The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E03

Episode Date: September 13, 2020

It’s Episode 03 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey gets lost in the hungry fog. “I Know What Purgatory Feels Like” written by Danny Leonard (Story starts around 00:06:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – David Cummings, Radio – Mike DelGaudio, Johnny – Mick Wingert, Voice – Jesse Cornett “Hidden Sushi Restaurant” written by Maxwell Horton (Story starts around 00:22:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Server – Atticus Jackson, Che Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hello, I'm Nicole Goodnight, voice actor for the No Sleep Podcast, and Haunted Lighthouse Keeper. I'll let that sink in for a moment. I bet you didn't know that about me, did you? But it's true. I single-handedly run a haunted lighthouse on a remote island off the coast of the U.S. It's not on any maps. You'll never find it, unless you already know where it is. But the light I maintain saves ships on the daily.

But, you know, being the keeper of a haunted lighthouse can get lonely. provisions are delivered by Sharon once a month. Besides that, I see nobody. So something that's really important to me is having a really good cell phone network. That means not only do I need good coverage, but I need it to be as affordable as possible. Have you looked at your wireless bill lately? You're probably paying too much. It's 2020.

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shining a light through the darkness that was my bill. Compared to my old bill, the amount I pay now is incredible. And the coverage is fantastic too. I'm basically never stuck without signal. even at this haunted lighthouse. Your old wireless bill pays for expensive overheads. Mint Mobile is all online. They make savings and they pass them on to us, their customers.

Imagine the savings you're going to bank when you switch to Mint Mobile and pay just 15 bucks a month. Every plan comes with unlimited nationwide talk and text plus crazy fast 4G LTE. Use your own phone with any Mint Mobile plan and keep your same phone number along with all your existing contacts. And if you're not 100% satisfied, Mint Mobile has you covered with their 7%. day money back guarantee. To get your new wireless plan for just 15 bucks a month and get the plan shipped to your door for free, go to mintmobile.com slash no sleep. That's mintmobile.com slash no sleep. Now I need to turn the light on and guide more ships through the netherworld. Come on, ghosts. We got work to do. So remember, cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at

mintmobile.com slash no sleep. Tales of horror. Brace yourself for the no. Sleep Podcast. Last week, I teased you mercilessly, about two new projects that we're releasing under the Creative Reason Media Banner. All rights reserved. Both shows are hosted by author and Raccontour, T.J. Lee. They'll feature deep dives into the people who are creating, or have in the past, horror in its myriad forms. I'm proud to introduce you to T.J., who will be giving you an idea of what you can expect from these new podcasts.

T.J., the floor is yours. Thanks, David. Hello, listeners. My name is T.J. Lee. You may have heard of me through last series' featured episodes, taking on my creepypasta the expressionless and the sequel, Cacorembo.

Or, more likely, this may very well be your first time meeting me. Either way, I thank you for allowing me into your homes to let you know what these shows are all about. Have you ever wanted to know more about the twisted minds behind some of your favorite works

on the No Sleep Podcast? How about the ones from history? We've got you covered on both fronts. It is my pleasure to introduce to you, the table read, and the writer's mythos. The table read is an informal sit-down interview with some of horror's greatest independent writers. I ask them, from one professional writer to another,

what motivates them, dissect their stories to see what lurks in their abdominal cavities, scoop out their deeper thoughts on terrifying concepts, and encourage them to lay down their origin stories bare before all. Our first episode is with one of the most fascinating series of the last few years. It took the internet by storm, has been adapted into a phenomenal podcast, and was recently acquired by Amazon to be turned into a full-length show. The left-right game author, Neon Tempo, aka Jack Townsend,

will be sitting down with me for a 90-minute, tell-all interview, that I have no doubt you'll fall in love with. Every Monday, every week, we'll bring you new, exciting guests for a look behind the veil. The writer's mythos is looking a little bit further back across history, our old seeing eye casting itself onto history's most prominent and perhaps forgotten pioneers of the genre. My team and I scoured dusty libraries and hallowed halls

to bring you fascinating trivia, quotes both the burgeoning writer and the avid reader can enjoy, a lens on their life and the motivations behind how they did what they did. Our first episode debuts with HP Lovecraft this Wednesday and successive episodes following every other Wednesday. You could find us on Twitter at the Table Readpod and at Writers Mythos for more information. We hope to see you there. We think you'll be informed and entertained by both of these new podcasts.

We hope you'll check them out. You can check the show notes for links to where you can find and subscribe to the podcasts. And now that you have new ways to learn about those who create horror, I think we should delve into the fruits of their labor and share some horror of our own. Now, let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we join a fisherman heading to the docks. A thick fog has rolled in. A damp, oppressive atmosphere fills the air.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Danny Leonard, we learn that the fisherman has a friend who is trapped out in the middle of it all, and we know that nothing good comes from a thick, impenetrable, fog. I perform this tale alongside Mike Delgadoio, Mick Wingert, and Jesse Cornett. So peer into the gloom, listen to the voices out on the ocean, take stock of the fact that something is wrong and find yourself thinking, I know what purgatory feels like. A fog rolled in that morning, and I guess that's the best place to start this. You see, trust is born from Transparency, but all transparency is lost when the air around us is opaque.

Living by the bay, residents of this small town are used to a morning fog draping the landscape. The watermen use a little more caution, school might be delayed, and life goes on. This fog, though, this fog was different. My day started out like any other would. I wake up at the butt-crack of dawn, brew my daily dose of coffee, fry up and slurp down some eggs. Then I'm out the door, on my way to my boat for a long day of hand-tonging for Chesapeake gold, oysters, that is. But on my way to my truck on this particular day, I realized the fog was extremely thick and somehow paler than I'd ever seen it. It was like a shade of grayish-white I couldn't have imagined or thought.

of if I hadn't seen it myself, if that even makes sense. I could hardly see twenty feet in front of me. The fog around my truck seemed to leach its red tint from its surface. The air was cool and dry on my skin, but there wasn't a breath of it moving. The eerie silence and blinding backdrop made me feel as if the earth was on pause. There weren't birds chirping, geese honking, or so much as a cricket looking for a fuck As I stood there trying to make out my surroundings through the haze, I heard the fire whistle blow one, two, three times.

This broke me from my trance, and I reached for the door handle on my truck. On the way down to the wharf, I heard the morning weather report come over the radio. Well, folks, it looks like we've got ourselves a dreary day ahead of us. There's a front moving in, and this fog ain't going anywhere or anytime soon. Please use caution while driving and keep a lot. eye out for pedestrians if you're driving through town. Ah, great.

It was going to be one of those days on the water where nothing around you changes. All you can see on those days is the slick, calm water, a short perimeter around your boat, and beyond that, a white hall of nothing in any direction. If there's a purgatory, that's what I imagine it feels like. As I was driving through town, I heard Johnny P.'s voice over the CB. into town with anyone. I'm down here to the boat ramp and some chicken necker backed into me and busted him in this smoke screen is thicker than milk.

Pause before picking up my mic. I'll come get you, bunk. I'm headed your way now, but I'm moving slower than molasses on a cold day, so I might be 20 minutes or so before I get to you. I was in no rush to get out on the water today anyway, so I figured I'd help the guy out. He would have done the same for me. Sounds good, buddy. watching these city slickers try to get their boat off the trailer.

So I got some entertainment. I snickered at the comment and kept lurching my way through town. Usually there were the regular setting up shop for the day, cleaning windows and hanging up touristy t-shirts in windows. But today the town was empty. I didn't even pass a single truck on my way through. It wasn't the busy season by any means, but it was like there wasn't any life hidden.

behind the curtain covering our little town. After getting past town limits, I made my way down the road to the wharf. As I rolled up slowly, I could see the yuppies must have unloaded their boat because their shiny new SUV was parked just at the edge of my vision next to the boat ramp and Johnny's rusty old pickup. As I crept closer, I could see Johnny's silhouette through the haze, standing about a quarter of the way down the pier, looking out over the bay. I honked the horn and flashed my lights.

He slowly turned towards me and then back out to the water. What the hell is his problem? I honked again, this time with no movement in response. I got out of the truck and hollered to him. Johnny, come on, let's go. If we hurry, we might be able to get to Martha's diner in time for some fresh grapple and grits. Help. It sounded like Johnny's deep voice, but there was no tone behind it.

It didn't sound panicked or anything, almost like it was a question or, hell, it wasn't even that loud. It was at a normal speaking volume, but it sounded like it was right in front of me, not 20 yards away facing the other direction. What's wrong? Help. I immediately began running over to him, not knowing what was wrong, but definitely feeling like something wasn't right. I made my first step onto the pier, and an old warp deckboard caught the edge of my boot, sending me tumbling down onto the old wooden planks. I fell to my side, my elbow catching most of the blow. As I got back to my feet, I noticed Johnny was further down the pier than he was before I fell.

Help. Johnny, what the fuck is going on, man? What the hell is wrong? Come help me. He spoke in that same tone. voice. I began walking towards him, slower this time. Look, man, I don't know if this is some kind of joke, but I'm not having it. His silhouette started gaining more and more detail as I got closer, like a camera coming into focus. But about 20 feet away from him, I saw his form start to

to, to dissipate. A black shadow with crisp edges slowly melting away into the nothingness of the surrounding fog. Johnny? Johnny, where are you? What the fuck is happening? I turned back towards the shore, but saw only the pier leading off into the thick cloud. That's when I heard the laughing behind me.

Johnny's gravelly laugh slowly warping from good-hearted, gotcha-style laughing into maniacal cold, almost machine-like cackling. I began to panic, wondering if this was some kind of trache. Trap! Determined to put an end to this, I ran towards the sound, fighting every instinct to turn away with each step.

Tears started to well in the corner of my eyes, and I fought like hell to hold them back. I began yelling at battle scream as I got closer and closer to the unseen source of the laughter until the sound was all around me, not just in front of me anymore. Running at full blast, I almost lost it and fell off the end of the pier as I reached it.

I came to a stop just before the edge, catching myself on a piling. I stood there catching my breath, looking around in all directions, in an attempt to find the laughing man, but found nothing. Are you scared, boy? This was now definitely not the voice of Johnny. It was like three voices were all speaking in unison. Three deep, vile voices who seemed to know. the punchline, but we're stretching out

the joke to reveal the story. Who are you? What are you? What do you want? Better run, boy. Better run. High beat, feet. Running back in the direction of the shore.

Seeing nothing in front of me but a short stretch appear that kept coming out from the fog like movie film from a projector. Sprinting as hard as I could, Remember in the warped board, I kept my eyes glued about four feet in front of me on the boards below. What I saw shattered my brain into disorientation like I'd never known. It was the end of the pier, just like the end I had run from. No shore, no warped board, no concrete, no nothing.

Just fucking water. Cold, flat, gray water. I crumpled to my knees, leaning on the piling, the same piling I'd caught myself on before. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to be. You are nowhere. The voice sounded like an insane man, giggling and muttering to himself, hunched over in the corner of a room.

I wiped tears and sweat from my face and ran in the other direction Thinking maybe this is all some kind of illusion That I got turned around But it couldn't be It's not possible I reached the end again with the same result And crumpled to the ground Crying in a curled up ball

The laughter slowly faded away into the ether And everything faded to black to the same surroundings, not knowing if a whole day had passed or how long I'd been out. I don't know how long I've been here now, but it feels like weeks. I tried using my cell phone, but I have no service, and the clock just reads zero, zero, along with the date, zero, zero, zero. I'm not hungry or thirsty, though. All I know is that I don't know where they're going.

the fuck I actually am, or if I'll ever be able to leave. I walk to the edge from time to time and then back the other way to the same edge with no effect. I think about jumping in the water to see if I could swim somewhere, but I can't bring myself to do it. What if I end up in another loop and try to swim back? But every time I turn around the pier is right where I was when I decided to swim back. No, no, I can't risk it. I have to just stay put on this dock in this silent, foggy pocket in the universe and hope to whatever fucked up God would allow this to happen that someone will find me. I now know what purgatory really feels like. And now, a momentary break from the horror.

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Now, bring on the terror. Ah, to be a food blogger. Traveling around the country, finding the best restaurants, eating delicious meals, and discovering overlooked talents that might put both the eatery and yourself on the map. A dream life. But in this tale,

shared with us by author Maxwell Horton, one critic discovers that it's not always wise to look behind the curtain at your favorite food place. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Atticus Jackson, and Mary Murphy. So prepare your chopsticks, keep some ginger on hand, and begin dining at

the hidden sushi restaurant. Move to New York City for the food. A global destination with a myriad of world famous and one-of-a-kind restaurants. I was able to get a production job with a major food magazine to pay the bills. But my real dream was to have a famous food blog where I would review restaurants around the city. I had a few hundred followers so far, but I had a long way to go before I could start monetizing the website. I wanted to be a review.

that not only ate at the newest and hottest spots, but one who also found hidden treasures tucked away in forgotten spots around the city. Tonight was one of the nights where I set off to find a treasure. I didn't use the internet or recommendations from others when looking for these gems. I simply selected a part of town and let my nose lead me to my destination.

This evening, my journey began in Chinatown, an area I often enjoy exploring. The crowded streets brought together a combination of yells, laughs, and spontaneous drunken shouts. Heavy metal clanking from the subway cars rifled up through the street grates. Assortments of meat being fried came in waves, making my stomach growl each time the aroma wafted past my nose. Neon lights lit the pavement in a way that reminded me of the carnival on dark summer nights as a child. It was nights like this that made me, Absolutely love this city.

Walking down these streets now, I'm shocked at how many of these restaurants I've dined at and start to wonder if I'll be able to find something new to review. Just as that wondering thought approached the beginning stages of worry, I passed an alleyway, or at least that's what it looked like at first glance. But as I passed, a strange, faraway glow caught my eye. I turned my attention towards the darkness.

and realized it was more like a small side street than an alley. Steam rolled through the narrow passage in sheets, obscuring any chance I had at reading the distant neon letters. What the heck? I started down the side street, a little timid at first, the creepiest thing mainly being the complete lack of other people. A quick movement came from a pile of boxes that almost caused me to jump out of my skin.

I picked up my pace because of my pace, I was almost certain it was a rat. The real question being, how big is it? Looking back over my shoulder, I realized I could no longer see the street. The steam must have picked up. When I looked back in front of me,

to my relief, I had made it to the sign I had seen from the main drag. The sign read, Exotic sushi from forbidden places. It was surely an old sign due to the loud fluorescent hum of the neon. I wondered to myself how many more hours of overworked humming

did the sign have left until its inevitable ignition of an electrical fire. Below the sign was an old wooden door that may have been painted red many years ago and never refinished. There were no windows, no menu sign,

no nothing, just a door. Opening the door answered the no windows question as I was immediately presented with a stairwell that only went down to the basement level of the building. As I stood there, door knob still gripped in my hand, I again considered turning back.

This could be the gem you need for your blog to blow up. Come on, it's just an old restaurant. Building myself up a little, I stepped onto the first stair and let the door shut behind me, surrounding me in black. I let my feet lead the way down the stairs as I kept one hand on the damp stone wall for balance. Making it to the bottom actually took less time than I would have expected. Blindly feeling around, I quickly found another old wooden door and turned the knob.

Delicate light washed over me as I entered the surprisingly large dining room. Besides two occupied tables, there were 50 or so others that were empty. An extremely large person sat off in one corner of the room, draped in some sort of raincoat, shamelessly devouring the large plate of food in front of him. At the other end of the room sat a very tall and very slender man, resembling a skeleton more so than a man. He was sitting at a table with three children?

I couldn't really tell. They were small like children, but their faces had unsettlingly adult features. I made brief eye contact with this table of four and quickly looked away. Just as I was about to clear my throat in hopes of getting the attention of a host, I noticed the sign directly in front of me reading, seat yourself. I musied my way to the center of the dining room in hopes of finding a table with some privacy.

My attention jumped to a smaller dining area back by the kitchen, separated by a partition from the main dining area. I made my way there and quickly acquired a table. I hadn't even removed my jacket when a man appeared tableside. He looked similar to the man I had seen sitting at the table of four when I walked in. It couldn't be the same person, though, unless he had run to the back and changed into a dirty black suit. Welcome to exotic sushi from forbidden places.

I realized he was my server. You scared me a little there. He didn't respond to this. He just stared at me. No smile, no expression. I started to realize how strange his face was. It was as if his bones were out of place or had shifted somehow. His very dry and very pale skin looked as though it was pulled tight over his pronounced features,

ready to tear open at a moment's notice. In an instant, I realized how rude my staring was and quickly started talking again. This is my first time here. I assumed so. Okay. Well, is there anything you would recommend? Anything you're known for? There is no ordering here.

The chef makes different roles every night. You can either order a half-platter or a whole platter. How much comes on a half-platter? Fifteen. Fifteen pieces? Rolls. Oh my. Is there a smaller size option?

No. I'll do the half-platter then, and plan on having it for lunch for the next three days. Before I even finished my sentence, he was gone. Drink order? With liquids on my mind, I realized that I had the urge to use the restroom. I looked around the vacant room and spotted a narrow hall. in my section of the dining room. Assuming that this hallway must harbor the restrooms,

since I hadn't seen anything off of the main dining area, I walked towards it. Cautiously peering down the poorly lit hallway, not wanting to enter an area only meant for employees, I saw the sign for the restroom. Making my way down the hall, I noticed that directly across the hall from the restroom door was a solid black door,

with a sign that read, Do not enter. No guests, no staff, no one. Chef only. I stood there for a moment thinking about how I had never seen a sign quite like that, especially the no staff part. Unless, I supposed, it had been a good while since the chef needed help filling only three orders a night. After I was finished in the restroom, I walked back out to find my platter of sushi, all 15 rolls, at my table. No server in sight. Slowly sitting back down at my table, I began to wonder if this sushi was pre-made somewhere besides in the restaurant, but I figured since the chef picked the rolls each night, they could all be made ahead of time. The latter thought sparking skepticism in regards to the freshness. Besides the rice, I couldn't identify any of the other ingredients. I picked up the first roll and sniffed it. Bon Appetit.

I put the whole roll into my mouth. It was... It was absolutely delicious. I couldn't believe what I had just tasted. I quickly grabbed a piece from another roll and shoved it into my mouth. Purely divine. Another piece and another. I couldn't stop.

It was as if my tongue was experiencing textures and flavors as it had never been introduced to. I wasn't eating sushi. I was experiencing art. Before I had realized it, I had consumed all 15 rolls. I slumped back into my chair, flabbergasted at the amount of food

I had just shoved in my mouth. Again, as if out of thin air, my server appeared table-side. I can see you enjoyed your sushi. That would be the understatement. of my life. Let me get this out of the way and I'll retrieve your check. Thank you.

Hold on. There's one more thing. To be frank with you, I'm a food blogger. I review restaurants around the city and I have to say that I have never had a meal quite like this. How have I never heard of you guys? The owner and the head chef don't go out of their way to seek attention. That's insane.

If all the food is even partially as good as what I just had, You should be packing this place to capacity seven nights a week. I'm sorry. It's always been that way. Well, I would like to speak with the chef and let them know how wonderful the food was. Again, I'm sorry. The chef does not meet with guests, ever. With this final point, the server turned on a dime and left the table.

Wonder if I... All right, that's just great. had finally found it, that hidden, forgotten treasure that deserved to be experienced by all. This would change everything. It would put my blog on the radar for sure. If I could only speak with the chef, my review would go from great to amazing. I tried to think about why the chef wouldn't want to meet with someone who loved what they had created. Then it hit me, the black door across from the restrooms. That had to be it.

It was positioned correctly in relation to the kitchen to be an entrance, and it would also make sense of the sign on the door. I scanned the dining room to see if anyone could see me before I got up and walked back to the hallway where the bathroom and the black door were harbored. I tried to move silently so I could be more aware of any incoming footsteps. Once I made it to the black door, I put my hand up to it and pushed as I walked in. The door did indeed lead to the kitchen, but it was what the kitchen held that simultaneously confused and horrified me.

Scattered all across the kitchen surfaces were creatures, creatures that had been chopped and dismembered. An odd and sickening realization hit me as I came to recognize the dismembered flesh. It wasn't day-to-day wildlife or wildlife or animal. even the animals I would see on TV. These creatures were from the books that were read to me as a child. The cutting surface closest to me held the head of what looked like a horse at first glance, but upon further viewing, I noticed a long, spiraling horn protruding from the center of its head. Instead of crimson, a shimmering gold liquid poured from the unicorn's exposed flesh. I then noticed

that the horn itself seemed to be shaved down. An assumption proved true once I saw a large metal file and a bowl of shavings. I caught a glimpse of multiple five-gallon buckets on the shelf below that had been filled to the brim with the creature's golden blood. Just past the unicorn head, on the next cutting station, I saw what seemed to be small dolls, but of course they weren't. Dolls don't bleed or have guts that can be cut out. These tiny four-inch tall bodies had colorful butterfly-like wings that sprouted from their backs.

There was a small pile of their lifeless naked bodies, and next to it was an even smaller pile of their tiny clothes and shoes. For some reason, seeing that their tiny shoelaces were as thin as thread brought a wave of discomfort over me, In front of these two piles, a fairy person's dismembered arms, legs, and wings were displayed neatly. The rest seemed to be discarded. Absolutely speechless in the presence of this fairy tale carnage. All across the kitchen were similar displays. There was a station of Cyclops' heads with what looked like large ice cream scoopers to remove their eyes. A centaur lay splayed open, exposing a hollow chest.

cavity, its hooves shaved down in a similar fashion to the unicorn horn. In the furthest corner of the kitchen was a stainless steel tub, easily large enough for me to fit in, which held a partially scaled and quartered mermaid. As I began to come out of my shock, I finally realized why my meal had tasted like nothing I had ever experienced before. I started to feel ill as I imagined what exactly my stomach had been filled with. Which creatures had I eaten? Was it some of them or had it been all of them? I started to wonder if there were side effects to eating any of this.

Just as I thought I would vomit, a voice came from behind me. What are you doing back here? I'm the only one allowed back here. I spun around to see a small, short-haired, petite woman standing in the door, way I had just entered. Her skin was pulled freakishly tight over her face like the others I had seen tonight. And down next to her side, she held a gleaming chef's knife. Are you the chef? That would be about right, my dear. I'm so sorry. I was just looking to speak with you for a review I wanted to write about your restaurant. You know what? I can tell you're a busy

woman. I'll leave you to it and just be on my way. Well, that's just not going to work. You see, my ingredients are a well-kept secret, and I can't have that getting out. I just might have a use for you, though. Use for me? Why, yes. I'm constantly trying to come up with new recipes, you see, searching every corner of the world for rare and unknown. unusual ingredients. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to track down some of these delicacies. I've been working on a new role for a while now and just haven't been able to find the right protein. But from the looks of it, my final ingredient has come to me. When you're a kid, moving around the country a lot, can lead to a lonely existence. It's hard

to make friends when your family up roots regularly. So when you do meet a pal, It's important to make the most of your time together. But in this tale, shared with us by author Megan Hots, there's something a little awry about our main character's new friend. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Jeff Clement, and Nicole Goodnight. So by all means be sociable and get to know the neighborhood kids, but maybe pay attention to what's going on at Andy's Place. Most of my childhood was spent with my cheek pressed against the cool backseat window of my family's ageless hatchback as it followed an endless road.

My parents traveled for work, a lot. I never resented them for it, but I also wouldn't say I was a natural introvert. I was certainly made one by the constant movement, and maybe not for my better. This is before everyone had a smartphone, and just before Facebook really took off. So I was a lonely kid, spending more time on the road than I did learning how to make friends. When we rolled into that sleepy little town in the Pacific Northwest, I was about 12. I remember being taken by how impossibly green it all was. Plants growing in places I didn't think they could grow.

Dense cloaks of ivy swaddling trees and buildings all the same. The thickness of the rain-soaked atmosphere made me feel like a fish, straining my air from the water around me. The place vibrated with life, but contained a certain stillness. I'd forget the exact month, but it was during that rocky phase where spring doesn't want to quite let go into summer. School was a ways off, though, not that it mattered since I was homeschooled anyways. And besides, I wasn't eager to meet new kids that I'd be surely torn away from in a season's time.

But I still needed some way to pass the hours, and an appropriate. pretty little town, little is the unfortunate clincher for a bored preteen. My neighborhood wasn't made up of white picket fences, but aged cobblestone and brick modeled with algae. Modest, but in a way that felt ancient and respected. Nobody ever seemed to be around, which meant I'd draw no suspicious, watchful eyes if I were to explore a little. I wasn't really a mischievous kid, but I was bored, and this lush town was more exciting than the dark, musty house we'd barely set up yet. There was a sprig of forest between my house and the next lot over, and it extended far past our garden border and beyond. I wouldn't say it was deep woods. The town

wasn't quite that small, and we were close to its center. The trees served as padding between the neighborhoods, keeping the air green and wet. Still, they might as well been a jungle to me at the time. That dewy silence remained unbroken as the rich moss carpets took in my footst steps, allowing me to creep unseen. I searched for giant slugs and dazzling snails, perhaps even a frog or two, and I was careful not to step on the tall mushrooms that poked through the forest debris. It was like you could hear everything and nothing out there. I could still see the road in front of my house, but no cars ever seemed to pass. And you could hear the gentle patter of condensation as it slipped from the branches of the trees with trunks thicker than my body,

and the sound of a robin preening its chest feathers far above. Maybe the fog damp in the sound, but it never unsettled me. In fact, it was peaceful. One day, that silence gave way to a voice, a voice that didn't break the silence, but slipped forth from it, like the rain running through the spongy moss.

It was soft, simple, and it came from behind me. I jumped a little, as I'd been so focused on the side of a slug, along a log that I'd never have noticed or expected anyone joining me he was a boy about my age he looked plain and dressed plain and his plain eyes flickered with kittenish curiosity hey the boy pointedly stared at the slug that I'd been so fixated on myself I know where to find all the huge ones oh cool do you want to see the boy's face suddenly hardened like the face of a tiny soldier.

It's top secret, though. Yeah, I won't tell anyone, promise. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn't have followed some kid I just met through a forest in a town I wasn't familiar with. But after a springs worth of the dusty air of the car, and then the stale air of our bare house, the prospect of adventure was nearly intoxicating. So I followed the boy as he led me through the trees.

Now suddenly aware that I was dealing with another human person, I fumbled for conversation, to go through the motions that normal kids must go through. I'm Andy. I gave him my name, and he smiled at me, and thus began a chapter of my life that I have never, and maybe never will, make sense of. Andy led me further into the woods. The path was barely even there, just a gentle depression in the nest of ferns and grasses. which made me wonder if it was only his feet that had flattened him so.

He told me it wasn't far, and when he looked behind me, I could still see the shimmering black smear of the road between the trees. But as we went further, the trees grew taller, and the path was just aghashed between the flanking ferns as tall as my shoulders. It couldn't be that far. The forest was only so big. I can't blame Andy for my own foolishness and following him, for my own curiosity.

I also didn't blame him for anything once I saw where we had gone. At first, I couldn't see much. Andy shoved aside some ferns that served as sort of a gateway to the path that split out into a sort of clearing. There was a lot of bare earth here, and looking around, it was like an enormous tree had been torn from its socket in the soil. Then I saw things among the clearing. A couple of planks and poles here,

some vaguely piled plastic there. But as I look closer, structures truly melted out of the green. It was a playground, or more accurately, where playgrounds go to die. See, someone must have used this place to dump broken or old playground equipment. Maybe it had once been a playground itself, left for the forest to overtake, but its objects were too haphazardly placed. A dirty metal slide leaned up against a tree with no one. ladder half in sight, and plastic pogo animals lay in the grass without their pogos.

There was a swing set with only one swing, and bare chains swinging gently where its brethren had once hung. Other parts had seemingly mutated into all new attractions, pieces connected in weird places. A plastic slide fed onto a merry-go-round, teeter-totters arranged in weird angles end-to-end. The best of all, though, was the big wooden play structure. Our castle. It was Labrantine with every piece you could imagine. Fireman poles and ropes to climb the sides like a mountaineer. Three sets of monkey bars of varying difficulties, a zip line.

It had four levels, and beneath it, the earth seemed hollowed out into caves and forts. This structure was where Andy led me to its underground and its center. A milky white disk of light marked where it meant to be, where the platform had longed since collapsed. And Andy simply pointed, he was right about the slugs. They were so big I initially didn't even realize what I was looking at. They were like hot dog buns inching across the ground on their own. I could have watched those slugs for hours on their own, but the rest of the place bewitched me too. If the town itself felt calm and isolated, this place was a world on its own. And it smelled so, so much sweeter than home. My parents didn't know about Andy's place.

I was always home before they got off work and Andy understood whenever I told him I had to go. He wasn't bossy or demanding. He never played nasty jokes or leaned into mean taunts the way so many of the other boys my age did. He was a good friend that way. I surprised myself when I realized that, yes, he was my friend. A strange. little boy that had shared my love of gastropods and make-believe, who didn't judge my quietness and awkward gait. We pretended to be adventurers, riding the plastic animals through unexplored jungles, or sometimes we were trapped on an alien planet and those animals hunted us. We'd see if we could swing the rusted swing over the top bar and treated the derelict metal slide like a

funhouse mirror. There was always something new, glinting in the grass and waiting to be discovered. a new piece of playground equipment to play with or a new mushroom to investigate. I enjoyed it so much that I almost considered telling my parents about it, just so excited to share this new place with the other people I really knew. But I didn't want to break my promise and tell Andy's secret. It had become my secret too, and I'm sure neither his nor my parents would have allowed us to play so often in a place that likely teamed with ticks and tetanus.

Andy was an odd kid, which is part of what I liked about him. He'd go from dead silence to telling me the most amazing scientific facts about the world, about nature. Then he'd ask me the strangest things, like of Canada were a real place, or what the name of a current president was, a peculiar mix of intelligent and naive. I felt the same way, really. We were laying in the grass by the plastic animals one day,

just enjoying the quiet, and I decided to pull out a couple of comics. It was like they put him under a spell. At first I thought he just really liked the artwork. The cover of this one showed off a spaceman fighting off some robot dinosaurs. He asked me what it was, and I gave him the title of the book. But then he asked what that was. See, I realized he meant the comic itself. And suddenly, something started to make sense.

I mean, if he didn't know what comics were, then he must have had those kind of parents. The strict religious types that think things like comic books come with subliminal messages that corrupt the youth or whatever. I brought a different comic every day, and we read them together, quickly becoming part of our play routine. I even let him keep one. It was a double I'd received in a birthday present mishap, so I was more than happy to pass it on. He treasured it and cared for it, much more gently than I'd seen it. any other preteen boy with a comic book. One day I went to meet Andy.

We always met up in that spot we'd first met by my yard and head to his place in the woods together. That day in particular, though, he wasn't there. Restless, I tromped down the path alone, suddenly wrapped with an anxious thought that Andy had gone without me. It was really only a short walk to the clearing, five minutes at most. I became concerned the longer I seemed to walk. Five minutes seemed more like ten, maybe even fifteen.

How could I have possibly made a wrong turn in such a small spit of trees? I turned this way, that way, panic growing as my familiarity faded between the trees. I began to jog, trying to tame my racing heart, hoping I'd get anywhere recognizable a little bit faster. Then something crunched in the trees beside me and sent my stomach through my ears. It was Andy. What are you doing? I was just looking for the playground. I didn't see you, so I thought maybe you were there already.

Andy just shook his head and smiled at me, then took my hand and led me away. I told you, only I can find it. We arrived at our place in maybe two minutes. After that, I began to think a little harder about the playground, about Andy. Maybe I was just embarrassed. I'd turn myself around so badly, and Andy could clearly see how freaked out I'd been. He never was the kind of to tease me, but I still felt like I kind of had to prove it to myself that I wasn't a wimp, but I wasn't crazy.

I tried to find the playground without Andy again one day. By that point, I'd steeled myself. I just knew I'd only spoof myself and overlooked those structures hidden among the tall and twisting trees. I'd even Hansel and Gretel my path there, leaving a trail that. behind me. No breadcrumbs, of course, just a broken branch here, piles of stones there. Things only just out of place enough to notice. I ran into my little stone piles after a couple minutes walking in the same direction, of walking straight. I hadn't turned, hadn't doubled back,

adding you, I hadn't. Something in me, in that moment flared up, an instinct I didn't know I had. It was all I could do to just calmly follow my path back out of the forest. For the next few days, I stayed home. If Andy asked, I'd just tell him I was sick. I don't know why I did it. Something in me just wanted a break from these cherished woods. The next time Andy and I saw each other, he'd seem concerned, but didn't ask.

If he didn't bring it up, I decided I wouldn't either. We began our games and things almost. instantly went back to normal. Unknown anxieties ebbed away under the performative bravado of a preteen adventurer in the city of old toys. The day was long, and so were the days after. We laid on the ground,

using sticks to doodle in the mud, and he looked over at me. You're my best friend. You're my best friend, too. He smiled. I smiled. It was the first time I'd had a conversation. like it. One day, our wooden place at castle was a massive pirate ship. I was the captain and

Andy was my rival, trying to steal my treasure, a cool rock we'd found earlier. I gave quite the pirate speech about what I'd do when I caught such a sneaky thief, all PG cartoonish threats, of course. I carried on with the roughest, toughest, toughest accent I could muster, all the while sneaking about trying to find my ship's daring infiltrator. It was some line about about, golden booty when I thought I heard a nearby giggle. A shifting on the wooden boards. I had him now. Running to the source of the noise, I leapt out,

beginning to mumble something about walking the plank to Davy Jones' locker, and everything was dark. Really, it was my fault. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, and I didn't even feel the fall. I was just suddenly on the ground, the wind gone for my sails and my lungs. looking up through the rotted hole in the play set, unable to feel my arm. Andy's face peeked into the hole at me, dumbstruck, but not panicked. Not even as I began to panic myself, realizing my arm had become a floppy, agonizing, dead weight.

I think it's broken. I didn't notice Andy jumping into the hole, but he was there, helping me up. He seemed confused, though, like you didn't know why I sounded the way I did, why I was loud and blubbering. Through my pain-blurred vision, I could see the slugs, inching along the underside of the wood, sucking up the rot, their slime twinkling in the dark. We need to call my mom. He just gave me those blank do-eyes. I was incredulous. It was something about seeing those slugs that kicked me into action.

The slugs I'd normally adored may as well have been spelling run in their slime trails with the adrenaline surge that knocked me onto my feet. Spurred by fear and pain, I just blindly shoved past Andy, out from the Ford and back into the grave delay. Wait, you're leaving? It's broken, Andy. I need to go to the doctor. I couldn't believe he'd even ask that, but I also couldn't waste any time on it either. The journey back to my house was a haze. I don't remember Andy following me. My arm was fractured, not as badly as it could have been, but it still set me up in the hospital for a little bit.

it. A hospital wasn't really that bad. The worst part was having to explain the incident to my mother. I was, of course, of a loyal friend and didn't want to rat Andy out. Exhausted, though, my creative juices had run out, so instead of an elaborate explanation for my injury, I just clammed up. My mom, then, got it in her head that I'd been beaten up by bullies or got hit by a hit-and-run driver or any other manner of horrible things that I was too afraid to tell you. tell her. She always had a way of guilting the truth out of me by believing her own ridiculous, even worse realities. So I relented and alerted out the truth. I was on the play set with my friend Andy and I accidentally fell off. It wasn't his fault. My mom looked at me strangely.

Who's Andy? I felt like a spy that had failed the mission, forced to spill the national secrets of my own private country. There's some old playground stuff out in the way. Andy lives down the street. We've been playing there all summer. It's been really fun. I felt that the earnestness in the last part would convince her to go easy on the place. Why didn't you ever tell us about this friend of yours? I could only shrug one shoulder. Mom left the hospital and returned even more confused than before. She'd spent her absence going door to door through the neighborhood,

looking for Andy and his parents to make sure he was okay, and to discuss the dangers in playing on old condemned playground equipment. Nobody she talked to knew who or what she was talking about. None of the neighbors knew a kid named Andy. Actually, the only people they knew of who even had children around there were the masons, whose children had all grown up and moved away, the stewards who had a new infant girl, and the McAllisters, who had been on vacation for a week and weren't due back for another week more.

So again, my mom panicked. If Andy wasn't a local boy, he must have been some kind of predator. Even in my painkiller Hayes, I remember waving her off and assuring her he was a boy my age. He probably lived the next street over. Or the next. I'd ask him the next time I saw him. Before I got the chance, my parents broke the news. Another move was on the horizon.

The next one will be more permanent, sweetie. The contract is for a few years with a chance at renewal, and we won't go far this time. It was expected, but still disappointing. I actually like this place. The green, the slugs, and my best friend. I put it off for a few days, even though my parents had already begun to pack.

I'm at least packing the stuff that had been unpacked to begin with. I felt guilty for leaving, guilty for hurting my arm. But the clock was ticking, and I made myself man up and drag my sorry self out to the woods when my parents were distracted. I found Andy by the trailhead I'd made, scattering its pebbles with his shoe.

Hey, he just smiled and we headed to his place once more. It was a subdued play date, given my arm and all. The slugs were active, lurching among the mushrooms and entwining with isopods long rotting logs. I couldn't stand the silence, though. Not today. My parents are moving again.

Andy's demeanor just changed. Why? I shrugged. They move a lot, for work. I tried to perk up just a little and hopes it would have the same effect on him. But this time they say it's not far. I can come visit and everything.

Do you have to go? You should just stay here. You have to stay. You can live with me. We can play here every day. I laughed, but Andy's flushed face and serious tone cut me off. His voice had taken on this frantic screechy quality, and I realized quickly that he wasn't joking.

Sorry, Andy. I wish I didn't move so much, too. You can still email each other, and I can come out here on the weekends. Andy stood up. He seemed angry now, and to be honest, it scared me a little

to have him tower over me like that. I stood too. I suddenly felt like I should probably head home. That unnerving, tingling sensation, the one I'd felt when I first got lost in the woods. I felt it then, even though I knew, or I thought I knew,

where I was. When I looked around, Things were wrong. Playground was there, but it seemed different. Only slightly, but different. The plastic animals all stared at me, painted eyes bright and intense against the foggy, green, flaking paint like tears.

Slugs crawled over everything, so dense in certain places that I couldn't see the wood and ground beneath them. They were on branches, on the playset, writhing along the ground, and I realized more and more fog was beginning to set in. In the sudden breeze, the merry-go-round moved. The single swing swung. The teeter-totter smacked the ground with a crack that shattered the still that always blanked this place so warmly.

I didn't notice until then that I'd begun to back away. Andy began to cry. Big, fat tears, dewdrops on his bright red cheeks. Tears of anger, but so, so sad, too. His voice only came out as sobs and splutters, and I almost went to him. I almost began to cry, too. Andy, I'm sorry. He grabbed at me, and I don't think he meant to. I don't think he understood it, but he manhandled my injured arm. Now!

You can't leave me! I instinctively jolted back, and the movement forced away Andy's footing. He fell forward into the mud and just lay there. At first I was afraid he hurt himself. Great. Two kids heard in the same place. As he continued to sob, he began to kick and flail his limbs, and I realized he was having an actual tantrum.

You can't leave me! Repeated it over and over. His voice sounding more and more wrong as he did. He was speaking into a metal drum, the texture of rust scraping rust. It got worse, the more he kicked, the more he screamed and cried, and the pity I had for my friend became fear. I didn't know what to do or what to say, but something caught my eye. The old slide we'd used as a funhouse mirror.

I saw reflections, stretched and wobbly and scuffed by H. Andy, though, he looked less right than normal. His reflection was painted onto the slide, like it was put there for me to see, propped up by an unseen puppeteer. He looked up at me, which I first saw in his warped, ogreish reflection. and I risk to look back at him in person.

Just a sad but sorry boy, eyes red and more wet than the mud around us. We're best friends. I'm sorry, Andy. Bye. No! I couldn't. I couldn't even look back. I ran all the way home through the trees and the mud and the giant. prehistoric ferns, Andy's distorted whales fading into the rolling fog behind me. That's the last

time I saw my friend Andy. My mom asked me about him again, but I told her I just couldn't find his house. Couldn't find the playground. It wasn't a lie, really, and she didn't bring it up again. We left soon, but I still brought my guilt with me. I should have said or done more. Andy was my friend. Maybe I was his only friend. Years passed. I tried to find Andy on social media, but nothing turned up. Nothing on the school websites and the papers, even when I had the morbid idea to check the obituaries. No local crimes, no distant crimes. No lost boys, no murdered boys. I laughed at myself for entertaining the idea that I'd spent a summer as a ghost's best friend. But still, nothing was worse than something.

You can probably guess that when I got my first car and drove out to that small town, I couldn't find the old playground. In fact, I was perplexed to realize I could see right through the trees into the next street over. It wasn't a new development in the least. In fact, now that I think about it, I remembered seeing the same. that street through the forest sometimes. Didn't I? Hadn't it always been there? Andy was real. I knew he was. He and his place. I'd broken my arm to prove it. My extra comic book had gone somewhere. But where? Where'd I really spent that summer in a place where no boy named Andy seemed to exist,

where one had never lived or died? What would happen if I stayed with Andy? that day. It keeps me up some nights, not just a lack of closure, but the guilt. I know it wasn't my fault that I had to leave, and I did everything I could to find him again. It just couldn't be found. Sometimes I finally fall asleep, but only after wondering if Andy, whatever or whoever he was, was really still out there. And I wondered if he ever found himself another best friend. Thank you for joining us on our journey down the Lost Highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mike Halski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

Our creative content manager is Olivia White. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, Please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. As the darkness fades, it feels like you're going to dream.

This audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, 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.