like all of these low-to-face? Only horrors you control?

Her fingers pointed up and down to indicate, to the best of my knowledge, every woman on the block. I'm not trying to scare you. I laughed at that. You hear my boy laughing? He's seven and he knows you're full of shit. She turned, as if dealing with Larraby any longer, was beneath her. Now get going. Get happy?

Or I'm going to make sure you get real sad. Is that a threat? It's a promise. Mom walked inside and let the storm door slam shot behind her. Larraby left, angry, scared. My mom spent the rest of the morning creating some sort of concoction out of newt eyes and the like. Real witch shit. That afternoon, cops came.

Mom offered them coffee and donuts she had made out of the newt-eye concoction she cooked up earlier. They spoke, and my mom was as polite as a preacher's wife during Sunday dinner. After their short talk with my mom, the cops went over to Larrabee's house and made sure she wouldn't be bothering us anymore. My mom scoffed at them as they headed over. It was surreal. It was magic. And there were more examples.

The way our house was always clean, even though she never cleaned. She said it was her pets that did it when she slept, her familiars. Cats from all over the neighborhood approached her like they were good friends. I never knew any of those cats' names. There was also the fact that she'd never let us have kids over. Not that we had many friends, anyway. Though our house looked nice, like everyone else's, I imagine there was something about it that usually kept people away.

Occasionally kids would come into the backyard to play, but they had to stay out of her garden. It housed plants I could describe, but you don't want my nightmares. Trust me. She never taught me any of her magic. Laughing one night after the Larrabee incident, when I asked if I'd ever be like her, she placed a hand on my shoulder, almost kindly. and looked at my sisters. This magic belongs to them, not you.

That's not what you're for. She never told me what that meant. After Dad died, she spent most of her time flitting between the bedroom where his corporeal body slowly rotted, oddly stench-free, and the kitchen where she made potion upon potion and utilized my sisters to aid her while I watched. and my dad cried. He tried to communicate with me a few times,

saying things I didn't understand. It was like he was talking underwater and backwards. I'll never forget the pain in his ghostly eyes, as he pointed toward the bedroom where his body lay decomposing, and the kitchen where my mom and sisters concocted strange remedies. This went on for weeks. Mom focused all her energies on curing Dad of Death. It seems strange to write that now, but I felt perfectly normal back then.

But it was when she pulled an ancient book out of the attic late one night that I knew things were reaching a turning point. There was something about that book that frightened me. Was it the human skin binding? I lived with a witch my whole life. I'd seen things like that. Was it the title in a language I couldn't understand because the letters were almost alien in their structure and shape? No, again.

I was familiar with that sort of thing, too. It was when she opened it that I grew frightened. My sister, standing next to me at the kitchen table, grew excited. But I felt a coldness wash over me as the pages fluttered by, whispering. This book is the most powerful thing. In my possession. She looked at my sisters. Someday, it will belong to one of you.

My dad floated by, moaning and shaking his head. By this point, his color had changed. He'd begun his undead life as a bluish, light form. Now he was a sickly green, and his eyes glowed yellow, sometimes red. If it hadn't been my dad, he would have terrified me. Don't pay any attention to him. My sisters and I inched away from his gruesome form. He batted a mug on the counter.

His fingers went through it. Useless. He's getting upset because he wants to leave. Why can't we let him leave? I'm not done with him. I stumbled away and headed to the living room in cartoons while she flipped through the pages of her ancient tone, whispering things to my sisters I would never understand.

Dad had gone from being an annoying, creepy ghost to a wailing poltergeist of sorts. Mom and my sisters chanted curses, slew goats, and practiced the darkest of dark arts to get my dad to calm down, all behind our magnificently manicured lawn mom paid landscapers to take care of. Mom's cats grew agitated.

They surrounded the house day and night, meowing a chorus of the damned. Animal control collected them regularly, and mom demurred that she didn't understand why the cats were doing this to her. They only laughed and told her they were happy to help. Dad's ghost was everywhere in the house, making everything cold, knocking shit over.

Somehow he had figured out how to solidify enough to touch things. I heard odd crashes in the middle of the night. I woke up to kitchen chairs and strange formations on top of the counter. We need a new body. Mom announced this one morning after she had spent all night alone with the book in her bedroom. I imagined her lying next to the now mummified body that was once my dad, and his ghost hovering over her, shaking. his head, longing only to leave.

Our spells won't work anymore. I thought we could change things, use the life energy of the animals to help him this time, but no. Sarah asked what needed to be done. Mom's eyes fell to me, piercing me with a momentary but studious glare. Something difficult. She pointed at me.

Leave. I went into the... living room that night and avoided the kitchen except to get food. Days passed and my mom and sister spent more time in my parents' bedroom. Dad hovered around them trying to block their movements. Mom spat strange curses at him that caused him to disappear for a few hours. He always came back, though. One night, days later, as I sat staring at the TV, trying to ignore the growing realization in my gut that all of this was run. I heard clattering and crying come from the bedroom when my family had been spending most of its time.

I eyed the hallway, wondering if I should investigate. Another sound, like a great grinding, followed by pounding, made me jump. Like an animal, I ran straight for an escape through the back door. But I stopped, noticing the book on the kitchen table. It was the illustrations that caught my eye. From a distance, they looked as though they were moving. Riving might be the right word. But I couldn't tell what they were.

Mom had left it open on the kitchen table, bubbling repugnant potions on one side and balls of blood on the other. I don't know what had drawn me to it that particular time, because at this point, the thing frightened me to no end. I was eight years old now and the growing realization that nothing in my life was normal motivated me to fear everything. Somehow, though, I was drawn to the book, like a Junebug to a screen. Gulping, I approached it. When I bent my head to look at the pages, I closed my eyes and trembled, not knowing what I'd see when I studied it close up.

Some banging noises sounded down the hall in mom and dad's bedroom. A strange, growling voice followed it. I took a deep breath. The illustrations were like something out of Mary Shelley's worst nightmare. Random body parts sewn together with some kind of magical, cursed thread to create a disjointed, horrific facsimile of a human body with children's body parts. She was rebuilding a body for my dad so that he could find his way into it and grow up again, a new man.

As I studied these images, the words grew clearer and clearer. A sinkhole opened up in my stomach as I scanned the pages and touched the scar where my right arm and shoulder met. I touched another where my neck met my torso. I had seen the millions of times, when I bathed or dressed. Mom had called them

birthmark. I was stuck there. Hands, sweating on the pages, for what felt like forever. The world quieted around me. I couldn't process this information. It was hitting a massive wall of panic in my psyche. I was no longer shaking. I was still, still in a way I had never been before,

and have never been since. Another crash coming from my parents' room snapped me out of it. I faced the hallway that led to their bedroom door. My heart pounding, my pits sweating and my eyes watering, I approached. I'll never know where I got the courage to do that. I'll never know if, in fact, it was courage, or if it was morbid curiosity or some sort of magic pull. Whatever it was, I was drawn.

My mom had done some horrible things in her day. I knew that. She had cursed, poisoned, and scared her way through life, all the while hiding beneath the veneer of suburban middle classery. But the images on those pages told me she was doing things far worse than even I imagined. I didn't knock. I didn't have to. The door creaked open when I approached it as though it wanted me to see.

My memory is cloudy about a lot of things growing up. But what I saw in there will stick with me for eternity. Body parts were strewn around my parents' bedroom. Blood oozed out of some, coagulated in brownish chunks around others. Some were fresh and looked as though they could get up and move around. Others were greenish, broken things. The shock of seeing these mutilated, severed pieces sewn together while my dad's translucent, snot-like form screamed into an abyss

only he could see forced vomit up my throat. The tangy threads spewed forth as I saw Mom and my sisters there, covered in the gore of human entrails in Icor, eyeing a body, lying on the sopping black mattress, parts connected with glowing golden thread, was missing, almost knocked me over. It wasn't the rod of death. Somehow Mom had covered that well. It was... I'm glad you're here. My sisters approached me, bloody hands reaching out.

It's time Slick with the blood of their victims My sister's hands couldn't get a good grip on me I stumbled away and ran I tried my bedroom door but it wouldn't budge I yanked on the front door but it was locked too Always locked My sisters like little blood-soaked demons

chased after me Murderous lust in their eyes Evil in their eyes I headed through the kitchen toward the back door. My sisters, slipping on their own bloody feet on the linoleum, were right behind. Somewhere, mum was laughing, so loud, I thought she'd break the house's foundation. I hoped we'd all sink down and away from this mess, and I'd never have to think of it again. I reached the unlocked back door as I dreamed of not knowing.

The backyard was covered in cats. who did not want me to leave. They attacked from all sides while my sisters tried to pull me back in. But fear was fueling my drive, and I could not be stopped. I'm not sure how many cats I killed that night to make it out of our privacy fence,

which I leapt onto and scurried over. But they did not go down with a fight. I still have scars from some of their claws. When I landed in the alley, shaking the last cat off of me and stomping on its head, I broke, running, screaming, crying into the night, and straight into Madison Larrape. She had been jogging down the alley.

She saw the bloody handprints in my arms, the cat scratches over my face and legs, and she scooped me up. We called the police. They arrived far quicker than I expected them to and invaded my house, guns at the ready. They didn't need them, though. Mom was passed out in her bedroom, surrounded by 11 corpses and pools of blood. My sisters were in a daze in the backyard, surrounded by an army of cats. I don't know what happened. Mom was put in an institution.

Sarah, Sammy, and I were put in foster homes. Life went on. When I grew up, I tried to find. any birth records for me. All the state had were orphan certificates and documents explaining how old they thought I was, some mundane medical records, psychiatric evaluations, and the like. There were medical papers on the strange scars at many of my joints. Scars I thought were normal for so many years. Today, Sarah is a witch, just like mom was. It happened after, her mom was institutionalized. A magic swooped over her like a dark cloud, and she changed.

Sammy committed suicide after mom died. Her ghost, I imagine, lives in Sarah's house. I don't talk to them. The last time I saw any of my family was at mom's funeral. It was a quiet affair in a potter's field behind the institution, where it was a little bit of she had spent the last 10 years of her life, dazed and confused. We were the only ones there. Us and some cats. I live in the woods now in what probably looks like a haunted cabin, far away from people, far away from witches and ghosts, far away from anything scary. As the lights come back on, our stories come to an end. Please remember to be kind and rewind.

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. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us at the video store next week. Our door is always open. This audio production is copyright 2019 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.