The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E08

Episode Date: May 23, 2021

It’s Episode 08 of Season 16. Our correspondence darkens our homes and communities. “Dear Goodwin Family” written by Elizabeth Davis (Story starts around 00:05:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Cummings“There’s Another House Beneath Our Basement” written by Michael Squid (Story starts around 00:21:45)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla“I’ll Never Spend the Night at My Sister’s House Again” written by Daniel Allen (Story starts around 00:40:20)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Ilana Charnelle, Sidney – Penny Scott-Andrews“Dog Track” written by Jay Caselberg (Story starts around 01:01:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jeff – Peter Lewis, Sonia – Nikolle Doolin, Rose – Erin Lillis, Rudy – Jesse Cornett“Cul-de-Sac Virus” written by Evan Dicken (Story starts around 01:35:50)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Darryl – Eddie Cooper, Lemanski – Graham Rowat, Jo – Wafiyyah White, Greg – Jeff Clement, Woman – Mary Murphy, Police Officer – Kyle Akers  This episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepHeadspace – Be kind to your mind. Less stressed. More resilient. Happier. It all starts with just a few minutes a day. Wouldnít it be great if there were a pocket-sized guide in an app that helped you sleep/focus/act/be better? There is. And, if you have 10 minutes, Headspace can change your life. Go to headspace.com/nosleep for a FREE ONE-MONTH TRIAL with access to Headspaceís full library of meditations for every situation.  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the new podcast, “Newfield”Click here to learn more about Ilana CharnelleClick here to learn more about Eddie CooperClick here to learn more about Elizabeth DavisClick here to learn more about Michael SquidClick here to learn more about Evan Dicken  Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“I’ll Never Spend the Night at My Sister’s House Again” illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke Audio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi, I'm Nicole Goodnight, voice actor for the No Sleep podcast. Health is a topic that's been on a lot of people's minds lately for good reason. When we talk about health, we often focus on physical wellness, broken limbs, cuts and bruises, viruses, and sickness. But it's important to always remember our mental well-being too. The brain's a part of the body, after all. And mental health is connected to physical health, suffering from illness or pain or even just worrying about it can take its toll on our minds. Even though physical ailments might seem more visible and intimidating, you can't can't overlook the need for mental wellness and staying healthy in mind as well as body.

That's where services like BetterHelp come in. If you need someone to talk to or just to listen, they're a great option. BetterHelp will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist. You can start communicating in under 24 hours. It's not a crisis line. It's not self-help. It is professional counseling done securely online. There is a broad range of expertise in BetterHelp's counselor network which may not be locally available in many areas.

BetterHelp service is available for clients worldwide. It doesn't matter when you need help day or night. You can log into your account anytime and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses, plus you can schedule weekly video or phone sessions so you won't ever have to sit in an uncomfortable waiting room. Plus, you can even chat and text with your therapist between sessions when you need to talk about things.

It allows you to take control of when you feel capable of opening up instead of being put on the spot if you're someone who finds that hard. BetterHelp is committed to facilitating great therapeutic matches so they make it easy and free to change counselors if needed. It's more affordable than traditional offline counseling and financial aid is even available. So whenever you need some help, visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep and join the over 500,000 people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. No sleep listeners get 10% off your first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So don't forget that mental health is just as important as physical health. Reach out for a helping hand.

BetterHelp can offer that helping hand. So visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% off your first month whenever you need it. That's right, Nicole. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. Now it's time for the horror to begin. 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 8. Welcome, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. If you enjoy the silky, smooth, baritone voice of our very own Mike Delgado,

and who doesn't, you'll be very interested to learn of a new project Mike is helming. Mike and his wife, Tracy Brigden, have created their own audio experiences company called Roaring Box. Roaring Box's first offering is Newfield. A fictional horror podcast written by Tracy and produced by Mike. When Jane Barnes moves to her father's affluent New England hometown for her senior year of high school, she soon discovers that the quaint village has a strange effect on her, especially when she steps into its ancient cemetery,

where one of the stones marks the grave of another Jane Barnes, accused of witchcraft almost 400 years before. Jane's search into the past puts her on a collision course with Newfield's history, when it becomes clear her namesake ancestor was at the center of some of the town's darkest days. Newfield stars Kate Baldwin, Mike Delgado, Aaron Lillis, Mary Murphy, Graham Rowett, and Erica Sanderson. Newfield will be released on May 23rd at Newfield Podcast.com, as well as everywhere you get your podcasts. It's a free two-part series. There's also a link in the show notes, so make sure your horror audio listening takes you to Newfield.

Now, once again, I made my weekly trip to the storage unit. The void has been praying on my mind, and it is the whisper before the scream has echoed in my mind, day and night like an earworm. The black cat was there again on the grounds. It watched me curiously. I nodded to it like an old friend and entered the unit. The void was gone, obviously, but the electricity, the draw from certain documents and tomes had grown even stronger. I could sense very clearly which ones were calling out to me. So many.

It is the whisper before the scream began echoing in my head even louder. Anger bubbled up inside me. I was sick of this. Something was calling out to me the strongest as I stood there. It was a collection of handwritten notes held together by a rusty paperclip. Clearly, this was the one I was meant to take, like a good little puppet. My hand brushed over it, then passed it. Instead, I grabbed a book.

It was some romance novel with a dashing shirtless pirate wooing a comely maiden. It gave off zero energy. It had no desire for me to take it. But I took it. That would be the story I performed in the next episode. A chapter from a swashbuckling erotica never hurts to mix things up. Confident in my decision, I left the unit and went home. I opened the book, ready to read some high seas seduction, and pick an appropriate passage,

but the pages were blank. and tucked inside the book was a collection of handwritten notes held together by a rusty paperclip. This was impossible. This was infuriating. I flung the book to the floor. The label on the back winked up at me. The bookstore. The thickening plot. Hard name for a bookstore. And its address? Yes, found on the east coast of the U.S. I've been trying to Google it since I got the storage units. Not one result. The listed phone number is disconnected. Even entering the address into Google Maps constantly results in an error.

I made a plan. I would perform these handwritten notes fine, but it was time to pay the thickening plot a visit, which, dear listeners, is going to take me some time. It's not easy for a Canadian to get into the U.S. these days. And as such, I'm having to put the podcast on hold. Episode 9, with hopefully answers about this accursed bookstore, we'll have to wait. So next week, Season 16 is taking a break. Instead, I've unearthed an episode of sleepless decompositions so grotesque,

so horrifying that we've previously only kept a single copy of the file on a USB stick locked in a vault. But these are extreme times, so they call for extreme measures. Be forewarned. Next week, things get nasty. But today, I set off for the East Coast on a two-week trip. So I'll catch you in a fortnight when we return with episode nine. But for now, I shall read you these accursed notes I've been forced into possessing. The name Elizabeth Davis is scrawled in different handwriting at the top.

And the first note begins, Dear Goodwin family. Dear Goodwin family. We are so happy to welcome a new family in our cozy little neighborhood of Marigold Fields. We strive to help keep our neighborhood beautiful and peaceful. If you haven't had a chance yet, please read over the rules regarding exterior decoration and conduct enclosed. If you have any questions or just want to say hi, stop by our meeting on Tuesday the 23rd at 8 p.m. at the Long's Place. 512. It's the house with the beautiful roses in the front. We also like to use this meeting as a time to share food and fellowship with each other,

like many parties after our work is done. Hope to see you there. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, President of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, while we have yet to meet, I thought I would give you a warning about the state of your flower beds. During the long absence between owners, the flower beds were left in a state of considerable neglect. I know that you're busy with moving in and all of that.

But the flower beds filled with just rows and rows of dead plants do project a negative impact on our community here, not to mention the dead ivy crawling up the walls. While you don't have to plant anything right away, the dead plants should at least be removed. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Homeowners Association. P.S., we know that the previous family, the Henderson's, were valued members of our community. We hope that you find your place here in our loving community, as they did. Dear Goodwin family,

dogs can't be allowed to be outside unattended without a fenced-in area. According to the Baxter's, they saw your golden retriever running out of the house onto the sidewalk in the evening unaccompanied by any member of your family. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, I highly sympathize with the pain of your lost dog, but our rules do prohibit the posting of flyers

on the lampposts and street signs of our neighborhood. However, you can put the flyers in mailboxes around the neighborhood. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, we are glad to see that you're putting forth an effort to help keep your house beautiful. I saw Martha outside planting some lovely geraniums and peonies in the flower bed. I also noticed that a member of your family must have cleared away those terrible ivy vines. We just wanted you to know that your efforts are appreciated.

I know things may have been a little bumpy with two warning of violation letters within your first month, but I'm hoping we can smooth this over, and I look forward to a bright future together. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, it's only been a week, but already the flower bed has turned into a wilted jungle, especially with the ivy coming back already. While I appreciate your efforts to try to maintain the gardens of your house, the lack of green thumb in your family is apparent. You should consider hiring a professional.

It's a small price to pay for a well-maintained yard. I personally use A to Z landscaping for my yard. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley. Dear Goodwin family, we wish to remind you that while we understand the frustration of a missing mailbox, only certain styles and colors are allowed. A red wooden box does not match either of these regulations. Also, I notice that cracks have formed over one of your windows.

I understand that the glass in old houses may be more fragile than our modern glass, and thus easier to crack, but it really must be fixed ASAP. You don't want a draft hiking up your heating bills, after all. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley. Dear Goodwin family, we are glad to see you have moved on from the loss of your beloved family. family pet. However, the new dog that has been seen around your house has also been out unaccompanied. Also, your dog has been described by Rebecca Tapia as, quote, a big black dog, his shoulders up to my bike handles with red eyes like headlights in the night, end quote. This does not sound

like any of the dogs on our approved breed list. Please consult the list provided in the handbook I sent you when you moved in. If you have lost it, we will send you another. If you wish to ask for an exception for your dog, please attend one of our meetings and bring proof of vaccinations. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Homeowners Association. P.S., don't forget to mow your lawn. These late summer rains will cause it to grow faster than you can imagine. The ivy is bad enough as is.

Dear Goodwin family, there have been reports from neighbors of screams originating from your house late at night, between the hours of 12 a.m. and 4 a.m. These screams have been loud enough to disturb their sleep. I wish to remind you that our neighborhood has set quiet hours so that we can all be well-rested and healthy. You can look at the quiet times as outlined in the handbook. Also, we wish to congratulate you on the new window shades you've placed around your house. However, some neighbors are worried you might have picked plastic, which is a banned material for window shades. sincerely, Cole Wamsley, President of the Homeowners Association.

Dear Goodwin family, there have been reports of your dog out in the neighborhood unattended, and it gave Alice Long a bad fright. If you cannot control your pets, action will be taken. Also, your garage door needs a new coat of paint to keep it from falling into disrepair, which is against our bylaws. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, President of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, while I'm glad to inform you that there are no more reports of your neighbors being menaced by your dog, which I have to remind you, still needs an official exemption from the association due to it not being on the approved breed list,

there have been reports of a party in a backyard. While we believe that you have the right to associate with whomever you want on your property, Rebecca Tapia said she found the cloaked figures, quote, disturbing, walking without footsteps, their faces entirely blank, end quote. Todd Hall reported that he tried to greet your guests, but none of them responded to him while they were gathered in your backyard, slowly shifting in patterns he couldn't make out. While this isn't a technical violation letter, we pride ourselves on having a friendly neighborhood, and it would be nice if you asked your guest to make an effort to be courteous to your neighbors.

We haven't had much of a chance to talk with you, especially since your wife has refused to leave the house, even to join the morning jogging group. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, we wish to remind you that fences are also covered in our guidelines. While we don't have regulations on the colors that you can paint your fences, we do require that the painting be neat and professional looking. The black letters scrawled across your fence are messy and look very unpleasant. Also, stay out, repeated over and over does not communicate the mood that Marigold feels wishes to convey to its residents and visitors. If you're having issues with any of your neighbors making themselves overly welcome on your property,

I will advise you to bring up this matter at one of our meetings. We can help mediate any problems you have with your neighbor. Just a reminder, our next meeting will be this Tuesday at... 8 p.m. at the Long's house. Feel free to bring snacks to share. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, your gutters are in violation of the home association rules. During the last rainfall, the rust that had built up in your gutters caused the water to leak out a red color and stain the walls of your house. This site is not only not aesthetically pleasing, but poorly working gutters can cause water damage to your house.

I recommend a professional cleaning service if you're too busy to deal with it yourself. I recommend gutter genius. Also, I suspect the overgrown ivy is making your gutter problem worse. You really do need to deal with it. Also, neon radioactive green is not an appropriate color for your garage. Please consult the handbook and the local home improvement store to pick out a proper color. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, president of the Home. Homeowners Association.

Dear Goodwin family, this is the second time you have violated the quiet hour rules with screaming. If you keep violating this rule, we will be forced to impose financial penalties. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, President of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, Todd and Janet Hall watched you last night as you stood over a large bonfire in your backyard. They say you didn't acknowledge their greetings, but continue to be able to be. to just laugh as you watch the flames.

I wish to remind you that incineration of garbage is not allowed, following our environmental pollution rules. If you wish to have a bonfire, we have facilities at the community center. We have a large fire pit, along with other facilities, like a pool and tennis court. We would love to see you there, especially since no one has seen your wife at the window at all for several weeks. Let her know that her neighbors miss seeing her face.

Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, President of the Homeowners Association. Dear Goodwin family, we love that you're embracing the holiday spirit this October. However, this neighborhood is home to many kids of all ages. Your current lawn decoration of a scarecrow, wearing your clothes covered in blood splatters, is not appropriate and has deeply frightened some of the children already. I encourage you to dismantle it and to seek alternative more family friends. decorations. Also, your mail is piling up on your porch and is violating our rule of keeping your residents neat and well-maintained. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, President of the Homeowners

Association. Dear Sunak family, welcome to Merigold Fields. We know that there was some trouble with the previous owners, but we are hoping that you will stay with us for a long time. The next meeting of the Homeowners Association is at the Long's Place. This Tuesday at 8 p.m. We're hoping that you will be more friendly than the last family. Sincerely, Cole Wamsley, President of the Homeowners Association. Have you ever thought about what might be in your house? I know that sounds ridiculous. Of course you have. You probably put it there. But did you? How many of you built your houses yourself? Can you be sure there's nothing under the floorboards or between the rafters or in the walls?

And in this tale shared with us by author, Mr. Michael Squid, we meet a man who has more than one house to worry about the contents of. Performing this tale is Dan Zapula. So check every nook and cranny. Test out any loose bricks. Explore every floor. Don't assume you know everything about the layout of your home. After all, sometimes there's another house beneath our basement.

My wife, Sandy, and I, recently moved into a housing development, a half hour outside of the city. We set up most of our things, furniture and the like, though we still had boxes to unpack. After storing a few summer chairs and other less essential items in the large basement, I noticed an acrid smell that only worsened when it rained. Before moving in fully, I wanted to fix whatever mildew or animal remains might be causing the issue. When Sandy was at work in her home office, I descended the creaky open stairs wearing a dust mask and brandishing a spray bottle of bleach, like some antiseptic cowboy. The basement has no windows, mind you. It's just a four-cornered concrete space. Empty aside from a few cardboard boxes of old items I'd carried down a week earlier.

I began inspecting the concrete walls from mold spots or wall. water damage, but found no source of the foul odor. It was as standard and minimal as a basement could be, aside from the lack of windows. Then, after a bit of following the scent trail, I found it. Underneath the stairs, in the corner where the two walls and floor met, was a slab of mismatched concrete. I stared at it in curious wonder, realizing that it looked like. It looked like, like an opening that had been sealed up at some point. I realized there was likely a burst pipe or other damage beneath that had been sloppily repaired by a previous tenant. After living in the city for 15 years, I was used to landlords pulling quick and dirty fixes to avoid out-of-pocket work.

This was our home now, though, and I was determined to fully fix it before we settled in. As afternoon faded into evening, Sandy was still shut in her study. editing books. She's the breadwinner. So I went to work, donning my radiest pair of jeans and a t-shirt I had ruined when painting the rooms. I descended the creaky wooden stairs into the basement, ready to bust open the concrete rectangle. Turns out, the concrete slab wasn't even sealed, and it lifted easily with my crowbar.

I slid it aside with an abrasive rumble to reveal an old stone stairway to set up. down to a further level, a sub-basement. It looked ancient, much older than the rest of our house. Our home was estimated to be from the 1960s, but the cobbled rocks in the stairs descending into shadow looked to be a few hundred years old. I looked down into the darkness, then climbed back up the rickety basement stairs to my home.

I headed into the garage, searching through unpacked boxes of tools, before finding my flashlight. Curiosity grew as to what could possibly be down there. I was well aware that many people built fallout shelters in the 60s in preparation for a looming nuclear war. I first wondered if it could be one of those, but it clearly predated 20th century construction.

My next guess was that it was a hiding spot built to help the underground railroad. I'd seen similar hidden spaces in old Quaker farmhouses to help hide runaway slaves, something I respected greatly. Once I began my descent, however, I realized that this was neither of the aforementioned. My jaw hung open at the discovery. There was a room-by-room copy of the first story of our home in that hidden sub-basement. every wall and doorway was identical. I stared in awe when I realized the outer walls even held windows in the same locations.

Warped thick glass reflected my flashlight's beam. I approached one in amazement, staring at a worm squirming against a pain that seemed to barely hold in a wall of compacted dirt. I continued into the familiarly laid out abode. observing the ancient stone walls. Every wall, window sill, and fixture was similarly placed as in our home up above. Yet everything was archaic and spooled with long-abandoned cobwebs.

There were cast-iron hinges on each of the petrified wooden doors. A thick layer of dust clung to every mantle and surface, which looked speckled and stained with centuries of use. Most bizarre of all was the fact that not only was the floor plan of our home above replicated, but every bit of furniture that we'd moved in so far had an antique matching set. It was like a time-warped version of our home down to the furniture itself. A pre-Victorian sofa sat in the exact location as our modern one. Its threadbare cushions deflated from wear and decay.

I nearly yelped when I saw a centipede wriggle out from a hole in the cushions. I glanced around to see stained wooden chests from a bygone era. In the exact same locations as the cluster of cardboard boxes that lay unpacked up above, my flashlight's pale beam danced with motes of weightless dander. As they illuminated, the moment. most notable difference, though each piece of furniture was in place. The cold stone rooms were all devoid of lamps or even candles. I walked on to the mirror version of our kitchen.

Within there was a mortar and pestle filled with a congealing black paste. On a wooden countertop scarred with lines from a heavy blade. It was in the same location as the blender I wear up smoothies in each morning. It was beyond coincidence. It was as if our place had been studied and recreated with furnishings and tools from another time. My heart pounded in my chest as paranoia built. I darted the circular flashlight beam through the shadows,

which raced and jumped behind uneven tables and speckled jars of dried herbs. Then I noticed the dark wood of the front door. It was in the exact spot as our own. I approached it as curiosity brimmed. What could it even lead to? My pulse quickened. Everything felt wrong. Like I was exploring some part of the world that was not meant to have been discovered.

Some arcane place that had been hidden for centuries for some reason. I couldn't stop my approaching legs or my twitchy hand reaching forward, though. The need to know what lay beyond that door was immeasurable. I grabbed the cast-iron latch handle, pressing the cold metal mechanism down and hearing an echoing click. I then pulled it open, half expecting an avalanche of earth to spill over me. But only cold air met my face, and I at once sensed the depth before me. I aimed the flashlight's beam into a cavernous darkness and felt a tremble in my bones. On the ground before me was a cobblestone pathway leading out into a limestone tunnel.

I aimed the flashlight upward to the roof, illuminating the long fangs of a thousand stalactites, sprawling out past where my light could penetrate. It looked endless. A massive cave system hidden beneath our home. Then I heard a sound. An echoing set of clicks from deep within the absolute blackness of a space with no light of its own. It was a familiar clicking, but not the drips of the limestone nor the rattle of debris. My stomach squirmed as my mind made a connection that filled me with a bellion.

bitter realization. It was the clicking of a tongue. I aimed the beam forward, reaching my arm out fully as if it would somehow light up the source. And it did reflect off of something. Two gleaming circles from deep

in the shadows. Two eyes that were watching me from the cold tunnel. I backtracked slowly, praying my movement would be unnoticed. I tensed with each sound my sneakers made as I stepped back towards that strange, mirrored home below our basement. Then a wet slapping, fast in its rhythm, echoing as it got closer. The clicking sped up too, blending into a croaky gravely groan. Whoever was down there was racing towards me, and I ran.

I raced back into the copied house and slammed shone. shut the heavy door, which muffled the grating clicking that had come closer far too quickly. I ran through the ancient home, only then noticing that the stains on each wooden surface were far too dark. Each wooden surface was textured with nicks and grooves, reminiscent of a cutting board. I raced towards the stairwell, turning back at the sound of an explosive bang, as the heavy front door was flung open, and I caught a glimpse of something that could have been mistaken for a man had I not held my flashlight beam steady,

drawing figures from the shadows, milky white eyes and a gaping mouth far too large, similar to the unhinged jaws of a feeding snake. It wore clothes reminiscent of early North American settlers, Puritan or maybe pilgrim, something that belonged in colonial times. It had a heavily stained and exaggeratedly large collar. More like a rough and matching cuffs kicked black with filth. The fingers were far too long and far too swollen at each knobby knuckle.

Those eager digits extended like Alaskan crab legs. As they reached towards me, my heart. pounded and iced over in dread as I climbed the stairwell back up into our basement. I slid the cement slab over the opening just as it came into view, the gaping mouth emitting a basy clicking that vibrated my guts. I lay down on top of the poured cement trap door to keep it in, half expecting the creature to launch me up and off, before those long fingers speared into and eviscerated me. I knew I had to protect my wife, so I lay there, stiff as a board, ready to resist. Then the sound of a door above creaked open. Sandy,

I was about to yell up to her to get an overnight bag and to start the car. I expected she'd ask questions, but I'd tell her we were in danger and I'd explain later. I was about to issue orders, but I closed my throat tight, swallowing the breath that might form the first word. I lay still as I could, and breathed hushed shallow breaths. As I watched through the gaps in the wooden stairs, the tattered fabric of a long, antiquated dress, sway against muck spattered, buckled shoes. I laid there, making sure my phone was in silent mode. careful not to shift the keys in my pocket.

I have been here for hours now, piecing things together, like how those things likely recreated the layout of our home in order to easily navigate it without sight, how my pursuer from those dark depths, stopped once the trap door was back in place, unable to sense anything beyond the flat surface, how they're both now patiently waiting for me to make a sound. Now I watch those two strange shoes between the top two stairs,

praying they'll just retreat back inside, to give me a window of time in which to escape, praying they won't descend the twelve steps between us if my stomach finally rumbles in hunger, or the fetid stink finally causes me to sneeze. I lie here in silence atop the cement-trap door listening to those throaty,

clicking sounds from above. There, you see, that is why I avoid basements at all cost, way too creepy and stressful. No one needs that kind of stress in their life. Peter, where did you come from? The basement. Of course you did.

You're too jumpy. Now I understand why stress is an issue for you. Have you ever tried meditation? Yeah, I've tried it a couple of times on my own, but it didn't seem to work. I'm not sure I'd do it right. David, here's the truth. You deserve to feel better than you do today. And you can, with Headspace.

They make meditation simple. We love Headspace. Headspace is your daily dose of mindfulness in the form of guided meditation. in an easy-to-use app. Headspace is one of the only meditation apps advancing the field of mindfulness and meditation through clinically validated research. Headspace's approach to mindfulness can reduce stress,

improve sleep, boost focus, and increase your overall sense of well-being. So whatever the situation, Headspace really can help you feel better. Overwhelmed, Headspace has a three-minute S-OS meditation for you. Need some help falling asleep? Of course you do. Headspace has wind-down sessions that members swear by. And for parents, Headspace even has morning meditations you can do with your kids. Headspace is backed by 25 published

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to negative feedback by a whopping 57%. You deserve to feel happier. And Headspace is meditation made simple. Go to Headspace.com slash. No Sleep. That's headspace.com slash no sleep for a free one-month trial with access to Headspace's full library of meditations for every situation. This is the best deal offered right now. Head to Headspace.com slash no sleep today.

So where do you like to meditate, Peter? Oh, down in the basement, David. Care to join me? I, um, well, uh, uh, we have the show to get back to. You gotta bring the horror, don't you know? Precisely. Come, join me, David. Oh, um, enjoy the rest of the show, folks.

It might be the last one. Have you ever agreed to house sit for someone? Particularly over a few nights or more? It's weird. Being in someone else's abode by yourself, essentially living there. You're meant to make yourself comfortable, treat it as your own.

You're living there. to do them a favor after all, but it feels off. And in this tale, shared with us by author Daniel Allen, there's even more weirdness afoot than simply being at home in someone else's. Performing this tale are Elena Charnel and Penny Scott Andrews. So get comfortable, kick back, relax. Then have a series of horrifying experiences that cause you to exclaim, I'll never spend the night at my sister's house again.

My sister Jacqueline left for a honeymoon three weeks ago. As a proud mother of two beagles, she offered me a house to myself, a solid internet connection, and all the hot water I could use, not to mention a healthy stack of 50s, to live in her house for a few weeks and dog sit. I've got to be honest, I didn't visit her house very often and I'd never spent the night.

She'd only moved out of the family home a few short years ago and still showed up to the weekly family dinner, so it's not as though I had much reason to drive out to see her. I headed over to the house after work on a Monday. Her place was a bit out of the way, so the sun was already low in the sky as I neared the neighbourhood. The long, winding roads were all pretty unfamiliar to me, especially at that time of nine.

She lived in one of those outer suburbs, not what you'd call country, but the town was pretty self-contained and surrounded by a significant ring of housing developments that weren't going anywhere fast. As I turned into her street, I was met with a wall of foliage on either side, giving the road an almost claustrophobic atmosphere.

The leaves were all a deep golden brown. It was springtime, but in Australia, it wasn't exactly unusual to see trees that lacked cheerful greenness at any time of the year. I vaguely knew where her house was in the street, so I headed down the narrow dirt road away until I saw the mailbox. It was a pretty rustic thing

that she'd built herself. Since moving out, she'd developed a skill for etching wood that had led to a number of artistic projects and a mailbox had been the first. The words, Four King Drive were carved in a playful, half-cursive hand

across the top. She'd always loved the address of her house as she said it sounded like a British person swearing with road rage. I pulled my little red minnie into her garage and headed inside to see my nieces. Jessie, a black vehicle, I was standing on her hind legs,

climbing my stomach, wanting pats before I'd even set a put in the door. Sophie, a purebred, was much more shy and sat at the end of the hallway staring me down, as though questioning how I dare be anyone except my sister or her new husband. I was greeted with a short novel of posted notes with all the pertinent information I'd need,

and most of what I wouldn't need as well. I skimmed it quickly for the good stuff, Wi-Fi password, and which of the 10 settings on the oven translated to On? As the night wore on, Sophie was on, Sophie warmed up to me, which wasn't surprising, as she did know me, and the two dogs seemed to go about their usual routine with or without me. They ate, tried their best to steal my food as well,

and Jessie took a trip out to the yard every hour or so to have a long barking session at nothing in particular. I set up my computer and spent the night playing games in the living room, and when it got late and I was struggling to stay awake, I made my way to the spare bedroom where I'd set up the bed. The two dogs both jumped onto the bed to join me, naturally taking up about three quarters of it, and graciously allowing me to worm in where I could fit.

Sleep came quickly and effortlessly. I opened my eyes to darkness. As anyone who was slept in an unfamiliar bed would know, the feeling of waking up in a room you don't recognise can be startling for a second or two. After realising where I was, I began to wonder why I'd woken with such a start in the middle of the night. It really wasn't like me as I usually slept like a log.

My bleary eyes looked to the footer, of the bed, and as I tried to focus on the doorway, I felt my heart skip a beat. A dark outline was framed in the light of the hall. I wasn't exactly thinking clearly due to a mixture of being half asleep and being terrified, so I rolled to the side and grabbed my phone. Smashing the power button illuminated the room with a bright artificial blue. My eyes stung from the sudden brightness, and as I turned to the doorway, I saw absolutely nothing. There was no outline.

No movement, just a dark and empty hallway. Hell, the dogs were even lying down, with no indication that'd even been awake. Looking at the dimming phone display, I saw the time read 4 o'clock. I rolled my eyes. I had work in the morning. I already had to be up earlier than usual to make the longer drive.

Why did my brain have to wake me up and pull shit like this? I pulled the covers up, almost covering my face, and rolled back over to get what little rest I still could. The next time I woke up, mercifully, was to the sound of my alarm. I barely thought of the strange events of the night before, shrugging it off as a bad dream, the result of being in an unfamiliar place.

I showered, getting ready for work. A few choice swear words were dropped when I found out that all the hot water I could use really meant about ten minutes of hot water, followed by an abrupt tail of ice water. As I down to coffee, I headed to the garage door, then stopped in my tracks. My keys were missing.

I knew I'd left them on the hook by the door. I mean, that's what it's there for after all. I looked around the few rooms I'd been in the night before and couldn't see them. As I headed back down the hall towards the kitchen, a flash of light struck my eye. My keys had caught the tiniest beam of light sneaking through the curtains where they sat, on the bedside table of the master bedroom. Not the small, cosy, spare bedroom I'd spent the night in, but the master bedroom I hadn't even been in.

I honestly didn't even think the door had been open since I'd been here, yet there it stood. A door stopped holding at ajar as though this was the most normal of circumstances. I darted into the room, not wanting to spend one more moment than I had to in there. I grabbed my keys from next to the perfectly made bed, flew out the door, and drove to work, anxious and confused.

Was last night really a dream? Or was there someone else in their house that night? The thought of a stranger being in the house without me knowing sent shivers down my spine, let alone the idea that they were standing at the foot of my beard, bed. If it hadn't been a dream, then that meant the dogs had been awake, which scared me even more. Jesse was friendly to a fault, but Sophie was reserved and defensive. If there had been someone at the foot of the bed and she wasn't barking, it meant one of two things. Either they frightened

her into silence, or even worse, she recognised them. I worked in a small factory. I dropped out of university after a bachelor's degree and basically just fell into the work by chance. He wasn't the most thrilling, just small assembly work, but for the most part it let me zone out in a world of my own and be alone with my thoughts. That was all very well, but today I was lost in thought about the weird events of the last night and that morning. I just couldn't get my head around it. Sure, I could have dreamt the nighttime visitor, but my keys couldn't have gotten into that room, so neatly on the bedside table. Eight hours of mulling over the same few thoughts crawled by, and soon enough I was arriving back at my new home. The evening went by without anything out of the ordinary happening,

Jesse was a constant companion, always seeking attention and happy to make a fuss when she didn't get it. Unfortunately, this often meant climbing up my leg and sinking her claws in until I patted her enough. Heading to bed, I almost ran to dive under the covers before the dogs could claim their spots. After about ten minutes of being nudged, kicked, and stood on, I fell asleep in my corner of the bed. I found myself awake again. It was pitch black. And yet, instead of the crippling lethargy of someone who had woken in the middle of a good night's sleep, I felt eerily lucid.

My eyes were drawn to the doorway almost instantly. The moonlight once again streamed down the hallway, and in my state of awareness, I was able to see more detail than the figure's silhouette in front of me. The shape in the doorway was slender. I would have said female, but I couldn't be sure. Around the pitch black of the shadow, the light scattered through long, pale hair.

Hello? My voice scraped out, partially due to fear, but mostly due to the dry throat of someone who breathes through their mouth in their sleep. The head of the figure twitched slightly. It took me a moment to realise why, that they must not have been looking at me, instead staring at the point on the windowed wall above my head. After I spoke, their attention snapped to me.

It was then that I became aware of the noise. A guttural, rattling noise that sounded like someone struggling to breathe whispered through the air. It resonated deep within me, and I fell to shiver down my spine. The figure took a step forwards, and instinctively my hand flew to my phone. I didn't take my eyes off the figure,

but the instant the screen lit the room with anything more than moonlight. I was staring at an empty space. I spudded nearly choking from shock. There was a bulge under the sheets where one of the dogs slept, and Sophie's tired eyes greeted me as she looked up from the floor next to me,

awoken by the noises I'd made. If someone had just been in the room, surely there'd be some sort of reaction from the dogs. Had it been anything at all or was I certifiably insane? I didn't believe in the paranormal. I laughed at people on TV who pretended to talk to ghosts. I looked at the phone's screen and felt my stomach drop. 4 a.m.

Wednesday rolled by without incident. Well, without incident was being a bit generous. I still woke up at exactly 4 a.m., but I saw nothing that night and managed to just roll over and get some sleep. On Thursday morning, I found a message waiting for me on my phone. My brother-in-law had left a parcel in his car, still parked in the garage, and someone would be coming around that night to pick it up. I replied that that was fine, and let him know what time I'd be home.

On my way home from work, I drove through town and rolled my eyes so far back into my head that I nearly crashed my car. Let me paint you a picture here. Halloween really isn't a thing here in Australia, or at least not where I'm from. Yes, people have parties and take advantage of the opportunity to slut up various occupations. But no, we don't trick or treat. I'm in my 20s and I've never known anyone who personally did it. I'm pretty sure the local schools warned parents against it with stories of predators and psychopaths,

but whatever the case was, the holiday just wasn't a common Australian thing. So to drive through town at 5.30 and see hordes of children being escorted through the streets was an unpleasant surprise that meant I'd have a regularly interrupted evening, not in the least because a single knock of the door would set both dogs barking. I also didn't have anything resembling candy to give out. At best, there were a few family-sized chocolate blocks that I was working through. I pulled into the street and, with a little relief, saw that a few houses in the street had mailboxes with ribbons tied around them,

and others had porch lights lit up despite the sun still being out. I hope this meant that my house would be clearly not participation, as I had neither. I headed inside comudgeonly and went to the back end of the house, hoping the dogs would stay nearby and not notice anyone outside. I groaned when the first knock on the door came, but then remembered the package I had to give to some person I'd never met before, and I realised I couldn't simply ignore the knocks. Sying at the symphony of barks, I headed to the door to see shadows dancing on the heavily frosted glass. I discovered that the door had no people, no hidden camera, and while the adjacent rooms had windows that could see the street,

neither allowed me to see anyone right at the door. Admitting defeat, I opened the door, and had to smile and apologise to some preteens, who thought wearing ballet outfits they obviously owned already was a costume. I basically shut the door on their drooping faces, but I really couldn't bring myself to feel bad. This was obviously organised by the locals. There was clearly signage for participating houses. It wasn't my fault they ignored that. Basically the same encounter played out a few more times. I was relieved that all the groups were accompanied by adults hanging back at the street, so there was no real risk of any actual tricks.

As the door was knocked on for the fourth time, I swung it open, already halfway through my apology, when the words caught in my throat. It wasn't a high school kid in a half-arced costume in front of me. A tall woman stood before me, rail thin and with dirty blonde hair that fell limply onto her shoulders. A tattered white dress clung to her thin form. I was shocked at the depth of her costume.

Her skin was made up wherever it was visible, tinted a pale blue, almost white. Vains had been drawn onto her, twisting up her arms, so lifelike I would have believed they were real. The most vivid points were her eyes. The irises and pupils were a milky white, and they were surrounded by a dull red of irritated and burst capillaries. They almost glowed red,

and I thought to myself that the lenses must have cost of fortune. The woman looked straight ahead, a little above me. She started to raise one of her arms in front of her, and I could see the radius and ulna rotate gruesomely in the attenuated arm. Sorry, I'm not doing that tonight. I spoke with more force than I intended. I pushed the door to close it and felt it nudged her outstretched arm. In the last moment, right before the door clicked into its frame,

I nearly froze in terror. That same throaty rattling I had heard a few nights before crept through the crack in the door, for just a moment as it closed. That's a noise like a lung, desperately trying to inflate but finding no air. Survival instinct stalled my mind and I flipped the lock, staggering backwards.

I guess this was where I found out that I was more flight than fight. My brain was trying to tell me something, but the adrenaline made it difficult to be rational. However, when my eyes slid from the lock to the door itself, I realized what it was. Unlike every other time I had shut the door that night, No shadowy figure behind the glass moved away and faded.

In fact, there was no shadow whatsoever. Either that woman had vanished so quickly that I couldn't register it, or she had never moved and somehow cast no shadow on the door. There was no goddamn way I was about to open the door and test that theory either way. I slumped to the ground, adrenaline leaving me for post-panic exhaustion to take hold, and I simply sat staring at the door for a long time until the sun started to set. A shadow appeared at the door and knocked.

I couldn't bring myself to get up from the floor, so watched as they knocked again. A few seconds passed, and my hips started to buzz as my phone lit up. I answered. It's Sydney. Rob's friend? Sorry, I'm a bit late,

but I'm out the front to pick up that powerful. Oh, yeah. I'll be right there. I gathered myself and waiting a few seconds, so as not to show that I'd been right by the door. I grabbed the package from below the hooks which held all the keys and opened the door. A small smiling woman greeted me and happily took the parcel.

We made small talk briefly. I thought you might have thought I was trick or tweeters. I half laughed and sent her on her way. Still harrowed by the events, I barely slept. I found myself awake every other hour, but to my surprise, when 4 a.m. came around. No figure stood in the doorway. No choking rasp filled the air.

A whole week passed, and no figure had been seen. Nothing out of the ordinary happened except for the nightly waking at 4am for no discernible reason. I was going to sleep earlier, so I was still getting a normal sleep cycle in around the event, so life was progressing as usual. I'd tried a sleeping pill, but other than passing out much faster

and some vividly weird dreams, they had no effect, and I was still pulled out of the trippy slumber at 4 a.m. In early November, the blazing sun poured down throughout charming little hole on the ozone layer. A heat wave spread over the south and temperatures reached a searing 37 degrees. I cranked up the air conditioner and it brought the house to a pleasant temperature. As I was about to head to bed for the night, the air was much cooler than the day, so I turned off the AC.

It was humid in the bedroom, so I decided to crack the window for a breeze. I found it was, of course, locked. I walked to the front door and grabbed a fist. full of key rings from the hooks and set about trying each one in the lock. As far as I could tell, none of the keys matched the lock, and I couldn't even see one that looked the right shape. Defeated, I put the keys back and went to sleep with the covers completely thrown off. For the first time, neither dog was pressed up against me on the bed, as they too felt the muggy air getting to them. The next thing I knew, I was awake. I was awake, but my eyelids wouldn't open.

knew my childhood I had suffered sleep paralysis before, but never like this. In past episodes, my eyes would open and my brain would repeatedly tell me I was getting up, as though I dreamt standing up and took a few steps before snapping back to being in the same half-a-sleep state. Over and over this would happen, until a delirious state of fear and frustration washed over me. This was different. I was wide awake, completely aware, but not a single muscle in my body would respond to my command. The quiet room was pierced by that horrid, shallow rattling, but it wasn't coming from the doorway. It was so quiet yet so close that it must have been coming from only centimetres in front of my face.

That was when I felt it. The dull tingle of moist air drifting onto my face in unison with the tiny hissing breaths. I could do nothing except lay there, motionless, as that thing. hung over me. So close I could feel every fractional inhale and exhale shift minuscule hairs on my face. It seemed like hours before I was able to wheel myself to slip back into unconsciousness. I woke in the morning with a start, shooting bolt upright in the bed, stifling a scream at the events which seemed to have happened only moments ago. I cringed as I felt a cold air swirl over my neck and whirling around,

I saw that the large window behind the headboard was wide open. I shudded and tried to shut it, only to find the lock was still closed over and wouldn't allow me to close it fully. As I hurried out of the room, still feeling completely violated, my jaw dropped. Every window was open. The kitchen, the lounge, every single room had every single window open. And worse, everyone was still inexplicably locked. I headed to the bathroom to shower before work. and sight in the mirror made my heart thud to a stop.

Tender, yellow-blue bruises, interlocked elegantly around my throat. Ten bruises. One for each of those desiccated pale fingers. I am a rational person. Ghosts weren't real. I tried to tell myself everything I could to calm myself down. Even if they were, surely a ghost can't just up and kill a ghost. can't just up and kill a person for no reason, right?

Eight fidgety hours later, I made my way home with a few stops. Inside the house, before I did anything, I walked around every room. At every window sill and every doorway, I spread a thick line of salt. I burned some sage I picked up in some shifty little spiritual store. I didn't believe in any of this shit, but I'd watched enough horror movies to know the basics. I tried to not let in the little voice, which reminded me that in every movie where someone did these things, the spirit would come back even more violent and angered. The next few nights in the house, I barely slept.

I was terrified that at any moment I could wake up to the feeling of the life being choked out of me, powerless to fight back, or to open my eyes to see that gaunt, pallid face directly in front of my own. When I did sleep, the dreams were a blur of terror and horrific imagery, always punctuated by 4 a.m. On the last night that I spent in the house, it wasn't fear that filled my dreams, but some other darkly powerful emotion. It was a sick hatred and delirium that I'd never felt before. In the dream, I walked through the familiar frosted glass front door

and dropped my keys into a small glass bowl sitting atop a tiny table by the door. The images rushed and blurred and I found myself in the kitchen. It was dark and I clutched a small, empty glass. in my hand. Walking past a tall grandfather clock in the hall which showed it was late night, or early morning, depending how you looked at it, I headed to the spare bedroom, only it was decorated much more extensively and resembled a master bedroom instead. A figure lay beneath the covers already when I entered. In another rushing flash, I found my hands wrapping tightly around a narrow throat. A blonde woman's face looked back at mine. Her mouth agape as I watched the blood vessels

burst in her pale blue eyes and her thin hands clawed at mine. The hatred boiled in my head as I squeezed harder and harder. Through the pounding of my own heart in my ears, I just barely heard two things. The first was a sickening, hissing rattle as the woman's throat collapsed beneath my grip and she struggled for air. The second was the dull chime. of the grandfather clock in the hall, ringing out four times. My eyes flew open and I barely staggered to the bathroom in time to cough up a wad of hot stick into the toilet bowl. My stomach seized up for minutes after there was nothing left to give.

I sat bewildered on the bathroom floor, the icy tiles calming the blood pounding at my skin's surface. I'd never felt such horrific loathing. And to see the life draining out of a person by my own hands was an image I simply couldn't shake. By the time my sister arrived home, gushing about a trip and cuddling her oblivious, adoring dogs, I'd cleaned up the evidence of all the salt from all the rooms, and the smell of sage had long since faded, or could be passed off for bad cooking.

I sat and listened to their stories, but I quickly made up an excuse as to why I wanted to head home sooner rather than later. I fought the part of me that wanted to ask, So how did you afford a house like this in an up-and-coming neighbourhood? I knew the answer. And honestly, I didn't want confirmation. I didn't want to think about it again. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So I gathered my things, gave a quick, smiley goodbye,

and drove home at a pace which risked a few hundred dollars in speeding tickets. I'm not a paranoid person. I'm not the type to believe in ghosts, demons or the supernatural. What I saw and what I felt alone in that house have shaken me to the core and made me question what I thought was possible. That alone is enough reason to put pen to paper, so to say, and get all of this out in the open. But if I'm honest with you, that's not why I'm here telling you this.

I'm telling you this because I'm scared, because I don't really know what I'm meant to do next. Because last night, I wake up at 4 a.m. We place the letters back in their envelopes. It's time to take our leave for now. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett.

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

This audio production is copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. It's reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. and