The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E19

Episode Date: January 27, 2013

It's episode 19 of the second season of The Nosleep Podcast!  The episode features five tales of lost young people, bizarre emails exchanges, and ghastly graveyard jobs.This episode features these stories:Winter Memories written by Anton Scheller (Redditor AL_365) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).Go Back to Sleep, Little Darling written by Thomas Thompson (Redditor dr_vonhugenstein) and read by Jacob Gallegos (Redditor eggogallego).When Your World Falls Apart written by Anton Scheller (Redditor AL_365) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).The Long Face written by Alex Hetherington (Redditor Fyve) and read by Chris Eddleman (Redditor TalksAtYou). This story won the Nosleep Writing Contest for September 2012.The Screaming Corpse written by Brian von Knoblauch (Redditor McGrupp76) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone). 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 19 of season two. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you in this episode. featuring stories about lost young people, bizarre email exchanges, and ghastly graveyard jobs.

One of the stories in this episode is a winner of the monthly writing contests from the No Sleep Forum. Also, we have a new narrator joining us this episode, Jacob Gallegos. He'll be lending his voice to our second story. As always, I appreciate the way you fans continue to interact with us. via social networking and our website. One of the best ways to support the show is to let other people know about the podcast. Now, I know the kind of stories we present aren't for everyone, but if you have friends, family members, or people in your social circles

who enjoy horror entertainment, please make sure to mention the podcast to them, so they too can discover the fun of listening to our scary tales during dark nights. The more the merrier, and scarier. Now, on with the stories. Our first tale comes to us from author Anton Scheller. We'll be featuring two of Anton's tales in this episode. In this story, we meet a young man who engages in a war of pranks with his friends.

One prank involving a snowboarding trip to a mountain cabin leads to a very distrower. disturbing series of events. I'll read the tale for you, as this young man recalls the events from his winter memories. When I was young, my friends and I liked to prank each other. Of course, it didn't take long for that to become a competition. Who would be able to pull off the most elaborate prank? It lasted all summer, and there are many pranks I could tell you about, and quite a few that went wrong.

But by far my biggest success, if you could call it that, was the snow prank. The plan was easy. Get the guys up into the mountains for some snowboarding. Tell them a bunch of stories about how the best way to stay warm in the cold is to rub up to another naked body. And then leave them in the ski lodge for the night, blankets but without any source of heating. It was the Sunday just a week before Christmas and the day really was fun. We went up there, had bread and sausages as lunch and enjoyed the deep powder snow all afternoon.

Late at night we went to our family ski lodge, barely used since my dad broke his leg, and wanted to finish the night with some drinks or games. Of course, they thought I had planned ahead and brought firewood and the like. But instead, I had planned ahead and had planned my hike down while they literally had no idea where we were. Sorry, you might think I'm cruel, but they really had played some bad pranks on me. So this time, I made sure to win. I had cameras around the hut, and there was definitely no means of heating around, and the idea of keeping each other warm with their bare bodies deeply implanted in the minds of my three friends.

I was grinning the whole hike down, while they thought I was getting firewood from behind the lodge. The problem didn't dawn on me until I was nearly down the mountain. The whole hike down it had snowed. Of course, I had planned it well in advance, and when they realized that I was gone, it was too late to start the hike down. What I hadn't planned for was the snow, or, to be precise, the amount of snow.

It was nearly a blizzard while I rode the car home. I had a weird feeling. A mixture of schadenfreude and wood. worry during the ride home. My plan, oh, I was sure of it, was going well. By now it would be freezing up there, and they would be huddled together. It was only a matter of time until they would remember my words on how to survive the gold, and I would have it all on tape for later amusement and eternal torture.

But I still worried. It was snowing a lot, and that wasn't what I had planned. A few years earlier, my parents and I had been stuck in that lodge for a few days, snowed in until my grandfather saved us. And the blizzard somehow looked awfully familiar. On Monday, I wasn't surprised when I didn't get any message from them. I figured they'd be angry, but they would forgive me when they saw them. what it was all for. It was all part of our healthy and fun contest, right? On Tuesday, I got somewhat

worried that there was no message. I tried calling them, but there was no reply. I drove back to the mountain to see whether I could hike back to the lodge, but the snow was too deep to go up more than a few meters. From the ground, I couldn't even locate the lodge. On Wednesday, I really freaked out. I tried calling them again, but the phones were all dead. I thought about going to their parents to see whether they were home, or maybe to go to the mountain rescue to ask them to check the lodge. But what would I say?

Hey, I left my friends up there. Could you see if I killed them? Yeah, not exactly an option. So I did the only sensible thing. I didn't do anything. Sat at home, leaped through books, played some games, and otherwise did all I could to not think about them. At least the snow had stopped.

On Thursday, I finally got the phone call from my friend Mark. Hey, Mark. At least they were fine. That was a good thing. I stopped worrying and instead got ready for Christmas. Steve and Greg still weren't reachable by phone, but I figured they were just even more angry than Mark. But we were great friends.

They'd get over it. They'd understand that I hadn't planned it that way. And two weeks later, we would all laugh about the videos of them rubbing their naked bodies against each other. On Friday, I got another call. Steve's mom. She asked me to come to the hospital. They were waiting for me.

Steve's parents, Greg's parents, Mark's parents. Steve, Greg, and the police. They took my statement right away, and I told them in excruciating detail all of the above. minus the cameras. I'll tell you right away. I got away with it. Maybe I shouldn't have,

but they considered it an accident. I was still underage. We all had played nasty pranks on each other, and even Greg and Steve pleaded with the police not to press charges, not to ruin my future for this. They said it was bad enough, that Mark was gone. They said Mark had walked out on Tuesday

to go down and get help, and that he told them he would come back, but that he didn't. And that they, after the snowfall had finally stopped, had gone down and nearly frozen to death, wasn't exactly making the issue easier. But they were okay. Steve and Greg were okay.

That was at least something. And I knew that Mark was okay. How else would he have phoned me two days after leaving the lodge? They found Mark two weeks after Christmas. His body wasn't far from the lodge. Just 50 or so steps downwards. The investigation finished with the result that he somehow must have gotten lost and that he had walked in circles until he died.

That his body was, after nearly a month outdoors, badly torn apart by animals, and a whole arm missing wasn't exactly a consolation either. Did he walk around in circles for two days? I couldn't get that phone call out of my head all winter. I felt watched and worried. And Mark's death destroyed my friendship with Steve and Greg, too. They behaved awed at first, and then they both started drinking and stayed at home all day.

I had destroyed them. I had killed one of my best friends and destroyed the other two. I didn't go snowboarding for the rest of the winter. Actually, since then, I haven't gone at all. I only went once back to the lodge to clean it out so that we could sell it. I think my parents wanted to get rid of the memory. Probably that's why they sent me up there

to clean my spirits by cleaning the lodge where my friend had spent his last hours. It was already summer and the building building in a pretty bad shape, probably from an avalanche, or maybe just the age. There must have been holes in the walls. There were even some bones lying around. From the size, I thought first it was the lunch of a bear. Then I recognized the hand. I didn't even call the police. I frantically searched for the cameras, still in the their hiding places and literally ran down the mountain, jumped in my car, and sped home.

The memory card of the first camera was broken. Nothing to be seen. But the second one worked. I fast forwarded through the days. Sunday. We're there, drinking, having fun. I leave. They sit and talk Then they seem to get uncomfortable Probably they noticed that I took pretty long They talk, argue, open the door Decide to stay inside Nighttime

They huddled together Blankets wrapped around them When the light comes back They are naked The way I had planned it The prank had worked after all, and it made me cry even more. The Monday they just spent opening and closing the door, talking and huddling. That's it.

The snowstorm outside must still have been pretty bad. Monday nights, then Tuesday, huddling. Nothing more. They seem unhappy. miserable, but they all keep huddled together. Mark doesn't leave. Tuesday night, they are still huddled together, but they are arguing. Wednesday morning.

Steve and Greg are huddled together, but Mark lies alone on the floor. That's when I understood. Wednesday, noon. They throw Mark's body outside. They argue the rest of the day. In the late evening, they pull Mark's body back inside. Steve sits on Mark's body. Greg starts pulling on Mark's arm.

Finally, he bends it from one side to the other, like a stick he's trying to break until the arm gives in. I see horror on Steve's face. Greg seems calm. The arm lies on the floor for a while. Then Greg grabs it and bites it. After a while, Steve joins him. At this point, I throw up.

Thursday, they throw the body back outside. They huddle together and cry. Then they gnawold. on the arm again. Friday. They push the arm in a corner of the lodge. Then they start walking. Heads down, out of the lodge.

I shouldn't have talked to them. I shouldn't have confronted them about it. But I wanted them to explain the phone call. They couldn't explain it. But they said that just moments after they came down, they got one too. Greg died two weeks ago, early on Wednesday morning, in a car accident.

Steve died last week, early on Wednesday morning, by falling from his fifth floor window. It's Tuesday night. I know that somebody is standing outside my door. When a father and his young daughter seek a new beginning in their new home, they start to realize that things about the house are far too unsettling to allow them any peace. Author Thomas Thompson's tale is narrated by Jacob

Gallegos, as he describes the lengths to which the father goes to make his daughter comfortable and to get her to go back to sleep, little darling. Move went off without a hitch. My daughter and I began to settle into our new home. There was something so refreshing about this place. I really felt that this would be the grand beginning of our new life together. I felt something stirring inside me that had long laid dormant. Hope.

I was a very motivated buyer. In addition to this, I was always captivated by the Victorian style of our... architecture. I am so comforted by an old-fashioned residence like this. It reminded me of the home I grew up in and better times. The first night I tucked Jessica into bed, I worried for my sweet baby and let her know that if she needed anything, my bedroom door would be open. I watched as sleep quickly found her. She had taken the loss of her mother hard, as any six-year-old would, and it did my heart well to see her sleeping soundly with the same angelic face as the woman we had recently laid to rest. Exhausted myself, I crawled into my new bed and fell asleep.

I awoke to a silhouette standing before me. I get very disoriented when I first wake up and jumped with fright when I saw the initially formless shadow looming over my bed. As my eyes adjusted to the minimal light of the hallway, I felt relief when I saw that it was just the tiny form of Jessica. The relief was short-lived, as I could see that she was shaking with fright. I asked with concern, what's the matter, darling? She said with her voice shaking, I am scared, Daddy. In as fatherly a voice as I could muster at two in the morning, I told her, Go back to sleep, little darling. There is nothing to be afraid of.

She replied with an escalating fear. That's what the man living in the wall said to me. My heart leapt into my throat. Had I heard her right? Yes, there was no mistaking it. I grabbed a baseball bat and told Jessica to stay behind me as we ventured into the darkness of her room. Before I could turn on the light, a loud bang filled the air.

I looked to the ground to see that Jessica had tripped over the carpeting of her bedroom, elevated above the hardwood floor of the hallway. I helped her back onto her feet, and with sweat beginning to form on my brow, I turned on the light. The light filled the room. The emptiness called back to me. I looked high and low for anything suspicious and found nothing. I pressed my ear up to the wall and listened intently.

Nothing. My mind began to relax. Jessica had always had a very active imagination. Also, the therapist said that the emotional trauma of the loss of her mother would manifest itself in many ways. This, coupled with the move, must have taken more out of Jessica than I initially thought. I offered to let her share my bed with me and watched as she fell asleep once again. I wasn't going to let this little wrinkle spoil our new life together.

The flame of optimism deep within still burned brightly as I closed my eyes that evening. The next morning, my concern returned as Jessica's, spent the entire morning talking about the man in the wall. I felt it would do her well to spend the day with her favorite aunt. She is very fond of my wife's, uh, ex-wife, former wife. I am new to this whole widower thing, my wife's sister. This would be a perfect opportunity to begin the slight renovations of the home I had planned unperturbed. I dropped her off and told Alicia that I would return at 9 p.m. Sharp. I opened the door to our new house and made a beeline for the first floor closet. As lame as it sounds, I was excited about beginning to work on the kitchen shelves.

This place was near perfection, but could use some minor alterations to become the perfect refuge for me and my daughter I had visioned in my mind. I opened the closet door and turned on the light expecting to see my tool belt, but instead was greeted by nothing. I stared at the blank space perplexed. I could have sworn that I had placed my tools in the closet during the move. However, everything has been so hectic the past few days. I must have been mistaken.

I thoroughly searched the house and turned up nothing. They must have been lost in the move, I surmised. I went to the hardware store to buy some replacements and began to work on the kitchen. I went to pick up Jessica and was relieved to see how happy she was. However, as I drove her home from her aunts, her ecstatic demeanor shifted from jubilence to terror as we pulled into the driveway.

She almost refused to enter the door. She just kept repeating over and over again. The man in the wall. The man in the wall. My heart sank. I needed this to work. It was important for me to resume a sense of normalcy in my life. I knew Jessica would adjust. She just needed time.

I awoke in the middle of the night to see a silhouette standing in front of my bed. I said, Jessica, what's wrong, darling? Daddy, she replied sleepily. The shock struck my body like a bolt of lightning. I turned to my right to see my daughter lying in bed next to me. with her eyes closed. My memory of her refusing to sleep in her room came flooding back.

I look back at the shadow standing at the foot of my bed with incomprehensible horror. My eyes begin to reveal the face of this unkempt man. His insane eyes glaring at me and the claw hammer clutched firmly in its grasp. Some horror comes in the fantastical forms of ghosts or monsters. But to some people, real-life horror can come in the form of the tragic loss of loved ones. In this second tale from Anton Scheller, we meet a mother who is crippled with overwhelming despair. I'll read for you her story and allow for you.

you to ask yourself what you would do if you had to deal with her ordeal. What do you do when your world falls apart? To be honest, I don't have much hope for Carrie. Her head is now bald and covered in red blisters where she scratched too much. She refuses to eat, has to be restrained to stop hurting herself, and her only interrelated interaction with psychiatrists is to attack them. Most cases of insanity are random or due to a chemical imbalance. But sometimes I get the impression that the victim didn't have a choice.

That insanity is the only option when your world falls apart. You know what is every parent's worst nightmare? to lose a child. Four years ago, Carol had everything. She had Tim, her loving husband, and together they had Norman, six years old, and Chloe, four years old. The kids were healthy and smart,

and Norman had just entered school. They owned a large yellow house with a nice backyard, were good friends with their neighbors. Tim and Carol had everything they could have wished for. Then Norman disappeared. Just a few months after he had started school, on a warm and sunny Tuesday evening, Norman didn't come home.

Several of his classmates saw him leaving school and getting on the bus. The driver thinks he remembers. remembers Norman getting off. While leaving the bus, Norman tripped and nearly fell. But rather than cry, he laughed about it. What a great child, thought the driver. And that's the last time Norman was seen. The police searched the neighborhood, investigated for months, even followed leads out of the country. but Norman was never seen again. And Carol, Tim, and Chloe, not even old enough to understand what it means

that your brother won't come back, could do nothing but go to the police station every morning and beg them to do more. Of course, they put up posters, rallied the neighbors, they did everything. But Norris, Norman was gone. It's not surprising that Carol became very protective of Chloe. She quit her job to make sure that Chloe would never be alone. When Chloe started school, an expensive one with safety fences all around the school, Carol would do everything to make sure that Chloe would safely get into the school door in the morning and would never be alone when she left school in the school in the morning.

evening. They picked up Chloe's friends for play dates just to make sure that the children would play at the safest possible place. Carol, in other words, became overprotective. It took Tim more than a year to convince her that he too would take good care of Chloe. But still, there was no birthday party at a friend's place where Carol would not stand in the corner, making sure were at every step that nothing could happen to Chloe. Sure, her fear was excessive. Chloe wasn't even allowed to light or blow out a candle, or to walk into the basement alone, or to go out anywhere alone. That's why Chloe was always happy when her mother was shopping. Tim took care of Chloe. He even allowed her to play in the garden on her own. You know what is worse than losing your child?

Losing both of your children. Two years ago, a bit more than two years after Norman's disappearance, Tim was taking care of Chloe. Carol was shopping for gifts for Chloe's upcoming birthday, and taking Chloe to the mall would be too dangerous, as Carol had always pointed out. Most child abductions, after all, happened in malls. It was a busy Saturday, and Carol was gone for nearly four hours. Then she got the call. Tim later described to the police that he was reading on the sofa when Chloe disappeared, that she had played in the garden for several hours,

something that she knew would stop when mummy came home and so always enjoyed especially much. Tim told the police, I checked on her every ten minutes. I knew Carol would freak out if Chloe would hurt herself in any way, so I even made sure that she was dressed in long clothes, despite the heat. And I just finished the book.

It could not have been more than 15 minutes after I last checked on her. After I saw her playing with her doll on the terrace. And she wasn't there. I mean, there was just no way for her to get out. We had these high fences on two sides, and the third side was just our neighbor. She was always so sweet with Chloe. I couldn't imagine that she would ever do something to her?

At this point in the police interview, Tim started crying. That is the point in time. Carol lost it the first time. She just couldn't process losing her second child. She had done everything to make sure Chloe was safe and she still disappeared. Carol first went into a full-blown depression and tried to kill herself two times. First she used razor blades, but then Tim found her and brought her to the hospital. In the psychiatric unit, Carol tried a second time by ramming a pen into her throat.

It took six months until Carol was able to return home. The physical wounds had long healed, but getting Carol out of the depression took much longer. And even then, when she returned home, she was still unstable. Tim took a sabbatical year from his job to care for her. The money was a bit tight, but both of their parents helped out Carol and Tim with their support. But because of the distance, they were unable to. to visit very often. Carol spent

nearly six months in Chloe's room, crying into teddy bears and hugging Barbies. Tim did the household chores, cooked and went shopping, and arranged for Carol to meet her old friends and colleagues

whenever possible. Their neighbors and friends were all very supportive. But when all was said and done, Chloe couldn't be found. The police investigated for more than a year after the disappearance. They questioned neighbors and friends, even Tim and Carol themselves. Their direct neighbor was shortly even in custody, but when the neighbor's alibi turned out to be solid, A speed camera shot showed that she was too far away from the house at the time that Chloe disappeared.

She too was released. More than a year after Chloe's disappearance, Carol started to get better. She started cooking and cleaning again, and she finally allowed Tim to give some of Chloe's old toys, some of which had belonged to Norman to charity. A few times, she even went to her. went out on her own again. But as Tim confided to a few friends, every night Carol would still cry herself to sleep.

But at least, Tim said, she stopped blaming him. She stopped accusing him every day of being responsible for Chloe's disappearance. For more than a year, he had heard the same message every day. It's your fault. If you wouldn't have let her in the garden?

Six months ago, Tim had to start his work again. That was hard for Carol, but it was the only way to save their strained finances and to restart their lives. You can't live in the past, Tim would say. They're gone, and we have to accept that. Carol would cry. but she would nod between her sobs. They planned to travel the world together, and maybe to try again to have a child.

It took Carol several weeks, but she learned to deal with being alone at home. She would chat with the neighbors and go to meetings for parents of lost children. She even started to organize a fundraiser for a new playground in the neighborhood, One, she would insist, where the neighbors together could organize a watch so that no child ever had to play without oversight. Carol had also taken again to doing the chores in the house.

She started cooking, cleaning, and shopping. She tidied all the rooms except for Tim's holy do-it-yourself room, where she only dared to clean the floor and to eliminate the thick layers of dust on the shelves. Finally, Carol started the thing that she had dreaded the most after Chloe had disappeared. She started gardening. She mowed the lawn, trimmed the bushes, and seemed to be getting better from it. Tim wasn't sure all of this was truly a good idea, whether Carol might have another breakdown. But Carol felt her improvement.

It was a cathartic experience for her, and she even felt as if it was reconnecting her with Chloe, to be in the last place that Chloe had been and in the garden that Norman had loved so much. Carol even went so far as to start planting new flowers and bushes. You know what is worse than losing your children? Finding their pieces. Roughly six weeks ago, just when things seemed to be going uphill, Carol was renewing the hedge at the end of their garden. She dug a hole to remove an old bush,

when her spade cracked through something hard. A small bone. Carol figured it was a dead animal and continued digging. Just a few minutes later, she found the hand. Not an old skeleton hand. No, a clearly fresh, half-wroughton hand of what must have been a six-year-old child. Carol, with tears streaming down her face, kept digging. She thought that something must have buried Chloe there,

that maybe Chloe had fallen into a small hole, and that somehow they had just overlooked the hill that must have covered her body. Carol dug for nearly half an hour, frantically heaping soil away from where she thought her child was lying. She didn't find more than the hand. And that's when Carol knew. That's, says her mother, is why Carol called the police and her own parents, but not Tim. Within the next two hours, the police found four more pieces.

A ribcage, an entire arm, a chin bone, and a foot. still in small boy shoes. That's when they realized that there wasn't one child buried in the garden. It was two. You know what is worse than finding the pieces of your children? Living with their murderer for four years. Tim was arrested at work. The police excavated the whole garden,

carefully sieving through the soil not to miss a single bone, like the small one that Carol had found first and just thrown away, Norman's finger. They found the bodies of two dead children, around six years of age. The girl, the coroner determined, was buried for around two years, the boy for around four years. Still, it seemed that it must have been somebody else. Tim denied his guilt, denied that he would ever do anything to his children.

And Carol believed him. It cannot have been him. He was the best father I've ever seen. Then, at the bottom of an old... metal trunk in Tim's do-it-yourself room wrapped into old towels police found the heads only when she saw them when Carol herself identified the two moldered heads as those of her own children did Carol break down as I said I don't have much hope for Carol she's not now been here for four weeks. There is no hair left on her head. Every day she causes another dark

blue or purple bruise to appear on her body, and her fingernails are long ago either ripped out or chewed down to the flesh. And because most of the time she refuses to eat or drink, none of the damage to her body can heal. The doctors and nurses try their best to help, but there is just nothing we can do to help. Sometimes, when your world falls apart, insanity just is the only option. Our next tale is from author Alex Hetherington,

and it was the winner of the monthly writing contest, last September. In this story, read by Chris Edelman, we are presented with a disturbing exchange of emails between three friends. These emails were discovered on a lost flash drive, which makes the story even stranger and open-ended. Let's listen as we learn about what these people went through,

and how they dealt with a mysterious entity known as the long face. About a week ago, I found a USB stick on the way to a PC repair business where I work part-time. It looked really standard, just a small metal box. I only saw it because the sun reflected off the case. For a second, I thought that the pavement had just erupted into light. Anyway, I decided to take it to the police station after work, but of course, because I work with computers, the temptation to look at the contents was too much. There were a few folders

with incomprehensible names and three others, case notes, training, and emails. There were about 100 emails, mostly unconnected, but a few were really interesting. Usually I wouldn't go snooping through such private information, but I felt such a strange urge. In the end, And I kept it. I think I'm going to hand it into the police still, sometime in the future. I'm going to share with you the most interesting emails, and maybe you can help me decide what to make of it. From Matthew Howard, April 12, 2012.

Subject, Rebecca. Hey, Dan, how's it going? I know we haven't spoken lately. I've been busy with uni, and there's some drama been going on in my family. and I've basically had no time. Sorry about that. I'm emailing because I need some advice. What's what the fucking hotmail account, by the way?

It's about Becky, of course. You helped me out so much going through all that shit with her. I still think about her practically every day, but I've taken your advice. It's been difficult avoiding contact, but I've managed. Okay, I still have her number even though she deleted mine, but I blocked her on Facebook and all that other stuff. Well, until she fucking emailed me yesterday.

She needs help. It's about John, the new guy. I want to punch his head in. She seems really upset. Should I reply? Thanks, Matt. From Dan the Man, April 12th, 2012. Subject, no.

Matt. No, LOL. Doesn't matter why you don't talk to a bitch until at least a year after, okay? Good luck. Dan. From Becky 1-2-3-4-56-789, April 11th, 2012. Subject. Hey, Matt, we need to talk. Matt, I hope life is treating you well. It's been a while, huh? Any girls in your life? The past week I've been thinking about you a lot. I remember the moment when you said that you never wanted to speak to me again so clearly. I didn't mean to hurt you like that. I knew my old address is blocked. I made this one to contact you. If it's okay, can we talk? John has been acting weird and I need

some help. I'm asking you because, well, Matt, to tell you the truth, I'm getting scared of John and you were the last guy I've been close to other than him for a while. And I don't want to tell my friends because they might judge him. Am I becoming a stereotype? Okay, if you don't immediately want to delete this email, please keep reading and I'll explain. But if you want, continue to ignore me, and I will understand. And I really will never try to contact you again. Last month, John tidied up the bathroom. Sounds stupid, I know, but he really went at it.

I went in there and it was spotless. The surface is gleamed. He'd put some sort of freshener down and everything was exactly in its right place. You know how much stuff I have. We can't fit both our toothbrushes in the cupboards, so we lay them down by the sink? They were parallel to each other. Completely straight, completely aligned. I was a bit freaked out, but I was also proud, you know? He just acted nonchalant like it was nothing. Soon, the rest of the house is super tidy.

All the books are ordered alphabetically, everything put away, the magazines on the coffee table stacked up in a square? I'm a bit weirded out and I ask him what's up. He says that it doesn't matter. Why would he be doing so much for me? At first I thought he was cheating on me. I have his Facebook password so I checked and nothing. His phone? Nothing.

At the time, I was still suspicious, but not anymore. A week and a bit ago I go into the kitchen and he's rooting through the cutlery drawer. He's picking up pieces of cutlery, examining them and laying some on the counter and putting some back in the drawer. The ones on the counter are perfectly aligned. I asked him what the fuck he was doing, and he responded with, We don't need all this cutlery, Becky. I'm going to throw these out. I said, John, I know that's bullshit.

And he got really, really angry, really defensive, so I left. Last night I woke up at about one, and John wasn't in bed. I heard him rummaging around downstairs. I snuck to the top of the stairs. Remember the coat hanger in the hall? We put a small bookcase next to it, and he was rifling through the books, taking some out. He was speaking to himself, whispering numbers and equations. I said, John, and he looked up.

I said, what are you doing? He said, Honey, there are 75 books on this bookcase. That's three times 25, which is five times five. It likes fives. I was shocked and said, What likes fives? He said, the long face.

And then started sorting books again ignoring me. I guess his behavior over the past month got to me and I snapped. I ran downstairs, shouted at him and tried to put some of the books back on the bookcase. He grabbed at me, Matt. He fucking grabbed it me. I couldn't move. He was so strong. He pulled his free hand back and I thought he was going to hit me.

He said very carefully, very slowly, This bookcase needs 49 books. Seven times seven. It doesn't like sevens. It likes fives. Okay? I'm going to have to train you up. I was so scared I ran out of the house.

Wow. That was long. I'm staying at Alex's right now. Can you come over? Even if you can't help sort this out, talking would be great. Hope to see you soon. Becky. From Matthew Howard, April 13th, 2012. Subject. I don't care. I'm gonna do it. Dan. I've thought it through, and I'm gonna talk to her. I don't care what you think. Matt. From Matthew Howard. April 13th, 2012. Subject.

Holy shit, it's worse than I thought. Dan. Sorry about being a dick in that last email, Dan. But I think I still love her. But listen, shit has really hit the fan. And at this point, I just need someone to tell. I went round to Alex's. Becky's staying there.

And as soon as I knock on the door, she flies out and gives me the strongest hug I have ever felt. Her face was so red, I think she'd been crying. non-stop since she left her house. Shit, I forgot. You didn't know. John was being weird and she felt she had to leave. So I comforted her and got her some hot chocolate. Alex had fucked off somewhere. She probably didn't want to deal with Becky.

Once she had calmed down enough, she asked if I would escort her back to her house and maybe confront John. I was looking forward to that. Let me tell you. When we got to her house, she told me I should go in first. On the doorstep were seven neat piles of books. I slowly pushed the door open and called out to John. There was no answer.

Becky had told me before that the house was tidy, but walking in there freaked me out a little. It was like the house had no inhabitants, had never had inhabitants. We searched around, and I kept calling for John, but he didn't respond. Every room was so fucking tidy and put together. We were both on the edge of saying, let's just go. But then I checked the bathroom. There was a trail of blood leading from the sink to the bath. In the bath was John.

He was so pale. His arms slid from palm to elbow. I almost threw up and tried to stop Becky from coming in. But she did. And then she threw up. We called the police, obviously. But while we were waiting, I know. noticed something. John was holding a small book. It looked like a diary. You know those

mole skin things? One of those. And I took it. I don't know why. Becky didn't notice. She was pretty shaken up. Still is, of course. What should I do with this thing? I can't give it in now. Actually, when are you in town? I'd love to speak in person. Matt From Dan the Man April 14th 2012

Subject Meeting up Matt Wow that's fucked up I hope you're okay man Listen I'm still away for like a month Two at the most Don't do anything stupid okay

I hate not talking in person I'm so bad at it You'll be all right Dan From Matthew Howard April 14th 2012. Subject, the diary. Dan, I read the fucking diary.

I guess it was written by John, and it explains his behavior. It's not really a diary, more an encyclopedia, I guess. Apparently John believed in this entity called The Long Face. It doesn't really explain what it is, but lists loads of rules for dealing with this thing. It likes multiples of fives and we'll seek them out. It hates sevens, stuff like that. Pile things in this arrangement, etc. What a freak.

Matt. From Matthew Howard, April 17th, 2012. Subject, I guess freakishness is contagious. Dan, the weirdest thing happened to me today. I was getting rid of some old december. DVDs. Holy shit, remember four lions? Such a good movie. And I noticed there were five DVDs on one of the shelves in front of me. It made me think of the long face. I laughed at myself. But as I went to put the DVD I was holding into the bag. I saw a face. On the bag, I mean, the two clips looked like eyes and the opening looked like the mouth.

Yeah, laugh if you must. I got two DVDs out of the bag and put the video. them on the shelf. The face was gone after that. I probably knocked the bag into a different position. Becky is doing fine now. She wants to move out of her old house, but the contract lasts until September, so she is going to try and find some replacement tenants. I know it's very soon, but I think I'm going to ask her out again. We should get back together. What do you think? Matt. From Matthew Howard, April 21st, 12. Subject. I think I am losing my mind. Dan. Becky said yes. I took her to that Italian place you love and we pretended it was our

first ever date. It was great. But listen, this long-faced stuff is freaking me out. I keep seeing it everywhere. I'll be walking along and a car will pass and the front of it will look like a face. I keep seeing faces in the froth of my coffee. In the shapes that buildings make. I'm going to make a confession to you, Dan. I've started counting things. The books and DVDs first, then cutlery. I think it's because I heard that John counted this stuff too.

Everything has to be in multiples of seven. If they aren't, or even worse, if I see a multiple of five, I see more faces. And each face I see looks angrier and angrier. As I'm typing this, I can see the speakers as eyes, the keyboard is a mouth. I know this bullshit is all in my head, but I can't help it. I'm having problems sleeping. Matt. From Matthew Howard, April 24th, 2012.

Subject, it's getting worse. Dan, you know that drawer that everyone has? filled with all the shit in your house that doesn't have anywhere else to be? Well, it's been driving me crazy. I don't know if it's safe if I don't tidy it up. Matt. From Matthew Howard, April 24th, 2012. Subject.

Becky. Hey, Dan. Becky caught me putting all the screwdrivers from the drawer in size order. She left, Dan. She left. From Matthew Howard. April 26th, 2012. Subject.

Why aren't you replying? Hey, Dan. I was walking to work today. I saw a car face and I was so scared. It was coming towards me and it looked like it wanted blood. I thought it was going to swerve and hit me and that would be that. I figured out how to stop it though. It was red, so I started counting all the red cars.

When I'm counting it seems to get confused. As I was walking into work, I was at 20. I pretended I had counted one more, but it knew. Tomorrow I'm going to do blue. Matt. From Matthew Howard, April 28th, 2012. No subject. I just want this to stop.

From Matthew Howard, May 2nd, 2012. No subject. Why did I read the book? People need to be trained to repel the long face. They need to know. But why me? From Matthew Howard, May 2nd, 2012. No subject.

I counted the pages in the diary. 1.25. 5 times 5 times 5. Maybe the long face wants us to read it. What if I miscounted? 126 is a multiple of seven. I'll do it again. From Matthew Howard, May 2nd, 2012.

Subject, we had a good one. Dan, I'm going to burn the book, Dan. If no one can read about this, maybe whatever fucking evil it is will just dissipate. Hopefully my emails haven't been enough to trigger it for you. Don't come over, Dan. We are no longer friends. Matt.

From Dan the Man, May 3rd, 2012. Subject, I'm coming over. Matt, I'm coming back in a week. I'm coming over. Why the fuck haven't you answered your phone? Dan. And that's it. There are no more emails by Dan, Matt, or Becky. I've thought about it for a while.

And I reckon something happened to Matt. I don't know whether he succeeded in burning that journal or what might have happened to it if he didn't. But something must have got him. I keep thinking about that last email. Why wouldn't he answer the phone? In our final tale, we are told of the past events of a young man working for his grandfather back in the early 90s. A summer job that offered plenty of fresh air and hard work that just happened to be in a cemetery. I'll read the tale from author Brian von Knoblock as he tells us about one particular day that will be forever seared into his memory.

A day when he first encountered the screaming corpse. On the last day of July, 1993, I saw my first reanimated corpse. I had been spending my summer vacation with my grandfather, the head caretaker for the largest cemetery in the county, while my parents were overseas visiting relatives. In exchange for a weekly stipend of $75, I was to spend my mornings performing various chores around the cemetery grounds, including cleaning moss from cracked and forgotten headstones, and collecting wilted sun-bleached flower arrangements for the garbage. That particular morning was spent preparing for a burial and helping my grandfather repair a headstone that had been vandalized over the course

of the previous night. We had been working on it since mid-morning, and when we finally finished, the sun was high in the noon sky. After we finished cleaning up, I went to look for a comfortable spot to take my lunch break and read an old Lovecraft collection, purchase the day before from a used bookstore. Meandering through a field of monuments and headstones, I made my way towards a weeping willow tree that stood out against the dark coniferous forest that ran the perimeter of the cemetery. Before the willow, there was a small green tent, folding chairs, flowers, and a rectangular mound of dirt, remnants of that morning's burial. A small green aluminum sign was pegged into the dirt a few feet from the opening.

Its tarnished copper lettering identified the grave's inhabitant and lifespan as Grace Phillips, 1914. to 1993. Finding the shade of the tent to be inviting, I made myself comfortable on a couple of the folding chairs beneath it. I wasn't two pages into the story, Daygone, when I heard what I thought was a strange muffled sound of thumping that began to resonate from the capped burial vaults in the grave before me. I looked at the hole and immediately dismissed the thought that I had heard a sound come from it.

I was about to go back to reading when I heard it again. Curious, I sat down my book, walked over to the edge of the grave, and listened with intense concentration. A few seconds later, I was rewarded with not only more thumping, but a sound. stifled scream. Terrified, I stumbled backwards, tripped over a row of chairs, then bolted across the cemetery towards the memorial garden benches where my grandfather usually ate his lunch. I arrived, out of breath, and panicked. I told him of the thumping and screaming.

He looked at me like I was insane and had me lead him to the grave. Go get Henry and bring a shovel. Run, boy. I sprinted through a maze of headstones and mausoleums, towards the large aluminum storage garage that housed both the cemetery's landscaping equipment and a small office. A moment earlier, my grandfather had knelt down beside the grave and listened just as I had done before. He would later describe what he heard as the most unnerving experience of his life. A voice from beneath a burial vault cap. I burst into the office,

startling Henry to drop one of the bags of peat moss he was stacking in a wooden bin, splitting open at his feet. Damn it! Why don't... I didn't let him finish. Between gasps for air, I told. Henry that my grandfather needed him right away. Sensing trouble, he quickly forgot the bag and we took off running. Henry followed me with as fervent a pace as he could muster for a man of his age and

stature. When my grandfather spotted us coming, he began shouting for Henry to, bring the goddamn backhoe around. Henry, who had worked for my grandfather for 20 years and had never questioned one of his orders, ran down the gravel road to where the backhoe was parked away from that morning's mourners. I joined my grandfather, who then proceeded to lower himself into the grave and straddle the vault. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the vault. Hello!

Can you hear me? We're going to get you out of there! He was answered by a muffled shriek. Off in the distance, I heard the back hose diesel engines sputter to life with an oily growl. Minutes later, Henry piloted the machine over the stone-pegged horizon, its dented chrome exhaust pipe belching a thick cloud of blue smoke that trailed behind it. When it arrived, I stood back and watched as my grandfather instructed Henry, who manipulated the backhoe's arm into the position over the grave. Henry jumped off the idling

machine and removed a chain harness hanging from a makeshift steel hook on the side of the cab. He connected the harness to a loop of steel welded to the bottom of the scoop, and then, then climbed back into the backhoe. My grandfather directed him to slowly lower the chains into the grave. Hooks dangled from the end of the four rusted chains as the backhoe lowered the harness down into the grave. When the hooks were resting on the surface of the vault's cap, my grandfather waved for Henry to stop. He secured the hooks to the rebar loops. protruding from each corner of the lid and climbed out. Henry brought the backhoe's steel arm up with a hydraulic wine,

lifting the cap off the burial vault. The rumble of the engine had drowned out any audible sound of movement, and it wasn't until the cap was resting on the grass beside the grave, and the back hose engine switched off, that we could hear the blood curtail. shrieking and furious thumping from within the stained hardwood casket. I watched in terror as Henry reluctantly climbed into the grave, straddled the vault, and used a screwdriver to force open the locking mechanism

securing the casket's lid. As soon as the lock was sprung, the top lid sprang open and caused Henry to scurry from the grave with a startled grunt. He cursed under his breath as he came to his feet beside my grandfather and beheld the ghastly sight before us. My grandfather told me to look away, but I could not keep myself from staring at the loathsome display. The elderly woman in the casket was thrashing her hands around in a wild frenzy, as if she was fighting off an invisible attacker. Every muscle in her body twitched with uncontrollable spasms. Her eyelids fluttered. Her irises and pupils, concealed by white plastic caps the mortician had used to hold her eyelids shut. Yellow-tinged

Skin sagged over her emaciated, sunken face. Screams came through curled lips and teeth artificially clenched with a criss-cross of white suture thread. The wig she had been buried with had slipped off, exposing a railroad track of stitches that orbited the back of her head. An autopsy had been performed. Her brain removed and was. weighed. Her head crashed against the burial vault as she spasmed, opening a deep gash on the side of her head. Pink embalming fluid welled up and dripped from the wound.

Jesus Christ! What's wrong with her eyes? Henry asked, his voice wavering. My grandfather ignored the question. Shut and lock the gate, Henry. If anyone asks, we're closed for emergency maintenance. Get the gas can and some matches from the office on your way back. When he returned from the garage, Henry joined my grandfather at the edge of the grave. He handed the gas can to my grandfather.

We watched with numb shock as he emptied the entire. entire can into the grave and over the woman who was still very active and was now hissing at us. He tossed the can aside and snatched the matches from Henry's nervous, shaking hands. Stand back! He commanded as he pulled a match from the book and struck it against the thin brown strip on the back. He used the match to light the rest of the back. matches in the book. It flared to life in his hand and he flipped it into the grave, igniting the gas with a loud whoosh. Even though I was stunned by the unexpected blast of heat,

my eyes never left the sight of the impromptu cremation. I could see the woman still flailing in her casket, even as she was. she burned. The plastic caps on her eyes melted down her blackening face, like tears of white paint on cracked asphalt. The sutures on the back of her head snapped, and her scalp curled back as it burned, exposing ivory cranium. The embalming fluid in her body boiled and foamed from the cracks in her charred skin. It took 20 minutes for the woman to stop moving. She and her casket were still smoldering when we recapped the vault and quickly filled it in. And we had the backhoe parked in its usual space next to the garage. We collected ourselves to the confines

of my grandfather's office. We sat in silence. at his desk as we pondered what to make of the horror we had all just witnessed. My grandfather broke the silence. He stated that we were to keep the day's events a secret that we would carry to our graves. Before the end of the summer, we would find two more of what we began referring to as moving burials and had cremated the reanimated corpses. We never spoke of the cemetery secret to anyone, nor did we discover the reason for the atrocious things

we found twitching and writhing in the ground. Two weeks ago, my grandfather died from a two-year battle with lymphoma. In accordance to his last wishes, he was buried in the same cemetery that he had spent, so many years caring for. I visit his grave every day, and when I'm sure no one is watching, I press my ear to the ground and listen.

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.