The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S13E18

Episode Date: October 20, 2019

It's episode 18 of Season 13. This week we present tales of nappers, neighbors, and nostalgia. "Green Rain" written by Jazzmin Forrestall (Story starts around 00:10:42) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Woman 1 – Mary Murphy, Woman 2 – Erin Lillis, Lilyanna – Addison Peacock, Father – Mike DelGaudio, Mother – Nikolle Doolin "Death in the Family" written by Joe Sullivan (Story starts around 00:24:55) Produced by: Jeff Clement TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Julia – Addison Peacock, Rodney – Jeff Clement, Aunt Kathy – Nikolle Doolin, Medical Examiner – Dan Zappulla "The Parsonage" written by Alyssa N. Vaughn (Story starts around 00:42:52) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Patience – Addison Peacock, Mama – Erin Lillis, Daddy – Mike DelGaudio, Ezekiel – Elie Hirschman, Mrs. Cypress – Erika Sanderson, Church Woman 1 – Mary Murphy, Church Woman 2 – Sarah Thomas "My Neighbors Practice Acting Normal at Night" written by Mr. Michael Squid (Story starts around 01:16:27) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Sharon – Addison Peacock, Mrs. Ainsworth – Erin Lillis "Mom Needs Help with Her Tapes" written by Heather Deiter (Story starts around 01:28:26) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Mike – Mike DelGaudio, Shannon – Nikolle Doolin, Mother/Shannon – Erika Sanderson, Young Mike – Elie Hirschman, Brian – Kyle Akers, Father – Jesse Cornett, Demonic Voice – Peter Lewis "Can I Have More?" written by Blair Daniels (Story starts around 02:04:29) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Eliza – Sarah Thomas, Trick-or-Treater – Erika Sanderson "The Order of Lake Swain" written by L.R. Cole (Story starts around 02:18:48) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Reggie – Atticus Jackson "Plan X Part 4" written by Peter Lewis Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Graham Rowat, Addison Peacock, Nikolle Doolin, Erika Sanderson, Mike DelGaudio, Alexis Bristowe, Peter Lewis Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about our Season Passes   Click here to follow us on Facebook   Click here to follow us on Twitter   Click here to follow us on Instagram   Click here to learn more about Jazzmin Forrestall   Click here to learn more about Joe Sullivan   Click here to learn more about Alyssa N. Vaughn   Click here to learn more about Mr. Michael Squid   Click here to learn more about Blair Daniels   Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis   Host: Peter Lewis Executive Producer: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Can I Have More?" illustration courtesy of Hasani Walker 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

Ready for the dark tales when we dare not close our eyes. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. Tip is beautiful. Is it hand-painted? Olivia does it somehow. She chooses and changes the colors from time to time depending on her mood. They're always so vivid and emotional in a way. She has excellent taste.

Hey, you know we're going to bring her back. right? Yeah, it's just... I've become a little wary of optimism. I understand. Still, if it were my existence on the line, and I knew that you and Nicole and Erica were on the case, I think I'd sleep pretty easy. We'll get her back. Well, now you almost have me believing it. Approaching your abhorus. Let's get to the bridge. Hello, you two. How's the arm, Graham? Getting better, thank you. So, we're almost there? We are. Is it ahead?

It's foggy. I was hoping to catch a glimpse before we landed, so I wouldn't have to ask. This place... Is it like a secret base or something? It's a little more complicated than that, but yes, a base of sorts. Increasingly less secret. Initiating manual docking procedure in transit. I suggest you all find a seat with something sturdy to hold.

I can't really get my harness on this side. Could someone... Oh, thank you. I owe you some knock week. All right, we're locked in. Bullseye, excellent pilotage. Connecting Olivia to electrical railway grid. It may take some time for all systems to fully recharge. We should secure the train.

I agree. With everything that's been happening, my trust in even our mightiest fortresses waning. Let's ensure we're on home territory. This is an impressive machine. What is it used for? The storage and transport of objectionable entities. Like what? Oh, you know, any beasty boss man is offloaded from headquarters.

A werewolf here, a centaur there, ghost dashins. Alexis, it's so good to see you. Hey, Peacock. Good to see you too. Good to see you all. Welcome to the nowhere-specific standard railroad, sky travelers. And you gave us quite a scare dive bombing in out of the fog like that. Hell of a landing, though. Oh, stop. Come on in off this blustery flight.

huh? You're just in time for dinner. I made mock turtle soup. Mock turtle? With calf's head and organ meats? Well, they're mock organ meats, which are made of... You know, it's a nesting doll situation. You know, various meats revealed to be various other meats. It's all very ethical, very cruelty-free, but we could be stuck down that road for a while. So, It's really better if you just stop asking questions and eat the soup, okay? Sorry, he's just really proud of how much it tastes like turtle.

Would you mind humoring him? Sure, fair enough. Wow, really, um, uh, really, really turtily. Yeah, super turtily. I'd have, I'd never known there weren't. This has pierced to the heart of me. The richness of the broth, it satisfies. The meats, the mystery surrounding them, all enthralling.

My palate dances. Another bowl, I beg you. See? What I tell you? It's good, right? So, anyway, thank you both for the warm welcome. Indeed. I think we're all glad to see the fortress is in good hands.

It's our pleasure. Been a quiet gig these last few weeks, just holding down the fort. Train practically runs itself. Monsters are all locked up tight. So we've just been taking the same two days worth of scenery and pulling off culinary master strokes, apparently. Have you been firing beacons from here, too? Nah, this region was already covered.

David just had a feeling someone might try to interfere while he was busy with the tour, so he asked us to camp out here. A few extra pairs of eyes on the big bads, you know? So what brings you guys screaming down from above? We're recharging Olivia. Something happened after we transferred broadcast control from the chattroes. She went offline.

Nearly flapped a lot of our jacks in the process. Not sure if it was a power surge or what exactly. I've scheduled her to reboot when she's fully rusted. And the submarine? Lost to the depths, I'm sad to say. Geez, I'm glad you all made it. Now, let's see. It looks like Olivia's at about 35%.

Shouldn't be long. There is a ludicrous amount of power running underneath this thing. You said she went down after you transferred broadcast control to the bridge? Seamed, too, yes. So who's controlling the broadcast now? I sent the host credentials to the owl, but we lost communications

and we haven't been able to verify if anyone received the message. I'm increasing the speed to headquarters. We're scheduled to arrive tomorrow, but we can make it tonight. We should all be together to handle whatever this is. All right, now, about that moon message. Auroboros calling Lunar Station.

Please respond. Come in, Owl Station. Please respond. Um, guys, the moon is rising now, starting to cut through the fog. I think you should come to the window. I'm not seeing things, am I? Oh, no, I'm seeing it too. Is the moon bleeding?

It would appear so. A surprising amount. Whoa, another pocket just exploded over there. See it? Jeez, that whole side is covered. It's starting to reflect back red light. It's starting to look like a crackle face. What, is it like evaporating? I have no idea.

I don't think I've ever actually seen something that terrifying before. Wow. It just hits you right in the gust, isn't it? Yeah. End of the world vibes. Well, we'll be at HQ soon. You better tune into the feed. See if there's some kind of explanation for this.

What explanation could there possibly be for this? Welcome back to what I fear. may be our last live lunar broadcast, dear listeners. I'd like to apologize about the technical difficulties with our ambient mood lighting. It was not

my intention to kick off an early blood moon. Oh, some of it got in my mouth. But enough about the changes in the sky above you. Tell me, have you felt a change in your

It is my hope that you may already be feeling a slight lift to your spirits. A loosening of strings around your mind, a break in the storm clouds, allowing a calm and clarity you'd nearly forgotten you were capable of. But this is only a hope. And according to our valiant surgeon, significant corruption remains. So, I must ask you to once more. find that place within yourself. That specific frequency of your creative mind, lock onto it, dig generously into the vault of your imagination, and follow me into our first tale.

Ah, hang on, what's that flashing light? Oh, I see, it appears we are drawing ever closer to Halloween night. Oh, ho, ho, and I hope you're as excited for the thinning of the veil as I. It is my sworn and solemn duty at this time to inform you of our annual Halloween season pass and bundle sale. From midnight to midnight eastern standard time all Halloween day long on October 31st. Swing by our social spots at No Sleep Podcast or our website the nosleeppodcast.com for more detailed minutia on the particular specifics. In brief, this Halloween, The deals are to die for. Now, as I was saying, in our first tale, a bond is formed over a shared experience at the hands of a lake-based cult that targets and kidnaps women wearing green clothing and only when it rains.

Written by Jasmine Forrestall and performed by Mary Murphy, Aaron Lillis, Addison Peacock, Mike Delgado, and Nicole Doolin, Share with us the peculiar experience of green rain. Excuse me. Miss, can I have a word? Please, wait. Haven't I suffered enough? Please. Haven't you vultures taken enough? I'm not a journalist, and I won't ask about your husband.

Well, who the hell are you then? I need help. You may know what's going on. I'm sorry. I can't help anyone anymore. Please. Please. My little sister.

They took her. Come with me. Do you take milk and sugar? Yes, please. When did they get her? Today. Good. There's still a chance.

She was taken from her room. There was an inch of water on the floor and the window was broken. There. There was a scrap of green silk caught on the broken glass. The cops say she was kidnapped. I know better, though. They took her.

She took her. Ah, oh, this rain isn't stopping any time soon. Does that mean we can save her? Do you know how I was taken? How I escaped? No. I was 16. I was in love with this guy.

His name was Lewis, and he was a... a poet. Played the saxophone and drove a beat-up convertible he'd fixed all by himself. There I was, shy and short and ginger. I only had one dress that made me feel sexy. It was long and green and beautiful. When he asked me out that rainy Saturday, how could I resist? Yes, I knew the fucking superstition. But what could I do? The love of my life asked me out and I only had one nice dress. So I thought legends be damned and wore the green dress in the rain. My sister wore her green jumper to school.

We didn't even know what was going to rain. Well, I'll do it. You know, I think I don't need something stronger than tea. Scotch? No, thank you. Suit yourself. Anyway, I wore the green. dressed despite the warnings. I snuck out at tan because in those days a girl couldn't just go out on

dates. My parents would have whipped me just for asking. Lewis thought I was bold. Our date went well. He said good night and I went home. I snuck back in through my window. I was so giddy that I couldn't sleep. When I heard the knock at the window, I thought it was. just the rain until it happened again until I looked up. I saw her there, all shrouded and green. My God, I was terrified, but I was also in awe. My God, she was beautiful. There in green, in my window. I couldn't help it. I stood up walking to the window. There was a flash of lightning and I saw them, the sisters. There were so many, all in green, all behind her on my lawn.

My bones hurt when it rains. A deep ache, green and sickening. Have you ever attributed a color to pain? Like how a pinprick feels red? Or nausea, sickly yellow? sickly yellow? Well, the pain in my bones is green. Fitness that may be. The scars of all those branches slicing into me still hurt, too. It's all green. All the pain. Shouldn't we go to save her now? Not yet. They'll be strongest now at the beginning of the storm. I only escape because

the rain had almost passed. For now, I'll tell you everything I know. I know. Yes, yes, yes. You know that damn legend. Everyone knows it. Girl, have you ever considered that the legend isn't the full story? It isn't even fucking close to the full story. We all know about the green matriarch in her daughters.

That's not what I'm gonna tell you. Sorry. Don't apologize, kid. You're under a lot of stress right now. So, what happened after you saw them? Oh, yeah, sorry for my ramblings. No problem. I was transfixed.

It was almost like a dream. I felt this urge. I had to put on the green dress. It would be improper to wear anything else. I got changed right there. Modesty wasn't important. All that mattered was the dress. It felt like I was more naked in my pajamas.

pajamas than while I was changing into the dress, if that makes sense. What happened next? Shh. Do you hear them? Yeah, how did I not notice it before? It's always been there. Once you've heard it, you can't unhear it. They were silent when they came for me.

They're always silent when they take people. That's why the townsfolk report a deep unease before someone vanishes. Because we've never heard the rain without the singing. In hindsight, I know that I felt that something was off before they came. I was just too overwhelmingly happy to know what it was. I should have known. It's not your fault. You didn't know.

I didn't know either. It sounds like your sister was stronger than me, though. Unlike me, she resisted their urge to open the window. If I escaped, She almost certainly will. What happened when you opened the window? She took my hand. Led me down an invisible flight of stairs to the yard,

and they lifted me under their shoulders. All of their hands were gnarled and long-fingered, with too many joints and long, stringy growths from each of their fingers. I only later realized that they were roots, long, slimy roots from some sort of lakeweed, all covered in dirt and algae. They began to sing as they carried me into the forest. It was mesmerizing. All I could think of was that the legend made my fate sound much worse.

They took me to the lake and shrouded me in green silks. I didn't properly realize that it wasn't a dream until I felt the cold. water touch my left foot. Is that why? Yes, that's why I have a limp. Does it hurt? Only when it rains. Their feet are worse. At least my hands didn't touch it. My theory is that the longer they spend in that water, the less human they become. Do they become the lake weed? Yes, that part of the legend is true. We need to go then. We'll need these. We'll need these. Disguises? They won't let us near the lake if we aren't wearing green.

Here my keys. I've had a few. Don't worry. I can drive a standard. How did you get away? When my foot touched the water, I lashed out. I broke several of their fingers. I took off running, not looking back to see if I was being pursued.

The rain had slowed down, but the ground was slick with mud. Wet branches tore at my... Torn at my dress and my skin. I ran and ran until I made it to a cornfield. My feet were almost unrecognizable at the end of it. Did they chase him? Only three did. When it stopped raining, they turned back into piles of lakeweed. I limped halfway home and collapsed. I woke up in the hospital with my parents sitting at my bedside. They were concerned, yet angry at it. me. No matter what I said, they were firm in their beliefs. They saw Lewis's car, and they thought that I had gone out with him and things had gone badly. They said that I was just protecting him. Townsfolk drove him out. I never saw him again. I ended up marrying Ned Miller, the baker's son. I think they knew he was innocent. That town just hated intellectuals. Ah. Oh, turn here.

Sorry about that. Okay, now there. This road gets narrow, so we might need to get out and walk at some point. Don't worry about my car, dear. I won't be needing it for long. Do you have any weapons? I have a crowbar and a tire hind. Whoa, stop here.

It's the only point where you can turn your car around for the rest of the road. Should I turn it around? Yes, the faster you can get out in a pinch, the better. It's this way. You've been back here, haven't you? Do I need to answer that? How many times? I lost count a long time ago.

I hope she's still alive. Trust me. They like to end the ritual right when the storm ends. If they weren't so damn slow, I wouldn't be here. How can you be sure? Sh, we're almost there. Oh, you've done it now. What's that?

They're coming. You need to hide. But... Now, I'll deal with them. When your sister comes, take it to the car. But... What about... You have your instructions. Did you vastest miss?

We'll save you. Ever get me? We need to keep going. We'll deal with that leader. We need to go. The doctor said you are very lucky. If that shrapnel, it hit you an inch to the left, it would have hit your brachial artery. What were you thinking going off into the woods with that agon?

You know she killed her husband? No, she didn't. I bet she kidnapped your sister too. I mean, did you actually see these so-called monsters? I heard them. She probably put speakers in the woods. The woman was crazy. She had a grenade for heaven's sake.

She could have killed both of you. But she didn't. She killed them. The sisters, the matriarch. Ask Lillianna. She was there. She saw them all. Well, fine. Your sister should be awake now. She's in the next room. Let's put an end to this. Oh, no. In our second tale, a young woman returns to a theater she used to manage in order to relive

happy memories made with her father, who recently passed on. However, she soon becomes unnerved by a stranger who seems to be following her to all of the same movies. Written by Joe Sullivan and performed by Addison Peacock, Jeff Clement, Nicole Doolan, and Dan Zupula. Witness the results of a death in the family. I was studying at the local junior college when my dad had his stroke. My mother paged me on my beeper, but it was too late. I'm still not sure why she took so long to let me know that dad had been admitted. But by the time I got to the hospital, he was gone.

I can't say that my mother and I had any kind of real relationship after I had moved out. But my dad and I sure did. He had managed the movie theater right across from my college, the Cameo Multiplex. I stopped by to see him almost every day, and at least twice a week we'd see a movie together. Every little girl absolutely adores her daddy, and puberty hits and relationships change. But for me, it was different. There had been no depreciation in that perfect childhood love I'd always had for him. He was a frequent presence in my dreams in the weeks following his death.

Never nightmares, just bittersweet imaginings that led to tears when I awoke and was forced to accept reality. After weeks of mourning my father, I attempted to move on with my life. I shared an apartment with another girl who went to my school, and we partied harder than I'd like to admit. I went out on dates, did my coursework, and was sending applications to far-flung universities. There was no reason for me to hang around Binghamton anymore. My mother wasn't a part of my life at all.

Daddy and I had tried to get her to go to rehab for years, but she was stubborn and completely addicted. I barely said two words to her during the funeral. Our relationship was so far gone that we no longer even bothered to argue. Luckily, my Aunt Kathy handled all the details for the service and burial with some minor input from me. My mom had been hung over at my father's viewing and reeked of alcohol during the burial.

We could all smell her. Most everyone had given up on her after years of trying to help. She rarely left the house as her license had been suspended for over a decade. I felt like she had betrayed my dad by not getting help. He had taken care of her while working long hours and raising me. He never made excuses for her, never aided her addiction in any way beyond loving her for who she once was. He had never ceased hoping and praying that she would work. toward sobriety of her own accord.

Now he was dead, and I was moving on. I found myself returning to the cameo week after week, right on schedule for new releases. I liked to visit with the people who had worked for my dad, to hear them talk about him, always with fondness. I had one early class, and the rest of my college schedule took up my afternoons, so I could usually make the first showing for the day.

It was a treat having the theater to myself for the day. the smarter movies, the limited-run dramas and indie films that never ran for more than a couple weeks. I was a bit of a movie snob, but found myself watching the big blockbusters that my dad would have enjoyed. He liked the indie films, too, but there was nothing he loved more than big explosions, especially within the context of a heroic war drama. It was during a showing of a new military picture that I first felt the chill of being watched. It was a guy I had seen in passing the week before. I remembered him because he wore an old green parka with the hood up

and a knit hat underneath, even though it was warm inside the theater. The first time I saw him, he had sat in the back. But now he was only a few rows behind me. I knew he was watching me because he was wearing sunglasses, and we were the only two people in the theater. For the remainder of the picture, I remained vigilant and didn't get to enjoy the things. I was worried that he might approach me.

I was relieved when he left just before the end of the movie. When it was over, I went out to the lobby and asked around to see if anyone had seen the man before. Rodney, my dad's former assistant manager, recognized his description. Yeah, I see him in the theater just about every day now. I think he gets his tickets from the kiosk. He usually doesn't talk to anyone. Just some loner, I guess. Is he always bundled up like that?

Sunglasses and everything? Yep. No idea what his issue is. Before we could talk further, Rodney became distracted by a ticket taker waving him over. Well, it's always nice seeing you, Julia. I've got to deal with this. I said goodbye to Rodney and eventually forgot about Parker Guy, figuring he was merely some eccentric with time to kill.

I didn't go back. back to the theater for a week because I had finals to study for. But after I took the last test for my morning class, I went and saw the new John Cusack drama. Halfway into the movie, I noticed someone coming down the aisle. I usually sat in the center of a row. That way, no one would have to cross in front of me. I had only seen two couples in the theater for that showing, so I was shocked when parka guy sat in the row behind me. There was no entrance behind me. so I didn't know how this guy could have come in without me knowing. I sunk as far down into my seat as I could,

while this Unabomber lookalike stared at the back of my head through his dark glasses. It became too distracting and moderately unnerving knowing he was right behind me. Though I was enjoying the film, I got up and left at the halfway point. I hung around the lobby to see if Rodney was around because I wanted to chat with him about parka guy creeping up on me. But the concessions manager Amanda said he was busy doing payroll and wouldn't come out of his office for a couple more hours. I eventually returned to the theater to finish the film I had walked out on.

I was relieved when Parka Guy made no appearance. However, Rodney stopped me in the lobby on my way out with this odd look on his face, like he was conflicted about what he was about to tell me. Julia, I'm not sure if you dropped this the other day or if it was left for you. Rodney handed me a folded piece of paper, which had Julia neatly written across it. It was sealed with a pink heart sticker. I anxiously took the letter.

I didn't drop it. You don't know who left this for me? The cleaning crew found it in Theater 6 the other day. Amanda said you left a movie early that morning, so I assumed it was for you. My chest tightened as I peeled off the sticker and opened the trifold paper. I knew exactly who had left it behind. I scanned the brief note and then read it to Rodney. Stay safe. He's always watching.

So you didn't bring this in with you? He had a grave look to him then, and I noticed he was. sweating through his shirt. No. I'm assuming it's from Parker Guy. I was worried about. We can't go six months without having some type of stalker or flasher coming through here. You think Parka Guy is stalking me?

My first thought had been that he was just some regular creep. But now I began to consider whether he would be watching me outside of the confines of the theater. Rodney was really bristling now. Julia, I promise you. I'll confront him the next time I see him. I'll make him take off his hood and put the sunglasses away and I'll tell him to leave you alone or don't come back. I stayed away from the theater for some time.

Only when the school semester was over did I go back. I had time to kill, and the feeling of nostalgia I got whenever I visited the cameo was too powerful to ignore. I was supposed to attend a Christmas party at my Aunt Kathy's that evening and was already dressed for the occasion as I was planning on traveling to her house after the movie got out.

I was wearing a cute red and green striped dress, and I felt a little out of place as I walked through the theater lobby to purchase my ticket. You look great, Julia. Rodney swam through a crowd of moviegoers to hug me. He asked me how my final tests had shaken out, and if I was meeting up for a date

because of how pretty I was dressed. Nope. Just a party tonight at my aunts. Rodney saw that I was looking around nervously, so he leaned in to whisper. Julia, I haven't seen you know who around since we discovered the letter. Oh, that's good. I wished Rodney a Merry Christmas and soon found myself sitting in my usual row in Theater 6, ready to digest the latest holiday-themed romantic comedy.

The movie was what I expected, passably entertaining Schmaltz. I had to use the restroom during the movie, something I always loathed doing. After I had relieved myself and returned to my seat in the packed theater, I was shocked to find a letter with my name on it in the cup holder. I snatched up the paper, swallowing a lump that had formed in my throat when I realized that it was sealed with a pink heart. I shoved the note into my jacket pocket and crouched down in my seat. I slowly looked around.

trying not to draw attention to my search. I began shaking when I spotted that all too familiar green parka and those big black sunglasses in the section to my left. Parker Guy was undoubtedly looking in my direction as he was sitting parallel to me. My palms were sweaty as I grasped the armrests on my seat. It was disgusting, the sticky mix of sweat and popcorn grease. I wanted to get up and run, but I knew the best course of action would be to lead the theater as quietly as I had done when I went to the bathroom. I worried that any sudden movement on my part might cause my stalker to panic and possibly attack me.

My nerves fastened me to that chair for another couple of minutes. My brain was screaming at my legs, trying to get them to function. I recalled how my psychology professor once said that most people believe they will run or fight when confronted with a dire situation. when in truth, many will freeze and not act in their own defense. However, I wasn't one of those people. I stood slowly, then hustled down the aisle, heading for the exit. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I detected someone else standing as I fled. The hallway outside of the screening rooms was long.

I kept looking back and saw him as he exited the theater. Parker guy was following me. I ran the remainder of the hallway and burst out into the busy lobby. I spied Rodney behind the ticket counter and ran right over to him, feeling safe that there were dozens of people nearby, including a man whom I knew personally. Rodney, he's following me. I'm sure I looked and sounded like a lunatic to the dozen or so people

that were waiting patiently to get their tickets, but Rodney understood immediately. Which theater? He's in the hallway. I pointed behind me. Rodney rushed through groups of people who were milling about, waiting for theaters to empty. He returned minutes later, out of breath. He must have gone back in the theater, Julia.

You better get going. I promised that he won't get past me. Thanks, Rodney. I turned out into the parking lot and got into my car. When I turned my beeper back on, I saw that I had gotten a call for, Aunt Kathy. I was headed to her house anyway, so I just got on the road and started driving. I figured if she needed me to pick something up, I could just head back out. I was in no mood to hang around and use the payphone at the theater. Twenty minutes later, I pulled into my aunt

and uncle's driveway. There were already a few cars in the street, even though the party wasn't supposed to begin for another hour. I was about to get out of my car when I heard the paper crumple in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out, then flicked away the small heart seal. This note was as brief and critic as the last one. I wish we could talk. I have so much to say to you. I couldn't help but wonder what this man might want from me.

Did he really think that I'd go out and have coffee with him? That we'd have such a great chat we'd start dating and I'd fall for him? While I was getting myself all riled up, I didn't notice that my uncle had come up to the car window. I practically jumped out of my skin when he knocked on the glass. Uncle Will seemed upset. I rolled down the window and he fumbled and barely spit out the news. My Aunt Kathy had found my mom dead in her house

when she went to pick her up for the Christmas party. Kathy had been trying to get a hold of me. I didn't let Uncle Will finish. I raced across town to my mom's house. When I arrived, a few police cars and an ambulance were parked out front. I barely got my car into park before I rushed inside. The nearest cop attempted to shield me from the scene, but I tore my arm away and went into the living room,

where my aunt and some medical folks were huddled around, talking. On a stretcher on the floor, her face covered with a white sheet. My God, Julia! She killed. herself. Aunt Kathy's eyes were red from crying. I surprised myself that I remained unemotional as I wanted to know all the facts

before I let myself feel anything. The medics picked up the stretcher with my mom and I stopped them so I could look under the sheet. Don't, Julia! It was too late. I saw her withered, pale expression. It was horrific. Eyes open.

mouth a gate. She was a husk of a person. A shade of the woman who had at one time loved me, cared for me, before she had abandoned her duty for the bottle. I turned to the man with the medical examiner's badge who was standing beside my aunt. How long has she been dead?

Weeks, maybe longer. We'll do an autopsy. I collapsed on the sofa. and began weeping at the thought of my poor mom's body rotting away in the living room for who knows how long. My aunt consoled me, held me as I cried. When everyone had gone, Aunt Kathy showed me my mother's suicide note. It read, Julia, I wish we could talk. I have so much to say to you.

But your father probably said it all. better than I could ever hope to. Stay safe. He's always watching. It was only then that I noticed the heavy green parka straight to cross the far end of the sofa. In our third tale,

a young girl and her family moved to a new town and a new church where her pastor father is newly employed. She begrudgingly accepts this move but is soon confronted by whispers and other strange occurrences during the night. Written by Alyssa N. Vaughan and performed by Addison Peacock, Aaron Lillis, Mike Delgadoio, Ellie Hirschman, Erica Sanderson, Mary Murphy, and Sarah Ruth Thomas.

Find out what truly resides within the parsonage. This is everything I remember about Texas. We're in the car, driving along a stretch of highway that is bordered, by skinny, scraggly pine trees growing so close together it looks as though their branches are interwoven. An army of spindly, scratchy, red bark bodies standing sentinel along the road, with barely a whisper of bare grass between the asphalt and the shade of their tangling, strangling arms. Even if I could get out, there's nowhere to run. The pines will not let me pass.

My mother hums along with the radio in the front seat. Her fingers intertwined with those of my father. It's an old hymn, sung in wavery harmony by a quartet whose drawing accents seem designed to come through each drawn-out vowel and percussive consonant. My stomach hurts. It always does when we're in the car this long.

My mother beams breathlessly at me. Aren't you excited to see your new house? patience? It's the parsonage, Mama. It belongs to the church. The details do not dampen her spirits. You'll have your very own room. She turns in her seat to bestow the full force of her smiles on me.

Daddy's hand is almost twisted backwards. She forgot to let him loose. Mama, be careful. Her round belly knocks into Daddy's paper cup of coffee from the gas station, and he quickly shakes himself free to write it. before it spills into his lap. Goodness, Martha, can't you sit still? The girls better behave than you are.

Mama returns this with a snipe of her own, and they bicker a ways down the road until their fighting dissolves into laughter and a kiss. And Daddy's hand on the swell of Mama's belly. They haven't asked me if I'm excited about the baby. We used to live near the church daddy pastored in Corpus Christi, but we had to leave. We have been driving for two whole days, and we're still in Texas.

We are not leaving Texas at all, but we're still not to the new church. Texas just goes on and on forever. I stare at the pine trees and try not to throw up. The town is not much more than half a mile of buildings facing each other on either side of the highway, crowding themselves against the trees. Most of the windows are dark or boarded up, and the only place where I can see any other cars parked is the gas station. It doesn't look any different from any other town we've passed through in the last two days.

We don't stop in town, but just a bit further down the road, we pull into the gravel lot in front of a white clapboard building, sporting, whitewashed wooden steeple. We go inside the church first, because that's where the church board is waiting for daddy. There's a fellowship hall that doubles as the children's Sunday school classroom, and all the wives are in there, laying out casserole dishes and brightly colored bowls of fluff

that are mostly jello, cool whip, and pecans. They fuss over Mama right away, like little girls who've had a kitten dropped in their midst. I wander back into the hallway and roam the rest of the building. The carpet is a bright,

red, and black speckled berber. It is almost worn bare, but somehow its color hasn't faded. The walls are cheap wood paneling, even in the bathroom. It makes every room seem small and suffocating. Tucked away in a lonely corner, I find a storage closet that doubles as a vestry.

Piles of hymnals are stacked next to racks of choir robes and old Christmas pageant costumes. Boxes of vacation Bible school materials are piled on church records that go back to when the town was something more than a stubborn wart clinging to the highway. On the far side, a short flight of stairs, leads up to another door. I climb it, and each step creaks quietly, protesting my passage. The door does, too, as I slowly pull it open,

peering in to make sure I won't be surprised by an unfamiliar adult. It leads into the sanctuary, right onto the stage. The room is blessedly empty. I stand behind the pulpit, pulling myself up to peer over and out into the dimness. The windows are not staint glass, but have some kind of colorful plastic pasted onto them, warping the weak sunlight as it filters through.

Dust clouds swirl in the sunbeams like a sparkling fog, falling onto the rows of pews whose cushions are a matching red to the carpet. I whirl to find an ancient upright piano wedged into the corner. There's a boy, my age, sitting on the bench. Oh! I try to keep my voice soft. There's something about an empty sanctuary that makes you feel like whispering. I didn't realize anyone else was in here.

The boy looks up. He is only mildly interested in me. I'm used to this behavior from boys. They withhold any enthusiasm until they can be sure I'm worth the energy. I'm not, usually. It might be that his mother sent him to look for me. I'm patience. I'm Pastor Wright's daughter.

The boy looks back at the piano. and pokes a few more keys. I recognize the melody. It's mama's favorite hymn. Be thou my vision. Leaning against the pulpit, my back to the pews, I begin to hum along. The boy stops playing and stares at me.

His eyes are such a light blue that the irises almost look transparent. Come here. The boy pats the space beside him. I squeeze myself onto the rickety wooden bench. You sing and I'll play. Be thou my vision. He lifts both hands to the keys with a practiced ease.

I sing along mostly because I like the song. And because he plays so nicely, even though the piano is a little out of tune. Somehow the music doesn't break the sanctuary's spell, although my voice echoes off the high ceilings and comes back to me sounding unfamiliar and ethereal. Patience! I scramble down and hurry to get back through the vestry and answer my father's call.

I don't say goodbye to the boy. The parsonage smells of mothballs and the sickly sweetness of poison meant for rats or roaches. It has the same close, stuffy feeling as the rooms of the church. I do have my own room, but the baby crib stands in the corner. Mama's smile is apologetic. It's only for now. Daddy needs the nursery for an office. Daddy has an office in the church.

That's what I want to say. But I lie down in my bed and let Mama cover me up and kiss my forehead. The ceiling fan is spinning too fast. So fast it squeaks above Mama's head and shakes a little like it might come loose and fall down on her. But it doesn't. I lie awake listening to it after she leaves. After a few minutes, it mellows and...

to a low, metallic wine. I keep thinking I won't be able to fall asleep because the fan is so noisy. I'm not sure when it was that I began to doze off. Hello? I open my eyes wide. The voice whispers in the quiet darkness of my bedroom, hiding beneath the buzz of the fan blades,

sneaking behind the cardboard boxes full of my clothes and toys. I pull the covers over my head, holding tight fistfuls of blanket next to my ears. Hello? Is your name Patience? I want to call for Mama and Daddy. I want to jump out of bed and start running, but I just pull the blanket tighter over me, curling into a ball. The voice is closer now.

I can hear it breathing, long, deep breaths like it's tasting the air. Then there's warm air just over my forehead. I'll turn the fan off. I didn't like the fan in here either. It's too loud. The warmth goes away. It's quiet. I realize that the fan has stopped.

Slowly, I look out from underneath the blankets. From somewhere in the darkness, the voice speaks. Good night, patience. Patience, you're too big to be having nightmares. Mama scolds me as she stands over the stove. I have dark circles under my eyes from lying awake the past few nights. too terrified to sleep. Unable to leave the room.

Mama has started locking me in at night. Yes, ma'am. I nod obediently, but numbly. I'm barely awake enough to eat the breakfast she puts in front of me. My meek submission does nothing to stop her fussing. I want to go back to sleep, but I can't bear being in that room. If I try lying down on the couch in the living room,

I'll be in for another round of scorn. I pick at the biscuits and eggs on my plate until Mama has worn herself out, and she waves me outside. I vaguely wonder, as I meander the church grounds, whether the snakes and poison ivy that I've been warned of would be worth the risk of napping in the woods somewhere. There appears in my mind a picture of soft mossy ground under a shady tree, completed by a babbling brook and an impossibly cool breeze. I stand at the tree line and stare at the ground, covered in brown pine needles and thorny brush. Reluctantly, I acknowledge to myself that the only hope for a rest is to sneak into the church. I make a wide circle around the parsonage, catching a glimpse of Mama passing the living room window. The window to what was supposed to be the nursery is dark.

So much for Daddy's office. The front doors of the church are flung open. I pause, hidden from view by the overgrown shrubbery that line the shabby building's walls. Maybe there's some sort of meeting scheduled for the morning. A lady's auxiliary, or an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, or just a bunch of people who want to talk to Daddy for some boring reason. I'll have to be sneakier than I thought to get to a quiet spot unnoticed. I quietly edge along to the back door of the church, the one that leads into the kitchen.

With one eye on the windows of the parsonage, I listen hard at the door. No murmurs, no sounds of whirring coffee makers or chattering ladies. Just silence. So, in I go. There doesn't seem to be anyone around. It's more still and quiet than the first day we arrived. Daddy must be near the front, waiting for someone. I slipped soundlessly back to the vestry near the sanctuary.

There's an empty space behind a rack of choir robes, just big enough for me and a large felt Christmas banner that I wad up and use as a pillow. It's a bit stuffy, but it's cooler than outside, and it's dark and quiet. Slowly, I drift off to sleep. I wait to the sound of the piano being played. The door to the sanctuary is cracked just a bit, so I crawl carefully out of my hiding spot to the side of the stairs, peeking out while I crack. couch in the shadows like a gargoyle.

Is it the boy from before? I could only see one of the player's hands. The door and the dark keep me from seeing the rest. The music isn't a hymn that I know. It sounds different, like water and night, like a lullaby sung by the stars. I'm so eager to hear more. I don't realize how far forward I'm leaning

until the stairs groan under my weight. I lean a bit farther out trying to catch a glimpse of the retreating figure, but there's nothing but murky darkness and those muted-colored windows, glowing with the noonday sun. A hand clamps down on my shoulder. Patience! The hand turns me forcefully to face him. What on earth have you been doing? Your mother has been calling you for ages.

Sorry, Daddy! But I don't offer an explanation. Anything I say will be reported directly to my mother, and I'd rather keep my silence than hear another lecture. His heavy hand doesn't leave the back of my neck as he steers me through the church, out the doors, and marches me across the dandelion's speckled lawn back to the kitchen table in the parsonage.

Mama is in a huff, but she's decided to give me the silent treatment since I won't explain where I've been. She bustles around, putting grilled cheese sandwiches and apple slices in front of me and daddy. Daddy sits on the opposite side of the table and glares at me, his bushy eyebrows smushed together on his high forehead. I eat quickly and excuse myself into the living room to read.

Mama and Daddy speak softly to each other once I leave, and I hear them laugh and kiss as the empty plates and glasses clink against each other in the sink. After Daddy's first sermon that Sunday, they have another potluck. I'm wearing my most scratchy, uncomfortable dress because it's the one mama likes best on me. For so few people living in the town, the church is suddenly very full.

There are people tucked into every room and standing around in the hallway, paper plates loaded with potato salad and brisket, balanced precariously on knees or on top of cans of diet soda. There are even a couple of teenagers lounging around on the stage in the sanctuary, flicking watermelon seeds at each other.

I'm too hot and too tired for so many people. people. There's one place that I just know will be empty and quiet, just for a minute. I'm not supposed to know, but there's a key to the pastor's office balanced on the doorframe about the sanctuary. I managed to snatch it without anyone seeing and scurry down the hall to the office before I can be cornered by yet another impossibly old lady who wants to tell me how adorable I look. The pastor's office is at the very back of the building, farthest from the front doors and separated judiciously from the kitchen and the fellowship hall. By a stroke of luck, this seems to be the one place in the whole building that no one wants to crowd into.

Checking over my shoulder, I can see that the coast is clear, so I fumblingly jabbed the key at the lock. I twist the key, but I can't hear any clicks or feel any give to the doorknob. I stand back, confusion clouding my face. I wonder if the lock is broken. And that's why daddy needed to set up in the nursery. Before I can reach out to try the knob again, it rattles. Hard. Like someone is trying to get out.

I look around wildly. Sure that someone will have heard will come running to see what has happened. But I'm still alone. And then the rattling and the beating stop. In spite of knowing better, in spite of being a little shaken from the sudden noise, I bend down. These old buildings always have large gaps under the doors for some reason. On my knees, my shiny black shoes scuffing in the red carpet,

I lay my head against the floor. Maybe I expected to see shoes, a chair pushed against the knob, or even someone staring back at me. But I can't see anything. It's dark inside the office. It shouldn't be. It's the middle of the house. the day and I know that room has a window. I can see it from my bedroom. It shouldn't be so dark in there.

I inch closer, my eyes straining to make out even the slightest detail. Suddenly, two hands, small like mine, shoot out from under the door, clawing desperately from their cramped position. A handful of my hair is gripped tight by the grasping fingers, but with so little purchase that I easily pull away, Scrabbling back like a crab. I don't shriek or call out, but stare, fascinated at those hands, still reaching as far as they could. Fingers splayed and knuckles whitening as they strain against the bottom of the door. Patience. Patience, have you come to let me out?

Who are you? Let me out, patience. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. I get up and run then. And instantly the tiny church hallways seem practically maze-like and forever long.

And totally abandoned. My instinct is to head for the kitchen because that's where Mama is. But as I stumble along, I can't help but notice that everyone in the church has simply disappeared. The sanctuary doors are open, but there's no one inside. I can't hear anyone. I can't even smell any of the food. The kitchen is bare, dark and empty. I fling myself against the back door and ricochet off.

It's locked tight. Jumping back up, I rattle the doorknob fruitlessly, then look behind me wildly. The only sound is my own ragged, uneven breathing. I run to the front doors. My steps echo strangely, as though the hallways were huge and bare. When my hand touches the door handle, I hear music coming from the sanctuary behind me.

The doors are still open. I turn my whole body cold and covered in goosebumps. The piano is playing, that song of water and darkness. It's so dim in the sanctuary I can hardly make anything out. But there's definitely someone sitting at the piano. My feet are carrying me slowly. Scrutiatingly slowly, down the aisle, toward the altar, toward the pulpit, to the music. I'm like a magnet being pulled through sand, a fish on a line reeled inexorably out of the water.

I climb onto the stage, on the far side, away from the piano. I stand with my back against the wall and fight with every breath to stay there. To stay away, the music stops. The shadowy figure begins to turn, to look at me. I edge along the wall, feeling for something to hold on to, something to help me resist the urge to move forward, to put myself within the reach of those long fingers. I find the doorknob of the little alcove and hold it tight.

The figure begins to extend their spindly arms towards me, to rise, to come and fetch me. No! I twist me. Madly, both hands on the knob, and it turns, giving way and sending me flying backwards down the steep steps and into utter blackness. Napping again. Will someone run and tell Pastor Wright and the men looking in the woods that we found her? Blinking, I look up to see a crowd of women, silhouetted against the bright sunlight in the doorway of the alcove. My head is pounding, and when one of them shifts and light pours onto my face, it's like a

and knife through my eyes and into my brain. Mama? I try to shift myself and discover that my limbs are tangled in choir robes and the debris of a few crushed cardboard boxes. My shoulders ache, and one of my ankles feels stiff and immovable. Mama and the ladies move forward as one, making identical, clucking, tutting noises as they come. Just look at the state of you.

Heavens, what a mess. you've made of things. What on earth were you doing? Look what happened to your pretty dress. I crane my neck awkwardly and see streaks of dust on the front of my skirt and a long tear along the hem.

I'm sorry. I don't say anything else. I just cry silently as I'm picked up and carried off. The next day I am confined to my room. Mama insists that I keep the fan on lest I overheat and faint again,

That's the general consensus among the adults, that I was off playing in the sanctuary when I fainted and fell. They rode off the piano playing shadows and the fingers reaching from under the door as another nightmare. I begged Mama to let me sleep on the couch in the living room while my ankle got better, but Daddy frowned at me and carried me to my bed. God hath not given us the spirit of fear. At least Mama leaves the door propped open. I hear her in the kitchen tell Daddy that she thinks my nightmares are worse because she's been locking me in at night. At least I think that's what she tells him.

I hear patience and nightmares and all night long and locked, but everything else is just mumbling sounds. But I know she feels bad because she brings me chocolate milk and sits beside me humming and stroking my hair all morning. In the afternoon, she goes to take lunch to Daddy working in the church. leaving me with a book and a peanut butter sandwich. The fan's blades droning whir blends with the sound of cicadas in the trees outside. Mama will be back soon, I think, as I methodically bite the crusts off my sandwich. I squint at the church windows visible from my bedroom, trying to catch a glimpse of someone moving around inside.

The noonday sun's glare makes the windows golden but opaque. My mouth full of peanut butter, I awkwardly shift my sand. closer to my own window, thinking that if I can just angle myself properly, I'll be able to see past the glow. I'm sorry you got hurt, patience. The voice is behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I stopped breathing for a moment. I didn't mean to scare you.

I just wanted to come out. I try to move myself closer to the window, practically on top of the ledge, to move away. but my ankle twinges painfully and I still. It's okay. It's okay that you didn't know how. Fingertips brush against my shoulder. Tentative in an attempt at comfort. I wince. I could teach you, patience.

I could teach you how to let me out. I close my eyes. I don't turn. I barely breathe. Tell me how. There are no voices or shadows for a long. while. It's as though whatever has been lurking in the church is hiding, holding its breath, waiting for me to make up my mind. My ankle seems determined to stay swollen and useless,

and Mama becomes less willing to keep me company as more and more social opportunities begin piling at the doorstep. She pouts and prods until Daddy agrees that she can have a lady's tea and Bible study on Wednesday afternoon. I am carried to the rocking chair, with my foot propped on a little cushion and warned to speak only when I'm spoken to and to smile. I would have preferred to stay in bed. Like most of the social functions mama hosts, Bibles are present, but not strictly necessary as far as the attendance are concerned. There's a good deal of new baby talk,

and who else might be expecting, and who just got married, and following that line, who might get divorced and why and which one of them got caught doing something they oughtn't. I nibble cookies when they're handed to me and practically drown myself in iced tea just to have the excuse to escape to the bathroom. I don't count on one of the ladies, Mrs. Cyprus, graciously, persistently, unrelentingly offering

to help me down the hall. Mama shot me a look as I began to protest, and I knew that there was no fighting it. Mrs. Cyprus awkwardly half-dragged me down the hall as I tried to keep my own balance against her pulling, overly tight grasp. She even insisted on coming into the bathroom with me, in case I fell off the toilet, I guess, and stood with her back to me.

Well, don't worry. I won't peek. I thought I'd be able to hold myself together, despite her overbearing air. I thought I'd be able to be good and keep out of trouble. I really thought I'd be okay. And then, as she settled me back in my rocking chair, Mrs. Cyprus commented, in a voice that overrode every conversation, in progress, that the floral patterned underwear my mother bought me was absolutely precious. And if she'd ever had a little girl, she would have wanted to dress her exactly the same.

My face must have shown what I was feeling, and Mama frowned and shook her head at me so hard she looked like a dog trying to shake itself dry after a swim. It was too late. So, Mrs. Cyprus, I suppose you only had boys? Isn't your youngest named Ezekiel? I spoke very softly, but everyone in a little bit of you. in the room seemed to snap to attention at the sound. Mrs. Cyprus froze halfway back to her seat on the sofa, almost turning, but not daring to look me in the face. What did you say?

Ezekiel Cyprus, who played the piano so well, who loved to come to the church late at night, who never... That's enough, patience. Daddy's voice comes from the front door, just behind me. He scoops me up and carries me off down the hall. Well, I think that's enough excitement for today. Why don't I go bake us some more tea? How did she know?

Who would have told her? Mrs. Cyprus is still standing in the middle of the living room, muttering to herself. Her face flushed. It's true, then, about the girl. She keeps... Hush! Don't speak such things in the pastor's house. Daddy sets me down in my bedroom and takes a step back from my bedside, staring down at me, his brow furrowed.

I thought we agreed things would be different here, patients. I stare back at him, defiant. As though it senses my decision, a shadow falls across the sun, darkening my room and sending a chill through the air. People die everywhere, Daddy. That's never different. Late at night, I lift myself out of bed with a soft creek. The house is dark, except for a light in the house.

the kitchen. I can hear Mama snoring softly in her bedroom, but Daddy is awake. The sound of rushing water from the tap mingles with his deep, tuneless humming as he cleans the supper dishes and stacks them on the drying rack. I have no choice but

to move slowly. My ankle won't hold my weight. But I pad silently down the hall and to the front door, the kitchen light spilling golden onto the old shag carpet. As slowly as I can manage, I twist the doorknob and push gently against the wood of the door,

feeling the warm night air brush against my bare legs and cheeks like the caress of a friendly cat. Then I am outside, bare feet tickled and prickled by overgrown grass and weeds, the sky above glittering with stars. If there was a moon, I would glow like a specter in my white nightgown, set against the blackness of the trees. But there is no moon. tonight. I walk gingerly across the lawn to the front doors of the church, afraid of stepping on

something sharp or squishy in the darkness. When I reach the doors, they are already cracked open, just barely, and I slip inside. The night sounds of chirping wings and rustling leaves follow me into the church. The sanctuary door stands open, too. There is no music. There are no figures waiting. The windows are dull with no light to flood their colored coverings, but I move forward with no hesitation. I know where I'm going. I climbed to the piano with some difficulty. My ankle is starting to protest, aching and insistent.

I ignore it the best I can. When I sit on the bench, my legs dangle awkwardly. It's higher than it looks. I reach out to touch the keys. Patience. My father is close behind me, but keeps his distance. My fingers pause in mid-air, a hair's breadth away from their intended resting place. I have to let him out, Daddy.

No, patience. You don't have to do anything. It's not your job to. I hear his footsteps, hesitant. Only one or two in my general direction. When I speak, he stops moving. You don't know what it's like, Daddy. You don't know and you don't want me to tell you You never want to hear what happens when they get stuck in the middle Patience

Think of our new life here If you do this If I don't do this I'm the only one who hurts You don't care if I'm the only one who hurts So I don't care if this hurts you And I press my fingers to the keys My hands flowing suddenly into motion Floating the room with that music of stars

and shadows and deep, deep waters that are never still. I hear my father turn and run. I hear a door slam open down the hall and faintly, far across the lawn. Daddy shouts my mother's name. Arthur! Cold, small hands rest on top of mine. Warm breath on my neck becomes a whisper. I am quiet.

I have to leave you now, don't I? I'm sorry again. about your ankle and all. I don't say anything at all. The cold hands hold on to mine and squeeze tightly. The warm breath feels for a moment, like a kiss. It is gone. In the morning they find me there,

curled up beneath the piano, clutching sheet music with a name scrawled on it in a child's clumsy script. Ezekiel Cyprus. The car is already packed. Mama has dark circles under her eyes and doesn't look at me as Daddy puts me in the back seat. In the weak morning light, we drive north through the pine trees, and not one of us looks back at the parsonage, not even once. As the lights come back on, our stories come to an end.

Please remember to be kind and rewind. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us at the video store next week. Our door is always open. This audio production is copyright 2019 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

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