The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E03

Episode Date: March 1, 2020

It’s Episode 03 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about the disquieting sense of loss when things go missing. “The Baby Who Ate” written by Maya H. (Story starts around 00:02:50) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – David Ault, Claire – Erika Sanderson, Narrator’s Mother – Penny Scott-Andrews “Sleep EZ Motor Lodge” written by VR Gregg (Story starts around 00:12:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Nikolle Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

In our world, there is magic in the darkness. Sorcery and incantations which bring us closer to the essence of the night. Come enter our black magic shop, where we will conjure up tales to frighten and disturb. This journey will be spellbinding. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome visitors to the No Sleep Magic Shop. I'm your proprietor David Cummings. This week we conjure spells for you about the disquieting sense of loss when things go missing.

As we move towards March and nicer spring weather slowly starts arriving, some of you might be looking to add a bit of fun to your dark, disturbing podcast listening. If so, you should check out a new podcast that delivers some fun with its ghoulish gore. It's called Less Is Morg. Get it? Dead bodies go to the morgue. Less is Morg. Yeah, you get it. Less is Morg is an absurd dark horror comedy podcast

from No Sleep's Own, Meg Maloy, Alexis Bristow, and Henry Galley. It's about Riley and Evelyn, a paranoid flesh-eating ghoul, and a cheerful ghost hosting a disastrous basement podcast together after Riley ate Evelyn's corpse. Expect monsters, mayhem, and many of the voices you know and love, like Graham Rowett, Nicole Goodnight, Peter Lewis, David Alt, Jessica McAvoy, and more.

Death has never been less peaceful, but hey, at least it's funny. You can find the podcast at less ismorg.com and on Twitter or Instagram under the username, Less is Morg. So check it out and laugh the fear away. And speaking of fear, it's time we provide you with Now, close your eyes and embrace the magic.

In our first tale, a man begins to notice dead animals appearing in his yard. Upsetting, right? Especially when there's a danger that his infant child might see them. But in this tale, shared with us by author Maya H, the man's wife doesn't seem anywhere near as concerned as he is. Performing this tale, our David Alt, Erica Sanderson and Penny Scott Andrews. So perhaps his wife doesn't care,

or perhaps she knows more than she's letting on, such as the secret of the baby who ate. One warm April morning, I decided to have my morning coffee outside in the garden while my wife got our one-year-old ready for the day. I had only taken a few steps towards the patio chairs when my shoe squelched down on the corpse of a rotting mouse. I felt the ick rise up through my spine

and instinctively held my foot in the air. Below my hovering foot were half a dozen dead mice, their innards strewn beside them with holes in their flesh. They must have been dead at least a day or two as they were writhing with maggots. Claire, Claire, come and look at this. What is it? My wife came running out of the house a look of panic already on her face.

Look, I guess it must have been foxes or something. I don't think Gary would be capable. Gary was an old and rather large cat. There was no way he had the agility to catch six mice. I didn't think he even ventured out into the garden anymore. Yes, I heard foxes last night. Must have been them. I'll clean it up.

Could you go and check on Vera? I headed inside, leaving my shoes outside the back door while my wife cleared up the mess. Vera was in her high chair, slamming cherry tomatoes into her mouth. And how are you, my hungry little hippo? I knew it bothered my wife when I called Vera, my hungry hippo. I had called Claire the same throughout her pregnancy when our humble Sunday roasts had turned into chud of feasts. Vera babbled back at me and motioned for more food. Don't call her that, Pete.

Claire must have heard me as she came in. Sorry, it's Ma's birthday a week on Friday. We need to get her something and maybe book a table somewhere. Yes, definitely. My wife brushed me off and wandered towards the living room. At one point Ma and Claire had been close, but in the last few months, their weekly brunches and daily phone calls had vanished.

Ma asked her after Claire whenever we spoke, so it was clear to me, who was pulling away. Two weeks after Mars' birthday, I found the remains of a magpie by our bins. There were only small sections of flesh left clinging to its bare bones, its eyes were missing, and it had been gutted. Over the next months, I began to find more animal remains, a disfigured rat by the fence, a mutilated squirrel in the back bushes, a family of eyeless frogs under a pile of raked leaves. Whenever I mentioned these to my wife, she came up with some mundane explanation. Must be those foxes. I saw Gary with a rat last night. The neighbour's dog chases squirrels.

She never wanted to admit that these explanations didn't quite suffice. Finding the mangled corpse of a rabbit tucked behind a corner in the driveway was the last straw. I resolved to buy a security camera and find out what was going on. Maybe it was just other animals, but I'd rather put the thought that some serial killer was practicing in our garden to rest. I left work half an hour early that day so I could stop to buy a security camera on my way home.

When I got home, I followed the sound of conversation to the kitchen where I found my wife sitting at the table with Vera and my mother. My wife had clearly been crying. Is everything okay, honey? I looked over to my mother for reassurance, but she wouldn't make eye contact. Gary's gone missing! I looked over at my mother again, who could still not meet my eyes.

Well, it's not even been a day. I'm sure he'll be home soon. My words only sparked more bawling from my wife. He's gone. He's not coming back. She threw her head into her hands. My mother looked over at me and motioned that we talk away from my wife. We stepped out into the hall. Claire isn't well. I don't think she's been well for a while.

Why? What has she said? I just think she needs a rest. You know, it can be really hard on new mothers, and you've been working a lot. I think she needs some time off. Why don't I have Vera for the weekend, and you and Claire do something nice for yourselves? The weekend rolled around, and there was still no sign of Gary. I had put up posters and knocked on doors, but no one had seen him.

I hadn't found him in the garden, though, and that somewhat eased my worries. On Saturday morning, we dropped Vera off at my mother's. I had decided to book a hotel in the city for the night and take Claire out for dinner somewhere fancy. To say Claire was hesitant would be an understatement. At first, she had outright refused, but she couldn't keep up excuses and eventually caved. As the evening progressed, Claire relaxed, and I was reminded of our first few years together.

We both seemed to have agreed without saying so that we would keep the topic of conversation away from Vera. It wasn't until the drive home on Sunday morning that we spoke of her. Vera killed Gary. Her words cut across the engine hum. I kept my eyes on the road processing the three words. What do you mean? I forgot to give her her Nazis and she got hungry.

Knightses? Admittedly, I often let my wife deal with bedtime duties, and most Vera duties for that matter. So I was out of the loop. Her last snack before she goes to bed. If she doesn't get it, she gets hungry. It took me a moment to speak. So you forgot to give our baby daughter a bedtime snack.

She got uncontrollably hungry so she killed and ate our cat. I tried to relay just how crazy her words were sounding. Maybe this is what she'd said to my mother. Maybe she really was unwell. That's exactly what happened. We drove the rest of the way in silence. We had planned to stop. stop at my mother's to pick Vera up on our way home. We tried to call ahead as we were leaving,

but they must have spent the day in the garden. My mother wasn't answering her phone. When we arrived, none of the lights in the house were on, and the front gate was locked. Usually my mother locks it at night and unlocks it in the morning when she takes her little lapdog for his morning walk. No one answered when I rang the doorbell. No one answered when I called over the garden fence. I had a spare key to my mother's house in my car, so I hurriedly fetched it. I fumbled with the keys and shoved at the door till it swung open into an unlit house. I could hear Vera crying somewhere upstairs, and Claire rushed off to find her. I checked the downstairs rooms.

There was no sign of my mother. Claire came briskly down the stairs, carrying Vera, and walked straight out to the car. She didn't look at me, but I saw terror on her face. I headed upstairs towards my mother's bedroom, picturing my mother collapsed on her bathroom floor clutching at her heart. A car engine started outside. The bedroom door was ajar, and as I creaked it further open, I caught sight of Mar. She lay on her back sprawled across the bed. Her arms spread out either side of her.

Her Yorkshire terrier lay beside her. They looked like the mice and the magpie and the squirrel and the frogs, and the rabbit. Eyeless, fleshless, eaten. It's dangerous to drive when you're tired. That's why we have to commend Hank for pulling into a rest stop to get a good night's sleep. And he wakes up refreshed and ready to continue his drive. But in this tale, shared with us by author V.R. Gregg, the problem is that the next day, Hank can't remember which car was his, nor where he was going, nor where he came from.

Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Jesse Cornett, Graham Rowett, and Aaron Lillis. So maybe pay attention to the poor cleanliness, the lack of comfort, and the strange desk clerk, and take it as a sign not to stay at the Sleep Easy Motor Lodge. Hank had been driving for 15 hours straight when the neon sign lured him off the interstate. He'd long been to.

past the point of tiredness, and exhaustion had begun to seep into his bones. That might have been why the dilapidated motel, slung low and half hidden by the overpass, looked so inviting. Or maybe it was what the sign said. Sleep-Easy Motor Lodge from 2999 a night. Hank had planned to pull over at a rest stop and pass the early morning hours in his car. But his increasingly heavy eyelids and clammy skin begged for the severe. of a bed and shower. Thirty bucks? I can do that.

He was already pulling into the parking lot by the time his thought was finished. Hank blinked against the garish fluorescent light that bounced off the water-stained walls of the motel office. He eyed the half-full pot of percolated coffee next to the door, but a greasy shine floated on top of the black liquid and made his stomach turn. He focused his attention back to the task. at hand. The desk was empty. Unsurprisingly so at this time of night, but it irritated Hank just the same. He tapped his knuckle on the small brass bell and waited. A round-faced man with beady eyes and a bright red bow tie stuck his head out from a back room. Just a sec. He ducked into the

dark before emerging again and shutting the door behind him carefully. Now, what can I do you for? A room, single, then one night. A room? Well, you're in luck, because that's our business. What's your first and last name? The round-faced man grinned at Hank, oblivious to his stony expression. Clifton, Henry. Oh, quite right. We've been expecting you, and we've already got number of four made up for you. Here's your key. Let me know if you need anything.

The man passed the brass key to Hank. Its fob was made of worn leather and stamped with the number four. Hank turned the heavy key over in his hand, staring at it blankly. Don't you need money or information or anything? The man smiled. No, sir, you're all set. Hank was about to argue when the man turned and walked into the back room, shutting the door behind him. Hank stood a moment longer at the desk, listening to the hum of the box fan in the window. When no one opened the door, he shrugged and picked up his duffel bag. He was too tired to care much and figured he could square up in the morning. Henry Clifton was a common enough name, and if he had stolen some other guy's room, it would be easy to

explain. Plus, he thought, looking out across the empty parking lot, it wasn't as if they didn't have extra rooms. Any guilt Hank felt about the situation dissipated when he opened the door to room four. A heavy coating of dust blanketed the room, like it hadn't been cleaned in years. The musty odor of mold and stale cigarette smoke added to the effect. There was another smell, too, vaguely sweet and rotten, like fruit that had gone bad and had started to ferment. It reminded him of a demolition he'd done once. A casino that had been cleared out of its lights and games. That rank odor of cigarettes and piss-smelling beer remaining behind.

He'd found a dead dog in the poker room, stuffed to the brim with puppies that had never made it out. That was the smell the room had. Hank shuddered at the memory and threw his duffel bag on the folding chair next to the door. Any other time he might have complained. But in this case, his exhaustion, and the fact that he had gotten the room seemingly for free, made him complacent.

He pulled a stiff towel from the bathroom without turning on the light. He preferred not to look. A barely perceptible puff of dust rose from the faded floral comforter when he laid the towel down. Hank ignored it and curled up on top of the towel. He didn't take his shoes off. Hank slept deeply and dreamlessly. and when the sun came pouring into his open window, he woke refreshed. He had hoped that the motel room would look better in the light,

but he found the opposite to be true. The carpet was stained a rusty color around the walls and black blooms of mold wove in delicate patterns along the ceiling. Hair gathered in balls in the corners of the bathroom, and the smell still hung in the air, strengthened by the warm sunlight. Hank felt like he was going to be sick if he stayed any longer. He grabbed his duffel and walked to the office. It was brighter and seemed smaller in the mid-morning sun.

And Hank shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He didn't know why he felt so nervous. But he had the distinct sense that he had gotten away with something. The round-faced man beamed at him from behind the counter. Was everything to your liking, sir? Hank grunted. Not really Would it kill you to hire a housekeeper at this dump?

Plus the room reeked It straight up reeked This made the man frown I'm sorry that you found your accommodations unsatisfactory, sir But you do get what you pay for Yeah, about that I think you gave me someone else's room No sir, that room was meant for you and you alone

But I didn't pay Oh, I wouldn't say that Will you be returning your key or will you be joining us for another night? Hank cleared his throat and laid the key on the counter. I'm leaving, but thanks. Hank winced at the bright light as he walked into the nearly empty parking lot. Three cars were parked there.

None of them looked familiar. Hank thought back to the car he was driving. The car he had owned for years, I couldn't picture it. He was unsure of the color, make, or year. He shook his head. How could he have forgotten which car was his? He walked past the three vehicles. Each had a license plate from a different state.

Which state had he come from? Where did he live? He'd been driving for a long time that much he knew. How far had he come? Hank couldn't remember. He fumbled for the key in his pocket, became up empty. A creeping panic prickled the back of his neck. He turned back to the office.

The round-faced man was looking at him expectantly as he opened the door. You... You don't happen to remember the car I was driving when I came in here last night, do you? The man furrowed his brow in confusion. Is everything okay, sir? Is your vehicle missing? Should we alert the authorities? No, or at least I don't think so.

It's just... I'm not quite sure which is mine. Do you have a security camera or anything? No, sir. Unfortunately, we're barely above water as it is. Technology like that is a bit above our capacity. If you'd like to stay here longer, feel free. You might remember shortly.

The sunlight out here as a way of clarifying things. Hank shook his head and walked back into the parking lot. His mind racing through a fog. He squinted at each car in turn, but felt to no recognition. He walked past each one, leaning forward to look in the driver's window. Had he gotten some food on his trip? Surely there would be evidence of a road trip,

crumpled bags of fast food or cans of energy drinks. But each car was immaculate inside. Was there anything that looked familiar? Anything that felt like him? Henry pressed his palms into his eyes and winced at the pressure. Nothing looked right, and he couldn't make himself focus. He walked over to the side of the motel and lit a cigarette, hoping to clear his head. He smoked in silence, listening for any signs of life in the hotel.

Other than the round-faced man, he hadn't seen anyone coming or going. There must have been at least two others, though. What but the car's outside? But what if there wasn't anyone, Hank thought? He grinned at his own stupidity. Of course, none of those cars were his. And they didn't belong to anyone else either. They had to be cars that belonged to the hotel.

Didn't some of them do that out here? Classic cars in front of a rundown hotel, selling the illusion of 1950s road trip glamour. He shook his head at the simplicity of it. He'd let the dirty room and the quiet get to him. He could just report his car missing. Rent a temporary one and get up. out of here. Hank tossed his cigarette butt to the ground, not bothering to stamp it out.

The man wasn't in the hotel anymore, and despite Hank yelling until his throat was dry and painful, no one showed up at the counter. He rang the bell, hitting it until a divot formed in his palm but got no response. There was no phone behind the counter, and the door to the back room was securely locked. No matter how much Hank pounded against it. I really feel like you're trying to keep me here. The sunlight was magnified in the little office, and sweat stung at Hank's eyes. He let the door slam behind him as he walked out into the parking lot. It wasn't much cooler out there, with no breeze to stir the air.

The absolute stillness unnerved, Hank. He walked along the edge of the parking lot to where the overpass jutted up from the road. Below him was the interstate, stretching. as far as he could see in both directions. The horizon flat and featureless. Not a vehicle moved along it. To his left was a country road that took off into the desert. It too was empty.

Hank watched the roads before him until he was satisfied that there was no traffic. It had seemed like a few minutes, but when he turned back toward the motel, the sun was sinking below the horizon. Hank turned on his heel, checking behind him, Sure enough, the shadows of early evening stretched out over the road. Hank shook his head back and forth. Nothing made sense.

He walked back to the office. This time the round-faced man was there. Jesus, are you the only one that works here? We're a small family-owned business, sir. No rest for the weary, I'm afraid. No rest, right. I came in here earlier to use your phone. You got one of those?

The man shook his head sadly I'm sorry to say that's why I was absent The lines are down and we won't have someone out until tomorrow And what about a cell phone? You got one of those? That would require reception And well He motioned around as if the reasoning should be self-evident

Listen I don't know what kind of game you're playing Some sort of drug and strand passers buy and steal their money scam I guess but I don't have anything you want. And I swear to God, I will beat you to a pulp if I don't get out of here. The man looked concerned. I'm sorry, sir, that you've been having a bad day, but I'll ask you not to take that tone with me.

I would be well within my rights as a business owner to refuse you service. Hank sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The thought of that endless empty road made him shudder. Okay, well, look, I'm sorry, and I guess I need to stay another night. I can't think straight, and even if I could find my car, I wouldn't feel right driving. Absolutely, sir. Room four is made up and waiting for you. The man passed the brass key across to Hank, who took it with a huff and left the office.

The room was indeed made up, in that the towel had been removed from the bed. Hank grabbed it and placed it back before laying down. He didn't know what he planned to do, but he hoped another night's sleep would clear the cobwebs out of his. head. He felt uneasy, but exhaustion soon won over. Hank awoke to the sound of crying. It was sometime early in the morning, and Hank's head felt heavy. Through his groginess, he could tell that the crying was coming from the next room over. It was a shrill high sound, a baby wailing at the top of its lungs. He punched his pillow, coughing at the eruption of dust and put it over his ears. He laid like that for what felt like hours. A high-pitched keening, never stopping or

quieting. Part of him felt relieved to no longer be alone. There was some sanity, finally, in his situation, but that part was drowned out by the need for sleep. Sying, Hank pulled himself to his feet and walked out to the office. The lights were off inside, but the sickly yellow street lamp illuminated enough for Hank to see that the round-faced man was standing at the counter. He pushed the door open and walked purposefully inside. I need another room. Is something the matter with your current accommodation? Too many things to mention, but right now, that baby next door won't stop crying.

I need sleep. The round-faced man just smiled. So, can you move me or what? It's not like you're sold out. I'm sorry, sir, but room four is your room. Well, make room five my room, or room six. What's the problem? There's no problem, sir.

It's just there's no one in the room next to you. So I'm afraid switching rooms won't solve anything. Hank leapt toward the man, grabbing his collar and his fists. Move me. The round-faced man cocked his head to the side and smiled. I'm sorry, sir, but rules are rules. rules. Hank tightened his grip on the man's collar, pulling him closer over the Formica counter. What is going on here? Tell me!

The round-faced man opened his mouth. Sound poured from his unmoving lips like he was a record player. Hank recognized that voice. It was his wife's. He'd forgotten about her, hadn't he? Confusion bubbled up inside him. Where had he been driving for? from and why? Where was he going? Images came flooding into Hank's mind all at once. The crib. The mobile swaying above it, casting grotesque shadows on the nursery wall, the look of horror on his wife's face. He loosened his grip on the man's shirt, setting him back down. No, no, I didn't. I mean, I didn't want to. She wouldn't stop crying.

Please, she wouldn't stop crying. Tears streamed down Hank's face. More images now. The duffel bag. The slamming door. The pulsing blue and red lights in the distance. The highway. The skid.

The swerve. The blackness. Hank looked around. The round-faced man was smiling and nodding. You get it now. Don't you? We've been expecting you. Hank clutched the sides of his head. Going to happen to me.

The man spoke calmly and not without sympathy. Nothing you don't deserve. Gasp, huff, pant, wheeze. Gosh, everyone I lead one heck of a hectic lifestyle. If I'm not trekking around on tour, then I'm in the studio recording or visiting haunted locations to check out some of the world's most terrifying places for future story material. This wild on-the-go lifestyle means I simply don't have time to wait in line to get takeout, and you can forget hosting dinner parties with friends. Someone like me has nearly a minute

to spend in the kitchen. Ah, but with DoorDash, I don't need to worry. I can order pickup and pass the line if I'm traveling between locations, or have the food brought to my door if I'm at home. And dinner parties? DoorDash's group ordering feature means I don't have to slave over a hot stove making my signature dish that only half my minions actually enjoy. We can all order what we want. DoorDash brings all of America's flavors to your door. Ordering is easy. Open the DoorDash app, choose what you want to eat, and your food will be delivered to you wherever you are. Not only is your favorite pizza joint already on DoorDash, but there are over 310,000 restaurant partners in 4,000 cities, so you might find a new favorite too. With door-to-door delivery,

In all 50 states, Puerto Rico, Canada, and Australia, you can order from your local go-toes or choose from your favorite national restaurants like Chipotle, Wendy's, The Cheesecake Factory, and more. With DoorDash, you never have to disrupt your busy schedule or worry about your next meal. Right now, our listeners can get $5 off their first order of $15 or more when you download the DoorDash app and enter code No Sleep.

That's $5 off your first order when you download the DoorDash app in the app store and enter code No Sleep. Now I must dash myself. I've got podcasts to continue hosting. And don't forget, that's code No Sleep for $5 off your first order with DoorDash.

And now back to the aforementioned podcast. Being the coach of a high school sports team is hard. You want to pick the best players, but you also know it's your job as an educator to help all the kids find their potential, regardless of their reputation.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Ira Brooker, a good reputation is something that high schooler Teddy Milligan doesn't have, although it soon becomes clear that when he takes up the sport of basketball, he's willing to stick with it. Performing this tale with me are Matthew Bradford, Jesse Cornett, Dan Zepula, Mick Wingert, and Mike Delgado. So we can admire Teddy's attachment to the sport, but only when he's playing on the home court.

We were right in the middle of what looked like a nice third quarter comeback against Collinsville. The guards working the ball around the arc when the ref blew the whistle. Three seconds in the lane. Dang it, Teddy. Get out of the lane! I leapt up from my folding chair and glared at my center.

His right foot planted squarely just inside the paint. Coach, I can't. I exhaled my frustration noisily. I'd been working with this kid all season to get the three-second rule through his head, but somehow he just could not grasp the concept that if he stood under the hoop for more than three seconds in a row, it meant a turnover for our team. Eric Polderman shook his head,

handed the ball to the ref, and started stalking down to the opposite end of the court. All of the other players followed except for Teddy. Teddy stayed right where he was. That was enough for me. I called down the bench. Nick, you're in. Get Teddy out of there.

Nick Carlson bounced out of his seat, flashed his jersey at the scorekeeper, and trotted onto the court. Teddy, sub! Still, Teddy stayed stationary. Coach, I can't move. I'm... I don't know. I'm stuck. He groaned, staring down at his foot.

The refs were ready for the inbounds, but now they looked over at me. Oh, for the love of God. Jesus, fuck. Time out. The whistle blew again, and I strode onto the cord and over to Teddy. What's happening, kid? You hurt? Teddy looked up at me, his face, a mask of panic, that took me off guard.

No, I mean, I don't know. I just can't move my foot, coach. I looked down at the floor. Teddy's size 14 Reebok was planted exactly where it had been when the ref blew the whistle. His calf muscles were visibly straining with effort. I turned to the nearest referee. Hey, we have an injury here. Mark, come take a look, huh? The school trainer nodded and climbed down from his seat in the second row,

groaning audibly as he shifted his considerable bulk. The kids and parents in the stands were buzzing as Mark and I stepped close to Teddy. Mark reached down and put a hand on Teddy's calf muscle. You're feeling in pain? No, I'm not hurt. It's just like my foot stuck to the floor. Mark arched an eyebrow, but nodded. Okay, try to lift your leg up for me.

I am. I'm telling you, I'm trying to move my foot, but it just won't move. Mark glanced up at me. I shrugged in confusion. Take it easy, Teddy. You probably pulled something or got a bad cramp. That's all. You're going to be okay.

Mark had his hands on Teddy's ankle now, his fingers moving all around it in what looked like some kind of massage. Let's get the kid off the court, Mark. Mark looked up at me with the same worried expression I'd seen from Teddy. Coach, he's right, this foot is stuck here solid. If I'm being completely honest, Teddy Milligan probably shouldn't have been on the court. He certainly didn't belong in the starting lineup. The kid was raw, inexperienced, and not necessarily. especially bright, but he was also 6'7 and 250 pounds.

On a team where the next closest thing I had to a genuine big man was Nick Carlson at 6-2-175, Teddy's flesh got him places his spirit couldn't. Heck, the kid was only a sophomore. His skills and coordination were bound to improve, and there was a solid chance he'd tack on a few more inches before he finished growing. When you're coaching a 2-8 high school basketball team with pressure, few rising stars waiting in the wings, sometimes you take a gamble and toss a lumbering giant of a 15-year-old out on the court before he's ready. As Mark and I tried to figure out what to do with Teddy's foot, I saw Coach Rich from Collinsville make his way across the court,

accompanied by one of the refs, the young blonde one with the perpetual smirk. Everything all right over here, fellas? I couldn't stand the guy, but you got to stay professional. I started to try. I started to reply, but Teddy cut me off. I can't move my foot. I don't know what's happening, but I'm... I'm getting scared. His foot stuck to the floor somehow.

I spoke directly to the ref, ignoring Rich as best I could. Mark was still massaging Teddy's tendons, trying to restore feeling or something like that. Coach Rich responded anyway. Well, have you tried just taking his foot out of the shoe? Mark and I looked at each other sheepishly. Okay, Teddy, Mark's going to untie your shoe, and you're going to lift your foot out of it nice and slowly. Got it? Coach, I don't think you can't.

As Mark reached for the laces of his Reebok, Teddy let out a sudden gasp. Folling, feels like someone's pulling down on my foot. Mark's fingers move nervously around the double-knotted laces, trying in vain to get them undone. Suddenly, Teddy's whimpering peaked into a high-pitched shriek. I was watching his rock. fithing face when I heard a crisp snap, followed by another and another. Mark yelped, scuttling backwards across the hardwood. Gosh, Jesus Christ, the kid's ankle just shattered. My wife and I moved to town at the start

of the school year. I'd had a good job coaching basketball at a big school outside of Milwaukee. The kids were mostly good boys, but the constant back and forth with overbearing parents and clueless administrators wore me down after a few years. When a coaching position opened up in a little town on the other side of the state, we jumped on it. It seemed like a lot less stress and a chance to really make an impact on some kids who might not get a lot of chances in life. When Teddy walked into the gym on our first day of tryouts, my assistant coach Allen warned me not to get too attached. Nice kid, big kid, got a lot of potential. But when you get right down to it, he's a Milligan.

Even if he manages to make it through school without getting arrested or hooked on meth, you're going to lose him to academic probation at some point. As a newcomer to the town and the program, I didn't know much about the Milligan family's reputation, but I knew exactly what Alan was saying. Every small town has a family or two that fits the same profile. Petty criminals, mostly harmless, but notorious just the same for being constantly in trouble with the law or their neighbors,

or the bank, or whoever else is in arm's reach, that they can manage to piss off. The type of folks where you see a headline in the local paper about somebody getting busted for his fifth DUI or domestic violence charge, and you scan the article until you spot the name Milligan, and you shake your head and say, yep, sounds about right. So even though I didn't know this particular family,

I've known their equivalence all my life. I knew Allen's assessment was probably spot, on, but heck, I wasn't going to chase the biggest kid in school off the court without giving him a shot. And wouldn't you know it? Teddy kept showing up for practice and even showed some signs of knowing what the hell to do with a basketball. He wasn't a smart kid by any means, but he listened well and tried his damnedest to do the things I told him to. Any coach will tell you a teachable kid with a little raw talent is worth two hot-headed sharpshooters. By the time the season started, Teddy was locked in as our starting center.

I didn't see any all-conference honors in his future, but as a big man on a bad team, he was right where he needed to be. All around me, I heard the gym erupt into chaos. Kids screaming in the stands, players running up for a closer look than scampering away in horror, refs and school administrators barking panicked orders. I kept my eyes glued on Teddy.

He was staring down at his ankle, now a bloody mess that sheared away from his shoe at a 45-degree angle. It was hard to make out anything specific through the wash of blood, but I could see several jagged white shards that had to be severed bone. It hurts. He was somehow still standing, foot still planted in the lane, even as his ankle splintered beneath him. He looked me square in the eye.

Can you get me out of your? It hurts. You're going to be fine, Ted. I reached out to pat his sweaty shoulder, then turned back around. Mark, get the kid off the floor. And Alan! My assistant was sitting shell-shocked and white-faced beside the scorer's table. Clear the gym! Now! Alan lurched into motion, turning to holler directions to the frantic crowd.

I turned back to Teddy, trying not to stare at the bloody pulp of his lower leg. Coach Rich came stalking across the court, clearly pissed that we were delaying his blowout. What's the idea of clearing the gym? His words trailed off as he finally caught sight of Teddy. Jesus. Jesus Christ. Just hold tight, Teddy. I'm going to try your shoe again.

Mark crouched down on the hardwood, glancing up at me as he reached for Teddy's Reebok with a shaky hand. As soon as his fingers touched the laces, a harsh grinding sound reverberated through the gym, and Teddy howled with pain as his leg buckled in on itself, sending a thick mist of blood across all of us assembled. Coach Rich turned aside and vomited intensely on the court. Mark scrambled backwards again.

God damn it, God damn it, I'm not touching it. I'm not touching his fore. What again? Teddy's eyes had started to roll back in his head, even as he managed to somehow stay standing in the lane. I clasped his shoulders and shook him until he was able to focus again. Teddy, you've got to help us. We don't know why your leg is doing this. Do you have any idea what's going on? Teddy blinked at me through glazed eyes. I didn't get out of the lane. Somebody's called 911 already, right? Mark dug out his phone and began dialing immediately.

Behind us I could hear sobbing, both from the stands and from my players, as the school security guard tried to shoe everyone non-essential out of the gym. I grasped Teddy's hand in mine. You're hurt, Teddy. You're hurt pretty bad. I won't lie to you. But we're going to get you out of this, and you're going to be okay. You trust me, right?

Right? I watched his face, trying to get a fix on his eyes as beads of him. sweat broke out along his forehead. Teddy, Teddy! His eyes slowly slid into focus and stared back at mine. You're the guy, Teddy, right? You're the guy. He managed to thin smile. I felt his weight shift to the right. The bones just wouldn't stop breaking. A few nights after the team's first practice, I made a detour from my usual route home to stop by the liquor store for a bottle of makers. It was a snowy night with a below zero wind chill, the type of night where I make sure my bourbon supply is fully loaded. On my way out of the store, I spotted a familiar figure

hulking up the opposite sidewalk, Teddy Milligan. I called him over. He was wearing just a blue hoodie, despite the cold, said he didn't have a ride, so he was just going to walk home. Of course, I told him to get in the car. That was the first time. time I had a real talk with Teddy. There was a strange rhythm to his conversation, casual and direct, but also guarded. I gave him rides a couple of nights a week after that, got to know him a little better before dropping him at his home, a visibly crumbling ranch house with car parts scattered across the lawn. Turned out his mom couldn't pick him up from practice because she'd just started working the overnight shift out at the new Rhinepack plant, the one two towns over that they

shuttled workers to every night. His dad was doing a year at Black River for aggravated assaults, broke a guy's eye socket with a mickolo bottle in a bar fight at the Taj Mahal Tavern last winter. But it didn't sound like he was the type to be front and center for his kids' events anyway. Teddy wasn't too worried about his dad. He said he had a couple of cousins and an uncle in the same prison, so at least he wasn't all alone. When I told Alan about that conversation the next day,

He just nodded like it was all old news. That sounds about right. Leopard can't change its spots. Oh, that seems unfair. Teddy's just a kid. He doesn't even have spots to change yet. Alan gave me a look that seemed somewhere close to pity. Look, coach, I'm happy you're here.

But you've got to remember you're not in the city anymore. You screw something up in the city, people get mad for a few days, and then something new comes along to distract them. and they forget about it. You screw something up in a town as small as this? It's going to be the only thing anybody here thinks about when they hear your name, and they'll carry that hard feeling until the day you die. Make too many waves around here, and this town will swallow you right up.

Mark, we've got to get him off the court! The gym had been mostly cleared now, just a circle of us left looking on helplessly as the pool of blood spread across the hardwood. me, Mark, our team, the two refs, and a couple of teachers who'd been watching the game. The kids were mostly quiet, obviously terrified. A couple of them had started crying. Mark just stared at Teddy, ashen-faced and uncomprehending. He seemed to have gone into shock.

I turned to Nick Carlson and Mike Santiago, the two kids closest to me. Come on, grab onto his shoulders. Let's drag him out of here. Teddy made a sort of humming noise, either to try to calm himself or just because his brain had stopped processing what the hell was going on. I stepped behind him and grabbed his left arm just below the shoulder, finding a grip on his sweaty underarm. Mike Santiago did the same to the right. Okay, ready? Pull!

We both commenced to tugging at Teddy's torso. I was pulling with all my might, but it didn't seem to be. be doing any good. The thought flashed through my head that even if we pulled until his leg snapped clean off, it would be worth it to get him the hell off the floor. Coach, coach, it's not going to work. It's just pulling me down further. I stopped tugging and looked down at Teddy's crumpled leg. I let out a gasp, despite myself. He was right. He was being pulled down. His foot had disappeared entirely into the hardwood, as if the court was sucking him under like quicksand. Teddy looked up at me blankly.

My jaw moved for a few seconds before I had to look away. But maybe we could saw the floor away around his foot. I glanced around at everyone gathered and got nothing but helpless stares in return. When are the goddamn paramedics getting here? You could call it an experiment, me giving a kid like Teddy a shot at the team. Truth be told, though, recruiting the biggest kid in school to play basketball for you isn't exactly betting the farm in Atlantic City. Still, if it was an experiment, it was looking like a successful one.

Not only was Teddy developing into a reasonable imitation of a basketball player, he was showing signs of life all around. His teachers told me his grades had made a noticeable upturn since he started playing ball. He was getting invited out to parties and social events, and not just because he had a half-dozen grown cousins who would have bought beer for him if he asked. I tried not to get too closely involved because I know how easy it is for a hard luck kid to get spooked

once things started turning his way, and it wasn't like this was a miracle transformation or anything. Teddy Milligan was never going to be four-year university material, but I'd started planting some seeds about community college or tech school. He liked drawing, mostly sketches of rapture. album covers, but pretty well done. And one of the few things his dad ever bothered to teach him was how to keep a car engine running long past its expiration date.

I'd been subtly trying to let him know he had some options after high school. Coach, coach, it's pulling again. His teammate circled around, wanting to help, but having no idea how. Matt Schick put a hand on Teddy's shoulder and started to pray out loud. Teddy didn't seem to take any more notice than anybody else. Alan sidled up beside me. Has anyone called his mother? I would want to know if my son was...

was injured. I shook my head. No, no, she works night at the packing plant over in Haney Falls. It'd take at least half an hour before anyone could get her here, but yes, go call them. I turned back to Teddy just as the sharpest crack yet rang through the gym. His leg had disappeared up to the knee in the floor, His free leg sprawling out at a perpendicular angle on the hardwood,

awash with a thick froth of blood and bone fragments. His dull brown eyes were glazed with pain. Matt Schick jumped back at the sound of Teddy's tibious splitting and looked like he might vomit, but quickly regained his composure and resumed his prayer from a safe distance. Gosh. I knelt down and made myself look him in the eye. Teddy, I'm here.

We're doing what we can. We're going to get you out of here. Teddy shook his head slightly, a dribble of saliva flopping from his lip. Coach, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the three seconds. Crying hadn't even presented itself as an option up to that point, but now there was no stopping it.

I squeezed Teddy's hand and sobbed as I felt his big body twisting, heard the bones bending and breaking beneath him, felt the hot spray pelt my jacket when the bone shards finally pierced his femoral artery, watching his eyes flicker and twitch as the life ebbed out of him. His big hand clamped around mine. I barely registered that he was crushing my fingers

almost to the point of breaking. Once Teddy was dead, the process seemed to speed up. up. The paramedics finally stepped into the gym in time to see his leg disappear into the wood, his limp body folding on itself like a stuffed animal in a washing machine. His other leg flipped straight up in the air as his torso slithered down, down into whatever sucking void had a hold of the kid. The prayers and screams and sobs all died away as we all just stood back and watched, horrified as big, dead Teddy was swallowed up by the gymnasium floor.

The white rubber toe of his Reebok was the last thing we saw of him, slipping away through the pool of blood that itself quickly drained away into the unknown. Soon there was no sign that Teddy Milligan had ever been there, not so much as a scratch in the hardwood. The gym was so. silent for a long moment. Even the late arriving paramedics had ignored their training and froze in place, bearing witness to something that plainly demanded an awful reverence. Finally, Mark spoke up, whispering from behind my shoulder,

coach, what are we going to do about this? What are we going to tell his mother? I didn't have an answer. I looked to Alan. but he just stood there with his head and his hands. I told you. I told you this town will swallow you up. I glanced around at the circle of horrified faces and felt an uncontrollable urge to run, to get as far away from this gym and this school

and any traces of Teddy as I possibly could. I turned away from Mark and tried to take a step toward the locker room, but I couldn't move. I tried again to lift my life. legs to will myself into movement, but it was no use. My right foot was frozen in place, held tight to the hard wood as sure as if it was nailed there. Somewhere deep beneath me, I felt something beginning to tug. The spells are wearing off for now, but the magic will linger.

The shop will be open again next week with more spells to enchant you. 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. This audio production is Copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.