The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E15

Episode Date: July 20, 2021

It’s Episode 15 of Season 16. Our correspondence shares some dark hidden secrets.   “Lou’s Version” written by Ethan Robles (Story starts around 00:06:15) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Lou Sheenan – Jesse Cornett, Narrator – David Cummings “Craig’s All-You-Can-Eat Tacos” written by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 00:52:55) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Erin Lillis, Craig – Mick Wingert “Pick Up” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 01:01:35) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Darrell – Jeff Clement, Bucky Gunston – Matthew Bradford, Special Agent Mack – Graham Rowat “Jar of Secrets” written by Tatyana Andreyevna (Story starts around 01:24:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator – Sarah Ruth Thomas “The Diver’s Door” written by Brenden Wysocki (Story starts around 01:33:55) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: David – Graham Rowat, Kim – Jessica McEvoy, Woman – Mary Murphy “Don’t Go to the Pacific Cafe” written by J.M. Kennedy (Story starts around 01:47:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Cafe Owner – Jeff Clement “Run, Motherfucker” written by P. F. McGrail (Story starts around 02:16:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Kidnapper – Mick Wingert     This episode is sponsored by: Headspace – Be kind to your mind. Less stressed. More resilient. Happier. It all starts with just a few minutes a day. Wouldn’t 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 Headspace’s full library of meditations for every situation. Caliper CBD – Caliper CBD is a fast, easy way to use CBD. With precise 20 mg doses of dissolvable powder which mix quickly and flavorlessly into any food or drink, you’ll experience all the benefits of CBD without the hassles of oils or tinctures. Get 20% off your first order when you use promo code NOSLEEP at trycaliper.com/nosleep     Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team  Click here to learn more about Ethan Robles  Click here to learn more about P. F. McGrail    Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Craig’s All-You-Can-Eat Tacos” illustration courtesy of Emily Cannon 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

Okay, episode 15 is done. Now I've got to do those reports, formally reprimand Olivia, and work on the... Oh, man. What's wrong? You seem flustered. Yeah, I've got so much work to do. My head is spinning with all these details. You need to relax and calm your mind. You know how much I've tried to get you into meditation.

Yeah, I know. But it's hard for me to sit cross-legged. Bad knees, don't you know? Oh, don't be silly. Meditation doesn't mean you have to sit in the lotus position and chant. It's about sitting comfortably and focusing your mind. You mean just empty my mind? No, no, no.

Listen, I highly recommend you use the Headspace app. It's like a pocket-sized guide that helps you focus and act and even be better. And if you have 10 minutes, Headspace can change your life. Oh, of course. I know how Headspace can be your daily dose of mindfulness in the form of guided meditations in an easy-to-use app. And Headspace is one of the only meditation apps advancing the field of mindfulness and meditation through clinically validated research.

Exactly. So whatever the situation, Headspace can really help you feel better. Overwhelmed, Headspace has a three-minute SOS meditation for you. Need some help falling asleep? Headspace has wind-down sessions their members swear by. And for parents, Headspace even has morning meditations you can do with your kids. And as we've spoken about in the past, Headspace's approach to mindfulness can reduce stress, improve sleep, boost food, boosts, Focus and increase your overall sense of well-being. Headspace is backed by 25 published studies on its benefits, 600,000 five-star reviews and over 60 million downloads.

Headspace makes it easy for you to build a life-changing meditation practice with mindfulness that works for you on your schedule, anytime, anywhere. Not having to spend a lot of time on it is important to me. If people keep telling you to try meditation, you're like, when? When would I have time? You should check out Headspace. You deserve to feel happier and Headspace is meditation made simple. So you and your listeners should go to headspace.com slash no sleep.

Exactly. 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. So head to Headspace.com slash no sleep today. So why don't you give your knees a break and get started with Headspace? Consider it done and consider the horror about to begin. The dark 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. My mysterious adventures continue. As you recall, last week I left you with me and Joanna Sutherland in the Whispering Pugstore.

Suddenly, neither of us were feeling normal. I was dizzy, my eyes unable to focus, my steps unsteady, and I saw Joanna stumble against the counter, clearly losing her own grip. I was by the door, ready to leave. I felt it swing open, felt someone else brush past me, could vaguely comprehend them running to Joanna.

Then, Joanna and this figure, this blur, they were both heading towards me. A hand gripped my arm. I was dragged outside. I could barely comprehend what was going on, just constant forward motion. The world around me was crinkling, like a drag. drawing, being slowly crumpled up. I was being dragged across the street to a park. The world was

wrinkling and spots were appearing in my vision, like flames licking at the pages of a book. I could smell the scent of singed paper, and then, with no warning, it was gone. I was standing in the park opposite the whispering pages, Joanna beside me, looking as dazed as I was. Then the bookstore exploded. My phone beeped. I don't know why I decided to look right then, but I did. It was a text sent by Jeff Clement. It read,

I got to the storage unit. I thought you said it was blown up. Are you pranking me, boss? It's intact. I looked around. There was no sign of whoever had dragged Joanna and I from the whispering page. but I could already hear sirens in the distance. We need to go, Joanna said.

I didn't argue. All of this was two weeks ago. So much has happened since. So much I need to understand and get clear before I share it. But there's one thing I need you to remember. Last week I told you of Joanna's decision to sell the whispering pages. You can't really sell a blown-up bookstore. can you?

Joanna found a VHS tape in her bag. She swears it wasn't there before. She also swears she has no memory of bringing her bag with her when the unknown individual dragged us from the store. But I felt this familiar energy the moment I touched it. The label says it was filmed by someone called Ethan Robles. I've stripped the audio from the video recording and filtered it through Jesse Cornett's voice

to protect the privacy of any individuals involved. But even with these precautions, this story is still very much Lou's version. Lou Sheehan speaks to the man with the camera. I know why you're here. I know all about it. You want to know why. You want to know how.

Maybe you want me to talk so long that I give up something that I didn't give. to the police something, some detail that will make you and your little film. You aren't here for the story that's been told. You're here for the one that hasn't been. You want my version. The camera shows Lou sitting at a bare metal table. His wrists aren't shackled and he leans back in his chair. He's off center, slightly to the right.

He's bald on the top of his head. The tan prison jumpsuit makes his skin look pallid. I'm going to tell you a good one. I never gave to any of them cops or reporters or crazy people. They keep on sending me letters. That I'm going to take the time to read them. He positions his hands on the table and they're large. The muscles of his forearms bulge.

I've been in here for ten years. A decade? Have you ever had a decade where all you do is sit in a cell and think to yourself? Most people would break. They'd snap like chicken bones. People aren't meant for it. Me, though? I've always been okay being with myself.

But you ain't here to listen to how I've been handling my business in prison. Are you? Braiding his fingers together and leaning forward, Lou peers into the camera. His expression is flat, and his look implies that he can see beyond the lens, looking directly at the viewer. I'm not going to give you a retelling of the ones they know about. Frankly, I'm sick of explaining how I ate the kid from Dallas. or the poisons I used when I started getting artistic.

Those were the good times. I want to tell you about the first one. The very first one. It's my favorite, after all. Lou no longer looks into the camera lens. He leans back and lays his hands over his punch. You see, I always knew what I was going to be. it's like I was made for it

things were always a little out of whack I didn't see value in life mine or anyone else's we never had dogs or cats or anything so I went out into the woods and I shot down birds with a BB gun and called every kill victory.

When you grow up in isolation and your neighbor is two miles down the road, you are going to become a killer. Those pussies with their camouflage and their tree stands are killers. They might be adjusted to society,

but they like the blood that's on their hands. The difference between me and them Just that I don't deny what I am. He smiles. I said it was always going to happen. But I didn't really know until I hit about 16 or 17. You live in the woods, you hunt, you track, you kill, and you eat. That's part of your life.

but right before 18, I started planning. Lou bites a fingernail before lighting a cigarette. God, I must have spent about a year just thinking about it, figuring it out. Listen, I knew it was wrong. I knew that if I got caught, they were going to put me away for a long time. Funny thing is, I deserve to be here. I killed 37 people before they put cuffs on my wrists. That ain't what humans do.

Soldiers, maybe rack up numbers like mine. But they don't do it looking into their victim's eyes. While the knife is hilt deep and the blood is warm. when it washes over your wrist. It's just not normal. He throws his hands into the air, exasperated. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to do it for as long as I could, and I'd say 20 years out in the world, operating as a dangerous motherfucker is a damn good record.

Ask anyone if they need to be. know my name? Ask them. 90% of those fucks won't know one of the people I killed. Not one. I'm the one with the legacy afraid of. He points at the camera. His cigarette clenched between two fingers. Anyway, I planned for a long time. I'd say I gave it a year or two before I even thought of about how I'd go about killing. In those early days, I thought about how to get close, getting access to you without even being noticed. So I started taking odd jobs.

If you paid, I would do it. It didn't matter. Thing was, I couldn't waste my time working. Some bullshit shift at a grocery store or McDonald's. I wanted to be close to the home right up in your face I wanted to look you in the eye and give you a chance to see through me

and smile at you, shake your hand and make small talk and the whole time I'm thinking about tearing out your tongue with needle-nosed pliers Lou leans back in his chair and looks pensive he runs a hand down his face and checks how much room he has before his seat cigarette is finished.

The first real job is landscaping. That got me into your proximity, but it didn't work out. You can't be a one-man landscaping team. Any respectable business sends out five or six guys on any given job. People don't notice you in a crowd. But the crowd notices if you try to break into the front. door while the other guys are laying down side. It wasn't

a lost cause, though. You've spent enough time Ben over in the hot sun lifting rocks, you'll find that you start to get strong. A season of landscaping and I could put you down easily. I'd lifted rocks heavier

than you for ten hours a day. Before he started beating the shit out of me, my daddy would say that everything is a lesson. And that was true. When the summer ended and I needed to move on, I found work with a home security company as an installer. They had me running wires and setting up the keypads. The great thing was I actually got inside.

I had a partner, which meant I couldn't do a damn thing out of the ordinary. You spend enough time with another person you learn their habits. So I didn't want to set anyone off. given a hint of suspicion. I stayed, kept the blood off my hands. But I learned. Absorbed everything like a fucking sponge. I was an installer for a full year. I hated the job, but I learned about at least 15 different home security systems, how they worked. What they could detect, how to shut them off. sounding the alarm. If you put me on a street with ten houses, I could get into seven of them,

without even sending an alert. I'm no genius. I just paid attention. He pulls an ashtray toward him with his free hand and snuffs out the stub of his spent cigarette. So, we come to the last one, the one that made me who I am. folds his hands on top of his stomach and smiles. The county needs an exterminator. You can work on your own double time for emergency calls.

I read the ad in the paper, and at the end it says, be your own boss. People are always saying that third times the charm bullshit, and I'll tell you what, I believe it. I call them up, and I get an interview. Turns out I am the only one who called for the job in a month. Nobody wants to do it. It's a dirty job.

You're in basements, addicts, searching between walls and poking your head inside ductwork, not knowing what's going to jump out at you in the dark. Nobody wants to do it. I'll do it. They hire me the same day. determination gets me right where I need to be. I'm in your house. My job is looking for the weak places.

The hidden spots. That something gets in. The best part is, you welcome me. You open the door and you say, thank God you're here. I can't tell you how many people just left a key under the mat, left for work, can let me in their house without even thinking twice.

Suddenly, I'm alone. Nobody is watching me, watching you. Anyway, I learned the trade and I learn quick. I'm out on my own after the first month, but I don't take my freedom lightly. I'm thinking that if I start doing my thing a little too soon, notice. I start thinking that if people start disappearing right after I visit them, the police are going to spot a pattern and I'm going into a cement box for a very long time. So, I wait.

I wait another two years before I even try to start thinking about a move. All the while, I'm doing the best damn job I can. I'm gaining a reputation, a good one. People start calling and asking for me based on word of mouth. At the end of the first year, the majority of my business is based on referrals. Then, out of nowhere, it happens. Love at first sight. Do you remember the name of the first family I killed? Lou looks at the camera, expectant and impatient.

I fucking doubt it. Don't worry. I'm not going to keep you in suspense. When I called their house to return their call, their answering machine told me that they were named the Griffiths and their family unit consisted of Marshall Amber and the small voice at the end. Irwin, they were as suburban and perfect as their answering machine message,

Amber, was a paralegal. and from what it seemed, she was a pretty damn good one. Marshall was at the tail end of his time and middle management on his way up the ladder. Irwin was a little pissant, but he played t-ball and looked all-American in his uniform. I know all of this because they let me in their house. They were a family that was fine, just leaving the key under the mat. I must have spent hours going through their place. I looked in every drawer, every cabinet.

I was under the bed and under the sink. I wanted to know them before I made sure that they were the right ones. You don't get a second first time. So they had to be just right. God! They were everything that I could have drawn. dreamed of. I spent so much time rummaging through their place that I barely noticed the time and almost blew it. Amber came home a bit earlier than I expected, but I'd heard her car and

rushed down to the basement and got enough dirt on me to be convincing and was crouched peering behind the water heater when she found me. Amber was a tall lady with long red hair, and she was nice enough to me. I liked her. In fact, I liked the whole family. How is it going? She asks. Were you able to figure out what is going on?

I had indeed. The Griffiths were concerned with some movement that they'd been hearing during the night. Marshall described it as a raccoon and trash type of rustling coming from the basement in the attic. Good old Marshall was close, but he didn't quite hit the money. They had rats. Two big, beefy bastards.

I told Amber that I found their problem and would need to come back the next day to lay on some traps and poison. She didn't seem pleased at the sound of rats. Who would be? But she asked if I could get them out of the house without killing. them. She wanted them to be removed humanely, if possible. I said that I could. It took me an extra few hours, but I got the rats out of the house, and I also got a copy of the key to the front door made while they were all away. Two birds, one stone, you might say. And then I didn't see

the Griffiths for another five months or so, but never stopped thinking about it. them. I dreamed about them and I was good and ready for them. It's not easy, you know, killing. It's not. It takes time and patience. Do you have any idea how many steps it takes to abduct someone? Do you even understand how many times you need to pivot in the middle of a plan because some bitch kicked you in the jaw and now your timetable is off. and you still need to tie up her husband before he wakes up with a bruise the size of a baseball on his head. That's the problem with people. They don't understand that murder is complicated. It's a fucking full-time job, and I got away with it because I thought out every fucking step.

Lou laughs. He leans back in his chair and grabs his stomach. His laugh is hollow. It sounds unnatural, but he leans forward and tears have formed in his eyes. He stops abruptly and stares directly into the camera lens. I start setting up for the Griffiths right away. Being an exterminator, I end up in some shady areas and sketchy buildings. Sometimes I find myself in a place that's going to be updated.

New owner wants it pest free before he sends in crews to lay floors and hang drywall. One place, though, never gets the update, and I just happened to keep my eye on it for a very long time. He points at the camera. And it was a studio. I did my best work there. My studio ended up being Shucks trucking, Company shut died ten years before I even knew about the place, but his son tried to restore it. He wanted to revive the family business.

I killed just about every rodent you could think of inside the walls of that building, but the son never came to put the place back together again. Maybe he'd wised up. Maybe he just stopped caring. Didn't matter. And when they labeled it, they were. licked and blighted, I scooped it up through a false name and business that only existed on paper. This was before the computerization of the human race.

Now you can't get a stick of gum without someone knowing when you chew it. Shucks, trucking company looked like shit on the outside, but I built the inside to perfection. I boarded up the windows of the office and walled over them and soundproofed the walls. It was perfect for when I wanted to be intimate. The truck bays, though, were my favorite. I didn't know if you have ever seen one before, but a truck bay is huge. This space fits the entire cab of an 18-wheeler. Best of all, most of them have pits dug out in the center

so that mechanics can get under the trucks without having to jack up the behemoths. A six-foot-tall-summit rectangle already dug into the ground. Can you think of anything more perfect? Shucks had two bays, each with a pit. Plenty to work with. It got more complicated as time went on, but for the Griffiths, I kept it simple. Lou pulls another cigarette from his pocket and lights it. He sits in quiet contemplation.

He does not look at the camera. Dear to those people. He has trouble finishing his thought and shakes his head back and forth before taking another drag off of his cigarette. If they knew, at the time of the trial, what I did to those first people, I would have the death penalty. They would have brought back public executions and hanged me

from the gallows so that the world could watch. Lou gets quiet now. His jocular demeanor disappears and he no longer looks at the camera. He smokes his cigarette slowly and flicks at the filter with his thumb. The ash falls softly off of the ember. They didn't hear me when I came in the door

and I took my shoes off outside to muffle my footsteps. They didn't have a dog or a can. There was nothing there to warn them. I made it to the side of their bed, and they never even noticed me. I was standing over Marshal Griffith, and he was breathing on me. He had no idea that I was there. I didn't carry a gun back then. I was afraid that having one would make me suspicious.

That seems odd now, especially. considering how many guns are on the streets. I never checked their house for a weapon. That could have gotten me killed. Lou smiles. He's no longer telling a story for the camera. The smile is private. The memory even more so.

I had this old Billy Club used to use on me when he was drunk. It was ancient, carved oak, handle. and a leather lanyard that you looped around your wrist. I still had that when they arrested me. It never broke. I hit Marshall so hard with a club that he started sliding off the bed. I had to pick him back up because I thought he would hit the ground and make a sound. Ember didn't wake, though.

She just stayed sleeping. She was next. She spasmed. I thought I triggered something, but it must have just been the shock of it. The surprise. Liu stopped smoking his cigarette. His legs are crossed and his arms are folded. He seems defensive, but he does not stop speaking.

The cigarette smolders in his hand. I did the kid last and then tied them all up and taped their mouths. their house as a back entrance and an alley I parked the van out of range of any streetlights and carried them out one by one the adrenaline that I had pumping through me made them feel light I could have hauled them back to the trucking company on foot

if I wanted to that kind of power is a main line drug. I wonder why they didn't wake up, I carried them all out and not one of them made a sound. It felt. It feels improbable. Come to think of it, they never stirred on the drive either. They just stayed silent. Or they were just unconscious. Eventually, they did scream, though. They sure did. I brought them back to Shucks around midnight. It didn't take long.

They were early to bed type of people. I watched them for weeks before I took them, and I never saw them up past 11. I guess that's what having a kid will do to you. No more late nights. No more spontaneousness. I put them all down into one of the pits. I took my time in rigging it up, but I'd gotten it just right for them.

I found old gates from a fence in the yard surrounding the truck company. They were big and had to be to keep people out of the yard. I took the gate and the hinges, then I bolted it right back into the cement floor above the pit. The lever to release the lock was just a rectangle of metal. I bolted in a can. to the floor and installed some supports to the frame of the gate. Even if you could put your full force against it, you'd never get that thing open. Only if I wanted you out.

Did you come out? I waited for them to come too. I wanted her to know it was me. It took months. I'm not kidding you, months to prepare the surprise that I had cooked up for her. I wanted her to be awake for it. And eventually, after a half hour or so, she opened her eyes and her struggling woke them all up. Lou's gaze is distant and fixed on a particular point in the room.

His stare is off camera. The cigarette between his fingers is down to the filter and it's burning between his fingers. He does not register the feeling. I guess it was the rats that I couldn't get out of my head. Just like the Griffiths, I just couldn't help myself. It's the same feeling when you form a... It's so damn hard. Told me to do it humanely.

So I did, probably the one humane thing I've ever done. I removed her rats in non-lethal traps and I found out that they were a couple, male and a female. They'd made a big step in their relationship and decided to move in together. Romantic. Instead of releasing them back into a patch of woods or the sewers, I took them home. At first, I just wanted a piece of the house. I wanted something to remember them by. It was going to be my first one, so I thought it was important to have a memento. Just something to hold on to.

I didn't count on them breeding. People talk about fucking like rabbits, but rats have a stake in that race, too. After the first month, the female birthed two full litters. By the second month, those litters were multiplying faster than I ever could have imagined. The inbred beasts just kept going and growing and growing. By the end of the four months, I had 60 rats, and that's an estimate. I barely had room for them, let alone enough food. So then I got creative.

I stopped feeding them. I let them get a taste of starvation. It felt like a science experiment. I kept them all in the second pit in the garage, and I kept glass over the top of their concrete case. I watched them every night. As soon as that food ran out, they started eating each other. Cannibalism.

Pure. Desperate. Normally, they're a family unit. But when you take that food away, that's when the animal comes through. And then I got a... I waited until they noticed me looking down at them. I didn't want them to beg. Some guys get off on that shit, but I don't.

The work I do has a purpose. It's what I was born to do. So I, and I do it well. All I needed was the recognition. The moment where the eyes flash and suddenly, you know, you know that you've seen me, before, you are sure that you shook my hand. Maybe we shared a laugh or a story, but you can't place it.

It's on the tip of your tongue, but it just won't come. When I saw the small second of recognition in Amber Griffith's eyes, I went to get the rats and I poured the whole incestuous family down on them. Those rodents hadn't eaten anything other than their. family's flesh in over two weeks. I've never seen anything quite like it. And I've never seen anything that could come. Lou straightens up in his chair.

His gaze is still distant, but accentuates his chest. He seems proud. They fought them off for a while. But there was just too many of them everywhere. They were everywhere. One got a good solid bite into Marshall's finger, and it clung on while he tried to pull another from off his face. He was too late. The thing bit into his cheek and was wrenching on it, trying to tear it off his face.

Amber's ears were the first targets. A few of them managed to climb up her arms. and were in attacking the cartilage from her shoulders, tearing at the lobes. The alpha male, the one who had started the family, had his front teeth trapped inside one of her hoopie rings and was wrenching his head back and forth, trying to free himself.

They buried the boy, Irwin, never saw him struggle. He was overwhelmed. Eventually, Marshall was able to tear away the duct tape on his mouth. The rats had bitten it, and it was enough for him to pull it away. Their dark bodies covered his chest, and they were working their way up his neck when he started to scream. He still believed that someone could have helped him. His belief killed him.

He opened his mouth and began calling out, but a rat sprang at the side of his eyes. untouched tongue. The hungry animal latched on and Marshall smacked it away but he couldn't stop them all. With the new meat spotted they converged on his mouth.

One, the bravest climbed between his jaws and continued crawling down his throat. The tail whipped back and forth between his lips suffocated. Lou lights and other cigarettes and leans

forward on the table. I'm ashamed to tell you that I walked away, but I did the squealing, the struggle. It was too much. It was still my first time. There was no lie in the fact that I didn't know what would happen when I threw those rats in the pit. After I saw Marshall die, I ran outside and threw up. There was no stopping it. I like to thank God created man and then walked away, sick about what he'd done.

I did the same. I abandoned them like God abandoned us. I should have finished it with them. I should have watched. Lou runs his free hand over his bald head. He looks at his cigarette with two. disappointment. The rats picked them clean in a matter of days.

All that was left of them were the bones and some pieces of cartilage that the animals didn't want. No blood. No guts. No gore. They'd eaten it all and shit it back out onto the bones of their meal. I felt disgusted with them. I started feeding them poison, and they all died in the pit with the Griffiths.

Then I waited. Eventually, the family was given an empty grave in their memory. The police had no leads and no suspects. They couldn't understand where a family of three could have gone. I watched the news coverage like an addict looking home. for a fix. Eventually, they put empty boxes in the ground and called it a day. Everyone was sure something had happened, but no one had any idea what. I was at the center of my own little mystery. Whether they knew it or not, they were all.

Lou smiles wide. He puts out his cigarette. I took the bones. and I laid them out on the burial plot. It was a matter of ritual. I needed to pay my respect to the people who had given me my first one. But I'd be lying if I told you that I didn't watch the news and didn't pay attention to the birth

of my legacy. No, I watched every minute of it. How I was born my version. Lou looks into the camera, and the screen goes black. In our first tale, we find ourselves in a roadside diner. They're popular for one item on their menu, specifically. It's one of those kinds of items, you know, with the secret ingredients, where if you can guess it, you win a prize.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Manin Lysette, We discover that the secret ingredients are usually pretty mundane, despite what some people might believe. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis and Mick Wingert. So come and get some coffee and delicious cherry pie. But unfortunately, it might be some time before you can order Cragg's All You Can Eat, Tacos. I turned to see who's spoken. So late at night, there were just a few customers left,

and only one was staring me down unblinking. He was a heavy-set, gruff-looking fella with a salt and pepper goatee and an old trucker hat with the name Craig on it. Beg your pardon? He gestured to a decade-old promotional poster on the wall. Guess our secret ingredient and when all you can eat tacos for a year? I'd forgotten it was even there. His people, yeah? His voice was like sandpaper.

It was so over the top in how deep and rough it sounded. If he were a W.W.E. wrestler, his agent would tell him to reel it in some. I wiped down the table next to his. If it was, I'd have the FDA breathing down my neck. He grunted. I motioned to his empty plate. Can I take that for you? He crumpled his napkin, tossed it on, and then shoved it closer to me without a word.

I picked it up and gave the counter a quick wipe. I know it's people. I ain't going to tell no one. It's our secret. I laughed and shrugged as I returned behind the counter and put his plate in my lukewarm dishwater. The suds had congealed into some sort of moss clinging to the sides of the sink.

It was probably time to change the water, but I figured I'd wait for the last three cups of coffee and two plates still being used by the final patrons of the night. By the way, the secret ingredient? Innocent, innocuous, grounded black beans. Taste the same? Cuts down costs. The trucker tossed some coins on the table and stood up. It'd be rude to count, but I did give a quick glance to make sure there was enough. Need change? He walked over to the counter and grabbed one of my takeout menus, folded it in half, then stuffed it into his dirty jeans. He then turned on

his heels to leave, but he stopped suddenly, patted his pocket, and looked me dead in the eye. Might have some fresh produce for you soon. We can figure out payment leader. I chuckled and waved. He walked out of my diner without another word. The beams of his truck lit the parking lot as he pulled back onto the highway. I was just one stop on the road for him, and he was just one of the many faces my diner attracted late at night. I would have forgotten all about him eventually if I hadn't come in a few mornings later to a note on the door. Delivered your secret ingredient, it's in the freezer. I was perplexed.

I didn't recognize the handwriting, but I knew exactly how they'd gotten in. The freaking key under the welcome mat was missing. I walked into the diner expecting to find it ransacked, but everything was fine. totally normal, until I checked the freezer. There were three poor souls hanging from the meat hooks. It's weird, you know? I know I saw them there. I remember calling the cops in a panicked frenzy, but thank God I can't actually remember

any specifics. I couldn't tell you what they look like, not their genders, not their skin color, not their sizes. It's all a blur. That was weeks ago. I've been racking my brain ever since trying to remember what Craig look like. It's hard for the police to find him because Fat Trucker with a goatee describes about 70% of my customer base. I was told not to worry about it. Lightning never strikes twice.

They said Craig would never come back. It was too risky. But there was a message from an unknown caller on my answering machine this morning. There was no mistaking that deep gruff voice. Your next delivery's ready. The Donner's swarming with pigs, so I'll put it in your freezer. That does it. No more tacos for me. We'll take a break to clean out the freezers, but first, let's try to... I would like to register a complaint.

Oh, dear. Now what? What's your complaint? That previous story made disparaging comments about the preparation of tacos and the ingredients therein. It has angered and pained me. What? Surely you realize it's a work of fiction, right? I know no such thing. And please, don't call me Cynthia. Ah, okay.

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You were... What? Nothing! I'm off to order some Calibur CPD. Well, that's enough of that. Let's face it. It would be a crime if we didn't get Back to more horror. Sometimes it's hard. Being an adult in a world where you're surrounded by the latest teen slang, trends and behavior by being the parent of a teenager. And it's especially hard when you know they need protection

and know they don't think they need it. And in this tale, shared with us by author Marcus Demanda, one chief of police knows his teenage son needs his protection more than ever. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, and Graham Rowett. So, do you know where your children are? Might be worth checking in on them. Give them a call. Just hope they pick up.

Real study doesn't happen in the crime lab. It doesn't take place in the conference room at the table that can seat 15 cops, both local and FBI, and most of them either detectives, forensic analyst. or technicians. And the press briefings, which happened just outside of the front entrance to the station, only slow shit down. Got another one of those in an hour and a half. I remember taking a seat.

Let's figure this out. Maybe find some actual meat to throw out those vultures this time. After the evidence is clean and all the hard data collected, after the fucking conference room cage match has left everyone pissed off and exhausted. then I get the tapes all to myself. There are two of these in total so far, both of them originally recorded by the killer on VHS and transferred to fresh tapes

with zero video degradation by the feds. There's a third on the way, still being dusted. There are good, fresh prints on the first two originals, but neither has produced a single match in the entire nationwide FBI database. So far. Whoever he is, he'll be in his 40s, maybe older. Never arrested, never military, never worked in law enforcement, probably never taught school.

Of course, there are now digital copies of these recordings as well. But I want to study the tapes as tapes, just as our mystery killer obviously intended. The interrogation room where I conduct my own personal study contains the following things. a folding metal chair, a landline phone on a cheap table with folding metal legs, and next to that, a combination VCR monitor screen on loan from the FBI. This fancy bit of classic retro tech can stop the recording on any given split-second frame by number. It can zoom in wherever I choose. It can run the tape in slow motion or backwards.

It can isolate audio components so precisely that I can hear that I can hear person behind the camera, breathe. I don't have access to this thing because of any particular specialization or skill set. None of less you count my three years working video stores when I was in college. I've certainly never cracked a murder case with it. But I am the chief of police. And the feds haven't seized exclusive jurisdiction. Not yet.

They're still playing nice. That's partly because they've never been here before and don't know the lay of the land. It saved them some time, for instance, just having us locals on hand to tell them that Petey's tough guy flower boutique doubled as a hardware shop and was probably the only place in town where one could buy the exact pastel brick 2.0 paint shade that we identified on the walls of the killing room. Didn't turn out to be much help in the end. It had been stolen out of his unlocked garage last month, so no record of purchase. But still, save time. and the elimination of one potential line of investigation. The other reason they haven't shut us out yet

is because we're a town of only 2,500, and I'm their duly elected top cop. You meet a lot of people running for office, and in a town this small you get to know, or at least know of, pretty much everybody. I draw out my phone, thumb out a quick text to my son, Darrell. Hey, big guy.

You home? How's Grandma? And while I'm waiting, unable to stop myself, I text his sometimes maybe girlfriend, April. How many people? Stay safe, okay? Anyway, April's the kid Daryl wants to be his girlfriend. And maybe she is. It's hard for me to be sure. The boy isn't exactly very communicative at he stays. And again, he's in high school. I remind myself that it's normal.

These days, I remind myself of that a lot and close my eyes. This is worse on the kids. It has to be. Going to high school here, all of the kids know each other. I sigh. Check my phone again. It's 6.15 and Daryl isn't answering. Mom hasn't checked in.

and if she isn't too thrilled with having to look after a moody teenage boy from five o'clock until whenever I eventually get home every night. I'd been hard enough on her back in the day. Neither is Darrell. He snarled at me only last night. I'm not a fucking kid anymore, dad. I don't need a fucking babysitter, and I sure as fuck don't need grandma. Pouty, arrogant little prick.

I thought I'd raised him better. He's 16, I remind myself. He's just acting his age. So was the kid on tape number one, sneaking out of his basement bedroom window at night on a weekday, and it cost him his life. They were the same, our two victims, or nearly enough. Both teenagers, both part of the same throwback 90s goth crowd,

Full-on teen angst and rebellion, and as fundamentally naive and innocent as they were confused. Both of our victims had grumbled and rolled their eyes all the way to the Honor Roll last semester, and neither of them had ever been in any real trouble. I load the first tape transfer, punch in the time signature, 124. Everything leading up to that point is just a trailer for Ronan, a movie that had gone to video in February 1999. Whoever our mystery killer is, he didn't record on blank unused tapes.

He used old cassettes taken from the bargain bin at Blockbuster back in the day. On the originals, even the old gold and blue stickers are still in place. Kind of stupid that. But he also knew enough to scotch tape over where the record guard tab used to be. former employee maybe I was an old planet video kid myself if you went back to when Clinton was president and dinosaurs ruled the earth

the tape stops and freezes at 124 there it goes fuzzy before resolving into victim number one I advance it to 125 and let it run to 128 because that's when shit starts to happen But it's the background details I focus on, much as I can. I make mental notes, not bothering to type them up.

I'll do that later. If there's anything I didn't notice before, I won't forget. The chair comes from Home Depot, and the zip ties, too. The feds ruled out lows. The raincoat, or poncho, hard to tell as we can only see the sleeve in five frames. must be from out of town. But the disposable gloves are pure CVS, thin, opaque plastic.

The killer is male, Caucasian. No surprise. Nothing new. Nothing new. I shift in my chair, turning my attention deliberately away from the screen. I try calling, Daryl, directly. He can't blame me for that.

I'm his goddamn dad. This is what dads do. The phone rings and rings up, son. Come on, please pick up. When he doesn't, I reluctantly turn my attention back to the tape. Bucky Gunston is the younger of the two murder victims. Three now, I remind myself. Probably.

I can't be sure. I haven't seen the latest tape yet. came in only an hour ago, but it won't take long to process. It won't be long before I know. He was a slight kid, wiry, our Bucky Gunston, zip-tied at the hands and feet, secured at his middle with what looks like a carpentry belt turned around backwards. The killer has pulled his shirt over his head

and drawn it down his arms to the wrist ties. But Bucky's a mover and shaker. His hands come up constantly as he rocks and jerks in the chair. There's fresh blood on his wrists, smearing his forearms. His voice howls in VHS hi-fi. Who is that? Oh, you freak! That's when the gloved hand comes into view, patting his face.

The killer's face follows into frame after, leaning in, looking directly into the eye of his shaky, handheld camcorder. Naturally, he's wearing a mask, a cheap pullover latex thing that's supposed to turn him into... What? It's no character than anyone in law enforcement can recognize. Just an ordinary face with an explosion of long, black, fake hair that might suit a glam rocker from the 80s. But only half of that face is smiling. The other half frowns. It's not from town, that mask.

Neither is the carpentry belt, nor were they purchased from Amazon or any other big online retailers. FBI seems to think that they were hand-me-downs, forgotten junk, just lying around in somebody's attic or garage. Might have been one in a cheap eBay auction. If so, that kind of transaction can be tracked, but it'll take a while. Internet's a big place. There's a hard cut to black at 139. and then the whole production goes seriously old school. The tape goes silent, and that's because this part is manually spliced in.

Literally, on the original, the tape was cut with scissors, and a new segment was scotch taped into the gap. Yes, you can really do that. Taping tape was how we used to fix videos that had gotten eaten up by dirty VCR heads. Happened all the time with repeat rentals, and with people who couldn't be bothered to clean their own equipment. The segment is short. One of two spliced into the reel.

Black screen with a caption. Do you want to see my face, Bucky? My real one. Back to Bucky. Back to the handheld footage with audio. He's looking away, eyes clamped shut, leaking tears. His entire demeanor is transformed. and not only by the question, which to him, I assume, was spoken aloud.

The quality of light has changed in the room. There's a window somewhere. It's later in the day. He's pleading, earnest, and desperate and scared. No, I haven't seen your face, okay? I don't know who you are. Please, please, bitch, just let me go, let me go, okay? I haven't seen shit.

I don't know fucking shit, okay? Please, please! Yes, you do. Look at me. It doesn't matter. Look at my face. I don't know if Bucky ever looked. The next time he appears on screen, it's over. He's dead. The killer is finished with him, and the handheld cam lingers over his work. I stopped the feed at 2.10 and shake my head at the screen. Even though I've seen this horrible, nightmarish clip two dozen times or more in the past week, I want to be sick, hiding his voice from us, of course. But that's how Bucky knows him. I'm not the first to reach that conclusion. And it doesn't matter anyway.

The pool of suspects is pretty much everybody. He's my age, at least, the things he knows. And the precautions he's taken to shield his identity, minus the fingerprints, which is an oversight so obvious it's difficult to fathom, seemed to indicate he has some idea of how we might catch him. He can't get away forever. He knows it. He's not trying to.

At this point, he's having as much fun as he can while it lasts. I eject the first tape, load up at the second. Michael Driscoll. I advanced the reel up to 136. Past the 20th century Fox commercial and the trailer for home alone. He is. The place is the same,

but the circumstances are different. Michael's fully dressed. Any other town, his Green Day T-shirt would have been two generations out of date for a kid his age. But around here, a whole clique of this 90s,

Anarchist goth crap had established itself in both our middle and our high schools. But Michael was almost an adult. He should have gone through it and come out the other side by now. But no. It would have been frustrating, if only he were still alive and people could try to talk some sense into him. On the screen, he's bound to the chair the same way Bucky had been. The carpentry belt is crusted with splattered black bloodstains. Unlike Bucky, he's blindfolded and gagged with gray duct tape.

Over his ears, over his matted black hair, a pair of noise-canceling headphones block him out from the sound of his killer pacing the room, block him out from the world. Both the duct tape and the headphones were easily traceable. Office Macs. and Best Buy, respectively. But our poncho-wearing psychopath either doesn't realize or doesn't care.

Unlike Bucky, he doesn't want Michael to know who he is. Darrell knew them both. He was friends with them both, but he was closer with Michael. I pause the tape. I know what's coming next. I have to deal with it. I know I do, but...

For just a moment, I simply... I'd had this kid over for dinner last month, made sloppy Joe's, was almost the cool parent for a few hours. I text Daryl again. Son, please, just tell me where you are. I won't yell, I promise. I just worry, it isn't safe.

And April, Jesus, would it kill you to answer me? I just want to know how many people are there, and I'm the C-O-P. But she'd be busy. It's almost seven. By now, the candlelight vigil for Michael and Bucky, which had been April's idea in the first place, is well underway. And damn it all, if there are enough people there, then I can rest easy.

There's safety in numbers, both for her and for Darrow, and for every other kid who runs around in their stupid misguided circle of friends. All she has to do is fucking tell me, put my mind at ease so I can do my fucking job. I tap Darrell's contact button yet again, switch to speakerphone. I grit my teeth, sweating. I tell myself I shouldn't be freaking out so much. This is nothing out of the ordinary. He's gone radio silent before, too many times for me to count.

It's just... It's just... There's something uncanny about the 90s videos. The 90s culture rearing up again in our kids. In my kid, that connection has to be random. It just has to be. Marilyn Manson, Columbine, Jonesburg, School violence was a nationwide obsession in the 90.

We're kids. This is an adult. Those were shootings. This is... Deny it all you want, Chief. The truth will out in time. This is... There's still no way to know.

What could have done that to Bucky Gunston and Michael Driscoll? What could have done that to their... faces. No kid could have done it. No kid in this world. And least of all, I text mom. Call me, I need to talk to you. Where's Darrell? But I know he'd snuck out to go to the vigil. Yeah, he's hurting. And anyway, there's April. She'll be there. I just need to hear from my. because... Because she's my mother. And I'm scared, shitless.

I unpause the tape and go straight to the advance button, skipping all the way up to the four-minute mark. I don't need to see the part where the killer wraps an additional layer of duct tape over Michael's head, then another, then another, finishing over his stifled screams until there's only his nose left. But what's at the four-minute? Mark, is worse.

So much worse, but anyway, I need some hint as to what tool, what devilish contraption had been used at the end. There had to be some clue. It couldn't have been a saw. It couldn't have been an axe. The tape stops. There he is.

Michael, his face mostly conceiving. in duct tape, mercifully dead from suffocation before the final outrage. The same Bucky had suffered while still alive. I watched the tape, eyes wide, stomach churning. What could have split their faces so perfectly, so evenly, so completely in two? Every object that left to my face. Every object that left to mind could only have managed to mangle them utterly beyond recognition. The whole skull structure would eventually inevitably come apart under that level of destructive duress. And that's when the phone rings. Not mine, not the one I have in my hand, but the landline phone. I snatch it up. My hand shaking so badly I nearly drop it and have to cradle it at the juncture of my shoulder and neck.

I'm about to introduce myself, but I'm cut off before I can even start. Regular table saw at home. My breath catches. It's Special Agent Mack, FBI, who I know is in the same building I'm in right now, who could have walked right over here and asked me that question in person. It's all crashing in now. Of course it is, but myself confronted yet. I mean, what would you have done? Yes, I have a detachable table saw. Quite the video collection, too.

Not that I've done much with most of it in the past 20 years. Some things are just hard to throw away. There are a couple of old gems I pop in once every blue moon. but for the most part they Agent Mac, what the fuck are you? For at least the facade of calm Even as my mind and heart and soul are split at the fucking sea Even as I recall quite clearly

Showing a riveted 12-year-old Darrell How to mend our precious Star Wars tape Go ahead, Agent Mac It was irreparable The original cut before the special editions with the new and improved special effects came out in the late 90s. How he'd cried when that tape had got wound up in the wheels. And how he'd rejoiced when, instead of fixing it myself, I'd shown him silence on the other end. I count the seconds.

But then he does speak. Forgotten, in my other hand, my personal phone lights up at last, vibrating a silent alert. But on the landline, directly into my ear, Agent Mack's voice is clear. My phone up in my palm and read the message. This one, Chief, video number three. I shake my head. My cell phone stares up at me. The words on the screen begging.

Pleading with me. Agent Mack continues, almost conversationally, while the sound of hard shoes approaching grow steadily louder from outside of the room, from either end of the hall. So that much is good. Gas-fuck-nut for a son of yours tried to machine staple both sides of two human heads together, Chief.

And... Stop it. Closing my eyes, hard. Praying now. God, please make him stop. But I don't hang up on him. Another message from Mom. He's going to kill us.

Both of us. Help. The Michael half smile, and how fucked up is that, Chief? Not that any of it really worked. I dropped the receiver. Mom still has her phone. There's a chance. Still a chance.

Even with the door is opening and my own cops coming to... The screen goes dark. Then lights again. They're in the room with me. My cops. Women and men who work under my command. Guns drawn, shouting commands. And the voice of my son.

My phone still on speaker fills the interrogation room. Letters back in their envelopes. It's time to do. take our leave. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program.

25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. 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.