The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E02

Episode Date: April 11, 2021

It’s Episode 02 of Season 16. Our correspondence warns us of hidden terrors.“To My Sister on Her Wedding Day” written by Eric Lockaby (Story starts around 00:05:20) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Sam – Jessica McEvoy, Allie – Nichole Goodnight, The Slack-Skinned Man – Peter Lewis, Claire – Mary Murphy“Whitemoore House” written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:40:30)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Mr. Hale – Andy Cresswell, Melinda – Erika Sanderson, Mr. Bailey – David Ault, Jonah – James Cleveland“Just Slightly Off” written by L. Hutchinson (Story starts around 01:01:35)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Will – Atticus Jackson, Garage sale proprietor – Mike DelGaudio“Betrayal” written by Adam Davies (Story starts around 01:13:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Alex – David Ault, Camille L’Enfer – Alexis Bristowe, Wife – Penny Scott-Andrews, Trahison – Erika Sanderson“The Black Silo” written by Blair Wolff (Story starts around 01:43:15) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Mason – Graham Rowat, Abby – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Mikey – Jeff Clement, Aunty Sweetpea – Erin Lillis, Uncle Landon – Jesse CornettThis 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/nosleepDoorDash – Restaurants and more, delivered to your door. It’s all here in one app. Discover local delivery or pickup from restaurants, nearby grocery and convenience stores. Right now our listeners can get $5 off and zero delivery fees on their first order of $15 or more, when you download the DoorDash app from your app store and enter code NoSleep. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about S.H. CooperExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“To My Sister on Her Wedding Day” illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerAudio 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

Hey there, David. Hi, Erica. Does this review sound okay to you? He is a master at his craft, no matter how tense I feel, he brings me relief and makes me feel better. And he has a lovely voice, too. Did you write that about me? Oh, that is so sweet.

No, I wrote that for... That means a lot to me. I've been struggling a bit lately, feeling a bit lost, hard to motivate myself. But knowing how much you enjoy what I do is a really big boost. Thank you. Um, you're welcome. But to be honest, I wrote that review about... It's helpful to share our struggles with others. That's why we love recommending Better Help.

It's professional counseling done securely online. Better Help is great. They will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapists so you can start communicating in under 48 hours. And BetterHelp is available for clients worldwide. You can log in anytime and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses. Plus, you'll be able to... can schedule weekly video or phone sessions. And they get great reviews too. Here's one from BetterHelp user K.A. after counseling with Alison Kundiv for two weeks on issues concerning depression, stress and anxiety.

She is nice and understanding to talk with. She made me feel heard and safe to open up. I'm very grateful for her and everything she's done for me so far. I look forward to the future. And here's a review from Better Help user, TE, after counseling with Sharon Coltis for one year on issues concerning self-esteem and career difficulties. Sharon is kind, compassionate, patient and thoughtful. I'm immensely grateful for her attention and insight, and I highly recommend her.

I guess I'm not the only one who gets such glowing reviews. So listen, BetterHelp wants you to start living a happier life today. So much so that they're hiring more and more counselors to help people like you talk through the issues which are holding you back from a better life. Visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's betterhelp.com slash no sleep. And join the over one million people who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional.

And we have a special offer to make it even more affordable. That's right. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. Thanks for helping me with my review. No, thank you for being so kind about me. They actually wrote it about my massage therapist, but, you know, whatever.

Sorry, what's that? I said, you're welcome, boss. Happy to help. And we're happy to begin this week's descent into sleepless horror. In the dark hours, 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, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. Thank you for joining us once again. And for all the positive comments about the launch of season 16. And I would be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to our maestro Brandon Boone for his arrangement of this season's theme, with special guest, David Alt, playing the cello part. And of course, our senior producer, Phil Mikalski, for putting the audio finishing touches on it to bring it to life.

Thank you, gentlemen, for your time and talent. Last week, as some of you will know, I received a package via the No Sleep podcast's P.O. box. It contained two letters, one modern, one old. It also contained a request to read the older letter on the podcast. I complied. It seems it pleased our mysterious benefactor, because this week we've had more mail containing two letters. As before, one was from our benefactor,

and the other was the... submission? I'm still working from the perspective that these are very unique and unusual story submissions. But given the age of both documents, I'm just not so sure at this point. It's best if you listen to the first letter. Dearest Mr. Cummings,

Oh my, you did such a grand job with my last delivery. You really captured the terror and doom that my friend, Captain Lawrence Thomas, felt while writing it. I do believe that I may indeed have found the correct recipient in you. However, I have one final task for you before I can fully commit and allow the real fun to begin. Enclosed is another letter. This one is much more recent. If you could smell a faint hint of lilac when you open this package,

then the envelope for the second letter is the source. The smell has probably faded a little by now, but I assure you it was still strong when it came into my possession, even after being handled over and over by a woman named Allie. But I digress. For this letter, I need to know that it's not just you, but your entire team who can do my mission justice. Thusly, I would request that actors Jessica McAvoy,

Nicole Goodnight, Peter Lewis, and Mary Murphy act out this letter, as if it were one of your stories. Why those four specifically? I have my reason. I know they are available to do it. You simply need to ask. Today I sign off as Eric Lockaby. Again, it is not my real name, and again it is a name important to this particular story. Please don't let me down. Next time, the real fun begins. Yours in good faith, Eric Lockaby. Now, of course, we don't let our submitting writers insist on cast members. I almost said no. I was a little affronted at the boldness on display.

But then I thought back over the last two packages, the strangeness, the clearly aged nature of the first letter, and I thought, okay, let's see where it goes. So here it is. Correspondence enclosed in a faintly lilac-smelling envelope, entitled, To My God, My sister on her wedding day. What I want to tell you, big sis, is that your future is going to be so bright. To stand up there tonight, the quiet one, the morose one, and give such a toast that you just light up the room. Something like, Allie, far and beyond any sisterly snark, the honest truth is that I want nothing more than for this day to be the single greatest moment of your life.

Or, as you two look forward to the future, may you have more love than you know what to do with. Or even just, love is the beauty of the soul. Cheers. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be able to say any of that. Not in good conscience anyway. Which is why I'm here in your honeymoon suite, writing you this dismal little letter that I'll afterwards stuff into a tiny lilac-smelling envelope. and leave right here on the desk for you to discover come morning. Enclosed, you'll find, to the extent that I can muster it, the abysmal truth. Question, do you remember the slack-skinned man?

The name must seem like word salad to you now, the free association of a mental patient, a troubled child, a manic-depressive kid's sister. Except I know the words are back there somewhere, buried deep in your brain, locked away perhaps, gone quiet and pale in the dark. Well, let the name drift down your tongue. Let it slither from whatever hiding place it's been in. Draw it up from the past to lash three times across your soft palate. Speak the words, dear sister, and recall the slack-skinned man. Not all of us have had the luxury of forgetting. No. For me, the summer of 2006 is as here as an exposed nerve.

The details. I was 10. You were 12. Mom and dad were... Well, let's just say that their accident was about eight months old by that point. Old enough that people stopped asking questions unless we brought it up first, yet fresh enough on our minds that we were. still too unnerved to ever do so, which meant that as far as emotional processing of traumatic events

goes, there wasn't any. It wasn't like we were in denial or anything. Yes, I acknowledge that mom and dad are dead, you once said of the topic. And we were simply emotionally elsewhere. This to match our being physically elsewhere, packed up like so many rattling puzzle boxes and mildewy shopping bags into aunt Claire's SUV and shuttled down from the Atlanta suburbs to the sticks of Southern Georgia, to the plantation, as Claire called it, though the land hadn't been used as such in many years. Indeed, it hadn't even been a residence for nearly half a century. Yet, as a moderately successful novelist of romance fiction, Claire was always on the lookout for places that had an air of mystery to them, a bit of unique excitement. In accepting an appointment has

caretaker of the estate, she had as inspiration all the accoutrements of a real loins-stirer. The remote estate draped in Spanish moss, the antique gas lamps lighting a footpath through the hedgerows, and of course the Gothic antebellum manor sitting at the estate's dead center. For this 10-year-old girl, the plantation might as well have been the farthest corner of a fairy tale kingdom. I had no desire to think about the world past those trees or beyond those footpaths or even outside those alabaster white walls. No, that summer, the manor served as my bulwark against the real, a fantasy zone, where around each corner or through any given door I was likely to find adventure, intrigue, mystery.

Allie! I'd whisper across our dark bedroom as the manor creaked and moaned like a thing become alive. From the far side of your pillow, a terse reply. What? Do you hear that? It's just the house, Sam. Old House's Creek? But what if it's a lost spirit? It's not. No, go back to sleep, Sam.

Your annoyance with me had been increasing as of late. Though our being two years apart never seemed to matter before, the closer you drifted to the age of 13, the more that. That little kid I seemed to become in your eyes. Ironically, the very reason for this growing apart, hormones, was actually erasing our most evident difference. Your great golden blonde head of hair. Over the span of the last year,

that stunning mane had grown dull and plain and, well, more or less exactly like my own. You weren't particularly happy about the transformation. Instead of the pretty one, you'd become simply the other one, the older one, the first one. Perhaps this explains that nagging feeling I had that summer, a feeling that, though our time at Aunt Claire's estate, saw us engaged in the same sisterly activities of past summers, acting out stories and shadows on a bedroom wall, climbing trees high as we could until one of us chickened out, cunningly avoiding. boys on our bicycles. You and I were growing more and more distant with each passing day, or rather, you grew more distant. I wanted nothing more than for us to remain exactly the same forever and through all eternity. You outgrew me. You left me behind. And it was amidst all this,

the accident and the summer and the mystery of sisters drifting apart. that we first made contact with him. I can't even say anymore. The thing that has ruined me. There you go. The ancient Greeks had a word for the sound that gas makes in the human intestines. Bor Borerigamous and Anamotipia.

Just one of the many super important things I learned in my two and a half semesters of college. It's a great word to use when you're describing the sound that water pipes make in an old house. Bore-Borigamous. It just sounds gross, right? Like something unpleasantly alive.

Now, attach that sound to a location, specifically our bedroom at Aunt Claire's estate that summer. Up the stairs and down the hall, green door decorated with glued together puzzles of puppies and Disney characters. Do you hear it? The plumbing and the walls? Gurgling.

bore, bore rigamusing, and from once. That's right, you remember. The bathroom across the hall. Remember how I would run back and forth at night from the TV to the sink to the TV, as if I couldn't decide which place I wanted to brush my teeth? I'm sure you do, because it seemed to annoy you to no end. You, standing one shoulder against the doorframe of our bedroom door,

brushing your teeth with your sight fixed on the television, all while a kid's sister flung to and fro past you. Now connect these pieces together, the pipes and the bathroom and the brat sister and the humid summer nights, to pinpoint the exact moment in time when, with growing concern, I said. Allie, what now? You entered the bathroom to find me sort of hugging the sink. my head practically shoved into the thing.

Far enough that I could see up inside the faucet's mouth, the white crust of calcium build up there. I heard something in the faucet. How many times do I have to tell you? Old houses are noisy. However, this time I would not be dismissed. As you turned to leave, I grabbed a hold of your arm, pulling you back.

No, Ali, I'm serious. You have to listen. Like this. It wasn't enough to have my head in the sink. No, I went and twisted myself in there so that I had an ear pointed up at the faucet too. This while looking back at you with kid's sister, police levels of desperation. And for whatever reason, the sheer absurdity of the proposal, I can only presume,

you didn't simply turn and walk away. No, you actually did as a way. I asked. You crammed your head into the sink, and what you heard, your ear to the cold metal, was a warbling little voice. Hello? Is anyone there? Your eyes went wide as you glanced over at me, as if I could have been playing a trick on you, but it wasn't a trick. There was a voice coming from the faucet, distinctly masculine even through the tinny pipes. Don't be rude, Allie, I said. I said. Say something to him. You brought your head back out from under the faucet,

and we both gathered around the sink, resting our elbows on the cool ceramic. We stayed that way a moment, until finally you spoke. Hello? Allie? Did I hear the name Allie? Anne Sam. Well, hello, Anne Sam.

Hello, Anne, Allie. It's very nice to meet you both. For some, somewhere, Aunt Claire's romance novels had been, been a big deal. Grocery stores, probably. Anyway, the reoccurring protagonist of her novels was Riley Young, a high-spirited 20-something woman who often found herself in frequent close proximity to attractive, eligible men amidst breathtaking locales. Because, of course, she does. The books would always begin with her on the verge of a big promotion or a new direction in her career, and then in-walks

Mr. attractive and eligible. A number of increasingly sexy scenes later, Riley would be just on the verge of surrendering her vital independence when, in often quite dramatic fashion, say by bolting on horseback or using a zip line to escape a hillside wedding ceremony, she would once again firm her resolve, returning to her oh so average life as a whip-smart novelist with yet another broken heart added to her list. Like I said, for some somewhere, though that somewhere also included a number of high-profile publishers and even a hint of Hollywood. This was especially true during the summer of 2006, as reports circled that Claire was beginning to bring the Forever Young series to a close.

So, naturally, she had her share of visitors that summer. We would watch them from our perch in the trees, interviewers, college students looking to make a buck editing, and yes, even the occasional Hollywood type. They were always the funniest, to see them pass beneath us fanning the necks of their shirts from the summer swelter, absolutely out of their element. They'd wave us down from our tree, ask us which way to the manor? We'd always say, what manner?

Then giggle as they looked left, then right, as if they'd wandered into the oki-fenoki swamp. When Aunt Claire found out what we were doing, she gave us a firm talking to. Girls, you can't be doing that. We weren't being that mean. Mean nothing. It's not them I care about. You don't mess around with strangers.

This world is not the kind of thing I write. It's not safe. We were being safe. And you rolled your eyes. There is no safe. Not unless you're under this roof, okay? Okay. To which we reluctantly replied,

Okay. I'd like to take a moment to consider the word she used here, especially through the mind of a pair of preteens prone to smart assery. Under this roof, meaning, technically, that anyone we spoke to while inside of the manner was safe by default, which, of course, included our new. friend in the faucet. This worked out quite well, actually, considering just how much he loved to talk. He had so much to say in those early days, so many questions about our lives.

How was your day? What was for dessert? Chocolate cake? Where is Ali? Will she join us soon? This at random intervals throughout the day. Say, while washing our hands before dinner or brushing our teeth before bed, or in the middle of a midnight tinkle. Question after question after question. Though he was not as forthcoming regarding our own. So tell me again why you talk to children through a faucet? This from the ever-incredulous you as you leaned cross-armed across the bathroom wall.

Children? Or just the other day, Allie, you said you were almost 13. Yeah, but that doesn't answer my... When you're 13, you'll understand. Maybe not for nearly 13-year-old you, but for a 10-year-old me, it was a sufficient enough answer. Remember, I was eight months orphaned and shipped off to a fairy tale estate brimming with fantastic sights. Our faucet friend, at least to me, he was just another part of that fantasy. A fantasy that was, for you, beginning to wane.

Dinner time, late July. Cicadas sawing loud enough we could hear them over the running sink. You and I would know, because that's where we stood washing dishes after dinner. Claire had just left to answer the phone, and you turned and smirked at me, shutting off the water. There we stood quietly listening in on Claire's conversation with yet another boyfriend, complete with the all-too-familiar cadence of eager desperation. Hello? Oh, hello, Matthew.

I was beginning to think you weren't going to call back. There we were with our attention fixed so, when from the kitchen sink came the voice of our strange summer companion. And Ellie and Sam? It was a bit of a shock, actually. He'd never before spoken to us outside of the upstairs bathroom. I leaned in, whispered quickly. We can't talk now.

But very little seemed to deter him. Hey, come to the window. We looked at each other, unsure what to make of that request. But with a shrug, we did as asked and lifted ourselves up on the sink to peer into the front yard. To see, nothing. What are we supposed to be looking for? No, no, not the kitchen window, the bathroom window. That made sense, actually.

That was where the majority of our conversations had taken place after all. So without hearing the predictable conclusion to Claire's telephone call, we left the kitchen sink and made our way for the bathroom upstairs, where the only window was positioned high above the bathtub, a long, small window that I had to pull myself up by the inside ledge to even reach. But reach it I did to fit my face beside yours. Do you see him? Not yet. Hanging from the ledge, I turned to the sink. Hey, where are you? In order to hear him, we had to remain deathly quiet.

I'm down past the footpath, over at the well house. We scanned the yard until... There he was. Just like he said, out by the old well house, a six-foot-tall wooden shack partially obscured by layers of hanging moss from the trees above. Through the moss, one could just make out pipes running from the left side of the structure, and alongside those pipes now stood a man, an adult, dressed casually, his left hand holding one of the metal pipes to his mouth like you might an old-timey telephone.

We see you! He saw us, too. Letting go of the pipe with his left hand, he proceeded to wave, never moving his other arm, his right arm, which he had kept bent behind his back, the way a man might hide flowers for a first date. And for a moment, obscured by hanging moss as he was, I told myself he seemed normal, normal-ish anyway, normal for a man who speaks through faucets. Yet you clearly did not share this same opinion. What's up with your skin? The faucet man sounded confused, hurt even. If you cared, you didn't show it.

Yeah, your skin looks all wrong. At first, I couldn't believe how rude you were being. However, the longer I stared, the more I began to see what you saw. Yes, yes, if you looked through the hanging moss just right, his skin appeared, well, loose. Like his skin were a too big t-shirt he'd thrown on. Frankly, it was hard to really get a look at it, because not long after your comment did he abruptly stand straight, shoving his right arm farther behind him, as if the thing he were gripping back there was his own skin, which he twisted tight through his clothes. That looks much better. I was still concerned about offending him.

Don't be rude, Allie. Tell him he looks much better. You did no such thing. you butt blue at your own dull brown hair sighed and climbed back down here's another thing that happened that summer you received your first period i had just come back inside to see where you'd vanished off to on any usual day the incessant tip tip tipping of claire's typewriter ensured that the downstairs of the manor was never too quiet yet this was not any usual day a few empty empty empty tipps rooms later, I finally heard a creek from the floor above. Then, murmured voices. So up I went, tiptoeing, first up the old stairs, then down the upstairs hallway, all while the voices gradually became clearer and clearer. I don't understand. Is something wrong? No, honey, there's nothing wrong with you. It's completely natural. Boy, you sure didn't. like that. Natural? Well, it sucks and it hurts and I hate it. Okay, okay, calm down. Just one second.

I had only been a few feet away from the bathroom door when Claire exited, heading the opposite direction. Quietly, I slipped off through the green door into our bedroom, where I promptly hid, eyes on the crack in the door. From that vantage, I saw you at your most vulnerable, bare legs hanging from the toilet. hands crossed over your knees, awaiting Claire's return. This for a long ten seconds while you sat completely still, quiet, until, as if in response to someone in the room, you hopped up, turned the faucet on full blast and repeated. Shut up, shut up, shut up. What's it?

Aunt Claire was returning now from down the hallway. You twisted the knobs again, a squeal of the water shut. off. Nothing. I was just talking to myself. Claire arrived at the door. You were telling yourself to shut up? Yep. You replied coolly, though you might as well have said nothing at all, because as Claire stepped into the bathroom, she did so with a completely different topic on her mind. The tampon she held up in front of her. This is your new best bread. No. That's the word I would use to describe everything that came after that. New interests.

A new arrogance. You'd one day call it poise. A new contempt for things you'd once appreciated. Chief among them, our friend in the faucet. You even gave him a new name. The what? The slackskin man. I don't want you to talk to him anymore.

But why? What did he? Why? Because I'm older and smart. than you are, Sam. And when Claire said we were safe under this roof, she was dead wrong. But, Allie!

I said no. And with that, you slammed the bathroom door. Your mind was made up, and no amount of whining from a kid's sister was going to change it. The question was, was my resolve as firm as yours. A few evenings later,

coming awake in the middle of the night to a sound from the hallway, I proved it was not. Sam, Hallie. There came the voice, this so-called slack-skinned man. I pushed the bedroom door shut but didn't quite close it. Then, quietly, I slipped across the hall into the bathroom. Are you still there?

Yes, I'm here, Sam. Long time, no see. His voice had an itchiness to. it as if it were crawling up the pipes. I closed my eyes, imagining spiders pouring from the end of the faucet. And I must have slipped off into a standing dream, because when I opened my eyes again, it felt like time had passed. Allie told me not to speak to you anymore. He was quiet for a long while. Very unlike him actually to be so quiet. In fact, whatever he is is the most unreserved thing I've ever encountered. Eventually, he spoke this time his tone harsher.

Did I hear her call me slack skinned? I hesitated. Yes. Why did she do that? Because your skin, it's a little... It's a little loose, is all. What, is your skin perfect? No, but... Suddenly, the pipes began to rattle. Tell her that if she ever calls me that again, I'll cut a hole in her pretty belly and...

Sam, move. You appeared from the hallway with a pillow in hand. You pushed past me toward the sink, where you proceeded to twist the pillow over. around the faucet, muting the voice inside. What did I tell you? You reached up into the medicine cabinet to fetch a roll of gauze. Don't talk to him. You have to promise me that you won't talk to him anymore. Do you promise?

Already you were beginning to secure the pillow in place, wrapping it with gauze around and around. Yes. You have to promise. Yes, yes. Until finally you were satisfied With your handiwork With my promise With your control of the world Both real and imagined You stood back from the sink

Dusting your hands off Admiring your work Good You looked proud Good Which brings us back to now The wedding The toast

The truth And that truth is I lack your resolute control over the world, over what you choose to remember or not, over your thoughts and whether you act on them, over him. Recall your 13th birthday when you and Danny Beaumont ditched me and snuck up to the treehouse to practice kissing. I had followed at a distance but stopped short to find, standing at the bottom of the ladder, none other than the slackskin. man, right arm bent behind him and gripping tight through his clothes, his own skin. He turned to look at me,

his expression lost inside a face hanging too loose. Yet at the very moment that I began to blanch, he wrenched hold of himself, tightening his limp countenance into something more human. His voice was now deep as an open well. Hello and sham. Wonder. and pity and a child's fear of being alone, those things you'd cast off from you, I felt them all at once in a tangle inside me. And then, at that very moment, you called down from the treehouse. Sam, go home. Go. And just like that, the knot went loose, relaxed. I looked into the slackskin man's watchful gaze, and I knew what was going to happen. If not with you, I would be with him. If not yours, I would be his. Our parents' death had erected a wall between us and a normal

healthy childhood. As we each breach that barrier in our own way, we ultimately left each other behind. You got the self-possessed smile and take what you want attitude. Me, I got the million miles stare, the medicine cabinet of prescription pills, the slack-skinned man. While you were growing into the woman you've become, I was sinking farther and farther into him. Month by month, year by year, he's absorbed me, enticed me, really, deeper and deeper into that skin of his, into whatever we call the thing that hides the darkest parts of us. By freshman year of high school, I was brave enough to take his hand. A little rubbery to the touch, but beneath that odd and clammy skin, a comfort of bones,

of there being something at his core that I could call human. If it existed, I hadn't found it by the time I started college. In fact, I think I had come to the opposite conclusion. that he was as far from human as possible. Yet year by year, I steeled myself against that horror. Now, today, I'm all calm-nerved to stand before him. My bridesmaid's dress slips from me and onto the floor, and I don't think twice about it.

Indeed, through the hotel window I see the beach. And on that beach, against a backdrop of lapping waves, friends and family gather to say goodbye to the old you and to greet the new one. It's my time too. Time to give what's left of me to him. He can have it. In fact, I want him to have it. And maybe I'll finally get to see what is underneath that skin of his.

To see what exactly is inside nothing. A strange man living in my tap. That sounds like fun. Fun. David, did you learn nothing from that story? It clearly stated the rules for avoiding such a nightmarish bathroom visitor. I'd rather die free than follow the rules. I'm a loner, David.

A rebel. But how could you not heed the warning of that story? It's so... Oh, never mind. All I'm saying is there are times when you need to be responsible. Like doing household chores, for instance. Listen, I do plenty around my... place there, the laundry, shoveling coal, shearing the sheep. I work hard. I see what you mean.

Well, do you take the time to enjoy delicious food after all that hard work? Maybe a scone here and there? I mean, who has the time to cook these days? Well, give yourself one less thing to worry about, and let DoorDash take care of your next meal. Ah, I do miss going to local restaurants, and I know they are very much in need of customers these days. Exactly. And with DoorDash, you can continue supporting restaurants in your community safely. There are thousands of restaurants open for delivery on DoorDash that need your patronage now more than ever. Support your favorite restaurants on DoorDash. Now you have me craving all that delicious food.

DoorDash is the app that brings you food you're craving right now, right to your door. Ordering is easy. Open the DoorDash app, choose what you want to eat, and your food will be left safely outside your door with the new contactless delivery drop-off setting. and I'll certainly have plenty of places to choose from. I've heard you mention that DoorDash has over 300,000 partner restaurants. That's a lot of choice and a lot of great food. And you can support your local sit-down restaurants who remain open for takeaway, or choose from your favorite national restaurants like Chipotle, Wendy's, and the Cheesecake Factory.

How do I, and by extension, our wonderful listeners, take advantage of DoorDash's amazing service? Right now, our listeners can get $5 off and zero. delivery fees on their first order of $15 or more when you download the DoorDash app and enter code no sleep. You're saying that's $5 off and zero delivery fees on your first order when you download the DoorDash app in the App Store and enter code no sleep? Precisely. Well done, Mr. Alt. You followed the rules correctly. I'm still a loner, David. A rebel. Yes, yes, yes. And don't forget, that's code no sleep for five.

$5 off your first order with DoorDash. And now, the rules say it's time to present another sleepless tale of horror. In our first tale, we find ourselves in the UK where Mr. Hale, an innkeeper, keeps a lonely vigil as owner of a bed and breakfast. It's a lovely place to stay, the perfect hub to take in the British countryside in all directions. Well, most of them. But in this tale, shared with us by author S.H. Cooper, we learn there's one direction you should never go into the marshes. Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell, Erica Sanderson, David Alt, and James Cleveland.

So come and stay. Have a good time. Explore all you want in the daylight. But when the night falls, it's best that you don't leave. Whitemore House. Don't go out after dark. That had been one of the inn's rules since it opened in the late 19th century. Built on the edge of a wide swath of marshland, it was large, beautiful, and sitting on a precarious edge.

During daylight hours, paths were easy enough to see, and enough signposts had been erected that finding one's way to and from Whitemore House wasn't much of a challenge. After nightfall, however, shadows had a way of obscuring signs and swallowing light. Pathways got tangled and lost underfoot, and one misstep was all it took to end up in one of the bogs. And once you were in, there was almost no getting out. I inherited Whitmore from my grandfather after he passed away.

My mother had been offered the inn, but her life was well established far off in the city, and she couldn't bring herself to leave it behind. She first offered it to my sister, who likewise had too many ties elsewhere, and then to me. I considered turning it down as well, but the thought of Whitemore being outside of the family for the first time in over a century was an upsetting one. I wrestled with the idea for many days But after an afternoon of going through old photo albums Seeing how happy everyone had been there

How happy I'd been I knew what I had to do It was easier than I thought it would be Leaving it all behind My parents helped me pack my things And we all made the four-hour trek north To the distant countryside The crunch of gravel under my tires

as we pulled up to the gates was enough to make the butterflies in my stomach swarm. Memories from my childhood, ones I had not thought about in many years, rushed back to me. Walking hand in hand with my grandparents across the expansive grounds, bordered on all sides by tall stone walls, racing my sister up and down the grand staircase, our shoes clattering noisely against the dark hardwood, squishing myself between mum and the arm of a well-worn but still comfortable chair so that she could read to me before bedtime.

I was sure some of it was skewed by the rosy lens of nostalgia, but I was glad to be back. Grandad, who believed a job wasn't truly done until it had been overdone, had left behind a thick stack of instructions on how to care for and run the inn. The first few months I was there, I poured over every word he'd written, taking notes, making a few tweaks here and there to modernize the place. The staff, all old hands by the time of my arrival, were generous with their tips and tricks,

and only too willing to assist me in learning my new role. Between my grandfather's thorough guides and the helpfulness of the employees, I was confident that the White Moor would continue to operate successfully with me at the forefront. That was, as long as I kept to the rules. The list was long, but a few of them stuck out. Do not leave the grounds after dark. No one may enter the marsh after sunset.

Do not leave the lamps on the exterior garden walls lit after 7 p.m. Lock all four gates by 7 p.m. If someone needs to come or go, they can find. phone the front desk for assistance. But the Northgate leading to the marsh trails must remain closed regardless. I asked the head of housekeeping, Melinda, about the list, and she shrugged. Just how things have to be. Best to follow through, as your granddad said, he knew what he was doing. I learned quickly enough that he had, in fact, known what he was doing, and why the rules were so important. It was a hard lesson, but one I only needed once, and after that single incident I quickly found my footing as proprietor and grew comfortable in my position.

As the years passed, all of the inn's quirks and mysteries revealed themselves to me, and it went from being my family's inn to my inn, to my home. Almost two decades after I'd taken over, the inn was as successful as it had ever been, and I was still just as happy that I had returned as I had been on my first day. And then the Bailey showed up. Immediately I could tell that this family was going to be something of a handful. Seven rambunctious children, two overworked, overtired parents, and an elderly grandmother who couldn't be bothered with any of it. I met them as they were checking in and started with usual pleasantries.

Mr. Bailey, a larger man with a afraid look about him, interrupted me mid-sentence. Yeah, all very well and good. Where's our rooms? Ah, of course. I smiled pleasantly. Too long in the business for a little brusqueness to get under my skin. You have five rooms all side by side on the third floor. Lifts? I do apologize, but we only have a service lift, as it says in our brochure. The inn was built before elevators.

But if your mother needs assistance, I can have one of the staff take her up in the lift. We do provide a wheelchair. The old woman harumphed from behind her son. He snorted, swiping the keys from the desktop. Next you're going to be telling me you've not got any running water. No worries there, Mr Bailey. Now, before you go up, I just want to make you aware of some of the inn's rules. No need. We'll figure it out.

He started to gather up his brood and move them to the stairwell. Well, if you'll just allow me a moment to... Later, later, come on, kids, off you go on. I frowned and watched them ascent. The rules were clearly posted in all rooms, but I still like to go over them personally, especially when I doubted they'd be read. I brushed it off, figuring I'd get them later when they came down for supper, and I went about my business. It was easy to forget about the ten Bailey bunch with so much else to take care of,

and by evening time they'd slipped my mind completely. Good night, Jonah. I walked through the lobby for my final nightly inspection. Jonah called me back to the desk. Oh, Mr. Hales, I had a question about the rules. A naturally nervous, lad. Jonah had only been working as our overnight reception attendant for a week, and every time he saw me, he had at least one new question.

I was glad that he'd double, sometimes triple-checked with me before he did anything he wasn't certain about. But I did hope he'd gain some independence soon. I smiled, tired, but open, and nodded for him to continue. So what do we do if someone went out on the marsh trails at 6.30 and isn't back yet? Excuse me? I gripped the edge of the desk, praying this was a hypothetical.

Well, you know, that family with a lot of kids, they walked through about 6.30 and I heard them saying they were going to go out to the marshes. He trailed off into a strangled silence when he saw that the colour had all but drained from my face. I looked at the clock over his shoulder. 8.13. Why didn't you tell me this sooner? I didn't wait for an answer. I dashed from the lobby, moving faster than I had in years, and I ran to my room. Under my bed, I kept the kit. One I had put together and refreshed and renewed every few years after that incident two decades before. I'd been so unprepared, and I hadn't known.

But now I did. Equipped with a lantern, flashlights, earplugs, ropes and flares, I skidded down the steps and through, the halls until I spilled out onto the inn's back lawn, the one that faced the marsh. Even as I ran across the grass to the back fence, I knew that it was too late, knew that it had grown too dark. I knew that I wouldn't find them. Still, I dug through my ring of keys until I found the one labeled North Gate, and I broke the rules. I unlocked the gate, and I went to the gate, and I went went out into the darkness. I made sure to shut and lock it securely behind me,

and I tied one end of my rope securely to one of the wrought iron bars. The other end I tied around my waist. It was a long rope, the longest I could find, and would allow me to walk a little way into the marsh without going too deep. It was too dangerous at night to go in any other way. Well, I could think about the entire time I readied myself. putting in my earplugs, checking my lights. Was that one night, 20 years before, I hadn't known.

Granddad hadn't left me anything about it, and no one had told me. There had been a wedding that afternoon. It was a beautiful affair filled with love and happiness, and crowded, very crowded. No one noticed when the bride's sister, a 12-year-old girl named Hannah, wandered off. awed by the reception. We'd all been so busy that we'd forgotten to close the north gate, much less locket, and we assumed later that she'd been intrigued by the marsh and its trails.

By the time people started looking for her, calling for her, it was after dark. We were all frantic, running about, tearing the place apart. We found her little bouquet of lilies on the path just beyond that tree line that marked. the entrance of the marsh. Police came, firemen, paramedics, and all of us, all of us save those who'd worked at the inn for a long time, went in, searchlights, dogs, radios, footsteps, voices shouting. It was so loud and so bright, she should have been able to find her way back to us,

but she never did. They looked for days. and I joined every search party. We combed through the marsh, but there was just no sign of her. Eventually, the heart-wrenching decision was made to give up. It was decided that Hannah had strayed from the path and fallen into a bog, and no one had heard her over the wedding celebration. And that was the end of it. Guilt consumed me,

and I found myself trying to ease it with the age of it. of bottle after bottle of whiskey, until Melinda pulled me aside one day after hours and sat me down in my office with a glass of water and a sigh. You didn't follow the rules, Mr. Hales. I know. I don't think you do. How could I not? I didn't follow the rules and now some child has lost her life due to my negligence.

She shook her head and pulled her chair close to mine. After a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure we were alone, she continued in a low voice. Your granddad didn't want you or your family to know about this because he worried it'd make you want to sell the place. He didn't inherit until after your mom moved out, so she never knew either. But it's time. The marsh, Melinda told me, wasn't an evil place. It was sad and it was lonely And that made it dangerous all the same

It had always been easy to lose your way in it And many a person had paid the ultimate price for their misstep They're stuck out there Mr Hales And they longed to be free To be with their families again It's that longing that keeps them there Grief and loneliness are powerful drives and it keeps them searching every night for someone to keep them company.

Ghosts? I was sceptical, even in my half-drunk state. If that's what you want to call them, after nightfall, they pull themselves from the bach and they cry out for anyone who can hear to find them and join them. We living never mean to, but it's hard to ignore something that pulls at our house. art so strongly. The pain they feel, the anguish and despair, it pulls us to them. Our empathy is our

greatest weakness out there. You're shitting me. You believe this. I believe there are more powerful things in this world and that hurt is one of them. Do you know what Boggs used to be used for? Not really. Graveyards, Mr Hales, and not the kind you go and pay your respects at. They were a dumping ground for bodies, people who had been sacrificed or murdered. They were where the hopeless would go to end their suffering.

Bogs have a long history of death, and ours is no different. Those who pass. under such circumstances, with such anger or grief burning inside them. I have a hard time letting it go. You think we're sitting on a mass grave site? Seriously? She narrowed her eyes of my dismissal and stood. Come, let's go for a walk.

And so we did. Up the dark pathway and to the north gate. where she told me to stand still and listen. At first, all I had heard was the wind blowing through the marsh, a few nightbirds, and I felt silly. I almost told her so, but she was clutching the gate and staring out with such intensity that I remained quiet and followed her gaze.

That was when I heard it. Somewhere in the distance, barely audible, the sound of a young girl, sobbing, calling for help. The more I listened, the more I heard, moans and voices from somewhere out in the bogs, and part of me wanted to go to them. Why have I never heard this before? I was scarcely able to form the words. I had to turn my back to the gate and shake my head to help collect myself. It's easy to miss from here. When you're so distracted by everything else.

Out there, though, when you're alone and away from the inn and light and life, you can't help her here. But when we were out that night looking, we didn't see anything. There was so much else going on. You were too busy looking to see. Too distracted. I'd never gone back outside at night. after that except to lock the gates myself, and since then I'd always made sure to follow the rules,

until the Baileys. With earplugs in place and my rope to guide me home, I inched my way towards the tree line. Beyond it, I knew it would open up into the flat, seemingly endless expanse of the marsh and all of its bogs. I could hear the thud of my heart beating against. my ribs, feel the chill of fear prickling against the back of my neck, but I pushed myself forward. I started to lose slack on my rope as soon as I had crossed through the trees, just as I had intended. I raised the lantern high and narrowed my eyes, searching the gloom for any sign of the large family. There were shapes in the shadows. Some I could write off as overgrown plants and old stumps, but others were different, larger, all too human. They swayed in the windless night,

and when my lantern lights stretched out towards them, barely brushing the closest one with the edge of its glow, it reached back. And then, slowly, it started to move towards me. Fear rooted me to the spot, although I was screaming at myself to go, to run back to the inn. It was getting closer and with each step I could see it more clearly. Long, dark hair, the dirty remains of some kind of dress, and its skin, leather-like and stretched across its bones. Its thin lips were moving. It was speaking or screaming or crying. I didn't know. No. The earplugs prevented it, but I knew it wanted me to join it. It was on the path now, just down the way from me, and its hands with its long skeletal fingers were grasping at me,

beckoning me. Behind it, others had noticed, and were starting to crawl and climb from the marsh onto the path. A giant of what had once been a man, his dark face twisted and flattened by ages spent under the weight of the muck and mire, his skull concave on one side, lumbered forward. Another woman, her belly still tellingly large and round beneath the rags that still clung to her, limped towards me. Remnants of decaying rope bound her wrists. A third, a young, A young girl in the remains of a party dress twenty years out of fashion held out her arms to me, as if asking me to pick her up. More were rising behind her. The bog had preserved them, drying their skin, thinning it, darkening it, darkening it, until they were deflated sunken versions of their former selves.

They moved stiffly, almost painfully, and all of them were coming for me. The only living being in a sea of the dead. They were close enough for me to see their eyes, muddied and yellowed and fixed on me. My light reflected dully off them. It was those eyes that had me moving, running, tripping, pulling myself along with the rope back to the inn. All of the preparations I'd made to throw flares and use more flashlights

and light up the marsh as we'd done the night we looked for Hannah, were gone. My only goal then was to get back behind the gate and lock myself in. I fell once hard onto my shoulder. And one of my earplugs came loose and I lost it in the shadows. I could hear them then, their sadness, their misery raised in a chorus of choked gurgles and raw wailing. It surrounded me, came from all sides, a soul. I resulted me with its desperation. I could feel it clawing at my mind, begging me to turn, to let them have me.

There were no words spoken, but I so clearly heard them, a hundred voices all filling my head. Join us. Join us. Join us. I strained against it, forcing myself to look ahead at the inn, to focus on the light still shining from the windows. I thought of Melinda, gone these past few years, of Jonah who still needed so much help,

of my family who had given me the gift of the Whitemore and the wonderful life I'd come to lead in. I thought of my grandfather, and all of his careful, loving instructions passed on so that the place he had cared so much for could continue on without him. I slapped a hand over my ear, blocking out the call of the marsh, and found my feet. I stumbled onward, through the gate, spun, and slammed it shut. When the key turned in the lock with a satisfyingly heavy click, I released the breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. I dared to glance back, and in the darkness,

I saw yellow pinpricks glaring back at me. I did call the police the next morning, and they searched the marsh, but the Baileys were not fair. Officially, the inn wrote them off as having skipped out without paying. Unofficially, those of us who had been at the inn long enough knew the truth. After that, I kept the north gate locked and refused access to the marsh at any time, regardless of whether it was day or night. And business resumed as usual.

Hannah and the Baileys were not spoken of again. I'm getting older now, almost too old to keep running the Whitemore, and sometimes think of retiring. On those nights I go up to the attic, and I sit in the chair I placed up there, and I look out the window, down to the marsh, and I see tiny pimpricks of yellow in the darkness. I am reminded that as long as I am able, I have a duty to the inn and its staff and its guests. I'm one of the few remaining who still know its history and what's out there, wandering the marsh.

And I stay. As we place the letters back in their envelopes, it's time to take our leave. 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. All rights reserved.

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