The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E01

Episode Date: April 4, 2021

It’s the premiere episode of Season 16. Our correspondence deals with horrors from the past.“What Our Blood and Cannons Brought” written by Lenin Roman (Story starts around 00:02:10)Produced by: David CummingsCast: Narrator – David Cummings“Manifestation” written by Morgan Koch (Story starts around 00:27:40)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Detective Kay – Erin Lillis, Detective Hue – Sarah Olivia, Sarah – Jessica McEvoy, Entity – Jeff Clement“Shadow of the Keeper” written by E.E.W. Christman (Story starts around 00:47:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Jebediah Winters – Jesse Cornett, Arnold – Atticus Jackson“Do Not Take the Last Train Home” written by Jas Isaksson (Story starts around 01:05:55)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Girl – Nichole Goodnight“Renting Space” written by Matt Tighe (Story starts around 01:25:05)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Mr. Thompson – Mick Wingert, Secretary – Nichole Goodnight, Julie – Erin Lillis, Lucy – Wafiyyah White, Police Officer – Mike DelGaudio  This episode is sponsored by:Caliper 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 The NoSleep Podcast Twitch channel Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Shadow of the Keeper” illustration courtesy of Thea Arnman Audio program ©2021 – 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

In the dark hours, in the antique, in the letters long lost and forgotten, there are tales of horror to frighten and disturb. Come, join us as we delve deep into the darkness. Into the sleepless hours, when you dare not close your eyes. Brace yourself for the no-sleep. Welcome to Season 16 of the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings, our premier episode of a very special season. In June, we'll be celebrating 10 years of the podcast, and we celebrate the written word, in spoken form, of course.

So many old books, parchments, letters scattered about this place. We really should clean up a bit. So we'll look forward to going through them throughout the season. We hope you'll consider us well-read. And have you heard? We now have a Twitch channel over at twitch.tv. slash the no-sleep podcast. Members of the no-sleep team stream games, audio productions,

and even live performances. Follow us to get notified as soon as the fun starts. Don't wait to receive a letter about it. And speaking of letters and written communications, as many of you know, we have writers submitting their stories to us all the time. Our inbox is stuffed full. But very occasionally, we'll get a submission sent to us in another way, including some most unconventional ways. I rarely talk about behind-the-scenes things on the show, but this one was too interesting not to share. You see, I received an envelope. Fan mail, no doubt, I thought to myself. It took

me a week or so to get around to opening it, and when I did, I was surprised. There were two letters inside the envelope. One was typed on basic printer paper. The other was, well, I'll explain that one in a minute. The first letter was short and to the point. It read, Dearest Mr. Cummings, included in this envelope is a letter that came into my possession some years ago. I'm something of a collector, and until now, I've kept my collection to... myself. But recently, certain events have transpired that have made me realize I need to find someone to handle my collection, should certain situations that I fear come to pass. I have chosen you to be this person. It would benefit me greatly if you were to read out the enclosed letter

on your show. I assure you that I have the legal rights to grant this permission. I hope that my faith in you turns out to be warranted. The search to find a suitable successor has been a hard one, and I do not wish to begin the process again. For now, I shall sign off as Lennon Roman. That is not my name, but for reasons I can't disclose, it is a name that's important to the enclosed document. The next time you hear from me, should I deem you worthy to hear from me again, I shall be someone else. Yours for now, Lenin Roman. Now, I thought this was a unique, and eye-catching way of sending a submission. But when I glanced over the second document, I wasn't so sure.

The paper is old-looking, impeccably so. If this is a new document made to look old, then a lot of effort has gone into it. The cursive matches penmanship of the day. The letter is clearly fragile. It's been sealed in a high-quality protective sleeve, and I'm certain that if I were to slice the sleeve open, the letter inside would crumble. So whoever you are, Lennon Roman, or whoever you'll be next, consider me intrigued. I hope I can live up to your expectations.

So as we begin season 16, we shall start with this simple declaration. And now the letters can be read. And this letter has no title. But since we perform stories with titles, I've decided to call it What Our Blood and Cannons brought. October 12, 1863 My dearest Ellen,

I do hope this letter finds you well and brings you relief to know that I am, in fact, alive. My old friend, Lieutenant Henry Reynolds, told me that since I'd been missing in action for over a week, I was presumed dead, and my name given amongst the Rhode Island casualty lists. I know you must have seen my name in the newspaper, my darling. I know you must have grieved so much.

I am, for the most part, recovered, and am soon to be discharged, as my right dominant arm can no longer grip, neither revolver nor saber. I am writing this to you. While my mind is still fresh from the trauma I inquired upon those blue black hills, of Kentucky. Do you remember from my last letters when I complained about the gorillas that have been harassing our supply lines? General Grant finally had enough when a group of these craven, rebel animals attacked a

convoy of wounded that was returning from the front. They killed every man in the group, including the doctors, and even the company chaplain that was there to administer last rights to the dying. This was a scandal that the newspapers in Washington ran to incite the nation. I was told that President Lincoln himself sent a telegram to General Grant to dispatch a contingent of capable union men to dispatch these fiends for good. When I was approached by our company commander to take part, I didn't hesitate for a second. You see, darling, amongst the wounded dead were some of my men, including my own cousin,

A boy of only 16. The orders were simple. Find the raiders and kill them. No prisoners were to be taken. I am a god-fearing man, Ellen. You knew that when you married me. But I do feel that this war has changed me, not just physically, but my heart as well.

I know I was a tender man when you married me, full of laughter and life. But what I've seen and what I've done, in the service of our country. Helen, I fear with all my heart what you'll think of me when you see me again. My physical appearance has changed, but so has my heart. For when they told me no prisoners needed to be taken, I reveled in the thought. Men we captured from other Confederate units, after enough persuasion, told us what they knew

about these raiders. They were led by a man named Hatchet John White. based in Pikeville County, Kentucky. A man who once fought for the Union, but found it more profitable to steal and pillage from us instead, and deserted. He and a band of his outlaws, other Confederates, deserters, and mountain men

formed his outfit he called Hatchets Raiders. They were estimated to be 40 to 60 strong. They were ruthless and evil to the core, so much so that General Lee himself, refused to acknowledge them as part of the Confederate Army. Nonetheless, they flew his colors. These stories didn't matter to me. I fought animals like them before. I had experience and I wasn't afraid, and neither were my men. Remember, I fought against Nathan Bedford Forest and his cavalry at Shiloh, and my unit was the one that sent him howling back in full retreat, musket ball in his spine.

I gathered 80 of my best men, all hearty and excellent shots. Men I've fought alongside since the beginning at Bull Run and who I trusted my life to, who trusted their lives to me. Men who are now dead. Men who I failed. It wasn't difficult luring the Raiders. We simply presented them with a prize they couldn't pass on. We had rumors pass along ahead of us.

that wagons of Yankee payroll in gold were passing through his woods. We had boxes full of dynamite and gunpowder atop the wagons. My order was once Hatchet John's force was spotted, the men and horses would abandon the wagons and head to our lines. Our sharpshooters would then aim at the barrels when the raiders were inspecting them, blowing them to their maker, and we would charge the concussed survivors and finish them for good. It worked somewhat.

A rainfall hit us in the early morning hours, and while we did have a tarp over the gunpowder, it didn't quite have the explosive effect we desired. Even then, Hatchet John was smart. He only sent a few scouts to check the loot and held the bulk of his force back. We heard that vile, rebel yell as they rode toward the wagons, that combined yipping and hollering

that would make our greener boys shake in terror. But we weren't wounded men and unarmed priests. We were hardened union fighting men who had seen the best the South had and met them all unflinching. We quickly dispatched that spearhead force, Hatchet John sent. Sure enough, they met their maker in pieces, and John fled back to his mountain hideout. I knew we'd never get another chance, so I gave the order to pursue him on that rainy mountainous terrain. We fought them uphill as they retreated further and further up the mountain, battling the raiders, the muddy grounds, and the elements.

I knew we were close to their hideout as they had constructed fortifications that even held cannons that fired grape shot at us at close range. Our own cannons began to respond in turn, adding to the deafening cacophony of battle. Our screams, rifle, and cannon fire covered the entire mountain, as we were now yards apart, fighting in almost hand-to-hand close quarters combat. The smell of gunpowder, wet dirt, blood, and sweat covered us all. I must admit, they were formidable and fought us to the death like demons, and every single inch of mountain we took, we took at a loss to us.

But we were driven by the pure anger and rage for what they had done to our wounded friends, over what they had done to us throughout this entire war. I carried the memory of every one of my comrades that I lost to these traitorous rebel bastards within me every single time I stepped onto the battlefield and so did every one of my men. I discarded my revolver. After all the shots I had fired with it,

warped the barrel from the heat, rendering it unusable. No matter, as I then proceeded with my saber, That's when we heard it, all of us. We heard a loud vibration of what sounded like the waking groan of the earth splitting itself, preceded by what I can only compare to thousands of low trumpets or church organs that were so intense, so painful, but the earth beneath us shook and brought us to our knees, gray and blue alike. I felt my left ear drum burst, and I lost my heart.

hearing from it. When finally the earth stopped shaking, I lifted myself up with great hardship, as my sense of balance was now almost gone. We looked at one another and at the Raiders in awe-struck terror and confusion as we saw her darkness come from in front of us, high in the mountain, behind the Raiders. We heard the sounds of men screaming and running towards us in incomprehensible fear. very raiders we were just fighting, threw down their arms and were fleeing like cowards, running past as if we weren't even there, tripping and falling amongst themselves to get past. We saw them then, the things that made our foes flee. Ellen, please, I beg you to believe me. No one else will. And the doctors have written me off

with hysteria and madness from the fatigue of battle and exposure. Please believe what I am about to confess to you. The things I saw were monstrous and beyond my understanding. They looked like men, but they weren't men. They were ten feet tall and as thick as trees, pale and white like sun-scorched bones, and covered with a primordial dust from the mountain itself. Faded red hair covered their chests and arms, and the faces they had were like what someone would ill.

illustrate as a mockery of mankind. No two were the same. Some had faces that were long like a horse. Others were pug-like. Others more canine quality that led me to think that they might be masks, but they weren't masks. I could see as they moved and jostled. The howls that they let out were louder than any army trumpet I'd ever heard, and it seemed to shape the trees and the land itself. For the first time, in a very long time, I saw my men break in fear before me, as one of the creatures who was leading the charge, picked one of them up with one hand and crushed his ribcage, with the same ease one might crush an egg, then raised him above its head and drank the fluids that exited his chest cavity. My God, Ellen, he was still alive. I won't ever forget his screams. Our rifles and bayonets were useless against these things, even at point-blank range.

They were like the hardest mountain stones, and with one wave of their arms, crushed us. I gave the order to retreat then, but they were on us too quickly. They vaulted from position to position, clearing large unnatural distances, attacking Union and Confederate indiscriminately. When they charged, they rammed the men with a force so strong that they were obliterated with the same force and violence a cannon shot at point-blank range would do. My sergeant, Patrick Corbin, pulled me by my arm and helped me down the mountain, covering me with his repeating rifle fire.

We didn't get very far, Ellen. One of the creatures flanked us and with all its strength, charged right at us. It all happened in a second, and I remembered it all like an eternity, and my mind has thought about it constantly, recovering details of the occurrence. The creature was bear-like in his facial features, but it had humanoid anatomy, wrong as it was. I remember markings upon its chest, not tattoos, but scars as if they mutilated themselves for the lobe. And the smell it had I can only compare

to the smell that hit you when you turn over a rotting log in the forest and expose its underbelly to the sun. That rotten, fungus, damp moss-covered wood smell that's almost sickening. Sergeant Corbin put himself in front of me and no doubt saved my life before the thing hit us both. It obliterated him instantly

and the force from the impact sent me tumbling violently down the mountain and into the ravine where I lost consciousness covered in Corbin's remains. When I awoke, it was deep into the night and I couldn't see anything in the pitch black. I tried to scream, but my throat was so parched from thirst that I couldn't even manage a groan. My right arm was shattered, and the pain was so strong and sharp that it kept me causing to faint. sporadically. Despite my burst left ear drum, I heard those things prowling in the darkness, Helen. I heard the ripping of flesh and crunching of bone all around me as they feasted on the dead. A wounded man yelled for help. He must have been right above my ravine. A heavy thud followed

as one of the things landed near him, knocking down several trees in his way. How I wish I had gone unconscious then, as I listened as the man began to beg for his life, praying to God to save him in his desperation. I saw a flash in the darkness from the rifle the man fired in vain, and the split second illumination afforded me the fleeting sight of the thing that ended him. It was big, bigger than the others, and much different. I try to recollect the memory in my mind to try to explain to you what it looked like, but perhaps as a mercy to my sanity, the memory of its appearance is for the most part gone. Only its enormous and grotesque shadow remains. It shrieked then, and the sound was louder than any I heard produced by them before,

like the sound of a thousand church organ keys being pressed at once. It then ripped into the man, vigorously that speckles of his blood from above reigned upon my face down into the ravine. My mind broke in fear then, Ellen. It felt as though a pair of symbols crashed inside my brain and a white, hot burning, nothing remained. My surroundings began to spin and I let go of everything that made me human, that made me who I am. I closed my eyes then. All I can remember after is the short windows of lucidity I had for the next few days, after the battle. I remember the men in blue uniforms talking in muffled sounds, picking me up on a stretcher from the ravine,

the doctor working on my arm, and the nightmares I had at night while trying to recover. I was told I was catatonic and didn't talk for the first seven days after I was found. By the 11th day I was rested, fed, and medicated enough that my company commander visited me in the tent I was recovering in. He asked me for the truth of it all. Before I answered him, I asked him to tell me the condition of my men, a question all the nurses and doctors I had spoken to had avoided answering. He removed his hat, put his hand on my shoulder, and told me,

I no longer had any men. Union cavalry that came to relieve us and reinforce us in the morning found the scene of the slaughter. They said their horses refused to go up the mountain, and then proceeded on foot when they stumbled upon the killing field. They found corpse, of Union and Confederate men impaled, high upon the tree branches around the base of the mountain. Piles of unidentifiable remains were found stacked like firewood. The men were buried as

best they could be, in mass graves that gave no distinction between Union or Confederate. I was the only survivor that was found. Only by luck when one of the cavalry men tripped and took a tumble down the ravine I fell into. I'm not ashamed to say I gave into tears when I digested the news. Those men were as close to me as brothers, and every single time I took them to battle, I valued each and every one of their lives as my own. I failed them as their captain. When I related to the commander the real truth of what occurred in battle, he only gritted teeth and nodded. I could tell he didn't quite believe me, but I know the accounts the cavalry men reported to him made him question the reality of the transpired events. It didn't matter now,

he told me. Since I did survive the battle and no Confederate did, the army considered it a union victory, Pyrrhic as it was. It was told to the newspaper men in Washington that we valiantly dispatched Hatchet John and all his raiders, given none of them quarter and won a decisive victory. That no more would his guerrillas ride and harass our lines and kill our wounded and innocent god-fearing union men. He told me I was to be given a commendation and promotion to major by General Grant himself and to be honorably discharged afterwards with a generous stipend befitting an officer of my rank. I refused. I told him if I was to be relieved of my command, I just wanted to return to Providence, to return to you. Reluctant as he was at first,

he eventually agreed to the process of fast-tracking my discharge papers at a repeated insistence. While I waited for my discharge orders to arrive in camp, I made my way to the unit of cavalrymen that found me after the battle to thank them. When I finally found them, they all swarmed me with questions after finding out who I was. I sat down with them at their campfire and told them what had transpired. Upon hearing my recollection of that event, some among them gasped, some half laughed. Most stood quiet and took a drink of the whiskey bottles I bought for them in gratitude. One among them, a scout of Cherokee descent, spoke to me and hypothesized about what we may have encountered. He told me of all the mounds and stone structures that were scattered all over the mountains in Kentucky.

Mounds and structures that predate any tribe that settled there. Vague childhood stories tell of an antediluvian people that once roamed all over the mountains and hollers. Perhaps with all the cannon fire we disturbed their slumber, or maybe the blood that seeped into the ground from the battle induced their appetite. None of the things I described were encountered by the cavalry when they came to reinforce my men, not even tracks to validate my story. Perhaps they went to sleep once more, or perhaps they moved on to feast elsewhere and roam the earth again,

said the Cherokee Scout. I vomited then, powerfully, and buckled to my knees. I apologized to them all as they helped me up and sent me to my tent. I see them now, Ellen. In my lucid dreams, I see them stalking me, walking into the camp and savaging us all. The buglers in camp have caused me much distress as they remind me of their sounds, Only a solution of chloral hydrate that was given to me by the company doctor helps me sleep fast and sound enough to keep the hallucinations and nightmares at bay. I long to be with you soon, darling, and I will be if God lets me.

When I see you next, I really do hope that you'll still love me. I might be horribly broken and maimed, but there is still me inside. I know with your love, kindness and patience I can return little by little, and with your affection, embraces, and laughter, learn to forget this war and put it behind me. Know that I love you, Ellen, deeply as always. Your husband, Captain Lawrence Thomas, 13th Rhode Island volunteers. In our first tale, we join a pair of detectives listening over an unusual tape. Mysterious and weird cases must be frustrating for law enforcement,

sparse clues, no real rhyme, reason, or motive. They're the kinds of cases that keep investigators up at night that stick with them long after they retire. But in this tale, shared with us by author Morgan Koch, when the detectives do find more answers, they may wish the case had remained unsolved. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Sarah Olivia, Jessica McAvoy, and Jeff Clement. So listen to the tapes, piece together the mystery, but beware the manifestation.

What the fuck is this, Hugh? Liv, I know you're exhausted, okay? Hell, I'm becoming sick of this dead-in-case myself, but you've got to just trust me and listen to this. First, you need to tell me where the fuck you've been all day. You do know our day started seven hours ago, right? I've been here, sifting through our interviews and evidence all day, just trying to find the smallest int of a lead. And then you just show up with a fucking tape recorder from the 70s

like God himself handed it to you? I've been in the woods all day, Liv. Those goddamn woods that we canvass ten different times now, and I'm tired, too. But please, you just need to listen to this. tape. I think I found the lead we've been looking for. Fine. Show me. So that was... Sarah, yes. I woke up last night from a dead sleep and got this urge to go back to the woods that her editor said she had rented a cabin in. After a few hours, I found the recorder wedged in the dirt just off the main trail.

It's the strangest thing. It's been out there for how long? Just laying beneath the dirt and decaying leaves, and the thing is still in perfect condition. So she obviously felt like her life was being threatened and was paranoid at the very least. Is there more, Hugh? Yeah, there's more. But... But what? Hugh?

Tell me. It's just the rest of the tape becomes more and more concerning. I don't know how to explain it. I don't think I can explain it. Well, this is the biggest break we've had in the case in over a month. Let's keep going. So, the woman was paranoid. She was writing a horror novel and her imagination took a hold of her.

That doesn't explain where she disappeared to and why we still can't find that fucking house she supposedly rented. There's more to the tape live. All right, Hugh, start the tape back up again. Just keep listening. So I grabbed the recorder. Every plate and glass in the cabinets flew every cabinet slammed shut.

Is getting angry. What are we hearing? I have theories. You're not going to like them. Liv, I just can't explain this away. If it's a hoax, then it's a damn convincing one. She sounds petrified, and you heard the footsteps yourself. She must have been being stalked, right? I'm not so sure about that. What, did we just...

She wasn't paranoid, Liv. She really did manifest these things into her life. What does this mean for us? For the case? We can't just say she was murdered by a bunch of... demons, Hugh. I... And where the fuck was she living? There is no goddamn cabin in those woods. They're empty, Hugh. I know, Liv. I know.

And I'm just as confused as you are. I have no idea why I felt like canvassing those woods today and why I just stumbled onto this tape. I'm scared, Liv. After that story, I need to manifest something very calm and relaxing. I know what can help you. What? Sarah.

How did you get in my apartment? That's not important right now. What is important is how Caliper CBD can help you deal with stress and calm you down. Does that include the stress of finding an intruder in your apartment? You're silly. But I know, you know, all about Caliper CBD. Well, that's true. I've used Caliper CBD powder for quite a while now.

It's so easy. I just grab one of their pre-measureed packets and pour it into my smoothie or any beverage. It dissolves instantly and doesn't affect the flavor. And no messy oils, right? Did you know this past January, Colorado State University published the first peer-reviewed study to compare how different CBD products on the market are absorbed and processed by the body? And what did the study show? It showed that Caliper CBD was found to deliver 30 times more CBD than CBD in the first 30 minutes.

Well, that's awesome. And it's why I love taking Caliper CBD. Caliper gives you all the benefits of CBD in just 10 minutes. CBD oils can take up to two hours to fully absorb. Hey, hey, don't touch that. It's my award for most malefluous voice of 1996. Odd that the trophy is a big golden tongue. Anyway, how does Caliper CBD help you with the daily grind?

Well, for one thing, I find that it allows my body to relax and unwind after I take it. It's not like a high. Caliper CBD has no THC. so it's not like that trippy feeling. To me, it feels like a lot of the anxious thoughts and the little aches and pains get reduced. I just feel better overall. And I find it easier to fall asleep in the evening.

And it can help you anywhere. Caliper CBD comes in affordable 30 and 60 count packs. Individual packets give you the benefits of CBD wherever you go. All natural, non-GMO ingredients. No fillers, added chemicals, or artificial flavors. That's so true. With life slowly returning to normal, it's nice to be able to have Caliper CBD with me anywhere and any time I might need it. Now, why don't you tell our listeners about our great offer?

Get 20% off your first order when you use promo code NoSleep at Trycali.com slash No Sleep. You heard her. You can try Caliper CBD risk-free for 30 days. If you don't love it, they'll give you a full refund. So that's trycaliper.com slash no sleep. And don't forget promo code No Sleep for 20% off your first order. You'll be glad you did. Now can you please explain how you got into my... Wait, where did she go?

Sarah? She's gone. Was she ever really here? Dad was on the... Oh, Sarah, get out of my closet. And you folks can get out of here and get back to the horror. isolation. It can get to you. We've all been through it lately for obvious reasons. But imagine being on an island, the only one there, and you can't leave because the safety of numerous others

requires you stay. And in this tale, shared with us by author E.E.W. Christman, we meet one such man who works in a lighthouse and discovers how the solitude affected his predecessor in terrifying way. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Jesse Cornett, and Atticus Jackson. So let's join Arnold as he listens to the words of Jebediah. Are these merely notes from a lonely man, or are they a portentous warning for Arnold himself, whose future is darkened by the shadow of the keeper? Humans aren't meant for a solitary life. Isolation warps the mind.

It casts long shadows across the psyche, perverting a bland reality until it becomes something intoxicating. For the brain, being afraid is preferable than being dulled. So loneliness sparked something sinister, turning every creaking floorboard and hooting owl into countless monsters. A bored mind plays cruel tricks. Arnold wished he could tell Jebediah Winters that. But the former lighthouse keeper only existed in a shoebox of old cassette tapes he'd found in the back of a closet. Jebediah's voice came in gruffly through the tape player from across nearly two decades. The tapes had been recorded from 1969 to 1974, all meticulously labeled and organized.

They were Jebediah's own personal diary and Arnold's favorite pastime. He'd hesitated when he first found them. it really did feel like reading someone's private diary. But curiosity and the lack of repercussions won out. Arnold played the first tape. At first, there was nothing, just 20-year-old static. Then someone, the old keeper, Arnold presumed, cleared their throat for several seconds.

When you spend so much time not speaking, you have to warm up first. The keeper began. Hello? This is Jebedeye Winters. It's fucking freezing in here. I'm making soup and the stupid wind keeps coming in through the damn window

and blowing out the burner. And I swear to God, I'm going to have to heat this chowder in a goddamn furnace. Anyway, I bought this recorder. I saw it at the general store and thought, Now someone will have to listen to me. I'm going to fix this damn window. Out.

The old keeper recorded his musings, his thoughts, his recipes. He'd been a pretty competent baker. He cursed at his oven in the general upkeep of the lighthouse, and always ended each entry with a curt, out. While Arnold maintained the Fern Harbor lighthouse, Jebediah's cranky voice kept him company. Well, the damn buttermilk biscuits burned. This oven barely qualifies.

I should push it into the sea. Out. Arnold used to listen to the radio while he cleaned and maintained the integrity of his lighthouse. But Jebediah's soothing, familiar frustration passed the time just as well as any talk show and cut through the hours better than music. He felt a little pang of guilt every time he put in a new tape, fresh with the old keeper's most private thoughts, even if his most private thoughts usually only amounted to grumbling at the generator or his kitchen appliances.

Arnold suspected Jebediah wouldn't have minded, though. Keeper to keeper, they both understand the burden of loneliness. He might even have been thrilled that Arnold found comfort in his little hobby. By 1974, Jebediah's time, the former keeper was becoming skittish. His voice had grown quieter, more furtive, as if Jebediah was constantly looking over. over his shoulder, checking for some unseen enemy. The tapes used to be mostly short entries, little asides that Jebedai would add throughout the day. Now, or then, he was filling up an entire tape each day as he failed to sleep.

He complained he could only manage to stay unconscious for a few hours at a time. So he spent his nights speaking into his little recorder, describing half-remembered nightmares to no one. Seagull shot on my son hat. I swear to God, I'm going to buy a pellar gun the next time I go into town. Out. Arnold wished he could tell him that it wasn't monsters that disturbed him. Simply human loneliness. Arnold wished he could tell him that he'd felt the same way before,

that this job was hard on the brain and strained the imagination as your mind wandered, hungry to fill the time with anything, even horrors. But Jebediah was long gone. Only the tapes remained. Jebediah's voice was heavy and low, like the dark, fat rain clouds clinging to the horizon. Storm's coming. Arnold had first noticed the approaching storm several days ago,

and had already made an unscheduled trip into Fern Harbor for more supplies. On the map, Arnold's Little Island was labeled simply as Fern Harbor Lighthouse. The locals had a different name for it, though. Last Chance Rock. From the shore, the lighthouse was no more than a craggy outcropping in the water, with a stone spire sticking out the top. Arnold had to take the boat whenever he needed anything, and in a storm he'd be utterly alone and completely cut off.

The storm of 1974 coinciding with Arnold's storm was an odd coincidence that made Arnold's blood run a little colder. Perhaps not so odd, he kept telling himself, as he cleaned the glass windows of the lantern room from the outer gallery, the wind already whipping at his back. Storms weren't unusual. Storms happened a lot near Fern Harbor. What was odd was Jebediah's trepidation. The isolation of Last Chance Rock was clearly weighing heavily upon him, creeping into his mind like an infection. First his nightmares, now his obsession with this storm. His voice quavered as he spoke.

Can't see it yet, but there's noose that don't lie. The smell of a sea storm is unmistakable. It's salty and electric. I couldn't sleep last night. Every time my eyes closed it, it felt like someone was watching me through the window. There's nobody else on this rock. And why would anyone come out here?

I just walked around the perimeter anyway, and there are no boats more than anywhere. So I'm going to try to take a nap. Humans want company, Arnold thought. Even the unsavory, invasive kind. An isolated brain will invent intruders to stave off loneliness. Arnold had a hard time sleeping as well. Most keepers he knew did.

Poor lonely Jebediah, Arnold mused as he reached for another tape. All he had was his tape recorder. What does it say about? me, Arnold thought, if all I have are Jebediah's tapes. There was something primordial in Jebediah's voice tonight, something akin to a rabbit hiding in its burrow. Not fear, but something like it. A drive to survive in the face of perceived danger. Saw someone last night. No one visits the rock, and they'd be crazy to try in this weather. I went out to see who the fuck it was. I went out to see who the fuck it was, and figured some idiot had taken their boat out for a joy ride and drifted off course.

But there was no one there. I walked around the whole damn island, and no one was there. I'm getting old, seeing shit in the dark out. The sun was setting, although the coast was already under a dark blanket of shadows and mist. The locals mostly stayed away from the beach with the impending storm. It was too cold and wet to enjoy it much. Arnold spotted the odd stubborn jogger or dog walker, but mostly only in the mornings. Arnold squinted out the kitchen window, pausing as he prepared his meager dinner of spaghetti and meat sauce. It was hard to make out, but there was definitely a figure out on the

dunes, not running or stretching or doing anything at all, just standing there, watching the rising seawater. Watching me, Arnold dismissed the knee-jerk thought. It was a simple thing to scare yourself, the simplest thing to imagine monsters where none existed. The figure returned to the beach the following night, even with the rain coming down in sheets and the wind sending the sand into the air like a whip. They seemed closer to the water this time, closer to last chance rock.

I know what I saw. Arnold paused the cleaning of the lenses. Windex at the ready in his hand, listening. If anyone listens to these, they'll think I'm crazy. But I swear I saw someone outside the kitchen last night. They were standing on the rocks, and they were watching me. When I opened the door, they were gone. If you hear these tapes and get the hell off this island,

something already lives here. I leave, but the storm has me trapped. And once there's any kind of opening, I'm taking the boat, going to town, and I'm never coming back. Out. Jebediah's anxiety was growing. Arnold had a feeling he knew the end of this story.

He could see old Jebediah. He had no idea what the man looked like. But he'd painted a picture of a grizzled gray man with a pot belly in his mind, chasing shadows around a lighthouse, before finally setting off in his boat in the middle of a storm. Survivalist folly, driven away by bad dreams. The rain never stopped the previous night. The morning only brought the crackle of thunder in a frothing, angry ocean.

As he finished wiping the lighthouse's lenses, Arnold glanced across the sea at the beach. Jet-colored water crashed into the sand. As Arnold watched the hypnotic back and forth of the ocean, he realized the person was back. The stormy beach walker had returned. They were on the dark sand, right up to the waterline. The water must have been going up to their knees, but they didn't move. Arnold got up to get a better look, but by the time he reached the other side of the lighthouse,

the person had disappeared. Gone home, he told himself, it was crazy to be out in this weather in the first place. but it was impossible to forget Jebedee's warning. Somebody already lives here. Arnold turned towards the ladder. Dreams. Bad, lonely dreams. The storm had taken its time.

It had prowled just out of sight, growing and churning and preparing. Even when it began moving, the clouds seemed to take their time rolling across the sea toward land. There had been an overture of rain and wind. yesterday, and when the storm finally came in the dark hours of the morning, it stretched and flexed across the beach. It smothered Fern Harbor in a titantic downpour, punctuated by tree-topping winds. And it hit last-chance rock. It hit the rock hard. Sea nearly reached the front door, the white-topped waves crashing into rocks and the beach beyond, the crescendo of water-meeting land nearly deafening. The ocean cast a lighthouse in a thunderous cacophony of water that

threatened to drown the tiny island at any moment. The light pierced the murky skies, but Arnold was more worried for his little home than any boats out at sea at the moment. There was only one tape left. Arnold had put it in the little tape player, but hesitated hitting play. Jebediah's storm had been reaching its zenith, as had his paranoia. Scary stories combined with isolation were bad enough. At a storm, and Arnold knew he wouldn't be able to keep his own fear at bay. Eventually, though, his curiosity got the better of him. He played the tape, leaning forward to hear Jebediah's voice over the roar of the rain outside.

He was quiet, whispering. His voice shook. Arnold could barely make out what he was saying. It's here. It's in the lighthouse. I'm not sure how. None of the windows and doors were open. Hell, I've been locking them tight each. Some rain came in, though, through the leaky roof. Maybe that's how. I'm not going to make it. I lock myself in the bathroom, but I can hear it outside. I'll try to kill it, but...

Badaia trailed off for a full minute, the only sound coming from the second storm. The howling wind sounded more like a scratching record on the old tape. Finally, Jebediah spoke again. If you hear this, I guess that means that I didn't beat the damn demon. So I'll tell you what I know. With the storm. Or the storm comes with it. I can't be sure.

It can go where the storm goes. I thought I'd be safe inside. figured that out the other night. Had to go check the generator and fuck me if that thing wasn't waiting for me. It followed me up to the door, but it wouldn't go any further. And even try to open it. Just stared at me through the window for hours. But I didn't fix the leak in the storeroom.

The lighthouse has got to be airtight. Or it'll get in. Chimedaya's voice stopped. Where you are? Let it in. There's one more thing. It sat outside all night waiting for me. I was so scared.

I couldn't move. I was on the floor. Just staring. I don't know how. But I can't remember what it looked like. I was there all night on the floor, and I can't. I remember a damn thing.

It's ice. Badaia was interrupted as the door splintered apart. His words turned into a mangled scream as he struggled with whoever had broken down the door. It didn't take long, however, for even that to fade into garbled, struggling breaths. And finally, a definitive silence, only broken by the wind from the recorded storm. Arnold thought that the wind sounded like panting, hungry, primal panting. Then the tape clicked, and that was the last recorded message from Jebediah Winters. Arnold sat for a long time, listening to his own storm, trying to convince himself that it was just the wind he heard.

No one outside, combing across the lighthouse, looking for a way in. He couldn't bring himself to look at the windows. The thought of seeing a pair of eyes staring back at him made his heart race. Then he thought about the storeroom. He couldn't remember if he'd ever noticed a leak. Ridiculous dreams, Arnold thought as he stood up. But a cocktail of curiosity and fear compelled him to look. It was a reasonable thing, after all, for a keeper to check for leaks.

He might have done it anyhow. Arnold ignored the shaking in his hand as he opened the storeroom door. He looked at the ceiling but saw no water. Then he meticulously checked the floor, moving boxes in search of even the tiniest puddles. When he was sure there were none, the tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying and his shoulders released. Arnold didn't believe in monsters, but he was, after all, a cautious man. After the storeroom, he checked all the doors and windows. The lighthouse was dry.

He decided to check on the light. Checking the storeroom had alleviated some of his anxiety. But Arnold still didn't want his mind to wander. Best to stay busy. Each step upward raised his spirits, as if Jebediah's dire warning was falling from him as he climbed the stairs. The black storm clouds utterly engulfed the shore. The sea whipped at the sand and rocks,

a dark, undulating mass of water eager to reshape whatever it came into contact with. Yet from the lantern room, all he could really make out was his own reflection. Arnold stepped closer to the glass, squinting at the rain and lightning outside. As his eyes pierced to the veil of glass and light, Arnold jumped back, a scream escaping his throat before he could stop it. Pressed up against the glass was someone. Their form was ephemeral, morphing with the wind. Yet there was the unmistakable imprint of hands-on glass.

Their skin was the color of a thick winter fog, but as Arnold was the color of a thick winter fog, but as Arnold tried to focus on any one feature, it seemed to grow murky and opaque, as if it refused to be seen clearly. He stumbled down the spiral stairs, putting as much building between him and the thing clinging to the exterior of the lighthouse. Arnold hoped Jebediah had been right, that as long as the lighthouse was leak-free and he remained inside, he'd be safe until the storm passed. If the storm passed, Arnold thought as he was.

reached the first floor. Did the storm come with the creature, or did the creature come with the storm? How long could it wait outside? Days? Weeks? If that was the case, it was only a matter of time before the rain and the wind pried something loose. The eyes, Arnold thought through his panic. Jebediah was right about the eyes. As we place the letters back in their envelopes, It's time to take our leave for now. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being ever curious.

This audio production is copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. It's 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,