The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E08

Episode Date: April 5, 2020

It's Episode 08 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about the evil hidden in the dark places. "The House Flipping Find" written by Jeremiah Dylan Cook (story starts around 00:06:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – David Cummings, Ursula – Addison Peacock, Mr. Parsons – Kyle Akers, Mr. Barnabas – Atticus Jackson, Pastor Edgar – Mike DelGaudio "The Moaning Caverns" written by Karl Melton (story starts around 00:29:50) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalsk Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hey, Penny Scott Andrews here. The world's still a very scary place right now. All across the globe, there are lockdowns and quarantines. But you know this, of course. We're all living it. And you come here for escapism. Sometimes escaping into fiction isn't quite enough, though. All across the world, people have been coming together to help each other.

Now, more than ever, despite our social distinctions, It's important to support each other, whether through providing entertainment or simply friendship and emotional closeness. But in such scary times, some people may need that little extra bit of help. That's where services like BetterHelp can step in. If you need someone to talk to or just to listen, they're a great option. Better Help will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist. You can start communicating in under 24 hours. It's not a crisis line.

It's not self-help. It is professional counselling done securely online. There is a broad range of expertise in BetterHelp's counsellor network, which may not be locally available in many areas. BetterHelp service is available for clients worldwide. It doesn't matter when you need help, day or night. You can log in to your account anytime and send a message to you. your counsellor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses, plus you can schedule weekly

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But even with self-isolation, you don't have to be alone. In a time when we're encouraged to avoid direct contact, it's still okay to take a helping hand in this way. Services like BetterHelp can offer just that. So remember, reach out that helping hand by visiting BetterHelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% off your first month. 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 Korn. This week we conjure spells for you about the evil hidden in the dark places. You may have noticed lately that we've been featuring illustrations from some artists new to our team. I've been remiss in introducing them, so I want to bring them to your attention. This week's illustration is by Emily Cannon. Emily is a full-time illustrator with a BFA in illustration from the Rhode Island School of Design.

She currently lives in the ever-changing weather vortex, that is Colorado Springs, where she's illustrating her first graphic novel and a collection of tarot cards. Last week's illustration was created by artist Kelly Turnbull. Kelly is an L.A. based board artist, writer, and comic smith, whose work you may have seen on some cartoon network shows. She's originally from Canada, which is all the more reason to love her work. And also new to the show this year is artist Audrey McAvoy. Hmm, Macavoy. Where have I heard that name before?

Anyway, Audrey is an illustrator and resident of Arizona. She has done extensive work on video game graphics and illustrations. She was raised on a healthy dose of goosebumps and tales from the crypt, so it was natural for her to apply her horror fixation to her illustrations. So we are grateful for the talent our new illustrators are showing. sharing with us. And it's nice to see our new rule of only accepting illustrators with first names ending in Y is working out. Thank you, Emily, Kelly, and Audrey, and welcome to our team. So with the sights looked after, it's time for us to bring the sounds. Now, close your eyes and embrace

the magic. In our first tale, we meet a man who works for a couple who buy up properties and remodel them. I think we're all familiar with the intriguing, mysterious, and sometimes terrifying things you can find in old abodes. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jeremiah Dylan Cook, when our handyman finds a treasure box, he's a little disappointed to discover a mere journal inside of it. I join Addison Peacock, Kyle Acres, Atticus Jackson, and Mike Delgado in performing this tale. But as As the old adage goes, never judge a book by its cover. The innocuous tome recovered from under the floorboards

may well contain dark secrets and untold horrors, at least when it's the house flipping find. Usually I'm not one for sharing on the internet. I only have a Twitter that I used to follow LeBron, but I needed to get this story off my chest. People might not think this story is real, but that's good. The fewer people that investigate this, the better. My story began a week ago when I found the thing that's doomed me.

You see, I do a lot of work for this couple who flips homes in the area. My region of northeastern Pennsylvania has tons of cheap houses that they can buy low and sell a little higher for profit. New Yorkers looking to get out of the city are the biggest suckers for the authentic mountain views. Anyway, one day I'm tearing out some cheap tile in the basement when I uncover the edge of an old wooden box. The thing looked ready to fall apart, and a little piece of me thought there might be some kind of treasure in it. A guy I worked with found a perfectly preserved copy of Action Comics No. 1, where Superman first showed up.

The guy ended up retiring on that. So I hid the box from everyone else at the work site. I know, I know it seems a little greedy, but would you want to split a million bucks if you didn't have to? So I got the box to my apartment that night. Someone had put an old lock on it, but the thing was so rusted, I managed to knock it off with one good hit from my hammer. My anticipation of treasure only grew, but when I lifted the worn-out hinges,

I only found a plain leather book wrapped in cloth. Paging through it slowly, I realized it was a personal journal. I couldn't think of how to make any cash off it unless someone famous wrote it. The first page squashed my hopes, though. It listed the owner's name as Ursula Schwarzschmarry. I did a quick web search but couldn't find anyone of note. Disinterested in the journal at this point, I figured I'd donate it to the local library. They always need books from what I hear.

That night, something odd happened. I didn't even consider the book and the event might be linked until later, but I'm sure they were. So as I tried to sleep that night, I heard scratching on my roof. I figured it must be squirrels or birds, but the noise woke me from a sense. sound sleep around midnight. I did manage to get back to sleep pretty easily, though. The noise didn't last long. I was off work the next day, and by noon I'd already tired of Xbox and couldn't decide on a show to watch amongst my four streaming apps. The journal lay on my coffee table, so I turned off the TV and laid back with it. I couldn't remember the last time I read anything.

Maybe it hadn't been since high school. Anyways, here's what it said. August 5th, 1792. Papa and Mama are both gone now. The doctor told me that the bullet Papa took in the War of Independence must have finally reached his heart. They never could get the thing out. Mama got sick right after he passed. She started coughing up blood one evening

and was cold as ice the next. The doctor suggested I move out of our house in the woods and into town. He even suggested I live in the small room next to his office. Every person in 10 miles knows that is where he has his mistresses live. Why his wife puts up with it, I do not know. Perhaps I will feel different in the winter. But for now, I cannot imagine parting with the place I have lived my whole life in. Papa built this house right after he arrived from Deutschland.

My inheritance allows me to live freely for now. August 10th, 1792. I awoke to a frightful wrapping on my door tonight. When I answered it, I met John Parsons on my front porch. He looked like the devil lapped at his heels, but I could see no one outside beside him. Ursula, you have to let me in. I am a Christian woman,

and I do not allow men who are not of my blood to stay the evening with me. It's going to get me if you don't let me in. Had his demeanor not been so frantic, I probably would have told him to move along, but he genuinely seemed scared of whatever he had encountered in the woods. I thought that a wolf might be prowling around. Papa shot one nearby only a few days before he passed. Is it wolves? Parsons nodded like crazy and began forward without waiting.

for my consent. But I did step aside to let him in. Yes, wolves. It's wolves. I bid him get comfortable in my front room while I locked myself in the bedroom. That is where I am writing by candlelight. I wonder what my parents would make of this if they were here. I know they would not judge my decision harshly, but I hope the townsfolk will not begin to whisper that I am impure behind my back. I thought I heard that wolf prowling around outside. It must have been huge to scare Mr. Parsons. Well, thankfully, we are safe in the house for tonight. Now I must get some rest to handle whatever tomorrow brings. August 11th, 1792. Lord help me, I awoke due to a cool breeze from my window this morning, but I did not remember opening it last night.

My fear of the wolf would not allow such a thing, despite the sweltering heat of the last summer days. I found the door from my bedroom wide open as well. Had Mr. Parsons played me for a fool? If so, I thought I had been awfully lucky to have been unmolested by the man in the night. When I walked into my front room, I found a scene like nothing I have yet witnessed in my six

16 years of life. Mr. Parsons lay on the floor, where he had intended to sleep, but his body was wrong, all wrong. He had been a young man of 22 when I left him last night. Now he looked older than anyone I ever saw. His skin was shriveled up and grayed. There did not seem to be a hint of blood left in him. I might have assumed he died of some strange disease if it was not for the single large hole in his neck. It reminded me of Papa's old bullet wound. I'm gathering my things and heading into town. I need help to understand what happened here last night. August 11th, 1792, so much has happened today. The walk to town to a half hour, and I kept glancing about for any sign of the wolf that might have pursued Mr.

Parsons last night. I brought my Papa's musket with me, but I have never been adept at shooting it. Unless I could have killed the beast in one shot, it would have gotten me for sure when I needed to reload it. Even Papa couldn't get the powder and lead ball lodged into the barrel very fast. Thankfully, I made it to Hazel Peak without incident. In Europe, my Papa told me they have towns that span as far as the eye can see, but this one only goes four buildings in every direction. Most people live further out in the woods on farmlands like my papa and mama. It seemed to me that folks in the town gave me suspicious looks as I made my way to John Barnabas's home. He heads the local militia, and my papa served with him in the war. On his deathbed, Papa told me to go to him

if I needed any help after he was gone. Mr. Barnabas welcomed me into his home politely, and I provided him with my tail from the previous evening. His face seemed to drain of blood as I described Mr. Parsons' neck wound. Then he began backing away from me. You need to leave now. But what shall I do about the body in my home?

Whatever you like, I don't think it matters much. He would not answer any further questions from me, and when I tried to approach him, he backed away quickly. I went straight across town to Pastor Edgar. His reaction to my story was similar to Mr. Barnabas', but he didn't shoe me right out the door. Instead, he told me a story that chilled me to the core. Pastor Edgar stood at the front of his church,

behind the small wooden altar my family donated. You should not have let Mr. Parsons over your threshold. You'll be damned for it, unless... Unless what? Did Mr. Parsons touch you when he entered your residence? I struggled to recall for a long moment. He may have. The priest's gaze left me to stare at the floor.

I don't know where it comes from, but I can only assume the beast is in league with the devil. It only comes at night, and it's been seen in these woods since before Hazel Peak was founded. Some say it's a curse left by the Lenape, but natives passing through the area were the first ones to warn me about the creature. What they called it sounded like Muangquam, and the translator told me the name roughly corresponded to blood creature. Once you have touched a person it marked, you will be hunted. Until... Tell me.

I can handle the truth. Until your end is the same as Mr. Parsons. After that, he bid me take a cross for whatever protection it could provide and leave to avoid spreading the curse to others. Walking home, I struggled to recall if Mr. Parsons had truly touched me. My memory was incredibly hazy on the subject. It was just as possible that he grinned. raised my shoulder as he did not. I barricaded my homestead as best as possible when I returned.

The windows are shuttered, and the heat is now stifling. I moved my bed into the pantry, where it would stop the door from opening. This is the safest I think I can make myself. Unfortunately, it is sweltering in here. The candlelight adds to the already disgusting temperature. I must soon cease writing. I hope that in the morning I will feel foolish for taking this precaution. Maybe there will be no noises or horrors at all.

August 12th, 1792. This morning has brought me joy. Nothing woke me once I had drifted off to sleep in the pantry. When I emerged this morning, nothing in the house looked amiss. I had a great laugh about the entire ordeal. August 12th, 17. My relief proved to be momentary. When I ventured outside to gather wood,

I came across great scratches upon the sides of the house. They were three in number, and the depth of the strikes spoke to a startling length of the creature's claws. I also discovered many more scratches around the windows, but the shutters had held against the assault. I must have been too insulated in the pantry to hear the noises. August 12th, 1792. I spent most of the day trying to decide if I should sneak back into town.

Maybe whatever has my scent would not come for me in the midst of so many people. But I also fear to do harm to my neighbors. They're too cowardly to help me, but I am unsure if I would do any different if our roles were reversed. In the end, I decided to spend another night barricaded inside the pantry. Perhaps it will grow tired of trying to get at me and move on. August 13th, 1792. Last night brought more destruction to my home.

Papa would wait to see it in such condition. Whatever hunts me broke one of the shutters open. Once it got inside, it seemed to crash into every piece of furniture we own. I awoke to the sound of Mama's cherished dishes. crashing to the ground. It was not long until a scratching came to the pantry door. The thought of what I might have seen trying to get under the bottom of the door

if I had been brave enough to light a candle brings me to tears. What will I do? August 13th, 1792. I nearly lost myself in devastation this morning, but I have risen above my base fears and grief this afternoon. thoughts of Papa's war stories inspired me to a new course of action. I spent many a winter's day listening to his tale about the attack on Trenton,

the fear of the Hessian soldiers, and the ultimate knowledge that all he could do was press on in the face of his potential death. George Washington and Thomas Mifflin led their men to victory on that day, and while I do not have such noble allies, I do have my Papa's willpower. I will not die waiting for this beast to find me in a pantry cowering in fear. August 13, 1792. All my preparations have been completed.

I have left a good amount of black powder under the window with the broken shutters. I trailed a small line to the doorway, where I will hide and add a flame to the powder when I see my hunter. If that fails, I have loaded Papa's rifle. and I found his flintlocked pistol as well. I will have two shots at it if I am careful. Lastly, I have Papa's pitchfork. He told me he had once skewered a charging bore with it.

I can only hope he was not telling me a tall tale. I do not expect the house to survive the fight. As such, I have set all my money and some valuables in a trunk outside. I plan to wrap this journal up, and lock it in a small box after I finish this entry. I will leave the key on top. That way, there will be a record of my life. And if someone comes looking for me, they'll find it.

I am praying that I will be able to add another entry in the morning. It was the last page. Part of me wondered if my co-workers had managed to pull a joke over on me. No way this was real, right? I planned to bring the subject up at work the next day. but I never made it. That night, I was drifting to sleep when I heard glass shatter downstairs. Now, I'm no wuss, so I grabbed my baseball bat and headed toward the sound.

At the bottom of the steps, I spotted, well, I don't know what. It had a long tentacle-like neck. Instead of a head, there was a giant bony needle that echoed suction-like sounds. Behind its back were insectoid wings. It walked on two legs, but six rib-like appendages stuck out of its body. They opened and closed. In an instant, my brain filled in this picture. Those things were for holding prey tight while it drank from them with its needle neck.

A small slit opened in its chest with a squishy pop and outshot a short three-fingered claw for pulling in the thing it wanted to suck dry. It's embarrassing to admit, and I never thought things like that. this really happened, but I pissed myself right there. I've been in enough scrapes to know that when it comes to fight or flight, my instinct is to fight. But the inhumanity of this thing short-circuited my brain. I fell backward and scrambled into my bedroom as it took a step up the stairs. Once I'd slam the door shut, I shoved my dresser in front of it and my bed for good measure. There were a series of scrapes outside the door, and I called the cops without knowing what else to do.

I didn't own anything more offensive than the bat. Of course, the police didn't believe a word of my story. They assumed I'd been high or hallucinated the monster. They even suggested I get a psych evaluation, but they couldn't deny the broken glass. Nothing was stolen, though. They had a cop hang out for the rest of the night and advised me to get my window fixed.

The next day, I took off work and went to the library. I hadn't been there since a school trip in the fourth grade, but I knew they had smart people, librarians. Thankfully, Carolyn at the front desk knew all about Hazel Peake's older legends. I described the journal, but not my nighttime experience, and she said it might be related to the night terrors of 1792. According to her, residents traced the origin of the incidents to the local Lenape. Many early Pennsylvanians blame Native Americans for every,

everything that went wrong for them. This was especially true in Hazel Peak because the local tribe sided with the British in the revolution. Although Carolyn also noted that some people were clearly convinced the horrible events were connected to strange lights spotted in the sky for a week that year. She showed me a local artist's interpretation. It looked kind of like an Aurora. I've seen them on that Learning Channel show where people have to survive in harsh climates, except this Aurora was purple and yellow. Carolyn said the color was color was. probably the artist's creative interpretation. Anyway, long story short, after the lights,

a series of gruesome deaths started around the town and in the farms. People in Hazel Peak started to shun all farmers in the area because they feared the deaths were caused by some kind of disease spread by touch. Then, all of a sudden, the death stopped in August. No one figured out how or why. No one wanted to go near the dead bodies to try to get an answer. The farms of the deceased were just burned up and the people in town moved on.

Carolyn gave me one last piece of unexpected information. We went into a musty part of the library where old records are kept. While reviewing a history of the town's census information, she showed me that a woman named Ursula was listed as the wife of a new sheriff named Oscar Wagner in 1800. She had a family in 1810

and lived to be near 80, as far as the records Carolyn could find told us. I haven't quite figured out what I'm going to do if the thing comes back. I could go by a rifle and try to hold it off. If a 16-year-old girl killed whatever this is in 1790, surely I can, right? But why did my discovery of the journal bring this creature back? Has it been hibernating since Ursula defeated it? Or was Ursula Wagner a different woman entirely?

All I can think is that the journal contaminated. I'm going to dispose of it. Then I'm going to figure out how to handle this thing. I just hope that Carolyn, my co-workers and the police who came to my house, aren't on this thing's radar now. I did my best to avoid touching people after I read the journal and saw the creature, but I can't be entirely certain I didn't graze any of them. So, do I really need to tell you about how we're all locked in our homes right now? I feel like everyone's kind of noticed that, but we are.

And we still need to eat. Thankfully, there are still wonderful delivery people out there operating during this quarantine, safely and responsibly making sure people have the food and supplies they need. And just because we're living in scary, depressing times doesn't mean your meals have to be depressing. It's okay to enjoy nice things where we can. And to do that, I use DoorDash. In 2020, delivery is more than just pizza, with a selection of my favorite, flavors from across the globe, I can order delicious, interesting meals from the comfort of my

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Going cave diving can be a risky business. You have to meticulously prepare, take all the safety precautions, pack up all the equipment, and make sure you know what you're doing. It can be an absolute disaster if you're not on top of your game. In this tale, shared with us by author Carl Melton, We meet two brothers who know all the rules and take suitable safety steps. Unfortunately, it's not enough. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Peter Lewis, Erica Sanderson, and Graham Rowett.

So no matter how prepared you are, you can't cover for every eventuality. Not when you're investigating the moaning caverns. There's a reason you don't find much life underground. Sure, a wolf pack might take shelter in a cave during a nasty storm. The occasional moth might venture into unknown caverns. But wolves and moths are not true cave dwellers. True cave dwellers are what the Greeks called troglobites, meaning any animal living entirely underground, never leaving.

So seldom do these creatures see light that most troglobites are born completely blind. Take for instance the cave fish or the cave wolf spider. Not only are both blind, but they have no eyes at all, just pale flesh stretched over where eyes should be. Joining them are a whole host of various crawling insects, all blind, yet in their dark home, all seeing. Where they dwell, there's no need for vision. The darkness protects them and keeps them hidden.

These creatures know the exact moment humans descend below the bedrock with our bright lights and clumsy footing. We don't belong down there, yet in some instances it may become impossible to leave. My name is Blake Duran, and two weeks ago I made the worst decision of my life. One I'll have to live with forever. The night started like any other. Dad was away for business. Mom left years ago, so it was just my brother Nathan and me. Nate is not only older, but his personality is the exact opposite of mine.

He's an Eagle Scout, while I had quit Cub Scouts years ago as a Weebelow. He's the Daredevil Adventurer. I'm the champion of the high school's chess club. I love my brother, but with Nate, it's always a challenge to prove myself somehow. Usually I ignore his taunts, but that night he was extra persistent, calling me the delicate wee-below allergic to the outdoors. He was getting under my skin, and I was bored, so out of some stupid insecurity I agreed to play along. Earlier that week, he had taken his metal detector, a gift from dad, to an old ghost town

about five miles out of town. I was hoping he would bring back some long long. lost antiques. Instead, he told me about a cavern in the foothills. He had almost fallen down the entrance, which was just a hole in the ground, about five feet wide and concealed by pine shrubs. Ever since Dad left that morning, he was pestering me about climbing down the cavern chimney to explore. By evening, I relented, and we were packed and ready to go less than an hour later. We took Dad's old Ford pickup. Once we got to the outskirts of town, Nate pulled onto an old dirt road cutting through the desert into the foothills. We parked at the base of the first hill,

and from there it was a two-mile hike. Beyond the hill was a narrow gorge running along a dried-up creek. The valley used to be a thriving hub for prospectors and gold miners back in the 1800s. In its heyday, this was one of the largest towns in New Mexico. But today, it's a forgotten relic of the past, with most of the old frontier buildings torn down or decayed. We walked past a few crumbling brick and adobe foundations and crossed the withered stream bed. The darkness was intimidating,

with a new moon hidden in the sky and thick charcoal clouds drooping low to meet a howling gust of wind. The chill penetrated through our fleece caving jumpsuits. The gorge took a steep bend as we walked around another hill. Nate stopped, trying to remember his path from the week before. I remember this bend. We're close now. Nate's eyes darted along the slanted slopes on our left. It's somewhere up here.

How did you even manage to find the cavern? Nate looked at me and flashed a toothy grin. H, bats. Bats? Yeah, you know, black, fuzzy, winged creatures, live in caves, come out at night to eat insects. I saw a colony and figured they lived nearby. Did they not teach you about bats in Cub Scouts, Webelo? I rolled my eyes and scanned the cloudy haze above us. No way we'll see any bats tonight.

Who needs bats when you have your big brother as a guide? He rustled my hair with his icy knuckle. Come on, Blake, this will be fun. Need the way. We left the rocky gorge behind and climbed north. There was no trail, so we cut through thickets of pinion and juniper shrubs. The hilltop was surprisingly flat, with steep drop-offs on the opposite side. Dense pockets of bushes dotted the landscape, but Nate managed to retrace his steps and find the entrance.

Nate grasped a handful of branches. to reveal the rocky throat of the cavern. He picked up a nearby rock with his other hand and threw it in the dark chasm. Nate threw down our backpacks and unpacked while I stood on the edge of the seemingly endless drop. Rain fell from the low-hanging clouds. We never accounted for weather,

and even though it was a light drizzle, I felt wholly unprepared for the task ahead. Seeing the vertical drop up close, its rock slick with fresh rain brought forth a harsh chill of rain. reality. I had never been caving before. I didn't even rock climb. Nate knew this, but I could see him unpacking regardless. Better strap in. We came all the way out here. There's no backing out now. Oh, come on, Nate. It's dark, and I don't want to slip. We'll come back in the morning.

And what? Hope the sun starts shining underground. It's going to be dark regardless, buddy. He took a step forward and put his arm around me. You know my old scoutmaster, Dylan Cooper's dad? He served three tours in Afghanistan searching cave after cave for terrorists. Well, guess who taught me everything I know about spilunking? That's nice. Go Spelunk with Mr. Cooper.

Nate frowned but kept his arm around me. You're missing the point. See, I found this place. In the first person I thought to tell was you. We fight all the time. Can you blame me if I want to help you do something new and exciting before I leave? Fine. Enough already. I shook his arm off my shoulder and continued.

But whenever I say leave, we leave, okay? Of course. We go in, take a look around, and right back out. He seemed genuinely happy, and for a moment I felt guilty about the whole thing. I knew he was moving away for college soon, but I never acknowledged the impact of him leaving. With dad's work travel, home without Nate just seemed lonely and bleak. Nate gave an amused look as I stepped into my harness. The fabric, an intense shade of fire engine red, clamped around my waist and a tight hug.

That used to be mine, you know, before I bought this bad boy. He motioned towards his full-body Armo-cammo harness. The built-in waist belt and crossing chest straps made him look like a paratrooping marine. Say what you want about Nate's over-eagerness, but he did come prepared. We had headlights, flashlights, rappel racks for descending, ascenders to get back up, and a 300-foot rope Nate had to special order. He thought the length was overkill, but better to be safe than sorry, especially since we had no idea how deep the cave floor was.

Nate told me he searched all the four. forums online, but there was no mention of any caverns in the area. He said, we were explorers, navigating uncharted land. While he anchored the rope to a nearby pine, I stared down rows of sharp protruding stone. My stomach turned uneasily, and my legs wobbled. A strange sense of pure fascination overtook me, a scientific zeal to leap through this jagged portal. The shape of the pit seemed to morph and swell, and I soon realized I no longer heard the drizzle of rain

or the mating cries of the desert cicadas. The sunken cavities seemed to drown out all-earthly noise. Blake! The sound of Nate's voice broke my trance. The rope's ready. Let's get you hooked up. With just the one rope, we had to descend one at a time. Nate insisted I go first, so he'd be. could talk me through the steps.

He fed the rope through the rack on my harness. This is a breaking system, okay? If you want to slow down, thread the rope around these bars to create friction, take them out to speed up. You got it? I nodded, gulping down saliva and hanging on to his every word. I turned my back to the cavern and started my descent, maintaining a tight grip on the rope.

Nate's booming instructions echoed clearly enough, but his outline in the cloudy night sky faded from view as I got deeper. For the first time that night, I felt alone. The surrounding rock walls closed in on me as the pathway constricted. The wet rocks left a cold imprint every time my back grazed against stone. I've never been claustrophobic, but I felt stuck. Earth had swallowed me whole, and I was clogging its arteries. My eyes closed as I breathed in clammy and stale air. The endless dribble of water created a rich symphony as it fell down jagged rocks to the dark cavern floor below.

The rope I strangled was wet. Everything was wet. I opened my eyes to see darkness overpower the fading ray of Nate's light. Keep going. You're almost there. Nate's voice thundered down like an angel from the heavens. I placed my boots on the slippery rock and continued my descent. I was making progress, despite my lingering sensation of being slowly digested in a dark pit. I must have been at least 200 feet down when the chimney transformed into a large, cavernous room.

While my light could only illuminate a fraction of the space, the room appeared immeasurable. As I made my final descent, I wondered how Nate would react to the sheer size of the chamber. The place could fill a football stadium with room to spare. My boots landed on the rock floor with a thump. I tried to walk my weak legs out of numbness, then unhooked the rope from my harness and tugged on what little rope we had left.

A faint shout responded from above. I walked on wobbly legs to explore my immediate surroundings while I waited for Nate to make his long climb down. Towering formations spread about the chamber. Limestone stalagmites rose from the cave floor like ancient monuments. Yet these were dwarfed by one colossal spherical column with long strings of rock hanging from the front. The stalagmite resembled a bearded man with hollow eyes glaring down.

The more I studied it, the more inhuman it appeared, until it no longer looked like a man, but something closer to a squid, or an alien elephant with three trunks dangling from its narrow face. Cold air ran up my arms as I walked into the vast and endless darkness. My breathing became heavy, and I inhaled some musty, spoiled air. A rotting odor was stuck on my tongue, and I covered my mouth.

It smelled like roadkill, the smell of death. It didn't take long to find the source, even with my cheap headlight. A decomposing gray wolf was lying in a shallow puddle of water nearby. I looked towards the rocky slope I had rappeled down and realized the cause of death. Poor guy must have never seen the gap with all those bushes. It was a grim thought. One moment you're walking through pine shrubs. Next, you're falling feet first in darkness,

smashing against sharp rocky teeth until you land in this subterranean cemetery. Despite the rancid smell, I pushed on, stepping over the rotting lobo and something else. The path became coarse and uneven, but I didn't stop until I heard a sharp piercing crunch from beneath my right boot. I lifted my foot and picked up three long white fragments which resembled a branch at first, but rough and porous. The bones fell from my hand and dropped on the cave floor with a soft clack. There was no way to know what animal it was.

The bones were old, perhaps ancient, completely calcified with age. There were more white shards ahead, clumped together like clusters of broken seashells you would find along the beach. Except, these were no seashells. And worse, they were accumulating farther ahead, with each new pool of faded porcelain larger. The bones were more whole, more preserved. I moved my light to a new pile, and times seemed to see. slow. I couldn't move, except for my eyes, which was scanning the objects before me. I was looking at a skull, a human skull with a gaping hole an inch above the right eye cavity. New objects came

into view. I counted at least four arrowheads and a blunt wooden club, clay pottery shards, and some large circular beads. Beyond that was a second skeleton with a shattered, leg and outstretched arms. Just out of reach was a broken whiskey bottle. Nate! I ran as fast as I could, calling for my brother and gasping shouts, but there was no response. I tried to retrace my steps back to the landing spot, but I soon realized I was lost. I scanned the stalagmites ahead, but there was no sign of the elephant-like behemoth I spotted earlier. Nothing looked familiar. It made no sense. It made no sense. I was sure I had not ventured far.

I continued my mad dash and sensed movement from the corner of my eyes. My heart jumped as I looked back to see a figure walking in the opposite direction. I recognized the jumpsuit right away. It was Nate. What the hell happened, Nate? He stopped walking and turned around, raising his hand to shield his eyes from my light. He was dragging the heavy climbing rope behind him, still connected to his harness.

Blake? How far did you fall? I don't know. He paused, struggling to put his words together. I remember the rope was loose. The rain must have screwed with my knot. I tried to hold on to a ledge, but never got my footing. I took his shattered headlight off and examined his head.

His hair was slick with sweat, dirt, but no bum. He was disoriented, but otherwise unscathed. Are you hurt? He paused to examine his palms. I feel fine. Let's get some more light. He unclipped the rope from his harness and tossed me one of two flashlights he had dangling from his belt. I grasped the cheap plastic flashlight and turned it on. Nate, how exactly do we get out of here with no rope? We'll find a way. I'll A lot of these caverns have multiple entrances. But we climbed down nearly 300 feet and... Don't you think I know that?

Just trust me, okay? I'll find a way out. Yeah, well, there's something I should show you first. I motioned for him to follow, and we walked back towards the bony graveyard. Something reeks. I pointed my light to the dead wolf. Nate covered his nose and bent down to observe its black eyes. Come on, there's more.

More of what? I carried my light back to the cracked skull surrounded by Indian artifacts. Is that a human skull? You see the hole on top? You don't get a head injury like that from falling. He was hit, hard. By who? And other Indians, settlers, who knows?

I'm not sure how old these are. The Indian skull could be hundreds of years old, if not more. I turned to the more preserved skeleton near the shattered bottle. Mr. Whiskey here is not looking too bad, all things considered. I paused to inspect the artifacts. There were more arrowheads, clubs, and broken rusted axes all mere human remains. Everything else was just jumbled heaps of dust and bone. There's something funny about this place.

It's all too convenient. What do you mean? There's a whole warehouse of supplies just sitting here. Stuff that most people wouldn't carry on them. Maybe one of the corpses was a traitor? Possibly. Or this place could have been a type of jail or confinement for the local tribes to throw away troublemakers. Wait.

Nate pointed at the crack skull. Why would they bash his head in? It's not a jail if every prisoner is dead. Unless they... Let someone else make the final blow. What if they brought more than one prisoner down at a time and left them here surrounded by all these weapons and a limited supply of food? I pointed my light to a clump of fabric.

That could have been a blanket before it started to decompose. The antler back there is from a buck, a big one too. He didn't just fall. He was dinner. A fight to the death. Some theory you got there. A chill wind came to. through as goosebumps formed rough patches on my arms. I thought of my warm bed and had an

undeniable sensation. I shouldn't be in this rocky death pit. I started to tell Nate we should be looking for a way to leave, but he raised a finger and shushed me. As he stared in the darkness, I heard it. Don't freak out. It's the cavern playing tricks on us. I read about these types of things. The water drips into hollow crevices in the rock, and the sound echoes back to us. Okay, Mr. Geologist, but to me, it sounds human, like a kid or a woman is crying. It's so subtle, it could be anything, Nate. I was trying to calm him, but I didn't realize I had begun to raise my voice as well. We made our way towards where we thought the source of the moaning was. My headlight was pale and somber.

It's batteries draining by the minute. With Nate's light damage from the fall, he had to use one of the backup flashlights as his sole light source. Without hesitating, Nate bolted in a sprint. I followed, pumping my sore arms and legs into motion. I was panting, but determined to keep up with the bouncing beam from Nate's light. The last thing I wanted was to be separated again. I hurtled over a rock, stumbled, and nearly ran into Nate. What is it?

He turned to me but had no answer. I pushed him aside to get a better look and froze. It was a boy, maybe six or seven years old, wearing a navy blue and red striped shirt. He was sitting on a rock in the middle of a small pool with his back to us, oblivious to our presence. His feet kicked the shallow water below as he emitted a high-pitched cry. Nate looked to me and took a few steps forward, clearing his throat.

"'Hey, hey, kid, are you hurt?' Nate continued his advanced and placed a shaking hand on the boy's shoulder. "'Are you hurt?' The boy jumped and fell hands first into water. I lunged forward to help, but he crawled away, keeping his distance in the cloudy dark water. I looked at Nate. He shrugged and turned to ask another question. But the boy was gone, replaced by a trail of water.

We followed, calling out for him until we reached the end of the main chamber. Before us was a narrow passageway about five feet tall. We ducked our heads and continued. Waters seemed to ooze out of rocks and onto the floor, concealing the boy's trail. After a few minutes, we reached an intersection. One path on our right continued uphill. The other to our left followed a steep downhill slope. While we deliberated, the boy's low sun.

sobbing echoed from above and we rushed uphill. The tangled trail took several sharp turns around bends, never quite staying a straight path. After a few hundred feet, we found ourselves in a small dead-in room. A slew of sharp calcites dilactites drooped from the low ceiling and soda straw formations, like hundreds of thin icicles dangling a foot from my head. The boy was bending over something we couldn't see. Near him was a pile of large rocks that fell from an overhead ledge above. The sheer quantity of rock and loose dirt made it look like a cave in.

Been to him. Nate approached flashlight in hand, and I followed. The boy turned to face us, his eyes red and puffy from tears. He was bending over the body of a young boy lying face down, feet crushed by several small boulders. The corpse was rotten and decayed. Dirty, thin rags soaked in blood wrapped around his back. We stepped closer, inch by inch, to discover they were not rags, but a deteriorated cotton shirt with navy blue and red stripes.

Nate dropped his flashlight and stepped back. The boy jumped from his position and held out his hands. Wait! He wiped his conjecture. Justed nose with a finger and looked right at me. What's wrong? I choked on my words, struggling to get something, anything out. The boy, still sniffling, followed my eyes to the corpse behind him, and then at his own shirt.

His mouth contorted to a wide gasp. Tears welled in his eyes, and he started to shriek. Hundreds of needle-sharp stalactites above swayed to the howling of the boy. He began to fidget and squirm as if he was having a seizure until the compulsion stopped. And with the trance like placid face, he started chanting. Never again, the light of day. He repeated that one line while walking out into the dark tunnels with no light. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I locked eyes with Nate.

Is this some prank of yours? The rope breaking? Your miraculous survival? This dead? Kid? Some sick joke to prove how big of a man you are? Well? Nate looked at me with pleading eyes. Eyes that gave a resounding no.

Then we need to leave. Now. He stood there, shaking his head. Not without the boy. Forget about the damn kid. We need to move these rocks. This could be a collapsed exit. A way out.

I can clear the rocks faster. You take the last flashlight and bring him back. Nate! We won't leave him. Go to the main room where we first found him. Fine. I grabbed the flashlight from Nate's belt and ran back down the tunnel. By the time I returned to the main chamber,

my cold sweat had turned into a feverish soak. Impenetrable darkness seemed to swarm around me as my headlight dimmed into obscure flickers of fading light. I powered on the flashlight and called for the boy in asthmatic shouts. I scoured as much of the boundless room. room as I could, but took a sharp turn, lost my footing, and slammed my head against a heap of rock. I woke lying face down, drooling on cold limestone. I don't know how long I was out, but the sweat on my forehead had dried, replaced with a swollen, pulsing bump below the

shattered headlight. My flashlight was still on, sitting about five feet from where I fell. There was a dull pain in my head and a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Nate? Like the light in my hands, my voice was shaky. I didn't know whether to shout at the top of my lungs or whisper in hushed tones. It wasn't Nate's voice that greeted me, but the raspy, short-winded wheeze of some unseen dying animal. It's dank, sweltering breath right outside my left ear.

Come back in... I sprang to my feet and fled in the opposite direction. With each stride, it grew darker. I reached for my flashlight, but my hands grasped onto nothing. I couldn't think. My mind was barren from the icy pain of panic. I continued to run out of pure impulse until I found myself cornered. My flashlight was lying on the ground about 20 feet away.

The light was distorted, like a firefly extinguishing every few seconds. It would appear first as a speck, then a sliver of light enough to illuminate a moving shadow. Something was standing in front of the light. The light returned in full as the shadow retreated in the darkness. At that moment, something lifted my flashlight. I couldn't see anything but a levitating light carried. by shuffling footsteps that were closing in fast. Paralysis overtook me.

Anxiety strangled out instincts. I searched for any angle to escape, but the shadow was too close. With eyes closed and ears covered by ice-cold hands, I prayed. I prayed that this was all a side effect of a concussion, that Nate was out there doing one of his amateur pranks. but I sensed growing light, approaching footsteps, rotting breath on my face.

I clenched my gut and my eyes opened to nothing. There was nothing, not even my flashlight. Whether it was luck or delusion, I don't know. But I escaped, wandering in the darkness, hands outstretched, reaching for any obstacle in my way. Eventually, I spotted light. My missing flashlight abandoned near our detached rope and climbing equipment. I had finally reached the chimney we climbed down. For the first time since leaving Nate, I felt hope rushing in.

I could salvage the equipment and use the light to return to Nate. Might have found the boy. But there was something else shrouded behind the pile of rope. Nate's body was lying in a pool of blood. His body mingled, ice cold with no pulse. Blood flowed from a large crack in his skull, and the shattered shin bone tore clear through his skin. I sat there sobbing while cradling my brother,

refusing to let go. I felt something tap my shoulder and locked eyes with Nate. perfectly healthy, not a scrape or gash on him. His grim eyes travel to the body in my arms. His body. He had the same dazed expression the boy had shown earlier. Never again, the light of day had come back in dark. This way, you wake deep below burial ground.

From out of the darkness, the boy ran to embrace me. His nervous fidgeting was almost rat-like. Where am I? Why am I down here? I opened my mouth to speak, but Nate started chanting a new line. You will come back around. I looked at the chanting clone of my brother, into the bloody body behind me, and felt light-headed. The walls of the chamber were closing in around me, trapping and suffocating me in the darkness.

I did what I thought was. my only option left. I grabbed the flashlight and ran as fast as I could until I reached the collapsed cavern entrance. I heaved the rocks away, starting with the small boulders near the boy's corpse, and moving onto the overhead ledge where most of the rocks remained. You can't leave me in here! My hands swollen and red, worked at a surprising pace, despite a feeble numbing sensation overpower in each and every limb. Tunnel vision and sat in as I clawed away at the rocks until I felt. For the first time in hours, a gush of cold wind burst through a small gap.

My lungs took their fill of fresh air as I cleared the last few rocks standing between me and the whistling cicadas outside. Every part of me wanted to crawl out right then and there, but I hesitated and turned to face Nate and the boy. both stood below the ledge they begged for me to stay and help i'll never forget those faces never have i seen such a look of pure dread on nate's face but in those moments he looked like my big brother rather than the robotic chanting version of nate and the boy i i can't even begin to explain how wrong it felt to see a kid so broken so helpless, but with no hope. Tears streamed down my eyes. Nate, if you're really there, follow me home.

For the briefest of moments, I convinced myself Nate would climb out, and together we would walk home. Nate would crack his jokes, teasing me for believing his ploy. But the face I was looking at was not laughing, not even a sense. smirk. They would not follow me, even if they wanted to. Three figures emerged from behind Nate and the boy. The things were human yet severely deformed. Thin albino's skin stretched over arching hunchbacks while massive veins bulging under the skin glowed and eerie green. Three pairs of empty eye sockets stared back at me. Black and empty as the cave they occupied.

The largest of the three let out a guttural roar and advanced placing his hands on his prisoners. Nate and the boy collapsed, and the disfigured creatures dragged them into the darkness beyond. I squirmed through the small opening and found myself at a familiar small gulch near the foot of the hill. I stacked a pile of rocks to reseal the exit and begun the lonely walk back to the car. To my surprise, the first light of dawn was emerging in the night's sky. I estimated I was in the cave for over seven hours. A flock of bats returning from the night's hunt swarmed overhead and congregated at the top of the hill. With all that had happened to me, I remember obsessing over those bats.

Did they answer to whoever or whatever controls the cavern, or are they victims as well? Their home corrupted by some perverse colony of subterrestrial beasts. I managed to find the car, and while I didn't have a license, I knew enough from watching Nate and Dad Drive to get home. I pulled into the driveway, then walked into the empty house and cried. I grasped the phone in my sweaty hands and dialed Dad's number. Our call was tense and short. He booked the first flight back to New Mexico, and later that day.

I told him face to face that Nate was missing. I didn't mention anything that happened after Nate fell. I didn't want him processing anything beyond a raging search parties for Nate. I could barely process the prior night's events. How was I supposed to tell him everything? All I know is Nate's body is down there, along with someone who looks exactly like Nate. After a week and a half of searching every known cave in the area, the search party was called off. I tried to lead everyone to the cavern, but I couldn't remember how to get there.

It's as if my memories are being torn from me, overtaken by a lingering sensation that of me I need to go on with my life is missing. Like trying to run with no lungs, with every inhale of air passing. passing right through me. Whatever is wrong with me, it's getting worse with each passing day. So, in case I don't make it back, I wrote down everything I remember about our descent into those moaning caverns. Yes, I'm going back for Nate.

Dad can't look me in the eyes for more than a few passing seconds. He doesn't look at me the same way anymore. And when I lay in bed and reflect, I know part of him. a part he is trying to suppress, blames me for losing Nate. If there's any chance Nate is still out there, I'm going to look for him. While I don't remember how to get there, I'm starting to recall more. For the past few nights I've been having a recurring dream where I'm walking, not willingly, but walking towards the cavern in a paralyzed trance,

unable to stop until I reached the collapsed exit. I remove rocks until I can only see pitch black. Yet in these dreams I sense life, a frenzy of activity tucked away in the darkness. I sense Nate, the boy, and dozens of others trapped in the dire dungeon. Then, like a scourge of lightning in the night sky, the chamber lights up in a greenish glow. And I see myself, only the back of my head. but enough to know it's me, starved, and alone. As the green light fades to black,

I hear a gravelly voice calling for me to return before I wake up, to return and find the missing part of me I left behind. The voice moans and beckons again and again. Never again, the light of day. Come back in dark this way. You wake deep below burial ground. You will come back. 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.