The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S13E13

Episode Date: September 15, 2019

It's episode 13 of Season 13. On this week's show we have tales about those things we can't unsee from the depths. "Sometimes Even Mamas Make Mistakes" written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:06:10) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Dr. Barrone – Nikolle Doolin, Jeremiah – Matthew Bradford , Waddles – Peter Lewis , Jeremiah’s Mother – Erika Sanderson, Dr. Ashandi – Jessica McEvoy "Becalmed" written by Eric Ian Steele (Story starts around 00:33:00) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Bobby – Atticus Jackson, Skip – Jesse Cornett, Francine – Erin Lillis "Just One" written by Jasef Wisener (Story starts around 01:11:15) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Ash – Addison Peacock, Rebecca – Nichole Goodnight "Warehouse Work" written by Jeff Miller (Story starts around 01:32:10) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Emily Jenkins – Jessica McEvoy, Zombie Boy – Atticus Jackson "The Girl on the Beach in Our Indian Summer" written by Dan LeRoy (Story starts around 01:56:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Brad – Kyle Akers, Claire – Addison Peacock, The Man from the Sea – Mick Wingert Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to purchase TALES OF AUDIO HORROR The White Vault/Liberty Tickets   Click here for "Little Pumpkin and the Cold Bones" by Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Eric Ian Steele   Click here to learn more about Jasef Wisener   Click here to learn more about Dan LeRoy   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Becalmed" 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

Okay. Oh, I think we lost them. Oh, thank goodness. That was close. Oh, I can't believe you. Oh, David, let's go visit the abandoned house with all the feral cats. It'll be fun. Yeah, really fun. It never occurred to you that feral cats are always looking for food to eat. We were nearly ripped to shreds. Well, I'm sorry. I thought they'd enjoy our company. Pet them, scratch their ears, make them feel loved, you know? How was I supposed to know we'd be their next three-course meal?

Don't you have three cats? You know how they get when they're hungry, and who knows if any of those cats were sick or contagious? And the smell in there? That was something I didn't anticipate. I guess feral cats don't use litter boxes. Oh, that's an understatement. That house could have used a couple dozen litter boxes. Yes, and if they had pretty litter, it would have been even better. Oh yeah, that's the litter you use, and it's just. shipped right to your door in a small, lightweight bag that lasts you the entire month, right? That's right. No more running to the pet store or storing heavy, opened bags of cat litter in my closet. I know you love your cats. Let me tell you how much I love my cats. So if Dorian or Earl or Ginko decides,

hey, I'm just going to sleep on Jessica for the next few hours, that's where I am for the next few hours. Trapped, probably cramping, probably having to pee. But by far the worst part about being a cat owner is dealing with the cat litter. It's messy, it's smelly, it's heavy. That's why I switch to pretty litter. So you're saying pretty litter has next level odor protection and it's super easy to clean? Yeah, and not only that, but the best part about pretty litter is it even monitors my cat's health. Pretty litter changes colors to detect underlying illnesses before urgent medical care is needed, saving me money, stress, and potentially my cat's lives. You should tell our listeners how to get it. You know, if we make it back to the student,

I will. All they have to do is go to pretty litter.com and use promo code no sleep for 20% off their first order. Uh, Jessica, have we been walking in circles? Because there's the old house ahead of us. And look at all the cats. They're surrounding us. I don't think we're going to make it back to the studio. Nope. We're cat food. Do what I did and make the switch to Pretty Litter today by visiting prettylitter.com and use promo code no sleep. for 20% off your first order. That's pretty letter.com

promo code no sleep for 20% off. We're doing this at our own risk. Ready for the dark tales when we dare not close our eyes. Brace yourself for the no sleep podcast. To the no sleep podcast video store. I'm David Cummings.

Our VCR is ready to play stories about those things we can't Tons Sea from the depths. I have a couple of new projects to let you know about. We have an update from the Arctic Horror podcast, The White Vault. As some of you may already know, they will be launching into their third season this October, branching the story into new and horrific directions,

probably involving stairways made of teeth. However, they will also be celebrating their new season with a full-blown live show, featuring many of the voices from their first two seasons, as well as a few no-sleep actors like Graham Rowett and Tanya Molojovich. Their live show, which will be taking place in Cambridge, Massachusetts on October 19th, is going to also be kicking off the Pod Tales Fiction Podcast Festival. Tickets for the live show are on sale now,

and you can listen to the White Vault wherever you find podcasts. The second project is a new book written by Friend of the show Manon Lyset, But this one isn't the dark, nightmarish tales you've come to expect from Manon. It's a children's book titled Little Pumpkin and the Cold Bones. Life in the Pumpkin Patch is great, until the night Little Pumpkin hears a spooky bedtime story about a creature named Cold Bones. Wanting to protect the Pumpkin patch, Little Pumpkin goes on an adventure to stop cold bones from stealing everyone's candles

and makes an unexpected new friend along the way. This is a great book to introduce your little ones not only to the wonder of reading, but also introduce them to the horror genre in a child-friendly way. That's Little Pumpkin and the Cold Bones by Manon Lysette. You can check the show notes for links to where you can find out more about both the White Vault Live show and Manon's new book. And now it's time for some horror stories which are decidedly not child-friendly. So turn down the lights and grab the remote because it's time for our feature presentation. In our first tale, we join a criminal psychologist who's interviewing a man accused of murder.

Often when someone's been in prison for heinous crimes, it's easy to tell they're a bit off just by speaking to them. But in this tale, shared with us by author S.H. Cooper, the man in question doesn't quite seem like the killer type. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Matthew Bradford, Peter Lewis, Erica Sanderson, and Jessica McAvoy. So let's delve into this man's tortured mine, and most of all, let's discover if it's true that sometimes even mamas make mistakes. The first word they came to mind when I met Jeremiah Goodwin was small. He was a short man with close-cropped pale hair and a hunched pome. posture. He looked almost childlike sitting in the office chair, save for the fact that his hands were shackled to his waist. I'd been told it was for my protection, but looking at him

then, I found the idea laughable. The mental health facility he was being kept in, one that specialized in caring for violent criminals, didn't appreciate my skepticism. Neither did the prosecution, who had hired me as an expert witness to determine if he was competent to stand trial. Hello, Jeremiah. Hello. He even managed to make his words sound small. I slid into the chair across from him. I'm Dr. Barone, a psychologist.

I've come to talk to you today about the charges pending against you. Jeremiah shifted in his seat and the shackles clinked. His only response. He kept his eyes turned to. the floor and his face blank. I took a recorder from my bag and placed it on the table between us. I'm going to be recording our conversation and taking notes while we speak. Do you understand? His head bobbed subtly. Can you say your answer aloud? I understand. I sat back in my chair, a professional but relaxed pose that was meant to help my patients feel at ease. Jeremiah remained

stiff and hunched. I allowed the silence to stretch between us a little bit, waiting to see if he might speak first. But his lips remained closed in a thin, anxious line. Do you know what charges I'm referring to? More shifting. More chain clinking. Jeremiah?

Yeah. Why don't you tell me, in your own words, while you're here? He picked absently at his arm. with his nails, digging them into his flesh, pinching and pulling. I waited. Because of Dustin. Please repeat that a bit louder for the recorder. Because of Dustin. And who is Dustin?

Dustin Claremont. He is... Jeremiah trailed off and his chin quivered just slightly before he collected himself. He was my boyfriend. And what happened to him? Jeremiah finally lifted his gaze to meet mine. Dark rings circled his eyes and his expression was tight and haunted. He burned. I didn't react to his statement except to make a note on my pad. Can you explain the events leading up to his death? It would take a while.

Oh, and why is that? Because it didn't start with Dustin. What didn't start? Jeremiah placed his hands, close. into white fists upon the table and rested his head between them. I allowed him to take a moment. Sometimes patients such as Jeremiah become overwhelmed easily, and it was best to give them a chance to collect their thoughts. I already told people, the cops, other doctors, it's in their reports. He was right, and I'd already read those accounts. But I wasn't there for other people's second-hand retellings. I want to hear it from you.

No, you don't. I need you to help me understand what led up to the events on February 8th. I understand that it's a painful subject, but... I loved Dustin. I loved my mom, too. I stayed quiet and just waited for him to continue. He tapped his forehead against the table, as if he were trying to knock his thoughts loose. I monitored him closely, ready to jump up and intervene should he see. start to cause himself harm, but he remained gentle and controlled, so I allowed it as a coping mechanism.

You know about my mom. What about her? That she's dead, too. I'm sorry to hear that. You know how she died. I did, but I wanted him to tell me. How? Fell down the stairs, broke her neck.

That's what her death certificate says. You don't sound like you believe that. He continued to tap his forehead against the table. What do you think happened? Jeremiah sat up and pressed his fists into his eyes. His cheeks were wet with tears. Waddles. I waited.

My pen poised. He took a deep, shaky breath. There was a book we used to read when I was little. I don't know its real name, but we called it sometimes even Mama's, make mistakes. It was about a kid whose mom was wrong about the little stuff sometimes, like whether they had cream cheese in the fridge. So maybe she was wrong about monsters being real. I made her read it every night until I memorized it. And the book has something to do with your mom and Dustin?

Kind of. I don't really know. Maybe it led to Waddles. All I know is it started to shoddle. All I know is it started showing up after we'd been reading it for a while. I'm sorry, but what is Waddles? He sighed again and started over. Jeremiah's dad had left him and his mom when he was six. The two of them had had to move into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the heart of downtown. It was a dirty, dangerous area, and Jeremiah hadn't been allowed outside much. To make him feel less closed in and depressed, his mom had to be a little.

started reading to him. It was one of the only things that brought him joy. He would beg her to bring home new books from the library two or three times a week, until she brought him sometimes even mamas make mistakes. From the very first read-through, he was hooked. He loved the story and the illustrations and only wanted that book. Every night after they finished reading it yet again, and his mom tucked him in, he'd asked the same question. There aren't any monsters here. Are there, Mama? She'd kissed him in the middle of his forehead with a laugh and assure him there were not. This went on for a month or so until the voice started.

His mom had just shut out the light and closed his door. Jeremiah was beginning to fall asleep. He was used to the sounds of the city by then. Cars going by. Stray animals yowling and howling from alleys. and the voices, people talking on the sidewalks far below his window. At first, he thought that's what it was, the distant sound of someone talking outside the apartment building.

But, little by little, it was getting louder, and he realized it was just whispering the same phrase over and over again. Sometimes even mamas make mistakes. He sat up in bed, his sheets hugged to his chest. and he looked around his small room. In the corner behind his door, where the light coming in through his window didn't quite reach, was an unfamiliar shadow.

It was short and wide, as if very fat. When Jeremiah looked at it, it twitched slightly and spoke in a burbly hiss. Sometimes even mamas make mistakes. He gasped, and the thing in the corner started to scuttle toward him in a jerky, quick waddle. Jeremiah threw his comfort over his head and screamed until his mom came running. The light came on, she gathered him up, and the monster was gone.

He tried to tell her what he'd seen, but she said it was just a bad dream. There's nothing there, Jerber. Monsters aren't real. She stayed with him until he was just about asleep, and then left her return to the pull-out couch, she called her bed. At his request, she left his door open. As soon as he was alone again, the voice returned, this time from under his bed.

Sometimes even mamas make mistakes. He launched himself as far from his bed as he could and ran to his mom's room, where he spent the next few nights. She stopped reading his favorite book to him. His mom finally coaxed him into returning to his room by filling the underside of his bed with books and toys. No room for any old monsters under there.

But after he'd been tucked in and left alone, Jeremiah heard it again. Sometimes even mamas make mistakes. He insisted his mom sleep with him for the rest of the night. She wasn't thrilled with the idea, but cuddled up next to him. You know what might help? Giving this bad dream a silly name, then it won't be so scary.

They'd tossed ideas around until they came to settle on Waddles due to how it had moved. Jeremiah now believed giving it a name had been a terrible idea. It's like we'd fed into it, made it more powerful. As soon as it had a name,

things got worse. His mom still insisted Waddles was just the product of a nightmare. But Jeremiah was certain it was real. He'd see it, lurking out of the corner of his eyes. Always a fat, dark shape in the shadows. If he listened close, he could hear its reedy, whistling breath while it watched him. He tried pointing it out to his mother, but she said nothing was there.

Whenever she'd leave the room, Jeremiah heard it. The neighbor's cat, Colombo, disappeared first. Jeremiah had finally got on the half-ferral feline's good side after bringing a treats every day on his way in and out of the building Colombo had trusted him enough to eat right out of his hand but the last time he tried to feed the cat it backed away hissing Jeremiah followed his hand outstretched and Colombo had swiped at him his long claws caught Jeremiah's forearm

and left a trail of bloody streaks in his wake. Jeremiah shrieked and Colombo ran off. Behind him, from an unlit corner of the hallway beneath a broken bulb, waddles burbled with cold laughter. Missing posters went up a few days later, calling for Colombo's return. His owners went door-to-door asking if people had seen their pet. Jeremiah's mom was not happy when they showed up. She told them that their cat had scratched Jeremiah and was dangerous.

They got into a shouting match until his mom slammed the door in their faces. The smell led to Colombo's discovery about a week later. He'd been hung by an extension court in the janitor's closet just down the hall from Jeremiah's apartment. His owners came back to their door with a vengeance. They accused Jeremiah of murdering their cat. He'd been the last one seen with Colombo. and they said he probably wanted to hurt the cat for scratching him. His mother said they were crazy.

Jeremiah was only a little kid who loved animals. He'd never hurt Colombo. They then suggested she'd done it herself as payback for the scratch. Again, his mom slammed the door in their face. Jeremiah insisted it was Waddles. Her temper was still flaring, and she snapped that Waddles wasn't real and stomped to the bathroom.

Jeremiah slapped his hands over his ears when he heard the satisfied hiss coming from over his shoulder. I must make mistakes. No matter how he tried to insist Waddles was real, his mom wouldn't hear it. It's not, Jerbert. It's just a dream. But the more she denied it, the more active Waddles became. Accidents started happening around the apartment. Toys Jeremiah hadn't played with were left out. for her to trip on. The gas stove was left on while they were gone for the day. The plant pot they

kept on the window sill fell on the street, almost hitting a passerby. And every night, waddles would remain beneath Jeremiah's bed, gleefully mumbling its phrase. He woke one morning after another restless sleep to his mother screaming. He ran from his room and found her standing in the kitchen, staring down at the floor. He said he called to her, but she didn't turn, and he crept closer until he could see what she was looking at. Insects. Cockroaches and flies and spiders were laid out across the floor.

They were each missing appendages. Beside them rested a pair of headless rats, tied together by their tails. Their blood had stained the floor a deep red. What is this, Jeremiah? He didn't have an answer, except the one she didn't want to hear. She yelled at him to go to his room while she cleaned up the mess. She'd have a serious talk with him when she was done she'd warned.

He could hear her crying quietly over the rustle of the plastic garbage bag, and then the front door opening and closing. In the silence that followed, he whimpered and buried his head under his pillow. But it didn't stop him from hearing the voice. Make mistakes. Waddles, too, went quiet after that. He waited for his mom to come back. And he waited, and waited.

It took a long time for his grandparents to come collect him. They said there'd been an accident. His mom had tripped going down the stairs and been hurt. He was going to live with them now. The last time he saw his mom was in a count. basket, wearing a high-necked dress. As his family shuffled around the funeral home, offering their condolences to one another, Jeremiah sat in the back, where he cried while a hissing, burbling breath brushed the back of his neck. I decided I'd never tell anyone else about waddles.

He'd become even paler, a feat I didn't think possible, and he raked his nails up and down his arm while he rocked in his chair. It was still there, always, always just behind me. But I didn't tell. No, I didn't. Not a word. I couldn't. Mom hadn't believed me and I don't know.

Made it more real somehow. If I didn't tell them, no one could deny it and I couldn't hurt anyone. I let them think I was crazy. I let them think I did bad stuff. Your record shows you've been in and out of prison. Yeah. A lot of drug-related charges. I wanted it to stop.

To leave me alone. The drugs helped me sleep. Did you see any doctors about it? No. I didn't want to tell. I didn't want to give it a chance. But you're telling people now. It doesn't matter anymore.

Tears had appeared in his eyes, and he let his head hang. It's not going away. I never will. What made things change? Dustin. I met him at a halfway house. It was a court-ordered thing. He was a volunteer.

He took care of me. He was the nicest person I ever met. The pain that twisted his face was deep and raw. What happened to Dustin, Jeremiah? He swallowed hard. He started seeing each other outside of the half-hole. boy house. He took me places, doctors and stuff, but then to dinners and movies, date stuff. It was nice. He paused, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

I was staying on my meds. He made sure of it, but Waddles doesn't care what I'm taking. It came everywhere with us, always just off to the side, fat and mumbling and following. following. His rocking was becoming more rapid as he spoke. When I got out of the halfway house, Dustin invited me to stay at his place. It was an apartment, real nice. I thought maybe I could be happy there. Dustin made me happy. Maybe Waddles would go away if I was happy. It had shown up when I was sad, so maybe happiness would drive it away. Did it? No, he made it angry, I think. It was getting louder every night. I couldn't make out what it was saying, just that it was mumbling and breathing.

He started breaking things, glasses and stuff. It poured bleach into Dustin's fish tank, killed all the fish. Dustin got frustrated. He thought it was me. I didn't want to tell him about Waddles, but I didn't want him to leave me either. I begged him to forgive me. He took me to new doctors. I got new meds.

But Waddles just kept messing things up. There were more dead things. bugs and stuff. They were in food and Dustin's clothes. He was getting madder and madder. He finally snapped when his dog... Jeremiah choked on a sob and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. Gypsy was a little thing, the Chihuahua mutt or something. I'd been taking a nap. The meds made me tired. Dustin woke me up. He was crying and screaming about what I'd done in the gypsy. I don't know what he meant until he dragged me out of bed. and brought me to the bathroom. Gypsy was...

She was in the toilet. She'd been drowned. Dustin thought I did it, but I didn't. I didn't. I wouldn't. I loved Gypsy. What happened next? He was throwing all my things into a bag

and yelling at me to go, so I told him. I told him I didn't want to, but I was going to lose him. I told him about wattles, and what had happened to Colombo and my mom, I told him, and... Did he believe you?

No, no, of course not. Every time I tried to explain again, he'd just say Waddles wasn't real even louder. He just screamed it at me. He said I was sick and needed help, and he couldn't give it to me. Waddles wasn't real. Waddles was me, but it's not me. I tried to tell him. I tried.

You wouldn't believe me. I locked myself in the bedroom so he couldn't throw me out. I had to make him believe me. He trailed off for a moment. His throat bobbing with poorly contained emotion. He was swearing a lot. Dustin didn't swear. He stomped around for a while.

I heard him. I heard wattles too. I begged Dustin to listen, but he told me to shut up. It went on for hours. Then it got quiet. I guess he fell asleep on the couch. I don't know. He just got quiet. What else, too?

And then? Then Dustin was screaming, but not angry like before. Like hurting. I ran out to see what was going on, and there was already so much smoke. It stank so bad. And Dustin was running around. He was screaming, and there was fire, and it was all over him. And I couldn't put it out.

I couldn't put it. I couldn't. Put it out. I let him cry for a while. He hugged himself while he rocked sharply back and forth. I'd seen the photos of the unfortunate Dustin. It had been a terrible, painful way to die. It had been so long since I told anyone.

Must have been waiting. Just waiting. It wanted to hurt, Dustin. It likes hurting people. It will again. I know it will. They can't be stopped. I know that now.

I gotta tell people, I have to make them believe. The more who believe, the weaker wattos would be. Then it'll go away. It has to. It has to. All right, all right. I didn't need anything more from him that day. I packed up my belongings, wished him well, and prepared to go.

He watched me with a... a sunken dark expression. Outside, I met with his primary doctor, Judy Ashandy. She smiled sadly. Awful, huh? He hasn't changed his story once. I've heard it at least a dozen times. Do you believe him?

That he's being stalked by an obese poltergeist? No. But I do believe he's not aware of what he's doing when he's acting as waddles. Dissociative identity disorder. Maybe. It's rare, I know, but I haven't ruled it out yet. I thanked her for her time and scheduled a follow-up appointment for the next week to continue my observation of Jeremiah. Two days before I was scheduled to meet with him, I received a call from the facility. In reserved tones, I was told there had been an incident between Dr. Ashandy and Jeremiah.

They suggested I come down right away. I arrived less than an hour later to find Dr. Ashandy's body being wheeled out on a gurney. What happened? A nurse motioned for me to follow her. She explained on the way. Dr. Ashandy had just finished a therapy session with Jeremiah. She'd put in a call for an orderly to come escort him back to his room. Jeremiah hadn't been violent at all since his admission, so we'd been giving him a bit more freedom.

She stopped and pushed open the door to Dr. Ashandy's office. Dark drops were splattered across her bookshelves and floor. Papers were strewn about. Chairs overturned. I put a hand over my mouth. Where is Jeremiah now? The nurse told me he was sedated in solitary. He wouldn't be able to talk for a while, but she could call me when he was awake.

I hurried out, eager. to be away from the grisly scene and had to steady myself in the elevator on my way back down the parking garage. The idea that Jeremiah could have killed Dr. Ashandy in such a brutal manner seemed so contrary to the man I'd met.

He'd seen so genuine and heartbroken. I was thinking of how I'd need to re-examine my interview as I approached my car. I rounded to the driver's side and was so distracted I didn't notice it at first. First, not until I was reaching for my handle.

The message scrawled across the doors and dripping red. Sometimes even doctors make mistakes. A nice relaxing trip on the ocean is just what the doctor ordered. Sun, sea, the wind in your sails, ah, just bliss. But it's slightly less enjoyable when your ocean dream becomes a nautical nightmare thanks to some sinister marine weeds. But in this tale, shared with us by author Eric Ian Steele, we discover that even toxic algae

isn't the worst thing you might find yourself drifting into. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Jesse Cornett, and Aaron Lillis. So hoist up the sail, but there'll be no going home from this ocean nightmare. It's not safe to go back into the water, even if the seas look be calmed. If you hear this, maybe you can explain what happened.

I've given up trying. All I know is that it took place exactly the way I'm about to tell it. I can imagine what the papers will say when they get a hold of this. The sordid little lies they'll tell to try to make it into a story worth printing. So I'm sharing it to set the record straight. I don't want anybody coming to. the wrong conclusions after I'm gone. That would just about kill my mom.

Why did it happen to us? To folks like Skip and Francine? I don't know. I guess the truth is that bad things happen to good people. It's the way of the cosmos. Sometimes I think the elements just conspire against us. We can look back and think that such and such disaster was caused when I did this or that. But that's wishful thinking.

We never get to see the signs before calamities happen. Things just are. Life is like the ocean. It only looks calm on the surface. Actually, it's unfathomable. Before you know it, whatever's lurking underneath will sneak up and capsize you. But I should start at the beginning. When did it start?

Looking back, I'm not so sure. Was it when we first put out to sea? I didn't notice anything different. If there was something in the air, some ominous cloud with an odd green tinge to it, a funny taste to the water, some omen of impending doom, I never saw it. As far as I can remember, it was just an ordinary day. Me and Skip. God, I miss them already.

had decided we should take the boat down to the keys. Actually, Skip didn't want to go at all. It was me. I pestered him until he agreed to take us. Maybe it was my fault for doing that, for badgering him into leaving his sunny home. But we'd gone out to see plenty of other times in years past. Why would this time be any different?

I was only down in Florida for three weeks after graduation. As a physics major, the natural career path was to go into research. But I'd had a belly full of lecture halls and dusty professors. So I hung around at home, drank too much, watched late-night movies, slept for most of the day and generally procrastinated. I knew I'd eventually run out of money and would have to take some crappy job coding for a bank or some such organization. But I had the rest of the summer before that happened.

So I flew down to Miami and met Skip. It was my stay of execution, one final fling before a life of dull servitude. Skip and his wife Francine had a place right on the beach in Fort Lauderdale, white sand, blue sea, pelicans, the works. I'd been there for about a week before I got itchy feet from all that beachcombing and thought it would be a great idea to sail even further south, maybe as far as Key West. I'm trying not to think too much,

now about how much I pressured Skip. He'd been a chef at the local Red Lobster for as long as I can remember, and I'm sure he was looking forward to just kicking back that weekend. But I pushed. Skip, how often do I come down here and visit you? Never? Well, there you go. Don't be so lazy. After all I've done for you? Of course, it was a joke.

Skip and his wife did everything for me. I did nothing for them except you. use up their hospitality. God. The fear is more or less continuous, like a shark eating away at my stomach lining. I feel cold all the time. And there's this mist.

The weather forecast for that Friday said clear skies. We drove out after breakfasting at one of Skip's haunts, a local place, no chains for him. Working in one was enough. Francine came with us. She was great for her age, slim from all that power walking, tan, long blonde hair that smelled of saltwater.

I really liked her in a hot ant kind of way. Skip and she had been a constant presence in mind in my mom's lives since the cancer took dad back in 06. The pair of them had been in Desert Storm. Mainly we kept in touch by computer, owing to the distance between us. Skip had been a rock for my mom, staying as long as he could before work,

and Francine called him back. He thought my dad had picked something up in the desert through all those injections, but we could never prove anything. I don't know why I'm sharing all of this with you. Maybe I'm trying to find a root cause to blame, or maybe it's just a way of organizing my thoughts. I don't really think anyone will hear this broadcast.

but I really need something to distract me right now from looking at the expanse of sea. Maybe it's my last will in testament. Anyhow, Skip's boat was at the marina on Golden Beach, a white ribbon of sand draped alongside the denim blue Atlantic. The pier was a roped-together collection of sun-bleached creaking timbers watched over by waddling pelicans. The plan was to sail to Key Largo and put ashore for the shore for the sea. night before spending the next day exploring as far as Islamorada and then sailing back for nightfall.

Skip's boat was a gorgeous 30-footer called the Pequod. Sorry about the lack of ominous sounding name for shadowing what was to come. White sails, cozy if somewhat antiquated cabin, it even had a short-range fish detector. I loved it. We set out. It was a beautiful day. The sky, a flawless eggshell blue, sea and undulating tarpaulin of gray tinged with aquamarine. The thermometer nudged 90.

Pelicans wheeled overhead, too lazy even to dive for fish. Skip pointed her south and kicked back in his captain's chair while Francine dished out chilled beers. Salt air swept into the sails. Water churned behind us and we were away. Francine slipped into a bikini top and a long, airy skirt now that we were away from land, giving us both a good view of her smooth, brown legs. Skip's mahogany face creased into a smile, and he struck up a tune on his harmonica. He's called Skip for a reason.

Nobody likes sailing more than him. We passed Miami and could just make out the painted hotels of South Beach, watching us like tall pastel ghosts. Then the shoreline shrank into the distance, and we were alone, bobbing up and down in that wide open expanse of blue. The first time we encountered anything, we were a mile or two south of Key Biscayne, far enough out now so we couldn't see land. Something bumped the boat. Francine glanced over the boughs and exclaimed with delight. It was a sea turtle, a big old green thing flopping about in the wake. It kept banging into our hole repeatedly.

Maybe he's lost. Bold fella, want a snack? Ain't got no turtle food. The poor beast kept swimming into the boat, unable or unwilling to skirt around it. I thought it looked panicked. Without warning, a massive head erupted through the surface and clamped down on the hapless reptile. Black eyes reflected sunlight. Then it was gone, leaving only a fizzing swath of water.

From the size of it, I was pretty sure it was a thresher or a bull. I told Skip, standing as far away as I could from the edge of the boat. Maybe you're right. Better keep out of the water. They don't need no great whites out here. And bull sharks kill more folks than pointers and tigers altogether. Well, we'll be all right. Look pretty big.

Everything looks bigger in the ocean. He was probably a six-footer. That'd take a whole lot more to capsize a boat this big. We'll be all right. Maybe we'd best set sail, though, out of his feeding ground. He winked at me with a smirk. We bobbed about for a few minutes while Skip trimmed the sail. During that time, I felt more insignificant than I'd ever done in my life.

Every wave felt like it had the potential to capsize us. but it never happened They mind if I put on the fish finder At least it would give us warning next time So my heart wouldn't leap up into my throat like that Skip nodded Wants the battery though I didn't have time to charge it up

I flicked on the device The steady blip blip was comforting It was too still out here Too silent It was past high noon now The sun, a bleak, ball of sodium in the heavens. I could feel my skin crisping under its gaze.

The sea glistened, dazzling with brightness. Dark clouds brooded on the horizon, but too far away to pose a threat. What is it? Skip? Something big. Another shark? I don't think so. At that moment, something burst through the water beside us. Francine and I jumped.

Another plop as something else broke the surface on the other side. Skip chuckled to himself. We sat on the stern, sipping a beer, keeping one burly forearm on the jib. A silver-gray fish with elongated fins landed on the deck and flapped about a bit before Skip tossed it back into the ocean. More followed, skipping through the air just above the water. We watched the shining bodies fly through a rainbow mist. on their way to God knows where. Flying fish.

Watch how they don't swallow your hole. For the rest of the afternoon, nothing happened. The sun baked the heavens. A cool breeze whipped the sails. The clouds kept their distance. Francine reclined on the boughs, enjoying the wind in her hair, confident in her own body as only a mature woman can be.

If I gazed too long, Skip didn't complain. I think he enjoyed knowing his wife could still bring an admiring glint to the eyes of a young pup like me. For the next two hours, we had as pleasant a time as you could imagine. Around four o'clock, Francine gave a gasp. What is that? We peered over the boughs. A thick orange scum covered the water, weeds and flotsam caught in its sickly pool. I'd never smelled anything so bad.

In the heat, it was suffocating. Francine pointed at something and cried out. Amid the putrid mass floated a large black object that had once been a pelican. Slime coated its flippers, head, and wings. Its feeble wings flapped in vain against the pool of the tarry scum. We watched, as it sank below the surface without a sound. I pulled back, unwilling to go anywhere near that polluted gunk. Skip remained inscrutable and tossed his beer can over the side. Yeah, some kind of algae, I guess. It happens sometimes. The disturbances on the sea bed will open up a crack or a fisher.

Sends up a bubble of gas. Sometimes it's so toxic, it kills everything for miles. It brings all kinds of things up to the surface. Stuff that's been dead. a thousand years. Get us out of here. Skip nodded. I think that, like us, he wanted to be out of that damn tide. He grabbed the jib with the intention of spinning the boat around and catching the wind. That was when the breeze died.

What's up? A heavy, humid heat descended. The sun reflected off the waves, bouncing heat rays back up at us. Where are we moving? He pointed to the man. mainsail, which hung like a limp blanket. The head sail was rigid, but only due to the tension and the lines. Sailboats need wind. We ain't got it. Well, when will we get some? Then we'll rule the seas. It could be a minute. It could be an hour. Just have to wait and see.

What about the motor? Skip just laughed. He kicked the stern with his foot. We got a motor all right. but we don't need it. This will pick up after a minute or two. I don't want to use gas unless we have to. Stuff's more expensive than crude oil. I sat down, not having anything else to do, and wished I had brought a book.

Having spent the last three years plowing through volumes of literature in college, I was having a reaction against reading anything. Now, for the first time since then, I missed the printed page. We waited an hour. Two. The light began to fade in the east.

Engine, it is. He pushed the ignition button on the outboard. Nothing happened. What is it? In the weeds. Dang it. Can't we clean them off? I ain't going in there.

I told you that stuff can be poison. Acid even. You'll strip your skin right off. I've seen it happen. He tried to hide it from us, but I could see concern on his worn features. Why don't we use the radio? I ain't no baby waiting to be picked up by the Coast Guard. Skip, do as he says.

Skip hesitated, then thought better of answering her back and complied. He headed into the cab. A moment later, he reemerged, looking paler. Damn, son of a bitch. Damn fish finders drained the battery. Hey, try your phone, Bobby. I nodded, pulled out my cell. No bars.

Franny? I forgot it. You were pasturing me so much. I thought you were going to get that fixed. I felt a hollow open up in the pit of my stomach. Part of me felt angry at Skip's negligence, but I had badgered Skip to come out here. I climped my teeth together in a vice. Can't we?

paddle or something? With what? You want to put your hands in that? Francine drew back into the middle of the boat, hugging herself. Besides, we're so far out, wouldn't make any difference. Current's against us. Well, do something! Like what?

Make wind? Talk sense, Fran! Skip rose out of his seat. His unsightly belly. gave him the appearance of a bloated turtle. It was the first time I'd ever seen them argue, or even raised their voices to one another. Skip caught my eye, sucked in his ire, and sat down.

We'll have to wait as all. We're in a shipping lane, for Lord's sake. Now, this won't last long. Just be patient. So, we waited. Another hour went past. Still, no wind. Skip's face grew dark behind the cloud of unwashed stubble that covered his cheeks.

I forced myself to stay calm. Somebody would find us. We weren't that far out. I kept praying for the wind to rise. How could things go so wrong so fast? Two more hours passed. The sun sank across the prow. Francine abandoned her bikini for a waterproof jacket.

She sat on the prow, staring into the muck. I felt like a character out of a Coleridge poem, except nobody had shot an albatross. This can't go on forever, right? Skip nodded out to sea. I followed his gaze, and by dismay saw those black clouds massing all along the horizon. My physics degree kicked in. How was that possible?

We're not moving, but there must be a wind. He shook his head. The sun had cooled now, though the thermometer still kept a vigil around 90. Broken afterward. The shadows of the mast stretched across the boat. Something bumped us. Probably just another fish. But then we felt it again.

The boat shifted a little. We all grew rigid. Whatever it was sounded big. But keep your heads. Whatever it is, it can't climb. I'm on board, so just keep calm, and it'll go away. It shook. It sounded less like the body of a solid creature, more like something slithering under the vessel.

We sat there listening, but whatever had prodded us went away. Skip leaned close and whispered to me. There's a flare in that box over there, near the mast, if anything happens. I nodded, more terrified by what I saw in. skips flinty eyes than whatever occasion might justify the flare gun's use. By now the sun had fused into the horizon where hungry clouds were devouring it. Pretty soon it would be dark. Still, nothing moved.

The thunderheads appeared content to stay where they were. The heat had started to cool off rapidly after five o'clock. Now we were shivering. Francine's coat didn't appear to be doing her much good. Good. Skiplit a few lanterns around the boat. I didn't like to think of them as fishing lures, but that's what they looked like. Can't stay like this much longer.

And by morning we'll be fine. Someone will pick us up. Sure his eggs is eggs. I winced at the metaphor. My stomach rumbled for lack of food. But somehow, I managed to get to sleep that night. A cry awoke me. It was black everywhere except for Skip's lights.

Francine was leaning over the side, shouting. She looked like she was about to go over. I dragged her back. What happened? I held onto her with all my strength. What took him? What happened? The cap was empty, and there was nowhere else for him to hide.

Obviously, Skip had gone overboard. I peered over the side. The orange bloom was still there. No trace of Skip, only a temporary disturbance in the swirling waters. Skip was a strong swimmer. He should have come up for air at least once, but there was nothing. No sound. No bubbles.

Francine huddled against the mast, shaking. I grabbed her, but she drew away with a terrified cry. I stroked her hair, trying to coax some sense out of her. But she could only stare. at the water. Eventually, I let her go. She sat rocking on her heels. I tried the motor again, but Skip was right. It was hopelessly clogged by weeds, and there was no way I was ever putting my hand down near there. I went to the rusty box Skip had pointed out earlier and opened it. Inside lay a flare pistol, a flashlight, and the first aid kit. I grabbed the gun and shone the flashlight over the side.

scanning the lifeless waves and saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. I gave up and collapsed on the floor of the boat. Skip was gone. I must have dozed off again because I woke up with the sun scorching my face and sea salt stinging my arms. I gazed around, hoping last night's events were a nightmare. There was still no skip.

Francine was hugging the mat. A glazed expression on her sunburned face. I tried again to ask her what had happened, but she didn't speak, didn't even look at me. The morning passed slowly. The boat listed, its mast pointing toward the sun. No wind rustled the sails. The distant clouds we had spotted yesterday remained just that. Distant.

My throat was dry from the sea breeze and lack of water. I drank tepid liquid out of the ice pack in the hamper and sipped a can of beer. I had read that alcohol dehydrates you, but better that than nothing. Water or water everywhere. Something bobbed by in the orange murk. I saw with revulsion that it was a turtle shell, minus its owner. Just tiny specks of meat on the inside. side. Normally, birds would have come and pecked it clean, but I hadn't seen a bird all day. Maybe they

knew better than to come near. Some innate sense told them to stay away. I offered the beer to Francine, and she stared like an idiot. She seemed to have retreated to some place in her mind, but I was wrong about that, because all of a sudden her mouth grew round her, and she started to shake violently. She reached out with a long, varnished nail, trying to speak. All that came out was a hoarse moan, maybe from lack of water. Or maybe it was pure fear. And then I heard it.

Skips Harmonica. I feared to turn my head, but I had to look, had to see what Francine saw. Something had risen up out of the orange filth. buoyed to the surface, no doubt by internal gases created by bacteria during decomposition. The body was Skip. What was left of him. His stomach was gone, revealing a broken hole of rib cage. Gray bones and lines of yellow gristle showed through liver-colored muscle.

Most of his flesh was missing. Only mud-stained scraps of his shirt and underpants remains. One side of his face was gone as well. A single eye sagged in its socket. I could see white teeth attached to the jawbone. The harmonica hung from a chain around his neck. A gust of wind had blown upon it, sounding that awful spirit tune. Now it disappeared below the brine with a gurgle.

Something was moving around him, slick and oily. It seemed to tangle itself in knots, then untangle itself. That was when my stomach lurched, and I realized that this was not just one thing. It was many. The things that swirled in and out of Skip's ribcage were eels. At least, I thought there were eels at first. There were more like huge worms with flexible antenna. Barbells.

That's what they're called. Not antenna. And those aren't eels. They're hagfish. They live at the bottom of the sea and feed on rotting carcasses. I watched as they writhed all over him, and in and out of him. Covered in slime, they constantly twisted themselves in knots. After a while, I could see how they worked.

Their horned heads wiggled into the flesh, pulling away chunks with that nodding motion. The water around him was covered with flakes of flesh as more hagfish swam up for the depths to partake of the feast. There must have been hundreds of them. I staggered back from the prow, hoping to God they couldn't climb up onto the boat. Skip had been right after all. Whatever had caused the slime had dredged up these monstrous prehistoric bottom feeders along with it. I started to wonder how he had fallen. in and he gotten tired, slipped, or had the hagfish somehow pulled him under?

Francine gurgled with fear, and I remembered her need for support more than my own frightened instinct for self-preservation. I peeled her away from the awful sight, hiding her face in my chest. The hagfish were silent, but I could hear the occasional sound of a piece of skip splash ripping away and splashing from the water. The grim spectacle continued for most of that day. Not a breath of air stirred. The sails hung like a pair of old man's lungs, no longer proud, just wasted and thin, like ghostly sheets for a pall.

The timbers beneath us creaked in a soft lullaby, and all around us that thick, gluey orange tar and the subtle sounds of the hagfish eating. Once I looked back over the side of the boat to see him bobbing there His jawbone was working up and down as a snake-like body squirmed behind it I could imagine him speaking to me Both gonna join me down here real soon Real soon The hagfish flopped into the water taking the jawbone along with it

And Skip spoke no more. About midday, I started to feel light-headed. I realized Francine must be feeling the same, so I took the last remaining beer can, pressed it to Francine's lips first, aching to get a taste myself, but knowing she would be weaker. She drank without speaking, without even looking at me. The fire of intelligence was gone from her eyes. She coughed up most of the beer and vomited the rest upon the floor. The acrid stench stung my nostrils. Most of the puke was her own gastric juices because she'd had nothing to eat.

Bad move. That'll dehydrate you even more. I drank the remainder of the beer. Far from clearing my head, I felt more woozy. Without food in my stomach, the alcohol raced to my brain. I leaned back on the boards, feeling my shoulder blades burn on the scalding deck. I closed my eyes and could still see red veins pulsating behind my eyelids. Before I knew it, I was asleep again.

I woke to find Francine standing on the prow, staring into the waters. Franny? I followed her gaze. Skip's body was little more than a skeleton now. Even the hagfish had departed his ruined frame. They skirted the boat, eager. searching things, writhing and nodding themselves in a vast thrashing curtain all around us. Grancine trembled under my touch as I tried to draw her away.

Kipp's gone. He's gone. Come back to the mast. She remained motionless, a rod of iron. Try as I might. I couldn't move her. I glared up at the sun's white-hot eye as it gave us a baleful glare from the heavens. I had to do something. I staggered back to the mast, opened the metal box, and took out the flare pistol. It seemed to be simple enough to operate,

only a single cylinder, but otherwise like a revolver. A resolve to shoot it and see what happened. Surely we couldn't have drifted out that far. But then I checked myself. Looking landwards, the shoreline was gone. Skip had been the only one with a compass And we could be anywhere Still, it was worth a try

Before I could do anything Francine stepped off the boat No No My brain couldn't think of anything else to say In slow motion I saw her feet leave the prowl Her body dropped beside the boat I race to the prow.

The ocean thrashed as the hagfish nodded themselves in a frenzy, their slimy bodies performing obscene contortions. The bubbling foam turned red. I saw a lock of frenzine's air sink below the waves. Many of the hagfish disappeared, going down to feed. Others remained where they were, looping themselves with excitement, blind, grotesque heads rearing their probing antenna to the surface. I could see their hideous jaws, not really jaws at all, more like the serrated edges of an angle grinder.

I drew back from the awful sight, hearing them slither against the side of the hole. Francine hadn't made a sound. Now there would be two of them out there, two grinning skeletons mocking me, begging me to join them. I prayed then. Prayed to the God I had hardly spared a thought for since Sunday school. It seemed that any hope was better than facing reality and going insane. Maybe I did go insane at that moment. I think anyone would have. It's been a whole day since Francine disappeared. Mercifully, she hasn't risen to the surface. Sometimes I hear tapping under the hall and I think it's her asking me to go for a swim.

As for Skip, he just lurks there, a few yards from his beloved boat, looking like a shipwreck himself now. His tattered shirt rustles in the occasional slight breeze that rises only to taunt me, far too weak to lift our sails. I never asked for this. Maybe we should have shot the flare gun off sooner. Maybe Skip should have checked his battery, or maybe I should have turned the damn fish finder off.

But I never shot an albatross. I just wanted to take a ride with my friends. I'm not to blame. It was a freak current or an underwater geyser. It's those things fault. Those horrible hellish things that look like nothing God would have ever created. They slither in their gloomy slime and they slide. I don't intend on going out like Skip and Francine.

I still have the flare gun. It's a hell of a way to go, but it's better than being caught by those things. If I can wait until enough of them are on the boat, I can burn them all back to hell. This deck is dry as a bone. It'll burn like tender. An hour ago, I found an empty water bottle in Francine's bag along the same. with her cell phone. She had it with her all the time. At first I laughed hard, but then I tried it. The battery is dead. She must have realized or she would have told us. She hadn't charged her

battery before the trip. That was her mistake. The sound of their splashing about has increased in the past few hours. I think they're trying to clamber aboard. Perhaps with their primitive senses they can smell me. They're coming now, clamoring up the side of the boat. I can see the odd antenna above the prow, glistening with fathom's deep slime. I'm broadcasting this over the short wave

so somebody will know what happened. I don't even know if it's transmitting. But these things have to be stopped. They have to... I've got a new plan. If you hear this broadcast, Come look for me. I'll jump over the side as the boat burns and distracts them.

I'm a fast swimmer. Maybe I can make it. I'm going to swim with the sun on my left. Or is my right. Look out for me. They're coming over the side. Before the lights come back on, remember to go to pretty litter.com

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