The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S13E05

Episode Date: July 21, 2019

It's episode 05 of Season 13. On this week's show we have tales about the horrors found in the out of doors. "The Puppet in the Tree" written by Rachele Bowman (Story starts around 00:04:30) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Muppet Man – Mick Wingert, Narrator’s Father – Mike DelGaudio, Police Officer – David Cummings, Father’s Friend – Nikolle Doolin "Gifts to Avalon" written by Anderson West (Story starts around 00:31:50) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Connor – Kyle Akers, Kayden – Atticus Jackson, Deputy Reynolds – David Cummings "The Trail at Night" written by John Harrison (Story starts around 00:57:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Jake – David Ault, Jake’s Mum/Young Girl – Erika Sanderson "Halfway to Forgotten" written by Kevin M. Folliard (Story starts around 01:14:55) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Kurt – Graham Rowat, Father Jones – David Cummings, Halfway House Resident – Mick Wingert, Taylor – Dan Zappulla "Troll Bridge" written by William Stuart (Story starts around 01:39:00) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Billy Logan – Atticus Jackson, Narrator’s father – Jesse Cornett Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Thea Arnman   Click here to learn more about Rachele Bowman   Click here to learn more about Anderson West   Click here to learn more about Kevin M. Folliard   Click here to learn more about William Stuart   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "https://www.instagram.com/cryztalduzzt/" illustration courtesy of Thea Arnman 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

Hello listeners, British David here. Here at the No Sleep podcast, we're proud of how we craft our productions to discomfort and disturb, playing on common and not so common fears. And while we do this for entertainment purposes, we're also very well aware that these fears are not entertaining for some people. These fears are bullies, holding some people back from realizing their value, goals and happiness. Such fears can take different forms and different. people need different ways to be released from them. That's why I'm here to tell you about Better Help, which will make an assessment and match you with a licensed professional therapist to suit

your needs. It's not a crisis line for emergencies or self-help where you're given a few mantras and that's it. It's a worldwide service matching therapists with clients and you can start communicating with a practitioner in under 24 hours. BetterHelp is committed to facilitating the correct matches and makes it easy to change counselors if needed, and financial aid is available should that be required. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses from your therapist, as well as scheduled video or phone sessions with chat and text available in between. This way, you'll be able to feel that your counselor is with you helping you along the way. It's all about helping you access the therapy you need, even if it's locally unavailable or too expensive. No one. No one.

should feel alone with mental health problems. No one should feel isolated with an issue. No one should be held back by patterns from the past that aren't relevant anymore. I can't myself lucky to have been able to access therapy and also to be part of the global no sleep community. So if you feel that you want to join the 500,000 people who are taking charge of their mental health with the help of experienced professionals, you can sign up at betterhelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% percent. off your first month. Let's make fear entertaining, not imprisoning. Go to betterhelp.com slash no sleep and sign up today. 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 the horror found in the out of doors. It's our pleasure to welcome a new illustrator to our team this week. Thea Arnman is an enthusiast of the macabre and weird from Sweden. She creates illustrations as well as animations, often time-consuming projects with intricate details.

She recently graduated in aesthetics and media and will continue her studies while expanding her portfolio. Check the show notes for a link to where you can find more of her studies. stunning art. Valcomenthea, thanks for sharing your talent with us. Now, with all the outdoor stories this week, let's huddle inside and start the show. So turn down the lights and grab the remote

because it's time for our feature presentation. In our first tale, we're introduced to the kind of childhood legend that could only be made up in the mind of a kid. However, as shared with us by author Rachel Bowman, We discover what might seem like a pre-teen's fever dream is soon revealed to be terrifyingly real. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Mick Wingert, Mike Delgado, and Nicole Doolin. So forget Big Bird, forget the cookie monster. What you really need to be worried about is the puppet in the tree.

Every elementary school has a ridiculous urban legend. My school had Muppet Man, and I hated him. Muppet Man was deformed. Ill-fated plastic surgery left him with the ghastly proportions of a marionette puppet, so he wore a fluffy animal costume he'd stolen from the school theater. He lived in an ancient oak tree in the recess yard. Some kids claimed he lived in the branches, watching us play from camouflaged hideouts of leaves and twigs. The morbid kids said he lived.

lived in the trunk, eating caterpillar larvae and torturing the ghost of Jason Hughes. Jason Hughes wasn't an urban legend, unfortunately. He was just a tragedy, a doomed, anxious wreck cursed with ridiculously outsized glasses and an obsession with drawing. I remember feeling angry one rainy afternoon because I wanted to color with the teacher's new markers, but Jason had already used all the paper in the class. classroom. Nobody liked him much, including me. But I don't know why. He was a sweet kid, fretful, anxious, and too smart for his own good, but sweet. Jason disappeared on a November evening in second grade.

A few days later, a teacher found his clothes piled at the base of the schoolyard oak tree. The principal called a school assembly to make the announcement. He made it sound like the clothes had been laundered and neatly folded. But my dad, a cop at the time, a cop with the bad habit of telling his kids things nobody should have to know, told me Jason's clothes were filthy, worse than filthy in fact, matted with urine, feces, and blood. He told me I couldn't repeat it to anybody. I never did. It was too horrifying to even think about, let alone share. That's why I hated Muppet Man. Nobody could say his name without some snot-nosed little shit from behind the tracks saying,

Jason's. A horrifying schoolyard litany. That was another problem. The kids at school knew Jason was my neighbor, and they knew my dad was a cop. After weeks of hysterical interest, I was abruptly ostracized. It suited me fine. Over the past couple years, my dad had arrested the parents of at least two kids in my class, and they gave me hell for it.

It was all right. I preferred books to people anyway, and spent every recess reading under the oak tree. Sometimes I pretended to read to Jason's ghost. Penance, I guess, for treating him so poorly. One day in February, I got to school two or three hours late. I don't remember why. Only remember getting to school and plotting across the empty recess yard. That time of year, my little corner of the world is hard to live in.

The sky goes from polished steel in the morning to icy steel in the evening, and at night dims to a flat, watery darkness that makes my heart ache. The plants are all dead. The tree's skeletal except for flourishing colonies of mistletoe. It looks like despair. The empty recess yard was no exception. Everything was gray and pale and somehow brittle, like it would crack and shatter if you touched it.

An almost preternatural stillness turned that pale winter fragility into something sinister. Paranoia swirled through me suddenly. What if, just what if it was true? What if the universe was broken? What if the scene before? me was a fragile husk, just waiting for a misplaced step to break it into pieces. I swallowed a surge of panic and took extra care with each step, setting my foot down with excruciating gentleness.

Sand crunched under my souls. Everything felt solid, but the sense of glassy fragility persisted. I fought the urge to close my eyes and walked as quickly as I dared. My path took me right past the oak tree. Black, brown glass bark glimmered faintly. Branches through spiderweb patterns against the grim sky. They were bare except for nests of mistletoe. The tree was infested with it. Suddenly, with a disconcerting, painfully adult burst of clarity, it occurred to me. The tree was dying. I slowed to a halt, staring at it with the kind of hug. reverence you're supposed to feel in church. The tree was scary but beautiful at the same time. More than that, it was a pillar of my memory. It was visible from my backyard, towering over the

school and my childhood like a reassuring and eternal century. Except it wasn't eternal. It would be gone someday, maybe before I left grade school, maybe sooner. My throat felt high. My throat felt hot and tight. I took in the side of the bare branches and tried to mentally edit out the mistletoe clusters. It was difficult. They burst from the tree thicker than summertime leaves, and they kept moving, jostled, no doubt, by the cold winter wind. Except another brutal, leak epiphany. There was no wind. The dark mistletoe rustled and writhed, like a trapped serpent. Cold air stung my eyes as they widened.

Bright bursts of color flickered inexplicably among the branches, slithering through the mistletoe like a multicolored feather boa, and glittering in that sinuous rope of color. Eyes. Glassy, round eyes, the color of lines. The rope of color broke into tendrils and grew, Not unlike the fungus in which it nested, overtaking the darkness with eye-wateringly vibrant neon hues. Then they twined back together,

worming behind branches and mistletoe before resolving into a fluffy, ridiculously proportioned caricature of an animal. A cartoon incarnate. A Muppet. Hello! Its voice made me jump. Full and hearty and unpleasantly.

friendly, a cartoon voice. My lip trembled. Tears pricked my eyes, scorching and frigid at once. You're not real. Yes, I am. I might even be realer than you. It fixed me with a sharp reptilian stare that made me want to scream. The world looked glassier than ever, faded and brittle except for the obscenely bright monstrosity above me. I stamped my foot and held my breath, praying that the world would shatter, taking the technicolor monster with it. If I broke a broken world, would I break anything at all? But the pavement remained solid. The frozen chill bypassed the soles of my shoes and leached into my feet. The creature stretched and stretched and stretched, slowly snatched, making its way down the trunk of the tree, simultaneously sloth-like and reptilian, bursting with that

ridiculous crayola fir. It should have been funny. Why wasn't it funny? Why was I scared? Why wasn't I running away? It slid down the bark until its eyes were level with my own. Only really, real things can hide themselves in plain sight. Real things like me. And Jason Hughes, your friends call me Muppet Man. You can too. It stretched out a hand, long and absurdly thin, almost like distorted frog feet except for the rainbow fur. I turned and ran into the school, screaming all the way. The poor nurse tried to extract the story from me.

I don't even remember what I said. I just remember hiding under her desk and sobbing. When I finally blubbered the words Muppet Man and Jason, the school went on lockdown. The cops came. My father wasn't with them. I watched through the window, gagging and crying and trying to forget Muppet Man's bright green eyes. But how could I, when everything else, the oak tree and the police, the nurse and the sky and my own shaking hands, looked so brittle and faded?

Muppet Man was the only vibrant thing, the only bright thing, the only whole thing, the only real thing. Sometime later, maybe a minute, maybe ten hours for all I know, a cop came into the nurse's office. He grabbed my elbow over the protestations of the nurse and marched me outside. The world rushed past me in a gray, dead, glittering blur. The tree loomed ahead, dark and blank and terribly close. I flailed, but he dragged me to the oak tree and shoved me forward. I stopped inches from the bark, dark and dead and cracked, except for absurd tufts of technicolor fur. Did you do that?

Do what? He pointed to a particularly obscene knot of neon pink fur. Did you put that? on this tree? I told him no. I told him it was Muppet Man, that I'd seen Muppet Man, that Muppet Man knew Jason,

and now he knew me. The nurse sent me home shortly thereafter, and my parents pulled me out of school and packed me off to my grandparents' house in San Diego that very night. I stayed for three weeks, stayed until I stopped having nightmares of Muppet Man eating Jason's bloody,

shit-stained clothes while I watched, trapped by his bright eyes like a deer in headlights. I got home on a Wednesday evening. I know it was Wednesday because I remember looking at my mom's calendar, big and glossy and full of beagle puppies. It always made me smile. My parents fed me Burger King and ice cream cake, then sent me to bed. When I pulled my covers back, I froze. Everything around me blanched, turning pale and glassy. Everything, except the dirty tufts of neon bright fur on my pillow. My parents assumed I did it and yelled at me for almost an hour, but they let me sleep in their bed anyway. School was a nightmare. I spent the entire morning dreading recess. When the bell rang, I thought about throwing a tantrum just to stay in the classroom.

but I'd get in trouble. My parents would be angry. I'd go to the principal's office. Besides, there'd be other kids on the playground. Vibrant, living, colorful, noisy kids. All that noise and brightness might be too much for Muppet Man. I told myself these things, but still ran to the bathroom when the bell rang. I threw up, then sat in the stall until a teacher summoned no doubt.

out by a tattletail, came and told me I had to go outside. I dithered in the corner by the tetherball court, as far from the oak tree as I could get. Even from a distance, I thought I caught glimpses of bright fur slithering through the branches. I told myself I was seeing things. When the days finally got warmer, steel skies softening to rich blue in the daytime and Easter egg colors at night, bare branches sprouting buds, flowers growing in the planter boxes all around the school, I resumed my recess ritual of reading under the tree. I was cautious at first, but determined. Every adult in my life had convinced me that I was hallucinating. Every kid in school knew I'd had a breakdown about Muppet Man. The taunts alone were enough to steal my resolve. Before I knew it, I was reading

under the tree like always, the glassy winter horror barely more than memory. One afternoon in April, something pulled me out of my book. I didn't know what it was at first. Maybe the kids screaming on the jungle gym, maybe the fifth grade girls gossiping a few yards away, maybe the warm breeze rustling the leaves. I looked down and gasped. Larvae crawled along my arms, the yellow-white caterpillar worms that lived in the bark. The kind all the kids said, Muppet Man, loved to eat. I ran to the tetherball court and lingered until the bell rang. When I got home that afternoon,

I found clusters of neon fur all over my bedroom. I ran to my mother. She lost her temper, marched me into the backyard, and told me to stay until she was done cleaning up after me. When I finished crying, I settled myself under the apricot tree and got lost in my book. As the afternoon light deepened, rich daylight giving way to copper, something snapped me out of my reverie. I looked down and saw white worms, soft and tiny and somehow wet, inching over my arms. Hello!

Sorry it's been so long. I guess I've been a bad friend. I'm crazy, crazy. I snapped my book shut and closed my eyes. Scratchy, polyester fur crumpled against my skin. Not crazy. Just really real. Like me.

And Jason Hughes. What are you reading? He reached out, blinding multicolour fur blazing in the dappled sunlight, and flips. the book over. Is it good? It's great.

I wanted to leap to my feet, wanted to run screaming into the house, but my bones felt watery and frozen at once. It wouldn't be able to stand up, let alone run. Muppet Man brushed the worms off my arm and settled down beside me. His fur made me feel itchy. I didn't look up. I already knew what I was.

see, that slothy dinosaur face dominated by glassy eyes that would blaze in the dying sun. I didn't want to see it. I was afraid of what would happen if I did. My mom will see you. He patted my arm, fur crunching again. Tears flooded my eyes. You should read to me. No. Strong, fuzzy fingers wrapped my wrist. want you to read to me. No. If you read to me, I'll take you to see Jason Hughes.

I almost scoffed. Jason Hughes with the giant glasses and the keening voice. Anxious Jason Hughes, who stole all the art paper in the classroom just to draw his stupid fish and stupid beetles. Jason Hughes, who'd been reduced to bloody, shit-stained clothes at the base of the school yard. tree. Why? Because we're lonely. If he's lonely, he should go home.

He can. His mommy doesn't like him. I pondered this briefly. I thought of my dad. My poor dad who worked himself to death with overtime. My poor dad who couldn't catch a break at work. But what if I could help him? What if I could find Jason Hughes and give him? Give my dad all the credit. When would I see Jason?

It depends on how well you read. I opened my book to the very first page and began to read aloud. The scrape of the sliding glass door broke my concentration shortly after. I looked up and saw my mom. My heart leapt to my throat. I spun around hopefully, but Muppet Man was gone. The next morning I found clumps of neon fur in my dresser drawers. It clung to my pants and shirts like lint.

As spring bled into summer and summer ceded to yet another school year, I fell into an uneasy routine with Muppet Man. Every day, just before sunset, I took my book out to the apricot tree. Usually, he wasn't there. But sometimes, when one parent was gone, gone and the other busy, or when they'd left the house together for a couple's walk, Muppet Man would appear, and I would read to him. I didn't see him after August.

Despite my illusions of boosting my father's career, I was relieved. Maybe Muppet Man was realer than real. But if that was true, then real was wrong. I'd almost convinced myself it was all a peculiar nightmare, even a hallucination. But then, on Halloween morning, I found a note on my windowsill, neatly folded construction paper, printed with a brightly colored marker. Come to the school tree tonight at 11, M. M.

Coarse strands of yellow, pink, and blue hair sprinkled the note. I brushed them off and tucked the paper in my pocket. I wasn't stupid. I knew I couldn't go alone. I was terrified of Muppet Man and almost as terrified of what my parents would do to me if they caught me sneaking out. So I went to my father.

I showed him the note and begged until I wept. After trick-or-treating, instead of trick-or-treating. My dad accused me of making it all up for a while, but in the end he agreed to take me to the school at the appointed time, after a healthy round of trick-or-treating. And then straight back home. And I don't want to hear any more about this Muppet Man nonsense after tonight. Do you hear me?

I think he hoped I'd forget all about it, but there was no chance of that. We lived only a few blocks away from the school, so we walked there. The evening was unseasonably cold, almost as cold as the day I first met Muppet Man. I fought back tears the indenting. entire way, clutching my father's hand with both of my own. My trick-or-treat basket swung between us,

hitting my thigh with a whispery thump. The school gates were locked, of course, but there was a small gate hidden in a passage behind the cafeteria. It had nothing but a simple latch. The kids all knew about it, but the adults never did anything. I led my father around the perimeter of the playground, keeping close to the buildings in order to hide in the shadows. Wait here. He obliged, looking tired even in the darkness. I looked at the tree. It didn't look sick anymore.

Leaves hid the mistletoe infestation. It looked full and healthy. The eternal sentry once more. I stood by the trunk and whispered. Hello. Where's Jason? The branches rattled, and a dark, furry shape slithered down the tree. Glassy eyes caught the light of the moon and blazed.

Muppet Man twisted and stretched down the tree until his eyes were level with mine. No longer was he vibrant or bright. His fur was filthy, caked with mud and sand, and bare, dirty canvas replaced large swaths of the once-lush neon coat. Of course he was missing fur. He'd been leaving clumps of it all over my room for months. It was a wonder he had any hair left. What do you mean? Muppet Man crept closer, holding me captive with his glass eyes.

His long, thin fingers touched his chin and pushed, sliding into his face and pulling it up like a child removing a Halloween mask. My heart thudded. heavy and horrid as a war drum. Enormous glasses glinted in the moonlight, tragically outsized for the decayed little face underneath. Jason Hughes's rotted head was gray and so very fragile, gleaming like clouded glass under the moon.

If I touched him, he would shatter. The absurd costume fell to the ground with a whisper, dull and faded. Even the eyes were dead now. The costume was dead. It had never been alive. Jason's empty sockets bulged, then broke and split apart

with a series of soft paper-leapops. Something roiled inside, thick and dark and gleaming with a thousand dim lights in colors I couldn't name. The world flipped. and cold playground sand dug into my face. Foil-wrapped candy spilled across the ground, glinting like stars, as my dad's scream shattered the glassy silence.

Perhaps it shattered Jason's poor, dead face, too. I curled up and lay still as my dad screamed, and sirens wailed in the distance. The ruined costume went into an evidence locker. Jason himself was laid to rest several weeks later. They held onto the body as long as they did in order to find out what happened to him. I asked my father about it, but he refused to tell me. I was disappointed yet relieved, and I never tried to find out on my own.

I did my best to forget everything and actually came close. I might have managed had my father kept his mouth shut. He has a habit of telling me things I shouldn't know, things nobody should know. I guess it's a personal exorcism, freeing demons that haunt you. It's just that the problem with freeing demons is that demons usually go on to haunt someone else. My dad retired a few years ago, but he still has friends on the force. They get together and talk every once in a while. They had one of their visits last night, and one of his,

His friends brought up Jason Hughes. Did they find the guy who did it? No. But the costume. That weird puppet costume? It's not in evidence anymore. It's gone. Did somebody take it?

Did they accidentally toss it? We don't know. That alone was enough to haunt me forever. But it didn't stop at enough. Demons never stop at enough. if they ever stop at all. I know this because when I got up this morning, I found dirty tufts of neon fur

scattered all across my bedroom floor. Plenty of towns have that one eerie spot around which a bunch of urban legends center. When that spot happens to be a mysterious island in the middle of a lake, then chances are there are numerous tales to be told about it. One such tale is shared with us by author Anderson West, who introduces us to a group of teens who spend their evenings on the lake shore.

Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Atticus Jackson, and Kyle Akers. So listen to what you're told and pay attention to the details. Otherwise, you might find yourself having to offer gifts to Avalon. People had always told me stories about the cannibal family that lived on the island in the lake near my hometown. Most of the stories happened between the early 1800s in the 1950s. The Mourneys is what they called them. This wasn't a proper surname. It was just what the fishermen of the lake nicknamed them

because it was the only time anyone ever caught a glimpse of them. In the early morning, when darkness still stained a person's vision. The Mourneys lived in a secluded nook on the island that was basically an enormous rock. poking out of the water. Many people in town refer to it as Avalon, after some kind of King Arthur mythology. During the spring and summer, the nook was a lush green sprout and an otherwise uninhabitable stone. During the fall and winter, a person still couldn't make out a thing that went on in that area because the tightly knit trees and dead vegetation concealed all

its secrets like a sturdy house built from bones. The only way to get to this nook was to either repel down the cliff from the top of Avalon or to take a boat and climb the slimy and steep in Backman. It was easy to assume that these tales were concocted by parents that didn't want their kids wandering around the lake at night so the boogeymen couldn't gobble them up. And of course the boogeymen happened to live in a place that was nearly impossible to check out. Yes, I've heard tales about the mornings all my life. But the idea of them don't have as much bite today as I'm sure they did before the invention of the internet. So a few nights ago,

it still didn't have the same bite when our friend Connor decided to regale us with more of these tales. There it is again. Still no idea what animal that is? No, none. Connor, you got any theories? You usually got a story or two to explain everything away. Much like the smell or the lapping of water. The screeching was a constant familiarity whenever we came here. We were hanging out next to the lake, as we had for the last year or so. It had become sort of our nightly thing. Instead of socializing and trying to get with girls,

like most of our fellow male counterparts did, We just sat under this picnic shelter next to the lake and talked about whatever. Ironically, a lot of it revolved around the idea of socializing more and wishing we could find girls interested in us. That is, when Connor wasn't trying to tell us some kind of crazy story. My friend Caden and I befriended Connor about a year ago, and it was Connor who had the bright idea of going out there in the first place. We fell in love with the seclusion it offered.

Hardly anyone ever came down there except maybe the occasional person hankering to catch a catfish, and even now was rare on this side of the lake. Did I ever tell you boys about the time they found Pete Fleming's head floating around in this here lake? I shook my head. Caden blew a burst of smoke that danced around his face. Who the fuck is Pete Fleming? He was a kid that went missing in the 90s. I don't know him either, but my daddy says he should always on.

of the dead by saying their full name. Well, I guess they found part of them. Let me guess. You're going to tell us something about the mornings again. He pointed to the dark outline of Avalon. That night, we could easily see it due to what was left of the hunter's moon the night prior. Connor looked like he'd been caught stealing for a second, but recovered his composure with a grin. Am I turning out to be that predictable?

Yeah, you kind of are, but it's okay. What about this Pete Fleming? Data says Pete was often seen playing out here late at night. Connor pointed to the basketball goal with a ratty net dangling beneath, about a hundred yards away from the shed. He loved basketball and desperately wanted to play varsity. The problem was he just wasn't that good, but he sure's helped practice that goal a lot.

So the morning slipped down here one night and grabbed him? Connor gave Caden the same grin as before, like it was a default grin set for cynics. You're getting the hang of these stories, Kay. Maybe your daddy, the garbage man, could tell you some whopper tales, and I'll stand here and cut open those stories like a fell deer, just like you'd do with mine.

Caden was taken back for a split moment. He brought his head down a little. Sorry, Connor. I won't interrupt anymore. It's all right. Now, as you all know, my dad is a deputy for the county, and was then too.

He said Pete Fleming must have been down here just about every weeknight. See, his daddy didn't care what the hell his son did, and he certainly didn't care enough about his son's dreams to get him a damn basketball goal that would set him back less than 50 bucks. Wait, Connor, I'm not saying anything bad about these stories, but I am picking up on a theme. What's that, Marshall? You've told us about a homeless man, the town's only prostitute,

A couple of drug addicts and now an unloved kid, these are all people that people normally wouldn't miss, and they all hung around the lake. Well, people may miss the prostitute. Please, remember to use the names of the dead. Paul Jones, Clara Bennington, Tim Dales, Sue Gregory, and Pete Fleming. Connor recited like he was delivering Hail Mary's. Sorry, I just forgot.

Connor raised his hand up to me. It's all right, but you're right. The mornings ain't fooled. They've almost got too careless in the 50s, and since then they wizened up. Poor old Pete's dreams were never realized, but because of where he decided to hang out and his home life circumstances,

he was picked off. They never found the rest of him. He was the last bit of human remains they ever found in this lake. I looked at Caden. I figured we were thinking the same thing. So that was what? Over 20 years ago?

Are the Mourneys not killing anymore? I wouldn't say that. Listen, fellas, I want to be honest with you. I was the one that started bringing you out to this lake, but I've been telling you these stories for an entirely different reason. What's that? But before Connor could answer, we were cut short by some rectangular headlights glaring from a vehicle I could hardly make out.

The vehicle veered to the right of us and on down to the other picnic shelter. I couldn't see them anymore since a large rock obstructed the view. I didn't care. I was just glad they turned off that vehicle. We've met our cat fisherman quota this month. Yeah, he really needs to get that belt changed, or go ahead and push that car in the light. We both laughed, but Connor remained grave. Say, you fellas want to see what's going on to town?

I don't know what changed Connor's demeanor, and he certainly never suggested going into town to hang out with the ingenuens, as he called them. Caden dropped his bottle of orange crush in the trash can. I could use a bite to eat. But first, let me take a piss. In the moment of awkward silence, I cocked my head to listen to the other sound over Cadence pissing. It sounded like something splashing in the lake. Every now and then, fish would splash to the surface to snag an insect.

But this was a repeated sound. And whatever it was, it sounded heavier than a fish barely tapping the surface. I didn't think anything of it at the time. but after that night I thought about it a lot Connor was looking dreamily at the basketball goal something on your mind Connor jumped at my question

nah I'm sorry I just kind of getting tired of this place I nodded not knowing what else to say we saw Caden running back toward us but it was strange he was silent as She sprinted our way, but with that look on his face, it seemed like it should have been coupled with screaming. I grabbed the keys in my pocket out of instant, ready to get in my truck and take off if I had to.

Caden stopped in front of us. We need to get. What? That guy that drove by us, he's throwing something in the lake. I heard splashing sounds as I was pissing, so I peered behind the rock. I don't know what it was. It looked like jars. A lot of fucking jars.

That is pretty weird. But... No, God damn it, I want to get out of here. He saw me looking at him. He looked... He saw you? Yeah. Okay, Cade.

We'll get out of here. I walked toward my truck and hurry, but Caden, who rode with me, was already at the passenger side door jiggling the handle. Hurry the fuck up, Marshal. Connor had driven separately. I looked at him in case he wanted to ditch his car and ride with us. I'm right behind you guys.

Just head on home. I'll see y'all at school tomorrow. I nodded at him and we were out of there. The next day at school, I felt a little unnerved. It seemed silly to be worried about a strange occurrence that happened at the lake. I mean, chances were pretty good to have at least a few weird moments in any particular spot. if you're there enough. But knowing some oddball stranger was tossing jars in the lake was creepy.

And Caden's extreme reaction was unsettling. Caden hardly reacted to anything. And I wondered if there was something else he wasn't telling us. It wasn't until after school that I saw Connor standing outside next to the soda machines. Have you seen Caden today? I didn't have any classes with either of. him this semester, but I knew Caden had government with Connor. No, was he not in class with you?

Connor shook his head. Which one of you butt monkeys put this on the hood of my car this morning? When we turned around, we saw him standing there, looking as livid as a cat poked one too many times, and holding an empty mason jar that had something taped on its side. I looked at Connor, who returned my gaze. And we both look back at Caden like animals caught in the deathlights of the open road. I'm guessing Connor, but you can be pretty slashed sometimes too, Marshall.

I didn't do it, man. I was actually a little worried about you, believe it or not. You didn't show up at government class after what happened last night, and now... And now what? Now I'm even more worried. I stared at Connor, bug-eyed. I didn't do it either. Well, one of you had to do it. It's not a joke. anyone except you all would get.

It even has my name written on tape right here. I first saw this, it scared the shit out of me. I didn't want to leave the house. I guess I'll just have to get both of you back if no one wants to fess up. Caden cradled the jar under his arm and walked away. I figured Connor was obviously the one that did it, but was really committed to the joke. He even played the concerned friend part very well as he ran after Caden.

I stood and watched them go, shaking my head. Connor must have done it, but my sense of unease lingered. That evening, Connor and I decided to play video games at my house. I called Caden up to see if he wanted to hang out at my place instead of going to the lake. There was no fucking way we were going back there. I could tell Caden was still a little pissed about the jar, but he agreed to come out a bit later. We were playing some Sonic the Hedgehog, too.

When I looked at my watch and realized it was getting late, Kaden still hadn't shown up. I suggested we get some fresh air and Connor followed me outside. I wonder what has taken him so long. Think this is his way of getting back at us? Either through passive-aggressively flaking out on us, or, I don't know, hiding in the bushes somewhere. You did it, right?

What? The jar? It was you. It had to be. Connor solemnly shook his head. He looked like he was going to be sick. Geez, you don't have to lie about the whole thing to me, Connor. Kay's not here. Wasn't me, man. Cade must have gotten looked at real good by the ferryman. My heart dropped when he said this. Did he just give the guy throwing the jars in the lake? A name? The fairy man?

Before I could get more information out of Connor, we heard something moving in the surrounding woods above my house. Deer run around here all the time, but it didn't sound like the frolicing cadence of a deer. I bet that's that son of a bitch trying to scare us. Connor placed a hand on my shoulder. Up with this shit. It's probably the both of you trying to scare me.

I saw you go out. after Caden earlier, that ain't what that was about. The caller ID read Caden's name and number. I answered it immediately with relief. Please tell me that's you in the woods, Caden. Heavy breathing caused vibration from the phone's speaker to tickle my inner ear in a sickening way. I held tightly to that phone, waiting to hear gotcha.

Instead, the breathing manifested into a voice too deep and gargled to be cadence. I instantly ended the call. Get inside, Connor. I'm sorry about all this, Marshal. I'm sorry I ever took you all to the lake at night. Those stories, they were real. I told them so y'all wouldn't want to go back. You're not saying this has something to do with the mornings.

It's too late. Go inside. Lock your doors and pray he didn't see your feet. Facer, learn your full name. Connor ran to his parked car across the street and didn't even so much as turn and look back, no matter how much I called for him. My thoughts ran wild all night as I lay in bed. The man with jars, Caden receiving a jar, the clinking sound from the woods,

Connor's behavior. But what resonated the most was the call from Caden's phone. Maybe it could still be a prank with a voice changer, but I couldn't get it out of my head. All these thoughts circulated throughout the night. I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open, until the morning dawn broke. I could hear Mom talking to someone downstairs, but I remained in bed until she called for me to come down. When I saw who was out the door, I was more than a little alarmed. A large, disheveled cop stood in the doorway.

His hair sprung out from his hat like thirsty bushes. He had dark circles around his eyes, and he greeted me with a smile that looked like he brushed his teeth with a fucking candy bar. The cop looked me over for an awkward moment and finally spoke. Hey, Marshall, is it? I'm Deputy Reynolds. I think you know my boy Connor. Is he okay?

"'Connor's fine. Grounded, but fine.' "'Deputy Reynolds looked at my mom. "'Ma'am, you mind terribly if I talk to your boy out here on the porch in private?' "'My mom excused herself, but not before letting me know she'd be in the kitchen if I needed her. "'I anxiously followed the brute of a man outside. "'I'd never seen Conner's dad. "'Come to think of it, I didn't even know where Connor lived in our town. We sat outside on the porch as Reynolds brought out a notepad and pan from his pocket.

Is it just you and your mama here? I nodded. How's school? I guess it's fine. Connor says you keep a low profile and your nose clean. I like that. I was feeling a little irritated at this point. Maybe it was due to my lack of sleep, mixed with a fucked up situation.

but I really couldn't handle small talk. Connor's dad or not. Can you tell me what all this is about, officer? I'm going to make this quick and painless. I always do. When's the last time you've seen Caden Fields? I saw him yesterday, just as school let out. And I talked to him on the phone yesterday evening,

asking him to come over. The deputy wrote something down on his notepad, which caused me to notice his long, dirty fingernails. I wondered how the hell this cop got away with looking so unkempt. The deputy caught me looking and gave me an inappropriately leery smile. I don't suppose he showed up, though, did he? No, sir. Marshall, I don't want to scare you,

but we found Caden's car just about half a mile down the road. It was in a ditch. We've got officers investigating it right now, so I can't say much more about it. His parents called and said he was supposed to come to your house, but never came back home last night. Do you know anything else about what could have happened or where he could be? The filthy police officer's droopy eyes were fixated on my own, which must have looked tired and bloodshone. That voice over the phone last night kept playing through my head. I decided to tell him just about everything I knew.

The man throwing jars in the lake, the jar on the hood of Caden's car, and the weird phone call from Caden's phone. After hearing this, Reynolds seemed lost in thought. Isn't there anything you can do about it? Can you take my phone and find out where Kay's phone is? The oddly unsympathetic Deputy Reynolds just smiled that hideous smile and stood up, towering over me.

A sweaty scent that put me in mind of onions wafed its way up my nose. I don't reckon we've reached that kind of technological advance in yet. What did you say your last name was again? I need it for the record. Deal. Marshall Deal. Look, don't I need to make a formal statement or something?

The large man wrote one last thing down then stuffed the notepad in his pocket. No, I've got what I need for now. I wanted to ask Reynolds more questions regarding Caden's disappearance, but I figured he'd brush them off. And to be honest, I wanted him to leave even more. He didn't seem right.

I'll be in touch, Marshall. Thanks for telling me everything you know. I'll tell Connor you said hello. The rest of the day and night, I never heard back from Caden, or Connor. I was worried about Caden, but I honestly didn't like thinking about the situation as if it were dire. I kept thinking, or at least fooled myself into thinking. It was a very elaborate prank, a prank that involved Connor and some homeless guy that got to pose as a police

officer. Honestly, how could that slob have been a cop? The only thing he did was tell me Caden was missing and asked for my full name. Why did that sound familiar? I just wanted to sleep off the day. If Connor and Caden wanted to single me out, then so be it. I slept through most of the day and all night. The only time I woke up was when I heard a loud screeching outside, but I fell right back to sleep. This morning, I got up to go get some breakfast. Mom was sleeping off a drinking bender and didn't hear me scream like a five-year-old. But if my truck was a large glass jar. I could see the label from a distance and read it as I approached.

It read Marshall Deal on some dirty masking tape stuck to the side. I've stayed in my room all day, and I haven't been on a... any bit of social media. Fear of someone mentioning Caden being missing might take away my only sliver of protection. Denial. As the minutes of this night take away, my denial receives another crack, ready to shatter. I've been getting calls from Caden's phone over the last hour. I refuse to answer them because I'm nearly certain I'll hear that voice again.

I'm sure it was that same screeching that woke me up last night. I'm sure it's the same screeching we often heard at the lake. I'd call the police, but I'm not sure the police would be concerned. The only thing to do is sit here and wait. Wait for the ferryman to claim me, just as I'm now certain he claimed Caden. And if he did, and if he's coming, and to claim me, then that leads to the most depressing realization of all.

We're just a couple of boys that no one will miss. Please, honor the dead, if you ever mention what you've heard here tonight. Say our names, our full names. We were Caden Fields and Marshall Deal. At least maybe we can be remembered as more. than just servings sent across a lake to a family that I am no longer certain doesn't exist. As the lights come back on, our stories come to an end. Please remember to be kind and rewind.

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