The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E18

Episode Date: August 8, 2021

It's Episode 18 of Season 16. Our correspondence journeys into darkness.   "TripReviewer Entry for The Hemple Observatory Holiday Rental, New York State, USA" written by Lisel Jones (Story starts around 00:05:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Edwenna Werner - Nikolle Doolin, Eldon - Graham Rowat, Audrey - Jessica McEvoy, Marianne_Foster - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Pete1989 - David Ault, Lady Katy - Erin Lillis, Global344 - Atticus Jackson, CT - Peter Lewis, Owner - David Cummings "Enjoy Your Stay at the Covenwood Inn" written by Christopher Maxim (Story starts around 00:42:10) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - Mike DelGaudio, Desk clerk - Kyle Akers, Colter - Graham Rowat, Reporter - Wafiyyah White, Garrett Covenwood - Jesse Cornett, Charlotte - Nikolle Doolin, Leslie - Nichole Goodnight "Dear Laura - Chapter 1" written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 01:05:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - Kristen DiMercurio, Laura - Mary Murphy, Bobby - Matthew Bradford, X - David Cummings "The Neighbor's House Is Getting Closer" written by Michael Squid (Story starts around 01:01:10) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator - Jeff Clement "Ghost Light" written by Claire Ridgewood (Story starts around 01:17:15) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - Erin Lillis, Blanche Actress - Erika Sanderson, Elsie - Nichole Goodnight, Actor 1 - Kyle Akers, Actor 2 - Atticus Jackson, It - Nichole Goodnight "The Lost Sound of Peter Wood" written by Neil Noon (Story starts around 01:52:20) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Annie Lantham - Erika Sanderson, Peter Wood - James Cleveland, 1971 News Announcer - Andy Cresswell, 1946 News Announcer - David Ault, 2019 News Announcer - Penny Scott-Andrews     This episode is sponsored by: Betterhelp - Betterhelp's mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient - so anyone who struggles with life's challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleep Upstart - Upstart believes people are more than their credit score. We take a holistic view of an applicant, rather than write them off because of their credit score. We want to empower people to take control of their debt and financial future. Get started by going to Upstart.com/nosleep   Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team  Click here to learn more about Michael Squid  Click here to learn more about Neil Noon  Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor    Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Enjoy Your Stay at the Covenwood Inn" illustration courtesy of Audrey McEvoy Audio program ©2021 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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

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

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

It allows you to take control of when you feel capable of opening up instead of being put on the spot if you're someone who finds that hard. BetterHelp is committed to facilitating great therapeutic matches so they make it easy and free to change counselors if needed. It's more affordable than traditional offline counseling and financial aid is even available. So whenever you need some help, visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep

and join the over 500,000 people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. No sleep listeners get 10% off your first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So don't forget that mental health is just as important as physical health. Reach out for a helping hand. BetterHelp can offer that helping hand. So visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% off your first month whenever you need it.

That's right, Nicole. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHELP.com slash no sleep. Now it's time for the horror to begin. In the dark hours. in the antique, in the letters long lost and forgotten, there are tales of horror to frighten and disturb. Come, join us as we delve deep into the darkness,

into the sleepless hours when you dare not close your eyes. For the no-sleep podcast, Welcome, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. We're excited to present Chapter 1 of Dear Laura this week. If you're a Season Past 16 member, make sure you refresh your feeds for the standalone episode of Chapter 1. And if you're listening to the traditional feed,

Chapter 1 will be featured at the end of this episode. We hope you'll be captivated by this first of six chapters. And while Dear Laura is not, a particularly graphic story, it does contain some disturbing themes. This is a good time to remind you that when needed, we provide trigger warnings for each episode on our website, with links in the show notes to where you can see them. So plenty of great tales this week and Chapter 1 of Dear Laura. We're proud to present them to you with respect. Now, I should explain something that happened on episode 17. While I was putting that episode together, I had a

phone call with Joanna. We were discussing how to handle the stories which we've been encountering, the ones with that almost electrical buzz around them, which compels us to choose them, to tell them. While on that call, a story just, I don't know how to explain it, it just seemed to insert itself into the episode. I don't even remember introducing it. It came from a rather ghastly collection of cookbooks written for, well, there's no other way. way to say it, for cannibals. Joanna and I both felt that book calling to us, but we had no intention of doing anything from it on the show.

But now, with stories seemingly having some sort of power to tell themselves, and even impersonate Peter Lewis while doing so, this has caused our saga to take a disturbing turn. I don't know. At this point, well, it's starting to feel like it's the beginning of the end. I can't explain it fully. Neither can Joanna, but something is happening. We can feel it. So, understandably, in the midst of all this, Joanna told me she was trying to get away for a short vacation, clear her head a bit. She was looking at places to stay north of New Jersey. She told me that while looking on a website for accommodation reviews, recommended to her by Liselle Jones, she felt that tingle again, that elizabeth.

electricity. It was while reading the reviews for a particular property that it felt the strongest. She asked if I could enlist the help of Nicole Doolin, Graham Rowett, Jessica McAvoy, Sarah Thomas, David Alt, Aaron Lillis, Atticus Jackson, and Peter Lewis to help me convey this odd series of reviews for you. So here is a rather trippy experience from the trip review entry for the Hempel Observatory Holiday Rental. New York State, USA. Overview. One bedroom. One bathroom.

Two guests? No pets. The Hempel Observatory is a beautifully restored early 20th century property, set in scenic forestry around 30 miles south of Niagara Falls. It offers discerning guests, luxurious and secluded holiday accommodation, with exceptional views across woodland and a private lake. The building has a unique imposing style and is of great historic interest. Construction of the Observatory commenced in 1918 by Henry Hempel,

owner of a successful local clock-making business with a keen interest in astronomy and architecture. Henry put his heart and soul into the ambitious design, but tragically was unable to continue with the work, and the building stood incomplete for a century. Happily, the observatory has now been sympathetically converted by the Hempel estate into a delightful one-bedroom holiday rental that's ideal for honeymooners, stargazers, and dreamers,

or any couple looking for a decadent getaway. Guests should be aware that some work is still ongoing, as we endeavor to have the great observatory mechanism fully operational in the near future. About the owner. The Hempel Estate. Languages spoken. English. Listed since March 1921.

Property reviews. Mary Ann Foster, Buffalo, New York. Reviewed on the 30th of April 2019. Just heavenly. Five stars. My husband and I were honored to be, I believe, the very first guest at the newly opened Temple Observatory. I have to say it's amongst the top five luxury self-catering accommodations we've stayed at.

Prose. First, the location is simply stunning. A scenic off-road track through the woods leads to the property, where we were rewarded with impressive views of the observatory in its completely private lakeside setting. Words cannot do justice to the unique style of the building. I'm no expert on architecture, but believe it's a fascinating combination

of art deco and neo-gothic, an octagonal two-story brownstone tower that brings to mine a miniature version of City Hall in my hometown or one of New York City's iconic skyscrapers. The interior was spotlessly clean with tasteful decor that's in keeping with the buildings period, whilst including all modcons. The second floor is taken up by the luxurious bedroom and bathroom. The domed ceiling in the bedroom is a particularly notable feature, decorated with a fascinating starscape that was very conducive to a peaceful night's sleep in the comfortable bed. Cons

It's hard to find fault with such a wonderful property. However, communication with the owner, who we never met, was somewhat impersonal. Nevertheless, everything had been thoroughly thought out, and we felt that help wouldn't be an issue if a problem had arisen. Pete, 1989, Longmont, Colorado, reviewed on the 17th of May, 2019. Great Experience, Five Stars Loved our stay. Decided to treat my partner to a birthday weekend here because he's into astronomy and historic buildings.

The property certainly lived up to the stunning photos on Trip Reviewer. It's a great place to hang out, and we really enjoyed the private walking trails in the woods. Everything was clean, comfortable and well-equipped. Gary was a bit disappointed that it wasn't possible to see the top floor and the telescope and we couldn't even find a way up there. But we had such a great time that it didn't really make it.

matter. Oh, P.S. Trip reviewer, folks, your details say the property owners, quote, listed since March 1921, unquote. Get it fixed. Lady Katie. Rochester, New York, reviewed on the 24th of May, 2019. Horrific. One star. Where do I begin? I can't believe we stayed in the same place as the previous reviewers. First, the dirt track to the place almost destroyed our escalade. When we finally arrived, it was getting dark, and the building looked like something out of a horror movie. Really creepy and weird-looking in a way we didn't expect. The interior was absolutely filthy, covered in dust.

The furniture is horribly dated, not antique chic like the places we've stayed in at the Hamptons, but just plain old and musty. The electricity supply was dangerous and the lights kept flickering. The TV didn't even have Netflix and there were no USB charging points. We tried to call the owners to complain, but surprise, surprise, there was no cell service so our iPhones didn't work. We felt so fed up, we went to bed early. However, we couldn't even stay a full night. It wasn't the damp smell or the horrible lumpy bed, although those were bad enough.

It was the sounds in the building. Loud ticking noises from the roof that started in the middle of the night and never stopped. So freaking noisy and annoying. Even our earworms brand earplugs couldn't block it out. I don't know if they have some big old clock up there or what, but the owners need to fix it right away. Lucky for us, home was only about an hour away, so we were able to pack up and leave.

I wish I could upload the photos we took, so you can see how bad this place really is. But it looks like we deleted them from our iPhones by mistake. My advice? Avoid this rental. Owner's response. We're sorry to read about your disappointing experience. Please contact us and we will gladly arrange a refund.

Global 344. Salisbury, United Kingdom, reviewed on the 10th of June 2019. A Hidden Gem. Four Stars Stopped here for a couple of nights on a road trip between New England and Niagara Falls. It's a beautifully restored property and in great condition. No problems with cleanliness, electrics, or things that could tick in the night. I suggest you ignore the previous review. It contains so many inaccuracies and downright lies.

I believe that the author might have a personal grievance against the owner. The special atmosphere of the Hempel Observatory could be wasted on those who don't appreciate architecture, but history lovers such as myself will be utterly enthralled. Some people can only see the bad in everything. C.T. Columbus, Ohio, reviewed on the 25th of June, 2019. A Nightmare. One Star We don't recommend this rental and wish we'd read all the early on. reviews more carefully. The place is a lot less fancy than the photos make out. No way it's been

recently refurbished. Yeah, the design of the building is interesting, I guess, but it just looks wrong, like it belongs in a city, not in the middle of nowhere. The scale, the proportions, the tone of the stone work, something feels off. We are no believers in hocus-pocus, but from the moment we walked through the door we felt like someone was watching us. We've read horror stories about spy cams and holiday rentals, but this was way more uncomfortable, and we just couldn't relax. And there is a problem with the ticking noises in the night. I tried to put up with it at first, but it got unbearable. My fianc's hearing isn't great, so it didn't wake her straight away.

But it did give her the worst nightmares she's ever had. She wouldn't even tell me what they were about. Then it sounded like there was something else moving around in the roof space to maybe lots of things. I gotta confess, we freaked out and got out fast, ended up staying in a motel back on the highway. So much for our luxury getaway. We returned to get our things the next day, and to be honest, it didn't seem so bad. but we couldn't risk another night. Very negative experience.

Pity I can't. Find my photos to show you. And if Trip Reviewer allowed me to award zero stars, then I would have done. Owner's response. We're sorry to read about your disappointing experience? Please contact us, and we will gladly arrange a refund. Eldon and Audrey. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Reviewed on the 26th of John. July 2019. Warning. Sight of an inexplicable personal tragedy. One Star. I think it's best to start this review with a brief introduction. We're semi-professional paranormal investigators. Google Eldon and Audrey haunted hotel inspectors for more info. And so this won't be a conventional trip report. I should also warn readers that it contain some disturbing details, which I've included in the hope people will heed my warning to stay away from the Hample Observatory until a thorough investigation has been completed by independent researchers. A few months ago, a follower of our YouTube channel pointed us towards the weird reviews

the observatory is received on here. We're always on the lookout for sites that haven't been investigated by others yet, and after researching the history of the observatory and its original owner, we knew we had to visit. Surprisingly few details about Henry Hample are available to the public, given that his company, Northeastern Clockmakers, was responsible for building several municipal and privately owned clock towers in the region around the turn of the 20th century. Hemphill's designs varied according to the various commissions, but commonly drew negative public opinion due to their unsettling Gothic sensibility. Most have been replaced over the years, which may explain the lack of documentation. The best source of information regarding the observatory

we found was, bizarrely, a record of a legal dispute between Hempel and Ronald Trent, the previous owner of the lake adjacent the site. Trent objected to the construction because he believed it contravened county building code, and also detracted from his enjoyment of fishing. The impression I got was of a petty dispute between two wealthy, stubborn landowners that had escalated to the stage where nobody except lawyers would really win. Most of the legal issues don't seem important, and Hempel eventually purchased Trent's lake and land after winning the case. However, the papers do cast some light on Hempel's motives.

One of Trent's main arguments was that Hempel's building was intended to cause a personal grievance and served no practical purpose. The construction made no sense from an astronomical perspective. The locations had a relatively low elevation amidst dense forestry in an area that doesn't have a a climate conducive to clear skies. The roof of the building even lacks a proper aperture for a telescope. Trent, a devoutly religious man, claimed that the purpose of the building was, in fact, unholy, having heard strange sounds coming from it at night. He even hired an authority on the occult as an expert witness to support his case.

I'm quoting the relevant part of her testimony here. Declaration of Edwina Werner in the matter of Trent v. Hemphill at the United States District Court for the Western District of New York, December 1918. I, Edwina Werner, hold a diploma in history from Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts, and have held the position of senior lecturer in folkloric studies at the University at Buffalo for the past seven years. I am the author of over ten books on esoteric matters, astrology and alleged occultists, including biographies of John D., Leonardo da Vinci, and Isaac Newton.

In the course of my assignment, as an expert retained to provide testimony, I conducted interviews with builders and engineers who worked on the construction, now paused, of the purported observatory adjacent Delvers Lake. Although access to the site was denied, and no design drawings of the interior of the building are publicly available, I have gleaned sufficient details of the internal mechanisms and certain other features of the construction. My opinion, which I maintain with a reasonable degree of certainty, is that Hemphill's construction is an attempt at a meloscope. The Meloscope is an obscure astrological apparatus, first described in papers belonging to an anonymous 17th century alchemist.

Its alleged purposes, I quote, to gather and observe pure darkness for the exquisite sensations and learnings to be found therein. The design of the Meloscope is similar to a conventional. telescope in some respects, and comprises a large tubular body. However, instead of lenses, it houses a reflective black membrane. This is believed to operate as a scrying surface, a medium well-known to occult practitioners for developing extrasensory visions. The scope is also connected to a set of bellows, whose function is supposedly to mystically draw particles of darkness from the ether into the body of the device.

The presence of these features in Hempel's design strongly suggests that it is a meloscope rather than an astronomical telescope. Hemphill's apparatus does differ from the original telescope in some aspects. First, the gathering end is oriented downwards into the enclosure, rather than towards the heavens. The component that corresponds to the eyepiece is oversized, of an irregular shape, and seems only capable of projecting onto the ceiling of the enclosure.

It's therefore unclear how whoever it's designed to be used by would be able to observe anything. Hempel's construction also appears to be augmented by an intricate clockwork mechanism that is not part of the original design. My interviewees were unable to provide precise details of these components. However, from their descriptions, my view is that they may function as a clock drive for positioning the device. These 17th century drawings of the meloscope are notoriously unclear and include symbols and measurements that, as far as is known, have never been properly deciphered.

However, the writings that have been interpreted indicate that the Melloscope is only capable of operating under certain very precise conditions. These timings, which are based on the celestial positions of specific constellations, are arguably the main similarity the Melloscope has to a conventional telescope. but are more in the realm of astrology than astronomy. Historically, the precision required would have been difficult to achieve, and so I postulate that Hempel's mechanism is intended to address this problem. In conclusion, my strong expert opinion is that the evidence points to Hempel's construction,

being a version of the arcane astrological device known as a meloscope. To avoid any undue concern, I would also emphasize that there is no historical or scientific evidence that the meloscope is anything other than an irrational, fabulous construct. It was probably intended to be metaphorical, rather than embodied as a physical contraption. Further, even discounting the fantastical aspects, there would be insurmountable practical obstacles in successfully implementing the apparatus, such as the need for certain rare earth materials

not readily available at this time. After learning about Hempel's astrological leanings and researching the meloscope further, Audrey and I were able to deduce a pattern in the dates of the needs of the new. negative reviews. They matched astrological events called Zodiacal cusps that corresponded to the operating conditions of the Meloscope mentioned by Werner. The ones still due this year were on the 23rd to 24th of July, September, and October, dates to which a minority of astrologers ascribe dark associations. We booked two nights at the observatory on the July dates. Our theory regarding the dates of the negative reviews was confirmed when we arrived.

Although we consider our investigative trips part-time work, we do usually feel some vacation-type excitement when we first arrive. Not here. As we approach the observatory, our moods flattened for no apparent reason. As I'll detail later, we experienced strange and tragic events at the property and believe these affected our electronic equipment. None of our cameras, still or video, saved any images, just like it happened to previous reviewers.

Audrey's handwritten journal explains how we felt after arriving. July 23rd, 3.30 p.m. Arrived at earliest check-in time, picked up keys from SafeSpot. The whole booking process has been smooth, almost automated. First impressions. The property looks neglected, and we're surprised to see crumbling masonry and cracked tiles. But it isn't that the pictures on trip review are. have been photoshopped.

It's more like a darkening filter is somehow being applied to the building in the real world, giving it a subtly unreal contrast to its pretty surroundings. Inside is unnaturally dark too, and again, although the furniture and fittings

appear to be the same as the ones in the photos, it looks like they've aged unnaturally and are covered with prominent scratches, peeling paint and grime. EM and temperature readings normal. 5.15 p.m. Finished installing sensors and cameras at optimal locations.

No activity, and all readings normal. However, the YouTube content we tried to record will probably be unusable. We felt utterly unable to summon up any of our usual, light-hearted commentary and banter. We just silently, kind of mechanically, went about our business. both of us in a dejected, touchy mood. Several petty squabbles about when to eat, where to position cameras, etc. 8 p.m.

No camera activity. Reading's normal. Although technical issues with PIR camera 3 and upstairs EM sensor. Both of us reporting growing lethargic, negative feelings. Decided to leave recording for YouTube until tomorrow. I can't believe.

leave Eldon's attitude, though. I know our relationship's been going through a bit of a rough patch recently, but ever since we arrived here, he's been worse than ever. I think he wants to give up on our channel. Says he's sick of YouTube, the endless striving for followers, a constant need to produce contents becoming an endless hamster wheel. I can't let that happen. I need to leave this until later. Those were the last words Audrey wrote. We listlessly watched videos on our separate devices in bed, and it was almost midnight when the ticking reported in the reviews began. We'd read about how loud it was, but nothing prepared us for the reality.

A deafening, heavy, tick-talking rhythm. It was as if the sound was hovering inside the bedroom, not coming from above the ceiling. The ticking was soon accompanied by the sound of smaller gears, clicking, grinding, grinding, ratcheting. More and more of them. It sounded like millions. We had to cover our ears. I nodded towards the stairs, but Audrey shook her head. Looked like she'd regained her drive to experience something truly supernatural.

She'd always been more hardcore about the spooky stuff than me. We fumbled with our phones to try to get some footage, but my fingers were trembling too much. This is when things got really strange, and I advised discretion about reading on. The noise was too loud to get close to the ceiling to investigate, so we just lay on the bed. I toughed it out, pushing past discomfort to a point where the sound resonated through me. My whole body vibrated with each tick.

I was flooded by a feeling that wasn't exactly calmness, but I became still. My heartbeat and breathing kept time with the ticking. Even my thoughts felt synchronized with its rhythm. I managed to glance at Audrey, from the regular rindexam. eyes and fall of her chest, I guessed she was experiencing the same thing. A creaking noise joined the clockwork cacophony, and a split appeared in the center of the domed ceiling. Its two halves slid open like a giant eyelid. The aperture revealed a vast mass of clockwork components wheeling in blackness. A sprawling cosmos of spinning, twitching gears,

spindles and cams that should never have fitted inside the dome. At the center of the movement, a huge cannon-like cylinder hung down. The meloscope. My eyes fixed on the dark glimmer inside it. It reflected Audrey and me lying in the bed. Vains in our necks and arms visibly throbbed in time to the mechanical beat. When I should have been fearful and concerned for us, what I actually felt was a creeping sense of disgust.

I couldn't help it. couldn't think any differently. My attention fell on Audrey's reflection and involuntarily focused on insignificant blemishes that used to be invisible to me. The tiny chip in her front tooth, the blurry edges of the black rose tattoo on her forearm. They'd become mountainous,

magnified flaws that spawned physical repulsion. The expression on her face told me she felt the same about my image. At that moment, It made me hate her more. The shimmering membrane rippled, and other images began to overlay our reflections. Flashbacks to arguments, failures, disappointments, carouseling scenes of anger, jealousy, infidelity. I couldn't tell whether the images were memories, fantasies, or fears.

Whether they were even mine or hers. The melascopes bellows started to move laboriously at first. Throughout all this, my eyes and mind remained fixated on the images flaunted by the screen. They forged a burning coal of resentment in my chest, which felt like it had been torn out, as if the device wanted to inhale it, consume it, appraise it. As the bellow sped up, the meloscope began to swing like a pendulum between Audrey and me, hypnotic and threatening. I sensed the malice the device was engineering would destroy me if I let it continue.

With all my will, I fought the clockwork's control, twisted and pushed against its relentlessness. I managed to tilt my head towards Audrey. The sight of the real her melted something inside me. I stretched my fingertip a fraction towards her hand, but she just kept glaring at the images, kept pulsing with hate. The melascope stopped right above her. Its bellows wheezed and blasted frozen air. Through the corner of my eye I saw Audrey's skin shrivel and drop like a shroud around her, leaving a solid black shadow of her body.

A mainspring shot out of the clockwork, wrapped itself like a chameleon's tongue around shadow, Audrey, and plucked her into the whirling mechanism. It wound and pulled her through its gears like a rubber dummy. She made no attempt to resist, and I'm still haunted by my final glimpse of her darkened face. as she vanished into the innards of the machine, vacant, but spiked with hate. The gears teeth crushed and grated, and a dark oil spilled out.

It oozed over the tangle of springs and wheels before being funneled into the barrel of the melloscope. The mechanism halted with a reverberating clunk. Each of its countless gears blinked like an eye. As I screamed, I realized, that the meloscopes hold on me was broken. I scrambled to the floor, and as I bolted out of the room,

I saw the pale casing of Audrey's body dissolve on the bed. Outside, it seemed like a normal early morning. After catching my breath, I grabbed a heavy rock and ran back into the building. No sign of Audrey. I beat the bedroom ceiling with the rock until my arms ached, but it was solid metal, and I couldn't even dent it.

All my attempts at getting into the dome had been futile. I've contacted the local police, but they're skeptical, and to date have refused to take the matter seriously. They suspect we're trying to pull some kind of publicity stunt for our paranormal channel. Of course, the hempless state have ignored my calls and emails. I'm seeking legal advice, and I've put this review up here in the meantime in the hope it'll deter others. I know it all sounds ludicrous, and have little hope that the majority of readers will believe any of this. But the fact remains that at the time of writing, Audrey has been missing for three days. She hasn't been in contact with her family for years, and isn't at any of the obvious places I've searched or contacted.

But I won't give up. Owner's response. We're sorry to read about your disappointing experience? Please contact us, and we will gladly arrange a refund. Unfortunately, the Hempel Observatory is now temporarily closed to visitors for essential operations. Eldon and Audrey, location unknown, reviewed on the 23rd of September 2019. For my Eldon, from your midnight flower, Audrey, zero stars. This place holds only darkness.

In this place, no sun shines, no man smiles. From this space I see into your true heart. Your rotten core splayed to display your failings, your slackness, your inevitable surrender. Follow me. Be apart, not apart. Let me tease out your emptiness and roll it in invisible fingertips. Let innumerable eyes gaze into nothing but all you lack. Eldon and Audrey, New Orleans, Louisiana.

Reviewed on the 25th of September. September 2019. What's going on? One Star. I don't know who's responsible for that last review, but it wasn't me, and it isn't funny. I don't even know how we're even able to review an inactive property. But I'll use it as an opportunity to update

and repeat my previous warning. The Hempel Observatory seriously needs to be investigated, and people should stay the hell away. Audrey's still missing, despite all my efforts. She's not the kind of person who just disappear, no matter what problems we were having. They really weren't that serious. The only good thing is that the observatory has been closed off with some heavy-duty security,

so there's hopefully little risk to the public. I thought help from some of my contacts in the paranormal field who are no strangers to getting into out-of-bounds places, but even they weren't able to get anywhere near. So it looks like I've reached a dead end. Police and private investigators have gotten no. nowhere. No meaningful replies from the estate or their lawyers. I'm losing hope. I've even started doubting my own sanity, but I know what happened that night. I also haven't found any more information about Hemple or his designs. The few records indicate he vanished from public life

sometime in the 1920s after becoming increasingly angered by critics of his work. I'm coming to the conclusion that he was simply like his sick project, something that he was. that just didn't belong and best forgotten. And whoever wrote that last review, you need to stop stalking me. I don't know how you found that private reference you put in the title that only Audrey and me knew about, but I'm not in a good place right now and you won't like what you find if you keep it up. Owner's response. We're sorry to read about your disappointing experience.

Please contact us and we will gladly arrange for you to revisit the Hempel Observatory so that we can alleviate all. your concerns. Eldon and Audrey, location unknown, reviewed on the 23rd of October, 2019, and meshed in the dark observatory, zero stars. In the dark observatory, we look down on the world and see only weakness and fault. From the dark observatory, we reach with our eyes to grasp at that which remains. When joy is lost.

In this place, we have no choice but to choose this truth, to spin endlessly in cold nowhere. From this place, we see no horizon, no light, no stars. Wow, could you imagine staying at a place as creepy as that? No thanks. It makes me glad I don't have a lot of money to travel at the moment. Travel can be expensive. Yeah.

And I'm trying to pay down my... credit card. Debt like that can be its own horror story. If you dread looking at your credit card statements, you're not alone. Debt can feel crippling. But have you heard about Upstart? It's a service which can help you on your path to financial freedom. Upstart. How does it work? Upstart is the fast and easy way to pay off your debt with a personal loan, all online. Whether it's paying off credit cards, consolidating high interest debt, or funding personal expenses, over half a million people have used Upstart to get one fixed monthly payment. That sounds pretty good. But what if my credit score isn't, you know, all that grade? Upstart knows you're more than just your credit score and is expanding

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I got it. That's upstart.com slash no sleep. Don't forget to use our URL to let them know we sent you. Is there any fine print? Only to mention that, Loan amounts will be determined based on your credit, income, and certain other information provided in your loan application. I'm going to go to upstart.com slash no sleep. Then I'll start packing for my trip.

Sounds great. Upstart will help you get to a relaxing hotel soon. I can't wait. Just make sure you follow the rules. Huh? Uh, never mind. Just pay attention to this next story as we return to the horror. Business travel.

airports, shuttles, unfamiliar cities, and unpredictable hotels. You'd think most people would hate staying in those hotels, but you don't know Jack. Jack travels a lot for work, and he really enjoys his time in those hotels, or, well, he used to. As explained by author Christopher Maxim, Jack could have had a pleasant experience at this one hotel if he only followed the rules. Performing this tale are Mike Delgadoo, Kyle Akers, Graham Rowett, Wafia White, Jesse Cornett, Nicole Doolin, and Nicole Goodnight. So let's be honest, it's not a difficult thing to ask. Be a good guest, be respectful, and follow the rules. That way, you will enjoy your stay at the Covenwood Inn.

Business trips are dreadfully boring, especially, in my line of work. The only good thing about them? Hotels. The tedium of day-to-day dealings bookended with clean towels and a mint on my pillow. If I could live in one, I surely would. There's just, there's something in the ambiance that soothes my soul, for lack of a better phrase. At least, that's how I felt until staying at the Covenwood Inn. It seemed like any other hotel at first. Typical floor plan, decorative arrangements, overly poled. polite check-in clerk. It wasn't until I received my keycard and ventured up to room 371 that I would notice a dissonance in the layout, something amiss that broke up the usual

hotel landscape. In my room, placed deliberately on the bed, was a sheet of paper. Restrictions printed on an official Covenwood Inn stationary. Room 371, Guidelines. Number one, no television after 9 p.m. Number two, only accept incoming calls on the room phone. Number three, leaving your room between the hours of 10.30 p.m. and 1.30 a.m. is strictly forbidden. Number four, at least two to an elevator at a time, never go in alone. Number five, no visitors.

If there's a knock at the door, ignore it. Number six, the mini bar is for emergencies only. Number seven, the view is a lie. Don't trust it. Enjoy your stay. Okay, that was odd. I had never seen anything like it, not once, in any of the hotels I'd stayed at in the past.

Perplexed, I called the front desk for answers. All rules are to be followed during your stay. The clerk stated this plainly as if he had uttered it a thousand times before. I don't understand. What emergency would warrant the use of the minibar? Why can't I watch TV after nine? What does the view is a lie even mean? I was offered the same reply as before, spoken with the same tone as before.

Not unlike a recording. All rules are to be followed during your stay. stay. And that was that. No answers, no explanation. Assuming it was some sort of strange hotel humor I was unfamiliar with, I threw the list on the bedside table and forgot all about it. Until later that night. As I laid in bed watching the 10 o'clock news, something completely out of the ordinary happened. The reporter began scratching at her face. A little at first, But then, a lot. Her motions became aggressive, and her skin began peeling.

Blood dripped from the wounds as she continued to relay her report without missing a beat. No one seemed to notice or react to her appearance. Eventually, she froze in place and stared at the camera. Then a close-up of her face, grotesque and mangled. Her bloodied lips spread apart and offered an ominous sentiment. Don't break the rules, Jack. I jumped out of bed, left my room, and ran downstairs. My voice echoed through the lobby as I barged over to the front desk.

What the hell is going on here? The receptionist didn't so much as blink at my intrusion. What can I help you with, sir? I just watched a news reporter tear her own face apart and tell me, me personally, to follow your bizarre hotel rules. Is this some kind of a sick joke? He pointed at the wall clock behind him. It's 1018, sir.

In room 371, there's no television passed. I grabbed him by the collar. I don't appreciate being toyed with. Continue this jest, and there will be a call made to the authorities. Mark my words. I let go of him and stormed off, his monotone voice trailing off in the distance.

All rules are to be followed during your stay. It returned to my room, shut the TV off, and laid down to sleep. Pissed off, but exhausted. Unfortunately for me, my slumber would be short-lived. I awoke later that night in a fit of sleep paralysis, pinned in place by my own body. At the foot of the bed was a shadowy figure whose features I couldn't quite make out in the darkness. A warmth overtook the room as it stepped over to my room. my side. My heart began to race. Closer now. I could see it was a man, maybe in his 50s,

well-dressed, gray mustache. He leaned over to me and spoke with a disturbingly unnatural timber. His voice echoed off the walls and met my ear with an inhuman cadence. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jack. Are you enjoying your stay so? far. I tried to break free of my chemical restraints, but it was no use. Where are my manners? Gary Covenwood, the owner of this here hotel. I like to greet my guests whenever I can.

He rested his hand on my arm. There was a stinging sensation where his skin met mine. But I could barely wince in response to the pain. Follow the rules, Jack. If you don't, you're in for a bumpy ride. All at once, the warmth dissipated, and the sound of my cell phone buzzing rendered me fully awake. I jolted to a sitting position, reclaiming my movement. The man was gone, and my arm was fine.

It was just a nightmare. I quickly grabbed my phone and answered, Coulter. There's been a change of plans. Need you down the lobby right away. What for? No time to waste. Hurry up. I looked at the time.

It was 12.36 a.m. I was forbidden to leave my room according to the damned rules. I called the front desk. Now listen here. I need to come down to the lobby and meet my boss. I don't care what your rules say. There better be no weirdness. Do you hear me?

The sound of tapping away at a keyboard filled my ear. Sir, our records show that your boss, Coulter Brumlock, is fast asleep in his room. confusion washed over me. In his room, asleep? How would you even know that? Wait, are you telling me there's no one in the lobby waiting for me? No, sir. It's a slow night.

Just me and the fern in the corner. I hung up the phone and dialed Coulter's number. After two rings, he picked up. This better be good, Jack. I was sleeping. Coulter, you didn't just call a moment ago and ask me to meet you downstairs, did you? He let out a groggy sigh. Of course not.

What are you talking about? Can I go back to bed now? Another wave of confusion struck. Yeah, sure. Sorry. It was probably a wrong number or something. I'm sorry to wake you. Before hanging up, I asked him one last question.

Say, you didn't get a weird list of rules from the hotel, did you? No. Now let me sleep. He hung up, and I sat there. there contemplating things. Honestly, it felt as though I was hanging onto my sanity by a single fragile thread. I had told myself the images on the TV were the hotel's doing. But this, this couldn't be faked. Holter and I had known each other for years. I knew his raspy voice anywhere, better than I knew my own. That was definitely him on the other line. But at the same time,

it couldn't have been. It was, by all accounts, a mystery. The next day of work came and went. Before long, Coulter and I met back at the hotel where we dispersed to our separate rooms. What was once the highlight of any given business trip was now tainted by uncertainty. For a good long while, I just sat there, in bed, still in my work attire, perusing the list of rules on the bedside table. I couldn't make any more sense of them than when I'd arrived. But it had become abundantly apparent that something was going on, something unexplainable. Part of me hoped it was just the product of a tired mind, overworked and succumbing to the side effects of exhaustion. But lies, even the ones we tell ourselves, only stretched so far.

I undressed and climbed beneath the sheets for some much-needed rest. Rule number five came to mind. No visitors. If there's a knock at the door, ignore it. It felt silly, but I did as the rule demanded. Best to act with an air of caution, I thought. Better safe than sorry. The knocking, however, was soon followed by a voice.

Coulter's voice. Jack, are you in there? Your wife called me. Says she couldn't get through on your cell. Something happened to Leslie. Oh, my heart sank. Leslie was our daughter. I jumped out of bed, ran to the door, and opened it at once.

Coulter walked in, visibly troubled. What's going on? What happened to Leslie? Coulter bore a look of deep concern. Well, it's not good news. My heart was pounding. Out with it already! What happened? This is my daughter we're talking about. He looked at me, almost teary-eyed.

Leslie's dead, Jack. Oh, no. All the color vanished from the room. What air I had in me left my lungs in a single labored breath as a steady stream of tears wet my face. Coulter put his hand on my shoulder. There's more. Please sit down. I fell to the bed, broken.

The truth is, Jack, you broke rule number five. Now I have to hurt you. His lips stretched into a wicked grin and his body froze. He was still as a statue. Coulter? I don't understand. In a flash, his hands connected with my neck. With a viciously tight grip, he began squeezing the air out of my lungs.

I tried to fight back, but his strength was overwhelming. I managed to get a few jabs into his head, but it didn't seem to have any effect whatsoever. He forced me to the floor and continued to clench my throat until I finally lost consciousness. In that moment, I truly thought I was a goner. I woke in bed the next morning, alive and well. I quickly reached from my phone and noticed a text from Charlotte. Just put Leslie on the bus. She misses you terribly.

So do I. Please be safe. We love you. I got out of bed and raced to the bathroom mirror. My neck was void of bruising. No signs of strangulation. I called Charlotte to be doubly certain. To my relief, Leslie was indeed.

Fine. As alive as she was the day I left. It all just felt so real. Could it have really been a dream? Frazzled, I met up with Coulter and we drove to our next meeting. I could still feel his hands wrapped around my neck. I refused to make eye contact with him the entire day. And he noticed, but what can I say without sounding certifiable? Hey, the hotel left me this weird set of rules to follow, and now I think I'm seeing things. Want to stop for coffee before you drop me off at the nearest hospital? No. That would not vote well.

Mild food poisoning from the sushi at the hotel bar was a far better excuse. Only a few more days of torment, then I could leave. That's what I kept telling myself. Little did I know my next night there would be the longest one yet. I awoke at 1122 p.m., according to the blinking display of the old. alarm clock on the desk across the room. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed a faint orange light dancing on the wall, pouring in through a gap in the curtains. I pulled myself out of bed and walked over to the window to identify the source of the light. What I saw was absolutely horrifying.

The hotel was ablaze, an enormous fire engulfing the ground floor. The flames grew to great heights and touched the glass in front of me before I had the nerve to turn away and make a run for it. In leaving my room, I yelled to warn the other guests. Fire! There's a fire we need to leave at once. No one joined me in the hall. There was no sound at all coming from within any of the other rooms on the floor. Had they already been evacuated? Was I the only one inside? I opened the first door and reach. It was unlocked. Inside was the reporter from TV. Her face still dripping red, a blood stain on the carpet below. You should have followed the rules, Jack.

I slammed the door shut and moved on. In the next room was Coulter. I watched him strangling a copy of me before his head turned and we locked eyes. He threw my lifeless body to the floor and started running towards me. You can't hide, Jack. I closed the door and ran to the next.

This room contained yet another impossibility. The worst one yet. It was my wife and daughter standing at the door. Their eyes were vacant, drained of all human emotion. I watched astonished as their skin burnt to a crisp before my eyes. Charlotte spoke first. We miss you terribly, Jack. Leslie chimed in after her.

When will you be home, Daddy? I couldn't escape them. These horrors were around every corner. In a last-ditch effort to run away from my troubles, I bolted to the nearby elevator. The button was jammed, but I kept pressing it. I looked down the hall to see the reporter, Coulter, my wife, and my daughter all walking towards me. Come on, come on, work, you piece of crap, work! Finally, the button gave way and the doors opened.

I hopped into the metal box and pushed the button for the first floor. The doors closed just as the rag-tag team of zombies closed the gap between us. I slid to the floor on the verge of the verge of the door. of a heart attack. The ride down offered no solace, no lull in the supernatural calamity I faced. Without warning, the elevator dropped, plunging to the depths of the hotel, far deeper than I thought was even possible. I gripped the railing as tight as I could as the light wavered in and out of life. Between flickers, Garrett appeared before me. You've broken almost every room, Jack. This is what happened.

you'll destroy us all if you're not careful. He vanished and the light left with him. Knowing my death was fast approaching, I closed my eyes and just thought of Charlotte and Leslie. I could see them playing outside in the rain on the day I left. It was always heartbreaking to say goodbye, and this would be no different. I held on to their memory and braced for impact.

As the elevator neared the end of its descent, Garrett's booming voice entered my mind and broke the trance. Wake up, Jack! Jard, my eyes opened and I fell back, landing on the floor. The unique abrasiveness of carpet brushed against my skin. I was no longer in the elevator. Upon taking a deep breath, gathering my wits, the familiar surroundings set in. I had inexplicably been transported back to Room 371.

As I looked around in disbelief, happy to be alive, I noticed the list in my hand. Rule number seven was now circled. The view is a lie. Don't trust it. It took a minute to register, but now I knew what it meant. The view through the window. There was never any fire, just another ploy to get me to leave the room, and I foolishly took debate. My eyes darted to the alarm clock on the desk.

It was 1.47 a.m., meaning it was now safe for me to leave, and I needed to get the hell out of there and fast. I stood up, marched to the door, and grabbed the knob. It was hot to the touch, burning hot. I pulled my hand back instinctively to avoid the harsh heat. Then I noticed the charred wood at the bottom of the door's frame, indicating fire. Real fire. But... How? I thought the view had deceived me.

I looked back to the list for answers and noticed a post-script, scribbled in pen. You should have followed the rules, Jack. You did this. Now we all have to suffer. My eyes scanned the page for more clues, but to no avail. They kept landing on rule number seven. In addition to being circled, it was underlined with a striking red ink. Why did my attention need to be drawn there?

Was it just gloating? Or something more? That's when it hit me. I walked over to the window and peered outside. The fire raged on outside my room, but the world below seemed unaffected. No flames, no firefighters, no one running out of the hotel. Just a plain old parking lot, traffic on the main road, and trees in the distance. As normal a view as one could hope to expect from this particular vantage point.

But the view was a view. a lie. I tried opening the window, but an unseen force closed it shut on my fingers. I screamed and pulled them back. In a great deal of agony, I lifted the chair at the desk and threw it against the glass. It shattered, revealing the world outside for what it really was. I saw the fiery wall below and heard the guests screaming in peril. There was indeed a fire, and I truly was in danger. Still in pain, I picked up the list and looked at Rule Number 6. The mini bar is for emergencies only. Well, this certainly was an emergency.

Without any time to waste, I opened the mini bar up next to the desk. Inside were no drinks or food, only a small black box with a red button affixed to its surface? I pulled it out and placed it on the bed. There was now smoke seeping into the room through the outline of the doorway. Looking over the list again, there were no. no further instructions, nothing at all pertaining to the box. There was only one course of action left to take. Okay. I closed my eyes and pressed the button as hard as I could, putting my life in its hands. Memories played in my mind like a film reel running in reverse. The day's events,

followed by the previous and so on. I relived all of the fear and torment in a matter of seconds until eventually my eyes open. And I found myself in line with Coulter at the front desk waiting to check in. This place isn't too shabby, Jack. Better than the last one, at least. I can't explain how. But I was back in the hotel lobby on the first day of the business trip, the day we checked in. Say, Jack, what happened to your hands?

I looked down and saw the bruises left by the window. Oh, it's nothing. I slammed him in the car door. That's all. Both of them? He was cut off by the check-in clerk, greeting me. I was now at the front of the line. Do you have a reservation, sir?

I stared at him for a long while, remembering everything that had happened. And I backed away from the counter and turned to leave. Jack, where you going? You know, I'm sorry, Coulter. I'm going to go get an Airbnb instead. I'll see you tomorrow. He waved his arms at me, frustrated, then turned back to book his room.

I heard the clerk handing him his key card before I reached the exit. Here you are, sir. Room 371 on the second floor. We hope you enjoy your stay. Every year, on her birthday, Laura gets a letter from a stranger. That stranger claims to know the whereabouts

of her missing friend, Bobby. I love you, Laura. But there's a catch. He'll only tell her what he knows in exchange for something personal. So begins Laura's sordid relationship with her new pen pal, built on a foundation of quid pro quo. Something for something. Her quest for closure will push her to bizarre acts of humiliation and harm.

Yet no matter how hard she tries, she cannot escape her correspondence demands. The letters keep coming. And as time passes, they have a person. profound effect on Laura, for she knows deep down that she can't trust her single word, he says. The No Sleep Podcast presents Dear Laura by Gemma Amor. Chapter 1. The woman with brown hair walked through the trees in a straight line. Her mind's eye fixed on a target. She walked and checked the compass hanging around her neck after every few steps. Traveling as the Crohn's

flies, feeling as if she herself were a small, tired, worn out little bird, doggedly flying north, migrating to land she couldn't see yet. It dwelt inside of her, that journey's end. One fixed point. One reason to keep going. Reddish brown hair, now threaded with gray, and beaded brightly with drops of rain, fell into her eyes over and over again. Laura was continually forced to push it back from her face with cold fingers, absent-mindedly at first, and then with anger. Her hair band had broken, three miles since. She considered taking out her pocket knife, hacking the hair off at the roots. But she could not spare the time. Soon it would be dark. Soon she would be walking in the forest at night. The darkness did not frighten her.

What frightened her was the thought she would not reach her destination at the designated time. And so she carried on, wiping the hair from her eyes, placing one foot in front of the other, checking the compass that thumped against her chest with each step. All that mattered to her was what lay at the end of the path. Everything else was an inconvenience, only there to be overcome. Rain fell steadily as she moved through dense undergrowth, high stepping over weeping fronds of bracken, heavy with moisture, snagging her ankles on brambles,

stumbling into tree trunks as tiredness gradually took a firm hold of her body. Water worked its way underneath the collar of her jacket and crept into the tops of her boots. Her toes squelched in soddened socks. She kept one hand free as she walked for balance, and the other jammed hard into her left coat pocket, curled, claw-like, around something. In that hand, rested a crumpled letter. one of many she had received over the years. She thought this might be the last of them.

It was Pappy from Rainwater, the writing blurred, ink washed away. Unreadable now. It didn't matter. Every word in that letter was etched into her mind. Every single expression, punctuation mark, and errant, elaborate flick of pen on paper that the author was so fond of. The author she only knew as, X. Specifically, there was a code in the last.

letter, or a string of codes, shakily scrawled amongst the self-indulgent ramblings of the man who wrote to her every year on her birthday. The codes burned into her waking vision, glowing, beckoning, a long sequence of numbers and symbols. She saw them everywhere as she walked, in the trees, in the sky, on the ground, sprouting amongst the ferns like weeds, buzzing around her head like mosquitoes. The other letters she had from the same sender had similar codes in them. She knew what they were. They were directions. And she knew what the letters were. They were admissions of guilt, confessions. They said, I did something terrible. And they were always signed the same way. Yours with respect. And that, after all, was why she was here.

It didn't matter if the author had a poor grasp of vocabulary, spelling and grammar. It didn't matter if he was arrogant and violent and self-obsessed. It didn't even matter that he was cruel and had been cruel for so many years, and that she was the primary focus of that cruelty throughout her life. It only mattered that he had answers. It only mattered that he knew where Bobby was. It only mattered that she put an end to it all. Laura kept on walking.

The first letter arrived in 1994. on Laura's 14th birthday, one year after Bobby disappeared. She had grown up very quickly in that year. Physically, yes, but in other ways too, more significant ways. By then she had lost all hope that they would find Bobby alive. Coming to terms with this had a profound effect on the child that she had been, and she sped past the tumultuous awkwardness of puberty like a flat stone flung across the sea. She became almost overnight, a quiet and serious young woman with a solid grip on the reality of her situation.

Her best friend had gone, and he was never coming back. The ties that bind, she realized, did not always bind tight enough. He had slipped from her grasp, and in doing so, he had taught her a lesson, a harsh and immutable truth, that nothing is permanent. Everything can change. A life can alter beyond recognition in the time it takes to simply let go of someone's hand. His hand in hers was the last thing Laura remembered about Bobby. She still felt the ghosts of his fingers on hers. Every day.

Hot, smooth and awkward. Fumbling, stroking her skin. They were clumsy with each other, as teenagers are. She was 13. He was 15. He had kissed her the day. before, lightly on the lips. And now they were going steady, as kids said in those days. And going steady meant holding hands. They had a habit of walking to the bus stop together,

and that day had been no different. In matching school uniforms, they dawdled so they could spend more time with each other before the bus arrived. She remembered blushing, stammering as she spoke, unsure of what it was they were supposed to say to each other now that they were boyfriend and girlfriend. How was the rest of your birthday? It was okay. Mom was working late as usual. My dad tried to bake a cake.

It tasted really bad. Did you like the card I got you? I did. It made me smile. Well, I know how much birthday cards means you. I put it in my memory box, so my parents wouldn't find it. Wait, didn't you tell your mom and dad yet?

That we're dating now? No, not yet. I know what they'll say, though. They're going to yell at me. They already think I spend too much time with you. They trust me, though, right? They know nothing bad is going to happen to you when you're with me. You're my best friend.

I know. They do trust you. That's why they let me walk to the bus every day with you and hang out all the time. I trust you, too. Good. Laura, can I tell you something? Yeah, of course. Promise you won't judge me.

Of course not. What is it? You have to promise not to tell anyone, okay? Not your mom or dad or anyone else. That's really important. And not any of your other friends. I don't have any other friends, Bobby. Only you.

Just promise me. Okay. You're kind of freaking me out, Bobby. I know, but it's important. I mean it. You're my best friend and the person I care about most in the whole world. But lately, I... God, this is so difficult.

I mean, lately I've been feeling like... Like what? Like, no one really knows me. Not the real me. I don't understand. What do you mean by the real you? I know you better than anyone. And I like who you are.

I know you do, Laura, but you don't know me as well as you think. I have a different side to me. But you just said, I thought we were best friends. Yeah, we are. I mean that. But it's just, I don't know. It's just I've been... What is it, Bobby?

What's going on? You can tell me. I think... I think I might be... I am... Actually, you know what? Never mind. Bobby, you're being really annoying.

Just tell me what's up before the bus arrives, would you? I can't. I can't tell you. If you knew, then you wouldn't be my friend anymore. If I knew what? What's going on, with you. Nothing. I'm okay. Honest. Wait. I've got it. You're a secret agent. A spy. No, better. An assassin. Cut it out, loser. I'm not a spy. It doesn't matter. It does to me.

Yeah. Can we change the subject? I love you, Laura. I love you too, Bobby. Dork. Luser. They laughed. But Laura's shining. returned, which upset her because she'd been telling the truth. She felt she knew Bobby better than she knew anyone else. Their parents were old close friends and neighbors, but using the L word with each other felt like new territory, and Laura was woefully ill-equipped to navigate it. She felt a certain hesitance from Bobby, too, as if he were also unsure as to what the rules

were now that they had begun to explore each other in different ways. So they carried on, in silence. His fingers stroked her hand, and they blushed and scuffed their feet in shared embarrassment. She wondered if he would try to kiss her again before the bus arrived. But he seemed preoccupied. His mind elsewhere. His eyes focused on the road beneath them. So she didn't ask. And then she realized she'd forgotten something. What that thing was now she could barely recall. A pencil case, her homework, her lunch, It was something small and yet vital, something she would be in trouble for if she forgot. So Laura let go of Bobby's hand. I forgot something. I'm sorry.

Okay. I'll just run back. Okay. I'll be five minutes. Wait for me, will you? Yeah, sure. Hurry, don't want to miss the bus. She ran up the road to her house, her bag thumping against her hip heavily.

As she hurried back, she thought about love, about the word itself. and how grown up it felt to say, I love you. She thought about how nice it felt to hear, how warm and yet uncertain it had made her feel. It was both comfortable and terrifying at the same time. Meanwhile, Bobby stood on the pavement, looking into the distance with a small frown on his pale, long face. Laura would never hold his hand again.

Thirty years later, Laura was lowering herself carefully down a steep, muddy embankment. when her foot rolled beneath her. She fell heavily, arms flung up uselessly behind her, a wingless bird now dropping like a stone mid-flight. The impact as she hit the ground at the bottom of the embankment was shattering. All breath left her body. Small sparks of bright crossed her vision, momentarily erasing the jittering codes from her sight.

There was a sharp, stabbing pain in her ankle. She lay like that for a little while, trying to suck some air back into her lungs, spread-eagled across a bed of lamb's tongue and bird's nest ferns and moss. The skeletal remains of long dead trees stuck into her, behaving like old, displeased women poking her with their sharp fingers.

And all she could think was this. If a woman falls in a forest, no one is around here. Does she make a sound? The uncaring rain fell and soaked into the soil next to her face. A rich, Thick scent filled Laura's nostrils.

The forest, gorged on fresh rainwater, belching out a mulchy, potent aroma as the ground bloated and grew treacherous. She lay there, panting, and tried not to panic about the fading light, about the time slipping away, tried not to think about how much slower she would be now that she was injured. And all the while, her ankle throbbed with fierce, shrieking pain, and she sensed that something was very, very wrong down there. Eventually, she regained enough strength to reach down with shaking hands and feel for the problem, the source of the pain. It didn't take long to figure out. Instead of flesh, she found a jagged, sharp piece of wood. It was jammed into the soft part of her ankle just above the heel, piercing the gap between her ankle bone and her Achilles tendon, right above her stiff leather boot.

Blood, slippery and fresh, flooded down her foot. She wiggled the stick experimentally. and gasped. The pain was incredible, shooting up her entire leg, ricocheting off her back teeth. She knew the piece of wood needed to come out, else she would be crippled and unable to use the leg. And if she was crippled, she wouldn't get to where she needed to be at the right time. Already the day was fading.

The tree trunks around her looked less solid, and the sky sank lower to meet the canopy overhead. Her window of opportunity was closing inexorably. time to act all obstacles were simply there to be overcome when laura returned to the bus stop bobby was talking to a man she didn't know through the open window of a dark blue van that was also unfamiliar later laura would recognize the model as a ford transit but at the time it was just a dark blue van parked up on the curb engine still idling the man in the driver's seat was talking and bobby was listening and laughing a little Little uncomfortable, as young people are when they are humoring adults. Bobby had been brought up well. He was a nice, polite boy. They were from a nice, polite neighborhood.

He had to stoop because Bobby was tall for his age, and so all Laura could see of him was his back, his school bag, and a tuft of his bright blonde hair. She could not see much of the man inside the van, because Bobby was in the way. But she had an idea of the size of him. He was so large, his shadow almost filled the entire front of the vehicle.

And then, before she could do anything, before she could call out or catch up to them, the man gestured to Bobby and opened the passenger side door. Bobby threw a look at her over his shoulder, a strange, almost excited expression on his face. In the distance, Laura heard the school bus approach. She raised her hands, shrugging a question at him. What are you doing?

uncertainty glimmered in his eyes. The man in the van gestured to him once more, flapping a huge hand around in a circular, hurry up motion. Bobby hesitated and then did something that Laura would never understand. He straightened up, jogged around to the passenger side of the van, and climbed in. Bobby kept his head turned from Laura,

his hair curtaining down to shield her from his vision, and a knife slid delicately into her heart. as he shut her out, her best friend for years, her companion since babyhood, her new boyfriend of a day. Every morning for the rest of her life she would wake and find that thin, stinging blade still there, lodged in her chest. If only she could pull it out.

If only she could throw away the knife. But Bobby sat there in the van, staring at his knees, ignoring her. Laura saw his lips move, saw him issue an instruction to the man. And the van squealed away, belching thick black smoke from its exhaust. Laura didn't think to look at the number plate. Didn't think to run after the vehicle and see where it went.

She was a child. She had not been remotely prepared for this eventuality. In her world, these sort of things just didn't happen. Moments later, the school bus arrived and came to a ponderous stop in the road beside her, hissing as the door opened on squeaky hinges. The driver shouted cheerily for her to. get in. And in the distance, the blue van disappeared from view. Laura was left behind, and Bobby never came back. Laura clumsily shrugged out of her backpack, freeing up her sore arms.

She dug around inside for her small first aid kit, thankful that she had thought to bring it. It took a while to locate, for there were other things inside the pack, a small trowel, two large bottles of water, a torch, a folded tarpaulin, energy bars, and a plastic bag inside of which a bundle of letters lay, bunched tightly together with elastic bands. There was something else at the bottom of the pack, too, rolled inside an old towel, something heavy and compact. But she couldn't think about that now. She scrambled through the bag's contents and eventually seized the hard green case with a white cross stamped on it. And then, on thinking about it, a bottle of water and the third of water and the flashlight.

Okay, you've got this, Laura. Basic tenets of first aid. Act fast. Keep it clean. Apply pressure. Laura set the items down carefully on the ground and reached for her pocket knife, stashed in her left trouser pocket. She unfolded the blade and switched on the flashlight,

angling it so that the beam shone onto her ankle. It was not yet fully dark, but gloomy enough that she needed the extra light to better see the extent of her injury. The beam revealed a sharp, slender branch from a pine tree, sticking out of her leg, the type that comes to a naturally lethal point at one end, like a stake. It jutted out of her skin at an absurd angle, almost jaunty. Her blood looked shockingly red against her cold skin. Laura whined and closed her eyes, fighting back nausea.

As she did so, a little string of numbers swam beneath her eyelids, teasing her. And then, as if an accompaniment, a voice rang out in her mind. Don't give up now, Laura. You're so close. So close. I'm waiting for you, Laura. Bobby is waiting too. Fuck you.

Laura carefully uncapped the lid from her water bottle and set it to one side. Then she found antiseptic wipes and a wound dressing in the first aid kit. and set those aside too. The stick taunted her as she hesitated, shrinking from the task ahead. Could she really do this? Of course you can do this. You've done a lot worse, Laura.

This was true. Laura had done a lot worse. She was used to pain. She would never get used to the fear of it, though. Get on with it, woman. You're so close. You can't stop now. So close.

You're going to find him. You're going to make it right. Think of Bobby, Laura. Bobby. I love you, Laura. I love you, too, Bobby. Laura gripped the flashlight carefully between her teeth, leaned forward,

gently seized the piece of wood in her right hand, and carefully brought her pocket-knife blade to rest against it, intending to lever the stick away from her ankle if she could not find the strength to yank it out on the first try. You can do this. Come on, Laura. Laura silently counted to ten, chomped down on the flashlight so hard she thought her teeth would splinter, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled. Laura's blood sank into the soil, and her screams echoed around the forest.

And the birds huddled together in the trees all around, took flight. Was written and adapted for audio by Gemma Amor, produced for the... Produced for the No Sleep Podcast by Phil Mikulski. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Kristen DiMecurio as the narrator. Mary Murphy as Laura. Matthew Bradford as Bobby. And David Cummings as X.

Join us next week for Chapter 2 of Dear Laura. We place the letters back in their envelopes. It's time to take our leave for now. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings.

If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being ever curious. This audio production is copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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