The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E18

Episode Date: January 10, 2021

It’s Episode 18 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey finds us searching for precious things.“Reunion” written by Ty Bannerman (Story starts around 00:04:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Matthew Bradford, Dad – Jeff Clement, Mom – Jessica McEvoy“Cheap Parking” written by Sarah K. Rodden (Story starts around 00:19:35)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Danielle McRae“Tiny Gods” written by Kenneth Kohl (Story starts around 00:40:10)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Anna – Erin Lillis, Mrs. Eleanor Sprout – Mary Murphy, Tessie – Danielle McRae, Lucy – Nikolle Doolin, Priest – Peter Lewis“The Oneironaut” written by Mediogre (Story starts around 01:02:45) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Mia – Alexis Bristowe“The Lady of the House” written by Darrin Carr (Story starts around 01:14:50)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Luisa – Mary Murphy, Freema – Erika Sanderson, Corrine – Nichole Goodnight, Margaret – Jessica McEvoy, Young girl – Tanja Milosevic  This episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepCaliper CBD – Caliper CBD is a fast, easy way to use CBD. With precise 20 mg doses of dissolvable powder which mix quickly and flavorlessly into any food or drink, you’ll experience all the benefits of CBD without the hassles of oils or tinctures. Get 20% off your first order when you use promo code NOSLEEP at trycaliper.com/nosleep  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Ty Bannerman Click here to learn more about Kenneth Kohl Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Cheap Parking” illustration courtesy of Kelly Turnbull Audio program ©2020 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's a beautiful day. The world feels like a bright, happy place, and I can't wait to keep working towards my goals for much success. We all feel like this, right? Wait, you mean you don't always feel this way? There are times, maybe many times, where you feel like there's something interfering with your happiness or is preventing you from achieving your goals? Yeah, I know what you mean. Look, don't let my cheery demeanor and silky smooth voice fool you. I go through times where I struggle with my mental health. How can we not these days? Even if we manage to avoid the barrage of bad news out there, we still have personal issues to work through.

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And no one should feel like getting counseling is a sign of weakness. Consider how so many people have been using BetterHelp that they're recruiting additional counselors in all 50 states. That means more and more people are getting the help they need, and you can too. Log in any time to message your counselor or schedule weekly video or phone sessions. You get timely, thoughtful responses without leaving your home. And if you decide to change counselors, you can count on BetterHelp's commitment to facilitating great therapeutic matches by making it easy and free to change counselors.

It's also more affordable than traditional counseling. Consider this verified review from a Better Help client speaking about their counselor, Tracy. Tracy has literally been my lifesaver. I could not recommend a therapist more highly. I was skeptical about BetterHelp, but it has been amazing. So, folks, simply put, BetterHelp wants you to start living a happier life today. Visit BetterHelp.com slash No Sleep. That's Better H-E-L-P.

And join the over 1 million people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. And don't tell anyone, but I've got a special offer for No Sleep listeners. You'll get 10% off your first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. And you want more good news? The No Sleep podcast is back, baby, and it's starting right now. Tales of Or Nice Yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. 15, episode 18 of the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Welcome back to season 15 and welcome to 2021, a new year with lots of cool sleepless things ahead.

We have many exciting projects to share with you in the coming weeks, including the road to our big season 15 finale. It's going to be a trippy journey, so make sure you're fully braced. It's good to be back, dear sleepless listeners. We're so glad you're with us. So now, let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we meet a family who are having some relatives over. Getting together with family members can be fun and help strengthen family bonds. But in this tale, shared with us by author Ty Bannerman,

the relatives are just a little bit unusual. You see, they've come back from the dead. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Jeff Clement, and Jessica McAvoy. So take the necessary precautions when zombies come around, even if it's for a reunion. I was 12 years old when they came back. We were playing baseball in the field just down the road from the cemetery. The first sign was a vaguely sweet earthy smell, a bit like weak old roses. that came wafting into our game.

One by one we stopped, turned our faces into the evening light, and looked for the source of the pungent breeze, squinting, holding our hands to block the glare of the sun. We walked to the fence and saw them. They were pulling themselves out of their graves, the surface of the ground-breaking around their bodies as they struggled upward, long shadows stretching out from their reaching limbs. We ran, of course, kids scattering in our own.

all directions. Julia and I jumped fences and bolted across backyards until we were home, panting in the kitchen, our parents chuckling at our apparent desperation. But after we blurted out what we'd seen, they stared in disbelief. Something about our manner made them realize that this, despite how outrageous it sounded, was beyond the usual childish imagination. After a few questions, mom had me and Julia sit at the table while dad jumped into the truck and sputtered off to see what exactly had gotten into our heads. Later, we poked at our pork chops in between excitedly chattering about what we'd seen, and Mom kept looking at the clock and exhaling hard out of her nose.

Finally, the truck rolled back into the yard, and there was my father's portly body, pushing through the back door and shaking his bald head in wonder. You were right. They've come out of the ground. But they're not really doing much. They're just pushed up against the... gate and kind of swaying there.

He told us that other people from the village had driven down to Gawk at the bodies until the police showed up and put up a barricade. We spent the night scared, lying in our beds, listening to the sound of Dad in the other room scanning the radio for any news from the outpost. But they were playing their usual classical filler. But by morning, things seemed as peaceful as ever. Dad drove down again, and when he came back, he said other folks were at the cemetery, hanging out in the backs of pickups, on picnic blankets, or just cross-legged in the grass.

He took us all down that afternoon, and we chatted with the neighbors. People were noting which of the bodies they knew, calling out names from time to time to try to get the attention of a long-departed relative or a friend. Several of the watchers had brought charcoal grills, and the smell of meat filled the air, mixing with the rotten roses. Over the next few days, the town's gossip mail ran wide. with theories about the cause and what might have happened.

It's Armageddon, said some. A government experiment, said others. There were stories of the same thing happening in other places, but few specifics. We heard that Sheriff Johnson had tried radioing out for help. But since the collapse, nobody more than a county away would bother coming to the aid of a small town lawman with the crazy story. On the third morning, the Beaumont Militia made the scene, charging in with a small fleet of pickup trucks and standing guard at the cemetery for a while with their semi-autos and camouflage outfits.

But once it was clear that the debt didn't plan on storming the gates or anything, and once a call came in on their CB that something similar was happening in their own town, they drove off and, frankly, everybody was glad to see them go. They had mostly just drank beer and glared around, looking for a fight. It was only a matter of time before somebody opened the gate. Nobody knew for sure who finally did it, but rumor held that it was Mary Wallace, widowed only six months before. The fact was that her poor dead husband still looked pretty good, and whenever she got close to the gate, he would move his lips like he was saying her name. It finally happened on a Wednesday morning, and the three policemen couldn't do anything to stop the crush of dead folks once the gate was gapped open.

The next thing we knew, there they were, shuffling down the town street. moving towards their old houses and knocking slowly on doors, waiting to be let inside. Grandpa and Grandma came by our place. Mama wouldn't let them in at first, but when the night settled and the rain started, she finally relented and opened the door. In they came, gray skin, greenish mold, strange sweet smell and all. They stayed and we were happy at first. The scent was oddly pleasant, and you got you.

used to their arrested decay. They sat with us at dinner, never eating, but always there and somehow comforting. Grandma's hair was the same as it had always been, and from the back you could hardly tell the difference. Grandpa had never really said much anyway, so his silence was familiar, and soon we were living our lives just as we had before they passed. Sometimes they got in the way, lingering in the hallway or stopped in a door frame, but you could lead them from room to room and sit them down in an out-of-the-way seed. Eventually, though, they'd rise and shuffle meanderingly into another corner of the house for who-nose-what reason.

Soon, every kid in town was bringing their debt to school for show-and-tell. The presenter would roll down the list of who their dead had been and when they'd come back, and we'd yawn since they were all pretty much the same stories. Uncle so-and-so who'd run the tractor shop. A paw-paw who'd grown alfalfa and liked Humphrey Bogart movies. sister Jacey who'd been a school teacher. The part we looked forward to

was sitting with the dead at lunch, comparing height and weight and state of decay. It got to a point that teachers sent home notes asking parents to please not send dead to school anymore as they'd become a distraction. Uncle Adam arrived after the show and tell letters were sent home, his gangly body standing by the porch window on a June evening, scratching at the screen with his remaining hand.

He was in worse shape than Grand. on grandpa, and we kids had barely known him while he was alive, but we let him in anyway. He took up a post in the living room armchair, watching whatever reruns the outpost station was airing. We kids kept away from him. There was a smell of old cigarettes mixed with a sweet earth about him, and if someone changed the channel, he would moan low and angry, like a cornered tomcat. In the evenings now, there were always a few dead shuffling by our house, newly emerged from older graves or further away cemeteries and on their way to whatever houses flickered dimly in the rotted and mummified mines. Many of these were hardly recognizable as people. Missing limbs, naked bone, and tattered flesh

was the norm on this new batch. Once, I saw a head being pulled along by a severed arm. The skull's teeth latched onto a tattered ribbon of beef jerky skin that trailed from an exposed bone. The fingers stretched out and dug into the uneven asphalt and the heads scraped behind it. It was agonizingly slow, a mere inch at a time. After watching for a few minutes, I closed the blinds and turned away. Some my parents recognized, dimly remembered from their own childhoods and the yellowed photos in old albums, and some nobody knew. There were always several outside now, and when we stepped out, they tried to push their way inside. The babies were the worst. You'd open a door not knowing they were there and hit the tiny bodies with a thwack.

A few got in to clutter up the rooms and were always underfoot. Clouds of ash now hung suspended in my sister's bedroom. They did little but swirl gently in the morning sunbeams, but they made Julia cough. She moved into my room, spreading her sleeping bag on the floor. You tried to keep most of the dead out, but every day you'd come face to face with a new body, and with all the extra guests, the dinner table was now a crowd of desiccated limbs and flesh at every meal time. The scent of sweet earth became cloying. I opened my bedroom door to find the body of a long-lost relation I didn't recognize bedded down in my sheets.

Dad helped me move her, but she came back and would scrape her fingernails across my closed door all night long. Even though the house was packed, it didn't really get bad until my mother's grandfather arrived. Please don't let him in. Never let him in. But the corpse of Aunt Hilda had taken to absently turning the doorknob if you didn't push her away. Soon enough, Grandfather Peterson was inside. Whenever my mother laid eyes on him, she crossed her arms enough to keep her insides from spilling out and left the room. It was too much then.

My parents talked about doing something, but what could be done? We tried pushing some of them outside, but they'd just linger there until the door was open long enough for them to blunder back in. You could lead them away from the house, but they'd return in a few hours. And besides, Moore kept arriving, a few every day. We heard that one of the neighbors had, in a fit of rage, taken an axe to one of their dead, then burned and dismembered the remains. But the cloud of ashy smoke only drifted back into their home. Now it smelled of burning flesh in their living room.

After hearing this, Mama said, Well, maybe we should just burn the whole house down then. I'm still not sure if she was serious. Every room was now crowded to the point that you had to push dead aside to enter or exit. Uncle Andy moaned in front of the television. Unknown Ash covered every surface. Aunt Hilda opened the door to anybody that scratched on the window. Grandfather Peterson became more aggressive

and followed my mother from room to room. Sometimes she would turn around. around and shove them to the ground, but he just got back up again. Tears were constantly welling up in her eyes, and she screamed when the dead blocked her path. But Grandfather Peterson was always there, right behind her, sometimes his leathery fingers tangled in her hair. We built barricades then, walls of furniture and discarded plywood from the garage. We tried to make the kitchen our sanctuary, even letting Grandma and Grandpa stay at the table. But the press of bodies against the barracks, arcades was a constant erosive force. Every meal time, the furniture wall would tremble. A section

would collapse and we'd be overwhelmed by the flood of dead once again. We'd struggle to push them back, soon not even caring that grandma and grandpa were caught in the crush. The next day would be the same. Worse, the stress was taking a toll. My parents yelled at each other. I sulked silently in the empty corner and my sister avoided everyone. I felt like a castaway adrift, on a sea of bodies, my fellow survivors growing smaller in the distance. One day, my mother and father were pushing a group out the back door. Once outside, Mom grabbed the can of gasoline and started dowsing of bodies even as they shuffled back toward the house.

Dad pushed them back into a clump, even as mom pulled out a book of matches. But before she could strike, she froze, and I saw why. Grandma and Grandpa were there too, standing beside each other, their hands touching. Dad realized it, then sank to his knees, cradling his head in his hands, moaning in frustrated despair. Mom threw the matches down and stalked back into the house. It was only a day or so before the whole group was back inside. In the end, there was only one choice, really. One morning, a week later, Dad came to my room, weaving his way through the whole group.

the crowd of dead. We're going. He took my hand. We pushed our way down the stairs and into the backyard where a small pile of supplies had been gathered. Dad and I hooked the trailer up to the truck while Mom and Julia went back inside for a few more things. We packed what we could and then said goodbye to the dead we loved, pushing our way back

in to hug Grandma and Grandpa's passive husks. For just a moment, they looked at us like they understood. Then their faces were blank masks. When we got into the car, Dad cleared his throat like he was going to say something. But then Grandfather Peterson was at Mom's window, his fingers clumsily stroking the glass, leaving a thin trail of filth on its surface. Mom covered her face. Dad started the car and pulled out of the driveway.

He drove slowly around a shuffling body, and then we were headed through town. Everywhere we looked, we saw our neighbors in their own cars, pulling out of their own driveways, seating their homes to the dead just as we were. The highway was clogged with even more doing the same thing. Dad cursed under his breath but kept driving out. Will there be dead where we're going? He didn't answer for a long moment. Finally, he muttered.

Yes, but they won't be ours. If you've ever driven in a big city, you know the real horror story facing you. Finding affordable parking. The search for a place to leave your car can be an arduous task. And in this tale, shared with us by author Sarah K. Rodden, we meet a woman who's been fortunate to find a parking garage for a good price. But as we all know, sometimes you get what you pay for.

Performing this tale is Danielle McCray. So maybe you'll consider taking public transit next time, instead of looking for cheap parking. I live in Nashville, and the worst thing about it is the parking. Nashville is a city growing faster than it can keep up with or accommodate. That means parking, especially in downtown Nashville. It's getting scarcer and more expensive all the time. I avoid downtown like the plague to keep my spending low,

but sometimes it's inevitable. Tonight, for example, I'm squeezing my tiny hat. back through congested one-way streets, and the throng of tourists is an effort to make it to a birthday celebration for a girl who I'm only friends with because of my best friend, but who I'm just slightly too close to bail on her. She wanted to have an authentic Nashville tourist experience, because, having moved here for college, she'd never really been a tourist, or at least that's what the Evite said. regardless of her reasoning, I think it's stupid, and all I want is to be home with Netflix. I got to downtown early, and I'm stubborn enough to drive around as long as it takes to find cheap or free parking.

I squeezed down a side street, scanning signs that stand on a sidewalk. You have to be careful, because sometimes the signs say things like free parking in big letters or, and for the first hour and tiny print underneath. After that one hour, it ratchets up, and they essentially rob you blind while holding your car hostage. I passed several free parking garages and a couple of $5 parking with the caveat on it, doubling after the first hour. I groan, frustration growing, and pulled down an alley between two office buildings to cut across to the next major street. and I see it, a sign that says $5 parking for 12 hours or less.

I slamming my brakes, scanning the sign for any hidden caveats. No, it really says $5 to park for up to 12 hours. I have to turn pretty sharply into the garage, but my car squeezes into the narrow entrance. The gate is painted black, but the paint is chipping, and it's clear this is not a garage. that is being well maintained. It feels weird, given that the alley runs between two office buildings that are eight or more floors each.

It doesn't seem to be attached to either building, though. The gate rises when I push the small green button and it spits out a ticket. The garage is clearly all underground, and the pavement immediately angles down, taking me deeper under the city's streets. The pathway curves to the right, and I'm on the first level of parking. The entire floor is filled with cars, which makes sense given the incredible price. I keep driving, going down two more levels of completely full lots. It occurs to me just how deep underground I am now, and I feel a small twinge of anxiety in my gut.

I'm not really claustrophobic, but thinking about it. all those layers of dirt and concrete above me make me uncomfortable. I turn the corner, expecting to descend to level four, but instead I come to a stop. There's a fork in my path. The garage itself splits off in two different directions like an old country road. I have never seen a garage that is more than a square area that winds up or down, but I suppose in a city like Nashville, this could be the only way to build a big enough structure while keeping the costs low. I check my rearview mirror to make sure no one is behind me, and I consider turning around and heading back for the exit. Except, I didn't see an exit when I drove in.

Most garages I use in Nashville have their entrance and exits side by side on the first level. But thinking back, there is only the entrance gate that was barely big enough for a standard-sized car. The pit in my stomach grows. I swallow hard, chucking in my phone. I have two bars, and I have a feeling those are holding on by a thread. My eyes dart between the two paths. I can turn around, drive back to the entrance, get out of my car, and go find someone to open the gate. No, I tell myself.

I'm being silly and paranoid. There are no signs to indicate if one path is preferable over the other. So I close my eyes and eny-mini-money-moit. I choose the left side. I take another moment's pause, checking the rear-view mirror again, and chewing on my lip an indecision. Now that I'm observing the pavement I drove down, I'm not even sure it's wide enough for me to turn around and head back the other way.

So I turn my wheel to the left and head down the small tunnel. The tunnel isn't anything remarkable. Just a squared cement passageway with dull lighting mounted at the top of the walls. I emerge from the tunnel and start to see more parking spots available. But there's something wrong. The cars here are old and broken down. Like they've been sitting in this parking garage for years, abandoned and left to rest. I swallow against the tightness in my throat, and I think it's for the best to head to the exit and find another place to park.

But I haven't seen any exit signs. Most parking garages have signs at the end of each floor that point you towards the exit. I haven't even seen a single sign indicating which way I should go to get out of this damn garage. garage. I crack a window, just enough to get a little bit of air flowing through my car. I was starting to feel hot, and I have my air conditioner on, but feel stale. It's a mistake that I rolled down the window, though. I don't drive more than a dozen feet farther when I hear a sound from somewhere on the concrete structure. It sounds like a corridor slamming, which is normal, except I haven't seen a single other human being in this garage. It makes me jump, and I slam on my brakes without really thinking

it through. Just a fearful reaction to the noise. I sit there for a minute, looking around and trying to locate the sound. There is no one. Not a single other person is on this level or any of the other levels I have driven through. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and counting back from 10 to help calm my nerves before I start driving again. The level slopes and curves to the right, and the lighting gets dimmer and dimmer. Pretty soon, the only thing lighting my path are tiny bare bulbs every six feet, hanging from the ceiling and my headlights. The cars get older and more dilapidated as I go on, and I finally stop my car and put it in park right there in the middle of the drive. My head, hands are shaking as I take my phone off the mount on my dash to check the signal. Zero bars.

Shit. I look around, trying to see if there's an exit sign I've just been missing. But there's nothing. But I see movement. From a row of cars sitting against the wall, I see it. Between two cars so rested and broken down that I can't even tell what color they were supposed to be. A black figure stirs. My window is still cracked. I leave it that way, despite the voice in my head, telling me to seal myself into the car, so I'll be able to hear any potential threats. The shape moves unevenly and with staggering steps. I hear its noises now. A low, thin moan comes through my window. The walls of the parking garage seem to absorb noise so that sounds aren't even echoing. So by the time I can hear the thing, it's already significantly closer to me.

That's when I realize the thing isn't a thing at all. It's human. It's a huddled, crooked man with what looks like a ratty black blanket clutched around him. The closer he gets, the more I can see of him. His skin is pale and papery like he hasn't been the sun for years. The yellow hue was even more pronounced under the bare bulbs. His eyes are milky like he's starting to lose his sight. But they aren't totally clouded over. He is saying something. His cracked lips form the same word over and over again that I can't hear or make out. I keep my doors locked and roll up the window, speeding off. Nashville has a lot of homeless people. But that wasn't like any homeless men. I've ever seen.

That was barely human. The shell of someone that has been down here for ages with no adequate light, definitely no sunlight, and no real human contact. I look in my rear view mirror to see if the man, the thing, is following me. I don't see him, but when I shipped my gaze back to the path in front of me, I had to slam on my brakes. There's an old, rusted, practically falling apart truck sitting right in the middle of the path, totally blocking my way. Shit. I sit there for a moment, trying to figure out what I can do now. Then I hear something. I crack my window even less than I did before, and my blood

runs cold. The sounds are those of people crying out in the distance. It's just a little. It's just loud enough to seep into my car. My radio turns on on its own. It's just white noise, and the volume cranks all the way up. I slam my hands over my ears instinctively, the white noise jarring all my senses. I drop one hand to the radio button, pressing it quickly and repeatedly to try and turn it off. That doesn't work, so I fidget with the volume dial, but nothing happens. If anything, the static seems to increase even more,

which shouldn't be possible since the volume is already at the max of 20. I stumble out of my car out of pure panic, tumbling onto the concrete floor hard. My corridor hangs open, the white noise continuing to rise. I cover my ears, climbing to my feet and closing the door. It muffles the static enough that they can uncover my ears. Not even my footsteps echo. It's like all reverberation is just swallowed up.

I can't say what, but something compels me toward the truck sitting in my path. Slowly I approached the rusted blue vehicle. My arm hairs prickle. A shiver runs down my spine. I reach out with a shaking hand, slowly slipping my fingers into the handle. The white noise in my car is still. roaring, filling my mind. I'm running on pure autopilot as I pull the rusted handle and I feel the lock pop open. The truck door swings open and I fall back in pure horror. The cab is filled

with blood and guts and viscera. It seems impossible if this happened recently. Yet the blood is wet and dripping and the guts that cover the floor and cracked vinyl seats look fresh enough to be in a butcher shop. I see them, all of them. Forms emerge from between and underneath the vehicles surrounding me. They're all hunched and pale with the skin as thin as paper like the man I saw before. They're all dressed in rags with nearly blinded eyes and joints that seem painful to move. I hear the word they're repeating, like a chant. The word I know now. The word I know now. the man had been saying before. Car, car.

They look and sound desperate. Desperate to get to the one working vehicle in this entire fucking place. I scrambled to my feet, rushing to my car and throwing myself inside. I lock the doors and slam the button of my radio again, trying to turn off the white noise. But now I hear actual sounds and sound. static. I hear, I hear screaming, screaming like nothing I've never heard. It's awful, desperate sounds like people screaming from hell. I hear the pain and the anguish and the desperation. The screaming

gets louder, overtaking the white noise. The people are closing in on my car. There are adults and children, all androgynous in their dirty and degraded states. Her shells, desperate to escape this prison. I throw my car in the drive, slamming on the gas and screeching around the truck, clipping a couple of cars that smash my bumper, but I can't stop. I drive fast. The screams get louder the farther into the garage I go. And more and more of the scuttle figures pour out from between.

mean and from underneath the cars. The garage just keeps going deeper and deeper, darker and darker. Blood splatters the wall, slick and fresh like the gore inside that truck. The sickening sounds of agony coming from my radio make me dizzy. My head swims and my vision clouds. I hear the sounds of metal on metal, screeching as my car slams into something. I don't even have time to restructure. pain before everything goes black. I don't know how long I've been down here. I woke up,

covered in shards, glass, and blood. My car was smashed up against a concrete wall. But despite the horrible damage, I managed to wriggle my way out of the wreck. I used the back seat for refuge as long as I could before the sounds of those things started to get closer. I tried to find my way back to the surface, but it's like a maze. It feels like the walls move when I'm not watching. I'm trying to avoid the others, trying to make my way to the entrance, trying to get out of hell. That's what it feels like anyway. Like maybe I'm in hell? I don't know how long I'll be myself. These others, they were themselves once, and now they are nothing but shadows of humans. Time doesn't make sense here.

Sometimes it feels like walking between parking spaces takes me a week, but making it to another level takes a few minutes. The longer I'm here, the more warped my sense of time and space becomes. I'm losing me if I was ever me to begin with down here. Wait, did you hear that? I think I just heard a car. A car. Parking sure is stressful. Before we get back to the show, we've got the perfect thing to help with stress.

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Uh, maybe. Hmm, fair enough. Well, now let's retire to the land of horror and return to the show. Imagine what it would be like to retire with a good income. Now imagine being able to do that at a relatively young age. That's happened to Anna, and Anna has moved to Maine to settle down and enjoy life. But as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Kenneth Cole, The small island she chose to live on off the coast is a unique place,

and the residents there have some rather strange traditions. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Mary Murphy, Danielle McCrae, Nicole Doolin, and Peter Lewis. So be grateful for your good fortune, maybe even offer a prayer of thanks. Just be sure to avoid those tiny gods. Did you know that the state of Maine has 3,478 miles of coastline? 51 miles more than California. Pretty impressive, don't you think? Most of that seaside real estate is located on one or another of over 3,000 small islands off the mainland.

With hundreds of towns to choose from, I was unlucky enough to pick Northwick for my retirement years. I was not what most people would consider old enough to retire from my career, but I had been blessed with large windfall that would allow me to live out my life without having to work another day. Ha! If only I'd known how short a time that would be, I'd have been much less frugal. In such a small town, I knew it would be virtually no time before some neighbor came over to welcome me. The knock on my door came just one day after I had moved the last of my things into my small Cape Cod home. I opened the door to find a frumpy middle-aged woman in an equally frumpy dress waiting on my stoop. She had an impatient look on her face as if she was put out.

She smiled at me. Oh, hello. I came over to welcome you to the neighborhood. It's not often that we see fresh blood around these parts. I felt unnerved at her use of the phrase fresh blood, but I tried to be friendly anyway. Hello, I'm Anna, Anna Lambert. It's lovely of you to stop by, Miss. Mrs. Eleanor Sprout.

Hello, Eleanor. Oh, may I call you, Eleanor? She pursed her lips as if she'd just tasted an unripe lemon. You certainly may not. Okay, then. I opened the door a little further. Do come in, Mrs. Sprout. Please excuse the mess, but I'm sure that you know how it is, moving and all.

She shook her head tersely. No, I do not know. I've lived on the island all my life. I was born here, and I expect to die here. Everyone dies here eventually. Boy, I hope that all my new neighbors were not. Not like Mrs. Sprout. Even one woman like her was more than enough.

And to think she had been the neighbor who was kind enough to act as the welcoming committee. I patted the couch cushions to brush off some dust and offered her a seat and a drink. She declined the drink. It was then that I noticed she was holding a snow globe. You know, one of those things that you are occasionally gifted as a child, usually contains a pretty scene or photos. surrounded by plastic flakes of white stuff. This one seemed very simple. It had a glass sphere of about three inches in diameter,

mounted to a simple, round, wooden base that had been stained a dark color. There was a little brass plaque on it. I couldn't see the scene inside because of the way Mrs. Sprout held it cradled like a baby in her lap. She was even stroking it like a baby. We chatted for a bit, mostly about me. Why had I come to her island?

How could I afford it? Why didn't I have a husband like other women of my age? Some even more intrusive questions. She had only been there for 15 minutes, but it seemed like hours to me. It was an awkward situation, as she obviously didn't warm up to me, and I just wanted it to be over. She finally stood up to leave, and we made our final goodbyes at the door. As an afterthought, I presumed that the snow globe had been a housewarming gift and pointed to it. Oh, uh, is that for me?

From the look on her face, you would think that I had casually asked her if she enjoyed eating babies or something. She grasped the globe even tighter and pulled away snarling. No, of course not. What sort of presumptuous bitch are you? Wide-eyed, she turned and stalked away, leaving me with my jaw, hanging open and eyebrows raised. Boy, that was unexpected. What the hell? It took me a bit to compose myself. Confusion, anger, I can't even tell you the other emotions that I was feeling. It took a stiff drink to get me calm down enough to resume my cleaning. Just as I was beginning

to forget the odd encounter, another knock came at my door. I groaned. I groaned. wondering what this neighbor would be like. I tried to put on a smile, and when I opened the door, I found Mrs. Sprout standing on my doorstep once again, this time with her eyes downcast and a sheepish look on her face. Oh, Anna, I'm afraid that I've been quite rude.

I thought that you were being presumptuous by assuming that the globe was for you. But now I realize that you're new to town. How could you possibly know? I raised an eyebrow. Know what? That it was mine, of course. Then she leaned in close.

You wouldn't, by the way, want one of your own. I assume that it would be polite to agree. Why, yes, I would like one. It looks beautiful. Although I hadn't really gotten a close look at it. For the first time, she actually looked friendly, truly friendly, dough-eyed even. Oh, honey, I am so glad to hear that.

It will change your life. It will save your soul. I can tell that we will be the best of friends. The best of friends? Wow, that was a change of direction. I was not going to argue, though, and begged off saying that I would look forward to seeing her again soon. She said that very soon

She'd bring me one of my own And I'd finally feel complete I just smiled and waved goodbye It took a few days But the other islanders eventually warmed up to me I suppose that it had something to do with Mrs. Sprout She seemed to be a gossip and a busybody I guessed accurately I suppose

That if she thought of me as the best of friends As she so poignantly said then others would follow in her footsteps. There were two other women that I took an interest in, or perhaps they took an interest in me. There was Lucina Broadwell, who did allow me to call her by her first name. Her nickname, actually, Lucy.

There was also Tessie Perkins. I had not gotten to Tessie as well as Lucy, because she was a bit withdrawn. I wanted to get to know her because, like myself, she was not an original occupant of the island, hailing instead from New Jersey. I sensed that Tessie was not well accepted by the islanders, but I made it a point to stop by her place to introduce myself.

We had a discussion over tea one afternoon. We were discussing Mrs. Sprout and Lucy when Tessie shook her head. Stay away from those old bitties. In fact, get out while you still can. Get out? What's that supposed to mean? It means get off this god-forsaken island before it's too late. Tessie, I think that it's too late. I just bought a house, just moved all my things here.

I'm here to stay. In fact, Mrs. Sprout was just saying something to that effect. We all die here. Odd way to put it, but I imagine that means it's her forever home. I pulled a face. Really, Tessie, it can't be all that bad. It is that bad, Anna. Trust me, you do not want to stay here.

A house, your things. They're not worth your life, are they? My God, girl, I'm beginning to see why they hate you. I put up my hands in a back-off gesture. I don't mean that I hate you, but they might. You're giving their island a bad rap. I know that it's not New Jersey, but still, it has a certain charm about it, doesn't it? I can see it's too late.

Sounds like they have gotten to you. Go ahead. Enjoy your stay while you can. just don't accept one of those little things they carry around. She had spat out the word things as if it were something horrible. I knew that she meant the snow globes. I had seen people carrying them everywhere. The grocery store, the library, the post office?

Weird, yes. Dangerous? How could they be? I thought good and hard about that conversation. At first, I thought that Tessie was half joking. than just plain old overreacting. Okay, so she obviously hated it here on the island. I could tell from her home that she didn't have the means to move away,

or I would have asked her why she didn't leave if it was as bad as she made it out to be. I had promised to stop at Lucy's house for tea the next afternoon, and I found out that the islanders had mutual feelings for Tessie. Lucy left me alone in her little sitting room while she moved about the kitchen of her tiny house. She prepared some tea and a plate of cookies while she spoke to me. You just stay away from that girl, Anna. Mark my words. She is trouble.

Why do you say that? I walked slowly around the room, examining some little figurines she had and some pictures and antique-looking frames. She just hasn't even tried to fit in, I suppose. It's not like we haven't tried. You know, I've invited. her to church a few times and she refuses. Maybe she's just not the religious type. Not the...

Lucy stuck her head around the corner. Did you say not the religious type? Well, what does that say about her then? I didn't want to offend her and I tried to make it sound innocuous. I'm not exactly what you would consider holier than thou either, Lucy. I could hear Lucy's sputtering cough from the kitchen and imagine the shocked look on her face. I waited for her to come back to the sitting room

and tell me to get out of her house, but she did not. She didn't even respond. I continued my tour of the sitting room, looking at her everyday objects to get a better idea of who she was. Then my eyes alighted on an item sitting in a place of glory on her fireplace mantle.

I don't know how I had missed it earlier, that is how obvious it was. It was a snow globe. This was the closest I had been to one since coming to the island, and here I was alone with it. I could finally get a good look at what was so special about them. As I approached it, I noticed that it was, for all intents and purposes, empty, just one tiny object floating in the middle, barely visible. I reached out to take it down from the mantle when Lucy came back into the room. I jumped, caught in the act, and immediately started apologizing. I'm sorry. I just wanted to get a... Just wanted to what? Steal my relic? Well, no sorry, missy. Not today. She put the tea kettle down, no doubt

leaving a burn mark on her end table. Then she began ushering me out, chewing me with her hands. I must say that I was pissed at her behavior. It was just a damn snow globe. Well, fine. Mrs. Sprout said she'd bring me one of my own, and you can be sure that you'll be the last to see it. I scowled and repeated her insult. Missy.

This instantly had a calming effect on her. Wait, Alaner said that she'd give you one? I gave her a sideways glance. Yes. One of the lesser gods, no doubt. Eleanor wouldn't give you anything important. She's stingy, and... And besides, she does not really know what you are, heretic.

Lesser what? What did you say? A guilty look took over her face. Nothing. Nothing. Just go. Go! She shooed me out the door again.

I started noticing them everywhere. I mean everywhere. Now that I was looking for them, I noticed even more. They would be poking out of women's purses. I could see globe-shaped bulges in briefcases, in coat pockets. I kept trying to get close enough to examine one, but I didn't want to seem too nosy. I became aware of how protective people were over them.

I even tried to cautiously make a point of using the words, lesser God in conversations. I was always greeted by a look of confusion. Then the person would attempt to change the subject or distract my attention. The day finally arrived. Mrs. Sprout had telephone to say that she had my globe and would be bringing it over. I awaited her arrival with both excitement and trepidation. What would I see when I looked into one of these globes? I sat on my couch with my hands clasped together in my lap and stared at the door. door, willing Mrs. Sprout to knock. When she finally did, I flew to the door and flung it open.

Well, I could tell that someone is happy. She beamed. She held a globe in her hands, which I recognized as hers. At first, I thought that she was going to gift it to me after all. Then I noticed the little bag that hung from her wrist. It looked like a bag from a gift shop, beautiful with alternative. stripes of white and pale gold. Gold tissue poked from the top of the bag. I could see that she had wrapped it with great care. She transferred her snow globe to one hand and handed the bag to me. I eagerly accepted the present and looked at her as a child on Christmas. May I open it now?

Of course, child, of course. We had better sit down. We both dropped the couch, facing each other, knees together. I carefully extracted the tissue from the bag and set it aside on the couch. Then I pulled my snow globe from the bag. It was empty. To be more exact, it was not completely empty. The globe itself resembled Mrs. Sprouts,

a three-inch sphere on a stained wooden base. It was filled with liquid, what I assumed to be water or glycerin, whatever they put in snow globes, But nothing else. Not even any of the fake snow. Wait, there it was. A speck floating in the liquid, barely visible to the naked eye, even smaller than the speck I had seen in Lucy's globe.

Also, like Mrs. Sprout's snow globe, this one had a brass plate affixed the base with two small nails. I read it aloud, or at least attempted to. Mamakonoth. It's pronounced Maconoth. dear. I tried to hide my disappointment, but not very well. Mrs. Sprout seemed concerned. It looked like her feelings were hurt, but she immediately started to apologize. I'm sorry, Anna. I know it's nothing like Chebac here. She gestured toward her globe. But I guarantee that he will bring

you boundless joy in the years to come. I forced myself to brighten and smiled. I set down the snow globe and grabbed Mrs. Sprout by both hands. I'm sure that I will. Thank you, Mrs. Sprout. Oh, no, darling. Please call me Eleanor. Really? I mean, of course I will. This truly is beautiful. I was just taken by surprise, left speechless. Thank you so much. Of course, Anna. I misinterpreted your reaction. I remember now how all struck I was when I first saw Chebac.

She nodded again toward her globe reverently. You know, like the Japanese greet each other as a sign of respect. Now, I do not expect to see you without him from now on. You must keep him with you at all times. Oh, okay. And I expect to see you in church this Friday. She wagged her finger. Nine o'clock sharp.

You know where it is, don't you? I replied in the positive. Surprisingly, I did know where it was. It was the only church in town, and it was obvious in its absurdity. Yes, it resembled a snow globe. In place of a glass sphere, though, there was a polished dome, which shined a bright white. I couldn't tell if it was made of concrete or some sort of plastic like fiberglass. The entrance was in what would be the base of a snow globe,

and the plaque above the door read, First Church of Northwick. I caught Mrs. Sprout, Eleanor, before she left. Bring the globe, right? Nacchanoff. Of course. Why would you come to church without him? Friday evening arrived and,

feeling a bit silly, I carried my snow globe to the church. Dozens of town residents milled about outside, no doubt waiting for the doors to open. It bordered on ludicrous, seeing all these people respectfully carrying their snow globes. I received many friendly greetings and nods more than I had ever been given before, most likely because I had my snow globe with me. Once the doors were thrown open, people filed in. I followed, and we climbed a set of spiral stairs, which I deduced took us up into the globe on top of the structure.

As people entered the globe, they began placing their individual snow globes into niches in the sides of the structure. Eleanor found me and guided me toward a niche that had already been labeled Maconoff. I placed the globe in the cubbyhole and stepped back. Then I felt as if I just had to know more. I needed to know what this was all about. It was just too ridiculous. Mrs. Sprout, Eleanor, I'm sorry. Truly, I am, but, well, I really don't understand what all of this is about.

Why does everyone carry the snow globes? Why is there nothing in them? What are we doing here? First, she gave me a look of slight disappointment, then understanding. The tension dropped out of her shoulders, and she pulled me to the side. She spoke quietly. Dear Anna, these are not snow globes, as she called them. That is a very derogatory term, and the islanders do not like it.

It is enough to get you labeled as a heretic. There is something in them. Each one contains a god, a god of a different universe. They were once of ours, but they transcended. Good people, chosen people became saints and transcended into other universes. They each became gods of their own cosmos. You see? Each globe contains a universe, and each universe has one god.

I blinked. Crazy! I spoke a little too loudly. People began looking over at us. Is that what this is all about? You people are nuts! The globes in the walls began to glow, As the volume of my voice intensified, so did the light thrown off by them.

I looked around and everyone was staring. Then they started chanting, heretic, heretic, heretic, heretic. The gentleman stepped forward. I had never met him, but I could tell by the way he was dressed that he was important, a priest of some sort. He put up his hands and shushed the crowd. Not a heretic, my children. She's simply a non-believer.

She must be shown. He smiled at me, an understanding smile, like a parent readying to explain to a child why the sky is blue. Come closer, hot. I didn't understand how he knew my name, but there were a lot of things I didn't understand about this place, about these people.

I approached him. He ushered me toward a large snow globe. Sorry, I mean globe. He gestured toward it, bowed in its direction, then pointed. This is Mobra, the old one. One of the greater gods, one of the first. He reached into his robes and pulled out the most magnificent-looking magnifying glasses I had ever seen. Mahogany handle, gold-plated rim, a crystal lens.

It must have been an antique. He placed it near the globe and beckoned to me. Come on a sea. I hesitated, then approached the glass. I peered into it and was first astonished, then horrified. Inside, floating in the center of the liquid contained within, was a tiny man. He moved.

He looked at me. He saw me. Do you see the great Mobra? He is the most holy of saints. Do you see how he prays? It is all he does. He gazes out upon his universe and praise. I did see.

I did see. did see Mahabra, and I did see how one could mistake his actions for praying. He cast his mournful eyes up at me. He clasped his hands together and shook them. But he was not praying. He was pleading. I didn't know what he wanted, but he seemed to think that I could give it to him. I know now that he wanted to find a way out. In lieu of that, he wanted to find a way out. In lieu of that, he wanted to someone to put an end to his misery. And how long has he, has Mahabra been around? The great one has passed from generation to generation.

For as long as people have inhabited this island, perhaps longer. It is said that he was brought here from the old country. I didn't know what old country he meant, but it didn't matter anymore. I heard a sound, a loud screaming. Then I realized that the screaming was coming from me. People looked at me. The globes began to glow again. Brighter, brighter, a blinding light.

When I regained consciousness, I could tell that a great deal of time had passed, but I couldn't tell how long. I looked around but saw nothing but soft white light. I heard nothing. I felt nothing. I was weightless. I was startled when the light brightened from one direction.

Was it up, down? I didn't know. But the light was followed by the appearance of a face, an enormous face. The largest face I had ever seen looking at me, gazing at me with what seemed like boundless love. I am trapped in a snow globe. You know, one of those things that you are occasionally gifted as a child? It usually contains a pretty scene or photo surrounded by plastic flakes of white stuff.

Now it contained only me, and it would for a very, very long time. My name is... Anna Etraal. 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 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 edition, 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. Has the darkness fades? It feels like you're going to. This audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason. Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.