The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E07

Episode Date: July 29, 2012

It’s the 30th Episode of The Nosleep Podcast! This seventh episode of Season 2 features stories about thieves out of time, dreamy hallucinations, and exploration nightmares. 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: The Strangest Security Tape I’ve Ever Seen written by Phil Zona (Redditor powerhawkmash) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone). Everything I Know Is A Dream written by Sam Frost (Redditor tiyafwons) and read by James Cleveland – (Redditor tseotet). This story won the Nosleep Writing Contest for May 2012. Never, Ever, Go Into The Morgue written by Kyle A. Marrotte (Redditor Spider_J) and read by David Cummings. This story won the Nosleep Writing Contest for March 2012. 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 everyone to the no sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We've reached the seventh episode of Season 2, and we have another fine selection of frightening tales for you this time. three stories in total and two of the stories were winners of the monthly writing contests on the No Sleep Forum. I wanted to mention that I really appreciate the many comments that you have sent my way via Facebook and Twitter recently.

It's encouraging to see that the podcast's Facebook page found at Facebook.com slash no sleep podcast has been liked by over 100 people since the start of season two, and we're fast approaching 200 likes in total. Feel free to drop by the page and leave a comment or a like and let us know that you're a listener. It's always fun to see how the podcast is reaching people all over the world. Now it's time to get things started with our first store. We've all become accustomed to having security cameras watch over us in most public settings. Retailers especially like to keep their eyes on

customers and staff who might like to sneak some loot while they think no one is watching. And when things do go missing, someone has to review those security tapes to catch the culprit. But as author Phil Zona describes for us, when a mysterious rash of thefts occur at his store, the security tapes reveal a mystery far more disturbing than simple thievery. I'll read for you his tale as he tells us about. the strangest security tape I've ever seen. I work at a gas station in rural Pennsylvania. It's a boring job, but it's pretty easy, and it pays all right.

A few weeks ago, this new guy started. I'll call him Jeremy. Jeremy is weird. He's about 25 or 26, and he hardly speaks, but he's got the creepiest laugh I've ever heard. My boss and I have both noticed this, but it's never been a problem, so there's not much we can do about it. Customers have never complained about him, and he's always done his job fairly well. Up until a few weeks ago, anyway, that's when things started going missing.

Employee theft can be a problem at any business that sells consumer goods, and there's only one person working at a time at this gas station. It's a pretty small place. About two weeks ago, my boss started noticing. that we were short on motor oil. At first, it was a few containers at a time, then entire shelves and boxes from the back room. Pretty soon, entire shipments would be gone the day after we got them, and it would always be right after Jeremy's shifts.

My boss has checked the security camera tapes from every single night he worked, but he could never catch him in the act. Jeremy would lock up at closing, then the motor oil would be gone the next day. My boss usually takes the tapes home with him to try and catch Jeremy stealing, but his daughter had a softball game last night, so he asked me to watch the tape for him. He offered to pay me overtime, under the table,

so obviously I took that offer. There are three cameras, so he gave me three different tapes to check. I figured it would be a long night, but I'm trying to save up for vacation. so I really needed the money. I took the tapes home, popped them in an old VCR, and sat back. Two days ago, the last time he worked,

Jeremy started at 4 p.m. Everything seemed pretty normal at first. He counted up his drawer, switched off with the girl who was working before him, and waited for a customer. The first person who came in was Mrs. Templeton, a regular. The timestamp on the video read 4.4. She picked up her cigarettes and a newspaper and paid with a 20.

Nothing unusual there. The next customer was some local guy named Ron. He drives a motorcycle, usually comes in every few days. He filled up his tank, got a bag of beef jerky, paid with his credit card, and then left. Next was some guy with a cowboy hat. I'd never seen him before, but we get plenty of. strangers passing through, just like at any gas station. He got $40 worth of diesel fuel, paid with a $100 bill, and went on his way. I sat back and sighed. The only thing more boring

than doing this job is watching someone else do it. My boss's offer was enough to keep me watching, though, so I left the tape on. Everything seemed pretty normal. I had a feeling that if Jeremy was stealing motor oil. He knew we were suspicious of him by now. I didn't expect him to be dumb enough to let us catch him on camera. Things stayed boring and routine until about five o'clock. At 503, Mrs. Templeton came back in. She must have forgotten something. But she didn't. She bought the same pack of cigarettes as before, and the same newspaper. She paid with another 20. That's odd, I thought. But then again, she's a little absent-minded.

I thought Jeremy should have told her she already got her smokes, but it's not against the rules to sell somebody the same thing twice. That's when Ron came in again. He bought another tank of gas for his motorcycle again. I later checked the outdoor camera because I thought maybe he had another car he wanted to fill up. And the same pack of beef jerky. He paid with his credit card again. No big deal.

I figured this was just a weird coincidence. Mrs. Templeton is forgetful, and Ron probably owns more than one Harley. That's when the guy in the cowboy hat came back in. I felt a chill run down my spine. Don't get diesel. Don't get diesel. I found myself whispering to my empty living room. But he did.

He got $40 worth of diesel fuel and paid with another $100 bill. Every move he made was identical to his first visit, right down to the way he scratched his nose before he walked out. Either this guy is rich, owns a lot of trucks, and just moved into town, or something really bizarre was happening. I kept watching. Every customer for the next hour was the same as before.

every single one. I was seriously freaked out. And then, 603. Mrs. Templeton walked back in. She bought her cigarettes and newspaper again, and paid with a 20 again. I thought I was going to lose it. I only watched another half hour

before I started fast-forwarding through the rest. It was all the same. Every customer would come in at the exact same times, exactly one hour apart. Now, I know what you're thinking. That sneaky motherfucker, Jeremy, had messed with the tapes. He had run a loop of his first hour of business over and over. That wasn't the case. There are windows around the cash register area that the camera covers,

and I watched the sunlight fade as time ran on. Jeremy's routine didn't loop over. He swept, mopped, restocked, and did all his duties exactly how you would expect. But the same customers kept coming in. I was panicking at this point. Something was seriously wrong with what I was seeing, and I had no explanation for it. I skipped ahead to when he locked up and walked out to his car. He hadn't stolen anything, but I kept watching just watching.

to make sure. I fast forwarded one last time to about midnight. At exactly 1203, out of nowhere, Jeremy's face pops up on the camera. I don't mean he moved his head into view. I mean that one second the store was empty, the next second his face was all I could see. He wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking at me. I was sure of it. I saw. I see. I saw. He was. I saw. He was looking at the camera. I screamed and fumbled for the remote. By the time I grabbed it, he was gone, just as quickly as he appeared. One frame he was there, the next, he wasn't. My hands were shaking like crazy, but I popped in another tape.

The other indoor camera shows the back area by the cash register, and I would be able to see how he got up to put his face in the camera like that. I skipped ahead to 1203, but there was not. nothing. I would have been able to see him standing on a chair or something in this tape, but he wasn't there. I didn't see him enter the store at all after he left. It's like he wasn't really there. He doesn't know the security code, and no alarms were triggered that night after he locked up. What I did see, however, was that at 1203, the motor oil vanished off the shelf. All of it Same as Jeremy's face. One second it was there and the next it wasn't.

I turned that tape off and went to bed. But I didn't get a wink of sleep. My body is exhausted right now, but my mind is racing. That tape was undoubtedly the creepiest, most disturbing thing I've ever seen in my life. I work in a few hours. My boss asked me to bring the tapes back. in and let him know what I found, but really, what the hell am I going to say? Jeremy works the night shift tonight, directly after me, and the plan is for my boss to come in

just before I leave and confront him with me, as I'm supposed to be the one who caught him stealing. I have no idea what I'm going to do. I suppose I'll have to show my boss the tapes, but I don't want to watch them with him. I never want to see something like that again. I can't get the image of Jeremy just smiling directly into the camera out of my mind. It was the creepiest look I've ever seen on another human being's face. Anyway, I'm going to try to get some last-minute sleep before I have to go in and deal with this. Update, 2.49 p.m. My boss just finished watching the last of the tapes.

I told him what to expect, but you really can't prepare someone for something. like that. He's scared shitless. I still am too. And Jeremy is due to come in at four. We've got just a little over an hour to get our shit together, but neither one of us knows what to say to him. Is he just a fucked up guy who likes to steal motor oil and scare the shit out of people? Or is he something else? I don't know if this is crazy, but does anyone think he could have anything to do with the time loop? My boss said he never noticed anything like that in the other tapes, but the way he popped up in this one made me think he knew I would be watching. It's like he wanted me to see what he could do,

like he was showing off or something. The way he smiled into the camera was like a little kid showing you a sandcastle or something they just built. I don't know. I probably sound crazy. I sure feel the part. I'm going to talk to my boss some more. We have to calm ourselves down and figure out how to handle this. I'll update again tonight, but I have a really bad feeling about how this is going to play out.

Update 4.33 p.m. No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police. Update 533 p.m. No sign of Jeremy. tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police.

Update 6.33 p.m. No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police. Update 7.33 p.m. No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police.

Update 8.33 p.m. No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police. Update 10.58 p.m. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. I just got home and saw my previous updates. Things make less sense now than ever.

Here's what I can tell you. I went to work. Jeremy never showed up. My boss and I decided to call the police, as you're well aware. When I picked up the phone to call, though, the sun went out. I shit you not. That's what I thought happened. Apparently, I blacked out for exactly five hours,

because when I looked at the clock, it was 9.33. I think I got stuck in Jeremy's time. loop, and then I snapped out of it at the exact point I blacked out, if that makes sense. But that's when things got really weird. My boss was right next to me when I blacked out, ready to corroborate my story to the cops. When I came to, the phone was in my hand, but it was dead, not even a dial tone. My boss was still right there, but he wasn't moving. He was standing up, but frozen.

I looked at the clock again, and it wasn't moving. The second hand was stuck on the 12. It was 9.33, exactly. The clock on the register's computer screen wasn't moving either. My phone was frozen. There was even a customer at the register, waiting for my boss to get him cigarettes. I'm betting that would have been his fifth pack of the day.

I got the fuck out of there. Didn't lock up, didn't turn the last. lights out. The gas station is on a major highway, and cars were parked all along it, except they weren't parked. They were frozen. The people inside were sitting, still as wax statues. I got in my car and prayed that it would start. Thankfully, it did. About halfway home, time started up again. The static from the radio turned into music, like it's supposed to be. And from what I could tell by listening to the host talking between songs, no one noticed the time freeze, or whatever it was.

I'm the only one. Well, I'm sure Jeremy noticed as well. I still have no clue where he is or what he's doing. I'm hiding in my room and calling the police again in the morning. I don't know if I ever got through to them before, or if I did, whether they took me seriously. I am scared for my life at this point. I'll update tomorrow, if I can.

Final update, 10.33 a.m. I finally fell asleep last night around four. I have no idea how I did it. I guess exhaustion finally got the best of me. This morning, I woke up to my phone ringing. It was my boss. He'd been calling me since about six. He woke up when the time,

Time turned back on last night and immediately called the cops. They came by to see what was wrong and he told them everything. The police around here are all small-time guys. They were more concerned with the missing motor oil than anything. But my boss figured he would take it as long as he had their attention. They decided to go looking for Jeremy. We keep all our employees' applications on file. And since Jeremy just started working here, his was easy.

easy to find. They checked the address on it and headed over to his house. You're not going to believe what they found. The address Jeremy listed on his application was an empty lot, or at least now it is. There used to be a house there, but it burned down in 1993. Being a small town, almost everyone remembers that fire. A family of four used to live there way back when. Rumor has it that they had an estranged son who they never really talked about. But I can't say for sure if that's true. What I can say is true is that after an insurance investigation, the fire was ruled an arson. The entire house was soaked in oil and torched with a Molotov cocktail.

The entire family was sleeping when it happened. None of them survived. They never caught the guy who did it. Rumor has it that when they tried to contact the estranged son, no one could find him. Anyway, my boss called and told me this, and I freaked out. Then he asked me to come to the gas station. What, are you crazy? I said, but he assured me that the cops were there with him. Then he dropped a bomb.

The FBI were also in town, and they were going to talk to me one way or another, so I might as well come in. It was about 7.15, and I wanted to go back to bed. But I figured I wouldn't be able to sleep much more anyway, so I went down. Four men in suits greeted me and told me to have a seat. We went over everything two or three times until they got all the details down. I told them about Jeremy, the security tape, last night at work. everything

finally after I finished one of the agents said ah Christ we got another one on our hands then they made me sign a bunch of papers saying I wouldn't tell anyone about what happened so I can't say much more I might be breaking the law just by talking about this

so now I'm home I'm not sure what to do with myself that agent's word when I told him the story are going to haunt me for the rest of my life. Anyway, I've got to go. I have some errands to run today, and then I have to go into work to pick up some tapes. My boss and I think this new guy, Jeremy, he's a complete creep, is stealing motor oil, and I have to watch the security footage to see if I can catch him doing it.

I have better things to do, but my boss is paying me overtime, under the table, and I'm trying to save up for vacation, so I could rest. really use the money. It should be pretty simple. The oil always goes missing right after his shifts. I figure I'll just watch the tapes, catch him in the act, and that will be that. Our next tale was the winner of the writing contest for May. It's a story about a man who struggles to recover after a horrific accident. But his physical recovery is offset by strange feelings that things aren't exactly how they appear. This story is narrated by James Cleveland,

and he tells us the tale written by author Sam Frost, who has discovered that everything I know is a dream. Several years ago, I was in a brutal car accident. I was parked in front of a train track waiting for the train to pass by. I was the last person not to make it across the tracks. For visualization, there was a solid stream of cars on either side. If I had tried to sneak across, I would have rear-ended the person in front of me before successfully clearing them.

I could hear the train approaching, and the black and yellow bars lowered in front of me. I am fascinated by train, so I was delighted to be so close, finally getting a front row seat. The train was about a quarter mile from the crossing when the driver behind me accelerated and nudged me forward a few feet. The bars bent and eventually snapped, and I was not joltingly onto the tracks. I panicked and threw the car into reverse trying to back out. The other car apparently had more horse power, however, and to my horror, my car door aligned perfectly with the castle guard on the front of the train. I scrambled to get out of the car, but forgot about my seatbelt.

I nearly strangled myself trying to get free. By the time I unlatched it, it was too late. One fraction of a second of the loudest sound I had ever heard, and then blackness. silence. I was certain that I had died. I didn't feel any pain, and certainly if I had survived, I'd be in agony. I tried to open my eyes, but nothing would happen. I tried to make a sound, to wiggle my fingers, or do anything, but I couldn't. It wasn't that I was paralyzed, it was more like I didn't have a body to manipulate. I was just a mind, submerged in a pool of

nothing. The only sentiment I felt was that I had returned to that stay after being gone for a long time, like forgetting how your parents' house smells until you visit home for the holidays. Gradually, I started to have feelings of sensation. Passing waves of warmth and wetness finally allowed me to determine where the edges of my body were. Almost as soon as I became aware of my physical self, it began to ache. I felt as if every inch of me had been pommeled with a baseball bat, the heavy wooden kind. Even opening my eyes was a spectacular ordeal. I was in hospital, so I had survived after all. People moved to surround me. Places that never fully came into focus hovered above my own, and sounds that vaguely resembled speech seemed to reach me through

water. It wasn't long before I felt weak again, and my eyes closed. This fading in and out of consciousness lasted for what felt like a very long time. maybe months, though the doctors told me it was only a matter of days. After that, I worked on speaking and swallowing food, which seemed silly, but it was actually a challenge at the time. Finally, as more and more casts were removed, I was allowed to sit up and turn my head, for which I was incredibly grateful. According to my family and my then-girlfriend Sarah, all of whom were overjoyed at being able to speak with me, I was asleep for several days on end after the crash. I remember Sarah specifically saying she had missed being able to

stare at those beautiful eyes. Time passed at an excruciatingly slow pace until physical therapy finally escalated to the point where I could be pushed around in a wheelchair. The doctors were surprisingly hopeful that I'd be able to walk again, but it was what they called cautious optimism. Nobody wanted to tell me that I could be independent again and then have to admit they were wrong later.

Obviously, I was very hopeful. for myself, even though transferring from chair to bed was a painful challenge. It was around this time that I noticed I never dreamed anymore. When I slept, I only felt the same nothingness that I felt immediately after the crash. All the days blended together for a while after that. The next memory I can actually separate from the rest is the first time I tried walking on my own. There were staff members holding onto my arms and waist just in case I felt. And with their help, I made it all the way across the room on my first try.

The doctors said they had never seen such a rapid recovery. I was giddy. Obviously I wasn't out of the woods yet, but soon I was allowed to live at home again with frequent PT sessions. And some weeks after that I returned to work. Life was almost normal for a while. Except for a very slight limp in my left leg, the side that the train hit me on, I was feeling pretty normal.

It was only after about a month of living in my own house that weird things started to happen. The first thing I noticed was that I felt an occasional stinging on my right forearm, like a thin needle was puncturing my skin. It was a tiny prick, maybe twice a day at most. I figured it was just nerve trauma or something and blocked it from my mind. Faining ignorance was harder to do when I started hearing things though. While I was reading in bed one night, I thought I heard Sarah crying. I strained my ears to make sure, and I definitely heard herself, but very distantly, like I was submerged in a pool.

I made my way downstairs quickly, concerned that she had hurt herself or something, but she was just washing dishes in the kitchen. Are you okay? I asked cautiously. Yeah, why? She asked nonchalantly. No reason. I dismissed these oddities as best I could. After all, how could anyone expect to recover from being hit by a goddamn train without some lingering effects? Every so often, mostly when I was trying to fall asleep or sitting in a silent room,

I would hear occasional sounds that I couldn't connect at first. Gradually I determined that they were hospital sounds, stretches being rolled across tiled floors, beeping from machines, rapid chatter between nurses and doctors. Although I figured anyone who had suffered as much trauma as I have would experience some degree of whatever I was experiencing, I decided to bring it out with my doctor. He told me it was perfectly normal for someone in my circumstances

and he could prescribe me a sleep aid if I felt it was necessary. I told him it wasn't a big deal. I was just satisfied that a doctor could explain my symptoms. The odd glimpses of what seemed to be my past only increased in frequency. When I slept, I finally dreamed again, but it was always the same thing. If I saw anything at all, it was a hospital room.

Sometimes there were other people in the room, and sometimes I was alone with the machines. There was one night in particular, in which the dream was more vivid and gripping than usual. My eyes opened wearily to see Sarah asleep on the chair beside my hospital bed. Sarah? I croaked. She jerked awake.

Henry! She scrambled to my side, clutching at my hand. At this point, it occurred to me that I was dreaming. I stared right into Sarah's eyes. I'm asleep right now. She seemed concerned. No, Henry, you're finally awake. I'm right here.

It's been so long. Of course you would say that. You're part of my dream. I smiled, amused. I'll probably wake up any second. As I spoke, the familiar soreness caught up to me all at once. It practically knocked the wind from my lungs. Henry, no, her distress was now evident.

I don't know what you're talking about. Stay with me, Henry, stay awake, look at me. I shook my head defiantly and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was back in my own bed. It was about three in the morning I sat awake pondering what I had just seen I thought I heard Sarah crying again even though I could see her sleeping beside me

When Sarah finally woke up She rolled over and laid an arm across my chest Good morning big guy She smiled grogly If I was asleep right now Would you tell me? I asked What? she juggled That's kind of heavy stuff to drop on a sleepy

person? Just bear with me. If I was asleep right now, dreaming, you know, would you tell me? Well, I feel pretty real, she noted that in different parts of her body. Do you think I'm not real? Of course not, I said. We got ready for our day. I couldn't stop thinking about my dream though. I noticed that when I tried really hard to space out at work and listened closely enough, I could hear the hospital sounds more clearly. I was naturally concerned about this. That night, I went to bed early, and just as I thought, I was transported immediately to the hospital bed. I felt the thin sheets beneath my fingers. I opened my eyes, and Sarah was reading a book in the same chair as before. I just looked at her for a long time, trying to discern if she

was real. She certainly seemed real enough. She turned pages. with the same flourish that she always had and chewed on one of the temples of her reading glasses. Eventually, she looked up and met my eyes. You're awake again, she gasped. Victoria, Paul, he's awake! My parents entered the room moments later, looking excited. I talked with them all for a long time.

Of course, my parents too denied the fact that I was asleep, but that topic passed quickly. Instead, we discussed my condition. I had been in a comb, for almost three months with little response. They had been slowly losing hope for my recovery until my brain showed signs of activity. Since that time, they had been visiting me frequently,

hoping that I would wake up. It seemed a pretty convincing story. After many hours of talking, I had to stop. I was legitimately sleepy. Of course they understood and I fell back asleep. Only this time I didn't wake up in my own bed. I woke up in the same hospital bed a few hours later. I had to think about it for a very long time, but eventually concluded that I must

have imagined my miraculous recovery and had been in a coma the whole time after all. As you can imagine, it was hard to accept at first. Since then, I have been making a second recovery, which has been slower and less successful than the first. That's why for a long time I was mostly convinced that I'm really awake this time. Nobody walks after getting blindsided by a train, at least not without lots of hard work. I still only left my wheelchair on crutches and it's been six years. Probably sounds like a bittersweet ending and at one point I agreed. I was prepared to live happily ever after in my wheelchair and maybe even graduate to crutches someday. Except for one thing when I'm getting ready for bed. After I turn off my lamp and my head hits a pillow,

I can still hear them. The faint sounds of a busy hospital. I know that many of you will say, but I'm real. This is real life. Of course you're awake. But that's what you're supposed to say. Nobody's going to tell me I'm fake. You're dreaming. Wake up. I'm still asleep. And I've learned to deal with it. I know that nobody I meet during the day is real. But I'm tired. So I just pretend. And that will have to do. Our final tale is another contest winner from the month of March. Urban exploring is becoming a popular pastime for people who enjoy creeping around the hidden

and abandoned ruins from the past. Author Kyle Merritt tells us about the times he spent exploring a long-forgotten mental hospital in his own town. Spending time in a decrepit hospital might not seem like fun to most people. But Kyle soon discovers that his hobby has led him into a dark and disturbing connection to the building itself. Allow me to read for you his tale in which he exhorts us to never, ever go into the morgue. My name is Kyle, and I am an urban explorer. For years, one of my favorite hobbies has been exploring abandoning.

buildings. I loved the thrill of breaking into some place you're not supposed to be. The sense of wonder and mystery, the beauty of nature reclaiming the masonry. Each adventure felt like I was in some long, abandoned ruin, finding the treasures of the culture that lived there before. I couldn't tell you when or how I got into the hobby, but But I know that it probably started with the night hospital. An asylum for the mentally retarded, their words. Just a mile from my house, closed many years before I was born. In a small college town, stories and legends of the hospital were spoken with hushed whispers on schoolyards.

of how it was shut down for extreme malpractice and patient abuse, or how you could find stacks of aged reports about bizarre experiments. And, of course, there were dozens and dozens of claims of hauntings. But lest any child think of exploring on their own, the stories would always end with one ominous warning. Never, ever go into the morgue. Living so close, I had the opportunity to check out the hospital many times over my childhood. The dusty, crumbling corridors and peeling paint eventually felt like a second home to me,

despite constant police patrols and decades' worth of vandalism. Over the years, I managed to be. to create a pretty sizable collection of photographs and mementos. I became familiar with every nook and cranny, every hallway and staircase. I came up with nicknames for the various rooms. The dentist's office was one with the decrepit X-ray machine, right next to the Blue Room, a recessed office with painted windows that bathed the room in an eerie blue light.

Downstairs lay the crypt, a dirt floor basement adjacent to the boiler. After spending so much time in the building, I had my doubts about its haunted status. I heard noises every now and then, a creaking door or muffled footsteps. But being the skeptic that I am, I always dismissed these as tricks of the mind.

And if there were ghosts lurking in the shadows, at least they never caused me any harm. Still, no matter how far I explored or how rational my thought, I always remembered the warnings, never, ever go into the morgue. I had been near it, seen the door, Located down in the basement, the morgue door stood ominous, its paint faded, and hinges rusting.

Every time I walked by, I felt a deep temptation to grab the handle and slowly, carefully, take just a quick peek inside. It was, after all, the last uncharted corner of this vast ruin, and my heart of my door. curiosity almost got the better of me several times. But when I would extend my hand and gingerly reach for the door, I would be overwhelmed by a deep, inexplicable sense of dread. I tried to reason with it, tell myself it was only the stories giving this room a power over me, that it was only a room like all the others. Yet I would find myself slowly backing away, some primal instinct warning me against my imagined dangers.

I would not enter, but the morgue didn't care. It would wait, defiant, until the next time I felt like testing my courage. Last winter, everything changed. The snowy weather was giving me a terrible case of cabin fever, and looking for something to kill the tedium, I decided to visit the hospital for the first time in months. I packed my flashlight and crowbar and headed out the door. Strangely, I neglected to bring my camera with me, a decision that I now both regrets and cherish. By the time I reached the hospital, the sun was just beginning to set.

Breaking in had become something of a ritual by now, an adrenaline-building routine that I cherished almost as much as the exploration itself. I cashed the crowbar by one of the boarded-up windows and did a quick walk around the building, checking for police or witnesses. Confident that I was alone, I returned to the window and began to pry at the plywood, eventually wrenching it loose with a loud crack. I threw the board and crowbar into the building and followed. Inside the building seemed colder than ever, even for a late New England winter.

I also could smell something new in the air, something strong. and foreign that I hadn't recognized before. Musky and distinctly unpleasant. As I moved deeper into the building, the scent grew in strength, until I reached the basement stairs and it nearly overpowered me. Every instinct in my body told me to leave, to not investigate further. But I didn't know better. I did not yet recognize the scent of death.

As I crossed the basement door, I realized the smell was emanating from downstairs. Mustering up what little courage I still had, I slowly crept down the dark stairs, flicking on my flashlight as I reached the bottom landing. The scent was reaching into my throat now. and I could practically taste the rot in the air. I quickly scanned the room, and it didn't take long to spot the source. There, suspended by a beam in the center of the room,

my light briefly caught a flash of clothing hanging off a vaguely humanoid form, swinging, oh, so slowly, from a frayed length of extension. cord, to say that I was terrified, would have been an extreme understatement. I turned and ran, panic coursing through my veins, almost tripping over myself as I scrambled back up the stairs, trying to cough the scent of death out of my lungs. As I finally reached the top landing, I looked behind me, convinced that I would see the grim spectre reaching for my ankles to drag me back down into its lair. Nothing came. My mind reeled, unsure of what I had seen. Of course, with the reputation of the

building, I would have sworn that it was some kind of ghost, a specter of some former patient that had met a grim end and wanted nothing more than to devour. my soul. But as I caught my breath, rationality slowly took hold. If it was some vengeful spirit, surely I would be dead already. Maybe I had imagined it. Or perhaps some homeless vagrant had hung his wet clothes to dry. Contrary to every instinct to flee, I made the kind of decision that only a fool with too much courage could make. I had to take another look. My breath came in ragged gasps as I made my way back down the stairs again.

The only thought echoing through my mind was how stupid I was being, that I should run, run for my life, and never return. But still, almost by their own accord, my legs carried me back until I was in the basement again and shrouded by the darkness. With a labored breath, I turned the light towards the figure again, fully expecting the next site to be my last. There are two things every urban explorer dreads running into. The police and a dead body. The latter is a rare occurrence, but not unheard of. Murderers need places to stash their victims, and homeless men freeze to death.

Every time I went into a new ruin, I ran the risk of discovering one. slim as the chance may be. Today, my luck had run out. I stood frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on the corpse in front of me. He had been there for, I assume, a month or two, and the cold weather kept the body in fairly decent shape. There was some evidence of rot, mostly noticeable. in his face, but I could still make out his slack, depressed expression.

His clothes were filthy, but the grime was deep set, long before whatever circumstances brought him here. It was clearly a suicide, evidenced by a chair kicked not far from the body. Vaguely, I recalled a chair in one of my prior photographs of this room and shivered at the realization that they were the same. Once I convinced myself that the man wasn't going to jump out and grab me, I moved in for a closer look. The letter. That damned letter. the one that brought all this upon me. I noticed it now on the ground before him,

dangling just below his feet. A small, slightly yellowed piece of paper, carefully folded and placed before the body. I should have left it then, ignored what I saw, left everything, and tried to drown the memory in drink. But now, having seen it, it was too late. Looking back, maybe I didn't have any choice once I saw what was written on the front.

For Kyle, it said, my name, written so simply, so elegantly. Like a formal invitation. I guess, really. That's what it was. I've seen enough horror movies and read enough stories to know what I did was stupid. But, like I asked, did I have a choice? I bent down and reached for the note, carefully, like it was a loaded trap, ready to ensnare me. And God help me, I opened it.

The writing, Jet Black, was short and simple, but filled me with terror that I didn't know words could contain. Four simple words in child's handwriting. We're waiting for you. As I read them, I heard a noise from above. A short gasp of expelled air and the horrible creaking of old. bones suddenly spurred into motion. I looked up and I swear on my grave the corpse had moved. It was such a slight motion, just barely enough to notice. But now the head of the hanged man faced down at me. His dead eyes locked directly into mine, staring through me and into my very

soul. That was when I ran. I bolted up the stairs, note in hand, like all the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels. For all I knew, they very well could have been. My legs were fueled by pure unadulterated fear, and I made it up the stairs in less than a blink. In no time I had reached the window that was my entry point, and I all but dove through it into the welcoming snow outside. I didn't dare glance back until I had reached the main road, terrified of what might have followed me. Then, ungracefully, I proceeded to vomit. When I got home, I went to my neighbors and asked to use their phone. I called in an anonymous tip to the police about the body, but I never heard anything about it on the news.

I comfort myself by saying that the papers didn't think a homeless suicide was worth reporting. But truthfully, my great fear was that when the police arrived, the body was gone. I fear this because, for the next week, I would see it. in my dreams. I could barely remember the dreams at first. There would be flashes of memory the morning after. Then, as my mind dismissed the fantasies, nothing. But by the third day, they were gaining strength, and there was no ignoring them.

I would find the hanged man sitting in the chair that I present. assumed he used waiting for me. He still had all the appearance of a corpse, but he did not attempt to frighten me. Instead, he greeted me, like an old friend, a rictus of a smile stretched across his rotten face. It didn't matter how cheery he tried to look. He still terrified me, and I would want to run. to put as many miles between us as possible.

But in my dream, my body would refuse to obey, and I would walk towards him. As I drew close, he would usher me past, down the hall in the old hospital. Each time in the dream, I would walk further and further, never reaching my destination, but I could sense it. The absolute dread that only one place in the world could cause me, growing with each step.

On the seventh night, my fears were confirmed. At the end of the hallway loomed the morgue. On the last night, I woke up in a sweat, mind addled, but my doubt. decision made. There was only one way to end the dreams to appease the hanged man. I dressed quickly and grabbed my flashlight and crowbar. That night, I walked towards the night hospital like I had so many times before, not knowing if I would ever make the walk home again. The building loomed in the distance, as dark and foreboding as it was the first time I broke in as a child. Tonight there would be no ritual, no safety checks for policemen or guardsmen.

If anything, this time I prayed they would stop me. I would not get so lucky. I entered through the same side window, still unboarded from the break-in, prior. I made my way down the stairs, into the basement, still expecting to see the corpse swaying from his beam, or sitting in his chair as he had in my dreams. There was nothing. Only the pure and distinct sound of silence greeted me. Slowly, I made my way down the hall, fear and determination fighting against each other, wearing against me with each step. I could hear nothing but my footsteps, and my own heartbeat pounding against my ribcage

like it wanted to leap from my chest, until finally, in the darkness, it stood before me, just out of arms reach. The door. The door that guarded the morgue. Then, without warning, my flashlight flickered and died, leaving me in darkness more absolute and terrible than I could have imagined. Darkness and silence. Then, finally, a sound.

The door. Opened. Our time together is drawing to a close. Thanks for listening to this episode. Join us again next time when we unleash more disturbing tales designed to afflict your night with no sleep.