The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E19

Episode Date: August 15, 2021

It's Episode 19 of Season 16. Our correspondence sounds the warning about audio horrors.   "Knocking After Midnight" written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 00:04:00) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Duke - Jesse Cornett, Clancy - Atticus Jackson, Peggy - Erin Lillis, Jorge - Mick Wingert, Jim - Jeff Clement, Nancy - Sarah Ruth Thomas, Hank - Elie Hirschman, Female Voice - Sarah Olivia "Exanimate" written by Jessica Saul (Story starts around 00:27:20) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator - Wafiyyah White, 911 Caller - Peter Lewis "Three Dots, Three Dashes, Three Dots" written by Jarvellis Rogers (Story starts around 00:38:45) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Martin - David Ault, Andy - Andy Cresswell "Dear Laura - Chapter 2" written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 00:53:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - Kristen DiMercurio, Laura - Mary Murphy, Mrs. Scott - Nikolle Doolin, Mrs. Eveleigh - Erin Lillis, X - David Cummings "It’s Just the Wind" written by Eddie Ihlan (Story starts around 00:53:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator - Nichole Goodnight, Podcast Host - Dan Zappulla "Tribute" written by Michael Fallon (Story starts around 01:14:15) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Doug Cutler - Graham Rowat, Tess cutler - Mary Murphy, Boyd Cutler - Matthew Bradford "Be Safe, Be Good" written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 01:39:10) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Matty Kussmann - Mike DelGaudio, Gabrielle - Nikolle Doolin, Sadie Covington - Jessica McEvoy, Max - Elie Hirschman Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team  Click here to learn more about the podcast, "Give It Away"  Click here to learn more about LP Hernandez  Click here to learn more about Jessica Saul  Click here to learn more about Jarvellis Rogers  Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda  Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor    Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Knocking After Midnight" illustration courtesy of Krys Hookuh 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

In the dark hours, in the ante, 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. Chapter 90. Welcome, Sleepless Listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. Hey, I know you like storytelling podcasts. You wouldn't be here if you didn't. And I know there are plenty of them out there vying for your attention. So I'd like to recommend a new one to you. You may be familiar with the blindingly talented writer, Mack Rogers, the creator of hit

fiction podcasts like The Message, Life After, and Steal the Stars. Mack has done it again with his new sci-fi thriller, Give Me Away. They call the spaceship that crashed in the Nevada desert, the ghost house, because it screams. The screams of thousands of extraterrestrial political prisoners uploaded into its horrific mainframe. The only way to free them

is to transfer them into the bodies of humans willing to share their minds with an alien's second consciousness. But who would volunteer for that? Graham Shapiro, divorced and adrift at age 50, is one of the first to raise his hand. Give Me Away follows Graham's journey into a world of radical hospitality, one which will touch everything and everyone in his life. There's a link in the show notes, and the first four episodes are available ad-free on podcast platforms everywhere.

So delve into the audio adventure. And speaking of audio, adventures, it seems this strange adventure I'm on with Joanna continues to mystify us. Upon returning to her bookstore, The Whispering Pages, after her time away, Joanna found a large box of books left at the store's rear door. She told me this isn't unusual. No one likes to throw books in the trash. So if someone is moving or clearing out an old house, there are often books left over which are left on the doorsteps of bookstores. In the same way a litter of stray puppies gets left at the door of a pet store or vets office.

Joanna told me the books all appear old with worn covers, some bound in leather, and all with interesting titles. Some were classics like Moby Dick, while some were esoterica with titles like The Nebulous Wisp from the Seventh Dimension. But here's where it gets weird. As she started flipping through the books, all of them, every single book had blank pages. She said the pages were as old and weathered as the covers, so this wasn't some sort of modern prank with old covers affixed to blank books. No, Joanna told me it looked like every page of every book had simply been erased, as if the words were no longer valid or needed.

And then, in the very last book, she found the pages not just blank, but cut away, like in the movies, where a book's pages have been hollowed out to conceal a gun or a key or whatnot. But this book only had a small cutout which held a thumb drive. The drive itself had a name on it, handwritten and faded. She thinks it reads L.P. Hernandez. Upon examining its contents, she found just one audio file. The folder it was in is named Words No Longer Matter. And when Joanna sent it to me,

I was surprised to hear a story with voices that I swear sound identical to Jesse Cornette, Atticus Jackson, Aaron Lillis, Mick Wingerd, Jeff Clement, Sarah Thomas, Ellie Hirschman, and Sarah Olivia. So, is it true? Do words, written words no longer matter? Is it all about audio and what we hear? If so, then listen. Listen closely to the words, the sounds, and the knocking after midnight.

You're listening to KOWB, Hamlin's Cowboy Radio Station. I'm your old pal Duke, and I'll be your guide through the dark hours. Do you hear that, folks? That's either the Lord coming down off the Rockies or a warning you probably should double-check your car windows or rolled up. If you're a long-time listener, welcome back to my trucker friends on I-70. Thanks for tuning in. Congrats on surviving Kansas. Unless you're headed east, that is.

Stay with me until it gets fuzzy, and I'll try to make it worth your while. We're coming up on midnight, so why don't we give Miss Patsy Klein a spin and do it with class? That was a once-a-generation voice, wasn't it? Perfect for a stormy night, don't you think? Now, if you're lonely or just have a story to share, give me a call at the station. If it's a good one, I might play it on air. Take it away, Patsy. Let's see here.

Howdy, folks. This is Duke with your five-day forecast. It's that time of year again. Should see a chance for afternoon storms just about every day. Some could be severe with small hail and gusts around 50. Temperatures will be stid. Howdy, friends? Duke with your five-day. Good chance for thunderstorms in the afternoon through Friday.

A slight chance of some of these storms could be. be severe with a small hail and wind gusts north of 50. Temperatures should peak at about 80 with lows in the upper 50s. Oh, Hello, caller, Duke with KOWB Cowboy Radio. Once got you up late on a Sunday night. Hey, Clancy, how are you? I'm to ask you maybe you put out an APB for Vince.

Something spooked him. Probably in Storm. Gone. and ink the steak out of the ground. Good news is you couldn't probably hear him coming. Is that the Pyrenees or the Boxer? Boxer. Hopefully he'll be back in the morning,

but if anyone sees him, I'd appreciate them giving him a dry spot to sleep tonight. Sure thing, Clancy. I won't get the word out. Caller, you're on with Duke. Hey, it's Peggy from the post office. Oh, hey, Pegg. Don't you have the morning shift?

I do. Something on your mind? Sorry, I tried to call the police. Peggy, you okay? Well, no one picked up at the station. Daryl must be out on patrol. There's a man at my door. How's that?

It's a man in a stoop, dokey. He knocked on the door, and he's just standing there. He's got an overcoat on, like, from the 1940s. One of those hats with brims. So I can't see his face Did you say anything? Where's Earl? No, I didn't say anything, Duke.

It's midnight. No good reason a man in a suit should be knocking on a door after midnight. Earl's on the shift now, so it's just me. If he knocked and left, I wouldn't be worried about it, but he's not leaving. What can you see, Peggy? Through the people. Do hold on a minute. The phone cord won't stretch that far.

Peggy, let me put you on hold for a moment. That was Charlie Pride singing it like only he can. We've got Dolly and George Jones still to come. That's if the power doesn't go out first. Say, folks, if you see a scared boxer running around, let him sleep on your porch tonight. Old Clancy would certainly appreciate it. And if you throw vents a bone,

I'm sure Clancy will throw one to you. You when you come in for an oil change. And we'll take a quick break and then get right back to the music. Peggy? Peggy? You there? Peggy? Away from the light. Put its heads up like he knew it was brighter, but couldn't tell where it was coming from.

We're walking around the yard. Like he's trying to find a way in. Peggy, now you stay safe, okay? It's probably just a knucklehead kid with a mask. I don't think so, too. What is it? Shit. Hang on a minute, Peggy.

Friends, we've got plenty of still guitar and sad songs to keep you company. Speaking of company, Peggy from the post office called, and it sounds like there might be some teenagers trying to spook her. If you're in the area of Spruce Drive, maybe lend her a hand before the storm hits. Drive by and flash your brides or honk your horn. That should do the trick. Peggy?

Hello? Peggy? What in the world? You're on the air with Duke. Is that you, Peggy? No, it's Jorge. I'm a first-time caller. What were you saying about teenagers?

I'm a couple of streets over from Peggy. Oh, hi, Jorge. Yeah, there's... Something is definitely happening on that street. It sounds like there was someone dressed up in a suit knocking on the front door, and then another showed up at the back. or they may have gotten inside, I don't know.

I said they were dressed in overcoats. Had suits underneath. Something about a face being a... Oh, hold on. You there? There's one outside my house, Duke. He knocked right about midnight. I didn't answer.

It didn't feel right. Still there? What a funny. Almost looks like a mannequin. A man blowing his coat some. Is it just the one? Let me check out the back. What?

What is it? There's one in the tree. What? I wouldn't have seen him but the lighting flash just then. I can't really see him now. He's turning his head back and forth. I can't really see him that well. If I can get a better look.

Jorge, hold on. The phones are lit up. Let me see if this is more widespread. I might have to go live. You're on with Duke. Street from Peggy Had the radio on to fall asleep to When you asked for help

Thought I could shuffle over there right quick Yeah There's one in the driveway One? Yeah A person dressed up in I don't know An old raincoat or something

And what's he doing? Never mind me Tell Peggy I can see one on her roof There's someone on the roof Was All over the neighborhood do I've seen maybe half a dozen of them in the past couple minutes.

Oh, hold on. Sorry for the interruption, folks. It sounds like there's some widespread prank going on in the southeast part of town. If someone can get in touch with Deputy Darrell, might need to get him to look into it. Until we figure out what this is, it's probably best not to engage. But if you have more information to share about the... people knocking on doors, call me at the station.

As always, that's 555-K-O-WB. Now, I don't normally do this, but I'm going to take a call live to see if we can get more information. You're live with Duke. Please keep it clean. We have one inside. He was watching TV downstairs while I was listening to the radio getting ready for bed. I should have told him about it, but I didn't think they would come to our house. I'm upstairs in the closet. I don't know what to do. There was an awful scream, more like a bar, than the front door shut, and I can hear Hank walking around down there. At least, I think it's Hank.

Caller, where are you? I'm on Falcon. North side of town? Oh, see. So they're up there, too. He's coming up to stairs. Hank, or... I don't know. Just hold on.

It'll be okay. Just... Caller. Caller. Do you need help? Are you okay? Caller. What's your house number?

Deputy Daryl or anyone else with the means. We've got a situation in Falcon. If you know of a couple of... Oh! Oh, no! He's going to the... I'm not sure what to make of that, folks. This doesn't feel like a prank.

If it is, you got me good. I really need someone to get in touch with Deputy Darrell. Jesus. Folks, well, we're going to put the music on hold till we figure this thing out. I'm afraid people might be in danger. Let's take another call. You're on with Duke.

Go ahead, caller. I was wrong. It's okay. It's okay. Peggy? Is that you? What happened? It's okay, Duke.

It's okay. Peggy? It doesn't sound like you. What happened? Who were they? Peggy. It doesn't hurt, Duke. Not for long.

No, no, I don't think so. You get somewhere safe and you... You stay there until we figure this out. Now, folks, don't answer the door. Don't let these people in. If it's a joke, it ain't funny. We've got a storm overhead. No good reason for folks to be outside,

which means it must be a bad one. Who are they? Can anyone tell me that? Are they local? If not? How did they get into town? And where are they staying? You're on with Duke.

So I went up close. Covering its fate exactly, but I don't think it could see me. Why? What are they? I didn't see it until it was just a few feet from me. And I was so scared. I just froze.

I dropped the flashlight and then rolled away. I knew I was there, but I wouldn't cause for the eyes should have been pulsed and made this noise. And what do you think they are? But I think they're attracted to movement like vibrations, maybe. I think the rain and the thunder threw it off. Like he couldn't find me with all of the interference. Well, that's the best information that we've had so far, folks. But if you find yourself near one of these things,

you just stay still. Until we have more to go on, that's the best advice I can give. Jorge, is there anything else you can share? I take one gun in next door. What happened? Bigger guy, like a strange fellow, trying to climb onto his roof.

He doesn't even have a ladder. He's just like clawing at the bricks. He looks confused, like he doesn't know what to do. Even if it wasn't raining, he wouldn't be able to get up like that. He's scratching at his throat. What is it? I think he saw me. There's something in the front of his shirt.

Blood, maybe. I don't know. Don't let them in. Thank you, Jorge. Now, folks, it sounds like I have a visitor. I'm going to take a peek through the peephole. See if I can't get some first-hand information for you. Please double-check your locks.

If you find yourself around one of these things, Things. And just do your best to stay still. And that's all we really have to go on at the moment. I'll be right back, folks. Come on out and celebrate Frontier Days at the Hamlin Event Center. We'll have barrel racing, calf roping, and rattlesnake roundup for the kids. Experience life as the settlers did.

Learn how to tan a hide and turn shoe leather into jerky. Archering. Funnel cakes, bobbing for apples. And speaking of apples, Mrs. Dubois is offering up two dozen candy apples for auction to benefit the mayor's revitalized downtown initiative. This Saturday at the event center, doors open at 8. Come on out and celebrate Frontier Days at the Hamlin Event Center. We'll have barrel racing, calf roping, and rattlesnake roundup for the kids. experience.

I just want to say that there's really no reason. No reason for alarm. Someone's knocking at your door. You let them inside. The neighborly thing to do, especially with a storm. Everything is okay. Just open the door.

Or it doesn't hurt folks. Not a lot. When it comes to disturbing audio, the things we sometimes experience with phone calls can be upsetting. Now imagine if you're a 911 dispatcher. Dealing with people during their most traumatic experiences can be emotionally scarring. And in this tale, shared with us by author Jessica Saul,

we meet one dispatcher who was trying to help someone in dire need, and she would help if she only knew, where the person is calling from. Performing this tale are Wafia White and Peter Lewis. So listen for the clues. Try to help if you can. There's still hope as long as things haven't become ex-animate. For 17 years, I was an emergency call operator.

There's nothing I can say about the job that you haven't already heard before. It's not for everyone. It takes a lot of strength. You've got to have tough skin. All of that is true. Along with the anecdote about, I thought I heard everything until. My until happened in September of last year.

It was 3 a.m. when the call came through. 1-1-1, what's your emergency? What's in the street? Can you give me an address? And you give me an address. And you get somewhere safe. We're unable to trace your call. Can you see any street signs or landmarks?

Light is flicked. It's almost here. What's almost there? The line. We're still trying to locate you. You are not going to die. Please, try to take shelter. I don't understand.

The call cut out after that. At the last possible second, a location appeared on my screen. It was an approximate location, not an exact address, as is common with calls made by cell phones. The signal had to be triangulated to the nearest cell tower, which, produced only a very general area to go off of. The location of the call was in the middle of nowhere, out in the blunies, on the very edge of town. It made sense that it would be poorly lit, as the caller had said.

But he had mentioned houses, and there wasn't a single house on the map. The whole situation didn't sit right with me. However, there was nothing else I could do. The police were sent to investigate, and I was left to swallow the lump in my throat. As I arrived at work the next day, my fears were validated. The two officers who had gone to check out the call never came back.

They had arrived 30 minutes after the call had ended, due to it being so out of the way. At 3.45 a.m., their last radio transmission came through. The officers had reported finding nothing. A dirt road, a street light, an overgrown cemetery, but not a living soul in sight. No corpses either. No remains.

Nothing. Sometimes emergency operators never find out what happens with the calls we take. Even getting a little bit of information can be hard. It wasn't like that with my call. Everyone was talking, nervous and fearful, of what could have possibly happened. More officers were being sent to investigate. In the meantime, I had to take calls and carry out business as usual. It was three hours into my shift when the rumors started.

Whispers of the cop car being found abandoned with a blood trail leading from the vehicle and stopping clean. I heard that a body had been recovered, but it wasn't one of the officers. They suspected it was our mystery caller. The rest of my shift crawled by. Time practically seemed to stop. It was hard to focus on the mundane calls when a situation of X-Files magnitude is taking place. Nevertheless, I persevered, and soon enough my shift was over. As I was gathering my belongings to leave, my hopes for a good night's sleep were crushed.

I was informed by a co-worker that the body they found at the scene was missing from the morgue, and the blood on the ground had tested positive for both. of the missing officers. Two presumed dead, one missing corpse, and zero hours of sleep later, I found myself back at the call center. The steady trickle of information seemed to have gone dry. There was no news of the situation at all. I was working the graveyard shift again, with only a few other operators in the room with me. At almost exactly 3 a.m., a call came through. What's your emergency? Excuse me? What are you talking? talking about, sir. What is your emergency? What do you want? I don't...

The location on my screen was the same as before. I called over a superior and explained what had just happened. Then I left. Only, I didn't go home. There was no point. I was well past the possibility of sleeping soundly anytime soon. So, I did the next best thing. I drove out to the boom. where the calls came from. None of it was planned. I don't even think I realized where I was going until I was there, until I was looking at the crime scene tape

and the bloodstained grass. It was nearly pitch black, save for one flickering street light. I didn't want to look at the crime scene. It had already been calmed over and analyzed to death. There was something else out there, something that hadn't been found yet. something that wanted me to find it.

Using my phone flashlight to navigate, I wandered the area. It was dumb girl in a horror movie, level of stupid. But I was too sleep deprived and adrenaline filled to care. It wasn't until I tripped over something and landed on my back that I actually started to get scared. Jetting out from the earth at a crooked angle, was a tombstone that looked like it was 100 years old.

I had stumbled upon the cemetery that the missing officers had reported finding. Lifting my foam from where it had fallen beside me, I scanned the area with its light. Mausoleums. Lining the edge of the cemetery with the dirt rolled on the other side was a row of decreptic mausoleums.

Stone houses. The people in the houses are watching. I don't remember running back to my car or even driving home. I quit my job after that, and I slept with the lights on for almost a month. Sometimes I think I should have kept my job. A 911 call is so much less personal than having your home phone ring at 3 a.m. And ring. And ring.

And ring. In the days before 911 emergency calls, there was another well-known method of signaling distress. Morse code. A series of beeps representing each letter, it was used for decades to send messages across the miles. These days, Morse Code is all but obsolete. But in this tale, shared with us by author,

Yardellis Rogers, we meet a crew of fishermen who are familiar. familiar with Morse code, a little too familiar after an encounter with a mysterious SOS distress signal. Performing this tale are David Alt and Andy Cresswell. So even if you don't know Morse code, it's easy to recognize the code for SOS. It's just three dots, three dashes, three dots. Three dots, three dashes, three dots. The earworm lodged in my head repeats the rhythm endlessly.

Each tone drips into my ear like water torture, keeping me awake and ever conscious of my upcoming death. My tomb has been blaring out the signal for at least two days now. A large fishing vessel in North Sea. That's what we received. The Call of S-O-S. We had also been fishing, just a small crew of three looking for a modest catch of cod. There was Andy, Tony and myself. We hadn't known each other for very long.

Andy, who owns the boat and had it licensed for fishing, put up an ad in the local paper, saying he was looking for two people with boating experience to work with him. I needed a job and I had fished before years ago, so I fit the bill. As far as I'm aware, the story is about the same for Tony. We'd been working together a little over two months when we went on the trip that would beeline us straight to early graves. We had pretty much just gotten far enough out to see where we planned to fish when we received an SOS signal on the radio.

This was strange to us at the time, as we only got the signal just as we could start to see the large ship on the horizon. It must have only been being transmitted short range. which, as Tony put it, is quite the cock-up for a distress call. Andy tried to respond to get details, but the only reply was the constant call for help. I was of the opinion, we should call this into the Coast Guard, but Andy and Tony thought that the situation was obviously dire

if they're not responding, and that they need immediate help. Two against one, and the ship owner being on the popular side meant we were going. I don't blame them at all for anything that has to be. happened afterwards. They really were trying to save people and that's how they should be remembered. We reached the ship and shouted from our boat to see if anyone would respond to us but we got no answer. Using one of the mooring ropes, we tied one end to our boat and using a hook, Tony grappled the other end onto a railing on the ship's deck. He climbed up, tied the rope to secure our boat and then Andy and I followed him up. The deck was a ghost town.

We saw no crew, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary. However, as Andy walked around to take a look, he suddenly slipped cartoonishly as if he had stepped on a banana peel. Tony and I couldn't help it. We burst out laughing. Even Andy, despite his sore ass, chuckled to himself from the comic situation. We went over to help him up. He was fine, apart from his dignity. Imagine the last happy moment of your life is falling over like a prat.

And we noticed what he had slipped on. It was hard to see, but in patches all over the deck, with thin puddles of some kind of oil, nearly colourless but a slight greyish tint. Maybe a haul of fish had overturned onto the deck. Either way, we continued on, making sure to walk as if on black ice. As we made our way to the bridge, which we figured would be the best place to start,

we noticed how foul the ship's smell. Fishing is a smelly business, but this was ungodly, like someone shoved too mackerel up my nose. The slippery oil was inside the ship's corridors too, so we had to keep treading carefully. We didn't see a single soul at this point still. We got to the bridge and opened the door and immediately heard the blips of Morse code.

Inside, there was something on the floor in front of the active radio. We approached it, and it was what we thought was a large pile of clothes, a bunch of sailors' get-ups. Tony nudged it with his foot, and... It jiggled. It appeared to slosh like a water balloon. Tony gave it another prod to spread it out. It was not a large pile of clothes, just one person's, and that person was still wearing them. The body of the sailor was flat and floppy.

There was no solidity to it at all, like his skeleton had unzipped the flesh and stepped out. His gaping expression showed that even his teeth were gone. There were dribbles of blood around the mouth, but all considering there was barely any. That's when I realised the remains jiggled because it still contained all its body. blood and organs. Someone, or something, had removed this guy's bones and only his bones. I guess the poor man had been frantically trying to make a proper distress call when he'd been got. That would explain the short-range signal, at least. Andy turned around and vomited, and I decided to join in.

Tony just kept muttering astonished curses and shaking his foot like he was still trying to get the corpse off. Jesus, you were right, Martin. We should have called it in. Balox to the Coast Guard, though. This needs the Navy or something. Let's hurry back to the boat. I agreed with Andy, spitting out the last of my breakfast,

but I was cut off by the gasping sound of air rushing out of a pair of lungs. I turned around to see Tony, completely statue-like, with panic in his eyes. Before, we could ask what was wrong, something like a hose wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze. Then, from around the corner behind him, something slithered into sight.

The thing that had caught Tony looked to me like a giant sea urchin. Dark grey and gelatinous, it was a ball-like creature about the size of a large man's torso, with many writhing tendrils being used to drag its body around. At the back was a strain. tailed. It was a fat and more rigid tentacle and honestly it seemed to be doing it more harm than good as it lugged uselessly behind it. It would be futile to try and get it off Tony's throat. The tendril was covered in pulsing hair-like spines that looked to be pumping venom into him. Andy and I ran.

It didn't matter how slow the creature seemed to be. We sprinted. Many times we slipped and fell on the oil on the floors, the slimy trails the monster had left everywhere, but Each time we got up and continued to sprint in a blind flight until we reached our boat. As we hurled ourselves onto our own deck, it was Andy's turn again to throw up whatever he had left. The two of us cried like newborns, fearful of the new world around us. I sobbed over Tony, but I think I sobbed more because I didn't understand. How could a thing like that exist? We figured it couldn't climb a rope so we considered the boat.

to be safe ground. For an hour we sat in near silence, save for the occasional blubber or gagging. Our radio kept playing that fucking message that led us here. SOS. SOS. SOS. Eventually, with a strange calm, Andy picked up our radio, carried it over to the side of the boat,

and dropped it into the water. After a deep sigh and with a horse dehydrated voice, he announced his intentions to go, back on the ship. I have to go back. Tony's death is on me. I had the wait to say we come here. That distress signal is going to draw in more folk to get killed by that thing.

It needs to be turned off. Wait for me here. If I'm not back in an hour or you see that bastard, just sail off without me. I must admit, at first I wanted to just nod and do as he say, but that wouldn't have been right. Andy was being harsh on himself for Tony, and I said as such, I told him it would be better if we both went. One of us might have to distract the urchin

while the other turns off the signal, which he reluctantly agreed was a good idea. As screwed as I am right now, as certain as I am that I am going to die, I do not regret going with Andy. Trying was the right thing to do. After 20 minutes of mental preparation, i.e. stalling, we both climbed back up to the ship. The urchin was nowhere to be seen on deck, so we slowly made our way back to the bridge,

making sure as a team we covered as much of a field of view as possible. We got to the door to the bridge and I peeped in through its window. I could see Tony's body. His left leg appeared much thinner and must have seen. started harvesting his bones to eat, I suppose. The creature wasn't in sight, though, which unnerved us. We opened the door and went inside, looking carefully around for about five minutes before Andy made his way to the radio with me following behind.

Neither of us had worked on a large ship before. The radio was more complicated than we knew how to operate, so Andy had to think for a moment before doing anything. A moment was not in our heart. time because within it we heard a squelch and then realized that the urchin had not left the route. With a whip of tentacles, Andy fell to the ground screaming as his legs were pulled from underneath him. The Thing had managed to squish itself into a panel just below the radio terminal and ambush us. Like an octopus, the Thing could force itself into anywhere as long as the space could occupy its hard tail.

Andy already paralyzed was no longer the target now, and the urchin pulled itself out and spilt towards me. Luckily, just above was a ventilation shaft with a gap between it and the ceiling of the bridge, and not too far off the ground. I leapt up, grabbed a hold of the top, and hoisted myself up. However, I was just slightly too slow. The urchin managed to brush a tendril against my leg. which was enough to stab me with its needles and inject me with venom. I managed to get up, but quickly the toxins spread throughout my body. It wasn't enough to paralyze me, but by God it hurts,

and it takes a lot of energy to move. That was about 35 hours ago now. The urchin is too short to reach me by about two feet, but it has not left the room. It waits for me. I have not slept as the noises of the beast and the constant taunting shrill of the distress signal has kept me awake, as did Andy's pleading for death for the first hour. The venom's effects have not alleviated, and I am so very thirsty.

But I do not think I will have the luxury of dying of dehydration, for I have figured out what the urchin does with the bones. Over the past few hours, the urchin has been processing the bones of my friends. It inserts one of its tentacles down the throat and somehow absorbs them through that, but not to eat. As the creature deflated Andy and Tony, one of its other tendrils appears to inflate. Like what I thought was its rigid tail, the thickening, Penticle becomes another just like it. After about two hours, Andy and Tony are as flat as the sailor we found,

and the urchin now has two solid appendages. It tests out the joint it has made halfway down each, and then starts to clumsily fumble on the floor like a deer on ice. Slowly, its movements become more calculated and coordinated. as it learns to stand. 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 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 2 The torment of Laura's ruined ankle was unbelievable. As soon as the stick had been pulled from her flesh, she felt faint, lightheaded. The forest spun around her. Hot sweat rolled down her face, mingling with rainwater.

There was so much pain. It was almost too much to bear. Almost. It's just an obstacle. And obstacles are simply there to be overcome. Laura told herself this through gritted teeth. Jerkily, her hands shaking as her wound screamed at her, she poured cold fresh water from her bottle over her ankle.

She wondered briefly about taking off her boot first, but knew what would happen if she did. The foot would swell, and she'd never get the boot back on. The water rinsed away the fresh gouts of blood that bubbled out of her, and eventually she could see a ragged, splinter-flecked wound. She picked out the splinters as best she could with uncooperative fingers and then ran an antiseptic wipe across the whole mess before placing a dressing from the first aid kit over it

and bandaging the area as tightly as she could without cutting off the circulation in her foot entirely. That done, she collapsed back against the floor, exhausted and thought about giving up. It was tempting. It would be so easy to just lie here all night, admit that she was not made of strong enough stuff for this task, this journey. She could drag the tarpaulin she had in her backpack over her body and sleep until the morning,

when she might feel stronger. She could retrace her steps in the low light of dawn, get herself to a hospital, forget about the letters and the codes, forget about everything, and go back to her life knowing that she tried, at least. I tried, Bobby. I really did. But as soon as the words left her mouth, Laura knew she couldn't give up.

Because if she did, the knife that lived in her heart would remain, twisting and festering always. And more than that, more than anything, she wanted to wake up and feel safe again, safe and whole. No, she needed to finish this, once and for all.

Get us! Up, Laura. Her words were almost swallowed by the incessant patter of the rain. So she said it again, louder this time. Get up, Laura. And so she did. She packed everything away carefully in her bag, ignored the throbbing burn devouring her leg,

and stood up. It took her a moment to find her balance, for she was tired and stiff from the fall. But she steadied herself against a tree trunk and took several deep breaths until she felt less like she was about to keel over again. Then she checked her compass and looked at the folded square of a map in a rain-proof case that also hung around her neck. She was fairly certain she was still on track, roughly. Muttering to herself as she calculated her new location,

she reset her position as best she could to compensate for the fall down the embankment, put her injured leg out tentatively, and took a wobbling step forward. then another and another. I'm coming, Bobby. And the forest waited patiently. In the aftermath of Bobby's disappearance, 13-year-old Laura realized that confrontation was unavoidable, a natural byproduct of a missing child scenario.

But that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Being the last person to see Bobby alive made the quiet, uncommunicative young girl a target for other people's frustration and grief. and Bobby's mother set her sights on that target almost immediately. She turned up at Laura's house a fortnight after he had broken her heart, broken all their hearts by climbing into the blue van with the mysterious stranger. Laura was supposed to be in school, but was instead curled up in a fetal position on the couch,

a bowl of popcorn lying untouched by her side, a movie playing on the TV that she looked at but did not see. Her own mother had taken a few weeks' vacation to spend. spend some time with her. Mrs. Scott did this without complaint at first. But as the days went by, and Laura showed no inclination or desire to go back to school, the impatient woman became more and more restless. She hovered anxiously near her daughter, sensing her need, but also finding it a bind. You know, it wouldn't kill you to get up and maybe go for a walk today, Laura. And it might be nice for you to get some fresh air.

You can't hide in the house forever. Okay, Mom. And, you know, eventually, I'm going to have to go back to work. I'm getting so behind, Laura. I can't stay home with you much longer. I have deadlines. Other people who rely on me, you understand? I understand.

Look, I know you're upset about Bobby. We all are. We love him, you know that. But this is not good for you, sweetie. Moping around like this, you need to try and get up. Get on with your life. You can't stop everything because Bobby is missing. Laura, are you even listening to me?

Yes, Mom. So how about it? How about a nice walk around the block? Not now, Mom. Maybe later. Laura's mother continued to push, continued to draw pointed remarks into each passing hour, remarks about how much extra work she would have to do

as a result of her absence from the office, and the impact it would have upon her already overloaded schedule. Laura bore these remarks the same way she came to bear everything, acknowledging them, shouldering the burden of them stoically, accepting everyone else's discomfort and pain as her own fault somehow. And then Bobby's mother came,

with her angry fists against the frosted glass of the front door. Before Laura knew what was happening, the distraught, furious woman was inside the house and through the hall and into the room and had her hands on Laura's shoulders. And then she was shaking her, hard. Laura's head whipped back and forth, and Bobby's mother, whom she had always politely called Mrs. Everley

ever since she had been tiny, despite the woman's insistence that she called her terror, began screaming at her with a cracked, hoarse voice that belied how many hours of the past few weeks she'd spent crying. She shook Laura like a rag doll, and at one point the slight girl thought she might faint. How could you let him go like my Laura? We're supposed to be his friend.

Laura bore the assault silently, too shocked to do anything else, until her mother raced across the room and wrestled Mrs. Everley away. Holding the distraught woman back, body braced, Tight as a bowstring against the windmilling arms and reaching hands that clutched at missing answers. Tara, what are you doing? Get off of her. Jesus. You could have stopped him, Laura. You should have stopped him. What are you doing?

She's only a child. Look at her. Look at her. Don't look at me. Please don't look at me. Eventually, Mrs. Everly stopped trying to get to Laura and burst into tears, sagging into her neighbor's arms. It's good. Shh.

It's okay, Tara. It's okay. He'll come back. I know he will. Shh. You don't know that he could be dead. She was the last person to see you. It's okay.

It's okay. Mrs. Scott did her best to soothe her friend, whilst keeping her away from her own child. Meanwhile, Laura lay discarded on the couch, stunned, head pounding from the motion and act of being shaken by the woman who had, until now, treated her as her own daughter. And as she lay there, she thought the same thing over and over. A persistent, nasty thought that echoed like a struck bell around the shaded vaults of her young mind. This is all my fault.

After he was taken, after the fight with Bobby's mother, Laura would wake each morning and lie in bed, running the fingers of her left hand along the back of her right hand, mimicking that last moment she'd had with Bobby before he left, trying to recall his face, trying, but always failing. His features had blurred in the year that had passed since that day, and the details of him, what he sounded like, his smell, the feel of his presence, all of it bled around the edges like ink on wet writing paper.

The knife would twist, and the pain would spread throughout her body. On the morning of her 14th birthday, the day of the first letter, she lay in this fashion, sunlight slicing through her curtains and across the room, moats of dust darting about lazily in the bright illuminated air. Her fingers caressed the back of her right hand, but the act bought less and less comfort the more she did it, and so she stopped, and simply held her hands up against the sunlight, studying the outline of her fingers painted bright gold by the sun. It was while she lay like this, that she heard the doorbell ring. She thought no more of it for a moment or two, but then the doorbell rang again. The bell sounded out again, and then again, and again, insistent,

impossible to ignore. Laura's heart began to thump with irregularity in her chest. She was alone in the house. She often was, despite everything. Her parents drifted across each other's paths like clouds, one arriving home with slumped shoulders and huge dark circles beneath their eyes, just as the other one was heading out to the car. They worked hard to maintain the life they'd built around themselves,

forgetting, in the process, what that life was really supposed to be about. It was a lonely way to live for Laura. But it had always been like that. She'd told herself over the years that it was fine, that she had something her peers did not. As much freedom as she liked. Her mom and dad didn't much care what she got up to while they were at work. She'd told herself she didn't need her parents hanging around all the time,

because she'd had Bobby. Except that now, she didn't. She didn't have Bobby. Bobby was gone and she was alone on her 14th birthday, and someone was at the door, and it frightened her. The doorbell kept ringing. Something huge swelled inside of Laura's chest. She thought it might have been anger, but she couldn't be sure, because nothing she felt made any real sense to her anymore. The feeling continued to grow and grow, and suddenly the fear she had felt only seconds earlier burst like a bubble.

She flung aside her duvet, struggled into a shirt, and stomped downstairs, putting the full force of her weight into each step. How dare this person come to her house and make such a racket? How dare they? Why was it up to her to answer the door anyway? Why was she alone? Why were her parents never around? Why was it up to her to deal with all this shit all the time? Why was everything so fucking unfair?

She slowed as she reached the bottom of the staircase and looked to the front door. She could see a dim shadow behind the frosted glass, dark and tall, too tall and broad to be a woman. She frowned. She could see a pile of bills and other letters sitting on the hall stand. The mailman had already been that day. Whoever this was, it was not the mailman, but it was a man, a big, tall man in dark clothing. Laura's anger dissipated. her fear returned.

She was alone in the house, and her best friend had been taken from her by another such man, a big man like this, a faceless mystery man. She held her breath not wishing the person to know she was there after all. Suspicion had become part of her natural chemistry now, as had self-preservation. In her mind, every stranger was the boogeyman.

Every shadow was a threat. There was danger around every corner these days. Too late, Laura realized with a sudden sick jolt that the man could probably still see her standing there in the hall through the frothed glass, see her form every bit as well as she could see his standing out there on the porch. Despite this, she remained motionless,

rooted to the spot, waiting. The doorbell rang once more, and she flinched and kept her distance. Then, slowly, the front door handle began to depress downwards, The man on the other side of the door was trying it, to see if the door was unlocked, to see if it would open. Laura's blood ran cold. She kept statue still. She wondered, with horror, what would happen if the door was not locked? Even though she was sure it was, because she always kept it locked when she was alone in the house. She wondered if she would see the door open inwards, just a crack, whether a face would peer in through that crack, just an inch-wide strip of a face,

Or maybe she would only be able to see an eye, roomy and frantic, staring into her house through the small slit. Or a hand, fingernails dirty and broken and bloodstained, reaching for her. She saw neither. The door was locked. The door handle returned to its normal position. The man's silhouette ducked down, out of sight of the frosted glass. And a thin, yellowish envelope slid through the tiny gap beneath the front door. skittering across the polished floor of her hallway with a soft noise.

Moments later, the dark shadow straightened, then moved away from the glass. Laura waited a further fifteen minutes without moving, frozen like a deer in headlights, breathing hard, tingling from head to toe, until she was sure, absolutely sure that the man was gone, and that she was safe. Then she moved forward, bent down carefully, and picked up the letter as if she were picking up a dirty rag, holding it away from her body, pinched tight between her thumb and forefinger. The envelope was handwritten. There was no postage stamp. The man was definitely not the mailman. And if she'd been in any doubt, the mailman didn't deliver mail without postage stamps.

A neighbor, perhaps, with a note for her mom and dad. Maybe it was a card. It was her birthday, after all. Laura examined the letter. No. It was addressed to her. One word written in a strongly slanted hand, the ink pressed hard into the soft, dirty ochre of the envelope. An intimate word, the most intimate. Her name.

Laura. It sounded confident, over-familiar. No to, or for the attention of, or surname. Just her name. It felt wrong. The letter felt just plain wrong in her hands. She'd mistaken it for a birthday card. That would make sense, today being that day, but this was thin and lightweight.

It was a letter, a handwritten letter, made out to her. She opened it. The forest leaned in on the woman that had once been the child, and she limped on stubbornly beneath a canopy of dripping leaves. She knew that walking on her leg was a bad idea. She knew, and carried on anyway. Every step she made pressed her wound painfully against the unresisting leather of her boot, and as early evening gradually became the first tentative flush of twilight,

it became harder for her to find a steady footing on the uneven ground. She stumbled repeatedly, root snarls and barbed loops of blackberry bushes lurking everywhere, and wondered why it was that she couldn't cry, like normal people. Had she in fact died years ago? Was she now just a ghost? a memory of a girl in pain, drifting, endlessly drifting, towards something indistinct?

There were no answers from the trees, only more roots, more discomfort. The rain gradually petered out. The air grew quiet and hung heavy, laden with scent. Colors slowly leached away as she moved, and she found herself hemmed in by shadows, by muted grays and browns, by pockets of dark,

Time was running out. A mounting anxiety started to eat away at her resolve. What if she got lost? What if she didn't make it in time? What if... Stop thinking. Just walk. She unhooked her trousers from another bramble, feeling the fabric snag and tear like the fabric of a 13-year-old girl's heart.

And no matter how hard she tried to reason with herself, that one particular question would not dislodge at some. from her mind. But what if? What if there was no Bobby at the end of this rainbow? What if the person she was supposed to meet didn't show? She stopped, overwhelmed by a squeezing fist of dread and doubt. What if he did? And what if, because of that, she died out here, alone in the forest. The trees bowed their heads, whispering gently. Don't stop, they said. She walked. The letter was written in a heavily angled hand that was hard to read at first. Laura skimmed each sentence, frowning, and then re-read more slowly, lips moving as she spoke

the words out loud, something she usually only did when trying to solve a hard equation in her math homework. As she read, her heart sank to the bottom of her belly, and the words began to rattle around inside her brain. And once they were there, she found there was no getting them out. She was stuck with them for life. Little poisoned words, rattling, like dried peas in a can. Dear Laura, you don't know me yet, but I know you.

I've been watching you. I know you, and I know your friend, Bobby. I know where Bobby is. Bobby is dead. Laura read this and felt a peculiar rushing sensation in her ears. Her heart contracted in her chest so hard she thought she might die, right then and there on the spot. She reached out blindly for the stair banister behind her

and slowly felt for the bottom step, upon which she collapsed, knees splayed out frog-like. Her eyes stung, but remained dry. All the tears she was supposed to cry were trapped in the cavity around her heart, and they would stay there for many years to come. some, solidifying into a hard, waxy case. The letter continued. I'm sorry for it.

I couldn't help it. I hope you'll believe me when I say that. I just couldn't help myself. Anyway, I expect you'd like me to tell you where he is. I expect you think I'll do it out of the goodness of my heart, or because I feel guilty. I am sorry for what I did, but I don't trust you well enough to tell you my secrets. Not yet.

You have to earn my trust. So here's how it works, Laura. If you want Bobby, you have to give me something first. Something personal. If you do as I ask, I will send you a clue. Something for something, an eye for an eye, all natural and fair, just like nature intended. Do you see, it has to be fair? That's the rule, like a game. I know you like games, Laura. I watch you playing them sometimes with your family,

except they don't play them much with you anymore, do they? They don't make a lot of time for you, Laura. You're a lonely person. Like me, it makes me sad for you. I think you're very beautiful, Laura. Has anyone told you that yet? I hope not. I would like to be the first to say it.

You are beautiful. Sometimes I watch you, and all I can think about after is your sweet face. There is another rule I must tell you about. This one is easy. If you take this letter to the police, you will never find Bobby's body. If you tell your parents, you will never find Bobby's body.

If you tell anyone about the contents of this letter, I will come after them and I will make them disappear to. just like I did with Bobby. This has to be our secret, where the arrangement is off. No police. I hope I can trust you, Laura. I shall send further instructions separately. Yours, with respect.

Laura let the letter and the envelope it came in fall to the floor. They fluttered down like dried leaves. and what she didn't realize at the time was that this small piece of folded paper covered in strange angled handwriting was not a letter at all but rather a map and upon that map the course of her life was set plotted out like coordinates and laura had no choice but to follow that course dear laura was written and adapted for audio by jemma amore produced for the no sleep podcast by Michael Skullske, musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Kristen D. Maccurio as the narrator, Mary Murphy as Laura,

Nicole Doolin as Mrs. Scott, Aaron Lillis as Mrs. Evely, and David Cummings as X. Join us next week for Chapter 3 of Dear Laura. 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. 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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