The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E04

Episode Date: June 17, 2012

The fourth episode of this season’s Nosleep Podcast features stories about fiendish family members, mysterious creatures, and flights of fears. Highlighting horror stories from the Reddit.com horror writing community, these stories are designed to afflict your night with no sleep. This episode features these stories: I Won’t Take Care Of My Sister Anymore written by Allen Edgarton (Redditor theghostofpoe) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone). Proof written by Jeremy Jojola (Redditor triplejdude) and read by Jessica Prokuski (Redditor HeadsOnSticks). The Camping Trip written by Brendan Bilodeau (Redditor 2min2mid) and read by Chris Eddleman (Redditor TalksAtYou). The Creeper in the Field written by Mike Korensky (Redditor SkeevyPete) and read by David Cummings. Hide and Seek written by Troy Lewis (Redditor Dyvyant) and read by Travis Newton (Redditor thetravisnewton). Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness and the frightful tales creep into your mind, it's time to give in to your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm the producer David Cummings. This episode marks the beginning of the second year of the podcast. In case you missed it, check out the first anniversary bonus episode that was released on June 13th. We roll into our second year with some encouraging things happening. As many of you know, the No Sleep podcast is available on the Stitcher Smart Radio app, which is available for all smartphones and tablets. Stitcher regularly releases their Stitcher list of the most popular shows.

Our show has made it into the top 100 of their entertainment list. We shot up 48 places recently and have been given the status of a hot show. It's nice to see that more and more people are discovering this little podcast. If you haven't already, check out the free Stitcher Smart Radio app and use it to listen to all your favorite podcasts. When you sign up, enter the promo code No Sleep, all one word, and help support the podcast while you're at it. One other quick word about supporting us, I'd like to encourage all of you who use iTunes to go to the No Sleep podcast page and, you know, you. give the show a rating from one to hopefully five stars.

Also, if you have the time, please write a short review of the show and let others know what you think about what we do here. The more stars and reviews we get, the more exposure we get on iTunes, and that will help us grow our audience. Thanks, as always, for all the things you folks do for us as fans of the show. I greatly appreciate it. Now, let's get things started with our first story. Being estranged from your family can be difficult, but it can be even worse when you are burdened with caring for them as well.

Family bonds can only go so far when they just won't give you any peace. I'll read for you a tale written by Alan Edgerton as he exclaims to us, I won't take care of my sister anymore. I've never been straight with anybody, so I'm going to tell you something that's true. I hate my family. My older sister moved away with hardly a goodbye. My dad's dead,

and I always hoped my mom would follow him. Well, one day, she did. She left behind a craplode of money and a six-bedroom house set outside the city with a stream running beside. it. My dad had left her a fortune, enough for her to live on with change, especially since she was too much of a skin flint to spend any of it. Now she was dead, the house and money sat there. I didn't expect to see a penny. Me and mom had always hated each other. We didn't have little

spats. We had a full-on feud, and growing up my cheeks would always be red from where she'd slap me. Sometimes she did it backhand and cut my face with her engagement ring. Yeah, we hated each other. It never got better when I matured and she didn't mellow with old age. She just got more and more spiteful. By the time she died, we'd gone five years, six months and three days without speaking. To some extent, I sympathized with her. She'd had a hard life. My dad spent four nights a week out of the marital bed and used to call her ugly and wouldn't let her have self-esteem. It was a depressing marriage. Then there was my younger sister. She was 10 years my junior, and from the minute she was born, she was the favorite, always getting the hugs mom never gave me.

I don't want to whine, but I resented it, and I was cruel to her. Call it my mother's side getting through. That changed when my sister had her accident. She fell 20 feet out of a maple tree and thumped her head on the ground. They said when they found her blood trickled out of her ears, and she was already comatose. She's never woken up. I told you I didn't expect a penny from the will, so you can imagine my surprise when our family lawyer told me I was the sole heir. He was surprised too. Two million, and a six-bedroom house were mine, but on one condition.

I had to move in and become my sister's sole provider. Caring for a coma victim isn't hard, to be honest. You just have to listen out for irregular beeps on the machines they have her hooked up to. She had nurses who came once a day to check on everything, so I didn't have to do a thing, and I was a millionaire for it. but I hated being in the same house as her. She's my sister and all, but after so long in a coma, you're already dead. That, coupled with how she looked, meant I couldn't see her as my sister.

She was a woman, technically, but she never developed, so she was more like a freakishly tall child. Her bones stuck out, her skin was gray, and her face had the absent look of a corpse. At the beginning, it was unnerving sleeping in the room next door to her. I'd lie in bed trying to sleep, but all I could think about was her on the other side of the wall, immobile, and mute. One night, she scared the hell out of me. I was stretched out on my bed, lights off, the house as silent as ever. I heard a bang from my sister's room, and something clattered to the floor.

I thought she'd fallen out of bed, like maybe the same. the nurse had left her in a funny position. I ran into her room, but she was laid down like always, face staring absently at the ceiling. On the other side of the room, a photo frame was on the floor. A few nights later, the nurse called in sick, so I checked in on my sister by myself. I made sure she was nowhere near the edge of the bed,

I'd gotten paranoid, and switched off the light. It was too early to go to bed, so I had a few drinks. The thing about my bladder is it only acts up when I'm in bed. And sure enough, as soon as I tried to go to sleep that night, I had an urge to go to the bathroom. On the way there, I noticed my sister's door slightly ajar. I probably hadn't closed it right,

but after the photo frame incident, I thought I'd better check. Everything seemed fine, but when I looked at my sister, I was sure she was wearing a different gown. I wouldn't bet my dead mum's house on it, and you write that kind of thing off, don't you? It must have been a trick of the brain. That explanation satisfied me, and I slept for a few hours. But the next day had me doubting myself again. The nurse was well enough to visit the next night, and she did the usual checks.

Before she left, she grabbed me for a word. I'm sorry about last night, she said. It was short notice, but you did a couple of time. great job. Oh, it was nothing, I said. No, you were great. I didn't think you'd change her clothes and everything. That got my attention. I didn't press it because the nurse would never believe me, but you can bet I didn't sleep easy from then on. Every reasonable explanation ran through my head. Did I change them and forget? Was the nurse mistaken? I didn't have a clue. All I know is I never went in my sister's room unless I could avoid it.

A few weeks later, I didn't have a choice. The machines she's hooked up to have alarms, and one night they started making a racket. I got my ass into her room quick as I could, and as soon as I did, the alarm stopped. It was a big relief. Then I looked at my sister's face. Her mouth was wide open, an enormous cavity aimed at the ceiling.

the corners of her lips crooked. They said it was just a reflex, but as much as I wanted to buy it, I still moved my bedroom to the other side of the house, as far away as I could get. I'd hear noises every night, scaring the crap out of me every time. I lost sleep,

and I was a stressed out wreck. As pathetic as it sounds, I didn't dare go check on her. And then something happened that made me move out of the house. It was a rare night where I felt like I was going to get some sleep. I was in that in-between stage where you know you're on the edge of sleep, but not quite there yet. Then my bedroom door opened and banged shut. It shook me straight out of drowsiness and I sat up in bed.

I could feel something in the room with me. It wasn't right. On the floor, Beside me, lit in the moonlight, was my sister. Her body rigid and her mouth wide open. Her face pointed at mine. Short stories can be like short dreams. They can have an impact in no time at all. But when the line between sleeping and waking is blurred, it's hard to trust what is real. Jessica Prokusky reads a story by Jeremy Hojola, who decides the best thing to do when you can't trust what you're seeing is to ask for proof. I was in a lucid dream.

The bare room was dark and I was sitting in a chair. I could make out a figure in the corner of the room, a shadow of a man leaning against the wall. He whispered, conscious of the dream I replied No you're not This is only a dream and I'm gonna wake up soon He laughed under his breath

I stared at the dark figure but I could not make out any face I could feel him smiling I could feel his stare I am real he said Prove it I said It's only a dream The phone rang loud I was startled from my sleep.

The dream with the dark figure seemed so real. Phone ringing. I made my way to the kitchen. A loud ring. It was dark again. I picked up the phone. I told you so. Spending time in the great outdoors can be fun,

unless you'd prefer to avoid communing with all those creepy-crawly bugs that make the forest their home. Chris Edelman reads for us a tale by Brendan Bilidow, who explains that when insects turn out to be the least of your concerns, it's time to reconsider why you decided to go on the camping trip. Never again can I bring myself to go into the woods. The events that transpired a few weeks ago caused this. Here's my story.

I was never a big fan of rural, rural areas being born and raised into city life. But when my lifelong best friend Cody mentioned a big camping trip that he had been adamantly planning, I couldn't say no. Considering that he was my boss in the office and had given me the week off for the trip, there was no way I was getting out of it. The thoughts of sleeping in a tent surrounded by spiders and centipedes and God knows what else were enough to unnerve me.

But after seeing his face light up like a little kid as he detailed his plans, I couldn't bring myself to let him down. He set us up on a five-day hiking, camping expedition through the woods a few miles outside of town. The woods intersected with our state's reservation for the Native Americans, and being one-quarter Mohawk himself, Cody genuinely wanted to check out some of the scenery that was included around the hiking area. Despite my initial hesitation, it did seem somewhat interesting,

and I agreed to go with him on his little trip. Poor judgment on my part. A few weeks go by and I find myself walking through the woods with Cody with 60 pounds of gear on my back, covered in sweat and mud and wondering what the fuck I was doing. We had stumbled into the reservation early on the second day of our trip, and it was almost as if the woodland itself had a different aura to it, a purer feeling of some kind that we had both noticed. But no matter how clean the nature felt around us,

I was still disgusted by all the different insects and thorny plants that I continuously had to flick off from my clothing. After battling a horde of house cat-sized mosquitoes that was assaulting me, I asked Cody, when are we going to set up camp? Not to be a bitch, but my legs are getting a little tired. He consulted his map and pointed over the next hill. There's an old Mohawk burial ground over that ridge, and I thought it'd be cool to make camp there for the night, said Cody. Afraid to belittle his culture in some way, I reluctantly agreed. When we got to the burial grounds, it just appeared as about a,

a dozen raised stone and grass mounds in a small clearing. Nothing special, to say the least. We pitched a tent in the tree line around the ground, so as to not disrespect the dead, Cody said, unpacked and cooked some food. After eating dinner and discussing our company's upcoming financial merger, Cody grew tired and fell asleep. I powered up my phone and went to make my daily rounds

of all the social networking sites, my last attachment to the city life that I had kept during our time in the woods. Under the large trees, I was getting no service, but as I walked towards the burial mounds, I was able to pick up a signal. As I was waiting for my emails to load up, the water I had with dinner started to catch up to me. Not wanting to urinate an open view of the tent, I ducked around one of the mounds to relieve myself. Finally, my emails loaded, and I saw that absolutely nothing interesting had happened back home in the past 24 hours. Feeling satisfied, I hadn't missed anything, and I started walking back to the tent to get some rest.

When I reached the tent and went to undo the zipper door, I could feel the hair on the back of my neck prick up. That ominous feeling that something was watching me hit, and I was instantly aware of how loud my heartbeat had gotten. I turned my flashlight around slowly, and my beams caught a deer in the brush about 20 feet behind me. It was a pretty large buck with a large set of antlers, one of which was broken, and an ear that seemed to have been bitten off at some point. When I saw it was just a deer, my heartbeat returned to normal and relieved, I entered the tent to get some much-needed shut-eye. The next day, we trudged onward through the reservation lands. As much as I hated the woods, I had to admit that the foliage was beautiful, and I'm sure

any amateur photographer would have been kept busy in this setting. It wasn't until dusk that I noticed something was off. All the bird chirping and forest noises that we had heard all day had completely disappeared. I assumed that the forest went to sleep as soon as the sun started to go down, but Cody seemed a little uneasy about the silence too. Regardless, we had to set up camp, so he went to find firewood while I pitched the tent. Usually it will take me two to three tries to get the tent set up correctly. That night especially, because once again, I had the eerie feeling I was being watched.

I wheeled around and once again see the face of the deer with the broken antler and the damaged ear peering out at the bushes looking at me. Involuntary shutters crept throughout my body, and I got the all-around sense that something wasn't right. When I made movements to try to shoe the deer away, he simply stayed put and stared at me with those beady black eyes. In this case, though, logic overcame my gut instinct, and I realized that the deer posed no serious risk to me, so I shrugged it off and continued setting the tent. When Cody returned with firewood, I told him about the encounter. His lower jaw dropped, and his face instantly put on a look of utter fear. He hurried me into the tent, closed the door, and started telling me a story about the

Aquianque, or deer men that the Mohawks had legends about. They appeared as tall, dark, skinny men, yet could take the form of deer and other animals of the forest when need be. He described them as demons of the forest who preyed upon unwanted visitors and invaders to the Mohawk lands. He started explaining legends of how some of the original American colonists were gruesomely murdered after clearing Mohawk forests to make their homes in the new world. At this point, my hands were shaking uncontrollably before Cody had to stop his story mid-sentence from a sudden fit of laughter. He looked at me and said, Come on, man. I know you're afraid of the woods and all, but for.

Horus demons? Don't tell me you believe that shit. I punched his arm and called him an asshole, and had no choice but to laugh at myself. Regardless, that night my dreams were plagued by shape-changing deer and wolves and bears who were waiting in the woods to murder me in some brutally violent way. These paranoid thoughts carried over into my next day's hike, where every sound that I heard was something stalking us waiting for an easy chance to go in for the kill. Unfortunately for me, Cody didn't notice how much his story had thrown me off, and so I still had the task of collecting firewood that night as we set up camp. I took the flashlight and set out before it got too dark. As I was about ten minutes away from our camp, my flashlight ran across a deer's face sticking out from the foliage about 30 feet ahead of me.

Sure enough, he had a broken antler and a ruined ear, so it was the same one I had seen before. His beady almost dead eyes just stared at me like they had two nights before. Except this time, I noticed that something was really wrong with the whole picture. Then it hit me. The deer's head was almost eight feet off the ground, and something was defa-fuckingately wrong. My hand started trembling as I panned the flashlight down from the deer's face, and between the leaves I saw what looked to be a long, slender black arm with sharp claws pointed directly at me. I dropped the flashlight, turned, and sprinted towards the tent as fast as I'd ever run before in my entire life.

Not looking behind me, I reached the camp and pushed Cody inside the tent. In my hysterics, I wasn't able to relay the full story to him, but he caught onto my fear immediately. We grabbed our camping knives, the only weapons we had brought, and sat in the tent that night looking out the windows, vigilant for anything that would try to approach our camp. When dawn finally came, we were both awake still. By that point, he had gotten the full story, and after consulting a map decided that we could make it to a local road and call for a ride back home before nightfall. Leaving all the non-essential items behind, we trekked for the road, called a cab, and got

a ride back to the lot where our cars were parked. Cody still didn't entirely believe that what I witnessed was true, but I knew what I had seen. Go home, get some rest, and we'll meet for drinks tomorrow, he said. We can talk about it all then. I silently nodded my agreement as he dropped me off at my house and pulled off into the night. Feeling relieved to finally be back in the city, I jogged up the stairs to the door, unlocked it, and walked into my apartment. As I sat down my keys and walked to the bedroom for some well-needed rest,

I noticed an odd irony tinge hanging out in the air. The smell was weak, but certainly there. I turned on the bedroom light, and it was just sitting there on my bed, staring back at me, with its ruined ear and broken antler. The next day, the police told me the deer had been skinned, and some sort of mask had been made of its face and left in my bedroom. No additional evidence of a break-in was found, and it was never determined how the perpetrator had gotten into my locked apartment. The police investigators tried passing an off as simply another random act of vandalism by some of the meth heads

that frequented the area. According to the investigators, the weirdest part was that nothing was taken from the apartment at all. In fact, the only additional clues left behind were the four long gash marks that had been cut straight into my bed. In the pantheon of horror writers, there are few names more revered than HP Lovecraft. His horrifying tales have inspired writers for decades. Author Mike Korensky pays homage to Lovecraft and weaves his own Lovecraft When a series of mysterious events occur on a farm, an expert is called in to discover the cause and ends up fighting for his life against the creeper in the field. It is with a quick and hurried hand that I record these words, scribbled upon the last few

crumpled pages of my notebook in this dark and empty barn at the edge of the Grinchell Farm. The night is still for now, but I do not know how long. this will last. I expect any minute now to hear the awful sounds of the creeping horror that so vengefully hunts me in the dark. My sanctuary in the barn will surely not last, and time is running out. I was called to the Grinchell farm one warm night last week. Mr. Grinchel was having trouble of late with predators in his fields, hunting his livestock. Cows would disappear without a trace, with no sign of struggle, save for the sounds they made in the night when the attacks would occur. No matter Farmer Grinchel's methods of attempted observance and capture of these night predators,

his cows would vanish suddenly with a terrified whale from right under his nose. He was under the impression that he was simply plagued by a pack of unusually cunning wolves when, last week, all of his cows returned to him all at once. They did not return on their own, of course. They were by no means capable of doing anything at all, dead as they were. Each cow was stacked meticulously in a pile in the center of the field, void of all bone structure and drained wholly of blood. Mr. Grinchell took this as a cue to call for my services

and my expertise in the wildlife sciences, so that I may identify what sort of beast could be capable of such dreadful axe. I arrived the next day at noon. When Farmer Grinchel escorted me to the pile of cows, I could scarce believe my eyes. Never had I seen anything like this before, and no animal I knew of could be capable of such unnatural methods of predation. The shock was evident on my face, as Grinchel began to explain the circumstances surrounding this odd bovine tower. Nothing made sense in any part of his story. and as I began to question the veracity of his tale, he offered to show me his latest finding. While making rounds about the field, Grinchel came upon a mound of freshly dug earth,

indicative of some covered hole made by neither himself nor his workers. Roughly ten feet in diameter, the mound itself was fairly small in height. A shallow hole, no doubt, but one made in a perfect circle by some means far beyond that of ordinary wolves, too perfect even for average farming tools. I made it my resolve then to stay the night and try my best to observe the strange phenomenon at Grinchell Farm and to perhaps capture it on film. Upon nightfall I set up my equipment. The whole night I sat watching in the field, waiting for any signs of the bizarre creature plaguing the Grinchell Farm. Nothing appeared, no disturbance in the pasture.

Two more nights I waited with no results. My heart grew heavy, and I began to consider that Grinchell was playing me for the fool, but the silly prospect of a man needlessly slaughtering his own livestock for a cheap laugh was outlandish enough to keep me on sight. Then I found it. It was late in the fourth night of my operation when I gained first contact with the beast. I had run into the outhouse to relieve myself.

Gone for mere minutes, I returned to find my tripod vanished and my camera on the ground with the lens cap neatly in place. I sprang at once for the farmhouse, holding tight to my camera. My pace quickened as a rustle spread through the air. A shrill clicking arose and followed until I reached the door, silencing only after I flung myself through the door and slammed it shut behind me. breathlessly, I called out to the homeowner.

Farmer Grinchel appeared at his bedroom door, quite irate with my banging around, and demanded to know what was happening. Scarce had the words left his lips when a thumping was heard on the roof. For a moment, there was silence, but then an unforgettable noise came from above. Something was at once scurrying and dragging across the roof.

slowly yet hurriedly, shifting its way over our heads as if to find a weakness in the roof. Finding none, the noise ceased, replaced by a piercing, anguished shriek. Upon its end, we sat in stunned silence for a long moment. The both of us too shocked to speak, attempting and failing to understand the phenomenon that had just befallen us. Finally, Grinchel spoke, gazing at the video. camera still clenched tightly in my fist, he recommended we view the footage I had shot. I agreed. Having left my tripod behind me in my rush for shelter, I had to fight to keep the camera

still in my unsteady hand while the two of us watched what my camera had already seen. What we witnessed was more than I could imagine, and it is only with great effort that I can record it here. for several minutes after my departure for the outhouse. Indeed, far longer than it seemed I had actually been gone, though I may now attribute this to the suspense felt during the viewing, the camera revealed nothing strange, nothing out of the ordinary. Several cows wandered in and out of the shot, but presently I noticed a slight rustling in the grass.

I held my breath, unprepared for what I saw next. One cow, having the misfortune to be standing so near the disturbance, became intensely distressed and began to run the other way, leaving in its wake a path of rustling grass, matching its movements exactly. Within seconds the grass had caught up to the fleeing bovid, and the long, dark shape that shall forever pervade my nightmares, rose up and snatched the cow.

An unnatural scream shook the air. no doubt a desperate yet fruitless struggle for survival. Then it stopped all at once. That fiendish clicking now burned into my psyche accompanied the arrival of that most terrible of beasts directly in front of my very camera. At last I gazed upon the dreadful countenance of the beast that had been terrorizing this farm,

the subject of so many night's surveillance, the sole reason for my presence here. It was insectoid in its appearance as a great centipede, though tens, if not hundreds of times larger than any I had seen before, than any seen on earth. Its orange carapace glistened in the moonlight, and those eyes, gods, those eyes, were as compounded as any eye could be, blood red and seething, yet a strain.

intelligence could be seen deep within, though I dared not look too deeply. Many sets of mouth parts, each set concealing one more sinister than the last, showed through its razor-sharp mall. Clicking hungrily, while a pair of feelers, reminiscent of the Foo Manchu mustache, one may recall from action films, moved over the apparatus before them, periodically blocking the camera's view of the great worm. Soon the clicking slowed and those lidless eyes indescribably narrowed somehow. The great maw opened, dripping with juices and tinged red with the blood of its latest victim. And before I knew what to expect, swallowed up my camera with a piercing shriek. Darkness filled the screen.

Silence once more. I stood shocked. The tape did not, could not lie. The beast had swallowed the camera. How could that be? When not a minute later, according to the timestamp on the tape, I had returned to find my equipment in one piece, and so very obviously not in the belly of the beast,

with its lens cap neatly in place. I knew then and there that I had little time. My only priority at that moment was to leave. leave, to get out of that house and as far away from that farm as I could possibly be, away from the madness that had presented itself here. Nothing in all my years as a field biologist could have prepared me for the sights I saw that night. Sites that shook me to my very core.

But how could I leave when the creeping horror was no doubt out there at that very moment, stalking Grinchel and me like common prey? I was trapped. Grinchel and his family. All of us were trapped in the shack in the middle of nowhere. Cornered like animals while this eldritch thing outside lurked in the darkness waiting. Or perhaps not waiting. I say not waiting, not because I thought it had left, but because the front door suddenly came under siege. How such a flimsy slab of wood could withstand the mass of assault is only another question I shall not. never have answered. But withstand it did. For a time, time long enough for me to evacuate the house. Grinchel ran back to rouse his family for the escape, but I was no fool. I knew that would take too much

time, time we didn't have, and so I ran. I ran out the back, the door from which I had made my initial entrance some minutes prior, now retracing my fearful steps back towards the fields, in an attempt to hide myself in the forest behind the pasture, until such time that I could make my way safely to my car and escape this dreadful place once and for all. I chanced to look back and regretted it immediately. That nameless horror had itself wrapped fully around the farmhouse, one section of carapace just above the door from which I made my escape,

and which now dropped itself over that doorway. as if to bar any further exit. The millions of legs undulated across the wooden walls, as if the house itself were living. The entire length began to move, and I realized the door had broken. The portal into the farmhouse had opened, and the beast had traveled through it.

I hastened to move faster when I tripped. I stumbled straight into one of the things burrow pits, shallow yet deep enough to catch my foot and halt my progress. Pain shot through my ankle as it twisted in place. I swore violently and hit the dirt. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I attempted to assess the situation. The creature was still in the house, which was now largely quiet. I had two options.

Make for the trees where I would have to wait for dawn to break as I had originally intended, with no place to hide and no real cover, or I could make straight for my car and risk the distance for guaranteed safety. I chose the latter. The going was difficult, but I struggled to limp as fast as I could on my twisted ankle to my vehicle. The farmhouse was still quiet for now, but I knew at any moment the whore within could be let loose to take me down in an instant. I knew not what Fate Grinchel and his family had met, but I could not concern myself with them now.

If they could not save themselves from that Eldridge worm, surely I could not either. Rounding the side of the farmhouse, all thoughts of escape vanished. The car was still there, yet not a single tire appeared to be in working order, slashed ribbons by what could only have been the dreadful thing in the farmhouse. It was more intelligent than I thought. I froze in terror. What could I do? How could I possibly escape now?

I heard that infernal clicking noise again, rising on the wind, not from the farmhouse, but from somewhere further in the field. Clearly the beast had tunneled out of the house and into the field without me seeing it. I saw no movement. The clicking did not appear to come any closer. I wasted no time. I ran as quickly as my ankle would allow into the stand of trees just beyond the driveway. Thinking back now, I believe the creature was simply giving me a head start on the hunt. I quickly became lost in the woods. Every tree appeared the same, rising into the darkness, blotting out the moonlight. Everywhere I turned, that damnable clicking followed me. Even when it subsided for a short time, I could still hear it in my mind, gnawing at my very soul.

The rustling in the trees, the leaping shadows among the highest limbs, the creeping darkness among the brush. Everywhere I turned, the beast was there first. Still, it made no move to capture, preferring instead to torment. meant me with its games, herding me this way and that to some unknown goal. Eventually, I broke the trees, finding myself in a clearing. As long as I had been fleeing, I was still on the Grinchel farmland, the great dilapidated barn rising in front of me only a short distance away. It was my only hope. Perhaps I could find some sort of weapon, I thought, a pitchfork or hoe. But it was not to be. I gave it.

gained access to the barn, barring the door shut behind me only to find the place empty. There was no livestock, no tools of any sort. Hay littered the floor, but that was the only sign of habitation in the entire place. All around me, seemingly on every single inch of wall, I heard the creeping thing crawl in every direction, scraping the wood with its teeth every so often. Resigned to my fate, I took up a position in the corner of the barn where I could see it all that I may meet my end without surprise. It has been two hours now without a sign of the creature.

It ended its exploration of the outside walls and has left me alone since, though I do not believe this peace will last much longer. And what a piece it is! as unsteady as any wartime pact, full of fear and anger at the other side of this conflict, a conflict I had never a hope of winning from the start. If I can just last until dawn. But now, for now, I know my time has come. I hear it once more, yet different.

A vibration in the ground. God, in the center of the floor, it rises from the earth. Our final tale features a man who is struggling to put the past behind him and heal old wounds. But that is easier said than done, especially when the past refuses to release him from the pain. narrator Travis Newton reads a tale written by Troy Lewis So join him in a friendly game of hide and seek

I finally managed to get my phone tethered correctly to my laptop But I'm not sure how long it'll last Hopefully the signal will hold for long enough For me to get this out there Somehow it feels important that people see this Though I'm not sure why It isn't likely to make any difference to me regardless

I should start by explaining that my father was a heavy drinker. He had a hard life, and he sometimes got it in his mind to make life hard on me, too. He'd inherited a cabin, high in the Colorado Rockies from his father, also afflicted by the demon in the bottle. And most weekends, he took me up there with him to get away from the life in the world he seemed to hate so much. Then he'd drink away the memories into a jagged haze of drunkenness,

until he hated the world so much that he hated me too. My father was large and strong, and even in his inebriated state, I could never get away from him once he'd snatched me. I knew by the first time the bruses had healed that pleading and crying wouldn't work, and neither would fighting. So the next time he dragged me up to that damned cab and I did the only thing I could do. I hid. Both his size and his drunkenness worked against him in finding me, and it usually did not take long of huddling in a closet or beneath the bed before he gave up, passed out, and would awaken the next morning with no memory of the night's game of hide-and-seek at all.

It was not really a game to either of us, of course, but it could sometimes make the fear a little more bearable if I told myself that. The cabin didn't have an attic, but I remember that my favorite hiding place was a small crawl space in the ceiling between the two upstairs bedrooms. It was small and dark and almost impossible to spot if you were not looking for it. My father had never found me there, and the cramped space became almost cozy in my mind. a safe haven from the dark and fear that lurked beyond. Years passed, I grew up, and my father's drinking caught up with him. He died late last year, and I inherited everything he owned, along with a complete lack of grief. I had thought of the cabin more than once after his death,

but I always seemed to find reasons to delay deciding whether to keep or sell it, and finally I decided a few days ago to return to it in order to determine if my father's shadow was still cast over the place, or if I might be able to banish haunting memories like he never could. The cabin was almost eerily untouched, with little wear and tear to speak of, and only a thin layer of dust over some things. The stark reality of the place washed over me, and for a brief moment I feared those memories would overwhelm me. But I cast them out of my mind, and proceeded to settle in. The water heater and furnace had to be relit, the generator restarted, and a collection of other minor tasks to make the place habitable once again.

The generator, unfortunately, had fallen into disrepair. I had expected this, however, and soon set about lighting candles in various rooms of the cabin, casting my fearful childhood recollections in a shadowy firelight. The furnace itself was almost a little too effective, even against the frigid Colorado winter that lingered outside. I opened a window, just a crack, to make things less toasty, and then settled upon the couch with a novel and a bottle of wine. I awakened sometime later in the dead of night.

having apparently dozed off while reading. The candle had burned down rather low, a much more faint light cast across the flickering shadows at the cabin floor. I furrowed my brow a little, wondering what it was that it disturbed me from my slumber. I did not have to wonder long. Tap, tap, tap. The soft rhythm echoed through the room, emanating from the foyer.

I sat up tensely on the couch, listening carefully to the persistent taps. I rose from my seat and drifted slowly towards the foyer, and as I drew closer I could tell that the sound was that of something gently knocking against the glass pane of a window. Snow swirled in the blackness beyond the front window, but anything more than that was impossible to determine. I edged closer to the sound, and as I neared it, I began to make out a very faint silhouette huddled against the pain. The figure crouched against the window, its finger tapping gently while it seemed to stare at me. Let me in, it said with a little. the soft, sickly sweet voice.

Let me in, please. I stood frozen, staring at it in uncertainty. The light from the few candles in the kitchen meant that I could not see it clearly, while it could no doubt see me very well indeed. Please let me in. I'm cold, it said, leaning its shrouded face a little closer to the window. It looks warm inside.

I could not deny that what little I could see of it did resemble a human. Sence began to return to the window. in my mind. Of course it was a human. It was speaking, was it not? What else could it be, but some unfortunate traveler caught in the frost outside? I reached for the door handle and was just about to grasp the lock when it spoke again. Let me in, Jackie. My blood froze in my veins, and my hand-stopped fingers on the deadbolt. How could it know my name? Let me in, Jackie. We'll play. It'll be ever so much fun, Jackie.

insisted, still in that sickly sweet, soft voice, though it had taken on a more sinister tone. I reeled back from the door, and as I did I realized my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and more of the thing was revealed. Not much, but enough. My eyes went wide, and my breath caught in my chest. What's wrong, Jackie? Don't want to play? Just a little game, Jackie. It was obvious that though it was roughly in the shape of one, it could be no. man. Its limbs were spindly and impossibly long, each of its fingers nearly the length of my hand. Its neck bobbed and twisted unnaturally, and a mass of dark hair shrouded a face set with haunting yellow eyes that stared into my soul. I bolted for the stairs, climbing them with my

heart pounding in its chest and slammed a bedroom door shut, backing into the corner of the room near the bed. It persisted, and I could hear the faint muffled sound of its soft voice from downstairs near the door. For how long it insidiously pleaded to be let in, I cannot say, but eventually it seemed to give up, and I was left in the crushing silence of the dark alone. My adrenaline kept me awake for some time, but eventually I drifted off to sleep once more. Darkness enveloped me, and I surrendered to the sweetness of rest, until the sound of scratching woke me up. I jolted to consciousness, listening to what sounded like a long, jagged nail, dragging along the length of a wooden wall, an inside wall.

My heart stopped and my muscles tensed as I suddenly remembered. The window. I had left a window cracked to counter the heat of the furnace. My first reaction was to lurch out of bed, but already I could hear the sound sliding along the upstairs hallway, creeping down towards me. The door handle jittered and then slowly turned, the creaking sound of moving metal filling the room before the door ever so slowly cracked. I sat rooted in the bed, completely paralyzed by my fear, and two sets of long, spindly fingers

slowly wrapped around the edge of the open door. Found my way in, Jackie. Not sleeping, are you, Jackie? The soft, taunting voice asked, just as yellow eyes peeked around the edge of the door. I could only manage a whimper for a response. Good. Now we can play, Jackie. Going to have a bone.

I want to play a game, Jackie. I shook my head fervently, unable to tear my eyes away from the yellow worms across the room. Oh, don't be a party pooper, Jackie. You like this game. Play this game a lot. Hide and seek, Jackie. Somehow my fear multiplied,

and I could do nothing more than gasp and gawk in terror. It knew. It knew about those miserable nights spent hiding from my drunken father's wrath. The creature slowly shrank back behind the cracked door, slinking away as it spoke. Time to play again, Jackie.

Going to count to a hundred. Better hide, Jackie. And then it began counting down the time until it would begin seeking me in a way it must have known I could not miss. Time together is drawing to a close. Thanks for listening to this episode. Join us again next time.

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