The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E05

Episode Date: May 2, 2021

It’s Episode 05 of Season 16. Our correspondence points to historical horrors.“Corpse Grin” written by Tadd Mecham (Story starts around 00:03:50) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Margaret – Nikolle Doolin, Father Morgan – Dan Zappulla, Benson – David Cummings, Jeffrey – Peter Lewis, Hannah – Nichole Goodnight, Emily – Erin Lillis, Robert – Matt Bradford, Beth – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Emma – Kristen DiMercurio“Butcher” written by E.C. Dobson (Story starts around 00:53:30)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Ingrid Müller – Tanja Milojevic, Herbert Keller – Jeff Clement, Selmer Sankt – Graham Rowat, Policeman – David Cummings“Scratch” written by Marisca Pichette (Story starts around 01:08:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Glorys – Erin Lillis, Innkeeper – Jeff Clement, Piper – Wafiyyah White“Every Man Digs His Own Grave” written by T. Michael Argent (Story starts around 01:24:30)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Rex – Mike DelGaudio, Dr. Cook – Jesse Cornett, Mr. Dugan – Mick Wingert, Lorelei – Mary Murphy, Josie – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Sheriff Winscott – Atticus Jackson“What I Cannot Know” written by D. Williams (Story starts around 02:12:35) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Edith – Erika Sanderson, Seamus – Jake Benson, Susannah – Penny Scott-Andrews  This episode is sponsored by:Quip – Quip is the good habits company for oral health. With their leading-edge electric toothbrush combined with dentist-recommend scheduled replacement plans for brush heads, toothpaste, floss, and now their chewing gum – Quip makes oral care easy and affordable. And if you go to getquip.com/nosleep right now, you can get a FREE plastic gum dispenser with any refill plan.DoorDash – Restaurants and more, delivered to your door. Itís 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 our newest illustrator, Alia SynesthesiaClick here to learn more about voice actor Jake BensonClick here to learn more about Marisca PichetteClick here to learn more about T. Michael ArgentClick here to learn more about D. Williams Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Scratch” illustration courtesy of Alia SynesthesiaAudio 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

It's time for the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host. David... The darkness dwells within me. I shall consume your soul. What? Who are you? Why are you skulking around my studio? And dude, your breath. Ever heard of oral hygiene? I'm the ruler of hell's seventh layer. I live eternal to torment the souls of the damned. I exist to bring pain and suffering to... Hey, what's that crack supposed to mean? It means whatever you've been doing down there clearly doesn't include brushing and flossing your teeth, not even chewing gum to help clean your fangs between meals.

I chew the bones of the damned, which I'll admit doesn't help my teeth much. Look, taking care of your oral health is easy, thanks to Quip. They reinvented the toothbrush for the modern mortal age, and their subscription service sends you replacement brushheads, refillable floss, toothpaste, and now even chewing gum, all on a dentist-recomm. its schedule. Quip gum sounds like it would be much better for me than bones. Sure, gum is something people chew as a way to relieve stress, curb appetites, and most importantly, fresh in breath. But it can also be an important part of a healthy oral care routine. But have you ever tried

to open a pack of gum with the filth and rimstone of eternal fire everywhere? Not for some time, but quip has you covered. The slim travel-ready dispenser, available in five colors, metal or plastic, packs and protects up to 10 gum pieces at a time, and fits in just about any purse, pocket, or human skull for on the go. And in a world where we all need to be extra safe and hygienic, the quick release button means you can still share with devilish friends, no rappers, hands, or hassles. How can I procure these fantastical products from Quip? If you go to GetQuip.com slash No Sleep right now, you can sign up and get a free plastic dispenser with any refill plan.

get a free dispenser at G-E-T-Q-U-I-P-P-com slash no sleep. That's right. And you can also find the Quip Electric Toothbrush, refillable floss, and more in the oral care aisle at your local Walmart. That's diabolical. No, that's Quip, the Good Habits Company. You've given me lots to think about. You could say I've given you plenty to chew on. No, not even a demon would make such a horrible pun.

Well, back to the pits of hell with you. We've got sleepless horror ready to start right now. 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. 16, Chapter 5.

Welcome, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. For those of you who've been following along so far, you'll know that last week I came into possession of a storage unit. For those of you who haven't been following along, well, now you know also. There's so much here. So many documents, recordings, letters, novels. Many of them appear to be esoterica and random correspondence. Letters from folks I've never heard of with recipients I can't make out.

Unlabeled cassette tapes, CDs, minidiscs, and thumb drives. I even found a wax cylinder that clearly has some kind of audio etched onto it. How I'll be able to listen to that, I have no idea. Then there are journals. So many journals, so much history, so many memories recorded and saved for posterity. Far, far too many to even perform or share. There's a shelf here, for instance, with ten journals from a woman named Mary Beth Carter. I flicked through a view.

She seems to have kept a journal from the age of nine to the age of 84, ten volumes. How do I sort through that? And yet, with everything I touch in here, everything I feel, I can see. sense stories that want to be told, that need to be told. At night, I dream of their importance, the contents of this entire storage facility. Vague, ambiguous dreams devoid of imagery or narrative, but dreams that tell me every story in this place needs telling, sharing, hearing. But how can I? There's so much here. Far too much for us to ever perform on the show. And what's more, there's something else strange.

Some of the books in this place, I recognize them. Not in a mysterious way. Rather, they are known books with familiar titles and popular authors. There's a whole bookshelf of them. Some are niche. Some are extremely famous. Most of them are horror, but some are not. And, yeah, this might not seem bizarre.

The storage unit is a collection of books in general, after all. And yet from these published books, these novels you can buy in any bookstore, many of which we certainly don't have the rights to perform on the show, I can sense the same kind of urgent energy, the same screaming voice in my head telling me that these stories are important too. But I can't perform these. I can't take a book of short stories published by a living author within the last 20 years, authors who we've never worked with, who many of you will have heard of and read and just perform their works on the show. So why are these books screaming at me just as much as the letters and the tapes and the journals.

Something connects them all. Something connects every piece of writing in this specific storage unit. The known, published books, most of them have a sticker over the barcode, suggesting they were for sale at a certain bookstore. I haven't yet had a chance to look into this bookstore. I don't want to publicize its name yet, in case it still exists, and fans swarm the place looking for clues. I have no idea what connection this bookstore might have to the contents of this storage unit, if anything.

I don't want some poor, unsuspecting bookstore owner suddenly overwhelmed with no-sleep podcast listeners, trying to solve a mystery that said owner may be entirely oblivious to. As much as the image of this happening is somewhat appealingly mischievous and amusing. Hmm, maybe if it weren't for the pandemic. But beyond that, and perhaps most importantly, I have no idea. what our benefactor, who tasked me with doing something with all of this, ultimately wants. I have heard nothing from them since I received the key. They surely don't expect me to perform an entire storage unit's worth of stories,

including many still under copyright, on the show. But they most certainly want something. And I'm too invested now to turn my back on all this. Besides, I don't think the stories in this storage unit would let me, even if I wanted to. I shall dig in further. I have a few avenues of inquiry I'll be pursuing before next week. Maybe then I'll be more comfortable sharing further details of what's in here. But for now, we return to journals.

After I'd glanced over the ten volumes chronicling Mary Beth Carter's life, each screaming at me to tell their story, despite me finding nothing worth sharing in my brief perusal, I found another much shorter journal tucked on the shelf below, Oh, on a whim, I removed this one, and the screaming in my head grew louder. This was the story they wanted to be told next. An inscription inside the journal informed me that it was once the property of one Tad Meekam. But this person, whose name strikes a familiar chord in my mind, does not appear in the journal itself.

Instead, the journal recounts a horrific series of events from the 1890s, in which a plague overtook a village. It appears to be written by a woman named Margaret. In the spirit of the podcast, I have adapted the journal into a dramatization, although all the original writing is intact. We created a recording of the journal, which I joined Nicole Doolin, Dan Zepula, Peter Lewis, Nicole Goodnight, Aaron Lillis, Matthew Bradford, Sarah Thomas,

and Kristen D. MacCurio in performing. Since it's again someone's personal diary, it has no title, but I call it corpse grin. October 1st, 1892. Father Morgan came by the house last night. As I pressed open the door to welcome him inside, he forced it back on me, coughing into a cloth. No, I am unwell. I could hear that he had tears in his eyes. His voice shaken and backed away from the door.

What can I do? Margaret, you know full well that there is nothing to be done. You've kept yourself and your family clean, healthy, safe from this disease. He wept then, behind the door. The frantic shouting up the road now as normal as crickets chirping or wolves howling had once been. Even the beasts and bugs have been driven away by our unrelenting stench of death. I only ask that you retrieve my father's Bible. Once this has all been sorted out.

I will, I said, knowing I would not. Keep well, young Margaret. Keep your child safe. His voice trailed away into the dark of night. The flames, the screaming. October 2nd, 1892. Bertrand, the stable boy, was the first to cough. Most thought it had passed an ailment

and rightfully kept clear of him to avoid giving their children over to it. About a illness had taken the lives of three infants and two children the previous winter, burning them up with fever before they had gone cold. Bertrand tended the stables as long as he could. an admirable feat looking upon it now. Before he collapsed in the hog pen and died later that night in the doctor's care. He had coughed up enough blood to turn the mud in the pen a deep purple.

The sows marching it around into an even swath of plum. And Benson Talmire had been questioned extensively about the child's working conditions and how it had come to be that the poor thing had laid in hog-droppings for hours. Nearly drowning in his own. tainted blood before he had gotten the sense to check on him. Benson was dumbfounded, explaining that the boy had only been sneezing, and he hadn't given his condition a second thought when he'd sent him choring.

He'd joked with me even. He'd told me a real good one about farmhands and farmer's wives. Nothing too appropriate, mind you? The boy was himself. The entire town attended the service, and the choir organized a beautiful dinner afterwards. Bertrand's mother kissed the dead boy just before his casket was nailed shut, or so I am told, and she fell ill shortly after the service.

She died in her own vomit not a week later, and just as that news spread, so too did the news that each of Bertrand's pallbearers were laid in bed with severe fatigue. Their funerals were joint. Their attendance sparse. and all but family had forgone the after-service dinner. The caskets were left in the church, when the pallbearers refused to touch the boxes.

And there, I assume, they still remain. October 2nd, 1892. Emma and Rachel have lived next to me my entire life. When I'd inherited the family home after father's passing, both women had been tended to their own ail and parents. Rachel lived upstairs and Emma downstairs, each having a small family of their own. We often met for luncheon or tea. Since the death of Emma's husband, Jonathan, a year ago, his haven't fallen under the wheels of a wagon in the lumberyard,

his ribcage pressed into his lungs. She no longer attended these dates. And since the sickness had overcome stone rest, we saw nothing of Rachel either. It is because of this that tonight's event has not yet crept from my mind. From my bedroom window I am able to see across the pasture behind our house. The wild flowers blooming there had died far too early this year and left nothing but the sway of brittle gray stalks. And if I press up to the glass, I can see the window to Emma's room.

The small square of glass on the back of the house was often illuminated deep into night. as Emma wrote her memoirs once her child had fallen asleep. This had not been so since Jonathan's death. Her room remained dark and her curtains drawn, as if she no longer existed. This frame of mind had only bolstered my imagination into such a state that I no longer looked toward their home once the descent of twilight painted everything black and blue.

I would draw my own curtains before supper and move freely about my room at dark, no longer thinking much about Emma or her family. So when I stepped toward the window early this evening, the smell of the vegetable soup I'd made fill in the house, the haggard image of Emma standing at her window drew out a shriek as I jumped back into my dressing table and shattered the rose-painted wash basin

and my mother had gifted me on my wedding day. Emma remained there, and only a dressing gown stained in great sense, sickly stripes down the front and watched me. Her eyes fell in shadow and her form was ghostly beyond the pain. Her hand rose to gently touch the glass. The bedroom door banged open and my husband Jeffrey stumbled in. What is it? I looked toward Jeffrey, then back to Emma's window. An empty square of black, October 3rd, 1892. Ingmar from the post office killed himself last night.

He nodded a rope and jumped from the great willow tree in our pasture. He's jumped from a high enough branch and his rope is short enough to make cutting him down a terrible task. Though no one seems to be considering removing him at all. His mouth is surrounded by sores that were yellow and red before they had turned purple and blue. He has a bleed and rash around his neck. He'd caught it.

He'd caught it and put a stop to it Before his fate was the same as that of his wife and daughter He was an immigrant He spoke in English quite poor And a very hard worker His family had all been blonde and looked delicate as porcelain The sores were visible much sooner on such fair complexions And they knew their daughters would die long before their daughters knew

Their cherubic faces splotched with red marks like heel and bee stings as they wandered along streets, paying no attention to the people rushing across the road to avoid them. Their oldest died first at a mere seven years old. Her body was curled in a cornfield outside of town. Her face and chest slick with hardened black blood, and her eyes a misty yellow and gray. She'd been picked at by crows,

a number of them stiff and dead next to her. and her mouth was open wide in an eternal scream. They had said it would be best to burn her right then, not risk it. At this, her mother had marched in and gathered her daughter's crumpled form into her arms. She is a child. She said, tears coarse on her face and fallen to model the dried blood on her daughter's cheeks. Not a street dog. She carried the girl away.

The townsfolk dashed in apart as she passed by. She disappeared into her darkened house with the corpse. She never came out. Her youngest daughter never came out. Where Ingmar's wife had seemed to disappear, he seemed insistent on our recognizing his death. And at night, if the breeze is just right, I can hear the rope creak

and the buttons of his jacket tinkle against his wrist cuffs. October 4th, 1892. Where is hell? My own little Hannah asked me this not long after the first breddon of the illness. Thomas Anderson said it's a great cave that goes deeper and deeper into the dark. She turned to me with eyebrows raised. No one knows for sure, darling. Just that it is there.

Can we find help? If we found the cave, could we go in? I parted a curl from her eyes. Her hair the same sullen shade of brown I'd been gifted by my mother. And shook my head no. She seemed relieved. Why not? You can only go into hell after death,

and only if you've been very bad. So you will never see such a place, my darling. This conversation strikes me as curious now. I often wake up each morning expecting some spell to be lifted from stone rest. I expect the wild flowers to bloom and Rachel to stop over for supper with her children. I expect it all to go away.

It is far too incredible to be real. Isn't it? So much death in such a small place? It couldn't be real. Could it? It's in these wells of despair that Hannah's question floats in my mind. Can we find hell?

I believe we can. October 7th, 1892. The corpse, grin. That is what they are calling it. It begins with a cough. Small at first. Then longer and drier before becoming harder and wetter. Symptoms cannot be hidden for long.

After a few days of coffin, there is a near-caught. constant mingling of blood and saliva, causing one's teeth to remain a slick shade of orange-red, and their breath continuously reeks of copper. Smile in the smile of a dead man. October 10, 1892. Emily Holbrook ran the streets last night, up and down until morning, screaming for help. Her baby, only four months old, was not breathing. She crashed into doors, shaking their handles and kicking at them like a burglar determined to get in. Somebody help! Help me, help me! Her cries echoed among the houses.

The soft glow of candlelight humming in the dark as curtains were curiously pulled back, then again close like gigantic blinking eyes. When it was my turn, I stood afoot from the door. Jeffrey's axe in my hands, as she clattered against it. Margaret! Margaret, please help my child, help my child. Save her, please. As I spoke to the door, the pounding ceased.

Emily, get the doctor. You must get the doctor. At this there was a lengthy pause. The sound of her breathing faint beyond the door. Before a hideous peal of laughter tore from her throat. The cackle was sickening, deep and horrible. The kind of sound that bounced from leafless, trees in a great dead forest.

The doctor! She howled with laughter as she stumbled up the street. Her gray child clutched in her arms. October 14th, 1892. Emily and her child aligned face down in the street, mud covering them. Their skin has burst apart in places, exposed to the careless steps of horses

or the rolling of wagon wheels. Emily's flesh is beginning to turn green. Her child's a spoiled purple, and their smell creeps into the sitting room of our house. Jeffrey has taken to stuffing rags around the door and the windows, but thus far it has done little good. It seems to follow the cold in the mice, finding its way inside despite our efforts.

We do not allow Hannah out of the house. This has been so since the first signs of corpse, Grin. But she managed to catch a glimpse of Emily in the street through her bedroom window. She asked why she insisted on sleeping in the mud, and wouldn't her baby catch cold? She asked if she couldn't go out and give them a blanket. I told her that it was very kind of her, but that they are not cold and that God is looking after them now in heaven.

She accepted this and went about her day, though I did catch her at the window a number of times throughout the afternoon and into the evening. Her gentle brown eyes fixed curiously upon death. October 16, 1892. Jeffrey came home from hunting late last night. His voice ragged, and he held the front door shut between us, just as the father had. I have a cough.

It's not a bad one, but anything at all is caused to worry. I'm going to wait in the bar in a few days, just to be sure. Don't be silly. I pressed at the door. Open it. Margaret, leave it be. I gave the door one last shove and backed away, shaking my head. Am I to throw your supper from the back window?

You can eat it from the trough with the hogs? The hogs are dead. I'll have the trough to myself. His laugh was forced and quiet. His following footsteps slow as he trailed from the porch and into the backyard. The muffled sound of his cough trace in his location until the barn door slammed shut. I watched the barn from the kitchen window, unaware of Hannah standing next to me, squeezing her doll tight. Is Papa sleeping outside?

In the barn, yes. Does he have it too? Have what, darling? I bent down touching her soft ringlets. The bloody smile? The corpse grun? Her eyes did not move from the flicker of candlelight in the barn. I tried my best to conceal my alarm.

No, he is fine. Who's told you about that? Papa? No, not Papa. Who then? The dead woman. She pointed toward her room. The one who taps on my window at night.

October 18th. I nearly. watched Beth Marshall's house burn to the ground last night. The sound of voices, men shouting, drew me from bed and I draped my shoulders in a shawl. Hannah stirred, having slept in my bed the past few nights while Jeffrey passed his cough in the barn and rubbed her eyes. The alarm in her sleep-hazed face was that of a deer, having just escaped a cougar. Her eyes instinctively moved toward her room, toward her window. Who is it, Mama?

Go back to sleep, darling. It's Mr. Nichols and his farm handslow lumber. This calmed her immediately, and she slipped again into sleep. Mr. Nichols had died weeks ago, of course, spitting black blood over his porch, crushing his face in it when he fell. The men had encircled Beth Marshall's quaint cottage, made to her specifications by her loving husband,

each with a blazing torch in hand, weak as they were, I could hear Beth's pleas from inside the house, and those of her screaming children. This, it would seem, was too much for me. I drew the bolt on the front door and rushed out into the muddy street. Stop! Jeremiah! Robert! They paid no mind, so I moved closer. The muds squishing up between my toes.

The feeling of earth beneath my feet. Instead of floorboards was mesmerizing. It was as though I had been locked away for 50 years and was just now touching soil for the first time. The men turned toward me. What are you presuming to do? Robert Maltch, a large red-faced oaf that hauled loads for the mill, shouted back. Get back to your house, Margaret. This is no business of yours.

If you are to set fire to a home with a woman and children inside, I should believe it is my business. I put a finger in his face. A gesture I had not thought it possible for me to ever use. I pointed to the house. My eyes bulging and my voice wavering. We are all sick. Are you going to burn the entire settlement to the ground?

House by house? He looked startled, taking a step back and glancing at his cohorts. I advanced, my finger moving higher to point between his eyes. Why not scoop Emily out of the street instead? Why not cut Ingmar down from the tree? If you are so concerned with cleansing the corpse, grin. Otherwise, leave her and her children be. Robert studied me for a long while.

The soft crackle of their torch is the only sound in the still rotten air. Let's go, boys. He extinguished his torch in the mud. The other men followed suit. He moved up to the door and ripped free the board they had nailed across the doorframe. He seemed to study the board a moment and then tossed it aside. Margaret, you best pray it is never you sick behind a door. You won't be able to wag that tongue if the burning house was your own.

He gave a slight smile and moved along after his mob. The silence within Beth's house was now full of quiet sobs, whispers of reassurance, and her yellowed eyes appeared in the window. Her children, sallow and gray as the skirts she wore, clung to her. Their eyes puffed with tears and infection. Thank you. May God bless you, I replied with a nod, turning back to my own darkened house. One safely behind my own door once again I spoke.

May he have mercy on your souls. October 20th, 1892. Jeffrey did not come out of the barn this morning for his breakfast. The plate still sits, full and ruined by cold. On the back step, I called out to him. He even rang the bell tacked to the doorframe. But still he did not appear. Hannah voiced her concern, making note of how the barn door is slightly ajar,

and how it has remained that way all day. Is Papa dead? Don't speak like that. Never speak of your father that way. His teeth were red on Sunday. When we read for Matthew at the window before supper, did you see? Of course I had seen. No, darling, it was communion wine.

The father brought it over to him. So he can get better. A father is dead. Her unbothered manner caused my flesh to prickle. Who told you that? I touched her cheek. She pulled away from me. I saw it, his ashes, in the churchyard.

She pointed in the general direction of the chapel. They burned him up by the headstones. I felt my eyes well up. Yes. Will we burn Papa? I slapped her. It was as if my hand had a mind of its own, and her head rocked against her shoulders. Leave the table and go to your room. I will not have that talk in our home.

She marched away and turned to me at her doorway. I hate you. I would burn you up. If you died, Mama, I would burn you up. She whisked inside and slammed the door. October 21st, 1892. I went to Jeffrey last night. I led myself to the barn by lantern light, the wind biting at my skin through my bedclothes as I continuously glanced toward the dark windows of Emma's house. I moved toward the side door, the one Jeffrey had not touched since his cough,

and gently wrapped on the frame. Jeffrey, I angled my ear to the wood. The silence within was thick, as if the building held its breath while I listened, and I knocked again. Jeffrey, you've missed breakfast and supper. Are you feeling all right? The odor creeping out from around the doorframe was sharp and pungent, rocked. To Kay, I felt my eyes sting as I tried once more, my voice warbling.

I'm coming inside, darling. I pressed the door, hoping it might be locked tight from inside. but watched it drift open and into the darkness. The smell overtook me. The same stench we have grown so accustomed to in these dark months. The same smell that stains our clothes and our hair. Vomit. Theses.

Blood. That deep black blood heaved up from the guts. The smell of death. The buzz of flies. The new signals that one had arrived in stone rest. I moved inside, pulling my bedclothes around me tight as the patter of flies against my skin and in my nose and ears were so constant,

it began to feel like the hands of some faceless creature pulling me into my doom. They sizzled as they trapped themselves in the oil lamp and burned. The orange glow accented by the sparkles of their burning flesh. I felt the hay go damp beneath my feet, the straw gummy, and looked down through the flies to the dark sludge underfoot. Although futile, I could not help myself. I yelled into the swarm and the stink.

Jeffrey! I stepped forward. The blood deepened and in my boots sliding against the floorboards beneath the hay. Come out! As if my call had indeed. He'd been heard. There appeared, Jeffrey. His body slumped in the chair.

Half of his head drooped far back, and the rest spattered in a dry, blackened mass on the wall. The shotgun lay at his feet. Both barrels emptied, and a scrawled note was pinned to his shirt. I moved closer, leaning in toward the note. The flies buzzing sounding more and more like screams. I blinked away, tears. I held my breath the closer I came to his gray-green flesh,

slick with the slime. His skin seeming to move in the sheet of squirming maggots. His script was haggard, but legible. I had to. I was never going to see her again. I may have damned to her with her kiss on the cheek. Forgive me, my love. Forgive me. I was unable to keep my hands from shaking as I backed away, choking on his stink. My head spinning.

I closed my eyes and spoke. I could not hear my own voice. The flies like hands moving against every inch of my body. Each of them bloated on the flesh of my husband. I dropped the lantern and felt the burst of flames as it lapped at the hay. The buzz of flies was soon engulfed in the crackle of dry straw and burn in wood. I watched the fire as it boiled a spoiled blood on the ground and encircled Jeffrey in his chair.

The remainder of his head thrown back as if in a howl of laughter. He looked like the devil himself. laughing upon his throne in the depths of hell October 22nd 1892 Did Papa kiss you? Checking her mouth and neck for sores She looked at me as if I were mad

Her eyes betraying this confidence watery and apologetic I squeezed her hand in mine Did your Papa kiss you Hannah? She watched me A tear treel in over her stoic cheek and nodded. Yes, Mama. The poor sleep and the long nights.

The hunger for something more than grain and biscuits. That lingering image of Jeffrey's black flesh peeling away from rotted muscle as I fled the barn. All of it caused me to curl into myself on the floor. My own face pouring with sorrow. Hannah watched me but did not move Her own eyes gushing over rosy cheeks Her lip beginning to quiver I'm going to die now

Aren't I mama I wept harder still Unable to placate her To rub away her fears and smother them In the love of a mother's lies I wept until I gagged And every sob cramped my stomach in pain Hannah laid on the floor next to me,

keeping her distance, her face covered in her hands. I felt for her, taken her dress by the waist and pulling her into my arms. She pulled me close. Her small hands gripping the loose tendrils of my hair. Her body's shaken.

You said we wouldn't burn daddy up, Mama. I don't want to die. I don't want to be burned up. I swallowed hard and managed it. The comfort, the lies. Everything is going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right. October 31st, 1892.

I managed to dig it myself. The task was arduous with the ground so cold, but not impossible. I lay with my face nearly pressed into the freshly turned, earth. The cold unnoticed even as my own fingers turned blue, and I spoke about memories. I reminded her of the creek and her strange fear of rabbits. I smiled at the image of Hannah-causing Jeffrey to laugh porridge through his nose at breakfast. The nights around the fire, the days in the woods, another life. The flicker of Beth's home, finally up in flames. The men shouting in the street

Made the weeds twitch Andingmar's wasted flesh Thrash at the end of his rope The blackened remains of my barn Shuttered like a crowd of hooded silhouettes Against the purple of a full moon This cannot be real I sit every moment

Wade in to wake from this nightmare Awake from sleep to wish that I had died To serve such misery can only be answered in the next life. If it is heaven, I will gladly accept the reprieve. I will sit in my chair under the oak and prop my feet on the stump and breathe easy.

I closed my eyes, spit in the dirt from between my lips. And if it be hell, I will shrug and carry on just as I have during these endless days. I kissed the dry, crumbled earth and stood. My hands somewhere beyond my wrist, but imperceptible in the vicious cold,

and turned to the house. Within the projected flickering of Beth's burning cottage was a soft orange glow, a square of light in the back of Emma's house, her room, where she used to write her memoirs. The dead woman. She spoke to my daughter.

Why would she not also write? This brought a cold smile to my lips. My tears seeming to freeze before reaching my chin. And I made my way to Rachel and Emma's home. I knocked on the back door, afraid the front entrance might draw the attention of Robert Mulch. Still bark in orders over the burning remains of Beth, her home and her children.

He would no doubt enjoy. in my home ablaze next, if given any reason. Sun-rotted chips of wood fell away as I wrapped on the door. The hinges squeaking with strain under the minimal effort. Emma? Emma! Are you there? The lock snapped open, but the door did not move, simply hung there, as if waiting for me. I pressed it forward and watched it swing open into the dark house.

The whisper of a modelled white gown vanished into the blackness of the dining room. How badly the house smelled I was not aware. The endless smell of sickness and decaying or burned human flesh as common as manure or spring blooms had once been. The piles of used cookware in China were immense. The presence of flies as they aimlessly bumped into my skin, the dead ones crunched softly in a carpet underfoot. was nearly unnoticeable. My own home had filled with the same concession of insects.

Only becoming a bother once the maggots appeared. Only moving her once the maggots appeared. Emma? I closed the door behind me. Emma, are you here? Come in, please. Her voice was smooth and breathy. It sounded no different than the number of times

she had coaxed me in for a cup of few. tea or a chat. Before, of course. She sounded like she had before any of this. I stepped around chicken bones and scraps of vegetable peel on the floor. Mysterious puddles hardened into dark stains, pieces of broken dishes and half-full pots of gelatinous moldy stew. Their hound walnut, whom I had taken to be sleeping in the corner, was merely bones with furry leather stretched and ripped over top. His eyes dried, scabby sockets. He was starved long ago, it would seem. Perhaps the beast had caught the grin. There had been rumors of animals spread in the disease, but none of them suffer in it. I stood in the doorway to Emma's dining room and was surprised to find a number of

silhouettes in circle in Emma, as she presided over the head of the table, defined from the soupy black with moonlight and burning house's flame. She sat in the darkness. The song of flies buzzing the only sound until she rose from her seat. Her heels clicking on the hardwood floor as she retrieved the oil lamp from the side table. Her featureless shape turned to me.

Sit, Margaret. Thank you. My heart beat in my ears as I stepped across the room. Waste, clattering underfoot as I nudged it decide. Hello, I said to the person next to me. Whether they had acknowledged my presence, I was unable to tell. The sound of flies and the shouts of men in the street cloaked any subtle interaction we might have shared. Is that, Rachel? The room is quite dark, isn't it? Emma struck the match, and I gasped as the flame illuminated her dinner guests. She hummed as she lit the lantern,

turn into the table. The light carving out the wasted form of Rachel from the dark. Her sunken eyes gazed dumbly up at the ceiling. Her neck propped up on a broken broomstick positioned under her chin. Emma's daughters sat slumped into one another, seeming to have mummified together into one being here in the dark. Rachel's child laid face down. The scintzried puddle of his rot blooming out from his plate.

and over the surface of the table, black and shining. The men are off, providing. You know how they are. Always busy, always providing. Emma. It was all I could manage as she set the oil lamp in the center of the table. The sunken faces of her family cast in black shadows over the walls. You're worried I can't spare the bread and butter, aren't you?

She looked sternly at her daughters, as if they had just made a horrible remark, and then smiled at me over the glow of the lamp. I assure you, we haven't been eating much these days. There is plenty to go around, and it is so nice to have a guest. She motioned to the spread, a molding cluster of platters. Some covered in a haze of dust, and others glistened and freshly spoiled. none of it edible. No, thank you. I had supper not long ago.

With your family? I paused a long while. Yes. With Jeffrey? With Hannah? Yes. Yes. With them both.

She nodded absently. Her smile faded as her eyes were lost in the flicker of the flame. I thought I might do it too. that I might pick up a shovel and do it too. God knows my family was not rich coming up, and I dug my share of ditches. Her blank eyes fell on me. But my strength was not in it, I suppose.

The thought. I could not bear it. Everyone has lost much. She smiled, puzzled. Many have, yes, but we are fortunate. Her long fingers trailed through the dulcine. strands of her daughter's hair. We have lost very little.

I had dreams, terrors that my family had gone away. But dreams are only dreams. We are here now. Together. That is all that matters. I felt tears fall from my face as I nodded in agreement. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was all quite normal.

And the shriveled face of Rachel could form lips over her dried teeth to smile. and again from her blue eyes in their sockets, to read and write and find her way to my house in the night to speak with my daughter. Perhaps it had been Rachel after all. And why not? Nothing had changed. And we were together. I looked past Rachel's son, sleeping at the table,

and found a large figure of crumpled char. I could make out the shock of white bone appearing at his shoulders. and much of his arm in a simple pile on the tablecloth. His head was all but gone. Emma touched his hand. Jeffrey, say hello to your wife. She has missed you so. She smiled over the lantern.

Her face wavering in a void of dark. I showed him inside to stay until you were able to reunite once more. He has been an exemplary guest. My stomach roiled in knots. threatening to void its meager contents into the rotten platters, and I stole another glance at the remains of my husband. Emma put her hand over Rachel's and gave it a gentle squeeze, the dry flesh given a low crackling,

before cutting into the glistening mound on her own plate. She turned toward a distinct voice, shouting in the street, and found Robert Munch was standing before my home, hollering. The torch in his hands. hand gave him a rather ghoulish form, and I glanced at Emma, her attention on him as well. He's been acting quite strange lately, hasn't he? I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a single word.

Quite. I took the teacup before me in my shaking hand and smelled the cold liquid inside. It smelled of nothing, and I took a small sip. Water. The instant my mouth salivated over the high. hydration I could taste copper, like sucking on metal. And I brought my fingers up to my lips. They came away dark. I felt my way around my teeth with my tongue and could taste only blood. Emma returned her gaze to mine. Her silhouettes slowly darkened and as the flames outside came

closer. Perhaps we should gather up Hannah after supper? I have a room all made up. I nodded. I smiled. That sounds lovely. Nothing to grin about with that story. We'll take a quick break from the horror to talk about some of the... The darkness swells within me. I shall consume your soul. Oh, not you again?

Are you still hungry for souls? Not just souls. Now that my teeth are feeling much better, I'm looking for something tastier to eat. But as a busy demon, I don't have time to harvest souls and cook delicious food. When I don't have the time to cook, I rely on DoorDash to bring me food from my favorite local restaurants. It's fast and easy. But then again, perhaps even DoorDash can't deliver food to hell.

Oh, don't worry about that. I'm staying in a condo downtown. Really? Well, then you're in luck. 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 contact list delivery. drop-off setting. Contactless, but I might want to have very intense contact with my delivery person. Keep your claws off them. Look, many restaurants are struggling these days because of lockdowns

and restrictions. You can still support them and enjoy their great food by ordering from them via DoorDash. I don't know. My very specific tastes. But DoorDash has over 300,000 partners in the U.S., Puerto Rico, Canada, and Australia. You can support your local sit-down restaurant or choose from your favorite national restaurants like Wendy's, Chipotle, and Panda Express. How do I make this seemingly supernatural wonder take place? Right now, you and our listeners can get $5 off and zero delivery fees on their first order of $15 or more. When you download the Door Dash app and enter code no sleep.

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. Just download the DoorDash app and order food. Don't forget, use code No Sleep for $5 off your first order with DoorDash. I shall now cease my torment of you. Will I go see which establishments might bring me the sustenance I crave? You do that, Sparky.

DoorDash will look after you. Hey, get yourself some Hell's Inferno hot wings. Please don't make me a stereotype. Sorry, bud. But we're not sorry about getting back to more. sleepless horror. In our next tale, we find ourselves in post-war Berlin. Times are tough, obviously. People are struggling to survive. Everything seems sparse, especially food. But in this tale, shared with us by author E.C. Dobson, it seems like one store owner might be provided a lifeline.

I joined Tanya Milosovich, Jeff Clement, and Graham Rowett in performing this time. tale. So don't let yourself suffer. Take the help, even if it's in exchange for providing help in return. But make sure you study the terms of the letter. Otherwise, you might find yourself wrapped up in something you prefer to avoid, at least when you're dealing with the butcher. War makes monsters of men, or so they say. It feels like a lifetime ago now. And as I reach what must be the final chapters of my life, there isn't much time left to reflect on what I've seen during my decades on this odd little planet of ours. That war, it changed the face of the world, more than anything I've seen since. Countless people died. Men, women, children. Our neighbors were taken

in the night. Hell, some of our own even handed them over. Some survived, but were never the same again. Their sanity hanging by a thread. Their bodies like living skeletons. We all have our stories to tell. Some more grisly than others. In the grand scheme of things, mine is probably just a dark footnote,

buried away at the bottom of a page, in a long litany of human suffering. But I'll record it. just the same. Not for the sake of the history books, but so that I can exercise this dark shadow, always lingering in my periphery before I go. It must have been about 75 years ago, if you can believe it, and I and most of the other inhabitants of Berlin were starving. The little food that made it into the city was snapped up straight away by those with inside and or the wealthy who were willing to pay through the nose,

you could tell which shops had stock by the long queues of locals that clogged the roads, braving the bitter colds of the burnt-out city for the chance of a meal. One day, however, it seemed as if our prayers had been answered. The word on the street was that the butchery on Karstenstraza had received a huge quantity of meat. So I was in line with the others. This line was bigger than any I had ever witnessed, and it was no surprise why. Rows of meat could be seen above people's heads in the window,

like ranks of soldiers illuminated by a halo of electric lights. The line, though, orderly and for the most part, double file, was buzzing with excitement. We could all taste the sweet metallic flavors on our tongues. through the glass. Inside, bundles of Reichs-Mark's were clutched in desperate fists and forced over the counter in return for sustenance, while those of us still out in the cold,

rubbed our hands together and salivated, fantasizing about the feeling of our soon-to-be-full bellies. Eventually, I was through the door, basking in the light, the relative warmth and giddy atmosphere. It was like Christmas. The counter was even more heavily laden than the shelves in the window. Sausages, mints, kidneys, and liver were spread out around the basic steaks.

The butcher stood behind the counter, holding a boning knife. I noticed that he was quite handsome and I thought, surprisingly slender for a butcher. Even in these difficult times, with sharp blue eyes and the slightest shadow of a dutcher, shadow of a dimple in his chin. The butcher began to talk to the man in front of me in the queue. The man had his back to me and handed a large parcel wrapped in brown paper to the butcher. If the man said anything, the words were lost in the animated hum of the crowd, all collectively pressing in toward the counter.

As he turned around, I could see that he was blind. A white cane hung from his right wrist. by a cord, and he wore perfectly round, reflective sunglasses, the lenses looking like twin moons in the electric lamps. The butcher fixed his eyes upon mine. How may I help you, young lady? The blind man smiled, only one side of his mouth rising. A young lady?

Good morning. What would you like, Fraulein? Muller. I'd like two stakes, please. Well, Fraulein Mulla, I'm Herbert Keller. Pleased to meet you. The butcher smiled and busied himself wrapping two thick pink stakes.

Our fingers brushed as I handed over the money and again as he passed the wrapped meat over the counter. I must admit I was distracted for a moment by the sparkle of his eyes. It was the voice of the other man that brought me back. Salmer Zacht. The blind man held out a hand for me to shake. I thought it a fitting name for him.

It sounded just like the hissing of a snake. I put my hand in his. He had a surprisingly strong grip. It was the mustard gas that got me. Sankt pointed to his black glasses. In the first war, our own stuff. You adapt surprisingly quick, though. It must be nearly 25 years now since I lost my sight.

But it heightens the other senses considerably. I didn't know quite what to say. Makes getting around a lot more difficult, though. He paused and wetted his lips. Do excuse me for asking, Frau Lain Moulin, but would you be so kind as to do me a favor? I didn't even have time to respond, before he continued, pushing the envelope

into my hands. It's this letter. Could you deliver it for me? I wasn't sure of what to do. Sunked made me feel uneasy. Just the very tip of his tongue emerged from between his lips, tasting the air,

like a snake does when it's hunting its prey. But he was blind, and he'd asked for my help. Surely there was no harm in delivering a letter for him. Keller was looking at me unexpectedly. Eyes shining. My mind was made up. Certainly. I turned the letter over. There was no stamp, just a house number and a street name. It was clearly intended to be delivered by hand.

Number 66, Brondistraza. You go along Luxemstraza and you can't miss the sign. I would go myself, but the steps are so uneven. I can't really manage them without my sign. At this he hung his head, and I felt overwhelmed by a wave of pity. Don't worry, Herr Sunkt. I will deliver your letter. Thank you ever so much, my dear. Then he turned to Keller. And thank you, Herbert.

I'll be in again soon, no doubt. Keller was already serving the next customers, but he casts a glance at Sunkt, and threw a wink in my direction. I felt the blood rushed to my cheeks and turned toward the door, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I wondered if Keller had winked at anyone else that day. As I watched Sunkd, hobble out, the crowd parting for him to leave.

I put the wrapped stakes into my satchel, then looked from the letter to Sunkt, who was waiting to cross the road. All of a sudden, I felt that something wasn't really. right. I stared at him, unblinking. This feeling had come from nowhere, but it had me fixed to the spot. A shiny red Volkswagen hummed along. Then, just after it had passed him, he turned to the left, to the right, and then crossed the road. He had looked to the left and then to the right. Sankt was not blind. Over the happy chatter of eager, customers. Keller addressed me. I was standing completely still, staring through the doorway,

eyes wide with shock. Is anything the matter? Stammering, I turned back to face him. No, everything's, everything's fine. My eyes flashed back to the doorway. Sankt was gone. Clasping Sankt's letter, and without looking back, I hurried from the shop. My head was spinning, and I could feel myself growing dizzy. I had a horrible, heavy feeling in my stomach and took a few deep breaths to steady myself. Why did he do that? Why did he dress as a blind man with the dark glasses and the cane?

Why did he tell that story about the mustard gas? So that people felt sorry for him? My hands were beginning to sweat now, hot needles breaking my palms. And if he wasn't blind, then why did he need me to deliver the letter for him? In an instant, I realized how ridiculous I was being. So what if he had turned his head when he crossed the road? It didn't mean that he had actually seen anything.

Maybe he did it out of habit from a time before the gas had burned his eyes. He was a war hero, and I doubted him, because he still clung on to the little rituals of everyday life, as if his sight had never been. destroyed? Shaking my head at the vividness of my own overactive imagination, I started to walk. I was on Carstenstrase and could see Looserner Strauss and its old uneven steps up ahead. I increased my pace, half running. Then nimbly descended the steps, which were cracked and crumbling. It was understandable that Sunk did not want to attempt these in his condition, even with his cane.

Lozener Strasse curved sharply around. An empty bakery, a police station, and the burnt-out shells of some ruined arms factories could be seen to the right, and a number of residential roads branched off to the left. I noted their names as I passed each one. Predauerfad, Lichtenfelderweg. I rounded the corner and there it was in front of me. Brombie Strasser. It was quite a way ahead.

I could only just make it out on the street sign, but the road was straight now, cutting through the half-bombed blocks of flats, dense with rubble. The misshapen buildings were taller, blocking out more and more light as I went on. My eyes were stinging from the wind that whipped up dust and debris all around me, and realizing that the hum that surrounded the queue

outside the butchers had now completely died away, leaving nothing but the swirl of the chill breeze. I began to regret coming this far. The houses passed the flats looked completely deserted. Some had no roofs, no doors. Bombs had scorched the doors. Windows were dark and glassless. Occasionally, a house stood relatively unscarred by the machines of war,

though even these seemed to be abandoned by their owners. The first of these houses had brass numbers screwed next to the door, 52. One of the screws had come loose, and the two was upside down. I continued walking. Another untouched house stood about 50 feet ahead. I could tell already that this was the house I was looking for. A single damaged window was boarded up. The rest were all intact, and each had drawn curtains.

The number 66 was painted on the wall in flaking red paint. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, faced with these ruins of the city that had been so familiar to me. It looked deserted, but it felt like something was there with me. It was probably just some stray cat Skulking in the shadows. Maybe my imagination was playing tricks on me. Either way, my suspicions about Sankt came flooding back. Why did he entrust his letter to a complete stranger?

What? He couldn't send it in the post? And why to this house? With the curtains drawn at every window? A few drops began to fall from the dark blanket of cloud over. overhead. My lip trembled, and I thought I felt a tear escape from the corner of my eye, though I told myself it was just a streak of rain. I looked at the door a couple of steps away from me. There was no letterbox, but there was a knocker, shaped like a woman's face, a blunt line carved

into the brass to form a disapproving mouth. I reached my hand out, fingers stretching, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't go up to that door. This had all been a terrible mistake. Holding my satchel close to my chest, I began to run back down the street as fast as I possibly could, passing the blackened bomb flats, and then, after what seemed like an age, coming back to the comforting familiarity of Lucer Strasset. Out of breath and my stomach turning itself inside out, I stopped trying to regain a semblance of composure. The rain on my cheeks made my skin feel uncomfortable, tight. And as the thundering of my heart subsided, giving way to an eerie ringing in my ears,

I realized I had been digging the fingernails of my empty hand into my palm, leaving a row of angry crescents. I walked for a few more minutes, almost in a trance now, and came to the steps. Without thinking, I headed toward the police station I'd passed earlier. Feeling like I was sleepwalking, I approached the desk, chewing my lip. The metallic taste of blood spilled onto my tongue. Good morning.

A friendly-looking policeman with a thick mustache smiled at me. Or should I say good afternoon. He checked his wristwatch. Yes, just gone 12. What can I do for you? What's your name? At his kindness and his warm human smile, my eyes filled up with tears.

Ingrid Mueller, I think I've been really stupid. I was asked to take this letter by a blind man, and I said I'd deliver it, but then I didn't think he was really blind, and I just couldn't do it. I couldn't take it to the house. Everything around there was abandoned.

I was aware my speech was getting faster and faster, but there was nothing I could. do to slow it. The policeman put a calming hand on mine and took the letter. His kind eyes were now serious. You say that this was from a blind man? Yes, his name was Sont. Sond, eh? The policeman stroked his mustache meditatively. He's friends with the butcher, Herbert. Keller? Yes, that's it. Odd? Very odd indeed. He picked up a pencil and began to chew the end. Start from the beginning.

Were you in the butchery? I went in to buy this. I opened the satchel and brought out the wrapped steaks. And I saw them talking, Sankt in the butcher. Songt handed him a parcel, I think. And when I got to the front of the queue, he asked me to take the letter for him. He said he couldn't do it because of the steps.

When he left, I watched him. And as he crossed the road, he looked left and right. I thought perhaps he was only pretending to be blind. I went to deliver the letter anyway, but couldn't. I just couldn't go up to the house. Fraulein Mueller, I will see that a man is sent to your house, and I will examine the letter. If you like, you can take a seat.

I'll get you a cup of tea, and you can relax. There was pity in his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was humoring me, but I sat all the same. From my seat, I watched the clock. It's regular and reassuring tick, giving me something to focus on. After a couple of minutes,

the policeman handed me some tea. I sipped at it, but it was quite bitter, so I left the rest, letting it go cold next to me, and continue to look at the rhythmic hands. Their small twitching motions reminding me of the pecking of birds at crumbs. I sat like that for an hour before the policeman returned.

His face had turned an odd shade, and his hands were trembling wildly. You are very lucky to be alive, Frauley. The house was full of human meat. He swallowed and took a seat next to me. And the letter. He pulled it out from his front pocket. He said nothing else. Just handed it to me and let me read.

This is the last one I'll send you this week. 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 Meccavoy. 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. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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