The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E05

Episode Date: March 15, 2020

It’s Episode 05 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about the unknown and how fearful it can be. “Test Run” written by T. Takeda Wise (Story starts around 00:05:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Maryanne Haneda – Jessica McEvoy, Mikael – David Ault, Victoria – Nichole Goodnight, Man in Forest 1 – Graham Rowat, Man in Forest 2 – Jeff Clement, Detective – Peter Lewis, Library Specialist – Nikolle Doolin “Samhain” written by William Stuart (St Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

And stay down. Hey, babe. Yeah, just at work. No? Everything's fine. Why day? Oh, sure. Sure, I'll pick up some milk on the...

Hold on. Sorry about that. Lesser demon getting too frisky. Sure, yeah, I'll grab milk. Okay. Love you too. Bye. Man, it still impresses me

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Of course, sometimes you just got to ignore the phone and get down to business. Remember, that's mintmobile.com slash no sleep. 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 unknown and how fearful it can be. I can only hope you've come to our magic shop for some delightfully devilish spells and incantations. I'm afraid I can't offer you much else at this time. We've sold out of hand in sanitizer. That's the potion which causes your hands to go insane. And people have stripped our shelves bare of toilet pepper. That's a spice you sprinkle in your toilet to make you butt sneeze.

So listen, look after yourself out there. Wash your hands and give your immune system a boot. by covering your ears with tiny speakers and listening to audio horror stories. Fortunately, those are in unlimited supply here at the No Sleep Magic Shop. Now, close your eyes and embrace the magic. In our first tale, we meet a library archivist with two passions. The first, of course, is books. And the second, well, it's true crime.

That's why it's so fortuitous when her first love leads to an opportunity to pursue the second. But in this tale, shared with us by author T. Takato Wise, our librarian finds out that pursuing true crime investigations isn't always the safest thing to do. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, David Alt, Nicole Goodnight, Graham Rowett, Jeff Clement, Peter Lewis, and Nicole Doolin. So if you find a business card and an old copy of unethical human experimentation in the United States, then maybe leave it where it is, because otherwise you might find yourself part of a test run. In late 2011, I fell down a rabbit hole and almost didn't make it back out. See, I've always had this unquenchable fascination with the unsolved and the unknown. Yes, I'm mystified by old legends and lore, but they're always had this unquenchable fascination with the unsolved and the unknown.

but they never really held my attention for long. At least not in the same way that something else did. Something more sinister and believable and closer to home. Missing persons cases. At the time, I lived in the heart of Manhattan and worked as an archivist in one of the world's most famous libraries. I had spent my days appraising and preserving priceless old books and manuscripts, and my nights pouring over Internet,

threads about the latest discovery or clue or crime. I remember the day I first stumbled to the edge of the rabbit hole vividly. It was early October, gloomy, cold, and getting colder every day. I went up to the third floor of my building, introduced myself to Mikhail, the newest librarian for the archives and manuscript division, then made my way to the back of the room where my office was. For hours, work went as planned. It wasn't until around 4 o'clock that something odd happened. I opened the door to my office to find a particular manuscript and heard a grunt. It sounded like someone lifting something heavy,

followed by the unmistakable sound of a sliding shelf being pulled out. No appointments were scheduled in my division for that day. Mikhail? There was no response, but I clearly heard it. tinny sound that could have been a ring tone. Sounded slightly familiar, like an old game theme. There was a quick intake of breath, like someone being startled, then sharp footsteps hurrying towards the only exit. Intrigued and a little suspicious, I left my office and walked through the stacks when something caught my eye. Someone had indeed pulled out a retractable shelf and placed a book on it.

There was nothing particularly interesting about the book itself, heavy, dull brown, and slightly bloated from age. But the title, written in peeling gold Franklin Gothic font, made me pause. Unethical human experimentation in the United States. I walked over and picked it up, immediately noticing something stuck between its pages. I carefully flipped the book open and saw a matte black business card. On it, a quote was written in all capital letters in bright white ink. Man is the cruelest animal. I flipped the card over to see four more words.

Adirondack Park? The Hollow? I knew the quote was from Nietzsche and that Adirondack Park was a forest preserve up north. but the hollow was beyond me. And I especially didn't understand why someone would write any of those things together on a blank black business card, then stick it into an old book about human experimentation. A sound like someone plopping themselves into a chair startled me back to the present. I set the book back onto the retractable shelf and walked towards it,

thinking I'd be able to tell off whoever had shoved that card so unceremoniously into it. to one of my books, only to find Mikhail sitting at the front desk. What's up? Did you let anyone in here recently? He took a sip of coffee and nodded. Mm-hmm. Yeah, cute tall guy in a suit. He came in like ten minutes ago.

Why? Did you see him? I held up the business card. This wasn't one of the books. The ink was fresh. It could have caused some real damage. Oh, are you still here? No, I checked. There's no one in here except us.

Huh, must have left while I was getting this. He lifted his paper cup a fraction of an inch. Hey, it's his number on that card. Maybe I could give him a ring and reprimand him? He winked. I shook my head. No number, sorry. Did he say why he needed to view this collection?

Did he schedule an appointment while I was working? Mikael frowned. No and no, but he did have a card of admission. From whom? Mikhail shuffled some papers on his desk, then handed me a small piece of cardstock. One glance told me all I needed to know. The official insignia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was stamped on one corner, and an unreadable signature was signed near the bottom.

That's it? What? There's no reason on here, Mikael, and no name. Did you check his ID? Oh, no, I didn't. Oops. I sighed. You're not supposed to leave the table while you're scheduled up here, Mikhail.

He threw me a semi-scathing, semi-wurried look. Well, you were working in the back, so I figured it'd be fine. I was only gone for like three minutes. I needed a caffeine boost. Well, just let me know next time, okay? I don't mind watching the front desk. I just don't want anything to happen to these books. Mikhail's face softened.

I understand. I'm sorry. Hey, can I get you a tea or something as an apology? Nah, but what about lunch sometime next week? Ty? Oh, yum. Yeah, I'm in. Hey, are you staying until close? Actually, I think I might call it a day. Oh.

What? I don't know, it feels a little spooky in here, especially when you're the only one inside, you know? Yeah, I know. That night, I lay awake in bed for hours, unable to shut off my mind. Finally, around midnight, I got up and pulled a heavy, swollen brown book out of my work bag.

I'm not proud. Taking materials out of the special collections wasn't very professional of me. But I was curious. I carefully flipped the book open to the page the card had marked. Chemical Experiments. Operation Top Hat. I started reading and felt my pulse quicken. In 1953, the United States Army officially adopted strict guidelines

concerning the use of human subjects in biological, radiological, and chemical research and testing. These guidelines, which strongly echoed the Nuremberg Code, required that all projects involving humans be approved by the Secretary of the Army. Despite careful constraints, however, there remained a loophole. The guidelines did not actually define in detail what types of testing required approval, thus creating a gray area of selective compliance. I skimmed farther down. Though several experiments were submitted to the Secretary of the Army in 1953 and were later approved,

one test in particular skirted this process. Operation Top Hat was deemed a field exercise by the U.S. Army and was conducted in September of that same year at the Fort McClellan Army Chemical School in Alabama. During this exercise, soldiers in the Chemical Corps were subjected to various chemical and chemical and biological weapons, including nerve agents and mustard gas, in an attempt to study contamination and decontamination. The personnel involved in these experiments were not volunteers, nor informed that any test was taking place. I took a deep breath, then flicked carefully to the table of contents and read. 1. Pharmacological Research. 2. Human radiation experiments. 3. Disease, pathogens and biological warfare testing.

4. Chemical experiments. 5. Psychological and torture experiments. 6. Surgical experiments. 7. Other experimentation, testing and research. 8. Academic and professional commentary. 9. legal implications. Ten.

Policies enacted. A few of the chapters had subchapters containing things I'd heard about, like the Montauk project. But mostly, they covered things that I couldn't even begin to imagine actually occurring. Sick, twisted, rotten, unspeakable things that no one should ever have to experience. Not even those our government has locked away to be forgotten about. I went into work late the next day. I had spent the night reading that book, horrified by what our government has done to its own citizens and soldiers.

To say I was exhausted would be an understatement. Mikael was manning the front desk again. Hey, you're feeling all right? What? Oh, yeah. Just couldn't sleep last night. Oh, I'm sorry. But I have some news.

I've wanted to tell you this all day. That guy came back earlier, like three hours ago. Guy? Yeah, you know, the cute one. He was looking for this book about human ethics or something. He said he was reading it yesterday and got an urgent work call he couldn't ignore, so he marked his place thinking he'd be back later.

He says he's so very sorry for doing that, and he wasn't thinking straight. But, hey, that solves the mystery of the card, though there is another mystery. What? I couldn't find that book he was looking for Maybe I wasn't looking in the right area Oh no

It was back in my office I was checking it for damage I didn't know if I was allowed to go back there or not I appreciate that you didn't I've got some delicate projects going on Did you happen to get this Cute guy's name? Chip, oops

Sorry, no I didn't I'm an idiot, but... He smiled and waved a piece of ripped paper around. I did get his number. You know, in the event the book turned up somewhere? All right. I'll give him a call. Tell him the book is here and that he can have a look when I'm finished with it.

I took the slip of paper with the number on it. Oh. Sorry. Just protocol when a book is being fixed. Truth was... I didn't really want any unprofessional calls happening in the name of my division. Back in my office, I quickly consulted my computer, then picked up my phone and called the number we had in the system. This is Victoria. How may I help you today?

Victoria, hello. I was wondering if I could request some information. Certainly. What kind of information are you looking for? Sometime yesterday, one of your special agents used our facilities and didn't. Um, didn't quite follow our protocols. Actually, between you and me, I'm not exactly certain if the man was really an FBI agent, or just impersonating one. Oh no, we definitely wouldn't want that. I'll see what I can do. May have your name and zip code and the facility you work at? I told her. There was the sound of a keyboard on the other end. Miss Anita?

Yes? records show that there was indeed an agent at the location you mentioned. Oh, well, would it be possible to get a name? Or a reason as to why he was here in the first place? I'm sorry, no. That information is classified, and unfortunately requests for name checks must be submit through the proper channels. Proper channels? Other federal agencies.

Oh, I see. What I can do, though, is submit this report directly to your local field office and have a special agent in charge speak directly with this particular agent about following proper protocols when using your facility. No, that's all right. He didn't cause too much trouble. Are you certain? Yes. Thank you for all your help.

Of course. Have a nice day. After Victoria's line disconnected, I picked up the bit of paper Mikhail had so reluctantly given me. Sied, then dialed. It rang once, then went straight to address. generic voicemail. Please leave your message. I left a brief message and hung up. I rubbed my forehead again, then glanced over at my work and sighed.

I couldn't concentrate. I was on edge, jumpy. I pulled my laptop towards me, opened up Google, and typed in two words at Arondack Park. Of course, that search turned up nothing nefarious. So I opened a new tab, went to the forum I frequented, and typed in the same two words. Instantly, several threads popped up. I clicked on the one with the most views and went on from there until I found something promising. The thread in question was about cold cases across the country.

I spent maybe 30 minutes scrolling through all the posts when I saw New York mentioned. I stopped and felt my blood run cold. at what the poster said. A hiker, a young woman, had gone missing a few months prior. According to her mother, she'd left early one Saturday morning in late July with the intention of exploring the Adirondack Park. She was only supposed to be gone for a few hours, six stops, but she never came home that night. Her mother didn't immediately call the police, saying that she thought her daughter had just gone to a friend's house. Two days after her initial disappearance, the mother reported her missing. The cops canvassed the area and did a public news appearance. Afterwards,

an elderly woman came forward and said she'd seen the young woman running alongside the road that Saturday evening while she was driving home. The hiker, the motorist said, was covered in blood and some kind of other substance. She said it was black and shiny. like oil. When pressed, the elderly woman said she didn't stop or call the police because she didn't think it was her business. There were no other leads or clues. The cops and state investigators searched the area to no avail. The woman was never seen or heard from again, and the case went cold. There were several children comments to this post. Most were just conjecture, well wishes and exclamations of despair, but three in particular piqued my interest.

One comment listed and linked a few other missing persons reports from that area, including two cops who'd gone to check it out some years prior to the young woman's vanishing, and vanished themselves. The second comment mentioned that Adirondack Park was closer to another, stranger place. They linked a New York Times article about a peculiar Adirondack Hamlet seemingly lost in time. It described a place, referred to as the hollow, that was supposedly inhabited by two large families. Despite the article implying that the hollow wasn't as bad as urban legends made it out to be,

the commenter insisted that one family who lived there had absorbed the other family, whatever. that meant, then resorted to incest to keep their town alive. They also offered up some conjecture that they were witches or devil-worshippers who ate human flesh and practiced black magic. But it was the third comment that really got my cogs turning. The commenter said they had once been part of the U.S. Army, but had been dishonorably discharged for going AWOL. After a long tirade about how messed up the army can be, they relayed an interesting story. They said that back during their time, the government was conducting all sorts of strange tests not just on its soldiers, but its citizens as well. They said that the government was particularly interested in unique

humans, such as twins, those who suffered from birth defects, or who might be inbred, to conduct various psychological, pharmacological, and chemical experiments on, and that they wouldn't be surprised if these sorts of experiments were still happening. Finally, they mentioned how the oil-like substance seen on the young woman seemed similar to a chemical or biological weapon the government was testing on him and his unit years ago. I closed my laptop and looked around, my eyes falling on the torn bit of paper with the number strewn across it. Without thinking, I grabbed it and dialed, getting the voicemail yet again.

Hello, sorry to bother you again. This is Mary Annan Haneda from the Manuscript and Archives Division. I hope I don't sound too presumptuous, but it's about that card you accidentally left in the book you were looking at the other day. I was wondering what you meant by it. Now, I know with your line of work you probably can't tell me much, if anything at all, But I'm very, um, interested in true crime and the quest for justice and all that, and was wondering if you'd be interested in letting me interview you sometime?

Is that even allowed? That's all. Have a nice evening. I hung up and immediately pinched my nose in embarrassment. What possessed me to do that? I'll never know. That night, yet again, I couldn't sleep. I had strange, fevered dreams of women covered in blood

and soldiers wearing gas masks melting down to black goo. I woke up an hour before dawn with my mind made up. It was my only day off, and curiosity had gotten the better of me. I, stupidly, decided to take a trip up north to see what I could find. I regret that. I always will. It took nearly four hours to get up to the area I wanted to investigate. Rather than start with Adirondack Park, I pulled over about two miles from the hollow.

I figured that since it was daytime, nothing bad would happen. I got out of my Subaru and started walking. After almost two hours of walking, I saw and heard nothing. I was just about to give up when, in the distance, I saw. saw what looked like a person standing against a tree. I hesitated, then walked towards it, wary, but upon closer inspection, I realized it was just one of those plastic ponchos strung up across a branch. It seemed to be pointing to something. I walked in that direction and covered my mouth in horror. My guess is that it was some sort of sick shrine.

A deer's head, not yet fully rotted, was nailed halfway up the trunk of the tree. Beneath it lay a scattering of stacked antlers, some still covered with putrid velvet, and other things, decaying things, things that had once been alive. I covered my nose and mouth with my sweater and leaned closer. Something was moving inside a pile of leaves that had accumulated around the antlers and carrion. Against my better judgment, I knelt, picked up a stick, and began poking at it. Suddenly, something small, black, and bloody popped out, making this ungodly screeching noise. It was a cat, half dead and hissing.

Someone had done a rough job of cutting off its ears and tail. Oh my God, you poor thing! What have they done to you? We've got to get you to a vet. I pulled out my phone and immediately saw that it had no service. Damn. I pulled off my sweater with the thought that I might be able to wrap the cat up and bring it back to an animal hospital.

The cat yowled at me in pain. or panic. It seemed to be protecting something. Something very recognizable. I squatted down, then recoiled in shock. It was a severed human hand. The skin was decomposed, rank, and it looked like the cat had been gnawing on it. But that wasn't all. It was clutched tight in rigamortis around a string of silver and rust. I regret to say that morbid curiosity got the better of me. Despite knowing that I was alone, I glanced around, then reached forward to untangle it and blinked in surprise.

They were military dog tags. Suddenly, a strange pop sounded out from behind me. I stood up and whipped around, got shrieked and wavered. Another pop, and the cat's eye exploded. I screamed and dropped my sweater. At least five more pops echoed around me before I realized what was happening. Someone, somewhere, was shooting a pellet gun at it. The cat keeled over sideways and lay very, very still.

After erupted from the trees around me. It was at that exact. moment, I realized just how incomprehensibly stupid I'd been, traveling all the way out here, alone, without telling anyone where I was going or for how long. Under some mistaken belief, I could solve a crime that'd gone cold long before I'd even heard about it. Who's there? Who's there? A single whistle sounded to the left of me. I spun in the direction of it. My eyes

wide and heart pounding. I didn't see anything through the trees. Another whistle sounded to my right, and I started to cry. We're gonna get you. Whoever's there. My husband knows I'm out here. Nothing bad? We'll just cover you in sauce and eat you up. There was more laughter and another pop. I felt something stained my thigh and screamed again. Pure adrenaline fueled me forward, toward the direction of the road, allowing me to ignore the stabbing pain in my thigh. I ran and ran and ran. From behind me came the sounds of crashing and grunts.

It sounded like whoever was chasing me was close, and getting closer. I stumbled onto the road. road, prepared for the worst, expecting the worst. The noises had stopped abruptly. I fumbled with my keys, panicked. Unlocked my door, jumped inside, then locked them again. Despite my distress, I noticed a black ford with government plates was parked next to my Subaru. There was no one inside, and I didn't wait around to see who it belonged to. I reported what happened as soon as I got back to the city. The detectives who took my statement were grave and professional.

I gave them the dog tags, hoping they'd be of help. I received a call from them not long after I left the station. Yes? Your liaison? A special agent with the FBI. Fortunately, he's been... Oh, I wondered if it was the same guy Mikhail had spoken with, then realized that there was almost certainly more than one FBI agent in the state of New York. Yes, yes, of course.

That's no problem at all. I just hope you catch these criminals. Were the dog tags any help? It's just the thing. What is? Look, this isn't, uh, well, I'm not supposed to say any... Tell me what? Weren't...

A week or so after I was attacked. Act and chased. The detectives brought me in and had me listen to a lineup of men repeat the same line over and over again. But none of them sounded like the two I'd heard that day in the woods, and I didn't want to erroneously press any charges. I asked about their liaison, but they just shook their heads and apologized, saying he was up to his neck with work and had stepped out of the department for a breather. After only a couple months, my case went cold. The police didn't discover any other leads, and there just wasn't enough evidence otherwise. The man Mikhail interacted with never called me back. There was one thing, though. One little strange thing. About a month after I'd idiotically gone up to northern New York, a library specialist in my building came up to my office, carrying something I recognized.

My sweater. It smelled like it had been recently washed. When did you get this? Like an hour ago. I didn't bring it up right away because I went on lunch after. Who dropped it off? Some guy. He said it was yours and he was just returning it.

She shrugged like she wasn't paid enough to care, then turned to walk away. Wait, tall guy wearing a suit? Tall, yeah. But he was wearing... jeans and some metal band t-shirt. I think it was Slayer or Metallica or something. Why? Cute?

What? I closed my eyes and repeated myself. Was he cute? Oh, I guess so. Objectively attractive. Yeah, if you're into that sort of thing. I thanked her and waited until the door to my door to my... office shut fully behind her before unfolding the sweater. There, tucked neatly inside,

was a single matte black business card. On it, a quote and one word in white ink and all capital letters were written. That which does not kill us makes us stronger. I flipped the card over. Sorry. I know a lot of you might suggest I call the number again. or go back up to that god-forsaken forest. But honestly, and excuse my language, please, fuck that. I don't think I'll ever go up into those woods or any woods ever again.

And I will never, ever, personally look into another cold case for as long as I live, no matter how deeply I've fallen into the rabbit hole. life is too short to gamble. I've since retired from archival sciences and spent my days strolling around the city, keeping to myself. It's nice.

It's peaceful. But most of all, it's safe. And to those of you thinking you figured out where this place is, and that it'd be fun to go up there and investigate yourselves... Really fancy something special to eat tonight. but I'm so busy. I have podcasts to record and horror to champion. I just don't have time to cook up anything complicated or go out to a restaurant.

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When the specter of serial killings looms over your town, it can be hard to escape from. even when the killer's been long gone. Some people, though, choose to capitalize on the notoriety of a dark history and make sure it's never forgotten. In this tale, shared with us by author William Stewart, we meet the local newspaper editor who runs coverage of the story every year and the exhausted reporter he assigns to cover it.

But this year, the story serves as more than just a ghoulish reminder of tragedies past. For this tale, I join Mike Delgadoo, Dan Zapula, and Mary Murphy. So remember, no matter how closed you think a case might be, there's always something else to dig up. Just hope that you don't become a victim yourself, especially around Sam Hane. The whole thing started as a curiosity piece, part of a week-long Halloween-themed series. It's this sort of modeling stuff that serious journalists despise. eyes, but what we all end up doing so much more of than actual reporting. This is the stuff of small town newspaper. Talk with an old lady whose cat was rescued by the fire department. Cover the

ribbon cutting at the new Chevron station. Interview old folks and ask him what it was like to grow old in this no-horse town in the middle of nowhere. But I digress. It was nearing Halloween and the boss wanted to report on some dark and mysterious things in our town's history. So I was handed three assignments. The first was the fire that destroyed the old courthouse way back in 1928. This was a huge deal back then as all the court records, sentences, fines, and judgments all went up in smoke one night. To this day, the cause of the fire remains unknown. I had the pleasure of meeting the town's oldest resident, Mrs. Kimmy Duget, who was 97 years young this fall. She was seven years old at the time and claims to have been there to watch it burn.

This was difficult to coalesce with the fact that archived accounts report that the fire started sometime in the middle of the night, and that by the time anyone even knew there was a problem, the building had already been reduced to cinders and ash. But Miss Kimmy was a sweetheart, though, so I didn't really care whether or not she was lying. The second assignment was an interview with Lawrence Thomas Griffith III to discuss the 44th year of the charity ball and auction at the Casey Hall. Griffith III is the owner of Griffith Motors, established 1948, our local car dealership. His grandfather, Griffith Sr., had come back from the war with a piece of shrapnel and a dream.

He'd run a very successful dealership until his retirement in the mid-70s. His son, Griffith Jr., was a showman. He often appeared on radio and television to promote the dealership and anything else he had going on, which largely consisted of charity fundraisers. He was a beloved figure in the town who greatly improved his father's legacy and made his own not insignificant impact on the town's economy. The charity ball and auction are local traditions that people look forward to all year. Griffith III is a young, sad-faced, and serious man with little of his father's charisma or personality.

While he's certainly pleasant to be around, it's obvious that the young man's heart is not in selling cars. If I had to guess, I think he'd prefer the big city and all its, flavor to the small town we inhabit, if you know what I mean. And three is an only child, so the entire family business rests on his shoulders. I personally don't see the dealership making it another five years. And that's the kind of life we lead. Small town, big gossip, old school. In spite of the internet, we still sell out our entire print run every week.

We sometimes even have to print late editions. Kids still play in front yards here. The ladies gather at the salon to talk about whose teenagers are messing around with whose, and the Baptist Church's spring festival is the most anticipated event of the year. These are good, solid, salt-of-the-earth folks. It's the kind of place where just about anyone, well, anyone except Griffith III, would like to put down roots and live easy. Unless you were living here between 1998 and 2001.

Then it was most definitely not one of those places. You see, in those years, the town was terrorized by a serial killer. Four total victims, all under the age of 10, snatched from their own bedrooms on Halloween night. There were never any signs of a break-in or struggle, and none of the victims were ever found. Making the situation even stranger was how the story ended. In 2001, shortly after the fourth victim went missing,

a local man by the name of Charles Lee Brooks walked into the police station and confessed to snatching, raping, and killing the children. He said he would cooperate fully and show where he'd hidden the bodies. He declined counsel and said he didn't even want a defense. He swore that he was guilty and needed to be punished. He also begged to be locked up. Unfortunately, the bodies were never recovered, nor were the confessions ever made. You see, once they had them all locked up, Mr. Brooks.

took his sheet and wrapped it around his neck and hanged himself from the bars. It should have been national news, but there was always a bigger, juicier story somewhere else. Even when the story took such an unusual turn, there was still wall-to-wall coverage of 9-11 on almost every channel, so the story was never picked up by the media. Locally, however, it was quite the sensation. Charles Brooks was a chronically unemployed alcoholic who lived on the outskirts of town. He did odd jobs and errands to make ends meet, and when he was in a rare dry spell, he made his money working on people's cars. Now, despite all his problems, Brooks was magical when he came to motors.

He could rebuild an engine all by himself in an afternoon. The police concluded that that's why there were never any signs of a break-in. Brooks had simply copied his customer's house keys and let himself in. My third assignment for Halloween was to interview the officers who worked the case of the six. Sam Hain Killer all those years ago. My boss, the Ledger's editor and chief, S.L. Cyprus, was the man who named the killer. He was not subtle about wanting to get famous, to contribute to national publications, to go on TV and all that. So he took extra steps to sensationalize the whole thing.

The insensitive bastard even added jackal lanterns and black cats to columns discussing the murders, even years after Brooks had died. To say that the people of this town are not fans of Halloween, would be an understatement. The thing is, nobody ever came calling. National media didn't care about a years-solved case that never produced any details. It was simply a tragic tale in an otherwise uninteresting small town somewhere in America.

Yet every five or ten years, Cyprus would drop the assignment on one of his staff writers, making them pull out all the files and relive all the boring details. He'd rub his hands together excitedly and smile broadly. team, it's been long enough. America needs to know about Sam Hain. He said it incorrectly. He said it incorrectly every time.

For a man of words, this was like nails on a chalkboard. It was the sort of mistake that would see the red of a proofer's pen so quickly if it was written. But since it was spoken, our otherwise super strict boss man simply refused to correct it. He'd say it on the radio, too, whenever he was invited on to discuss local events, history. It's just a travesty that such a tragic event was just ignored. It's like nobody cared at all for the suffering of the people of a small town. People need to know what happened here. People need to know about Sam Hain. Now, to be fair, the story of Sam Hane did have plenty of mystery and intrigue, and his crimes could have certainly blown up alongside killers like Zodiac and Bundy. Four victims,

killed by a local, familiar personality and no bodies. It wasn't that it was boring in and of itself. It was that after writing the same damn article so many times over the years, nobody wanted to do it again. So Cyprus assigned a garden club and marching band and newlyweds with ironic names and damn near every other kind of fluff that we just despise. And, damn it, if I didn't get stuck behind a train on the way to work that morning,

so I got to the office with exactly one assignment left to choose up on the board. Sam Hane. SL wanted the angle of the story to be a 20th anniversary of the disappearance of the first victim, Kyle Walters. He wanted interviews with police and family members. The problem with that was that most of the people who were involved with Sam Hain just really don't want to relive that time of their lives. 20 years is a long time, but when you lose a child, those scars never heal, and they never go away.

But S.L. didn't care. He wanted his story, and he would have it. On his desk, Friday morning, where there would be hell to pay. Fair enough, I'd write his damn story. So I went to my desk and prepared to do a very simple, Control C, Control V on the article I'd written two years before. I sat down and booted up my computer

and dicked around to my phone while I waited for the desktop to come up. Checking Facebook, I discovered that Arnold Waller had died. The Sheriff Waller had been the face of law enforcement my entire life. In his brown uniform, hat, and boots, Waller was as much a symbol of this town as the Water Tower or the Little Ead Park. I went to school with his son. Frankie was one great above me, but the school was so small that most everyone except for the very oldest and very youngest were friends.

I posted a quick thoughts and prayers comment and stared at my computer screen. Sheriff Waller had been there that night that Brooks had come into the station. was likely the one who called the M.E. when Brooks kicked it too. It picked up my phone again and reread the post. My father, Sheriff Arnold Waller, died this morning at home. He was 79. Funeral announcements forthcoming. Thank you for your concern and support. F. It wasn't much, almost strikingly stark. And Frankie wasn't a guy known for brevity. Frankie liked to talk. It read and re-read. his post. Comments with broken hard and sad-faced emojis started rolling in. The whole town was going to be in mourning. Sheriff Waller was an institution. He'd been

patrolling for most of everyone's lives. When he retired, he'd been with the department for 36 years. And Frankie adored his father. The two of them were practically inseparable, always hunting, fishing, going to games. Something didn't add up. Even though it was just Facebook, Frankie Wallyler was not one to eulogize his father with a mere 23 words. I grabbed my keys and went straight to his house. Frankie's vintage Ford Galaxy was in the driveway and the garage was open when I arrived, but nobody answered the door. I called around and poked at the edges, deciding whether I wanted to just risk walking in.

I was standing in the garage pondering the issue when Frankie opened the door and we startled each other. Jesus Christ, John! You scared the hell out of me! Frankie, I'm sorry. I rang the bell, but no one answered. I, uh, I saw your Facebook. I came by to see how you were holding up. He didn't look good. His normally jovial demeanor was gone. His dark hair was messy. He had about three days of beard.

His skin was greasy. He looked as if he hadn't showered in days. He narrowed his eyes at me and then looked at the ground. I, uh, I'm not for you. feeling much like company, John. It's been a hard road to hoe the last few days. He went to the refrigerator and got a beer. He then cracked the tab and drank half of it in a single swallow. In all my life, I don't think I remember ever seeing Frankie drink a beer. What with his dad being the sheriff and all? The Wallers were pretty straight-laced. When we were young, Frankie only avoided earning the nickname Opie by being big enough to smash anyone who wanted to say it to

his face. I'm not proud of the fact that we called him that behind his back anyway, and sometimes still do. But mean or not, it was accurate. Now, this impossibly and sometimes irritatingly upstanding man was drunk at nine in the morning. True, he was mourning his father, but there was something more. It's okay, Frank. I just wanted to offer my condolences. If there's anything you need, you let me know, all right? He looked at the floor again and nodded without saying anything. Okay. I'll see you later, Frankie.

John. Yeah? He tipped the can and drained the rest of the beer before tossing the can at the refrigerator. He then began to sob. I need to... What is it, Frank? I know you loved your dad. It's okay.

We're all going to miss him. It's not that. He swung his fist and put a hole. in the sheet rock next to the refrigerator. I ducked instinctively, although I wasn't within reach of him. I stepped backwards slightly. He staggered a bit, and then caught his balance, then swayed. I... Son of him! I turned to see SL pass in his blue Lexus. He cruised slowly, looking straight ahead, and turned at the end of the street. Him. I looked at Frankie in to where the car had passed and back again.

He, uh, hit you up for an interview or something? S.L. Cyprus was known for being a bit brash and unsympathetic. He's definitely the kind of guy who would call a man on the day his father died and ask if he had any comments for the late edition. No, look, I... I have to talk to someone, but it can't be in your fucking paper, okay, John? I need to talk to a friend, and since none of them are around, I need to talk to you. We're friends, Frankie.

you can tell me anything. Totally off the record. Off the record. I promise. He helped himself to another beer, then ushered me into the house. He took a look back over his shoulder, scanning the street for something,

then closed the garage door and came inside as well. It was them, John. Cyprus and my dad. Who was them? I don't know what you mean. Sam Hane, the murders. It wasn't that guy, Brooks. It was...

He looked at the... The floor, glassy eyes, haunted, sad. Slow down, Frank. You're not making any sense. They... My dad. Last night, right before... He said he needed to confess something.

We're not Catholic, but I offered to call a priest or a minister or something. He said it was too late for that, but that he couldn't go without telling someone. He stared at the floor in silence, thinking. His eyes went wide, then narrowed. He started and stopped several times before continuing. My dad, everyone's favorite guy, Mr. Law and Order. Turns out he was a... He liked boys, okay?

He was a closet freak. He'd go into town and I... I don't know. Do whatever he did. I'd hire kids to do things. Sam Cyprus is his partner. Cyprus ran into Dad somewhere. in the city long time years ago. Dad didn't know why Cyprus was there, but he'd been caught

cruising by the newspaper man. Dad begged Cyprus not to tell anyone. He had a family and a career, and he'd lose it all if people found out. So Cyprus and my father made a deal. Sam wouldn't say anything about Dad's dalliances. He'd keep a secret for him if he'd do him a favor in return. See, see, Sam liked kids too. But he didn't just screw him. He killed him. He did worse things than kill him, and my dad was investigating the disappearances.

Sam promised my dad his secret was safe as long as he stopped looking for the missing kids. So he did. But Brooks confessed, walked right into the police station, and my dad killed Charles Brooks, John. He choked him out in his cell. Brooks never confessed. to anything. Dad just found an easy mark that nobody liked to take the fall. A bit of work with

the documents and he had an open and shut case except for they never found the bodies. Cyprus stopped snatching local children. Dad never knew if he just quit or went other places, but no more kids went missing. Brooks hung for it and life went on. My heart was beating hard in my chest. This was the story of the century. Local police complicit with a child killer? Off the record or not, the world had to know. I think Sam is going to try to kill me. He's driven by the house a few times today, but every time someone has been here. Look, Frank, I know this whole thing is hard to deal with. But if this is true, we need to tell people. We need to bring Sam to justice. No more secrets. John, you promised. I can't, I can't let people

know what kind of a monster my father was. What he did, what he did. What he didn't do, my family would be ruined. Frank, think of all the families that were ruined because of him. You can't let him get away with this. Frank stared at the floor and sobbed. It was a long time before he finally nodded. Okay, go. Now, before I changed my mind.

Good old Opie. I knew he couldn't just let this slide. His father may have been a petter-assed, but at least he raised his boy right. I took some more notes and then made my way outside and got back out to my car. I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Sam. Sam Hane, the bastard named himself. I drove home to work on my story in private. Tomorrow, Halloween, I would bring down the Sam Hane killer.

I got home just as my wife Janice was packing our daughter into the car. You're home, Meryl. She clicked Michelle into her car. I walked over and gave her a peck on the cheek and then reached in and tousled the kid's hair. She giggled and reached for me. Well, Sheriff Waller passed away and I've got a couple other assignments. With you guys at Nana and Pappas, the house would be quiet and I might actually finish my assignments before the deadlines. She came around and gave me a hug and a kiss.

Don't get too used to the empty house. We'll be home in the morning. And we're going to want a lot of attention from Daddy when we do, okay? I kissed her back and smiled. I'll get as much done as I can tonight so we can play tomorrow, I promise. Janice got into the car and both waved as they pulled out of the driveway. Good. This would go a lot better without a toddler at my heels.

Too much was at stake. I wrote my story with Frankie Waller's confession as close to verbatim as I could get it. I also wrote the story I had intended to write to turn into SL when I got in. I needed to be quick and clever to switch the story. stories at the last second. That's when SL met me at the door and asked me to come into his office. Adrenaline pumping, I walked with him as he closed the door behind us. Did he know? What did he know? I think I saw you talking to Frank Waller at his home yesterday, yes? What did you talk about? Uh, nothing. I stopped by to give condolences for his father passing. He was already drunk. He's

taking it pretty hard. Uh-huh. That's all? He didn't tell you. anything else? What would he tell me? He was just sad and drunk. Why? You haven't read this morning's edition yet, have you? He pulled the folded paper from his pocket and handed it to me. There, on the cover, was Frankie's old car, on fire, in a field. What is this? Police found our friend Frankie with half his head missing, drove his car all the way out to Mill Creek Road, then boom, 12-gauge. I stared at Cyprus, choosing my next words very carefully. I don't know what to say.

He was really broken up about his dad, but I didn't think he'd do anything like this. You never do, son. You never do. But you know what else? What's that? There was a box with five pairs of hands and five Halloween masks in the trunk of that old junker. They found... Seems as if old Sheriff Waller did some confessing to our friend.

Frank before he passed on, told him something the boy just couldn't handle. The way his eyes bored into me, he knew that I knew something about him, or at least he knew that Frank had told me something. I tried to meet his gaze, but it was impossible. All I could do was stammer. Confess? To what? Hands? Whose hands? Sam smiled and sat on the edge of his desk. Well, the hands of the children, of course. Victims of our favorite local legend, Sam Hain. I didn't know what to do or what to say. Here was a man who had killed children for fun,

who had successfully blackmailed a town sheriff for decades, and it probably just killed Frankie Waller. I'll be damned, and here we thought it was Charles Brooks this whole time. Were they in on it together? Sam narrowed his eyes. Caught off guard for a moment. He didn't say anything. So, given the new development, do you still want the story? He was silent a few seconds longer before his face softened and he answered. No, no, I'll take it from here. You get some rest, John. You look like you've seen a ghost.

My phone began to ring. It was Janice. I pressed the call you back later button and put it back in my pocket. I was up working late on the story. You know you said you wanted it on your desk by now. And I'm sure it was great, just like everything you write. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to call New York. They'll want to hear about Sam Hane this time. Why don't you go on home, John? You really need some rest.

I silenced the ringer and held the phone in my hands, letting it vibrate as I slowly backed out of Sam's office. In fact, take a couple of days off. Things are going to be quite busy around here pretty soon, and I want you rested and ready to jump right into the middle of it all. Spend it with your family. Take that lovely daughter of yours. Um, well, forgive me.

Michelle. Yes, Michelle. My apologies. Take her out trick-or-trading. She's just so excited, isn't she? But she can't wait to put on her cute little blue fairy costume. Hell, just take the whole weekend. Something.

than that whole conversation was terribly wrong. How would he know what color my kid's dress was? I didn't have time to finish the thought before my phone began to ring for the third time. Then all the pieces fell into place. I pushed the answer button. Hold on, Jan. One second. Then to Sam, you said the box had five pairs of hands. I did.

Sam Hane only had four. Four victims. Who's are the fifth pair? He smiled broadly. I can't even begin to suspect. Oh, so horrible. But I don't think it'll be long before we find out. Anyways, that's all for now.

Happy Halloween, John. 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 reception. prospective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.