The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E17 - Christmas Episode

Episode Date: December 20, 2012

During the festive holiday season there are still dark tales to keep you awake while Santa prowls the rooftops.  This special episode of The Nosleep Podcast features tales with a Christmas theme, including mysterious strangers, children who don't want to go away, and a horrible holiday mug.This episode features these stories:Chimneysweep written by Sam Hunt (Redditor Left-Hand-Path) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).The Christmas Season written by Justin Williams (Redditor plat00n) and read by David Cummings.Twas the Night Before Christmas written by Tee Jarvis (Redditor Cricket62) and read by David Cummings.Mall Santa written by Sam Stark (Redditor Vaginal_Scrapings) and read by David Cummings.The Mug written by Eric Dodd (Redditor Unxmaal) and read by David Cummings & Wendy Corrigan (Redditor EchoWind). Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to the Christmas Cottage. Thank you for joining me for episode 17 of Season 2, the special Christmas episode of the No Sleep podcast. I'm your chully old host, David Cummings. As you can hear, the fire is still burning, and the cold winter wind is still howling outside. It's the perfect setting to listen to the five tales we have in store for you. So pour yourself a hearty glass of eggnog or a warm mug of mulled wine.

And settle into your dark room as I present tales to remind us that Christmas isn't always about fun and festivity. Sometimes when the twinkling lights, go out and the candles are smothered by pools of wax. Christmas becomes the darkest and most frightening time of the year. Our first tale is about a man who receives a visit from a mysterious stranger. Like another famous Christmas tale, this man appears to be in need of some redemption. Alas, the visitor in this tale seems unwilling to offer the man any hope of change. Author Sam Hunt shows us that when you need a dark and dirty mess cleaned up, sometimes what you need is a chimney sweep.

When Mike Ellington woke up, he was naked and couldn't move. Not that he was paralyzed. He could feel the cold surface of the table against his back, but he was wrapped in a ton of Christmas lights. His own lights, he realized as he angled his head to look at his bonds. He had been bound to the dining room table with his own damn Christmas lights, the green cords looping over and over and over around his lap. legs, midsection, and arms, until he was completely immobilized.

He looked around as his eyes refocused and saw that he was indeed lying in his dining room, the only light in sight being the cheap chandelier over the table, lighting him up like an operation theater. And for some reason there was a charcoal briquette lying on his chest. From here he could see into the kitchen and the digital clock on the microwave read 1121 p.m. Help! He called into the dark house. There was no answer. Help!

The sound of paper rustling made Mike's heart leap. He canted his head up again and realized that someone was sitting in a chair in the corner reading what looked like a newspaper. Mike blinked, astonished, and said, Who the hell are you? Did you do this? What are you doing in my house? The man in the corner cleared his throat and said, I'm a man of many talents, Mikey boy. I've been in this business for a very, very, very, long time. I've solved a lot of problems and made a lot of people very happy. I don't understand. What is this? Who are you? His questions were met with silence for a few minutes.

Finally, the baritone voice from the corner spoke again. I'm thinking. of retiring this year, Mikey. I'm just too old to keep doing this. Doing what? asked Mike. Ignoring people like you, people like me. Do you know what this? Mike shook his head, dislodging a drop of sweat that rolled across his forehead and trickled down his cheek. No, a newspaper? I don't know. It's a list, said the man. Mike could hear him scratching his face in the shadows. It's a list of people, Mikey.

It's a list of people. of every single person on earth. Mike looked at the paper from the corner of his eye, the only way he could see it. It ended in a scroll at the bottom, and he could see that it was in the grip of a black-gloved hand. There was no way that scroll could feasibly bear all those names. It was simply too small. Hmm? Mike's parched throat allowed him to continue.

It's too small. There's no way. Well, this is only part of the list. The rest of the scrolls are in my bag. Besides, the names are written very small. I have to read them. With this, said the man, and he held something up. The light glinted from the lens of a pearl-handled magnifying glass. My associates write them with very fine-tipped ink pens.

It's murder on the eyes, but what can you do? Mike blinked away another droplet of sweat. So, what's it got to do with me? The man began rolling up the scroll and said in a thoughtful tone, Do you know what's special about this list, Mikey? No, I don't. Silence. Well, what?

Was you going to ask me? Ask you what? Go on. Ask me what's special about the list? What? I just told you what. Don't make me quote Pulp Fiction. Ask me what's special about this list, said the man in the corner.

He finished rolling it up and stuffed the tightly wound scroll into a leather satchel. What's special about that list? asked Mike. The man produced a hearty chuckle, a deep, rich, grandfatherly laugh. Mike could hear the creak of leather as he got up out of the chair. This list is special because it tells me one very important thing, Mike. Mike recoiled as the man stepped out of the darkness and leaned over him. It tells me who is naughty, said Santa Claus. Mike froze.

What the... He stammered, taking in the surreal absurdity of gazing up at that lush, curly white beard. and those cheeks as red as rose hips. He could see his own frightened reflection in the frameless Ponce-nez perched on Santa's bulbous nose, a nose webbed by the broken blood vessels of an alcoholic. Mike could smell Santa's breath, and it smelled bitter and sweet, both of brandy and the cookies Cade had left for him on the hearth. and the unmistakable chill of peppermint.

Santa simply smiled. That's reason number three, why you are on the naughty list, Mikey. You swear too much, and you swear where your highly impressionable son can hear it. I don't know who you are, but you leave Kate alone. you son of a bitch, said Mike, glaring hatefully up at that twisted distortion of Christmas cheer. I swear to God, if you've done anything to my son, I'll kill you myself. Santa straightened and laughed again. Hurt your son?

Perish the thoughts. That's not why I'm. I'm here at all. The muscles in Mike's jaw rolled as the gears in his head ground to life. Look, are you homeless or something? Is that what this is about? Are you looking for money? That's not a problem.

Money. I have money. Find my wallet. It's got my debit card in it and some cash. If you let me go and promise not to hurt my family, I'll even drive you to the ATM and let you withdraw whatever you want. The white-bearded man picked something up and stuck it in his own mouth. It was a huge candy cane, as long as Mike's forearm and as thick as a paper towel tube. It smelled like the cheap kind you hang on trees as ornaments.

Not the powdery artisan kind. And Santa had ruminated it, licking and sucking on it, until it had a wicked-looking point on the end. He now licked the striped dagger obscenely until it was glossy with saliva. I'm not here for your money, Mikey. How do you know my name? I told you, Sondon.

I know everybody's name. I'm Mother effin' Santa Claus. Ho-ho, ho! Merry fucking Christmas! And a happy New Year! And to all a good night. That Santa Claus! He couldn't believe he was saying this, but Mike felt the situation

called for it. Santa doesn't exist. What are you? Some kind of disgruntled Salvation Army bell ringer. Santa smirked. Sure, Santa doesn't exist. Neither does God. But you see how that turned out for everybody?

Hell, look at Christmas. Nobody really celebrates the purpose. Birth of Christ. I'm sure everybody puts up their little light panoramas with their flashing crosses and twirling windmill blades and waving snowmen. And they put up their cheap-ass nativity scenes, but nobody really believes anymore. All they say they do, out of some food. feeling of, I don't know, obligation, or because it's the proper thing to do. But guess what?

Everybody picks me. I am the one. Me. It's all about the presence, isn't it? You're wrong, said Mike. Everybody believes in God. Everybody with common sense anyway. Did you see the size of that scroll? asked Santa. He took it out again and held it over Mike's face. Re-rolled. It was easily the diameter of a loaf of bread.

He gently tapped his captive on the nose with it. Are you kidding me? Look at this. That's a hell of a lot of God-fearing people, Mikey boy. And I've got 16 more just like this. 3,486,86,86,000,2169,000,216 people, Mike. It doesn't take a genius to realize that if you require the third, two hundred and 16 people, Mike. that if you require the threat of divine punishment to make you behave with charity and goodwill

toward your fellow man, that makes you very naughty. I think that's the very definition of evil in my book. And as you can see, I have a very authoritative book on evil. He put the scroll back in the bag. Like I said, I'm retiring this year. And I always said that if I were going to retire, I was going to go out with a bang. And I think this really qualifies as a bang. Don't you?

What do you mean? Stammered Mike. Isn't it obvious? asked Santa. He picked up the candy cane and traced light, lazy swirls on Mike's face with it, outlining his features with the impossibly sharp tip. It tickled, made his sweat-greased skin itch. Instead of presents for good people this year, I'm going to be a bit. to go through my naughty list, one by one, and do what should have been done a long, long time ago.

A surge of adrenaline slammed through Mike's body, as he understood what the man in the red suit meant to do, sending him into a paroxysm of fear. He fought against the lights, but the cords were too strong. He struggled until he was exhausted and fell limp in exasperation. The charcoal briquette fell off his chest and clattered across the table. You've got the dubious distinction of being the first person on my list, Mike, said Santa. He spoke over his shoulder. as he rummaged through the satchel.

Who know why that is? Mike was pretty sure he knew what the old man was getting at, but he decided to play dumb and pretend he didn't know. No, he said, his voice weak and small. I don't. Santa stood and turned back around. He was holding a big, big mallet, the head painted a festive green.

He placed it on the table next to Mike's head with all the ceremony of a surgical tool set. I know all about your extracurricular activities, son, he said once he was done, and he leaned closer, treating his captive to another dose of foul brandy and peppermint brown. That was a rhetorical question. Trust me. He put the candy cane on the table next to the mallet. I know why your son, Cade, doesn't invite his friends to come visit Mikey Boy, especially the little girls.

I know what he saw on your computer two years. ago. Mike's entire body went cold. He felt as if he were made of raw dough. The lights clicked faintly as he trembled under them. I know what you did to little Skyla Wormermaker in the back of your camper seven months ago. I know you got caught. by your son and I know you told him not to tell anybody threatened him and then took him for ice cream I know that's why he doesn't like ice cream anymore what kind of a little boy doesn't like ice cream that's a travesty tears began to well up in Mike's eyes, his heart pounding in his chest.

Oh, oh, oh, no, no, no, was all he could say, shaking his head slowly back and forth, until he finally found the words fishing about in the deep green pond of his subconscious. I don't know how you knew about that, but it wasn't what you think. I found that little girl messing around in my camper, and I went in there to tell her that she shouldn't be playing in there. She back-talked me, and I had to spank her. Santa shook his head, too, and sighed. He took off his antique speck.

and set them aside. You know what I like the most about this red suit, Mikey Boy? The jolly old man asked. He looked down at the mallet and candy cane and picked them up, rolling his shoulders. What? It hides bloodstains so well, said Sand. said Santa, positioning the candy cane over Mike's heart, inserting the tip through the power cords,

criss-crossing Mike's chest. He raised the mallet, almost smacking the chandelier with it on the back swing, and brought it down on the end of the sharpened peppermint stick. Christmas is a time for families to gather together, Sharing in traditions from the past can allow families to restore a sense of togetherness that can go missing throughout the year. However, sometimes these traditions can bring more family members together than expected. Author Justin Williams describes for us how it's one of the things that can bring an unsettling.

settling sense of mystery to the Christmas season. Three years before I was born, my mother and father had their first child. He lived for a mere seven minutes before his breathing stopped, and he died. I have never inquired as to what caused him to stop breathing. A little over a year after this terrible incident, my parents had a daughter, and then two years after her, I was born. Naturally, my parents had no reason to tell me about my older brother when I was younger, and even as we all got older, the story was never told to me,

presumably because it was too painful to recall. If the following events had never occurred, I might have never found out about him at all. In early December during my junior year of high school, the family gathered round the Christmas tree to load it up with the ornaments we had gathered over the years. Our family had continued to grow after my birth. My parents had added another son and daughter. My parents had bought each of us an ornament each year, so after adding those to the stockpile that they had owned before we were born, We always had one hell of a time fitting all the ornaments onto the tree. This year was no different, but we pushed and we slid and shoved and eventually found some green for all of them.

In addition to the ornaments, we had a fairly nice manger set that was placed underneath the tree. It had the whole damn birth party and of course contained a wooden crib in which the figurine of the figurine of the tree. baby Jesus lay. After my siblings and I had set this up, we stood for a minute or two and admired our work. And then we each went our separate ways and on with life. A day after setting the tree up, I walked into the living room to find one of my ornaments on the ground. It was the first ornament that had been given to me and had firstborn son etched into its face. The bright bronze had become cloudy over the years, but the ornament was sentimental, so it always managed to find a prominent place on the tree. I found the spot I thought it had fallen from and rehung it before walking through the room.

I passed through the room the next day to find the ornament again on the ground, and again I hung it up. I tried to hang it in a different spot this time, assuming the weight had allowed it to slide from a thin branch, but to no avail, as it was on the ground the following day as well. I placed it back on the tree and was not too surprised when I came in the next day to find the ornament missing from the spot. What did surprise me, however, was that the ornament was not on the ground. but was instead sitting on the coffee table a few feet away. I assumed my mother was having the same problem with the ornament and had just given up and placed it on the table,

so I stopped in the kitchen to ask her about it. She was doing the dishes, and when I asked, she turned around with a funny look on her face and told me that she too had been picking up the ornament each time she walked into the room. For the next few days, each time I walked into the room, I continued to find the ornament off of the tree. But now the location had changed.

It was no longer lying in random spots on the floor or on the table like it had been before. Each time I walked in the room now, the ornament was inside of the roofed manger, leaning against the crib with the jean. Jesus figure. I was young, and I'm sure that didn't help prevent me from thinking that things were adding up a little strangely. It seems really stupid now, but I grew up in a semi-religious family, and something about finding my first-born son ornament leaning against Jesus every

day appeared to me to be a harbinger of something evil that would cometh my way. The non-surprising thing is, nothing ever happened to me. Obvious, I suppose. But my dad, my no-nonsense, get out of my face with your stupid paranormal bullshit, I'm just going to go into this scary dark room to get the toolbox, mysterious moaning be damned, had something happened to him. He tended to work in his basement office. until the wee hours of the morning.

Most of that time was actually filled with him sleeping in his chair, as evidenced by him springing up and feigning awareness every time I would go into the basement late at night. In the early hours of the morning of December 23rd, he was, as usual, down in the basement. Around 2 a.m., he was awakened by footsteps crossing down the first floor hallway above his head. He decided he would come up and see who was up and then continue upstairs to bed. As he came up the basement stairs, he could hear the person walking through the kitchen on the other side of the door, but when he opened it, the person had just crossed into the dining room. He followed the steps through the kitchen and around the bend, but again was too

late. The footsteps had beat him around the turn and into the living room. He rounded the corner and was surprised to see an empty room, and he no longer heard the footsteps. From the other room, they had appeared to stop at the Christmas tree. As he stood there, scanning the space and trying to figure out what he had heard, he noticed an object lying on the ground towards. the middle of the room. As he walked up to it and started bending over, he realized that there were actually two objects lying in the middle of the living room floor, baby Jesus and the first-born son ornament that was lying against his side. The next day, my dad told all of us the story at breakfast. My parents must have known that I was feeling a little unsettled from it all,

so they decided to finally tell me what they had kept a secret for 16 years. They told me about their happiness at getting pregnant, the nine long and exciting months my mom had carried my brother, and their feeling of complete desolation and absolute loss when he died. They told me how it still hurt, especially around the holidays. At first, I assumed this was because everyone becomes sentimental around the holidays. Then they told me the real reason. My brother had been born and died on December 23rd at 2 a.m. Last night had been the 20th anniversary of his death. any childhood memory of Christmas more endearing than that of a young child breathlessly awaiting a visit from Santa? Such innocence, such unfettered hope and anticipation. Author T. Jarvis

weaves for us a tale that makes us realize that some visitors are not what children hope especially when it was the night before Christmas. Every kid waits all year long for that special night. The night where magic happens, where time stands still and where kids fake sleep in hopes that a certain someone will sneak down the chimney and leave behind all the gifts a child could imagine. I was one of those kids, and in some ways I hope you were too. I just hope you lived a different night than I did, and that you didn't grow up on Lake Avenue in Nashville, Tennessee, in 1991.

See, Christmas Eve, 1991, was not the normal night. Everything started out the same as it always had. I was five at the time, and my parents had a party with a few other families and close friends. We had cookies and cake, my mom made a ham, and my dad drank a substantial amount of eggnog. I was glued to the television after 7.30, watching the local news track Santa across the southeast. He was everywhere. It was really amazing. Around 10 o'clock, my mom helped me leave the cookies out by the fireplace and then closed the door behind the last party guest.

We went upstairs and she tucked me in. Lights out, doors closed, prayers said, eyes wide open. There was no way I was going to sleep tonight. It was Christmas Eve, and I had never been more excited in my life. I lay awake, grinning like an idiot, until about 12.30 a.m. I tried counting sheep, I tried daydreaming about other things. I even tried to read a book, although poorly, considering I was just five. I was wired and it was not getting any better.

I was starting to panic a little bit because I knew that Santa wouldn't come unless I was asleep. So I made the executive decision to go get a glass of warm milk from the kitchen and sneak back into my room undetected by old St. Nick. My foot crept out of the bed when I heard a faint thud. Could it be? Could it be him? I climbed back into bed and shut my eyes tight. He can't know I'm awake.

I hear more shuffling downstairs and a steady thumping down the hall towards my bedroom. Oh no, he knows I'm awake. I squeeze my eyes tighter. My doorks and I try to pace my breathing. I'm so excited. but he cannot, must not know that I'm awake. His heavy feet crossed my room without any obvious purpose. He strays from corner to corner until he makes it to the edge of my bed.

This is it, I thought to myself. Time for my best performance. I could tell he was leaning over me. His breath was not quite right, though. It smelled kind of like my dog's canned food and liquor. I brushed the thought aside and refused to open my eyes. Santa then climbed onto my bed and lay parallel to my body. He gave me a big hug, and I could feel his suit was wet.

It must be really snowing outside. Eventually, he got off the bed, walked to where he had placed his bag, and shuffled around for something. Was it a present for me? Then a thud in the living room, and Santa made a mad dash for the door. No, my father had woken up and made Santa leave. Christmas was ruined. I kept my eyes closed all night just in case. In the morning, I went downstairs to see what he had left me, if anything.

There were presents everywhere. I was so excited. I opened them all in a flash and had my new Super Nintendo hooked up to my TV before 9 a.m. rolled around. I played all day until I looked to my right. In the corner of my room was one unopened gift. It had no sender or recipient addressed, but I knew who it was from. It was a special gift from Santa that he left me last night. I ran down to my parents' room and told them about the final gift.

They looked a bit concerned, but I knew when I told them my story, they would believe me. After finishing my tale, they were absolutely horrified, and I couldn't understand why. They took the gift and called the police. I never knew until now what was in that box, because my father refused to tell me. Apparently, it was a box full of pictures of me from my bedroom window during the day and night. There were discarded clothes that my mother had thrown out and a few of my baby teeth from when I had lost them earlier in the year. Also, there was a note. It read, I know when you are sleeping.

I know when you are sleeping. You're awake. Have you ever wondered how difficult it must be for those brave men who don the white beards and let little kids sit on their laps at Christmas time? The children crying or pulling at the beard or the endless lists of expensive toys that they demand. Playing Santa requires a special person indeed. Sometimes, however, as author Sam Stark writes, we see that a Santa can make a deeper connection with a child, a connection that has a very profound impact on a certain mall Santa.

For the past three years, I've worked as a very profound impact. a mall Santa at a local mall in a reasonably poor area. I won't be working there again. I won't be working as Santa ever again. And here's why. Last year I got roped into working for 12 hours straight as the Santa. The guy who was supposed to relieve me called in sick. So I stayed and tried to remain cheerful, though after eight hours of ho-ho-ho-ho. one tends to get a bit weary. Most of the kids are well-behaved and a good share are young enough to be in awe of Santa, so for much of the meeting it's really not that bad. I only had to change my suit twice that day. One little boy got scared and wet himself, and an infant decided to give Santa the used contents of lunch. A lovely child she was. Many of the parents like to speak with Santa first if their kids are old enough to ask for anything outrageous like a puppy. I usually try to talk the kid into something more reasonable, per the parent's instructions.

About an hour before we closed, there were only a few kids left when one of the mothers came up to me while the elves occupied her daughter with the free candy canes and such. Last year we had an actual midget as an elf, but he scared too many kids, so this year we had volunteers from a local sorority. Santa was a jolly old soul that Christmas. Ho-ho, motherfuckerin' ho. The mother explained to me that her husband had passed away that summer, and her daughter was just getting old enough to understand dad wasn't coming home. The woman looked absolutely defeated. Her clothes were old or secondhand, and her face looked drawn. I couldn't help but feel for her, despite being exhausted myself.

She gave me specific instructions that if her daughter mentioned her late husband, I was to tell her that he's waiting in heaven and will see her again. This flies in the face of my beliefs, but it was the mother's request, so I had no right to deny it. When her little girl got to me and I sat her in my lap, we started the whole, And what would you like for Christmas, Christy? They usually love it when Santa knows their name. It looks like you've been a very good girl this year. I wasn't sure if I was just projecting my own feelings on.

to this little family but she was the happiest looking little kid I'd seen all day blonde bouncy hair done up with a handmade ribbon and I was pretty sure the stitches on her Christmas pattern dress were hand sewn mom obviously went to a great deal of trouble to get her ready for tonight she just exuded this feeling of contentment whatever their lifestyle it was obvious the mother was pouring her soul into her daughter's childhood. After an exasperated and breathless listing of all the toys she wanted, she leaned in really close and whispered, I know you're just a helper,

but can you tell Santa I want my dad to come home? Mommy misses him. My stomach just dropped. For a moment, I thought this wasn't going to be one of those difficult requirements. I had only dealt with one or two so far that season. Most kids are too concerned with themselves before they develop cognitively enough to understand the desires of other people. All I could do was to tell her that her dad was waiting in heaven for her and would see her again someday. Despite attempting to sound authentic, the words felt hollow to me.

I was tired enough that I had forgotten about those two as I left work, still in full Santa suit. Fuck changing. There was a nasty accident clogging up the main exit from the mall parking lot. Someone had been broadsided by a tractor trailer. I thought to myself, shit sucks to be them, not quite acknowledging how severe the accident was. The next morning started my day off. The employment agency had found a Santa to replace the kid who called in sick for that day, so I was free. After sufficient fucking around online, I turned on the TV and caught the tail end of a news story.

It was the accident from last night. I was curious, so I stayed on the station. Then it hit me. The names and the pictures of the victims had just been released. It was the mother and daughter from the night before. Shit, I said aloud. How exactly are you supposed to feel after seeing something like that? You know you have no technical connection to the people involved,

but there is an undefinable bond when your heart reaches out to someone. You have no reason to feel a personal connection, yet you still do. I guess you understand once you experience it. I didn't want to be dramatic, so I went about my day, running errands and such. But I still felt a little sick to my stomach that such misery was compounded for those two. What tragedy. That evening, I received a phone call from the employment agency requesting that I come

into work tomorrow. I asked why, and they said the replacement had been in a bad accident, half a mile from the mall, and the other guy was still sick. I figured, why not? Money is money, and I was just going to get drunk tomorrow anyway. Yeah, day drinking is a sign of my ambitious nature. So I agreed and showed up the next day. The helper elves were all up set and took forever to get into the spirit of the roles we played. I guess they had driven home together and were the ones to call the ambulance when they saw the accident. How darkly humorous. The EMTs arrived to find Santa pinned in a vehicle and two excessively sexy elves running around in a panic. God, they were hot. During lunch, I asked them how they were coping. They were,

they had pretty much settled down but were still upset. I guess the guy was in pretty bad shape when they arrived. He had been rambling about a passenger, which prompted a 40-minute search, but no evidence of a second passenger existed. They figured it was shock. He had also been screaming, I am not a liar.

Definitely shock. That night I got into my coffee, and headed out of the parking lot. It was snowing and the roads were slick. There were also no snow banks, so I was driving carefully. I could deal with shoveling my car out of a bank, but didn't want to deal with a ditch, tow truck, and inevitable damage to the undercarriage.

A vehicle started following a bit too close with their brights on, so I flipped my rearview mirror down, And there she was. Daddy wasn't there! I woke up the next morning in the hospital. Never play Santa again. In our final tale, we meet a young family who live in an idyllic mountain setting, perfect for the wintry tableau of the festive season.

One day, when a strange Christmas-themed cup, appears in their home. The family begins a journey into a very unsettling world. Author Eric Dodd presents his tale read by Wendy Corrigan and me. A tale of the horrible things found in the mug. Whose mug is this? Becky asked. No idea, I replied.

What are you talking about? This mug right here, she said. I leaned back in my chair and craned my neck to see. I'm trying to watch this show, I said. What's the big deal about a mug? I've never seen it before. Becky said, getting that tone in her voice like I was about to be in trouble. So what?

You collect cubs. tops and mugs like most people. Uh, don't, I said. If I was going to be in trouble, I might as well go for broke. Well, look at it. It's weird, and I've never seen it before. Becky shoved the mug at me, as if the mug was some particularly grievous offense for which I was to blame. The mug was tall, for a mug, made of a cracked and glazed. ceramic that had yellowed with age. It looked like any of a dozen that we had in our overstuffed

cabinets, received as white elephant Christmas gifts, on sale at Tuesday morning, or otherwise somehow ending up being filled with coffee or tea or hot chocolate. It's a mug. I fail to recognize its relevance to the TV show that it is currently interrupting. I said. Becky made a clicking sound with her tongue, and the I want crease between her eyebrows deepened. I was treading on thin ice. Look at the painting on the side, jerk.

I sighed and put on my reading glasses. The scene on the side of the mug was a Norman Rockwell-style winter scene with capering animals and laughing children. It's a Christmas mug, I said, and took my glasses off. That's not Christmas. Becky said, hands on her hips. I know Christmas and that's not it.

Look closer. Right there in the middle. She pointed at the central figure in the painting. I put my glasses on again and looked. The middle of the painting showed what appeared to be a winged man standing in front of an oval pool of water, attended to by several smaller figures wearing red cloaks. This scene was bordered with elaborately decorated Christmas trees, garlanded and ornamented. A laughing child was standing by each tree. I then saw what I had

mistaken for animals were in fact elves or fairies playing amongst running children. Okay, you're right. That's pretty weird. It's still a Christmas mug. Those are Christmas trees, and that's an angel. The Christmas angel, I said. Let me see it, Becky said. She had found a magnifying glass from somewhere. She peered into the magnifying glass at the mug. I don't think those children are having a good time, she said. Look here at this tree. I thought this kid was wearing a belt or funny clothes, but it looks like it goes around the trunk of the tree,

like the kid is tied to the tree. Ugh, you're pranking me. You got this off the internet, didn't you? Becky, holding the mug, opened her mouth to say something, closed it, put the mug down on the table. No, Richard, I swear to you, I have never seen that thing in my life. It's not a joke. She turned and walked away towards our bedroom with the tight, clenched movements that loudly indicated that she was no longer speaking to me. I picked up the mug from the table and looked at it. She was right. It was pretty creepy.

The little animal elf creatures painted eyes were narrow in a way that suggested slyness or malice, and the children's expressions of laughter and glee could just as easily have been grimaces of fear and shrieks of pain. I shuddered and realized I had been staring at the mug for several minutes. I stepped on the pedal of the waste bin and dropped the mug into the trash with a satisfying clunk. And that's that, I said and went to my bedroom, hoping to grovel my way back into my wife's good graces. The mug was back in the cabinet the next morning. Did you fish this out of the trash? I asked as Becky stirred her eggs.

What? She asked. That damned mug from last night. No, I didn't know you threw it away. Maybe one of the kids found it. I turned to the table and cocked an eyebrow. The kids were busy eating cereal and fighting amongst themselves. Brent, the oldest, said,

Nope, not me. Richie, my younger son, said, Oh, why would anyone take stuff out of the trash? That's gross. Hannah, my daughter, began to chant gross at the top of her four-year-old lungs. Richie decided to copy her, and Brent tried to police them both. Maybe I'm mistaken. I said. It's trash now, so I expect none of you to go rooting through the garbage for it.

I took the mug out of the cabinet and held it for a moment. The painting on the side seemed different somehow. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was different. I stared at the central figure, hands raised as it stood near a dark pool. Wings rising high above its head. I heard something then, a whisper, some word whose shape I could not quite discern. Something touched my arm then, and I jumped, defensively jabbing my elbow backwards. I heard a thin shriek from behind me.

I turned to see Richie clutching his nose, blood pouring down his face and shirt. "'Oh, crap, Richie, are you okay?' I asked. Richie stood there in shock. "'I swear I had no idea you were back there, honey. Let me take a look at it.' Becky declared nothing was broken, but allowed Richie to skip school for the day,

much to Brent's dismay. Richie overacted his injury, insisting that his mother bandage his head to the point that he looked like a mummy from an old movie. Hannah found this to be amazingly funny and took every opportunity to try to insert tiny dolls into the bandages. Our house is several miles from town, nestled in a sheltering cove. The property is relatively large,

and mostly covered in pine and spruce. Becky and I chose the location for its remoteness and privacy, but we knew the kids missed not having any neighboring children for playmates. On the drive to work, I kept thinking about that damned mug. The large, straight trunks of age-old pine trees flickered past as I made my way down the dirt country road that we think of as our driveway, because ours was the only residence along it. I found myself going over details from the painting on the side, and in particular the little creatures with their red capes and hats and their sly expressions.

In the flickers of dawn light streaming between the darkened pine trunks along the road, I imagined I could see red cloaks slipping behind trees just before I looked at them, and that I could hear them laughing and cavorting just on the other. side of that tangle of undergrowth. I shook my head and laughed to myself, definitely trying to freak myself out. I am a manager at a construction company that specializes in building houses in the Rockies. I say building, but we mostly prefabbed the houses at one of our two plants, load the pieces onto trucks and assemble them at the house site. In most areas of the country, prefab houses are either looked down on as cheap

or are far more expensive than site-built houses. In the mountains, however, there is not a lot of room to move, and there is a severe shortage of construction labor. It was a Friday in late October, so my workload was light. Snow is always a possibility this time of year, and that plays havoc with most construction, so most of our projects had wrapped up. The small office was mostly vacant afternoon. I walked to the break room to brew a fresh pot of coffee.

I flipped on the light switch and froze. The mug was sitting on the table right in front. front of me. I stared at it for a moment, heart pounding. I took a step towards the table and realized it was just an ordinary white coffee mug. I laughed and gave myself a mental shake. It did not occur to me to wonder why moments before I was completely terrified of an old mug. Snow began to fall around three and had lightly dusted the near-empty parking lot when I left at five. Becky had texted me to pick up milk, bread, cereal, and other staples on my way home, in case the storm became as bad as the weather forecast predicted.

By the time I turned on to the long mountain road to our house, it was past six and full dark. The snow had lessened for an hour or so, but then blew in stronger than before. I have lived in these mountains for years, so my truck was well equipped for those conditions, with snow tires, fog lights, and an extra light bar on the roof. I was lulled to a false sense of security by the blowing, fluttering snowflakes, when, in a flash of red and shadow, something, darted in front of my truck. I felt a sickening thud and heard a scream.

I panic-braked, the truck slewing around on the icy road before skidding to a stop. I shoved open my door and jumped out onto the roadway, nearly slipping on the ice. Hello? I called out. I walked to the front of my truck, nausea creeping up my throat. throat for what I knew could only be a scene from a nightmare. In the harsh glare of the headlamps and fog lights, there was nothing. Snowflakes ticked down onto the unmarred white of the road and steamed against the headlamps. Frantically, I scrambled for the large flashlight I keep next to my seat.

I fumbled it on and flashed it around underneath my chest. truck. Nothing. I walked around the truck to the rear. Still nothing. Movement caught my eye and I turned to look down the road to my right. There on the snow-covered road was a pool of blood, nearly black in the dim light. I took a step towards it and the red pool moved. It moved a second, a second time before I realized the red was a ragged swath of cloth, wadded and partially frozen into the snow and ice on the road. I kicked at it with my boot, just to be sure, and it rolled limply away at my touch, flapping in the storm's stiff wind. I let out a breath that I had been holding for hours, passed a shaky hand across my forehead, and walked back to the truck.

I saw them moving amongst the trees the rest of the way home. In my mind, every time a cloaked figure darted alongside the road, my pulse quickened and my hands clenched the wheel, until I drew close enough to see that the shape was only a bobbing tree limb or swirling snow. I cursed them under my breath anyway. Knowing full well my mind was playing tricks on me. Becky met me at the front door with a worried look. You're over an hour late.

What took so long? Ah, dear jumped out in front of me. I lied. I thought I hid it so I got out to look. I didn't see any damage, so I must have grazed it. Dear. Becky said with a serious look upon her face. You should take up a career in comedy.

Becky burst out laughing, and we went to the kitchen and sat down for dinner. The mood was light, and the children were excited about the snow. Daddy! The weatherman says it's going to be a blizzard, Brent said. I cast an inquiring eye at Becky. That's what the weatherman says. Earliest blizzard in 20 years. Might be a long weekend.

Those weather guys can't predict yesterday's weather. It'll blow past tomorrow. You'll see. By Sunday, we'll all be outside in our swimming pool complaining about the heat. We don't have a swimming pool, Daddy, Richie said. We don't? I asked with a mock serious expression on my face. Did someone steal our swimming pool? The children laughed.

Someone call the pool police. After dinner, the children rinse their plates and put them into the dishwasher. Brent pointed at my hands. I thought you said that was trash, Dad. I looked down and realized I had been holding the mug, rubbing its sides with my fingers. Yeah, buddy, I need to throw this away again. Thanks. When I reached the trash can, I felt a small rattling vibration from the mug.

as if there was something inside it. I shook the mug and heard the rattle again. I peered into the mug. Did it seem deeper now than earlier? And saw something. I turned the mug and shook a small white object into my hand. It was a tiny tooth. I looked at the tooth for a moment.

then threw both the mug and the tooth into the trash. The next morning, Brent was missing. Becky woke me, panicked. We checked the various hiding places within the house, but stopped when we saw the tracks leading through the snow. Maybe he just went out to play in the woods, I said. He never does that, not. without telling us, and not without his brother.

You stay here in case he comes back. I'll go after him. I shrugged into my heavy overcoat and my waterproof boots, feeling the tendrils of a bad headache slip around my brain stem. If anything, the storm had strengthened during the night and visibility was poor in the woods. Over 30 inches of snow had fallen. in the night, and drifts were as high as five feet in some places. If he had fallen into a drift, but I couldn't think about that. Not with Brent. The tracks led deeper into a forest landscape made alien by the snow.

The forest was alive with the crashing sounds of snow falling from trees, and the cracking of branches unable to bear the adjacent. to bear the additional weight. It sounded, at times, like a low, chuckling laughter. I crested a small rise and saw a splash of red in a low clearing below me. For a moment, I thought it was one of the creatures from the mug. As I drew closer, I saw it was Brent's red to boggin. Brent, I called.

He moved, turning towards me. He was sitting on a small tree trunk, huddled against the cold. I hurt my ankle, Daddy, he said, face upturned to mine, lips purplish. Can you walk on it? I asked, and he nodded. Why in the world were you out here? You could have died, son? I asked as we slowly hobbled back to the house. They wanted to play, Daddy.

Who wanted to play? I asked, knowing and dreading the answer. There was a bunch of kids outside this morning. I saw them through my window. They waved at me. They asked me to come out and play, so I did. I followed them out to the house. the woods, but I couldn't find them. They were just gone. Brent started to cry. I'm scared, Daddy.

I got all the way out here and twisted my ankle. And when I sat down on that log, I looked around for them. They were there, but there's no tracks in the snow. How could that happen, Daddy? I stopped just outside view of the house. I don't know. Maybe you were still half dreaming. Maybe they had on snow shoes. I do know one thing. Don't tell your mom anything about this.

Keep it between us. Tell her you just decided to go play in the snow. And don't go outside. any more. Not alone, not with your brother or sister, unless I'm with you. Brent nodded his understanding. Becky expressed her anger with Brent quietly when we arrived at the house. She checked Brent's ankle, declared it sprained, and sent him straight to his room with a firm grounding. No electronics, no books, sit on the bed and be bored. Brent shuffled meekly upstairs, and Becky glared at me as if it were my fault. He said he just went outside to play.

It's in the middle of a blizzard, Richard. He's old enough to know better. The weather guy says it's the worst early fall storm in ten years. I don't really. want them going outside at all. It's too dangerous. You can't see farther than your fingers out there. I nodded, but didn't share my own reasons for agreeing with her. The power went out around noon. The lines to our house were buried, but some of the larger lines weren't. So power outages were an expected part of winter in the mountains. I had bought a nice diesel generator from a liquidation auction a few years ago and had installed it in a shed behind the house. I keep a week's worth of diesel fuel in a tank near the shed. The property counts as a farm, and so long as I don't put the specially

dyed farm diesel into my truck and get caught, I pay about half what I would have to pay at a regular pump. The switch over to generator power was manual, but not terribly difficult. After the lights had been off for an hour, Becky and I decided they weren't coming back on for a while. So I bundled up and trudged through the ever-deepening snowdrifts to the shed. The generator coughed into life on the third try, and I winced as my head throbbed in time with the noise. I checked the fuel level, the exhaust vent, and the breaker panel. I turned to walk back to the house, but when I tried to push the shed door open, it wouldn't budge. I pushed harder, and the door opened slightly, letting in the dim white light of the blizzard.

I heard a childish laugh and saw Brent run past the slitted doorway. Hey, Brent, quit screwing around. I have to get the power on in the house. More laughter. My headache roared into life, intensified by the racket of the diesel generator. I slammed my shoulder into the door, opening it by a few more inches. I reached my hand through the opening and could feel a chunk of wood braced against the door, but I couldn't move it.

I slammed the door with my shoulder again, and Brent laughed from the other side of the door. The door shuddered as he kicked it back at me, hitting me in the face. I pulled back in shock for a moment, and then the red fog of my temper overtook. me. I am not a violent man. This is due to years of patient, studied effort. When my temper does break, it breaks hard. I didn't control it as well when I was younger, which ultimately landed me in a jail cell for a night after a drunken brawl when I was in college. I have lost my temper with The children at times, they drive you to it with their testing. But not like this.

The cold, the headache, the worry, and ultimately the deep sense of unease sent me over the edge of control. I roared in my rage and slammed my body against the door. Some part of the wood or hinges snapped and the door swung over. I looked around but saw no sign of Brent, but I did see his tracks in the snow leading back to the house. I kicked the shed door shut and stomped up the path to the house. Once inside, I flung off my heavy coat and climbed the stairs two at a time. When I reached Brent's room, I flung his door open so hard that it rebounded from the adjacent. adjacent wall.

Brent! The sneaky little turd was laying on his bed, pretending to be asleep. What the hell were you playing at, Brent? What? Brent exclaimed, eyes wide, scrambling back away from me. Crack, I slapped him hard across the mouth. Outside, locking me into the... shed. Brent started to cry, sissy. Oh, suck it up, son. If you're going to dish it out,

learn to take it. I didn't do anything. He wailed. I don't know what you're talking about. I saw you out there. I heard you laughing. I raised my hand, curled into a fist this time. ready to do some damage. Richard! Becky shouted from behind me. I stopped the rage draining from me, leaving only the whirling daggers of the headache stabbing into my skull.

I lowered my arm. He wedged the shed door shut. I saw him, Becky. I did not. Brent shouted, still crying. Richard, he couldn't have. I was downstairs the whole time, and I never heard him go outside.

And look, his clothes are dry. I blinked and looked around. Brent's boots were on the floor, dry from when he had toweled them off earlier that morning. Brent cowered on the bed. Knees drawn up to his chest, face reddened from the slap. That was bad. Worse was the look in Becky's eyes.

Anger and concern and a little bit of fear. Avoiding both of their gazes, I mumbled something in the way of an apology and about getting the power back on and fled the room. Dinner was tense. Brent had lapsed into a pubescent teenager sullenness and wouldn't look at me. Becky kept watching me as if I might fly into a homicidal rage any moment. Richie and Hannah were confused, both seeming to know that something was wrong, but not understanding what it was.

I had to shut off nearly half the breakers in the house. so as to make the generator fuel last longer. We ate quietly in the sparse, dim light. Afterwards, Becky suggested everyone go to bed early, and as a true sign of something being wrong, nobody complained. I awoke with a start from some vague nightmare of something reaching towards me with terrible fingers.

drenched with sweats and wrapped in layers of sheets and blankets. I lay there for a moment, pulse racing, trying to remember the dream. I rarely remember my dreams, and the last memorable nightmare I had was prior to Brent's birth. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but realized I had to pee. I staggered to the dark bathroom by feel and memory. I made my way back to bed and froze. Laughter, thin and childish, coming from upstairs. I heard the laughter again as I quietly climb the stairs to the second floor.

Anna, what are you doing up? I asked my daughter, somehow knowing, the answer and dreading it. She giggled and looked up from her spot on the floor. The little people's funny, Daddy, she said and smiled at me. In her outstretched hands was the mug. It's way too early to be up and playing, Munchkin. I gingerly took the mug from her hands and put it on her dresser. I picked her up and put her back in her bed and kissed her forehead. It's still sleepy time, so you be a good girl and go back to bed.

Daddy night, Daddy, I love you. She said as I closed her door. I carried the mug downstairs, opened the back door, and stepped out into the drifts of sun. on the back deck. Murky, uncertain moonlight filtered through the low clouds, casting the forest into a chiro-roscuro landscape of snow and shadows. The snow stung against my feet, melting into a slush that quickly soaked into my socks.

I flung the mug as hard as I could into the nighttime forest, and we were. and waited for a few moments until I heard a distant thump that I imagined could be the mug landing in a snowdrift, or perhaps shattering against the trunk of some lonely forgotten pine. The shadows cluster just outside the reach of the wan moonlight burst apart, each one resolving into a running cloaked figure. There were hundreds. I stepped back with an inhaled breath and a fist involuntarily drawn back to my mouth. The figure stopped and turned to me, each as still as stone, watching me in the darkness.

The rage returned then, welling up like blood from a wound, old and unheeled. How dare they? This is my house. This is my land. How dare they? I shoved my feet into boots and threw on my heavy overcoat and gloves. I grabbed my rifle, a long, heavy thing with enough power to take down a bear and left the house. Snow crunched and squeaked as I made my way towards the forest's edge.

The figures had dispersed, but I saw one moving away from me at the top of a rise. I tightened my grip on the rifle and followed. Minutes or hours passed. I cannot rightfully say how long I stumbled along those snowy paths in the darkness. At some point I realized that I should have brought a flashlight. I should have told Becky I should have stayed at home. Whenever those thoughts came to me, they were quickly banished by a cloaked figure, beckoning to me from behind a tree.

And later, after I fell in a snowdrift, laughing at me, kicking me in the ribs and dancing just out of reach. When I reached the clearing, I was exhausted, soaked with sweat and freezing. My vision blurred, two scenes superimposing themselves, until I admitted to myself what I was seeing. The clearing and the pool was the scene from the mug. An array of short conical spruce trees stood there at the edge of the clearing. In front of and between stood ranks of small figures whose cloaks appeared black in the silvery moonlight. Yet I knew those cloaks were red, red as blood.

The dark figures standing. at the edge of the pool did not frighten me as much as the pool itself. It was small and appeared shallow, but its black waters should have long frozen at those temperatures. I trudged forward, using my rifle for support, passed caring about the snow and dirt fouling the barrel. When I reached the pool's edge and saw its dark waters slowly lapping at the edge. I realized that despite my fear, I was very, very thirsty. I looked to my left hand where the white mug hung. I sighed and sank to my knees,

sunk the mug which was rattling again, into the gently moving waters, filled the mug to the brim, brought it to my lips, and drank deeply. It was fantastically refreshing. I scooped more water from the pool and drank again and again. On my fourth drink, water dribbling from my chin and soaking my night. shirt. A chance break in the cloud cover allowed light from the gibbous moon a direct path into the pool, illuminating what lay beneath the surface. The twisted and hacked limbs looked blue in that light. Dead eyes reflecting the moonlight almost as clearly as the surface of the pool itself.

I recoiled from the pool in horror and began to notice the smell of the clearing. The low temperatures had greatly dampened the odor, but there it was. The green and dripping odor of rot and putrescence. The faintly, fruity odor of decay. I tried desperately to expel. the fouled water that I had ingested, but my throat and stomach rebelled. I shoved two cold, numbed fingers into my mouth, but small hands grabbed my arms and pulled them back. Other hands shoved me back to the ground, kneeling on the snow, and yet others entwined themselves in my hair,

pulling my head back so that I might see what resolved itself at the other end of the pool. The cold winter darkness stretched there, like the skin of the world was being pushed at by some wet, thrashing thing trying to push its way through, or perhaps became aware of myself some time later. I was sitting on my front porch, porch in the dark. I was very cold. I stood up, brushed the snow off of my pajama pants, and went inside. I took off my boots and overcoat and turned to walk upstairs when my foot clinked

off of something on the floor. The mug sat on the floor, smooth and dry. glinting in the dim light from the kitchen. I picked up the mug and placed it on the kitchen counter. I found Becky's magnifying glass in a drawer and looked closely at the figures on the side of the mug. Their crude lines flowed and circled as they danced and ran in the snowy woods, chasing and hurting children into the central clearing. While they ran, they told me things in their small voices.

They told me of how great he was and how powerful, and how the world would tremble at his power. They showed me the sacred ceremony, how the children were tied, and bound to the trees, and how the children's living organs garlanded the trees as an offering to His Majesty, to quicken his arrival, understood, finally. I was filled with awe at his might, and humbled that he and his children had chosen me to be his emissary, to be his midfather that welcomed him to the world once again. I understood what I had to do next.

I was saddened yet joyous. I chose the sharpest knife. The mug must be filled. Our sleepless tales have come to. an end. Thanks for sharing the darkness of the night with us. Join us again in two weeks' time when we unleash more disturbing tales designed to afflict your night with no sleep. To continue your sleepless experience, visit the no sleeppodcast.com.