The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E13

Episode Date: October 21, 2012

It’s lucky episode 13 of Season 2 of The Nosleep Podcast! The episode features five stories about mysterious visitors, creepy cemetaries, and tormented youngsters.This episode features these stories:5:19 written and read by Mark Copeland – (Redditor XIIIm).Echoes from the Claverhouse Emails series (Redditor ClaverhouseEmails) and read by James Cleveland (Redditor tseotet).Animal Control written by David Burks (Redditor sunshinepunch) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).Apartment 1702 written by Stephen Yiu (Redditor virus_eater) and read by Chris Eddleman (Redditor TalksAtYou).Daddy Found A New Family written by Jeremiah Knopp (Redditor knopppp) and read by David Cummings. 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 13 of season two. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you this time, featuring mysterious visitors, creepy cemeteries, and tormented youngsters. This episode's final tale reminds us that Halloween is right around the corner.

And with it comes the second annual Halloween episode of the No Sleep Podcast. We've got a fully packed bonus episode for you this year. So make plans to settle in for some spooky stories after the trick-or-treaters have gone to bed. The episode will be coming out, appropriately enough, right on Halloween, Wednesday, October 31st. So don't forget to check the website, or however you get your podcasts delivered to you, for the Halloween bonus episode. It's my Halloween treat to all our listeners to celebrate the scariest night of the year. Now, on with the show. Our first story is a quintessential tale for this podcast.

It's about a young man who experiences a sleepless night. Getting no sleep during those long, dark hours, allows him to have some very strange encounters. Author Mark Copeland reads his own story about what he experienced when the clock read 519. If you were to ask any member of my small family, if they believed in ghosts or the supernatural, any one of them, apart from me, would tell you that there is no such thing. However, all of them, every single one of them, have stories.

Stories they cannot rationally explain. Faces looking on them. People who will say powerful things and then vanish. their name being called aloud when they were alone. Objects that were long lost or even destroyed appearing in the most ordinary of places. These are only a few descriptions of the many stories my family has passed down to me.

However, I have stories of my own as well. 5.19 a.m. I remember this time specifically because, during the winter here in Texas, this time arrives roughly 20 minutes. minutes before the sunrise. I remember distinctly because I so eagerly wanted the sun to come up. The sun gives me an odd sense of security. I'm not afraid of the dark. I never have been, but for some reason the sun being up always gives me a sense of undeserved comfort. On this

particular night, I was having massive problems sleeping, so I just stayed up all night, painting and watching TV quietly in my room. After a while, though, I started to feel bad. I no longer wanted to do anything. I wasn't tired, not anymore, but painting lost my interest and I began to just stare at the TV screen idly. The air around me seemed dense and cold. I felt somewhat nauseous. Hours passed this way.

It was now 4 a.m. and the channel I had been watching had switched to the long infomercials. Being too apathetically sick to change the channel, I decided subconsciously that I would continue to mildly suffer the pains of listening to the Australian man explained the magic bullet food processor to me for the third time in a row. Until I heard a huge bang from the living room. Still feeling a bit ill, I walked into the living room. and instinctively looked into my guinea pig's cage. She had kicked her water bottle off of her cage in her sleep, and it had slammed onto the floor.

I stood in the darkness, now in complete silence. I listened. Instead of stumbling back to my warm bed, I stood in the cold darkness, and I listened, as if my body had shut down, all but my ears. A small sound arose in the distance,

the only noise distinguishable from that faint ringing in my ears. At the time, I actually thought it sounded like chickens squawking and chirping softly. The sound grew nearer and more distinguishable, as if the sound itself was taking a stroll down the sidewalk that runs through the park behind my house. This sidewalk also winds around from the park to the front of my home. At this point, the sound became recognizable to me. It was not chicken squawking. It was the sound of cats meowing and dogs growling.

And it was growing nearer and nearer. The clock would have read around 5.16 a.m. I followed the noise through my house to the places it was most audible. A realization struck me. It was definitely traveling along the sidewalk aside my house. I lightly jogged to my front door to make sure it was locked. it was locked, jiggling the lock just to make sure I looked up. What I saw was incredibly strange.

It was an older man in a suit. He had, on several leashes, a series of cats and dogs. He tottered down the walkway to each house, making sure he checked every front window. Then what I had dreaded occurred. He reached the end of that side, and was now working his way down my side. side of the street. The clock turned to 5.19 a.m. as I watched his shadow move from the house beside me towards mine. Now, I'm not like people you see in movies. I wasn't curious enough to stick around. I walked fast in my room and kept low until I got there. Then I proceeded

to huddle a blanket around me like a sissy girl, trying my best to pretend nothing had happened. Eventually I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, I instantly asked my family if they had heard anything the night before. Of course, none of them did, so I decided to half explain the noises I had heard, meowing, growling, etc. My grandfather eventually came to the conclusion that what I had heard were just some coyotes that had probably found a rather tasty meal. I nodded my head. Yeah, coyotes. When a person leads a less than exemplary life, it's easy to make enemies.

With any luck, you can steer clear of the people you have wronged. The last thing you would want is to be around those people all the time, with no means of escape. This story comes from the Claverhouse email series and is read by James Cleveland, who explains that sometimes life comes around again in the four of the fours. of echoes. Tuesday. So of course, Billy fucking Brannigan's here.

Sitting there with his dopey head or caved in. He goes on and on and on and we're the best of mates or something. Idiot. He's one of those people that have a... thought comes into his head, it comes straight out of his mouth, so I get this stream of consciousness crap from him for hour after hour. Poor bastard doesn't even know he's dead. Red morning light spills into my room and across my bed, getting into my eyes so I can't get back to sleep.

Could with Billy rambling on again anyway. Looks like the day started then. Just got to wait it out as usual. The TV flicks on automatically at 9. Some shitty game show or something. Billy laps it up. I can't tell which is more annoying. Billy snorting and braying with laughter

or the stupid show itself. Still, at least it stopped him telling me the donkey story. Again, I've lost count of how many times he's told me that damn story. And it wasn't even funny the first time. Ten o'clock, and the nurse comes. Checks my bedpan. Gets me in my chair and wheels me off to the day room. She's just as bad as Billy, prattling on about nothing the entire time.

I'd kill her if I could. Passing the bathrooms and the guy in the tan trench coats is there again, pacing up and down, dripping water everywhere from his sudden clothes. He stops pacing and glares at me as I roll by, giving me his usual hate-filled stare. Never says a word that one, just paces and glowers with his cold lifeless eyes. Looks like a mean bastard, though. Truth be told, I don't remember him at all. I suppose he must have drowned or something.

Anytime there's water around, he's there. Probably deserved it, the fucker. The day room is another circle of hell. More decrepit worn-out wrecks arranged around little tables, all facing the television set in the... the corner. Stinks of piss and the heating is cranked up so high it's like being in a sauna. Don't get a hold. Just don't. They say it creeps up on you slowly. Like hell it does. Didn't with me anyway. Hit me like a ton of bricks. Yeah.

Your bones start to ache a bit and you get tired quick. But that's all stuff you can fight against. And I was always a fighter. No, one morning you just wake up and something goes pop in your head. And suddenly your body isn't yours anymore. Like a puppet with its strings cut. A stroke, they call it. That's a laugh.

A stroke. More like a fucking hand grenade in the skull. Bye-bye, body. Bye-bye. Christ, some idiots put the football on. And sure enough, now the kids here again. Standing in the corner like a naughty little boy. He's the only one I really feel bad about.

He doesn't look too bad from here. You can barely see the slit in his suit where the knife went in. Just looks a bit pale. And the stain could be wine or ketchup or something. Poor little bastard. That's when they started arriving. After the stroke, I mean, after there was nothing I could do about it. I've lived a life, you see.

You won't find many like me in this world, that's for damn sure. Anything I wanted, I took, and anything that was in my way, well, let's just say that obstacles never stood in my way for long. People had a habit of disappearing around me if I couldn't find a use for them. Never expected the fuckers to come back, though. They follow me around like lost little ducklings now. You want to hear the torrents of abuse I get from some of them. The wife's the worst. The second one, I mean.

It's late at night, she comes. after everyone else is asleep and I start feeling a bit amorous like. Back when we shared the same bed, I used to wake her up at times like these and have my wicked way with her. But now she just sits and screams and balls at me, her cleanly cut throat gibbering like a second mouth. So, this. This is my life now. All the life I have left to me, tormented by all these schmucks when there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Life sure has a keen sense of humor. Unlike Billy fucking Branigan. Two o'clock in the afternoon and the nurse wheels me back to my room and points me at the window. Billy acts like I'm his long-lost brother he hasn't seen for years. And before long he's off on the damn donkey story again. The urban sprawl of big cities usually means that local wildlife ends up coexisting with the citizens. But when those critters become pests, it's time to call the experts to trap and release them somewhere else. Author David Burks writes about a favorite release spot at a small

out-of-the-way cemetery and the rather unsettling encounter had there while working as parts of animal control. I work as an animal control officer in the North Texas area. It wasn't the job I had in mind when I graduated with my bio degree, but then again I'm not really sure what I was what I had in mind. The pay is better than any of the entry-level lab tech jobs in the area, and it kept me working with animals. That's important, considering I want to apply to vet school. Experience can be that dividing factor that separates you from a horde of highly qualified, highly intelligent hopefuls that would do anything for a spot in the next freshman class. That said, I admit to feeling overqualified for my position, and it leaves me feeling

as if I have something to prove to the world. There are times when I want to shout, I have a degree, I worked hard, I made great grades. These times seem to mostly coincide with the more demeaning aspects of my job. example, when I find myself preparing to peel the meaty, smudged remains of an opossum from the road. With a little effort, I swallow my pride, hold my breath, and manage to deprive some poor buzzard of a decent meal. The key to retaining my sanity has been daydreaming.

Since a large portion of my job revolves around service calls for the key to retaining my sanity. for the public. I spend a large portion of my day behind the wheel. This has provided me with an excellent setting for daydreaming. When the morning rush of requests subsides just enough to afford a good half hour of quiet, I head towards one of the several nature preserves sprinkled throughout the city. The routine is always the same. I gently nudge the truck over a curb, center my wheels on the haphazard trail leading into the woods, and guide my truck and whatever inhabitants I've picked up that morning towards my favorite spot, which just happens to be next to an old forgotten cemetery.

A couple of my coworkers had first shown me the place. It's one of our release points, where we take the raccoons, opossums, and we take the raccoons, opossums, and squirrels desperate enough to gamble with a box trap and lose. I can only imagine what the ecosystem is like in this little remnant of wilderness nestled between the parking garages and multi-story buildings of civilization. It's steadily fed by a city of residents, silly enough to believe they might one day collectively trap every single member of the urban wildlife. Animals, that, simply put, evolved to coexist with humans and put to use the plethora of wasted food one can find in your average garbage bin.

This is what my older co-workers call job security. The cemetery had nothing to do with making the place my daydreaming getaway. In Texas, you'll find places like these everywhere. complete with their very own historical marker. If anything, the cemetery was a blemish on an otherwise perfect truck accessible oasis. On this particular day, I had just slid from the cab and started for the cages of the truck. The day was nothing special, humid and stale. It was when I first started reaching to unlock the cages that I heard the wind.

whispering. Interspersed throughout the whispering were giggles. The giggles were a stark contrast to the hushed, almost angry inflection of this whispering. But it was apparent that both were coming from the same source. Looking around, I tried to make out the origin of the sounds. Failing to identify my voyeur from my current vent. point, I started around the rear of the truck. On the other side was the cemetery, currently blocked from view by the enormity of the truck.

It seemed almost too easy, too cliche, ghostly whispering coming from a cemetery. I swung around the rear. There sat the little cemetery, undisturbed and, if anything, looked. less imposing than ever. What tombstones remained jutted from the ground like neglected teeth, and the chain-link fence that surrounded them sat motionless in the muggy summer air. I strained my ears to hear the whispering more clearly. I couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from, but I knew it had to be close. I couldn't make out the words, and it sounded. It sounds like to be It sounded as though the person speaking was trying to talk to me through a wall.

Almost like hearing a radio being played loudly through the closed windows of a car. I instinctively shot a glance towards the cab of the truck. Now, on the passenger side of the cab, having made my way around to get a clear view of the cemetery, I directed my gaze to the passenger window. From my current angle at the rear of the truck, all I could make out was a bare arm resting on the sill behind the tinted glass of the cab. My pulse quickened, and I felt my nerves begin to fray as a series of rapid impulses clouded my brain. Scream, run, look away, don't look away, call for help. I slowly reached my belt, feeling for the smooth plastic of the walkie-talkie that connected me to the shelter and, by proxy, to the police.

There had been rumors of homeless people using the area to congregate, sleep, do drugs, and whatever else homeless people find themselves doing. And I wasn't feeling very sociable. I brought the walkie up to my mouth. and began to push in the talk button on the side. Before I could, a loud bang to the left sent the Waki flag and broke my previously unyielding gaze on the cab. It was one of the truck's cages, and I watched as the solid plastic door concealing the cage

began to rattle with each successive hit from within. A quick mental checklist of my morning collection yielded two opossil, and a squirrel, and whatever was behind that cage door had to be one of them. The banging on the cage gave way to a horrible screech. Indescribable in its agony, it was beyond animalistic. Simultaneously pathetic and terrifying, it was as if whatever animal inside was beyond being tortured to death. I stumbled backwards from the cab, absent-mindedly kicking the walkie into the grass behind me. Looking back towards the passenger window, I saw her face.

Even behind the tinted glass, I couldn't help but notice how pale she was. Practically leaning into the window now, her hands pressed against the clear barrier. She had an almost translucent. nature to her skin. Red shoulder-length hair framed her pale face. Her mouth was twisted upwards into a ridiculous grin. It was not the grin of a human. The proportions were all wrong. It was as if I were staring at a living caricature. And as I felt my heart speed up, It seemed as though the smile grew larger, swallowing up her face, eating into the area where her cheeks should be, larger and larger, until just teeth and black and the increasingly pinched lids of her eyes as her cheek bones pushed higher and higher to accommodate a smile that will never leave my subconscious. When I snapped awake, it had been a full hour from when I originally popped the curb to my midday hideaway.

I was sitting behind the wheel of the truck, and I pulled myself upwards towards it. My sweaty back peeled off the leather of the seat, and for a few wonderful seconds, I remembered nothing. Then, without warning, a barrage of memories flooded my mind. Visions of rattling cages, screaming animals, and a smile to end all smiles. I shuddered, thankful that it was just a nightmare. I slid from the cab and began opening the cage doors. The cool air escaping the room. The air-conditioned cages licked at my face.

With a little urging, I watched as two opossums and one very impatient squirrel darted for the nearest line of trees. Wherever they were going, I'm sure it was better than the dark, shaky bowels of an animal services truck. Locking the cages shut, I started making my way towards the driver's side door when I heard it. Whispering, I felt my lungs seized their contents, depriving me of breathing. My voice buckled, and I heard myself whimper.

The horrific images of my nightmare came roaring back, and my body became as still as the jagged little tombstones that littered the adjacent cemetery. The whispering came again. Unlike the whispering of my dream, this was coming in bursts. Working up every single ounce of courage within my body, I slowly turned towards the source of the sound. There, sitting in a patch of weeds, just a few feet from me, sat my walking. Living in a high-rise apartment means you get used to riding the elevators

on a daily basis. When three young friends decide to take a ride on one during a neighborly party, the elevator ends up taking them to the last place they'd ever hoped to be. Author Stephen You has his tale read by Chris Edelman, who describes the journey up to Apartment 1702. When I was 10 years old, I lived in an apartment building that was rather special. While there were normal elevators that opened up outside an apartment, in some of them, there were card readers that provided you had a functioning card, would take you to your floor

and open up inside your apartment. There were three homes to each floor, and so there were three elevators, but I won't get into that. But essentially, the only way you could get into a room with those elevators was if you had your apartment's card. Mom never failed to remind me of this, probably brought on by the fact that I never remembered to grab it when we went out. The night before our family moved away from the area, our friends hosted a party for us by the complex's swimming pool. Just as the parents were breaking out the wine and had settled into comfortable conversation,

Adam, Brett, and I decided that we wanted to get a gigantic floating bed from Adam's apartment, which was 1802 on the 18th floor. We got into the elevator, scanned Adam's card, and laughed about how cold it was being in the building after getting out of the water. We grabbed the float without incident, and Brett and I got into the elevator while Adam turned off the lights. Suddenly, as I was holding the open button, the elevator beeped three times,

and its doors slowly began to slow. slide shut. What's going on? Brett asked, and I shook my head in confusion as my finger jabbed at the unresponsive button. Clang! We could hear Adam yelling and protest beyond the metal walls, but the door wouldn't open. We yelled back that we would get back to the first floor and meet him there. He agreed and went out the door of his house to take one of the normal elevators.

Brett, looking slightly uncomfortable, pressed the one button. It didn't work. As we stood there shivering, the lights in the elevator switched off without even a flicker, and the machine emitted a sighing sound, as if shutting off. We were alone in the dark. Then something on the panel blinked to life. I sighed in relief, but looking closer, I noticed it wasn't the one button. It was 17.

It had illuminated all by itself. We weren't too concerned, as people on other floors did need to use the elevator after all. Until B suddenly remembered that nobody lived on the 17th floor in 1702, and no one had in the last decade. To our complete and utter horror, we felt the elevator slide downwards. It ground to a halt, and the doors slid open soundlessly into pitch darkness. Brett and I were too terrified to move, and we huddled together in the corner of the tiny compartment. After what seemed like ours, a faint creek echoed out from the darkness,

and the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight, up. I didn't dare look beyond the frame of the metal box, but just as the echo of the creek faded away, there was a louder thump. And then a thick, sticky noise, like the sound of a wet mass being dragged and lifted across a long distance. Thump, drag, thump, drag. The sounds suddenly stopped. Breaking out of his stupor, Brett quickly reached up and began smashing the close button with all his strength. All of a sudden, the sounds, disturbingly near, started up again, faster than before. Just as I heard the sounds round the corner to face the elevator, the door somehow had begun to close. A moldy stench suddenly blasted me full in the face,

and as the doors finally met, something smashed into the impenetrable material from the other side, a slapping sound, immediately recognizable to me as the sound of some kind of flesh on metal. Brett burst into tears, and the elevator seemed to drift downwards. When the doors finally opened, we were met by an irate atom,

demanding to know what we'd been doing without him. He had called the elevator from the first floor to come looking, for us. I shuddered, not wanting to imagine what would have happened if he hadn't. Promising, I'd tell him later, I spent the rest of the night scarcely venturing away from the crowds at the pool. No explanation was offered to me and my friends about that night, despite our questions. Not from our parents, not from the security guard, who had worked there for the last four decades, and least of all from our frightened minds. Eventually, I came to a simple conclusion.

Taking advantage of its emptiness, something evil had taken up residence in Apartment 1702. In our final tale, we meet a teenage boy whose father left him and his family years ago. He lives with his mom and younger sister in a small town. When he starts to notice a series of strange disappearances, he begins to suspect that one of the town's beloved old ladies is behind the mysteries. However, proving his hunch ends up being far more difficult than imagined.

I'll read for you the story from author Jeremiah Knopp, as we see that a father figure might have helped this young boy out. But unfortunately for him, Daddy found a new family. Old Lady Nelson, who lives on 2nd Avenue, is a sweet-looking old lady. She must be in her 90s. She used to teach first grade at Birch Elementary. I think my mom had her for a teacher like a million years ago.

There is something about her that is off to me. No one else seems to think so. She is a beloved member of our community and well received by all. There has never even been the slightest hint of foul play where she is concerned. Still, I can't shake the creepy feeling she gives me. My dad used to say the same thing. That old lady gives me the creeps, he said. That was before he and mom divorced, and he left.

us to have another family. At first, he still saw us all the time, and then he moved, and mom said he found another family. That was when she was pregnant with Courtney a long time ago. We never hear from him now. I try not to think about it. It won't make him come back. Anyway, my best friend Leo thinks I'm crazy. He loves old ladies.

Lady Nelson, always has. She bakes giant chocolate chip cookies for Halloween and every other occasion. They are really good. I can't argue with that. I even used to like her myself. She used to substitute teach for us when we were little. I thought at first that she was going to be one of those subs who had no idea what was going on, and who was glad just to get through the day alive. I was wrong. She is super intelligent and creative. By the end of that first day, I wished she was our permanent teacher.

She took us on a nature hike and taught us the names of all the trees and how to identify them by their leaves and bark. Also, she taught us what poison ivy and oak looked like. and I'm sorry, but that is valuable information for a six-year-old who lives in southeastern Ohio. Then, at snack time, she handed out her amazing chocolate chip cookies and read us where the wild things are. We couldn't wait for our teacher to take another day off. We were devastated if they gave us a different sub, and I'm afraid we didn't act real great for them.

One night, though, when I was 15, I was walking home from Leo's house around 10 o'clock, and I spotted Mrs. Nelson out behind Nick Jeffers' house. I swear it looked like she was at his window. It freaked me out a little. For one thing, why would she be out that late at night by herself? For another, why at Nick's house? And why the heck would she be looking in his window? It was creepy.

I told my mom when I got home because I was, well, creeped out, and I thought maybe someone should check on Mrs. Nelson to make sure she wasn't losing it or something. Mom told me not to worry that she would go check on Mrs. Nelson, and she did. When she got back home, she said Mrs. Nelson was at home watching the news and said she had not been outside at all that evening. I tried to forget about it, and I almost did, until Nick went missing two weeks later. Nick was a goth kid. No one liked him that much, and I don't think he had a lot of friends.

The police searched for him for weeks. It's still an open case. Everyone thinks he ran away. I'm not so sure about that. It's been a year now, and no one has heard from him. He would have called his parents by now. The next time I saw Mrs. Nelson after that, she looked at me a lot. Not in an evil way, just looked.

I looked back at her. I mean, really looked for once, into her eyes. They were blue, and they crinkled around the edges from smiling a lot. you could see the spark of intelligence in them. It was like she was old, but her inside was still young. I couldn't help but smile. Then she smiled back at me, and a chill went up my spine. I have not been able to shake it since.

Two months ago, a little girl by the name of Jody Spencer went missing. Middleport is not that big of a town. and now we have two people missing in just under a year. That seems excessive to me. She was playing in the park next to her house, and her mom said that she went to answer the phone, and when she came back, her daughter wasn't anywhere to be found.

They still haven't found her. The thing is that I saw Mrs. Nelson with Jody a couple days before she disappeared. They were at the library. I know it's not proof of anything, but it sure makes me wonder. Well, it's two weeks until Halloween. My friend Leo is having a kick-ass party on Friday night at his farm. Can't wait. They're having trick-or-treat on Thursday, which is perfect since I have to walk my little sister around.

It would have sucked to miss half the party just because of that. Although I kind of like taking Courtney around. She's a cool little kid. I think I made her into a wise ass. She's like my sidekick. Trick or treating. It's tame nowadays, compared to when my friends and I used to go. The kids just go around and get treats.

They don't soap windows or scare people or anything. Lame. Hey, Matt, says Courtney. Yeah, Cort. I reply. Can we go up to Mrs. Nelson's house, please? she asks. Nah, let's don't, kid. There's plenty of houses right here, I say. You chicken? she asks, knowing that I'd not take that lightly.

Man, you little punk, I taught you well, didn't I? I say, rolling my eyes and sighing. Yep, she says. Oh, hell, okay, we'll walk up there. She better give me a cookie, too, for all the walking, I say. We walk up Mrs. Nelson's quarter-mile driveway, and when we get to the house, all the lights are out. You gotta be shitting me, I say, disgusted that I let the little rat juke me into this in the first place. I guess she's not home, huh? Courtney says, smiling up at me. I guess not, I say, irritated.

Then I hear a noise from the side of her house. A car door opening? I tell Courtney to stay right where she is, and I walk around the side. Mrs. Nelson is dragging something, almost as big as her, across her yard and out of my sight, around the back of the house. I start to yell out to her, but I don't. I turn, grab Courtney by the arm, and start walking very quickly down the driveway and out of sight of the house. What, Matt? What's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost, Courtney says, almost in tears. I guess she could tell how scared I was. I just continued to pull her as quickly as I could until we reached the main avenue where all the other trick-or-treaters were.

Matt, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on? asks Courtney. Hey, little bit, watch your mouth, I say, trying to think clearly about what I had seen. You say it, she reminds me. Yeah, I know that, but you can't. Anyhow, nothing's wrong, just Mrs. Nelson in her underwear, I say, hoping she believes me. You saw Mrs. Nelson in her underwear, she says, dancing around in a circle. Oh, ha, ha.

Now let's get on with the candy. You owe me a Snickers, I say, glad she bought it. All elementary school kids think underwear is hilarious. All you have to do is say the word underwear around them, and you're the funniest man alive. The next day, the town is stunned to find out that another child has come up missing. This time it's a junior high kid, Seth Smith. I don't really know him. I've just heard of him because he's a really good athlete,

and that's about all this town has to do is go to sporting events. If you are a star jock, you're golden around here. Luckily for me, I can run. So I'm behind the football and the basketball guys, but before the baseball and wrestling guys. Right in the middle. And that's cool with me. Something weird is wiggling around in my mind. I can't help thinking about Mrs. Nelson dragging whatever the hell she was dragging.

What was she dragging around in the dark? Man, someone needs to start listening to me. There is something going on around this town. and Mrs. Nelson is my number one suspect. The police are continuing to search for Seth. I have a feeling they aren't going to find him. At the very least, they are more urgent now. They seem to understand that there is a problem.

I talk my uncle Bill into checking out Mrs. Nelson's house. I wait anxiously on the steps of the police station for him to come back and tell me what he found. Nothing? I say in disbelief. Not a thing, Matt. Seriously, what did you think I was going to find? He asked, still thinking I was crazy. I saw her pulling something or someone around her house, I mumble. Screw it. I'll find out for myself what's going on around here.

I'm going to start asking questions. Someone has to have seen good old Mrs. Nelson doing something. weird besides me. So I go home to talk to Courtney. Hey, Midget, got to ask you something, I say. What, she says, rolling over to sit on the edge of her bed? You were friends with Jody Spencer, right? I ask. Yes, she was nice and fun, she says.

Did you ever see Mrs. Nelson around her? I ask. Sure. She's around everyone, she says. No, no, I mean, have you ever seen her single her out? You know, by herself, I ask. Well, let me think. One time at the school book fair, Jody cut her finger, and Mrs. Nelson took her to the nurse's station and put a band-aid on it.

Does that count? She asks. Maybe. Anything else? I ask. Nope, but I did see her at Seth Smith's house. I thought it was a little weird since she was standing at the side of his house all by herself, she says. Really? When? I ask.

Oh, last month at least, she says. I leave Courtney, even more convinced that Mrs. Nelson is involved. If I can link her to Jody somehow, then I'll know for sure. I decided to go over to Mrs. Spencer's house and see if she'll tell me anything. Mrs. Spencer? Uh, hi. I'm Matt Stanley. I wondered if I could ask you a question about Jody, I say, feeling stupid. About Jody? she says.

Yes, ma'am. I just wondered if you saw anyone in the park the day she disappeared, I say. No, I already told the police that there was no one in the park, she says sadly. I hate to ask any more questions, but are you sure you didn't see Mrs. Nelson that day? I ask. No, sweetie, she says, turning to go into her house. She was around a few weeks before, though. I saw her outside the house and said hi to her. She explained, walking back into her house and letting the screen door close behind her. I walked over to the playground to look around.

There was nothing there out of the ordinary, just playground equipment and a few small pieces of trash. I decided to walk around to the homes of the other missing kids and see what I could see. Seth's house was first on my way home. I know from talking to Courtney that Mrs. Nelson was on the side by the driveway when she saw her. I walked over there and started looking around. There was a window on that side, and I looked into it, feeling like a total creeper. It was a bedroom, and judging from all the trophies and sports equipment, it had to be sets. I looked all around on the ground, and there was nothing.

a small footprint, which I already knew about. My uncle told me about the print. It didn't prove anything, they said. So I decided to continue on my way to the next house. When I rounded the corner, though, something caught my eye. A piece of red material was caught in the bush. I picked it out of the bush and put it in my pocket. It was probably nothing, but I kept it anyway.

The next house I came to was Nix. I walked straight over to Nick's bedroom window where I had seen Mrs. Nelson. I looked around and, of course, there was nothing there. Just a yogurt lid. One of the ones my mom saved for Courtney's school. Nothing impressive about that. So I went on home to think some more and eat dinner, hopefully. I was starved.

What have you been up to? today. My mom asks as I walk into the kitchen. I went for a walk around town. I'm trying to figure out what happened to those kids, I admit. The missing children? She asks. Yeah, I have a feeling about who did it, I say. Mom laughed a little and then said, I think the police are a little better equipped to do that, don't you? No, actually, I don't. They haven't found anything yet, have they? I say, a little grumpy.

Oh, well, I guess it couldn't hurt anything, she says. What's for dinner? I ask. Ribs, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob, she answers. Cool. Well, I need to get my bike out of the basement before dinner. I'm just telling you, because I know you don't. don't like me down there with all your painting stuff, I say. That bike has been down there for two years, and you haven't messed with it.

Why now? she asks. I want to start riding it around town. It's good exercise and faster than walking. If I had a car, I say, leaving it fester there. Mm, subtle. Okay, get it, but see. Stay out of my stuff, she says. One time a kid decides to paint a masterpiece and knocks over some paint and you never live it down.

I take off down the stairs and I met with the smells that always waft around down there. It's mustiness, paint, paint thinner, etc. It's not a pleasant smell. I hustle over to my bike so I can get back up the stairs when I know. Notice a red jacket hanging over a chair. I walk over to it and pick it up. I look it all over and notice a tear on the right side near the bottom. I reach into my pocket and pull out the piece of fabric I found at Seths.

I blink my eyes a few times, thinking the fumes must be getting to me. It's the same material. The material. The yogurt lid, and mom works right across the road from the park where Jody was playing. They all knew my mom. They wouldn't be afraid of her. The walls start spinning, and I fall to the ground. I look over and see the shadow of a person at the bottom of the steps.

Oh, Matthew, why couldn't you just let it go? I heard my mom say before I passed out. When I woke up, I was in an all-white room. The light was bright and hurt my eyes. I looked around and saw several large chest freezers and a metal table. There were two doors. I walked over to one and tried to open it. It was locked.

I pounded on it, but it was metal and didn't really make any. noise. I walked over and tried the other. What I found inside was horrifying. There were two bathtubs, and inside them were two human bodies in different rates of liquefaction. The smell was horrific, and I vomited on the floor. I stumble back out of the room. I stand there, my heart racing, and mind spinning. Where the hell am I? What is this place? My mom, did she put me here?

Tears start to roll down my face. I'm panicked and fighting for every breath. I turn and look at the freezers along the wall, and as much as I don't want to know what's in them, I have to know. I walk over to. one and look in it. I'm stunned. Meat, just like you would find in our kitchen freezer. I don't know what to make of it. I walk slowly over to the next one and open the lid. I scream and the lid

slam shot again. Jody! I try to scream again, but nothing comes out. Tears are poor, and snod is running down my face and I don't even care. My mother is a psycho. She killed poor little Jody Spencer. She's really dead. I bite my arm as hard as I can. I feel like I'm going crazy. This cannot be real.

I feel my legs moving, and I see that I'm heading for another. of the freezers, but my mind can't grasp why. I stop at the last freezer and open the lid. No scream this time. No feelings at all. How was I supposed to feel about seeing my dad like that? I guess you didn't find another family.

Did you, Dad? I ask. Giggling. I think I'm in shock and on the verge of hysteria. I giggle some more, although nothing is remotely funny. I know in my heart that I'm going to die, and I know my own mother is going to kill me. You know, I didn't see this coming. Not at all. I honestly thought she loved me. Then a horrible thought hits me. Courtney, how can I leave her alone with Mom? I look at my dad, lying there all blue and freezer burnt.

Then a thought hits me. I reach into the freezer and try to pry my hand into my dad's right front pocket. My heart starts to race as I feel the cold. steel of my dad's pocket knife. I managed to pry it out of his pocket and stand there and look at the knife and my dad. Thanks, Dad, I say. I turn and walk toward the locked door, opening my dad's knife as I go. I put the knife into the lock and try to pick it. After several minutes, I realize that it's not going to work. I stand there looking at the knife and wondering if I will have the strength to stab my mom if I have to. I'm not sure, but for Courtney's sake, I think I can. I sit on the

table and wait. Memories of my dad start flooding through my mind. I knew he wouldn't just leave and find another family. I just knew it. Fresh tears started to fall. I don't care. All my pride is gone. The door opens without warning. I heard no sounds of anyone approaching.

I look at the door and wait for my mom to try to kill me. I hold the knife in my hand by my side, waiting. I'm ready. I know I can do it. Courtney needs me. I keep thinking to myself. After a few seconds, my mom walks in the door. She has no weapons that I can see.

I wonder if she is going to let me live from her son. My dear, sweet boy, how did we get in this mess? Hmm? She says. I have no reply. What can I say? There are literally no words. I want you to know, son, that I'm not going to kill you. I promise, she says.

I sit there, stunned by this information. Is she going to keep me locked in here? She walks over to me. and looks into my eyes. She touches my face. I push her as hard as I can out of my way and head for the door. Just as I think I'm going to get out, in steps, Courtney, shutting the door behind her.

Courtney, no! Now we're stuck in here! I shout. I turn and look over at my mom, who is starting to stir. her. Courtney, sweetie, Mom is having a bad day. We have to stay away from her, I say, trying to help her with the situation. Courtney looks at me and smiles. It's a creepy little smile, one I've never seen from her. I back away from her, suddenly feeling scared of my little sister. I hear my mom starting to get up off the floor. I start to panic again.

I hear the door open, and I look over to see Mrs. Nelson walking through it. I'm confused. Why is she here? I ask myself, what does this mean? Mommy says the women in our family are special. Courtney says. That we are, dear. That we are.

Says Mrs. Nelson. What do you mean? I croak. Aunt Olive, glad you could come, Mom says. I look around at the three of them. The same creepy smile. Mrs. Nelson pulls a large knife out of her purse

and starts walking towards me. It's Courtney's turn, Auntie. Mom says. Oh, yes. Mrs. Nelson says, handing the knife to my baby sister. I look into her eyes and remember the knife in my hand. I watch her walk towards me, holding the huge knife.

She stops in front of me and pulls the knife back. I get ready with mine. I may have to kill them all. I love you, Bobby, she says. as she brings the knife forward. I freeze, knowing I could never kill her. I love you too, kiddo. She stops, caught by my words.

Mommy, I can't do it. My sister cries out. It's okay, hon. It was scary my first time, too. My mom says consolingly. He'll be here when you are ready. I watch as my mom takes her hand and leaves with my aunt, locking the door behind her.

Cold in here. Oh cold. They will be back eventually. Or 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.