The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E13

Episode Date: July 4, 2021

It’s Episode 13 of Season 16. Our correspondence warns of cold storms ahead.  “A Journal Found in a Cabin after a Winter Storm” written by N.M. Nichols (Story starts around 00:05:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Erin Lillis“I Wasn’t Alone Seeking Shelter from the Blizzard” written by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 00:27:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson, Stranger – Graham Rowat“The Basement Door” written by McKenna Park (Story starts around 00:42:55) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nichole Goodnight, Mom – Nikolle Doolin, Teammate – Wafiyyah White“Look Behind You” written by Michael Vito Costanzo (Story starts around 01:01:50)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement“I’m the Reason This House is Haunted” written by One Faraday and Ronin Ellis (Story starts around 01:38:40) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Lisa – Jessica McEvoy, Elwood – Jesse Cornett, Voice – Graham Rowat  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about J.R. Hamantaschen’s book, “You Know It’s True”Click here to learn more about Manen LysetClick here to learn more about One Faraday and Ronin Ellis  Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“A Journal Found in a Cabin after a Winter Storm” illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerAudio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This episode is dedicated to the memory of Eleanor Cummings. 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. For the no sleep. Welcome, sleepless listeners.

I'm your host, David Cummings. Summertime means a chance to grab a good book and read on the beach or in the great outdoors. Might I recommend a new book from Friend of the Show, J.R. Hammondashen? It's a new collection featuring 12 stories of truly dark fiction titled, You Know It's True. Acclaimed throughout the underground horror world, J. R. Hamintoshan, a former contributor to pseudopod, Drabblecast, and of course the Noseley podcast, returns to the short story genre with his fourth and final collection of horror fiction, containing some of his most innovative, unsettling, and uncompromising tales. His work has been widely published and endorsed by the H.P. Lovecraft literary podcast, The Lovecraft EZen, Kirkus,

Monster Librarian, and several other reputable outlets. Check the show notes for a link to where you can find the Kindle or Paperback version of You Know It's True. Now, all through last week, I kept checking my local news outlets for mention of an explosion at a storage unit facility. Nothing, not a peep, not one word. And yet there were a couple of news stories about the previous break-in. Obviously, I'm extremely unsettled by this. So I've asked fellow Canadian Jeff Clement to take a trip to the area and scope things out. But speaking of taking trips, you may recall I was sent some New Jersey map coordinates

before my explosive detour back to Canada. Trying to view them via Google Maps led me to the same kind of errors I experienced when I was trying to locate the first address of the thickening plot. So, once again, I took to my car and drove my... world-weary self to someplace or another. Once again, I assumed it would either yield no fruit or lead to some kind of new, maddening voice in my head, all of which have been thankfully silent this week. And I was wrong. Oh, dear listener, I was wrong. At the exact location indicated by the coordinates, I found a small, out-of-the-way independent bookstore. Through the window,

I could see shelves upon shelves of used tomes, a treasure trove of words, and in one corner of the window, a faded, handwritten sign that had clearly been there for decades. Just a small, innocuous thing, sunbleached and forgotten. It read, formerly, the thickening plot. The new name, Whispering Page's Bookstore. Whispering. The whisper before the scream. The scream. The scream is almost here. Imagine my trepidation, listeners, as I took hold of the door handle and pushed. Despite the open sign, I really expected it to be locked. Thus has been my luck so far.

I almost fell through the door as it swung open, a little bell tinkling overhead. My hands were trembling as I steadied myself, taking in the old book smell and looking up towards the counter, towards the young woman smiling at me curiously from behind it. Finally, a friendly face in this saga. A friendly face that within the next hour would transform into a nightmare. I'm still in discussions with her about sharing what happened next. She's a little hesitant for reasons that'll be clear if it all pans out. And so the tale must pause until next week.

But not before I share the next entry in our ever-growing list of mystery stories I've been guided into presenting. This one came in the form of a book I was given. Only a small portion of it is filled. It's a journal found in a cabin after a winter storm, and the name written on the inside front cover is N.M. Nichols. Aaron Lillis has kindly agreed to narrate the journal. And meanwhile, I've returned to my correspondence with the new owner of Whispering Pages as we discuss what to do next.

December 1st. Well, we're here. Vicky and I reached the cabin around 4 p.m. And it's just as breathtaking as the pictures online. About half an hour from the cabin, I started having these irrational thoughts that the cabin would end up being this dilapidated shack out in the middle of nowhere.

But that wasn't the case at all. There are several hiking trails nearby. And one of them leads around a waterfall. Vicky should like that. The cabin's on an enclosed lot. and by enclosed, I mean enclosed by the forest. There's enough space around the cabin for front, back, and sideyards. But the woods press in all around us.

Another point in the cabin's favor. Ever since... Well, anyway, she likes the outdoor spaces more than closed ones these days, and I can't blame her. She perked up at the side of the cabin, so that's a good sign. I rolled us into the carport on the right side of the cabin, then we offloaded everything and proceeded inside. There's no cellar, but the cabin is nice and spacious inside. Clean, too.

The proprietors do their jobs well. There's a flat screen TV, Blu-ray player, comfortable furniture, and three bedrooms, two of which have their own bathrooms. Kitchen is fully stocked, and there's a back deck with a grill on it. In the supply closet, there's a bunch of cleaning products, plus a couple of snow shovels. I doubt we'll need them. Before we came here, I was monitoring the weather very closely

to make sure we wouldn't get snowed in. I only had enough PTO time for a week, and my boss isn't the most understanding of people. Even after... God damn it. That'll be all for tonight. Vicki's got the latest Godzilla movie queued up on the Blu-ray player out in the living room,

and I can smell popcorn. I better get some before she hogs at all. December 3rd. Vicky and I did some exploring. We woke up early and looked at the map I'd printed off back at home. We marked some trails we wanted to try. Vicky wanted to take the one that ran past the waterfall, and I agreed, though I wasn't too crazy about the trail's length.

Vicky's been walking pretty well. The physical therapy has helped, and she does need the exercise, but still, mother worries, you know? We set off along the trail. The air was brisk and still and still. and so quiet. Not quiet like it gets when the other animals sends a predator and go silent. Just quiet.

A peaceful kind of quiet. The kind of quiet you don't really get if you live close to a city. I had the one walking stick and Vicky had both of her own. I tried to keep from telling her to use them if she needed to, and it turned out I didn't really need to. If she put too much pressure on her weaker leg,

her right leg, she'd wince. Use the walking sticks. and then resume walking normally again. It was good to see her recovering physically, still worried about the mental part of it. Her therapist was the one who suggested getting out of town for a while, and it was a good suggestion.

Vicky was all for it. She's been having a lot of trouble readjusting going back to school. She tells me she gets the shakes, just walking through the front doors. And then she's a walking ball of anxiety throughout the whole day. Loud noises make her jump. Someone talks too loud, the anxiety gets worse, I see the effect it has on her, and it makes me want to strangle the son of a bitch even more.

I can't read the local news or the national news even, because they've got his picture plastered all over the place. The rage I feel when I see him. I can't talk about this any further today. My own therapist has told me that journaling it out will help me, but I've never been good at letting things out. The waterfall. Yes, it was beautiful. Vicky and I gazed at it for quite some time. The temperature dropped a little, and that encouraged us to move on and get our hike done with. We made it back to the cabin, and by the time we did, Vicky was sweating heavily from the effort of walking on her bad leg. I had her throw an arm over my shoulders, and I managed to steer her through the door and into the cabin without putting further pressure on her leg. I checked her leg once I got her situated on the couch.

The wound healed with this ragged-looking scar. And while it looked a little inflamed, it wasn't serious. I wrapped it up with a cold pack and asked Vicky which Godzilla movie she wanted to watch. She pointed out the one with a three-headed monster. Gidora, I think it's called? I don't know. I can never keep them all straight. I made us both some mugs of hot chocolate and then watched my daughter's favorite monsters rampage across the screen. She fell asleep about halfway through.

The hike had tired her out. It was good for her, though. Good for me, too. December 4th, there's a fucking snowstorm on the way. I can't believe it. I checked and checked and checked before coming up here, and none of the forecasts had predicted an incoming storm. And now, I wake up this morning and check the news on my phone,

and sure enough, the National Weather Service dropped a forecast for the very thing I was hoping wouldn't happen. I debated packing everything up and heading home. I didn't want to miss work or risk my boss's ire. But I also didn't want to take this time away from Vicky. She desperately needed to get away from it all for a bit. She needed this trip. I ran the idea of leaving by her, letting her know about the incoming storm. Vicky didn't look happy about it and said she'd rather stay.

She said it wasn't like we were further north, where you get 20 inches of snow and Arctic wind chill. People in Ohio tend to freak out about the weather, driving all sorts of crazy when there's only an inch of snow on the ground. So we decided to stay. I took a brief inventory of everything we have in the cabin, and we've got enough to last in the event we do get snowed in. Vicki's right, though. We're in the southernmost part of Ohio,

and the chances of us getting snowed in are virtually nil. More Godzilla movies, more popcorn, more hot chocolate, more good memories to paint over the bad. I love my daughter so much. December 5th, we got maybe three inches of snow. Not at all the massive polar onslaught the local news was going crazy over. It was enough for me and Vicky to shovel the cabin's driveway for a bit, just until the concrete gave way to gravel.

Vicky and I took turns, and she was able to do a lot of the work without having to rest. Vicky was starting to limp a little after a bit, so I sent her inside. I finished shoveling the front walk and called it a day. Vicky wanted to spend some time by herself. She holed up in her room playing old Nintendo games on her handheld until I knocked down her door to let her know that dinner was ready. We had chicken stir fry with mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert. She didn't want to watch any Godzilla movies tonight.

She went back to her room and played more games until she fell asleep. I went in to check on her, then turned off her 2DS so the battery wouldn't run down and set it on her nightstand. The wind's picking up a little outside. I checked the forecast again and there's more weather incoming. If it's anything like what we got today, it shouldn't be anything to worry about. December 6th, I woke up this morning and looked out the window to find that the snow was halfway up to the windows.

Thank God I thought to bring snowshoes just in case. I let Vicky shovel out the carport while I tackled the front walk again. The snow thankfully stopped over none. but with dropping temperatures and extensive cloud cover, all the snow that got dumped on us last night won't be going anywhere soon, which meant an unpleasant conversation with my boss over the phone. That conversation went about as well as you'd expect. He used a lot of condescension and conjoling,

which works with many of the other employees and not so well with me. I know he's not going to fire me because I'm one of the few employees he has left, and I'm one of the good ones. We left it with him telling me, just come in when I can next week. Vicky and I built a snowman today. That's something we haven't done since she was a little girl. We had buttons for the eyes and mouth and a carrot for his nose, too.

We gathered some sticks from the woods for his arms and hands. The finished product was a classic snowman, complete with one of the scarves Vicky brought with her from home. Norman Rockwell, eat your heart out. December 7th. Someone walked through our front yard yesterday. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't gone out to check the front walk and make sure it was still relatively clear. We haven't gotten any further snowstorms, which is good.

Anyway, I got to the snowman, and that's when I saw the tracks. They weren't deep, either, which was strange. I'm not a tracker by any means, but I could tell that whoever walked through last night, they weren't doing it in hiking boots or even snowshoes. From the pattern, it looks like sneakers or maybe even loafers. As deep as the snow is, they should have sunk a lot deeper than they had. The track stopped at the snowman. In fact, they went around the snowman, and I could see little spots where the person had actually touched it.

There were these strange markings, too, like runes or something, in the form of black dots. Like whoever this was took a Sharpie to it. Then the tracks continued across the rest of the yard until they disappeared into the woods. I don't like this at all. The thought there might be someone out there in the woods is unsettling to say the least. My phone wasn't getting signal, go figure. So I used the courted landline phone in the cabin to call the local sheriff's department. They said they'd send someone out, but it's already early evening and I haven't seen anyone yet.

I haven't told Vicky, haven't decided whether that's a... good idea. She's very despondent right now, playing video games in her room and doodling on her sketchpad. I don't want to make her afraid. If something else happens, I'll tell her, but until then, I'm keeping it zipped. December 8th, the snowman is different today. Vicky and I have started packing our things. We're intending to head back home tomorrow. I wish we had more time. Vicky started out content, for the most part, but now her depression has really taken hold. She's been moving around listlessly, gathering her things and putting them in her suitcase. I hate seeing her like this. Nothing I do to try to bring her out of it is working.

I was walking through the living room to pack up some of the extra food in the fridge when I happened to look out through the front window. I stopped and stared at the snowman for a bit, trying to make sure that my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. The buttons we'd arranged into a smile had changed into a frown. The small sticks we'd used for eyebrows were now angled down instead of up, giving the snowman an angry expression. What's more, the snowman seems to have turned a little. When Vicky and I built it, it was staring straight at the cabin.

Now it's staring straight through the window. I headed outside to see if there were any more tracks. There were none. Just the same set of tracks I saw leading out from one side of the yard to the snowman, then leading off to the other side. I was thoroughly unsettled at this point and headed back inside. This time I told Vicky what I'd found. And though she's putting on a brave face, I can tell that she's just as freaked out as I am.

There's always the possibility that whoever messed with the snowman yesterday followed the same path out from the woods during the night. They placed the feet in the same tracks and rearrange the buttons on the snowman's face to make it look angry. I don't understand why, though. I brought Vicky out here to get away from the madness for a little while and still it manages to find us. Why? Why would someone want to do this? I don't understand. December 9th. We haven't left the cabin yet.

We haven't been able to. Vicky and I brought our things out to the car and we were loading it up. I was putting my suitcase into the back when Vicky tapped me on the shoulder. I asked her what was wrong and she said, Mom, the snowman, look. I looked and the snowman was sitting in the middle of the driveway. I moved in front of Vicky, gently shifting her behind me with my arm. I stared at the snowman, wide-eyed.

My breath shaky. The eyebrows were still angled down. The button mouth, though, was once again different. It wasn't frowning anymore. From the left side of its face, it was a straight line. Then the buttons turned upwards, so it looked like it was smirking. I looked over the spot where it had been standing in the front yard. There was a great swath of smooth snow that erased the human footprints in between

it and its former position. I've refused to believe what I was seeing. There was no way the snowman moved itself from the front yard into the driveway to block our path. Just no way. Whoever's been messing with us by messing with the snowman did it. But there would have been more tracks, a lot more. And you can't just disassemble a snowman like it's a Lego set or push it in any direction

you please. I told Vicky to get back inside. Once we were back inside the cabin, I called 911 via the landline. I told the dispatcher that someone was messing with me and my daughter, someone dangerous. And the dispatcher told me that due to all the snow, it might take a while for an officer to get out to us, but to just hang tight and take whatever measures were necessary to keep ourselves safe. I hung up the phone, and then we waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. Half an hour passed, and the police never showed up,

at which point I told Vicky we were getting out of here snowman or no snowman. We went to the door and I tried to open it. It did open a little, but then it crunched against something on the other side, something that definitely hadn't been there when Vicky and I had first gone outside. I looked through the crack in the door and saw a three-fingered wooden hand. I screamed a little and slammed the door shut, locking it. Vicky was in a full-blown panic by that point. She'd gone to the window and yelled to me what I already knew,

that the snowman wasn't in the driveway anymore. She figured out where it was soon enough and started screaming, and I took her into my arms and tried to quiet her, even though I was just as scared she was. We're trapped. Update. The police still haven't shown up, and now the knob to the side door is.

jiggling, December 13th. Vicky's been sleeping with me. The door to my bedroom is locked, and I keep the curtains over the window drawn. I swear I will lose it if I open them and see that fucking snowman staring in at me and my daughter with that goddamn smirk on its face. It's night.

The forest around us is quiet, but I can hear it moving around the cabin. and there's this persistent crunching noise. The kind of crunch you hear when someone's walking through snow, but this is different. It's like something is gliding over the snow. And I know exactly what it is, though I still haven't been able to wrap my head around the fact.

How the hell do you bring a snowman to life? How would someone do that? Why would someone do that? I mean, I grew up on those old wintry Christmas stories where a kid and their magically living snowman go off and have adventures together. But those were stories. Something warm and fuzzy to sink into alongside your partner or your kid. Something to make the big, bad world outside your window go away for a while.

But this... This is a nightmare. Once every day. I sneak out of the bedroom and try to call 911 on the landline. My smartphone still isn't getting a signal, even though it was getting one when we got here. Another mystery I don't understand. I'll start talking to the dispatcher, and then the knob on the front door starts jiggling. Then it'll move to the side door.

And then to the door leading out to the back deck. I even held the phone up to the doorknob as it was jiggling, and yelled at the dispatcher. Do you hear that? Do you fucking hear that? It's been trying to get in for almost four days now. I even tried to set the thing on fire. On one of my trips out from the bedroom, I got a lighter and an aerosol can.

I've never done that before, but I figured now was as good a time as any to learn how. I went to one of the jiggling door knobs and unlocked it. And as the door started to swing open, I flicked on the lighter and sprayed the can into the flame. The resulting gout of flame was a lot larger than I thought it'd be, and I almost set the curtains next to the front window on fire. The flame caught the snowman full in the face.

It inclined its head, turning it away from the flame. And to my horror, I actually smelled something like burning meat. Archer's face melted, and the button mouth split in two and hung open like it was screaming. As the fire burned into its head, I saw the snowy surface of its skin split and slough off in its wake. Something black and viscous like oil dribbled down its front and onto the floor. And I screamed as I slammed the door in its face and locked it. Whoever has done this to us brought it to life in more ways than one, it seems. And now we can't get out.

The police aren't coming to help us. I don't know why. I'm trying to come up with a plan to maybe lure it into the cabin and kill it, or maybe incapacitate it long enough for me and Vicky to get in the car and drive out of here. I'm thinking, that's all I can do is think. Vicky, baby, I brought you up here and I'm so sorry. I didn't know any of this was going to happen. Fourteenth.

It's in the cabin. During the night, I was startled awake by the sound of glass shattering. It had to have come in through the front window. It's the only one that's big enough for someone or something that come through if they break it first. Now, now it's at the bedroom door. I can smell that burnt meat scent again. The heat is rapidly dissipating now that the front window's broken. But even if it wasn't, the snowman wouldn't have melted.

It's not made of snow anymore. The knob has ceased twisting and turning. Now it's leaning against it. I see the door bow inward, then back, in, then back. Like the door itself is breathing. Vicky is already out through the bedroom window. I told her to go, to run as fast as she can. The town's not far from here,

and Vicky was on the cross-country team at her high school. Even with the wound in her leg, she'll be able to make it. She's got my drive and determination. I don't think it knows she's gone because it's still trying to get into the bedroom. That's fine. That's just fine. I've got my lighter and my aerosol can. And maybe I can burn the son of a bitch to death before it gets me.

The hinges on the door are groaning audibly now. There's a crack in the door. Wish me look. Picture it. You're walking up a desolate mountainside. Snow and wind whirl. There's no respite in sight. And then, suddenly, materializing in the distance,

a cabin, safety, warmth, and maybe even another person to offer aid. But in this tale, shared with us by author Manon Lyset, we're reminded that misery loves company, and sometimes you're safer, facing the elements. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson and Graham Rowett.

So pull open that creaky door and shake the snow off your boots, but maybe look around so you're not left saying, I wasn't alone seeking shelter from the blizzard. There's an unspoken rule up in the mountains that no matter who you are, friend, bitter rival, stranger. anyone. If you're ever in a pinch and come across another hunter's cabin, you're welcome to seek shelter there.

Maybe it's unspoken because it's common courtesy and that whole, do-one to others thing. Or maybe it's unspoken because there's hardly anyone to speak to. In the winter months especially, you'd be hard-pressed to see another soul for weeks, sometimes months. But that's the rule. You need it, you use it.

No judgment, no questions asked. Just don't steal anything. Now, I'm not a burly seasoned mountain man that flosses with tree bark and never shaves, but I do like to hunt. I often leave my small, asking village for weeks at a time and take to my hunting lodge up in the mountains. I'm a fairly cautious guy, and I know the mountains can be traitorous. So when I leave, I leave prepared. I checked the long-term forecast, gather the necessary supplies, bring backups, and make sure I've got enough of everything I need to survive at least a week longer than I plan on staying. Just in case.

I always believed my precautions would protect me, but like a child security blanket, there were only a paper-thin illusion of safety. There's no planning when Mother Nature decides she's in a mood. That's why I never expected to get caught in a blizzard that day. It had started out sunny and cold, but as the day progressed, a few clouds formed. By the time they had amassed into a huge cloud covering, I was already on my way back to my cabin with a couple of hairs hanging over my shoulders. I'd named them dinner and breakfast. I was planning on eating breakfast for dinner and dinner for breakfast. If only to make myself laugh.

It's the little things like that that keep solitude from turning into loneliness. The snowfall seemed to come out of nowhere, like someone had knocked an awning shot, and all that new snow collected on top had fallen all at once. Except, it wasn't a single tidal wave of snow. It was a relentless, unending assault. Last I checked, the weather reports hadn't mentioned a blizzard, and yet a blizzard was what I found myself walking through. It got very dark, very fast, and I kicked myself for leaving my flashlight back at my lodge.

I'd planned on coming home long before nightfall, so I hadn't thought I'd needed it. I'd been sorely mistaken. I had to squint almost all the way to keep those sub-zero jerks from stabbing me blind. The wind howled as gales cut through my clothes and right to my bones. I could barely see two feet in front of me. and couldn't see the two feet behind me as they sank in an ever-growing blanket of white. I'm not sure when I realized I was lost. At some point, I knew I should have arrived at my cabin,

but all I saw was white with a few slivers of gray swaying in the thick breeze. The hairs at the back of my neck became stiff and battered against me with every puff of air and every awkward crashing footfall. I was running out of energy, running out of ideas, and beginning to panic. I could have spun around in a computer chair a hundred times and felt less disoriented than I did in that whiteout. And then, I walked right into a cabin, literally. It had become so dark and the snow so heavy that I couldn't see the structure until I stumbled face first into it. I held my hands against the wooden facade so I wouldn't lose it.

it in the storm and circled around until I found a door. I wasn't just in a pinch. This was life or death. In the unlikely events someone was inside, I knocked on the door and waited for an answer. Through the howling wind, I could have sworn, I heard, come in. As I swung open the door and stepped inside, a small avalanche of snow tumbled in with me. I didn't bother trying to kick it out as I fought against the wind to close the door behind me. The relief was instantaneous. Without the air whipping at me, I'd put a stop to the timer ticking down to my freezing death. I turned towards the inside of the cabin and tried to get my bearings. But all I saw was blackness, which meant I had no real way of gauging the size of the cabin. Yeah, I'd circled around it,

but I'd been stumbling around half blind, focused on trying to find a door. door knob, so I had no idea what length of the cabin I'd covered. I could have walked half of it. I could have circled around three times without realizing it. Through the darkness, all I could see was the vague outline of someone sitting in the corner. You're a real lifesaver. You didn't answer. I pawed around for a lighter, a lantern, a matchbook, anything that might emit light.

But all my fingertips touched were chains and the barrels of hunting rifles. I stopped poking around when I felt an open bear trap. I wouldn't want to get my arm caught in one of those. It was safer to sit still and wait for daybreak. It occurred to me the stranger might have been seeking refuge as well. I tried to keep my tone light and innocent. So, you the owner of this cabin? The answer was more of a hiss than a word.

But in that hiss, I heard a faint word. I sat on the floor, let my hairs down beside me, and reached into my pack. While I had taken a sleeping bag with me and not a flashlight was beyond me, I removed my wet clothes and quietly slipped into the sleeping bag to warm up, making conversation as I did. Thanks again, that blizzard really came out of nowhere. He replied with the slow, labored, weasy breaths of an elderly man on his deathbed. Dangerous.

Yeah, that's an understatement. Hungry. You got a fireplace? I've got a couple of hairs. I'll cook them up. It's the least I can do. His reply was drawn out, like a wolf howling. But without the majestic hum.

Okay. As soon as the blizzard dies down, I'll go gather wood and make us a fire. Can you wait until then? I saw his silhouette shift slightly. It was a rattle of chains. The final gnome morphed strangely into a yes, like someone drastically changing to a much higher note on a flute halfway through a breath. I craned my neck to look at the single window in the cabin.

It was pitch black, pitch white. It was like an afterglow, visible against the black backdrop of the wood, yet still inherently dark. I focused on it rather than the rest of the cabin, because it was the only. hint of light I could see. If you don't mind, I'm going to try to catch some shut-eye. You didn't respond, but that didn't surprise me. Mountain folk don't talk much. Even when they come down to town for what few supplies they can't make or scavenge themselves,

I shrugged it off and settled in for the night. But I felt something hard against my sigh. Sighing, I tossed my hairs back a bit farther and got comfortable. I was exhausted, so it wasn't all that hard for me to drift off despite the wind's song playing outside the walls. I hugged myself in my sleeping bag and drifted off. I was awoken by a different sound, a weird snapping crunch that made me shoot up in bed, believing that the ceiling was about to collapse under the weight of the snow. I braced myself, but as the sound came again, I realized it wasn't above me.

but rather, next to me, near my belongings. The silhouette was gone from the corner, and I could hear his deep, raspy breaths accompanying the crunch. What the hell are you doing? He retreated to his corner with the rattling of chains. My adrenaline was pumping, and I wasn't even sure why. Something about the stranger put me in a state of near panic. My instincts were telling me to leave.

but I couldn't afford it. Whatever this guy was up to, I was safer with him than I was out there in that blizzard. I grabbed my backpack and prop myself against the wall in a seated position, staring at the silhouette, expecting him to make a move. I kept myself awake and alert, ever looking away, even as the howling winds slowly diminished in strength. Once or twice I felt my head began to dip and my eyes begin to shut. But every time I slipped, the faint rattle of chains snapped me back into consciousness. As the blizzard cleared and the sun slowly rose, light began to trickle into the cabin.

The scene filtered through in tiny increments with each layer uncovered by the sun, like a printer slowly spitting out the full picture one line at a time. I wasn't in a cabin. It was a large supply shed. It was maybe 10 or 11 feet long, 7 to 8 feet wide. There was no fireplace, which makes sense for a supply shed. There were tools, traps, and rifles lining every wall. The silhouette in the corners slowly stopped being a silhouette

and started being a distinct person. Skinny. No. Gaunt. Pale. No. Ghost white. Man?

No. Corpse. I was gutted. He was dead. Not... Oh, shoot, I died overnight. Sorry about that, dead. Long, dead.

Long, long, long, long, dead. His body was all shriveled and... Mummified? Is that even the right word for it? He wasn't wrapped up in banded. or anything like that, but his skin was completely dehydrated and stiff, like an unwrapped mummy. His hair was hanging from his head in unkempt strings. His teeth were poking out of his shrunken lips.

The wide gap where the top right canine should have been. There was a stain of age old blood soaked into the wood beneath him. I followed it by gaze to its origin. his left foot and the bear trap in which it had gotten caught. There was an empty hook on the wall above him with a chain leading to the trap. It was long enough for him to move around, but not enough for him to reach the front door or the saw hanging above it. My best guess was the trap had fallen on its own while he was out,

and at some point he'd done a supply run in the dark and had gotten caught in his own trap. He'd probably died of thirst. or hunger. Look, I'm telling you, he wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. He was dead as a doorknail and had been for quite some time. I sat there, reasoning I'd been delirious the night before. The fatigue, the dehydration, the disorientation caused by the blizzard.

It made me imagine his voice. Those slow hissing sounds I thought were replied. were just the wind outside. I'd interpreted them wrong because the loneliness had finally gotten to me. The elements had conspired against me to create a living person out of someone who definitely wasn't living. It was a good logical explanation, and I wish I could say it was true. Except, I'm not the one who bit the head off of breakfast. It's not my canine tooth I found on the floor next to me. My dry, dirty, wood-like fingernails weren't the one sticking out of the outside of my sleeping bag. And I'm not the one who caked the corpse's dry, cracking lips with white fur.

I didn't stick around for dinner. Family can be a mixed bag. For every loving blood relative, there's another horrible, miserable individual making life hell for those who share their DNA. And getting away from these people can be important and necessary, can or not. And in this tale, shared with us by author McKenna Park, we're reminded that blood definitely isn't always thicker than water, at least when it's in the form of snow. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, and Wafia White. So settle in and keep an eye on those dear to you.

Don't let bad people weasel their way back into your life, especially not through the basement door. No one would believe what happened. Not from a little freshman girl, let alone a freshman girl known for her big mouth and brazen attitude. Few people believe strange tales from a girl with a backstory like mine. The kind that either produces awkward sympathy or worse, a full-blown pity response.

People think those types of girls are just, looking for attention any way they can get it. But I'm not. I promise, because what happened can't just be a coincidence. Besides, I already get enough attention being the new kid in a school made up of classmates from born and raised families deeply rooted in the area. That, plus playing starting varsity on Riverview High's soccer team, cut me much more attention than I ever wanted.

So, what's your story? One of my soccer teammates asked me this one breezy afternoon, practice. I was sitting on the grass stretching my hamstrings. My story, who am I a fairy tale character? No. I mean, I hadn't seen or heard about you before you showed up to practice after the season had already started. No story, really. My mom and I just moved up here from Long Beach or a change of scenery. Rividing stuff, huh? Come on. Nobody moves from the sunshine and beaches to this place for a change of scenery. She gestured to the flat Idaho plains around us.

Well, we did. All right, all right. She backed off at my defensiveness, but her tone clearly indicated she didn't believe me. The truth? No. We did not move to this drab gray town in an insignificant state on a lighthearted whim.

I loved my life in Long Beach. My friends, since preschool, our townhouse with a big porch outside my room, My wardrobe comprised of flowy tank tops and shorts and sun dresses. But those are all packed up in a cardboard box in a storage unit. And Mom had to leave her dream job of running a local art museum. Because leaving soon became our only choice for Mom and me if we wanted relief from the constant fear of my father coming back,

violating his restraining order for the umpteenth time. Mom's beautiful, tanned skin still bears his marks, their timeline expanding years all the way back to the first. scar from when they were both 17, and he shoved her into a glass cupboard of China when she told him she was pregnant. Needless to say, I'm not a big fan of his. Blessedly, I mainly inherited mom's features. My dark hair, my skin slightly lighter than hers, but still nothing close to his pale, freckled face and bright orange hair I still see sometimes when I close my eyes to sleep. It wasn't until one of his blows was so hard he landed her in the ER that

Mom finally took out a restraining order against him. And then it wasn't until he hit me for the first time that she finally decided to stop letting him break that restraining order. On the day that it happened, it was already getting dark by the time I got home from school. As if the biting breeze and graying snow weren't dreary enough, the Idaho sunlight had to abandon the day early. I walked into the house through the side door

to the familiar sound of the safety alarm. A mechanical female voice sounded from the, the main device on the living room wall. Front door. It had been months, but I still wasn't used to it. Mom had insisted on installing it before we even unpacked our few moving boxes, both out of fear of my dad finding us and, well, of my old sleepwalking habits. I hadn't done it in over four years, but Mom couldn't let go of those nights in my childhood

when she'd find me walking to the garage or accidentally falling down the stairs. I couldn't blame her, I guess. Mom would be home soon from her shift at Applebee's, but I was hungry after running around for hours at soccer practice, so I started getting dinner ready. The whiteboard on the fridge read Tuesday, Black Bean tacos. The beans were simmering on the stove, and I was getting the tortillas heated when she walked in. Side door. Mom unbundled herself of her winter gear. I asked her how work went, and she told me about a customer who talked her ear off about her 17 pets, holding up the line of customers behind.

We broke lattice and sliced an avocado as we talked. After cleaning up from dinner, I worked on homework for a bit while Mom made a trip to the laundromat, and then we both headed downstairs for our Tuesday night tradition. The ritual of bundling up in blankets and watching a scary movie went so far back, back to when the scary movies I was allowed to watch were limited to hocus pocus in the sort, that I couldn't remember how it started. But ever since, we've gathered quite the collection of horror and thriller DVDs. It was mom's turn to pick the night's movie, and after a minute of serious deliberation

facing the DVD shelves, she slid out the shining and popped it into the player. Gripping each other's arms and occasionally hiding our face behind our blanket, we watched as Jack Nicholson descended into madness, terrorizing his wife and son at the empty Overlook Hotel.

Mom kept nudging me to keep awake. No matter of the movie, I always had trouble staying awake on movie nights. but on Tuesdays, my mom made sure I stayed awake with her, lest she be left alone during the climax of the horror on screen. Soon, the end credits began, and then the DVD was back to the main menu looping on the same short spurt of menacing soundtrack, pausing for a beat, and then starting over.

An image of the iconic moment when Jack sticks his head through the splintered door served as the backdrop for the DVD menu. The soundtrack reached its end and paused, preparing to loop back again. Neither of us wanted to get up from the warm blankets to start getting ready for bed. Basement door. My stomach larched in a way I've never felt before. I felt mom's body suddenly tense up next to me. We never used the basement door.

Nobody did. It was accessed through a cement stairwell from the side of the house leading into the basement storage room. The stairway was always filled with spider webs and stray yard clippings in the summer and icy snow we didn't bother to shovel in the winter. In fact, I didn't think I'd ever heard the alarm system notify of that door opening. I turned to my mom. She held a finger to her lips, her eyes wide at the doorway to the hall that led past her bedroom and the storage room. I couldn't hear anything other than the DVD menu continuing on. The doorway remained blankly pitch dark. Mama unfroze her body and stealthily got to her feet. It's probably just something faulty with the alarm system. Still, she looked around the

the TV room for some sort of makeshift weapon. She settled on the iron fire poker hanging next to the small fireplace left by the house's previous residence. As she began making her way towards the doorway, I rose from the couch to join her, but she motioned for me to stay. Both options seemed equally terrifying, going closer to the possible danger, but staying close to mom or keeping further away from the basement door, but separating. I listened to her, sitting back down on the edge of the couch, clutching the arm

armrest. I realized I had forgotten to breathe for a few beats and forced myself to take a deep, shaky breath. The darkness from the doorway enveloped her. The iron poker clenched in both her fists like a baseball bat. I fumbled for the remote to turn that awful menu music off so I could hear what was going on, though part of me didn't want to hear. The silence pressed like a weight on my ears. I thought about getting up to turn a light on, but I was frozen. My eyes couldn't leave the blankly dark doorway, I realized I was holding my breath again. My heart uncomfortably raged in my chest. It was too quiet and too long of a time since Mom Love. If nothing was wrong, she should have been back by now. Nothing but a heavy silence and darkness. Then suddenly Mom burst out of the doorway making me jump and bite

my tongue. She pushed me to the staircase. Run! Run! I couldn't feel my body. It was completely numb. But somehow I was moving toward the stairs, up the stairs, seeing my feet lurch forward on their own accord. The staircase seemed as if it was expanding longer than normal in front of me. I could hear mom behind me, but I didn't dare look back to see if there was someone behind her. When I finally reached the main floor, I hesitated not knowing which way to go. Out the front door to run on foot? Risk taking the time to get into the car and back up out of the carport.

Come on! Mom dashed to the side door yanking off the keys from the wall hook. Suddenly, I was in the passenger seat of our forerunner with no recollection of getting there. Mom was turning the key forcefully, but the dumb engine often stalled when the temperature dropped low. And boy, was it cold. Of course, we had it paused to grab coats. I couldn't tell how much my shaking and trembling was from the cold or from sheer terror. The engine whined in protest against Mom's desperate attempts to bring it to life.

I kept my eyes on the house's side door, expecting it to burst open at any second. It stayed still for, who knows how long, my mom's struggle. But then rather than the door slamming open, the handle slowly turned as someone gripped it from the inside and cracked it open. I could hear the alarm system going off. The door was just cracked a few inches when the forerunner finally, blessedly roared to life. Mom accelerated out of the carport backwards and into the road, shifted into drive, and lurched down the street. heading west. I was sobbing uncontrollably. Are you okay? Are you okay? Deep breaths. Slow deep breaths. She kept turning her head to see if anyone was following us, but there was no one in sight.

I couldn't remember if there was another car parked in front of our house or on the other half of the driveway. Maybe the intruder had come to our house on foot. Over time, my sobs subsided. Then I got my breathing under control, but couldn't stop my core from trembling on its own accord, shivers rippling through. We were zipping through a dark, unfamiliar stretch of neighborhood when my voice finally returned to me. What was it? It was... I gave her a moment, figuring it was a stranger and she was trying to think through the trauma of how to describe him. Or maybe we did know him and she didn't want me to know. Didn't want me to know my father had tracked us down. She never finished her thought, just silently stared ahead at the road. I grabbed

her shoulder and shook her. I was sobbing again, but still she ignored me completely. I screamed her name a couple more times. She gingerly began applying pressure to the brakes until we slowly came to a stop in the snowy road. I need to go back. For a few seconds, I couldn't comprehend what she was saying. Then she turned the wheel and began turning the car around. What? Are you joking? Her voice was cool and mechanical. I need to go back. Are you insane?

Back into a crazy guy's hands. I need to go back. Her repetition and monotonous tone were adding another layer of fear to my heart. My own mother was causing a wave of fear-driven adrenaline to wash over me. I started to lose it. What's wrong with you? No, we can't. Can't go back.

I tried to shake her by the shoulder out of this unnerving, glazed state. The police? We need to call the police. I patted my pockets, but realized I had no pockets. I was wearing pajamas. Do you have your cell on you? I didn't really expect an answer back. We could stop at a neighbor's house to tell them it's an emergency I ask to use their phone. But mom had gone silent, continuing on into the darkness back to our home.

and the nightmare of possessing it. I tried a few more times to shake her out of her trance, even slapped her cheeks, but couldn't get a reaction out of her. There was only so much I could do without endangering both of us as she continued to drive the snowy streets. I gave up and sat back in my seat, breathing deeply. The situation was so bizarre, so unnerving.

We reached the house. Mom parked the forerunner on the curb in front of the house. I'll be back. Stay here. No, don't you'll get hurt. I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence. My sobs were coming out too heavily. I pulled on her hand as she exited the car,

but she easily slid out of my sweaty grasp. I wanted to follow after her. I really did, but what could I do other than offer the intruder two sitting ducks instead of one by reentering the house? And even though Mom wasn't exactly my mom right now, I always listened to her, always trusted her. She was the only person in the world I trusted in. I was in denial that the trust should be broken right now

with the strange, unsettling way she was behaving. So I stayed. I rolled down my window despite the cold so I could hear what was happening, but then felt too exposed, too visible. So I awkwardly made my way from the front of the car to the spacious trunk of the forerunner as mom inexplicably made her way through the snowy walk to the front door. She opened the door.

It was unlocked. and turned to look back at me with her glazed eyes before entering. Just as the door shut behind her, a figure shot out of the basement door stairwell from the side of the house. He paused on the driveway. My heart looked. As if it were summer, he wore a white tank top and cut off jean shorts. Nothing else. No shoes even.

His red hair was heavily jelled and spiked. He was grinning bizarrely, and he was staring right at me. He sped towards the forerunner, moving in a hunched and... a ballistic way and was right up against my window in what felt like less than a second. All the while he was grinning and making eye contact with me. Up close, I realized he had far too many teeth. And they were all too white, slightly spiky. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

Those were cold, dark, and staring hungrily right at me. I was frozen in place. He dashed to the front of the passenger door and scrambled through the window I had so stupidly left wide open. His movements were cat-like and more agile than humanly possible as he scrambled across the rows of seats right to me, making beast-like sounds as he came. I tried so desperately to move to scream, but it was useless.

Just as he was inches away from me, I found my voice and let out the loudest scream I could. Eileen! He had grabbed me. He was shaking me. I couldn't see anything anymore. Eileen! With a jolt I could see again, and it was mom shaking me, her voice calling my name.

I blink. I was on the couch in the TV room. Hun, are you okay? But my adrenaline was still pumping, my body not yet out of fight or flight mode. It took me a few more wide-eyed moments to take in my surroundings to realize I was safe, realized none of it was real. Another one about your dad? She asked me quietly, guiltily, like she was responsible.

I slept in mom's bed that night, my lingering feelings of horror trumping my embarrassment of acting like a four-year-old. I woke up to my alarm going off. Taking a deep breath, I tried to forget the too vivid nightmare as I got up and started getting ready for school. The habitual process of brushing my teeth and picking out an outfit helped calm me down. But the rattling feelings lingered. Why had I just stayed in the car? I asked myself disgustedly. Why hadn't I gone in with her? I shouldn't have let her go in by herself.

What was I thinking? Or better yet? Why hadn't I immediately leapt out of the car once it was in park and ran to a neighbor's house to get help? Mom was frying eggs when I walked into the kitchen. Hi, love. You feeling better? A bit? She sat down the spatula and gave me a hug.

She hugged my shoulders. You don't need to worry. He can't find us now. I nodded, wanting to believe her. She seemed satisfied with that. Would you mind taking that full trash bag out to the bin? Sure. I lugged the bag out the side of the house where we kept the bins.

Just as I shut the lid, something in my peripheral vision caught my eye. A line of footsteps in the sheet of snow led from the sidewalk and upper driveway. They were a large prints from someone walking barefoot, and they led down the stairwell to the basement door. 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. 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.