The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E15

Episode Date: November 18, 2012

Episode 15 of season 2 features people inking, sinking, and shrinking without blinking in the face of fear.This episode features these stories:Tattoo You written by Molly McDougal (Redditor mollymcdougal) and read by Meghan O'Hara Murray.Elevator Ride written by Leon Chan (Redditor straydog1980) and read by Mark Copeland (Redditor XIIIm).My Friend written by Kenneth F. Field (Redditor fiplefip) and read by Kyle Akers (Redditor the_oswald).Flooded written by Kelsey Donald (Redditor UpUpAndAwake) and read by Brittany Coulter (Redditor stellarbomb).The Woman Holding an Orange written by Milos Bogetic (Redditor inaaace) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone). This story was the winner of the Nosleep Writing Contest for October 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 15 of season two. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you this time. featuring someone inking, another sinking, and others shrinking without blinking in the face of fear.

We have two new narrators joining us this episode. Megan O'Hara Murray and Brittany Colter lend their voices to two tales from a female perspective. Also, our final story in this episode is the winner of the No Sleep Writing Contest for October. I also wanted to send a big thanks to the many people who have been leaving encouraging comments on the website and on Facebook recently. I really do appreciate the support. Now, let's get things started with our first tale. In the midst of grieving a lost brother, a sister decides to honor him by getting a tattoo that he used to have. Author Molly McDougal describes how the tattoo has a much,

deeper connection to her brother than she could have expected. Megan O'Hara Murray reads for us the tale entitled, Tattoo You. When I was 19 years old, I decided to get a tattoo. The year before, my older brother Tripp died in a car accident, and I was still a mess. Tripp and I were what they call Irish twins, born less than a year apart,

and we'd always been secure. We'd always been super close. On the advice of my therapist, I deferred my college admission for a year, but that left me with way too much time to think. I picked up a part-time job, then decided I'd get a few electives out of the way at the local university. One of these was life drawing, and it was there that I saw Robbins work for the first time. I wasn't the only student in the class who gasped out loud.

our model for the night dropped a robe and revealed her stunning back piece. The art was nearly photorealistic in detail, the colors so vivid they seemed to glow from within. The design was gorgeous too, a lush garden that seemed to hum with life, like you could just step right in. At times, I could have sworn it actually moved. That model gave me Robin's name, and added a warning. You should know, this place isn't like most tattoo parlors. Look, you can't just walk in off the street, pick a piece of flash off the wall and have it

on your ass an hour later. She's appointment only, and the first one is just a consultation. She decides which tattoo she wants to do, and if she decides she doesn't want to do yours, that's it. She was right. Robin's shop resembled a day spa, and Robin herself was far from the Cat Von D clone, I'd imagine. She actually looked like one of those super healthy yoga moms. And the weirdest thing of all?

There was an invisible tattoo or piercing on her anywhere. She asked to see my design, and frowned when I repeated Tripp's explanation of what the kanji symbol meant. Um, it's visually similar, but, uh, whoever drew this for you made some serious errors. She picked up a pen and corrected the soul. beside mine with three quick strokes. Um, thanks for fixing it, really, but I want what I brought in, even if it means stupid white skank or something,

although I seriously hope it doesn't. She looked at me curiously. Why? Um, my brother actually had this tattoo. I'm the one who drew it, um, from a photograph of him, so, So, I don't know, maybe I'm the one who messed it up. The thing is, he died last year, and I was your brother a good person. I blinked at the odd question.

Well, yeah, actually he was an amazing person. And you'd trust him, to guard your life? What kind of fucked up question was that? Well, yeah, more than anyone, when he was alive. You caught that he was dead, right? She ignored my snarky tone, flipping the paper back over to the original drawing and tapping it with her finger. This symbol is actually a room.

It represents the letter O. She said the name of it, which I didn't quite catch. It sounded like O the law. She handed the paper back to me. Now, it has a deeper meaning as well. one I think you'll actually like. It means home, but more than that, it refers to what's truly meaningful in life, and it specifically speaks of those who've passed before us and what they've left behind for us as we continue on without them. It's inheritance. It offers their

protection, both physical and spiritual. I felt like I've been punched in the stomach. Wait, some crappy tattoo artist who just couldn't draw kanji accidentally but something like that on my brother? She laughed. Well, are you still interested? A week later, I was straddling a chair with my hair pinned up, my forehead resting on my crossed arms and the tattoo gun buzzing somewhere behind me. Other than the bright shaft of Robin's worklight in the back of my neck, the whole room

was in candle at darkness. Robin had lit a bunch of incense or something and put on some seriously weird ass music. The CD was instrumental, but she sang words to it in this husky droning alto. I wanted to ask what language she was singing in, but she told me to stay still in that talk. It kind of sounded like German. The stinging, the buzzing, the incense smoke, and that odd chant-like singing or combining into a very surreal experience. I felt really far off and floaty, and, you know, I must have heard music like that in some movie about Vikings or something, because that's totally where my imagination was going. You know, big bonfire surrounded by bearded guys like a real Iron Age throwdown.

And then, as I watched, a young man stepped out from behind the bonfire. and I realized it was trip. He walked towards me and I opened my arms and woke him. And then, whoa, everything was way too bright. And I heard Robin chuckling. The overhead fluorescence were back on, the candles and incense extinguished, and that weird ukulele folk music had been replaced with grunge. I've never had anyone fall asleep during a tattoo before.

You must have an incredible tolerance for pain. I was still blinking at the weirdness of the last hour when I stepped out on the sidewalk. Ow! It felt like the tattoo itself had shocked me. How in the hell could ink? Excuse me, Miss, the painfully familiar voice behind me said, He dropped her. I whipped around and he trailed off an awkward recognition.

It was Justin, Tripp's best friend. The only person in the car that night who'd survived. Well, if you want to be technical, Justin hadn't actually survived the wreck. He'd been dead for almost three minutes in the ambulance. Honestly, he didn't look that much healthier now. He looked exhausted, hollow-cheeked, and he was well over six feet tall, and he'd always been built like a lumberjack. But he'd lost way too much weight recently, and his clothes. and his clothes sat on his two bony frame.

I'll admit, I'd had a little schoolgirl crush on Justin before Tripp died, but after, it's hard to even look at him. Every milestone in Justin's progress, coming out of the coma, his first steps out of the wheelchair, walking across the stage to accept his diploma. There had been this school-wide, joyous celebration that I had silently sold through. I don't mean to be an asshole, it's just that, you know, it could have been tripped doing all those things.

I'm seeing Justin now. I felt the last of my illogical resentment drained out of me. He was holding out my keys to me, his eyes downcast. He looked miserable, guilty, and haunted. I took the keys from him and shocked us both by taking his hand. It wasn't your fault, I said. And the fucked up thing was, I could actually hear Tripp in my head saying it along with me. You know it wasn't your fault, man.

And that, that weird, that odd, out of place man, made his head snap up and his eyes meet mine. He was as surprised as I was. You got Tripp's tattoo, he finally said. Yeah, just now, actually. I pointed back towards the shop. You know, it's going to sound so weird, but I really wanted... Justin pulled up the sleeve of his t-shirt, and my sentence trailed away. He'd gotten Trips' other tattoo.

Maybe I don't actually need to explain. I finished awkwardly. As if I wanted to have lunch, and I accepted. I figured it would either be super awkward or super depressing. but I actually ended up having a pretty good time. He was really easy to talk to, and our conversation feared a lot deeper than I'd expected. I told him how Mom and Dad had fought after Tripp died and finally filed for divorce, how they refused to say Tripp's name and barely even noticed I existed.

And he told me about getting diagnosed with PTSD. How he couldn't remember anything about the wreck or even the day of it. But he still woke up screaming every night. He even told me about taking flowers to his girlfriend Amy's grave, and running into her crazy-ass mother. She'd spit in his face and told him he'd murdered her baby. I briefly covered his hand with mine, pointing out how unfair that was, particularly since Amy'd been the one driving. I just wish I could remember what happened, Justin muttered. You know, the police report says the tire tracks.

proof Amy slammed on the brakes real suddenly, but why? I mean, is something not in front of the car? Supposedly, she drove straight into that tree. So, how did Tripp and Renee get more hurt in the backseat than I did riding shotgun? It just doesn't make any fucking sense. A few minutes later, I excused myself to the restroom. My mind was processing everything Justin had said, and he was right. It didn't add up.

I crossed to the sink and washed my hands. It had never occurred to me to wonder, why was the back end of Amy's car messed up? That they'd been hit by another vehicle and forced off the road or something? I just, I couldn't understand why the police would rule it an accident so quickly, unless they knew something I didn't about the physics of the wreck, but that's when I felt it. The unmistakable sensation of two hands slowly sliding up my back. Rising, rising, rising to cut my shoulders.

I see breath tickled the hairs of the nape of my neck. The thing is, I was staring right into the bathroom mirror, and there was absolutely nothing behind me. MAUIL! A harsh voice is so loud. I jumped. Just as suddenly it was gone. All gone. The invading hands, the breath, the chill, and clear as a bell inside my head, I heard my brother's voice. Justin didn't come back alone. Elevators can be a source of discomfort and even distress for some people. Whether it's the confined space,

the fear of falling, or just getting stuck in one by yourself, there are plenty of reasons to want to avoid them. As author Leon Chan explains, sometimes there are other reasons to avoid them, especially if you find them more crowded than you expect. Mark Copeland reads the tale for us as we start going down on the elevator ride. dread looking at mirrors. I can't bear the thought of looking at my own reflection anymore. There's nothing wrong with my reflection. I looked the same as I did before the incident. A couple of lines around the eyes that I could have done without, hair graying a little at

the temples. But it isn't my face looking back at me. There's something wrong. A stranger looks back with my face. Like a merry and net with my features. It moves when I want it to move. I smile, it smiles. I frown and frowns, but it isn't me. My shrink can't explain the sphere. My wife can't explain it. I can. I know exactly when everything changed. I've never told them about the incident in the elevator. I don't think I ever will. Have you ever had that one day you can remember with absolute clarity. The one that you can pause, rewind in your mind like a DVD, this is mine. This was a month ago. I had a meeting, a last-minute thing we started at 5 p.m. on our Friday.

The building was one of those behemists of glass and steel that peppered the skyline in the late 2000s. It was late when I was done. My colleagues shuffled papers across the table and back into leather briefcases. Our counterparts were across a long table, sharing a whispered conversation about next steps and strategies. Jessica and Brian, my two colleagues, left first. It was a Friday night, and their friends were probably already getting the first drinks of the evening.

I remember smiling ruefully at their youthful energy as they left the room. The snap of the clasps on my own briefcase followed, and my fingers settled into familiar, grooves in the dark leather. I paid a visit to the washroom before I left. It was already dark outside, and the office was empty. Half the lights were off to save power. The maze of cubicles basked in a fluorescent twilight. The only sounds on the floor came from the meeting room, and even those receded into the distance as I walked to the elevators, leaving me with only the sound of the rasp of the vents for company. Some disturbed interior

designer had fitted mirrors on all four walls of the elevator. When I was riding up with a full cabin, it felt like being in a sea of people, a slightly nauseating feeling. Riding the elevator alone down 14 floors was a wholly different experience. I stared into the eyes of a row of reflections, stretching back into infinity. The feeling disoriented me, and I felt my knees wobble as a wave of vertigo overcame me. I tore my gaze away and focused on the slow countdown as the elevator approached the ground floor. A single drop of sweat made its way down my brow.

I loosened my shirt collar, chastising myself for the irrationality of my reaction, just as the elevator jerked to a stop. The sudden stop made my knees buckle, and I stumbled from one wall to another for one maddening moment as the lights in the elevator flickered and went out completely. The last image seared into my mind was an army of reflections of myself swaying and staggering. Or not all of them.

I swear that amongst the hundreds of figures I saw in that half-light was one that was standing absolutely still. The small space echoed with the harsh rasp of my own breathing and the pounding of my heartbeat filled my ears. I fumbled through my pocket and held up. my phone in front of me like a talisman against the darkness. My thumb was poised, white-knuckled, above the power button. I couldn't bring myself to summon the ounces of pressure it would take to light the elevator

up, for fear of what the light would reveal. Just as the mirrors converted the tiny elevator into a vast plane, the darkness stretched those scant minutes into eternity. I jumped as the intercom crackled to life. Uh, sir? We seem to have lost power in the building for a while. We've got someone down at the power room now. We'll be back online in no time. My voice was very loud in the tiny space, deafening even. Just let us out, please.

Okay, we got it. I think something must have tripped the power. There was a hiss of escaping air as the lift door opened into the pitch darkness of another office floor. The lights in the elevator winked back on. After I blinked the harsh light from my eyes, I found myself face to face with my own terrified visage, reflected over and over again. Except for one thing. There was a gap in the row of reflections.

One of them was missing. One more thing haunted me as a lift made its way to the ground floor, and I left the building. The cold sweat drying on my skin as I sped through. the car park with the windows down. All the time I was in the elevator. I hadn't said a single word. Not a single word. Our next tale may be a short one, but it shows us just how interconnected we can find ourselves with perfect strangers. Author Kenneth F. Field describes how even the briefest encounters can have a profound impact on our lives.

Kyle Acres reads for us the story entitled, My Friend. So, here's a story of my friend. He lives in an apartment complex in the city. The place is ten stories high, and he lives on the 8th. One night he was going home and arrived at the main lobby around 11 p.m. He waited for the elevator, and when the door opened, a man rudely bumped into him and hurriedly walked out of the lobby. My friend didn't think much of it until he got packed to his room.

As he looked into his bathroom mirror to brush his teeth, he found bits of blood on the very shoulder the man had bumped. The next day was Saturday, and he was getting ready for a date. He had just taken a shower when he heard a knock on the door. Peering through the eye hole, he saw a policeman. The policeman was a guy in his mid-forties with short, dark hair, and with a shaved-off left eyebrow. The policeman asked through the door.

There was a murder here last night around 10.50 p.m., and I'd like to ask if you saw anything in particular. My friend did see something in particular. He'd bumped into a man that bloodied his shoulder. But he replied, No, sir, I know nothing of the sort. My friend was already late for his date and didn't want to get involved. The policeman responded, All right, thank you for your time.

And left. My friend went to his date and came back home later that day feeling a bit guilty. He'd lied to a police officer. Then he flicked on the TV and the news was talking about the murder at his apartment. Great, he thought. Way to make me feel more guilty. But then the news went on to say that the killer was caught. The culprit's photo came on the screen. And there the murderer was, a guy in his mid-forties with short, dark hair.

and with a shaved off left eyebrow. He wasn't a police officer. He was a man who was out to kill the witnesses. When a family decides to make the transition from the city life to the tranquil retreat of a small private island, the parents make the change in lifestyle much easier than their daughter does. Author Kelsey Donald explains that the parents bond with their dream island seems rather unnatural, and their daughter soon discovers just how unsettling it becomes.

Brittany Colter reads for us the tale about people surrounded by water and how they end up feeling flooded. When I was 15, my parents bought an island. No, they didn't win the lottery and run off to some pristine tropical aisle, but I think they would have wanted to. Instead, they worked long hours, saved every penny, and found a small island for sale, located in an inlet on the northeast coast of the United States. The island was just big enough for one small cottage, and, according to the ad, had been mainly used as a summer rental. My parents wanted to move in year-round, and they made the final purchase just before I started my sophomore year of high school. I can't say I was thrilled to be whisked away from the town I grew up in and the friends I'd had since kindergarten,

but it was my parents' lifelong dream, and I couldn't let them down. The island was far enough away that we didn't get a chance to visit before we moved in. Mom and Dad fell in love with it based on pictures alone, and I... Well, I just went along with it. Summer was fading fast when we moved in. The days were warm, but the nights carried a bite of cold. Luckily, the cottage was furnished, so all we needed to carry over on the bare metal motorboat was clothing and necessities, along with a small selection of kitchen utensils.

As we crossed the water, I compared the pictures from the ad to the reality of the island. The water was murkier, the island smaller, and the air was heavier. That's strange to say, isn't it? How can you tell what the air should feel like from a picture? But that's just how it was. The pictures of the cottage looked sunny and fresh, but in person, it felt, felt like a smothering haze hung over the island. My mother and father didn't pick up on what I'd sensed.

On the contrary, they got more excited the closer we got to the island. Mom could barely contain herself as Dad docked the boat. She leapt from the craft the second we reached the old run-down pier and ran up the hill to the cottage. I met up with her inside as Dad tied and inspected the boat on shore. Oh, sweetie, Mom said, her hands. hands clasped over her chest, this will be your room. She was on the second floor at the landing, watching me with misty eyes. I got an odd feeling looking at her, like she'd been out of place

her whole life, and now she was somewhere she finally belonged. No kidding, I said. There's only one room in the house. It was almost true. There was a small but open main floor, and then an even smaller second floor with just two bedrooms. A wooden balcony let you look down into the main part of the house. It was furnished like my Graham's house, with crocheted blankets draped over the cushy couches and way too many throw pillows. A dusty wicker rocking chair sat opposite a pute green velvet footstool. The whole house smelled damp and musty. I wanted to complain about a billion things, but one look at my mom's face, and I knew she was happier than she'd been in some time. I kept my mouth shut and dumped my bag in my new bedroom. Later that evening, I glanced out the window.

Mom and Dad were down at the shore, holding hands. I hadn't seen them so affectionate towards each other in years. I chuckled to myself as Dad kissed Mom and then pushed her playfully into the shallow water. Mom retaliated by splashing Dad relentlessly until he was a little bit of just as soaked as she was. In public, this would have been horribly embarrassing for me. But now, in the seclusion of our new island home, it was nice. I still had my reservations about living on this island, but I'd try to get over it. Even so, I never quite made myself at home in the cottage. I didn't unpack my clothes. Instead, I just lived out of my suitcase. The kitschy paintings remained on the walls. there getting out my Jane's addiction posters and memoirs from home.

School started, and the extra boat trip across the lake took up more of my morning and evening than I'd hoped. The bus stop was visible from the pier, and more than once I saw the flash of yellow approaching, just as I scrambled down the dock, catching the school bus by the skin of my teeth. I was always a quiet kid, still am, and I managed to get through classes without drawing too much attention to myself. There were some classmates I felt I could get a with. Maybe I would have put more effort into making friends if things hadn't started getting strange at home. It was little things at first. Dad would be a half hour late bringing the boat to pick me up from the bus, and he wouldn't tell me what had kept him so long. He worked from home now,

so I chalked it up to him getting distracted by his job. Then I noticed mom's long hair was always damp and stringy, like she'd just gotten out of the shower and hadn't dried or styled it. That's not such a big deal, except she'd always been so prim and proper. Her hair, one of her prized features. The next thing I noticed was Dad's abnormally clammy hand, as he clapped me on the shoulder and said, good job when I showed him my calc test. I know that sounds crazy that I'd be bothered by one clammy pat on the back, but it sent such a shutter through me that I just couldn't help but say something. Did you just take a shower? I asked.

Not since last night, Dad replied. Why? I looked at his hand. His fingers were pale and pruny. Were you swimming? Something flickered across Dad's face, and he smiled. Of course not. The water's freezing. Hmm, I said, dismissing this. subject. But after that, I remained observant. At dinner that night, I noticed mom's hands were pruny

too, and her hair was damp again. I'd been in the house the whole time, so I know she hadn't used the sink or shower recently. Had they actually been swimming in the frigid water? And if so, why would they lie about it? And why was it bothering me so much? The next week or so was uneventful, although it seems like every time I saw my parents, they looked like they'd just been in the water. They were evasive, but on the surface, they were the same old mom and dad I'd always known. I decided to let it go, until the first day of October. I'd just gotten off the school bus and sighed when I saw Dad wasn't waiting for me. His lateness had gotten worse, so I can't say I was too surprised, but what did surprise me was that when I walked to the dock to try to see him coming,

the boat was already there, tied up at the dock. I peered through the surrounding trees, but Dad was nowhere in sight. Our car had a permanent spot in the lot by the pier, but I could see the Red Station wagon clearly. Dad had not taken the car somewhere. I silently griped, wishing Dad wasn't so behind the times that he had a cell phone. Dad? I called out, hoping he was within earshot. No response. I spung my backpack off my shoulder and waited for Dad to return. Night fell, and my teeth began to chatter.

I was really getting worried. Finally, I hopped in the motorboat and sped across the water to home. The lights were on when I reached the cottage. I sped up the hill and burst through the door, startling my mother who was cooking in the kitchen. "'Have you heard from Dad?' I asked breathlessly. "'I think something might have happened to him.' "'What are you talking about, sweetie?'

"'Mom asked, as she ran a clammy, wrinkled hand down my cheek. "'Your father's fine. He's right here. "'I turned to my right, and sure enough, Dad sat at the kitchen table, stirring his tea. "'I froze, partly from the familiar, horrible shudder that ran through me at the touch of my mother's wet hand, and partly at the impossibility of the situation. How did you get here? I demanded of my father. What do you mean?

The boat. You left it tied up on the mainland after you dropped me off the bus this morning. That's our only boat. How did you get back? My father's face was unreadable. Don't you worry about that. I was frustrated. What'd you do, swim back? The second those words left my mouth,

a frightening expression crossed Dad's face. He grinned at me, not saying a word and not taking his unblinking eyes off me. Then, for the first time, I noticed the pool of water under his feet. I stepped backwards, right into a similar puddle beneath my mother. Something was going on,

something I didn't understand the extent of yet. I guess I still don't know the full story even now. But maybe it's better that way. I grabbed my books and shut myself in my room, feeling mom and dad's eyes on me as I went. I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling very strongly like I'd heard my name being called just seconds before I awoke.

I didn't hear my name again, but I tuned into another sound. Water, lapping against the shore. That was strange. The island was small, but not so small that I should hear that from my room. Puzzled, I got out of bed and went downstairs. The lights were off. Mom and Dad must have been asleep.

The sound of water was closer, and I could swear I heard a faint whispering as well. I crossed the living room and paused ever so briefly at the front door before opening it. Peering out into the dark, I had to hear it. to blink a few times before I was sure what I was seeing. It looked like the island had flooded, only there'd been no recent storms, not even a drizzle. The water was calm and flat, and it came right up to the door. It was dark, so dark that I couldn't even see the wooden porch that should be barely an inch below the surface. Moonlight glinted off the surface, and as my eyes adjusted, I could see out across the island. Well,

All I could actually see of the island was trees jutting out of the water. It was a good thing our house was on the highest point of land, otherwise it would have been underwater too. Across the water, just past a clump of trees, came a strange giggling. I think I might have been scared if I weren't half convinced this was all a dream. I'm still not sure. But I narrowed my eyes, trying to see who or what was laughing.

from out in the darkness. It sounded like two separate voices. As I watched, two heads, half submerged below the water, swam out from behind the trees. They were turned away from me, so I couldn't see their faces. But who else could it be other than my mom and dad? Why were they out swimming in the flood? The quiet splashing of the water seemed to mesmerize me,

and the thought crossed my mind. Why don't I join them? I almost took a step into the murky water, when a second thought flitted its way into my brain. That outcropping of trees, where my parents were swimming, was on the north side of the hill, which rose to about as high as the main floor of the house. The water couldn't be deeper than an inch or two in that spot. How could my parents be swimming there, with all but their heads beneath the surface? Something was horribly unnatural about the whole thing.

about the whole situation, and I began to shake as the two half-submerged heads turned towards me. Mom and Dad stared hungrily at me and began to rise from the water. I slammed the door shut and ran back to my room, locking it behind me and hiding under the covers. The next thing I knew, it was morning. Sunlight streamed through my window, erasing any fear I'd felt from that strange dream. I looked at my alarm clock and cursed when I realized I'd slept in. If I hurried, though, I could still catch the bus. I threw on my clothes and called for my dad.

My voice echoed through the house, but I didn't hear a response. I didn't hear any other sounds at all. Dad, you have to take me to the bus. Silence. I checked their room. The bed was empty. rushing out the door backpack in hand i ran down to the dock the boat was gone had they gone somewhere without me i shook my head they'd barely set foot on the mainland since we'd moved plus why would they

leave me here on a school day i ran around the tiny island but there was no sign of my parents after some time i ended up back at the dock across the water i saw a fly flash of yellow as the school bus drove up to the bus stop, paused, and it continued down the street. I slumped down to the ground, and the horror from last night flooded back into my mind. I could clearly see Mom and Dad's faces in my memory as they rose from the water. There was something terribly wrong with them. At the same time, I chided myself. It was just a dream.

Of course the island didn't flood overnight. The ground was as cold and dry as it had ever been. But then, where were my parents? I went back to the house and waited for my parents to return home. They hadn't returned to the island by nightfall, and I was at a loss for what to do. So rather than do much at all, I went to my room, and after a restless several hours, I fell asleep. I awoke with a creeping sense of dread.

I kept my eyes closed, but I could tell it was still dark. My scalp tingled, and I recognized a chilling sound. The lapping of water. Right below me. I shot straight up in bed and looked around. My room was flooded. But how? I was on the second floor.

Feeling numb, I surveyed the room. The water had risen to just barely above floor level. and it sloshed ominously around the legs of my bed. Then my hair stood on end as I heard a familiar giggling. It was close, splashing, coming from my closet. I jumped and cowered on the furthest corner of my bed. I strained my eyes trying to see into the blackness. There was a stirring, a flutter of movement from behind the closet door.

Then, I watched in horror as two heads swam out from the shadows, the water coming to just above their lips. Mom and Dad. It was impossible. My parents looked like they were swimming in deep water, but it couldn't be. Not in my barely flooded bedroom. But there they were, advancing towards me in the dark water. Mom was the closest, and our eyes. locked. I couldn't turn away. As the first wave of ripples hit my bed frame, I snapped out of my

trance. I tried to jump away, but my feet caught in my sheets. With a sharp yelp, I toppled backwards off the bed. I expected to hit the hard, wet floor, but instead, I plunged deep into water. The cold shocked my system, and for an agonizing minute, I couldn't tell you. which way was up. I floundered, kicking helplessly, and finally broke the surface. Sputtering, I looked around. I was in the middle of the inlet, far from shore. I had no clue how I'd gotten there, but as the cold set into my joints, I knew I had to reach solid ground, or I'd drown. Clouds had blotted out the moon, but I saw lights from the island. No sign of flooding, I might add. and began to swim towards it.

Then my common sense kicked in. I could not go back. The mainland was much, much further, but I just couldn't bring myself to return to the cottage. Turning away from the island, I started to make my way to safety. I wasn't a very athletic person, and I began to tire quickly.

My muscles weakened, and then cramped, and I feared I wouldn't make it. Still far from shore, my progress slowed to a stop. I floated in the pitch black water, both physically and mentally exhausted. I wasn't going to make it. At least that's what I was thinking. A soft brushing of fingers down my leg. I flailed wildly and almost sunk below the surface in panic.

What finally got my limbs kicking properly was the sight of a graying hand reaching towards me from the murky depths. The next thing I knew, I was dragging myself up the rusty dock ladder. I'd made it. The relief didn't last long, as I realized I'd have to explain to someone what had happened. Good thing I was a decent enough liar. The next few months of my life were filled with legal matters and investigations, as my parents were never seen again.

well, almost never. It's been a few years since that incident, and I finally got my life back on track. I moved out of my grand's house into my own apartment, and I now balanced my life between work and classes. But something odd has been happening the past few nights. I wake up in the dead of night with that odd feeling like someone said my name.

At first, I ignored it and went to sleep. But last night, I heard giggling outside my window. I got out of bed to take a look. The street below was flooded, but barely. And there, in the yellow glow of the street lamp, were two heads, just peeking out of the surface of the water. My parents want me to return home. In our final tale, we hear a story,

from the life of a man from southeastern Europe. From his teenage years to present day, he has to deal with the ongoing misery of a woman who is a consistent source of inexplicable torment. Author Milosh Bogetich shares with us his relentless series of encounters with the woman holding an orange. This story goes back to my childhood.

childhood, but it wasn't as terrifying then as it recently became. My mom got a new job, and she started making new friends. It's common in our country that friends come to each other's houses for a cup of coffee, cake, gossip, and whatnot. A few weeks into her new job, my mom made friends with this woman named Rose. She would come maybe twice a week, and they'd sit around a coffee table on our balcony and just talk. One day, when I was 17, I was at the balcony with them. I'm not sure why I was there, but knowing me, I probably lost the internet connection and was bored as fuck.

So we're sitting there, there gossiping about who knows what. and the mom gets up to go get some cake she baked recently. I remained sitting at the table with Rose, and that's when my life changed forever. Rose was a good-looking woman. She was about five-foot-six inches, skinny, long black hair, pearly white teeth. Attractive woman overall.

I am sitting there with her. her and she turns to me. She has this creepy grin on her face, bright red lipstick, with bright white teeth underneath, making it look more scary. Her head is moving slowly, almost as if she became a puppet. She says something in the lowest tone possible, certainly not loud enough for me to understand. Excuse me, I say, still not being scared, just a bit weirded out.

You ready to go now? She said this in a voice of a child, I kid you not, like maybe an eight-year-old girl. The grin is still there. She mustered those words through her teeth, never opened. opening the jaw. What? starting to get scared. You ready? The same thing again.

Only this time she pulls an orange out of her purse. That's it. She just took the orange out and held it there. Didn't offer it, didn't eat it herself, just held the fucking thing. the fucking thing. At that point, I was getting scared as fuck. Thankfully, my mom can with the cake. Rose, almost as if someone pushed a button on a remote control, switched back to her normal self, putting the orange back into her purse without my mom noticing.

I left the balcony creeped out, but I was 17. So I was 17. So I was a little. I brushed it off quickly. That night, I had trouble sleeping. My room is on the first floor, and my window is about five feet off the ground, so I kept looking at it, praying not to see some scary monster. I would turn in my bed constantly and look at the window maybe every five minutes. It was getting late and I started to doze off, but decided to look at the window one last time. And there she was, standing in the fucking window. Rose, just standing, looking directly at me. The moonlight was bright enough for me to see the same grin on her face. Lipstick was red as ever, and teeth were whiter than ever.

I was paralyzed in fear. I often imagined what I do in situations like these, and I always had an escape plan for any hypothetical I threw at myself. But now, when this friend of my mother's was staring at me through my window at 4 a.m., Just smiling? I was motionless. My mouth got dry. I got goosebumps and I swear it became freezing in my room,

probably just the way the body reacts to shock. I finally gathered the courage to get up. I started walking towards the door. Her head was turning with me. Slowly, with the grin still there. Again, it was as she was a puppet. I wanted to scream for my parents, but knowing how tense they are, I decided not to cause panic just yet.

There had to be some rational explanation, right? For whatever reason, I decided to walk to the window and ask her what the fuck. her problem was. I made two slow steps towards it and froze. I froze because she moved. You know what her movement was? Taking the orange out of her purse. After being terrified for a moment, I decided to go on. I'm a big guy and figured I'd be able to fight her off. if push came to shove. My windows pull up in order to open.

I pulled it open maybe some ten inches and stopped. She's not moving. Just holding the fucking orange and looking at me with the scariest grin you'll ever see. I stood there. She stood there. Then she starts bending. but every move she makes is so slow, so mechanical. She's bending so she can reach the open part of the window.

I'm horrified. She pushes her head through the small opening in the window, just barely fitting it through. You go with me now? As she's saying that, in her eight-year-old voice, her hand is making its way through the crack, holding an orange. What did I do? I did what you would do. I fucking ran. I ran out of my room screaming for my dad. My dad is a light sleeper, and he jumps out of his bed, screams back at me asking what the hell is going on.

All I can muster is to say, Rose, window. While Dad is putting his pants on, I ran back to my room, wanting Rose to be there so he could see that I was not crazy. You know how in horror movies the person you saw is gone by the time witnesses come?

Yeah, well, a similar thing happened, except I caught Rose leaving. There is a house some 100 yards away from mine, and it had one of those motion-activated lights. I saw the light turn on and a glimpse of Rose disappearing behind that house. By the time Dad ran into the room, she was gone. After much talking, he decided that it was just a nightmare, and told me to call him only if someone physically comes into my room.

You and your fucking imagination, he said, walking away. Needless to say, I got exactly zero hours of sleep that night. Nothing happened in the next few months. Rose would still come to visit my mom, but I'd make sure I wasn't there. Fuck that. As in every teenager's life, so many things were happening around me, and I forgot about the Rose incident. Then one day, I was spending my afternoon browsing the internet. I got pretty hungry, so, like any spoiled child, I yelled from my room to see if my mom would come.

She didn't. Oh, well, tough luck. I have to go to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich. The kitchen in our house is connected to our living room, but you can't see the living room unless you're at least in the middle of the kitchen. So I open the kitchen and walk in. I freeze. There it is.

Right there on the kitchen table. An orange. I immediately thought of that creepy. night. Rose is here. I am standing still in my spot. A few seconds later, I realize how stupid I am for relating a common piece of fruit to a crazy window stalker. So I walk towards the table, wanting to put the orange back in the fruit cabinet. I grab the thing and hear a voice behind me. You will have to come with me soon, you know, Hilt's voice.

It's Rose. I produced some kind of noise resembling a scared pig about to get slaughtered. Lightning fast, I turn around and there she is, standing in the middle of the living room. Just standing there. Same grin on her face. same lipstick on her lips, teeth white as ever. Only she started tilting her head to the left a bit in slow motion.

I remember it as if it happened yesterday. Her long black hair falling down her shoulders. White summer dress, bright red shoes to match her lipstick. I forgot to mention that she was very. very pale. Even in the summer, she seemed to not be friends with the sunlight. This added to the creepiness. There's this woman who already scared the shit out of me once, standing alone in the middle of my living room, pale as a ghost, bright red lipstick and shoes, tilting her head to the side, speaking in a child's voice.

And then she takes an orange out of her purse. Takes it out slowly and looks at me as if she wants me to have it. Just as my self-defense mode is about to take over and I either run away or tackle the crazy bitch, my mom walks in. I know it didn't really happen. but it seemed like my mom brought light into the room.

I released a breath of relief. Rose, of course, went back to her normal self. My mom had just finished getting ready in her room as she and Rose were going for a walk. Since my parents wouldn't believe anything I was saying about her, I wasn't sure what to do. The only thing I could do at that age is nothing, I suppose, but I swore I'd punch that woman should she ever come close to me again.

A year passed without any incidents, and I was getting ready to go to the United States to study in college. Since I was going to play basketball there, I had to prepare for it. I spent summer away from home, working out in a training camp in a town about 40 miles from my seat. city. The last night of the camp, the last incident happened. My roommate had left the camp the day before, and I had the room to myself. I was very excited about going to America in a few days, and had trouble sleeping. My room had a beautiful balcony. Since it was warm, I decided to sit in the chair on the balcony for a while. I walked out, sat down, and immediately regretted it.

It is really time to come now. I nearly shit myself. I mean, it's been a while since I last heard that voice, but something like that stays with you forever. I turned my head to the right, and Rose was standing on the edge of the railing of the balcony of the room next to mine. Mind you, not standing on the balcony or sitting at a table, but standing on the railing. How she was balancing, I don't know.

The balcony was at least 50 feet from the ground, and she was holding the orange. The fucking orange. Only this time the orange seemed to have been a bit rotten, not nearly as bright as the first three times. I was scared that she would attempt to jump over to my balcony, as there was only a few feet between them. I was also scared she'd die in the attempt to do so, and I'd be blamed somehow. I had no idea what the fuck was going on. It really is time, you know, she said in that childlike voice, never opening her jaw, her teeth forever glenched together and lipstick the color of fresh blood.

She seemed even paler this time and her head was tilted to the left. left even more. She wore red shoes. What the fuck do you want from me? I screamed in desperation, angry that this woman is causing me so much distress, but also hoping that someone would hear me and come witness this crazy bitch's harassment.

I only want you to go where you belong. She said, never opening her teeth. She only sprang her hand more towards me, almost offering me that semi-rotton orange. Fuck you, you crazy bitch! I opened the door of my room, and as I was walking in, I heard, You will come.

I slammed the door. deciding this woman was schizophrenic. I would have probably flipped out more, but I was leaving the continent in a few days, at which point I thought I'd be safe. Wrong. I came to the U.S. and have been here for six years now. I forgot about those incidents and went on with my life.

The only time I ever thought about Roe, was when talking with my mom who said that since I left, her friendship with the crazy bitch fell apart. I was glad. The last six years were the best of my life. I got a bachelor and master's degree and I have a wonderful girlfriend. You know, life's good, man. Ah, but then... Fucking then. I I am a big technology geek, and I love Apple stuff. So it was September 21st, release day of the iPhone 5. I am in front of the store with about 50 other people.

I am maybe 15th in line. It's raining, it's cold. I've been there for about four hours. The doors finally open. We start moving in slowly. I look across the street and instantly stop. People run into my back. I can hear them complaining, but it's all bouncing off of me.

Across the street, I see a woman in a white dress. Head tilted, holding something orange. grin on her face, lipstick so bright red I can see it from across the street. I can't move. Someone from far in the back pushes causing me to fall.

While I gather myself, I see the woman disappearing behind the corner. I remain sitting on the ground. It was Rose. It was her, I swear. I sit there for a few minutes, get myself together, and then walk into the store. There were no iPhones left. I decide to walk across the street, and there it was.

At the place where she was standing, there was now only a mushed, Terribly rotten orange. That's it? Just a rotten orange. I started crying. All the memories came back. I thought that my whole life would consist of being stalked by some maniac. And how did she find me anyways?

I spent the next few hours in a nearby coffee shop drinking tea and reasoning how this could be logically possible. I kept no secret from my friends and family about my whereabouts. Did she stalk me on Facebook? My friends? Did she travel here to harm me? What the fuck is her deal? Answering no questions I asked myself.

I went home, deciding to keep it all to myself. My girlfriend noticed something was wrong with me for the next few days, but didn't push it. I figured it was all a fluke. My mind playing tricks because I was up all nights before that morning. Plus, it was raining. How could I see that well? And that orange? Well, that was just a coincidence.

I convinced myself that I was just making it all up. Today, a letter came. I get a lot of mail, so it's not that out of the ordinary. But there was this letter. No return address. I opened it. and was immediately shocked. I was holding a Polaroid picture.

In it, there was me standing in line in front of the Apple Store. Only the picture was taken by a person behind me. It was taken at the moment I was looking across the street. I can tell because I could see, horror on my face. On the back of the photo, there were a few words

written with a black pen. You come with me now. 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.