The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E13

Episode Date: November 22, 2020

It’s Episode 13 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey drives us through the rain. “The Marsh” written by J. D. Graham (Story starts around 00:04:30) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator ��� Jesse Cornett, Woman – Erin Lillis, Manager – Sarah Ruth Thomas “The Loneliest Road” written by G. C. Jenkins (Story starts around 00:15:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Cashier – Jesse Cornett, Tex – Graham Rowat “The Swing” written by Ian J. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi, I'm Kyle Akers, voice actor for the No Sleep podcast. The holidays are fast approaching and they can be a stressful time for many people. Maybe you've set yourself high expectations or you're facing being alone this festive season. Lockdowns and self-isolation mean many of us are going to be away from our loved ones over this period. As December approaches, it's understandable that many of us may grow more and more anxious. Sometimes talking helps. It's okay to need support to simply cope and face the future. Everyone deserves a listening ear and a helping hand.

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Reach out to BetterHelp. Tales of Horror. For the No Sleep Podcast. As we head into the week of U.S. Thanksgiving, I'm sure we all have plenty to be thankful for. Mostly for the beginning of the end of 2020. Let's hope we have only a few more months of pandemics and real-life horrors to deal with. And when it comes to some non-real-life horrors, we're excitedly getting ready for next month's annual Christmas episodes.

We hope as the holiday season kicks off that everyone will be in a frightful, festive mood. We ho-ho hope to be doing a holiday live stream at some point in December, so stay tuned for that announcement. So if you're giving thanks at all this week, be good to yourself, stay safe, and treat yourself to a gobbler at the local Wawa, or however you choose to celebrate. We choose to be thankful for the horror stories we're about to receive. Now, let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we have to deal with the rain.

You know what it's like. You're walking down the street when the skies open up, so you do. duck under an awning to stay dry and wait out the storm. But in this tale, shared with us by author J.D. Graham, you find yourself beside another person avoiding the rain, and they have a story they insist on sharing with you. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Aaron Lillis, and Sarah Thomas. So next time you're going out, maybe bring an umbrella with you.

That way you won't have to hear the tale about it. The Marsh. Standing under the awning isn't speaking to you in particular when she says. The marsh is cruel. She just comes out and says it. I once saw the pluff mud swallow a bird hole. Fool thing swung down for a crab and got stuck, then just kept sinking. She spits.

Took 20 seconds. The poor bird was flailing the whole time. It was a secret. all pretty and white, and then it was part of the mud. The wind picked up 20 minutes ago. Then came the lightning. Now you huddle under the owning in front of a restaurant, trying to stay dry, standing beside this woman.

You did not remember when she joined you, and you have not seen her before. This will let up soon. Another summer storm in Charles. She laughs a laugh. You don't want to hear again. The street is turning into a river of muck. The rain mixes with what you suspect is manure from the carriage horses, judging by the smell. You can smell the rod of the salt marsh too on a street over. The wind gusts in from that direction and sprays rain across your face.

You take a further step back under the awning. A car splashes water onto the paving stones of the sidewalk and soaks your jeans from the knees down. You can't tell if it is the water that muddies her white cotton dress, or if it was muddy already. Oh, this was marsh too. We filled it. We keep fighting the marsh and she keeps coming back. What if she ain't cruel? What if we are? She spits again. This time, at your... feet and you step back again. She don't care.

Is she cruel if she don't care? You don't answer. My Danny was down at the docks. I told the full child not to run off and work the docks, but he did anyway. It only 15 years old. He worked down at the docks like my husband did, and I would bring him lunch every day like I did for my husband. I knew the boys at the docks well. I knew the foreman as well as I knew my husband take my meaning.

They were friends before the docks. And my husband always was mad he didn't get promoted to foreman. Came home late and came home drunk, he did. And angry and violent. I didn't cry many tears for him when he died. But I cried a few because we had good times. I cried most for me. Because now I was on my own and I had to pay for Danny.

And Danny knew that. And that's why he went to work at the docks to help pay. And one day, the dock hands are loading something off a boat and it falls in the marsh. It floats because it's wood and it ain't too heavy. So they have to get it and they call everyone together. Foreman draws a spot on some paper and they tear it up and throw it in a hat and pass the hat. around. They made it real fair. Whoever draws the spot gets the box real fair. She spits again. It is thick and dark. It hits the pavement and holds its shape by your foot.

My boy draws the spot. He's the youngest and lightest and freshest and so happens he draws the spot. The wind has not died down at all. And the rain has not slowed, and the river of horse manure has not stopped. So they tie him up a rope around his waist, and he starts to wade out. He slips and gets stuck, and then gets unstuck, and fights the mud, and they all laugh at him, and he laughs too. He gets out to the box, and he can't move it because of the mud. The boys on the dock tell him to untie himself and tie the rope.

onto the box. He does. And the boys start hauling the box back in and my boy follows. But he walks over the same place he got stuck before and he gets stuck again. Only this time he doesn't have the rope. The dock hands pulling the box laugh at him.

They tell him, hold on and sit tight and don't go anywhere. We'll throw you the rope as soon as I get the box back up on the dock. So he doesn't move. And they're pulling the box. And then he hollers, and he's up to his waist. They throw the rope and miss.

And he's up to his chest. And he's flailing. And they pull the rope back in. Then he's up to his neck. Then he's under. The foreman goes out with the rope for him. But my danny, he's part of the mud now. And the foreman, well...

The storm is slowing. The woman was right. The river of manure keeps flowing But the rain is light now And the wind is almost gone The clouds are breaking Sunlight damples the sidewalk Parts of the road

Rise above the river of manure And steam rises above the road The woman turns And looks at you I show up right then A minute too late to see my boy One last time I have his lunch, and I ask after him, and they tell me he's down by the docks,

and I walk out to the dock, and I see the group. I see the foreman climbing out, but not my boy. The rain stops, blows warm. I walk down, and the foreman stands up. He sees me and rushes over. He says it wasn't supposed to happen. He in the hands were only playing a little prank. They were going to give him a beer at lunch and welcomed them to the team.

They did it to everyone. But I kept asking, where was he? Where's my Danny? Her voice is loud. In the silence left behind after the rain, the sun has almost beaten back the clouds. And they tell me where, and they point. Foreman apologizes, and I cry.

Cry until I laugh. And tell the foreman how. Danny wasn't only my boy, but his too. I grabbed the rope and I jump into the marsh and I push through the mud until I get to the spot. They pointed out. I reach under the mud and I can't feel anything but more mud, some marsh grass. I can't feel them. I reach deeper and now I'm up to my chest.

I'm holding the rope and I reach deeper and now I'm up to my neck. So I let go with a rope. She sighs, spreads her arms, and then drops them again. I searched for a long time. She turns, and she looks in your eyes. Her eyes are gray, and they are deeper than any eyes you've ever seen. She spits again between the two of you. You look down, where she spat on the paving stone.

You see a thick glob of mud. The marsh is cruel. You do not look back up. You do not speak. You turn away. You push open the door of the restaurant. The manager greets you with a wad of napkins. Thought you might need these.

Thanks. You say, as you dry your jeans. Glad you finally came in. A hell of a long time to stand and watch the storm by yourself. You look back over your shoulder. Through the glass pane of the restaurant's front door, you see the steam twirl like a white cotton dress in the summer sun. You think driving is a better way to avoid problems with the rain?

Well, I know one woman who would disagree. You see, she's taking a road trip and decides to drive the stretch of highway known as the loneliest road in America. And as we learn from author G.C. Jenkins, when a rainstorm sweeps in, she soon realizes how bad her choice really was. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Jesse Cornett, and Graham Rowett.

So tune up your car, pick well-traveled routes, and check your weather app when you travel. That way you'll avoid the loneliest road. Will that be everything? The dreary-eyed gas station cashier eyed my selection of energy drinks and assorted candy. I started to say yes as I reached for my wallet when the cigarette display behind the counter caught my eye.

Either I stared at those death sticks without saying anything for longer than I thought, or the cashier was more perceptive than his tired face implied because the old man asked me the one thing I was hoping he wouldn't. You want cigarettes? I tried to say no, but my habits won out over my brain and lungs, and I shamefully asked for a pack. He rung up my purchase, and I handed over my last $10 of cash. I gathered up my arm full of bad choices and pushed through the door into the hot, dry,

and all around uncomfortable afternoon, typical of the American Southwest. I got into my car and continued on what was seen. more and more like a cursed road trip, after two popped tires, a near miss with a truckload of drunk rednecks, and my funds dwindling a lot earlier than I thought they would. Unfortunately, I was far too stubborn to turn back. My ironclad commitment to seeing my spur-of-the-moment adventure sparked by an overabundance of free time between semesters at college through was the only thing keeping me going. Well, that and my ever-emptying tank of gas.

I was growing increasingly pissed at five days ago, me. That idiot had thought driving from Maine to California in a second-hand pickup truck would be fun and exciting. Dishearteningly boring and overflowing with bad drivers turned out to be more accurate. The one bright spot still on the horizon, quite literally, as I made my way out of Utah and into Nevada, was the so-called loneliest road in America. The stretch of Highway 50 that cut across the vast nothingness of the Nevada desert was famous for its notable lack of basically anything.

Just miles and miles of empty desert and endless sky. Perfect. With a full tank of gas and a complement of poor health choices freshly procured from a dingy rest stop, I was ready to embark on the only length of my trip I still dared hold out hope for. With a bad hair metal song from the 80s blasting on the radio, the cigarette sticking out of my mouth and my arm hanging out the window, I almost felt like an independent badass forging her own path on the open road. Of course, I was really an inxy college student with a dangerous habit that was slowly killing her on an ill-fated,

sightseeing tour of the most nothing parts of the country. I drove for another few hours or so, keeping myself alert with energy drinks and candy in a display of unsafe driving that would give my old driving teacher a heart attack. By the time my fifth cigarette had burned down to the butt, the sun had disappeared below the horizon, and the sound of distant thunder had overpowered the soft hum of my engine.

I switched the radio station over to the weather. Normally I would have just used my phone, but since leaving the last gas station, there hadn't been a single bar of reception in sight. The small town station was hosted by a cowboyish weatherman whose smooth country voice sputtered out a severe weather warning over my garbage speakers. Howdy, folks? Those you still up at this hour might want to make sure y'all ain't got nothing too nice sitting around outside. We got real bad storm rolling in. Make sure you get all your fancy cars in the garage and try your best to stay off the road now. Well, crap. I pulled out my old lighter and lit another cigarette, a little more frantically than the last one,

and thought about what to do next. I could pull over and wait out the storm, or I could try and power through it, likely dying in the process. I was about to make the sensible choice when the folksy weatherman pipe. with another warning. Well, folks, looks like this here storm's going to be bigger than we thought. If you got anywhere to be tonight, I suggest you either be there already or reschedule, because this spot of nasty weather is going to last too late tomorrow.

Wonderful. Normally, I would have been all about safe driving during bad weather. But the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was waste a day of my vacation sitting in my car on the side of the road. I decided to push through the storm, regardless of how stupid an idea it seemed. Looking back, I should have just turned around right there. My first clue that something was wrong

came when the storm finally hit. The rain pounding against the roof of my car made an almost calming sound that, combined with the grainy weather reports coming over the radio, created an atmosphere so soothing that I almost didn't notice the person standing on the side of the road. I blew right past him, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a man,

probably not much older than me, just standing on the side of the road in the freezing rain. I checked my mirror to be certain I wasn't hallucinating and sure enough, there he was. I was about to turn around and ask if he needed a ride when the cowboy weatherman on the radio, I'd dubbed Tex, gave out some suspiciously relevant, advice. Now, if any of you found folks are still out and about tonight, be careful who you go talking to, you hear? Nights like this tend to inspire the less kindly of us to come out of the woodwork. Uncanny timing aside, Tex made a good point. The kind of person who stands on the side of a desert road at night during a rainstorm was probably not the kind of person I wanted

sitting next to me in a car. I kept on driving, feeling safer with every bit of road I put between me and the would-be hitchhiker. I felt significantly less safe when not even five minutes later, I passed another roadside creep. Just like the last guy, he was perched motionless on the side of the road with a completely vacant expression. The only difference was that this one was holding something. I couldn't tell exactly what, but it looked like an armful of rags or sheets, something shapeless and blobby. After that, things got really weird.

At this point, the storm and the highway weirdos were both ramping up in intensity. The rain was assaulting the roof of my car and the people on the side of the road were appearing more and more. At first, I thought maybe I'd ended up driving through the middle of some people. kind of festival or something. But I realized they were staring at me as I passed. Like they didn't appreciate my intruding on whatever they were doing. The storm kept building. The lightning was now happening so frequently I could see clearly for miles down the road.

There they were. A teeming mass of people gathered on either side of the highway like the New Year's Day crowd in Times Square. I kept on driving. now fully speeding down the highway, desperate to escape whatever strange gathering I'd ended up driving through. It felt like the more I drove, the bigger the crowd got. Throughout all of this, Tex had been dishing out foxy weather reports that I hadn't been paying the slightest attention to.

I was lighting my umpteenth cigarette with a shaking hand when I finally caught what Tex was saying. You should have listened to me, darling. My mouth fell open. I nearly dropped the lit cigarette onto my lap. I was telling you to turn around. I was telling you not to come here. Tex's welcoming tone was long gone,

replaced with a strange kind of anger, like a disappointed parent scolding a child. Honestly, I feel sorry for you. I really do. If we're up to me, we would have done away with this whole business a long time ago. But now there really ain't nothing I can do for you. You belong to them now.

With that, the radio faded out into static. I was once again alone with the sounds of the storm. Needless to say, I was terrified in a way I hadn't known was possible. I floored the gas, throwing all caution to the wind. As I sped down the highway, the creeps only grew in number. I got to the point where I couldn't see anything on either side of the road, just more and more people. There were hundreds easily, and all of them were just standing there.

I was pushing my pickup to its limits. A fact I realized all too late when I heard the sound of the engine giving out and saw smoke coming up from the hood of my truck. I slowed to a stop, stranded in the middle of the sea of weirdos I'd stumbled onto. I sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. I didn't have any cell reception, so calling for help was a bust. Should I just stay here until morning and hope nothing happens? Should I make a run for it?

Unfortunately, I didn't get to make that decision. The people started to fill in around me, occupying every available inch of space on the road. At first, I thought they would break in my windows, drag me out of my car, and carry me away to God knows where. Instead, a group of five gathered at the rear of my pickup and started to push me down the road. The ones in front of me moved forward in mere perfect unison, and in the mirror I could see the endless crowd behind me following this bizarre procession. This unexpected favor didn't make me feel any better. As they carted me off down U.S. Highway 50, Texas' last words over the radio rang in my head.

You belong to them now. They pushed me down the road for what felt like hours. I spent most of that time watching them in my rearview mirror. Whenever one would appear to slow down or get tired, a new laborer would step up to take their place. There was no communication involved. One would begin to falter and another would occupy their position, like they had been waiting for their turn to come around.

None of them seemed to mind the rain, the walking or the cold desert night. I could only see their faces whenever lightning struck nearby, but they all looked calm. They reminded me of churchgoers in prayer. Their heads were bowed slightly and their eyes were closed. I saw that a few were holding bundles, like the man I'd seen earlier.

Eventually, they veered off the highway and onto a dirt side road that plunged deep into the desert. Our tracks slowed to a crows. as they struggled to force my truck through the mud and wet sand. But my mysterious congregation never stopped for even a second. Any slim hope of escape I had before was gone. Even if I could somehow evade the army that surrounded me, I couldn't even see the highway anymore.

Best case scenario, I would get lost in the Nevada desert and either drown in a flash flood or starve to death. Worst case scenario, my new friend, would decide I had offended their hospitality and retaliate. Down that dirt side route, we stopped at what I assumed was their destination. They had brought me to a small rock formation sticking up out of the desert, a mesa only about 30 feet tall. The congregation dispersed, all but the ones who pushed my car gathered at the base of the rock.

They all knelt and bowed their heads. I noticed that some of them carried torches despite the rain. The torchbearers ringed the mesa and stood perfectly still, extending their flames towards the rock. That was when I heard it. It started as a low rumbling that I mistook for thunder at first, but instead of petering out into the distance, this sound kept building and building. It built to a crescendo that I could feel in my bones before erupting into a round. roar. At least, that's the best way I can think of to describe it. It was a sound that reactivated long, dormant regions of my brain, triggering a primal fight or flight response

that hadn't been used since we moved out of our caves. I practically spasmed in my seat, kicking the dashboard and punching the windows and screaming for help. Whether or not the people kneeling a few feet away could hear me, I'll never know. If they did, it didn't seem to trouble. them in the slightest. They started to sing, adding their voices to the roar. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but I could feel the rhythm in my body. As the choir reached the end of their song, the storm came to an abrupt end. The clouds disappeared, and the moon illuminated the entire desert. In the pale light, I saw it. Sitting on top of the mesa was a towering, something.

It seemed to defy every law of existence I'd ever known. It was pale red, like dried blood. Its head, if you could call it that, was a misshapen blob of eyes and teeth that churned and bubbled as if it was still trying to figure out what it was supposed to look like. That was perched on a bloated body,

covered with wounds and gashes, filled with tendrils that writhed like maggots. burrowing deep into its core. More disturbing than any of that was its stomach. Its belly was distended and ripped open, like it had been pregnant and whatever it was carrying had busted out very suddenly. Another roar came from the creature,

and all the people who had gathered around the mesa lifted their bundles into the air. The black tendrils stretched down the sides of the cliff and took the offerings from their hands. The wrappings fell away as they did, revealing the bodies of dogs, cats, chickens, and other small animals. I sat, frozen with fear, as hundreds of black arms piled dead animals at the opening of the creature's open belly. When the last of the offerings were laid, the body of that thing started to shake. Its malformed head let loose a final screech as a clawed hand stretched.

out from inside it and pulled the form it belonged to out of the belly of the beat. This one was amaciated. It looked like it had never in its life eaten enough food to keep it satiated. It was vaguely human-shaped. It had arms and legs and a head. Its skin was tight, like its bones had grown twice as fast as everything else. Its arms and legs were longer than the rest of its body, making it crawl like a spider. It hunched over the pile of animals and shoveled them into its mouth. It tore the meat apart like a wild animal. Its jaw opened farther than seemed possible. Once it had finished devouring its meal, the new creature began to howl.

It wasn't a roar like its parent. It was more like a baby crying. The people began to sing again, but this time the song was softer, a lullaby. The baby's crying changed with the song, becoming more robust and powerful. The gatherers cheered as the baby climbed down from the plateau. As it descended, the torchbearers closed in on the creature. The baby twisted and writhed to avoid their fires as they swung them back and forth. They formed a circle around it, hurting it towards...

Towards me. I went limp as my guards forced open my door. door and dragged me out into the mud, petrified by the primal sense that whatever this monster was, it was truly destined to kill me. I sat on my knees as the baby lurched its way towards me. Even crawling on its hands, it still stood taller than my car. It towered over me. Up close, I could see the places where its skin had been stretched too far and ripped. It smelled like rotting flesh. I braced myself for what seemed like the inevitable. The torchbearers pushed their flames in closer to the beast, and it screamed as the heat got closer. Whatever part of my mind that was still

functioning saw this and realized it's afraid of fire, something I just so happened to have on me at that very moment. I willed my hand to reach into my pocket and grab my lighter. I frantically tried to get the wet piece of crap to spark as the baby stalked closer. None of the people around me seemed to notice. Their attention solely focused on their song. The baby was getting closer, its rancid breath wafting over me. I could count its jagged, crooked teeth and clearly see the sunken pits where its eyes should have been.

The lighter finally produced a tiny flame. As the baby closed the last bit of distance between us, ready to pounce, I should, I shot up with every ounce of energy I had in my body and jammed my lighter into its eyehole. My hand plunged deep into its skull, and I felt the flesh inside it writhe, as if it were made up of the same black worms that infested the body of its parent. The beast recoiled, scampering backwards and bowling over the line of torchbearers behind it, letting out a scream of pain that still echoes in my nightmares. It must have come into contact with one of the torches.

because it screamed even louder and ran towards the rest of the gatherers. The members of the congregation stampeded over each other to escape the baby as it charged through their ranks, swiping its bony claws and dashing people against the rocks. The adrenaline that was keeping me on my feet gave out, and I fell back down to my knees. I must have blacked out for a moment because I opened my eyes to see the shape of the baby running off, deep into the desert. The bodies of several gatherers were lying still on the ground. I sat in the mud until sunrise, my mind reeling.

Once I remembered how to move my legs, I stood up and walked the length of the dirt side road back to the highway, trying over and over to understand what had just happened. I came up empty every time. I stood by the road with my thumb out for a while. I won't even bother guessing how. long, until a trucker stopped and gave me a lift into town. After a few unanswered questions about how I ended up out there, the ride was completely silent, except for the voice of the local weatherman on the radio. Now, it looks like last night's storm has finally passed over our little slice of

heaven. My sympathies go out to any folks who was caught up in it. Driving out on some of these roads and weather like that can lead to some unfortunate occurrences. But I reckon if you're listening to me right now, you must got out fine, right? This is just a friendly reminder from your favorite weatherman. Stay safe out there, folks. Now that the storm is over, I want to take the briefest of moments to talk to you about a very important topic. Getting a good night's sleep. Wait, what? How can you, Mr. No Sleep, McBrace yourself, be talking about sleeping well. Well, it's more about how to make your bed the comfiest, coziest place in which to sleep, like we did with our Buffy Comforter. Oh, this is about Buffy? Say no more. I love sleeping with our Buffy.

Me too. It's not only super comfy. It's also super sustainable. You see, Buffy was worrying about the impact the betting industry has on the environment, so they decided to change it. Their products are made using only renewable and recycled materials, which makes them as soft on the planet as they are on our bed. I couldn't believe it when you told me their debut product. The cloud comforter is covered in super soft eucalyptus fabric and filled with fluffy fiber made from 100% recycled bottles. I know, right?

And it's the softest, fluffiest comforter I've ever tried. Plus, it keeps us at the perfect temperature, so we feel cozy without overheating. I love how it's covered in ultra-breathable eucalyptus fabric. gets softer than cotton and naturally soothes the skin. And as someone with allergies, I'm glad it's hypoallergenic. Its high thread counts shuts out dust, mold, and mites for a healthier sleeping environment. I'm sorry again about bringing all those mites, spiders, and evil spirits into the bed.

Occupational hazard. Uh-huh. I sleep better knowing that the inside fill of each comforter is made from 100% recycled water bottles that are transformed and given a second life as a super fluffy fiber. And no feathers. Truth. The average down comforter harms 12 geese, but Buffy's comforter is cruelty-free.

After only one year, Buffy has recycled and reused over 6 million water bottles. Everyone should try sleeping with a Buffy comforter. And they can. Risk-free. Our listeners can try a Buffy comforter in their own bed for free. If you don't love it, just return it at no cost. How about saving them some money, too? Okay, how's this?

Just visit Buffy. And Buffy.co. And enter code no sleep and you'll get $20 off your Buffy Comforter. A free trial and $20 off the price for the best comforter they'll ever try. How can your listeners resist? Oh, trust me, they won't resist ever. Easy dude. Let's just finish by reminding you of this. For $20 off your Buffy Comforter, visit Buffy.co and enter No Sleep.

And for now, let's get back to being sleepless. Have you ever lived or worked near a playground? It can brighten your day to hear the sounds of children playing, but the sound of the squeaky playground equipment can become annoying and distracting. And in this tale, shared with us by author Ian J. Middleton, we meet a man who's bothered by sounds from the local playground because they happen in the middle of the night. Performing this tale is Joe Sheary.

So if you can't sleep because of the noise, you might have to take matters into your own hands. You'll have to do something to silence the swing. Everyone is familiar with the shrill of an aging swing, the high-pitched resonance that forces the listener into a wince, if allowed to continue unabated. You may have heard it the last time you took your kid to the playground, or while walking your dog through the park, or even dredging up forgotten memories of an age when you enjoyed the same.

simple pleasure of swinging back and fall. At 20 past midnight, that's where the irritable noise should remain as a memory, but not tonight. It's been going on like this for, or at least. I should say something. If Janie were here, she would have told me to say something. She thought it was a blessing that the rear garden backed onto a playground. Less than 10 seconds from dinner table to climb in frame, The estate agent had assured us. It was more like ten minutes once Janie and I had gathered all of Patrick's stuff, and he'd finally put his shoes and socks on. A headache is already brewing.

I roll over on the bed. The other side is just as uncomfortable and offers no improvement on the current situation. There is a pair of earplugs somewhere, bought when we were replacing the bathroom. They were for Patrick. The purchase was such a rookie mistake, getting phone buds into a two-year-old. His head was a nightmare. We went back to the hardware store the same day and got some ear defenders instead. Oh, God, he looked adorable in them.

They continued squeaking claws for my attention and pulls me from the sweet memory. Blood rushes to my muscles. The bed covers are torn off and my feet land heavily on the carpeted floor. I marched to the window and pull the curtains apart with such force that one of the runners springs free and sails across the room. I don't see where it lands. My attention is focused on a solitary figure stood in the playground. Dressed in a long black overcoat, the hood pulled up.

The shadowy character pushes a vacant swing seat back and forth. The squeaking seems to increase in intensity. I look for any others that might be in the park. Drunks or teenagers with no better place to go. Yet the playground is empty. There is no one hanging around on the slide or resting on the sea, or this isn't the suburb for that kind of thing anyway. The house prices see to that.

The only alcoholics around here are the stay-at-home mum's knocking back a bottle of overpriced veno every night. The lonely figure is almost hidden in the darkness, absorbed by the night, and would have gone unnoticed at a casual glance if it were not for the movement of the swing and the accompanying wail. I'd bang on the window with a fist.

The pain of glass rattles within the frame. The figure doesn't. not react. The swing does not slow in its trajectory. I try again to sort it out. It was on the to-do list that Jamie and I are destined never to complete. My attention is diverted to the infernal mechanism as I battle with the lever. It jolts to the side and I shunt the window upwards. As I do so, I look back into the park. The figure is gone. No doubt scared off by the impending confrontation. The satisfied smile grows across my face. I reach for the curtains and notice that the swing is motionless, just like the others around it. Motherfucker! I grab a fistful of duvet and

whip it off the bed. It flies like a ship's sail caught in a storm. I'm at the window and a flash. The curtain flung back with similar intensity. The figure is there again, wearing the same stupid jacket and pushing the same empty swing that amidst that irritating metal and metal cry, my furious eyes remain fixed on him as I forced the window open. There's no fumbling with the latch this time, no chance for this inconsiderate prick

to make an escape while I'm momentarily distracted. The swing continues to glide back and forth, forced into action by two hands attached to a docile owner. Excuse me, mate. I'm leaning out of the window. ensuring that my voice is a little louder. The figure doesn't react. The swing replies instead in the only way it knows how.

Oi, dickhead! Not even a flinch. I pull my body back into the dimly lit bedroom. Right then. Sox are snatched from the wash basket, slippers retrieved from under the bed, wrapping a checkered dressing gown around myself. I'm out of the bedroom and starting down the landing,

down the stairs, The carpet does little to soften the footfalls. From here, I can see the tops of the playground equipment, the launch of the slide, the thin edges of the climbing frame, and the upper outline of the swings. All of the chains are still, save one. Six strides through the unkempt rear garden, and I'm at the hinged panel we built into the fence.

The sliding bolt that secures the entranceway, positioned high up so that Patrick couldn't reach it, is showing signs of rust. Creepers have begun to grow around it, claiming it as their own. There is a throbbing in my temples. My legs feel weak. I attempt to shift the bolt across, but it refuses to move. The swing yells out from what sounds like taunting laughter.

I shoulder the fence panel in response, remembering that it needed to be weighted to allow the bolt to move. An additional security measure that would have had its benefits once Patrick was old enough to reach the latch, but, furiating on my whole body weight at the wooden entranceway, it flexes from the impact. The bulk jumps out of the holster and slides back with a loud bang, announcing my arrival in the most dramatic fashion possible. I scan the area. I listen out for the sound of escaping foot, approaching the stationary swing, forcing back the memories it invokes. I stand where the figure once did. The chunk of moulded plastic appears so

No shriek, no shrill, no cry. It moves as I remember, minus the child's laughter I miss so much. The playground is scanned for a final time. I clear my throat, straight to my posture, and the entranceway through the fence is wide open, as is the back door realization. I quickly survey the house. The bedroom window is ajar. The curtains that shield Patrick's room from the outside world are drawn, as they have remained for the past several months. Pricing myself from the spot, I head toward the house, my attention on the back door. Something flickers above in my peripheral vision. Did the curtain in Patrick's remove? It was probably nothing, wind or something. But on this still night, the increasing sickness in my gut suggests otherwise. The entrance way through the fence is closed but not locked. The back door is left in a similar manner.

Moving through the kitchen, I stop at the counter littered with empty whiskey bottles. The top drawer is eased open, and I removed the largest of the kitchen knives on offer. The Guiottoe Chef Knife. One of the more useful wedding presents we were gifted. I creep into the hallway. Around the chef knife is adjusted. It's held out as if I'm about to cut her wedding cake. That magical day, Janie and I shared a pushed aside. The room is on the right. The door is open, as it always is. It was how he left.

I sneak up across the landing. It feels narrower and more claustrophobic than before and arrive at the entrance to my son's room. A lick, dry lips. There are few places to hide. Under the bed is full of boils that even Patrick struggled to conceal himself within during games of hide-and-seek. I convince myself that I don't need to step inside and investigate further. Satisfied, I move on to the bathroom. Towels are heaped onto the floor, the leaky tap that I've still not got.

round of fixing continues to drip. But nothing is out of the ordnment how it should be. I saw the figure again today, on the way back from the hardware store. I just purchased a tin of oil, can of CRC and a set of bolt cutters for good measure. As I drove past the park, the figure was there, stood in broad daylight surrounded by oblivious children playing under the watchful supervision of their parents. No one paid him any attention as the empty swing. continued to be pushed. From this new vantage I should have been able to make out a face, but the shadow the hood cast created a deep void that swallowed up the light. The figure did not look up, did not acknowledge my presence, and did not allow the swing to come to a rest. But my plan

will soon see that change. It's twilight when I leave the house and head to the rear gate. Much deliberation over a tumbler of cheap scotch, I decided that oiling the chains would simply be a temporary fix, a band-aid over an infected wound. The swing needed to be removed. The limb needed to be amputated. In the fading light, I take the bulk cutters to the chains, snipping them off at the very top. There is to be no option of fixing the playset, no chance of retaliation. The first chain falls to the ground and coils up like an injured snake. The second soon follows, crashing to the ground in a metallic jumble. The evidence of the vandalism is stuffed into my pack.

I consider leaving it as a message. No, leaving it as a warning. A warning that I am not to be messed with, that I am capable of... I choose to remove the seat and the chains, so hindering the chances of repair. I return to the house with the slightest spring in my step. The bag is dropped down,

The bolt cutters are lent against the counter and the latest bottom of scotch is picked up. The tumbler is refilled with a victory measure and the living room sofa welcomes me back when I stir from my drunken slumber. The sharp tang of alcohol hangs in the air. A glance over the side of the sofa confirms that I must have dropped the glass when I passed out. It is another recent addition to the messy patchwork of stains that covers the floor. Soon after moving in, Janie insisted that the garish mint green carpet was replaced with an overpriced stormy grey number. Peeling myself from the sofa, I wobble my way into the kitchen and rinse the empty glass in the sink. It is then filled and I knocked back several mouthfuls of tepid water in the vain attempt to soften the inevitable headache tomorrow.

The tops of the playground equipment are visible in the moonlight. It is possible to make out the hanging chains of the swings, bar one. My dulled senses do not notice the slurred words, or the slight sway in my stance. The tumbler is refilled. I go to leave the kitchen. Then it happens. I spin on the spot. A concentrated fury pumps through my veins.

I launch the tumbler at the back door, and it explodes into thousands of glistening pieces that scatter across the tiled ground. Before they come to rest, the bolt cutters are already within my firm grip. I yank the door open. I don't feel the shards of glass bury themselves deeper into the soles of my feet within each purposeful step. I don't feel the long grass under my bleeding feet. I don't feel the fresh night air against my skin. All I feel, the entranceway through the fence is pulled open, and the sight that awaits me stuns me to an abrupt, being once hung room,

which's cry continues to mock me. It's not from the playground, but from within. Our once perfect, two-bedroom detached home, with its new bathroom, stormy gray carpet, and sun's bedroom I'd not entered since they'd left. I then noticed that the curtains to that hallowed room have been pulled back, erasing pulse hammers at my temples,

deep breaths, launch, spittle, from my lips. I'm at the house in seconds. At the base of the stairs in a blink of an eye, a trail of bloody footprints is left in my wake. There is no hesitation, no concern for creaky floorboards, no second thought given to the intruder who's made a mistake of crossing me. The stairs are taken three at a time. The metallic shrieking intensifies with each step. Shards are driven further into the soft flesh of my feet. The pain isn't comparable to what I'm about to inflict. In the four strides it takes to reach Patrick's room, the bolt cutters are raised up in attack.

My arms shake in anticipation. I launch into the room the significance of the action lost to the seething moment of anger. The figure is stood, frozen in place, in the center of the room, dressed in that familiar long jacket, the raised hood shrouding its face in darkness. Up close, the intruder is larger than I expected. All that means is that he will fall harder. There is no pause. The bulk cutters are swung with indiscriminate force.

They pass through the figure as though they were made of smoke. Black traces followed the trajectory of the weapon. My momentum carries me forward and I crash into the dress that located under the window. Modell toys and folded clothes fall to the ground around me. Stunned, I look back. The figure remains. The void within the hood stares down at me like the barrel of the gun. In the second it takes for me to get to my feet,

I notice an unsteady line of crimson footprints pass through where the intruder stands. Gritting my teeth, the bolt cutters are raised and brought down again. There is no contact. Trails of black smoke chased the improvised weapon into the shelving units. Framed photos crashed to the ground. I remain on my feet and swing the bolt cutters around. as though shooting for a home run.

I watch it pass through the raised hood and bury itself into the cupboard. Yanking the weapon out pulls the unit over. It topples onto me like a breaking wave. Adrenaline-fueled muscles cast it aside as it crashes into the ground. Another victim of my spree. Anger forces me to continue. The weapon collides with everything in the room save the intended target. My vision descends into a watery blood.

My throat burns, my grip on the rubber handle begins to loosen, friction giving way to the building sweat of my palms. I swing for the last time. The bolt cutters leave my hands and sail through the window. The shattering of glass is deafening. Worse than any squeal of an old swing. With hands pressed against my temples, I fall back against the wall and slide down onto the toys and pictures that used to be. be neatly lined up across the shelves. Tears begin to flow. A saltiness coats my lips. I'm at the mercy of my tormentor. Yet he is absent from the triumph. I am alone, as I'm destined to be,

with the consequences of my impulsive rage-filled. Go on my gaze and see a photo frame resting at my slide. The grass is cracked, but the image is still visible. It's of Patrick, playing on his favourite swing, beaming with joy. Janey is in the background, pushing him, sharing in the captured moment of happiness. I remember taking that photo. I remember that we printed it out and framed it that afternoon. I remember it was the last day we spent together. The frame was squeezed within my hands. The wooden frame splinters in resistance then fractures in two, taking the cherished memory with it. It is hurled across the room and added to the carnage. There are now few things left in Patrick's bedroom that have not suffered from the outburst. Up until a few months ago, there was just

one defenseless child. Joining us on our journey down the lost highway, the musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikalski, 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 nosleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass 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 Phase, it feels like you're going to...

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