The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E12

Episode Date: October 7, 2012

It’s a dirty dozen for Season 2 of The Nosleep Podcast! The episode features five stories about unseen threats, disturbing tales brought to light from long ago, and sordid cinema.This episode features these stories:Something in My Daughter’s Room written by Benjamin Joseph (Redditor jojo5500) and read by Jörn Meyer (Redditor its_pronounced_yearn).Hungry Little Girl written by J. F. Kuck (Redditor Je_cherche) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).The Late Bus written by Mark Winston (Redditor whitewinstonwolf) and read by C.H. Williamson (Redditor pomochu).Strigoi written by T.W. Grim (Redditor theworldisgrim) and read by Kyle Akers (Redditor the_oswald).Budget Cinema written by Thomas Thompson (Redditor dr_vonhugenstein) and read by David Cummings. This story won the Nosleep Writing Contest for July 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. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode 12 of season two. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you this time, featuring Unuselytale. unseen threats, disturbing tales brought to light from long ago, and sordid cinema.

When I was putting this episode together, I noticed these tales all have a connection with children, the perils they face, the menace they can evoke, and the disturbing presence they can bring. And to bring you these stories, we have two new narrators joining us. Yerne Meyer and Kyle Akers are making their debut on this episode. The podcast reached a number of milestones this week. We hit 500 likes on Facebook, 200 reviews on iTunes, and we reached our highest ranking on the Stitcher Entertainment list at number 32. So a big thanks goes out to all our fans who support the show.

Before we begin, I want to mention something about one of the stories in this episode. As many of you know, from the very start of this podcast, I've placed a disclaimer on the show's website, both the old pod bean site and our new site at the no sleeppodcast.com. This disclaimer explains that this show contains both explicit language and graphic themes that are intended to make the show frightening and disturbing. That's why I also flag the shows on iTunes as explicit. Clearly, this is not a show for the youngsters, nor for people with sensitive dispositions.

Even with that disclaimer, I hope you'll agree that this is not a podcast that goes after shocking vulgarity or gross out stories. We look for stories that allow the listeners to use their imagination and engage with the narrative, even if the author happens to use graphic content to enhance the horror. We always try to find a blend between effective storytelling and disconcerting terror. In this episode, our final tale is the winner of the No Sleep Writing Contest for July. It's a powerful tale that blends those two elements, a frightening plot and graphic descriptions,

into a true horror story. Now, there's no spoilers forthcoming, but I will warn our more sensitive listeners that this tale describes some truly disturbing scenes. They're brief in duration, but they pack a punch. I just felt you should be forewarned that this tale gets pretty dark. I recommend having some pictures of cute kittens and bunnies at the ready, just to cleanse your mental palate, as it were.

So, with all that being said, let's get on with the show. Our first tale is about a father caring for his new baby daughter. Being overly protective like any new dad, he takes every precaution to ensure she is safe and healthy. But when his child is threatened by someone heard but not seen, The battle to keep his child safe becomes a terrifying ordeal. Narrator Jern Meyer shares with us the story by Benjamin Joseph, who tells us about the time there was something in my daughter's room.

Telling this story is incredibly difficult for me. Not necessarily because I myself am afraid for my safety, but for the safety of my child. To a parent, there is nothing more terrifying than the thought of your child being heard and you're not being able to do anything about it. Layla Grace was born 16th of October 2011. My wife's pregnancy had been a constant battle with complications throughout. Fast forward nine months to the delivery room.

My wife Mackenzie was in labor and the monitors showing the baby's vowels were not looking good. There was a nervous wreck. The baby's heart seemed like it would stop for brief periods of time and then resume at an incredible speed. After a long and tumultuous labor, Laila was born. Shortly after being born, her heart stopped and the doctors and nurses flew into action. They revived her, not once, but twice. After all of this, Layla is still alive and beautiful and developing normally.

The delivery and pregnancy had made my wife and I overly protective of her. My wife is a nurse who works 12-hour night shifts, going in at 7 p.m., leaving me with Layla for the evening. We have good father daughter time, watching kids' TV shows and listening to music. Not that I don't like my wife being home when she is of work. I just really enjoy being with my little miracle girl. Layla's room is down the hall from our room. Our house is very small, so with a single jump one could go from our room to hers.

On the opposite end of the hall is my hobby room, where I draw and write. When Layla is in her crib, she has a baby monitor right by the table, directly across the floor. directly across from where her head lays with the microphone pointing right at her. I keep the other monitor with me at all times, turned up loud enough to possibly be considered the city ordinance noise violation. Sometimes though it would pick up other frequencies such as passing truckers and radio stations. I was sitting in my study, furiously drawing for the graphic novel I had been working on for a while when the radio chattered.

I had grown accustomed to this and could block out the white noise. But when a word would come through, I instantly picked up on it. It was clear as a bell. Like someone was speaking right into the monitor. It was a man's voice. I didn't know what to think. Instinctively I went to check on Layla. She was in her crib, just as I had left her.

I watched her breathe for a few minutes, just to be able to sure she was okay. She was. She twitched a little and that eased my anxiety a good bit. I passed off the voice as a signal from a radio station or the local TV station and returned to my study, satisfied that my little girl was safe. About an hour later, the monitor cracked again. After the last incident I immediately went to her room even though I didn't hear anything else. else. I peeked my head in to see her still breathing, still asleep. Another little twitch from her arm was enough proof for me that she was all right. Hmm, back to my study I went. As I sat down the monitor crackled again, perfectly clear. What the fuck? I shot up out of my chair and bolted down the hall.

I slowed just enough to make the corner to face Laila's crib. She was awake and had rolled over on her back. She was perfectly fine. I leaned over her crib and she smiled and cooed at me. Relieved and seeing that she was awake, I decided to take her out of her crib. I picked her up, changed her diaper, made sure I turned out the monitor and went back into my study and put her down on her play mat. The monitor crackled again but I I paid no attention to it. It was about nine o'clock in the evening when she dozed off on her med. I was going to finish the current frame I was working on illustrating and then take her to bed

and go to bed myself. Again perfectly clear, almost concerned sounding. I froze. The voice was raspy and more aggressive like a hiss. I was nearly paralyzed with fear, but I grabbed Layla off of the floor. and shut and locked the door. I held her and she started crying for me picking her up so quickly. It must have scared her.

My heart was pounding through my chest. My blood ran cold. The voice on the monitor chuckled maliciously, backed myself and Layla into the corner. I picked up a metal calligraphy pen and held it in a reverse grip. In case whatever it was that wanted my child came through the door. door. In the hallway outside it sounded like there was wind blowing. But I knew all the windows were closed and locked because my wife had allergies and we never

opened them. In fact a few were even cocked shut. I clutched Layla close to me, praying that whatever it was would not find us in our small, obvious hiding spot and that Layla would stop crying. came down the hall. They sounded heavy like boots, but they had a harder, more metallic or rocky sound. I pressed Layla into me and the monitor crackled again, and the voice, now sounding pure evil, said the footsteps were closing in on our locked door. I sank down to the floor, completely washed out with fear now. Ultimately,

waiting for whatever it was to come and find us and kill me. Because I knew if push came to shove, who or whatever it was would have to kill me before I let it have my child. The lights dimmed and hummed, like some outside power saws was draining the power from our house. There was a long scratching sound, like the sound of a knife being scraped down the wall, separating us from the hallway. The footsteps were about to reach my bedroom now, and they stopped. The voice spoke over the monitor, somewhat pleasantly. At this point, I was not even sure if I was breathing, said the voice on the monitor in a most wicked tone.

Then, Layla began laughing. For whatever reason I do not know, I tried to cry at Layla down, but she kept laughing. louder and louder. I knew that there was no way whoever it was out there would not find us now. I decided to act preemptively. I put Layla down in the corner and gripped my makeshift weapon tightly. I would fight whoever was in my home to the death to protect my little girl. I quietly unlocked the door, listening to the sound of the footsteps as they approached. They were loud, very close. I would wait until they were right outside the door, and then spring into action and hopefully take him by surprise. I put my hand on the door. It felt

incredibly cold and then became incredibly hot in my hand, feeling like it was burning me. I don't know if that was just adrenaline or what, but I kept my focus. I took one last deep breath and one last look at my daughter in the corner, set a silent prayer and opened the door ready to strike the invader. Nothing. Momentarily relieved, I looked up and down the hallway and saw nothing. No footprints, no scratches on the wall. no strange smells.

Everything was completely normal. I pulled the door shut with Laila in the room and swept through the house. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I doubted my sanity. Had I imagined the whole thing? Was I delirious? The hallway was lit only by the light in Laila's room at the end of the hall. I turned on the main light and saw nothing.

I went through the kitchen, living room and guest room, nothing there either. I returned to the study and to my daughter. I picked Layla up and held her tide. She cooed softly, and once more the voice came over the monitor, and with that the monitor fell silent. I packed an overnight bag for Layla and myself and went to my in-laws' house for the night. To this day there have been no more encounters with that voice. I told my wife about it. She is very skeptical.

She thinks that some people had just been fooling around with the handheld radio freaking me out and that I had imagined the footsteps and the scratching sound. It doesn't matter. I know what I heard. I'm keeping my guard up. I don't know how. I don't know how, but I'll protect my daughter at all costs.

Nothing will harm her as long as I am alive. Working in the police archives can be a rich source of odd and unresolved case files. As author J.F. Kuk describes, when a strange transcript is discovered in Montreal, it unfolds a tale of the mysterious events that took place between a police officer and a hungry little girl. It is June 28, 2011. 712 a.m. in Cote San Luke.

My name is Alan Bissonette, and I work for the Montreal Police Service as an archivist. This recording will document an odd discovery during my cataloguing of old police cases. It's cool down here in the archives, A bit of morning sunlight coming through the basement windows, but most of the aisles are pretty gloomy. No one is here but me and the archivist upstairs. Yesterday, I found a file labeled 11-12, 1986.

Subheading, Date of Girls' Original Call. Someone, there is no indication of whom, compiled tonne, of ghoulish stuff from 86 to 94, court documents, transcripts, clippings, recordings, all having to do with a, quote, girl who claims she ate her family, end quote. I just found one transcript and accompanying recording that was particularly unnerving. Here it is. It says, service to police de la Ville de Montreal, personal and confidential, March 2, 1987. Constable T. Bernard states he received dispatcher's call while on break.

Transcript describes time of dispatcher's call as 4.27 a.m. Dispatcher requested constables in the area to pick up an, quote, unaccompanied minor with apparent mental issues wandering the streets, end quote. Constable T. Bernard immediately responded. Searching the area, Constable T. Bernard found what he later described as a, quote, blonde girl of not more than eight years, her nightgown spotted with dried bloodstains, quietly walking down the road. about two blocks from Baldwin Park.

End quote. Upon confirming the girl was unhurt, Constable T. Bernard put her in the back seat of his police car. He can't recall whether he locked the doors. Now, that's all it says, but there is a recording of an Internal Affairs interview with the constable. You should hear this. This is an internal affairs.

General Affairs interview, Sergeant Gerard Le Maire, serviced to police de la Ville de Montreal, of verbal content, March 9, 1987. This is a secondary interview with Constable T. Bernard regarding the events of the night of March 2, 1987. The Constable has been informed of this protocol and has waived legal and police union representation. State for the record, your name and the badge number. Oh, damn.

The tape is messed up here. Hold on, hold on. Okay. Yeah, I think it cuts off a bit at the beginning. Okay, here we go. So, you told the girl to get in the car. No. What did you do?

I took, I put her in the car. She wouldn't respond, so I put her in the car. You used force? No, no. She didn't resist. Go on. I started the car and asked her about the blood. But she didn't respond.

No. Did you speak English or French? I tried both. She didn't respond to French at all. I think she only speaks English. What did she do? Monsieur Bernard, what did the girl do? She counted. Counted what?

Just random numbers. Some kind of children's. rhyme. You remember anything about that grime? Nine. Nine fish in the deep, dark sea. One was gutted and ceased to be. And so I'm glad she is talking. She goes on. Two, something with snails. Six, rats losing all their legs. I start to ask her questions. What's your name? How do you feel? She just goes on. Three, three black moths in the flickering light. One of them gets, no, one of them got pulled into the night. I smile, saying, oh, that's pretty grown-up stuff. I'm, I'm looking in the mirror.

she stares outside and goes on. Uh, worms. I think it was three worms. Last time you said maggots. All right, maggots. Three little maggots crawling under your skin. One gets killed by a fixing pin. I figured she might be hungry.

So I asked her, you're hungry? And she reacts, really talks to me. She shakes her head, says she just ate. And I'm glad. Keep her talking, I say, keep her talking. So I ask her, what did you have to eat? Yes. She looked at me in the mirror,

Monsieur Bernard. She said, I ate my father's eyes, so he can't find me anymore. And his tongue, so he can't yell at me anymore. She says, So I'm not hungry,

but I will be soon. And when I am, I will call you. And I will come and take your eyes and your tongue so I can eat them. That was when the accident happened. I stared at her in the mirror, speechless, and lost control of the car. We hit a tree.

I woke up and... And the girl was gone. We... She was gone. Oh, that's it. That's the only recording on file. I had to come back to the archives today to check something. I'll probably miss Carine's ultrasound appointment, but I had to confirm something I overlooked yesterday. It's a funny coincidence that creeped up on me last night.

Nine fish, two snails, six rats, three moths, three maggots. 9-2633. That's our phone number. If you want a job with short hours, simple routines, and unending stress, consider being a school bus driver. It's tough enough to deal with the other drivers on the road without a bus full of hyper school kids. As author Mark Winston writes,

it can get even more stressful when the past Passengers don't want to get off the bus. Narrator C.H. Williamson tells us about the harrowing shift on the late bus. A couple of years ago, I worked as a school bus driver in an Ohio school district. It's a pretty rough job. Getting up early to pick up groggy teenagers and driving them back home on the same route. Day after day after day. It came as a bit of relief when I was assigned to a different bus with a different route.

The former driver had suffered from a stroke or some heart-related problems. I'm not too certain on the details. Anyway, I was assigned to cover his after-school route. There were a few buses which would drive students who had after-school activities home a few hours after-school. I had never driven a late bus before, but I was up for the challenge. The first thing I noticed on my first few days working the late shift was just how dark it got in the winter afternoons. It was a bit weird, lingering around the old high school after dark, but I quickly got used to it. The second thing I noticed was the small number of kids who boarded

my late bus. I quickly discovered that the sparse amount of students was because my route covered the more sparsely populated areas of the district. This was fine by me. Less kids, less noise. But traveling through the more rural areas unnerved me. I was always worried a deer or some other creature would bolt out of the fields and get crushed under the wheels. or fly through the windshield. One late afternoon, about a week after I had started working the late shift, was especially slow. It had been a rainy day, so a lot of sports practices had been cancelled.

The headlights revealed eerie, swirling shapes in the fog. I had closed the doors to keep the heat in, and as a result, a thick steam had clouded the window. I was just sitting there, checking my watch and listening to the radio, when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a silhouette at the door. I quickly reached for the lever and opened the door. Standing there was a small boy, carrying a backpack that seemed to be half his size. If I had seen him out of context, I would have assumed he was in middle.

middle school. He seemed to be hunched over with his head tilted downward. What stop? I asked. The boy remained silent as he lifted his leg. Slowly he began to climb the stairs with footsteps that sounded much too heavy to be coming from a boy his size. What stop? I asked again, trying to see if he had any hands. headphones in. He didn't. The boy turned and started walking toward the aisle, taking a seat near the back of the bus. I began to lose my patience.

Look, kid! I looked into the large rearview mirror and froze. The bus was empty. I spun around and there he was. But now he was. was looking at me. His expression was cold, and his eyes were vacant, but they were staring. Right at me, I turned to face the front without another word. I forced myself to look back up into the mirror. Nothing. I nearly jumped out of my seat when more kids began boarding the bus. They relayed their

stops and continued their normal superficial high school jabber. In the mirror, I watched them take their seats around the middle of the bus. I watched to see if they acknowledged the boy without a reflection, but they were too wrapped up in their gossip to notice. With every stop I made, I turned my head, ever so slightly, to glance out of my peripheral. for all vision to the back of the bus. I refused to look directly back there. Every time I stole a glance, I caught sight of his pale skin. Every time I locked my gaze back on the road,

I dropped off the last kid and idled there, uncertain what to do. Whatever was back there didn't tell me what stop. So I decided to just, head back to the bus station. I pulled the bus in and turned off the engine. Taking a deep breath, I slowly turned around. The bus was empty.

Unsure whether to be relieved or unnerved, I called out, anyone's still here? Silence. I was about to skip my routine check when I noticed. The window next to where the boy was sitting was open. Slowly I crept down the aisle and shut the window. I ignored the streaked finger marks on the fogged glass and booked it. For the next week, the boy would silently board the late bus,

move towards the back of the bus with his giant book bag, and disappear by the time the last kid was dropped to. off. I would silently ignore him as he boarded, and I carefully checked every student that got off the bus. He never left the bus. I didn't tell anyone about this. They would all think I was crazy, and I likely would have lost my job. That is, until the day I quit, it was another slow and rainy day. Only a few kids boarded the bus. Their faces illuminated by the screens of their iPods and cell phones. I was staring out the front window, spacing out, when I impulsively turned my head to the right.

There he was. Only this time he wasn't slouched over like he usually was. He was staring right at me. with those dead eyes. I quickly looked down at the dashboard, pretending not to see him, one foot on the bus steps. Clomp, another.

Clomp, another. He stood right next to me for a few seconds. I could feel his eyes on me. Nervously, I tried turning on the radio, but only heard a serious. of clicks and static scratches. I saw him turn and head down the aisle. I heard something heavy sit down behind me.

Oh, God, he's right behind me. He's right behind me. I panicked. I looked in the mirror. Of course, there was no reflection, but I could hear him in the seat behind me. His breath was slow and almost congested sounding. I began to send up a prayer when the buses in front of me sprung to life

and began pulling out of the bus circle. I turned on the engine and followed suit, trying my best to focus on the road. The last kid descended the stairs and walked off toward the safety of their home. I closed the door. and decided to head back toward the bus lot. The breathing seemed closer than ever, and I tried not to think about whatever was behind me,

leaning and closer to the back of my neck. I began forming a plan as I distractedly missed a few stop signs. Just park the bus and get the fuck out, get to your car, and just go. I pulled into the lot of the lot, a little too quickly and turned off the engine. Here with a breathing. I unbuckled myself, but before I could get up, I heard a click.

Then another, and another. I stood up and looked down the aisle. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, all of the windows. slid down at the same time. Cold, moist air rushed inside the bus. At that point, I rushed to the door and bolted outside without ever bothering to lock it. As I was running to my car, I heard a soft pounding.

For the life of me, I can't tell you why I looked back. I did. Dozens of small hands were pounding on the window. of the bus. The sound of their tiny palms smacking against the glass was deafening. They clawed and slammed against one another, as if trying to escape out of the open windows. Too terrified to scream, I bolted to my car and drove faster than I ever have in my life. I resigned the next day. To this day, I I can't bring myself to look into the windows of passing buses.

Recently, I've begun to wonder if the driver before me had seen the things I had. I wonder if I had stayed any longer, if I would have suffered a similar fate. Folklore and superstition from the old country came to the new world with the immigrants from the early part of the last century. Their tales of the sightings of the undead made them realize that these occurrences can also happen in their new land. Kyle Akers reads for us the tale by author T.W. Grimm, who explains that the newcomers from Eastern Europe even had their own name for these undead creatures.

They called them Strigoi. I just got back from helping out around my uncle. Henry's farm, as I often do when I'm waiting out a layoff. It was a long day out in the sun and the wind, and I'm beat. But I won't be sleeping for a while tonight. I don't think for a long while. The original plan was to get home, shower, and eat something while watching AMCs the Walking Dead. But I'm not hungry anymore.

And after Henry's story today, I no longer feel like watching anything with zombies in it. Around 11 this morning, I was up in a loft of Henry's barn, pitching down hay for the sheep. He was squinting up at me through the haze of his players unfiltered, jawing away as usual about stuff with his dry, ambling countryman's wit. He asked me what me and the misses

would be up to this evening, and he winked at me slyly from under the brim of his gray, hip dude from the 40s-style hat, turning the innocuous question into a sex joke. Nothing racy, Henry. I stopped to mop my brow. It was surprisingly hot up there today.

There's a show about the aftermath of a zombie invasion. We like to watch. Lots of blood and people arguing about who's going to be the new leader of up shit creek anywhere. Zombies? Cable show? They show tits? He asked mildly. I barked laughter.

My uncle is 83 or so. No tits, but the TV sensors think bare boobs are risky business. But zombies eating people alive is A-O-K? Throw me up a smoke. Don't smoke in my hayloft and roast my goddamn livestock, yidget, he sighed. Just climb down here and have a break. Do I look like a shot-put champion to you? I climbed down the ladder that's nailed in place against the floor in the loft

and took one of his nasty, unfiltered sigs. I made my head swim with the first stale, harsh drag, and I sat down on the seat of his big riding mower. Careful, man, you can't handle these. Your generation's kind of delicate and willowy. And you can't pitch the fucking hay yourself, I finished for him. Henry laughed at that and gave me a beer out of his old cooler. He was quiet for a few minutes, just leaned against the tractor and stared off out the big door into his barnyard.

This is odd for him, because he's almost never silent. He looked thoughtful. I gulped down my beer and waited for him to say what's on his mind. I saw some zombies once. Weren't like in the movies, you see, exactly. But I guess you call him zombies. He looked at me, and his customary grin faded to a suggestion. Ma, your grandma, she called them Babouse or Strigoy, like in the old country.

See, we came over here from Romania. Do you know that? This was back in the early 30s and, uh, yeah, I know all that. Was this about fucking zombies? I've had many beer-fueled discussions with Henry on paranormal subject matter, and he's told me some pretty crazy stuff before, but this was on a whole new level. Henry stopped smiling and he looked older than I've ever seen him and tired. His roomy brown gaze was flat, humorless.

He suddenly stopped looking like the wacky old farm country character I've always known. His face was that of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a little bit of a hardened man who'd survived the Depression, World War, and hardships that I could never imagine. This is important to the story, he said. What he meant was shut up. I did. We were supposed to born a train, Newfoundland, make our way out to a community of Romanian folks out in Alberta. I was too young to remember what happened, but we didn't make it there. Not just our family, but a whole bunch of Romanian and Hungarian immigrants. We got rerouted somehow.

No one spoke English, see. The assholes running the trains thought we were just a bunch of filthy slives and didn't give a shit. We ended up being dumped off in Ontario here in Elgin County at a train station that was located near fuckall. No money, couldn't speak the language, nowhere to go. Abandon. We didn't even know where the hell. hell in Canada we were. And to top it off, it was all late autumn, getting cold.

We lived in old train cars, junked sleeping cars. Some of the older folks and younger kids died that winter. Holy shit, I whispered. I had no idea. Henry looked me in the eye. His gaze had weight. Thankfully, our families survived. No one froze or starved.

This was the dirty 30s. and there won't any social programs like nowadays. I've for a bunch of peasant dirt farmers from across the pond anyway. He was decided that the able-bodied men and older boys leave, try to find work somewhere, either on foot or hitching right on a train. Never heard from a lot of them, but after a while, money started finding his way back to us, finally. Some German women from a church found out about us,

and they started coming out with food and clothes as often as they could, too. We got by He lit another smoke He offered me one but I didn't want it Problem was we were stuck Six or so families Nowhere to go and no money to go nowhere with Just surviving on what little money came back to us

Trapped in the woods Picking wild berries Stealing ears of feed corn The police left us alone We were no bother no one really They sure didn't help us either. The winter came again. Fucking rough, I ventured.

He snorted. Cold. So cold. It's hard to keep a tin box heated with a makeshift wood stove made out of a barrel. We were hungry. Snow was bad. The church lays were having a hard time getting out to see us. Same with getting the money of the men wired to town. I think it was St. Thomas. Pretty far away, no vehicle and lots of snow.

Anyway, it was a desperate situation. Henry stopped to open a beer. His big, bony old laboring hands was shaking a bit. Awful thing for a kid. I was five that winter. And I was the one. Saw one of the things first. I waited.

He sipped his beer. I could remember that it was right about duh. I was outside our family's train car going pee. The light was going dim and red on the snow. I finished peeing and looked up, and there was a little boy who had died the winter before. He was standing there at the rear of the car. I could see his face in the dying light okay, and it was that little Hungarian boy.

Only now his skin was gray and blue, and his eyes were modeled and red, modeled and red and black and yellow patches of rot. The boys' clothes were ragged and hanging from them. They were filthy. You smiling. His teeth were all black. I screamed and ran up into the car and told everyone what happened. Your grandma slapped me up solid.

Called me a dumb cuff. Told me to never tell stories and scare everyone shitless. She asked me what would happen if the little boy's poor mother who heard me saying horrible things like that for attention. I kept crying that it was true and she beat the tar out of me for. I just stared at him. My jaw was probably on the floor. What?

I said. I was incredulous, of course. Uncle Henry is getting up there in years. He continued as if he hadn't heard me. The next day, Ma and some of the other women went out to collect firewood. Your dad was in charge of his being the oldest boy there. He was ten maybe. He believed me probably because I'd just been shitting my britches and terror over it.

He was still young enough to believe in stuff like that. He told your aunts to wait there. We went to the boy's grave. We had bullshitted ourselves into believing that we were going to cut the monster boy's head off with your dad's pocket knife and save the day. It had a crucifix etched onto the wood handle, so it made sense to us that the knife was blessed or something stupid like that. I was scared,

but I wanted to be brave and impress my big brother. I guess I just tried to forget how it had looked at me with a dead, skinny face. I felt safe with your dad, too, because he was 10. Ten seemed pretty old to me.

Despite myself, I was on the edge of my seat. I asked for another cigarette. He lit it for me with his big, tarnished zippo, and lit himself another two. There was a big clearing. Kind of a field around where we camped out and all the junk rail cars. Around that there was bush and gullies and the railroad tracks that ran out in the woods,

through the field, and back into the woods again. We started a graveyard in the spring, as far away from the camp as possible. Buried the dead from the winter before. I remember they were wrapped in old potato sacks and they stank. Jesus, I muttered. When we got there, we expected to see a big hole. clawed through the snow in front of one of the grave markers or something. But the snow was smooth as could be from the blowing wind.

We didn't have before thought to bring something to try to dig with either, so we went back home and your dad ended up slapping me for being a liar. I remember your grandma getting back and it started to snow again real hard. We had some thin, nasty tasting soup, and us kids all got put down to bed. Grandma went out to bring us some more wood. She came back without any wood really fast, jumped into the pile of blankets with us kids. She was shaking. Your Aunt Marta asked her what was wrong and Ma hissed us to be quiet.

I knew it was out there and I started to cry. I think we all were. Not knowing what to say to this, I got off the mower and grabbed another beer. Early in the morning I woke up cold and hungry. It was pretty dark out and I had to pee. I kind of snuck up to the door. There was a bunch of tarp and hides hung up against the opening. Sort of heavy curtain.

I pulled it back and peaked. It was light out enough that I could see figures out there, different sizes. They were just sort of wandering around. But they weren't sinking into the snow. Like they weighed nothing. They looked like they were searching for something, but didn't know where to look. I didn't want to see more, so I ran and hid back into blankets. All the grown-ups had a meeting the next day.

Others had seen the things the night before, too. Dead family members walking around aimlessly. There was a feeling of panic in the air. In the old country, there's no shortage of tales about the dead walking. There was a long time ago, a different time. People from a different place. They believed what their eyes had seen. It was clear we had to leave.

It was snowing too hard still to hope to get anywhere. so they decided to cram everyone into a few of the cars and waited out together. It was cramped as a bitch, but at least it was warmer than usual. We felt safer. That lasted till night came. When night came, we heard noises and the wind. Voices. They were groaning and shrieking.

Sometimes there'd be a bang against the side of the car. No one said a word. We had barricaded the door the best we could and no one looked. looked at it. We all just looked at each other in the candlelight and tried not to fucking scream. Oh, like hell, I thought. But I saw the stony resolution in old Henry's face and he said nothing. This was a confession. He'd never said a word of any of this to anyone before, probably. None of them have, I'll bet. This is a story that's never been shared at Christmas, that's for sure. I wonderfully even remember those were still alive. Too young

at the time or they just don't want to remember being huddled in the cold as something awful looked for them outside. I got goose flesh at this image. No, whatever this was, it wasn't an outright lie. The morning came and the snow had petered out. We all left for the train station that had been our first and last stop into Canada. It was, I don't know, a long ways away. The snow was deep and it took a long time. Came in and we wouldn't leave. There's language barrier to lot of yelling. The German women came and the cops came and after some time we were taken to a shelter in Vienna, basement of a church. He lapsed into silence and the only sound in a bar and heard for a long moment was his labored rattling breath. I can't

remember much more than that. I was just a squirt. It was a long time ago. He stood straight up painfully and I looked at his watch. Fuck it. Lunchtime's close to Enough, let's go to the house and surely he'll fix you something to eat. He flicked his butt onto the dirt floor and crushed it out, and with his gesture I knew that the tale was done. There'd be no further discussion. So, here I sit. Three in the morning.

I should be in bed. But I know that when I turn off the light, close my eyes, I'll see a little boy, the dead complexion standing in the snow, and the dying sunlight will be. glinting in his rotting eyes. He'll smile at me and step forward to greet me. And I'll just end up coming back down here

until it gets light outside anyway. In our final tale, we meet a man who fancies himself a true aficionado of the horror genre. His presence online and in the theaters has allowed him to be familiar with many of the world's most disturbing films. However, as author Thomas Thompson describes, when he receives a strange invitation to a late-night movie screening, he is drawn into a nightmare worse than anything he's ever seen on the screen. I'll read for you the tale of that night, down at the budget cinema.

I am a horror junkie through and through. While most of my friends gravitate towards different genres of film, I am firmly in favor of terrifying movies. Horror is the perfect genre. The good is good, and the bad is, well, good in my opinion. From Argento to Ty West, I have seen it all and made my opinion known online. I frequent horror sites as well as peruse the horror forum on Reddit, always looking for that new thrill. What I have discovered in light of the events that I am about to unfold is that my thirst for the macabre begins and ends with celluloid. It all began with an email I received last Tuesday.

My inbox is full of offers and spam from the various horrors. sites that I have registered with. However, something about this email stood out. It was so effectively creepy and off the wall that it immediately piqued my interest. It went like this. Your is welcome to come to 2486, Dear Lacht Lane. I, director of Vane Death, will screen my new movie. And be a question answers.

Features are meaning. Life is propagation of blood. Blood is best. Blood is good and blood is all. Life force and want subjugate themselves to willpower and the letting. Next Thursday at midnight. Sincere Petru Piclia. This email blew my mind on many accounts.

Right off the bat, I knew that address. That cinema had shut down years ago. When I was a child, it was the budget cinema for my area. It used to play movies that had left theaters but had not quite made it onto VHS yet. But also, it would frequently. have festivals, namely, horror festivals would screen there when I was too young to secure a ticket. Also, the awful grammar and bizarre nature of the email made me excited that I was going to see something new and different. Given the name of the director, which I googled to no avail, I was expecting some warped Eastern European shit la a Serbian film.

I talked to all of my friends, and none were interested. Forwarding the email to many of them had the opposite effect I had intended. They pointed out how weird the whole thing was, and that the theater had shut down years ago. Also, they mentioned how there was no trace of this guy anywhere on the internet. Despite their protests, I was too intrigued to not go, which in... Retrospect was the worst decision of my life. I drove to the theater two days ago by myself, arriving promptly at 1150. I immediately began to regret my decision.

The theater was in a very secluded area of my town. It was a small oasis of concrete in the middle of a heavily forested area. As I pulled up to the theater, I was immediately alarmed by the lack of vehicles in the lot. I was literally the only car pulling into the parking lot. As I exited my vehicle, I surveyed the entrance to the theater. It seemed abandoned. It was pitch black inside.

It was abundantly clear that it hadn't been maintained in years. This all added to the creepy ambiance I was hoping for that. evening, but something about this really screamed foul. I turned to return to my car. That's when the lights turned on in the cinema. I decided to go through with it. My curious nature was getting the better of me as I strolled up to the seemingly neglected building. I was almost surprised that the door gave way emitting an ominous creak as it provided me entrance. I entered to find the box office abandoned. Confusion began to set in until I saw that the marquee on Theater 1 was illuminated.

Letters were arranged above the theater to indicate that vain death was indeed screening in there. I was hoping to buy some popcorn, having not eaten that evening. But there was nothing but cobwebs manning the concession stand. I convinced myself that the abandoned cinema look was all a part of the ambiance that the theatre was trying to establish for this screening. I entered Theatre One. Inside I saw it was empty and sparsely lit. I took a seat in the back and marveled again at the lack of maintenance therein.

This place could really use a renovation, I considered. Then I surmise that this place must exist exclusively to screen obscure horror films, and that the mood was definitely set by its current condition. I looked around the dark theater to realize I was the only one seated in the auditorium. Then the film began, the addition of the faint light emanating from the room. the screen informed me that I wasn't alone. A man in a black suit entered the auditorium and took a seat in the front row. I assumed this was the director and actually pitied him, since only one person had attended the screening of his film that he must have worked so hard on. Not that I was

expecting previews or a cavalcade of production companies to begin the film, but my thoughts scattered as the movie started almost immediately after a brief countdown. The movie... It began with a stationary shot and no setup whatsoever. It was of a camera sitting in the corner of a bedroom, pointed toward a man and a woman having a conversation. My immediate thought was that the sound quality on this movie was abysmal. This is an understatement.

I had to focus as hard as I could to make out what was being said. To say I understood a quarter of the words spoken is being generous. Also, the film quality was extremely subpar, and the positioning of the camera was way too far away from the action, as well as out of focus. It was jarring to say the least to see such shoddy filmmaking, but I gave the director the benefit of the doubt. This could be the mood he was trying to invoke,

a grainy and poorly mixed film. The conversation between the man and the woman, well, at first I could barely glean their gender by their voices combined with the grainy and out-of-focus images on the screen. Went on and on. Due to the poor quality of the sound, I could barely understand what was being said. The woman seemed to be sufficiently scared from what I could gather.

She mentioned ropes, which queued me into the fact that she may be tied to the chair. About five minutes in, I could hear a baby crying. I noticed that there was what could be part of a crib in the opposite corner of the room. As boredom began to set it. in, I noticed that the figure in black had moved a couple rows backwards in the theater. It was too dark to be sure, but I was convinced he was staring at me intently. The conversation continued with the camera remaining stationary. The few words I could make out were actress, movie, amateur, and blood.

Lots of mentions of blood. It was the only thing I could be 100% sure of. Then, the man in the film picked up the camera and moved it closer. As he set it down, he brought it into focus. Things began to become more clear, both visually and orally. If anything, now the sound was too loud. The woman was in absolute hysterics, and the baby's screaming, screaming,

reached through the speakers. The man's voice was clearly foreign, with a heavy Eastern European accent. The shot now just contained the woman as she sat next to the crib, now clearly occupied by a baby. At first I thought, wow, what a great actress. But looking into her eyes, the horror of the situation truly began to dawn on me. This was not acting. At the same time, I couldn't help but notice that the other denizen of the theater was now sitting two rows in front of me.

His eyes intently staring at me as the action unfolded on screen. The woman began to plead for her baby's life. She repeated that she never signed up for this. She screamed that she was not an actress. The man took the seat next to her. As her cries began to sink in, the veracity of her emotional pleas chilled me to the bone. The man reached into his pocket and grabbed a razor.

In one swift movement, he sliced the woman's throat. Blood began to pour profusely from the woman's neck. The man reached in and began to lick the blood gushing from the gaping wound in her neck as he erotically rubbed it all over his now naked person. He stood over her fading body and began to aggressively punch her in the face as the camera couldn't help but capture the man's now bloody and erect penis. The horror I was experiencing, was indescribable, but reached unimaginable heights by what I witnessed next.

The man, naked and covered in blood from head to toe, from the now clearly deceased woman, grabbed the baby from the crib. He held it longingly and gazed into its perfectly innocent eyes and kissed it on the forehead. In one fell swoop, the man grabbed the infant by its legs and swung it around while moving off camera. Until my dying day, I will be thankful I did not see the baby's head make contact with the brick wall. But the sound is indelible and will remain with me forever. It was the unmistakable pop and crackle of a bone brinkle. breaking, followed by a slight hissing noise, which I could only assume was pressure,

allowing the brain to exit its formerly sound sanctuary. The horror of all this had kept me glued to my seat, and my unwavering eyes staring at the massacre playing out on screen. As I finally brought my gaze down to see where the other man in the theater was, He was nowhere to be found. I couldn't help but look back up towards the screen to see the man covered in blood and brain matter approaching the camera with unblinking eyes.

His gaze was incredibly blank, but had the unmistakable taint of insanity and indifference. Evil. That is when I felt the breath on the nape of my neck. I turned around to see the man in the theater was the same person on the screen. Wordlessly, he stared at me with those same depraved eyes. His eyes, alive and wanton. He reached over the seat and began to place something in my shirt pocket. I was literally frozen in place. Too frightened to me.

move or react. Beholden to my fear, I accepted whatever he placed in my pocket. He quickly exited the theater, and I was left alone. As the movie remained in the same stationary shot, as the murderer had seemingly left the scene, I decided I was going to get the fuck out of there. I made a beeline from the lobby, out the entrance, and... into my car. I didn't have the courage to read the note the director had put in my pocket until I got home.

It reads, I am happy you enjoy my film. Shooting of my next feature, Vane Death 2, begin at 8 p.m. Saturday. For movie to be real, I appreciate having amateur actors and look forward to working with you. Blood is good. Blood is God.

Right now, it's 7.54. Our sleepless tales have come to an end. Thanks for sharing the darkness of the night with us. Join us again in two weeks' time when we unleash. more disturbing tales designed to afflict your night with no sleep. To continue your sleepless experience, visit the no sleeppodcast.com.