The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E20

Episode Date: February 10, 2013

It's episode 20 of the second season of The Nosleep Podcast!  The episode features three tales of family traumas and a town's terrible tormentor.This episode features these stories:Please, Just Come Home Now written by Edwin Crowe (Redditor ecrowe) and read by Tyler Privett (Redditor maverick49er).The Only Way Out written by Anton Scheller (Redditor AL_365) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone).Scratching written by Jacob Newell (Redditor SordidSplendor) and read by David Cummings. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness and the frightful tales creep into your mind, it's time to give in to your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode 20 of season two. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have three tales for you in this episode. featuring family traumas and a town's terrible tormentor.

A few episodes ago, I sent out a call to arms for volunteers to narrate for the show, and I'm very pleased by how many people have expressed an interest. We have one of those people making his debut on this episode. Tyler Privet lends his voice to our first tale, and he will be narrating a number of stories in the coming weeks. I also want to mention that I have a special bonus episode coming out this week. I'll be releasing it on February 14th. That's right, on Valentine's Day.

If you're sharing the day with a special someone, make sure you cuddle up together and listen to the dark tales. And if you're alone on that day, why not consider taking us to bed with you? I'll make sure to get your heart pounding in a decisive. unromantic manner. So look for that bonus episode on Thursday, February 14th. Now, let's get on with the show. In our first tale, a young man gets called home from school because of a family tragedy. Tyler Privet narrates the story from author Edwin Crow, who explains how traumatic it can be to deal with the shock of

unexpected phone call telling you to please just come home now the phone rang as i laid sweaty on top of the dean's daughter trying to catch my breath fuck off now is not the time i rested my weight on top of her as i heard the beep signaling my phone had a message i didn't move The shrill ring exploded into action again. For fuck sake! I pushed myself up, rolled off, and picked up my phone from the sideboard. I glanced at the bright screen. It was my mother. Hi, oh mom, this is not a good time, I said, as I answered.

Is this going to be quick? I have some bad news about your father, she said between tears. Can you come home right away? I shot upright. What's happened? Please, just come home now. It was a brisk ten-minute walk from the dorm to the station. To my luck, the next train home left in five minutes.

I took my place next to the window in an empty carriage. I stared out as the vehicle began to depart. I watched the scenery change from urban to country and back to urban again as the locomotive thundered along the tracks as if the driver knew of my plight. My mother stood on the platform wearing a long brown coat, hands tucked into a furry handwormer, staring at the train approaching her.

When I met her gaze, I saw her reddened eyes follow me as we came to a stop. As I exited down the worn metal steps, she ran over and locked me in a powerful embrace. I'm sorry, Dan, I'm really sorry, she cried. She didn't say another word on the way to the car. Her keys clattered into the barrel of the car's lock, nerves very apparent. Look, let me drive, I offered, perturbed by my mother's lack of composure. She was in no state to drive. No, she demanded, I can do it, let me do it.

The car started and left the short stay parking space with a snarling screech. My mother would not tell me what had happened, other than I'd find out when I could. got home. I was confused and annoyed by the lack of information. I was greeted at the house by yards of yellow police tape around my childhood home's front garden. A uniformed officer guarded the gate to the house. A couple of vultuous paparazzi flanked the street, biting their time for some priceless snap that learn them the blood money. We got out of the car in unison and walked modestly past the policeman and into the house. The low murmurs of people talking became evident as I opened the front door.

They soon silenced when they saw the visitor. The living room was full of a selection of my family, young and old. The older members had identical red puffy eyes to my mother. Dad's been arrested were the words that fell out on my younger brother's mouth as he recognized my face. Sean, my mother scolded him. Is this true? I said. She just nodded and a fresh stream of tears tumbled down her cheeks. The plumber told on him, Sean blurted out. My mother's shoulders deflated as if someone had cut the strings holding her upright. It's true. They found bodies in the basement. She fell into a chair and sobbed so quietly, her chest heaving with every sniff,

grieving for her dead to her husband. I raced out of the room, heading for the basement. Dan, my mother lamely shouted in vain. I was surprised by the lack of uniforms inside the house. The door to the basement was plastered with more of that arrogant yellow tape. I'd Ripped it free, opened the door, flicked on the single 60-watt incandescent bulb that lit the stairs, and descended them. The basement was a building site, large piles of dirt, trenches from where the earth had come from, as well as the water damaged flooring the plumber removed and allowed him to discover them. I fell to my knees. I did not know what this meant or what would happen next.

My dad was being kept in a local police station. He was in the middle of another round of intense questioning. I did not understand why they were grilling him so much after he had already confessed on arrival. It was an hour before we got to see him. He asked to see me on my own, father and son. My mother sat back down, not sure if she was happy that she did not have to speak to that monster again.

The husk of the man she married. He hugged me as we were left alone in the interview room. He slapped me on the back and said, Everything's going to be okay. We sat down at the table and I asked, Why did you confess to the murderers, Dad? You can't have killed them. Of course I did, son.

They found them, he said, resigned. I tapped my fingers on the table and took a deep breath. Dad, he closed his eyes and put up his hand. I know some. The train was packed, full of commuters making their way back to the city to start their work weeks and to live in the temporary hotel homes until the weekend came and they could go back to their families. My mind was buzzing, trying to figure out how I was going to do. dispose of the Dean's daughter. When a person awakes from a nightmare, the sense of relief can make the

horrible experience almost worthwhile. But if the nightmares continue, they can lead to an overwhelming sense of despair and hopelessness. Author Anton Scheller crafts a tale in which a young man experiences terribly graphic and violent ordeals that push him. into the most desperate act of all. I'll read the story for you of how the man is forced to look for the only way out. It was hard not to stare at the scars. I've seen suicide attempts before, but none like his. The scars ran right from the wrist all along his lower arm, on the inside of the elbow, up through the inner side of his upper arm. They seemed to stare at me with their dark red color,

contrasted by the pale skin and the black of the string that saved his life. These were the arms of a man that didn't want to try to die. He wanted to make sure that he would be dead. And yet, he was alive. Maybe because the cuts weren't so deep, because the scissors had been too dull. Archer, I said his name carefully, as if my words could destroy him more. Why did you do that to yourself? He smiled back at me, grinning while I ask why he killed himself, without even a hint of

of irony. Because I couldn't take it anymore. Because I didn't want the pain anymore. Because I had forgotten what it was like to live without pain. For a young man that had tried to kill himself a few weeks earlier, he was far too happy. I don't even remember how it started. I was just normal. doing sports, meeting friends, and finishing school. But then this thing came, and I kept waking up in the same way, every day. Archer was clenching his fists, dangerously stretching the string that was holding his life together. It must have been a half a year ago, or maybe even a year. It was so hard to keep track.

I remember it was a Thursday. Definitely a Thursday. But I'm not even sure which month. I think the first time I just woke up normally, like I always used to. I rolled over, hit the snooze button, and slept for another five minutes. I always did that at least. twice. When I finally managed to get out of bed, I stumbled out of my room into the bathroom, and that's when I heard the noise. Even as he was talking, I could see the fear in his face.

It sounded like a crash, like something breaking. I heard my family screaming, so I grabbed my towel and ran downstairs, but they just didn't stop screaming, and there were loud, banging noises. I nearly tripped when I was half down the stairs, when I saw the man raise the axe, and then the axe cutting through my brother's neck. I heard Jonathan scream, and then it suddenly stopped. It just stopped, and his head rolled over to the side. And then he turned to me. Archer looked towards his feet. I was frozen from fear. I mean, there was a guy that just killed my brother, and I think Jonathan's head was still moving, and he had turned to him. And he had turned to him. to me. I recovered when he was getting on the stairs, and I was making my first step,

but then I already felt the pain. The pain in my leg. I can't even describe how much that hurt, and it didn't stop there. I fell on the stairs, heard my mom scream from somewhere downstairs, and then he smashed the axe right in my chest. Archer held his hands towards his heart. I heard my own ribs crack. So you're telling me you died? He shook his head. Then he nodded.

But then I heard my alarm ring and I woke up. This time I didn't hit snooze. I jumped straight out of bed and into the bathroom and checked my whole body. I was just so relieved I was whole. I stared at my bare chest, stroked the area where the axe had hit me. I remember feeling the pain, hearing the noises, seeing Jonathan's head roll. But I thought it was all some. strangely realistic nightmare. And then I heard the crashing sound again. It sounded like a door

being kicked in. Archer ran downstairs to see his terrified family. His mother and father, his sister Eleanor and his brother Jonathan running to the back of the room. When he was down the stairs, he saw the men dressed in all black, saw how they broke through the door and ran inside. He tried to run, but the heavy axe was faster, cutting through his spine and throwing him to the floor. I didn't even scream. I was too shocked to scream, and they just pulled the axe back out. and ran towards my family. I can never forget the way Eleanor screamed, or how the axe cut through my mom's arm and chest.

I didn't see how my dad died, but I saw his body on the floor, the blood slowly running out. I saw them rape, Eleanor. That's the last thing I remember, how she screamed and begged them to stop. Archer had started to pull on the string in his left arm. I quickly stopped him.

So you're telling me that you had another nightmare? Archer shook his head. No, I'm saying I died a second time. And again, I woke up in my bed. I raised my eyebrows, but Archer seemed not to see it, or maybe he didn't care. The third time I woke up, I couldn't even stop myself. I checked my arms and legs, breathed for a moment, and then I ran downstairs. Eleanor and Jonathan and my mom were sitting there, and I nearly cried.

and my dad came from the kitchen and made some snappy remark about, oh, awake so early. But I didn't even hear that. I just hugged him. I just needed to hug him. And then I ran to the kitchen and grabbed two knives, and I ran back in the living room. Archer laughed for a moment. My family thought I had gone nuts, but I wasn't nuts. I just saw and felt them die.

Not just once, but twice. They tried to talk me into putting the knives down, but I refused. And just when my dad was getting worried and then angry, in that very moment, I heard the sound again, louder than before. Someone thrashing against the door. He grinned. I think my dad understood right away that something was up. He grabbed a bread knife from the table and stood next to me, and my mom ran to the phone. But by the time she had dialed, they were already inside, running towards us. I tried to stab the first one that came in, but he kicked me in the stomach, and when I fell to the floor, he jumped on me. I saw black, and the only thing I heard were screams and axes crashing

against tables and walls and bodies. And then it got silent. There were footsteps coming closer towards me and heavy breathing. I tried to move away, but I couldn't move my body. And then he kneeled on my leg, and he picked something up from the side. Somebody else stood on one of my arms, and I howled from the pain. But I only realized what he had picked up when the knife pushed through my stomach. Archer's hands were shaking and his eyes tearing up. They made a cut. I couldn't see anything, but I felt it slicing through my stomach.

I tried to kick the guy away and hit him, but he didn't budge. Instead, something hammered right into my leg. I screamed from the pain, but straight. Straight away, this tickling started in my abdomen. Then it started to feel hot, and then incredibly painful. I joked up when I realized that he was pulling out my intestines. Then they got stuck somehow, and he got up from my leg. He made a step, and I could feel the sudden pull and the pain of something.

They being ripped. And then I must have died. And the only reason I say I must have died is because I heard my alarm again. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. I just don't understand. I don't understand what it was. But after the fifth or sixth time, I was sure that it wasn't just my imagination. This was all too real.

and too painful. And no matter what rationalization I tried, it was just too long for a dream. The sixth or seventh night, after I saw my mom getting raped, I just tried to stay in bed. I unplugged my alarm and I stayed in bed, hoping that it would all just end. And I think it took a bit longer. It really seemed to take longer for them to come. But then I heard the thrashing and screaming. The screams of my mom and sister stopped abruptly,

but my dad kept screaming. I heard him begging them to stop. He even called my name. Archer bit his lips. Then there were steps on the stairs, and I tried to run into my wardrobe. But two of them came in, and even as I kicked,

they grabbed me and threw me back on the bed. Another two came and threw my dad inside the room on the floor. He was bleeding all across his face and back. And then they ripped his pants off. I just sat there, watching as my dad screamed for help. and begged for them to stop. But they kept at it.

One after the other, opening their pants and... Archer choked on his own words. And they all did it. And the others were always staring at me. It was as if they enjoyed the fear and pain I felt. Finally, I don't even know if it was. was the third or fourth one. Finally, I jumped up and tried to attack the guy that was violating my dad.

But instead, they kicked me down. And they held my head down on the floor. And they made me watch as they hacked at my dad. They even kept chopping his body long after he stopped moving. And Archer Gather. They fed me a piece of his body. They forced it into my mouth. I started to suffocate and it coughed and suddenly it was gone.

I ate a piece of my dad. They just laughed. They laughed. And even as I was lying there, sobbing, I remember that the worst of it all was the way they laughed. It was so normal. Like laughter you normally hear on the streets or in the elevator or at a party. They laughed as if someone had told them a good joke,

and then the axe hit my face. When I woke up, I tried to run away. I just jumped out of the window. I think I even sprained my ankle, and I ran. But they got me within seconds. They hacked off my arms. And then, after they broke the door, they threw me inside.

I'll never forget that look in my mom's eyes when she saw me. And then I heard Jonathan and Eleanor and mom and dad. scream, then the screams stopped. And one of them stepped in front of me. He was holding my mom's hair, and her head was dangling down from it. I was nearly happy when he finally started to strike my head, when I knew that I would die. The next time I woke up, I just cried.

Then I heard the noise downstairs, and I just walked down, right into one of their swinging axes, and I nearly enjoyed the pain because I knew at least it would be quick. But then I woke up again. Archer slowly shook his head. I tried everything. I tried running out, calling the police, shouting for the neighbors, building weapons. Hell, I even tried squirting shampoo into their eyes

and pouring soapy water on the floor. But every time my family was there again, downstairs, eating breakfast, and they didn't know what would come, but I did. After a while, it hurt even more to see their faces. to see them alive because I always started to guess which one of them they would torture the most, how they would torture me the most. And they always found a way.

They always did something new. His voice got weaker. You know, the more smart I tried to be and the more things I tried, The more horrible things they made me watch. They made my mom and my dad eat Jonathan and Eleanor. And every time when they saw that I was even more horrified than before, then they would laugh this weird, this normal laugh. He slowly traced the stitches on his right arm with his left hand,

right from the wrist to the shoulder. I did it. I went through this for what felt like months. They killed my family hundreds of times. And at some point, I just lost hope. I figured, why fight it? And I took the only sharp thing that I had in my room, my old children's scissors.

and ran them through my arms. And after all that pain, I barely even felt it. And then I passed out, and I woke up here with my family around me. He smiled. Finally, I understood his happiness. The way he smiled much of the time he talked about his family being murdered horrifically. He was happy that it was over. He was happy that the men hadn't come.

He was happy that his family found him in his bed. He was happy that against all odds he had survived. Abruptly, the smile disappeared from his face. You know, he looked at me. There is one thing I'm really worried about. Maybe you know the answer. I nodded to show that I was listening. The thing is, I'm worried because I haven't died, you know?

It's been a week since I woke up, and these men didn't come anymore. But they always came after I died. He paused, and I was. nodded again. You know, someday when I die, like through a car accident or from old age or something, do you think I will wake up in my bed? In our final tale, we meet two brothers who share their experiences of growing up together in a small town.

A town that they come to discover holds dark secrets in a small town. past. When they realize that their own horrible experiences are not isolated events, they try to discover who has been tormenting the whole town for all those years. I'll read the tale from author Jacob Newell as he describes the terror that can come from the sound of scratching. When I was 12 years old, my parents finally decided to split me and my parents, my younger brother up and give us our own rooms. I was a couple of years older than Alex, so I got the bigger space while he stayed in the box room. My dad wasn't too happy about having to move all of his junk down into the garage, but times change and I needed my own room. The four of us lived in a

bungalow on a quiet suburban street, a rather reclusive area. Alex and I would get bored sometimes, as there wasn't much to do, but for the most part, all we needed was each other. Being two young brothers with no one else to play with and a huge neighborhood to explore, well, we were as close as brothers could get. One day after school, we arrived home to find that all of my belongings had been moved into the room next to Alex's. I didn't expect to feel sad about it at the time, but I knew that sharing a room gave us a stronger bond.

After the realization that we could no longer talk to each other at night, we had to come up with a plan. I devised a childish kind of morse code, a series of taps and scratches that we'd relay to each other on the wall behind our beds. I knew that this way we wouldn't get caught talking in the hallway or get bored at night. After about three months, we had become experts at secretly talking and had taught ourselves just over a hundred words. But in our few months of doing this, one night in particular stood out amongst the rest. In the early hours of the morning, I was awoken. by the familiar taps and scratches.

This was confusing because Alex had never woken me up like this before. I sat up and listened intently to the words etched into the wall. It was vicious. It didn't sound like Alex, and some of it I couldn't even understand. At that moment, I noticed Alex stood in my doorway. What are you doing, Jack? I stared at Alex in horror as the Morse code upon the wall continued. Slowly realizing what was happening, he began to tiptoe towards his bedroom door.

Peering into the dark room, he could see that his window had been opened. Alex slowly backed away, headed back into my room, and shut the door. We didn't speak, we just listened. The taps and scratches continued getting louder and more ferocious with every second, becoming violently intense until the scratching became a bang. We couldn't take it any longer. We screamed as loud as possible, and our parents came rushing in. In a fit of panic, we tried our best to explain.

to them what had happened. Mom sat and comforted us in my room while Dad went and checked Alex's room. Seeing the open window, he sprinted into the garden to investigate, only to find that there was nothing there. After that, our parents tried their best to convince us that it was just our imaginations, but we know what we heard. After we had finally Calm down. We were put back to bed and all of the windows were locked. An hour or so later, I heard more tapping at the wall. Jack? I'm awake, Alex. Me too. I can't... Me neither. There was definitely something there. Something wrong. He's here. He's looking at me.

joke, Alex, it's not funny. Jack, he's staring at me through the window right now. I've got to move. The tapping ceased, and Alex came stumbling into my room with a look of unconsciousness in his eyes. I shut the bedroom door, and we sat on the bed shivering. We knew that there was no point in shouting for our parents, they wouldn't believe us. There would be no evidence of anybody being outside, and we would most

likely end up in trouble. Then we heard footsteps. They were accompanied by scratching that seemed to be leading from the outside of Alex's room to my room. The heavy stepping stopped, and a shadow blocked the moonlight behind the curtains. The window, began to move a little, as if it was being unlocked. We held our breath as it shook and creaked, but it decided to stay closed. The figure leaned up against my window, almost shrouded by the shadows, and stared into my room for what felt like an eternity. a while, the shadow disappeared and never came back. I asked Alex the next morning what the man by the window looked like. He told me he couldn't remember, but it wasn't a man. After the incident,

we both seemed to block it out of our memory. We got back to our normal lives and completely forgot about it. It was over. Alex got the worst of it, but he was doing fine, and that was the main thing. It wasn't until three years later that I realized it was never really over. I was 15 years old and freedom bound during the summer of 2003. I had just finished school for the holidays and earned a three-month break to do whatever I pleased. Me and my friend Paul had originally planned to stay at home playing video games the entire time. But those plans were soon shot down when I was told that Paul had to stay with his grandparents for a month.

Paul spent a good hour or two expressing his love for the farmhouse his relatives owned, speaking highly of the lakes and the fields that surrounded the family home. Eventually, I gave in. It was clear I was to be joining him on his visit. After packing my bags and saying goodbye to my parents, I headed down the road to Paul's house, with Alex helping me on my way. Alex and I were still pretty close,

but the older we got, the more we would drift apart. There were no more late-night talks or playing out. in the street together, and I missed that. Once we had arrived at the house, Alex said goodbye, dropped my bag, and ran off towards the direction of our local sweet shop. Paul and I hopped inside the car, and we were on our way. We arrived safely at the farm within an hour or so. It wasn't too far away, but it looked completely different from where we lived,

just a huge house isolated in the middle of nowhere with only hills and trees for company. After we arrived, time just seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, we had already been there for a fortnight. The area was beautiful, and his grandparents were lovely, so I had no complaints. One particular day after we'd eaten our dinner, Paul and I headed out to a couple of. explore and seem to venture too far. We'd usually just play around in the fields or climb trees, but this time we'd somehow manage to end up a mile into the maze of bark. Eventually, we reached a small stream and decided to have a rest.

The sun lay low and twilight was fast approaching, but we couldn't head back without having time to relax. first. After a while, I began to feel as if somebody was watching us from the surrounding trees. I looked around countless times, but didn't seem to find anything. I was on the brink of paranoia, when Paul frantically pointed out a small wooden box that he'd noticed floating downstream. All too excited to discover what was inside, I hurriedly made my way. in the same direction until I was running so fast that I'd overtaken the box completely. I leaned over the bank as far as I could and managed to fish the box out from the torrent.

I looked back in Paul's direction expecting him to be nearby, but he was miles away. I can't have run that far, I said to myself. I sat down and slowly opened the box. Inside I found a small photograph and a scruffy hand-drawn picture. The photo seemed to be of a small boy on his birthday. He was wearing a party hat and stood surrounded by torn wrapping paper. The biggest smile plastered on his face. Once I had managed to dry the picture off,

I could easily make out a drawing of a family. There were three children and two parents stood outside of a dirty two-story home. One of the children looked very sad and was separated from the rest of the family. Upon further inspection, I could see another person in the background. A much bigger man with an expressionless face staring from the corner of the house. It took a minute to register with my mind, but the events I'd hidden away from three years prior all came rushing back. A shiver ran up my spine, and I picked myself up off the ground. I began to walk back towards Paul, but my legs had gone weak.

Then, in the quiet of the darkness, I heard a noise from the trees behind me. legs suddenly worked. I ran towards Paul and we made our way back to his grandparents' cabin as fast as we could. Soon after we had arrived home, I managed to settle down. There was still doubts in my mind of who that drawing was of, but the noise that followed my discovery kept leading me back to my original fear. Was that me and my family in the drawing? Who was the sad child standing on his own? What does the photograph have to do with anything? I went over the same questions in my mind over and over and over until the phone rang. Paul's grandma handed me the phone and told me it was my brother. Yeah, Alex, it's me. What do you want?

I need to tell you. Okay, I'm listening. You know my friend from school, Tom? I think so. I think I've met him once or twice. Why? After I said goodbye to you, and I bumped into him down at the shop.

And? It turns out he lives on the same street as us. Always has. So? Why is that unusual? Well, it's not really, I suppose. It's just, why didn't we ever see him playing in the street? I don't know, maybe he wasn't allowed to play out when he was younger.

I don't know, it's just strange. It is a bit, but some parents are like that. I guess. That's not really the main reason I called anyway. I have something else. I have to tell you, but it's a big deal. We've never really spoken about it. Okay. Go on. Today I was at Tom's house and ended up staying over for dinner. It got dark pretty early,

so we decided to tell some creepy stories. For some reason, I suddenly remembered that night, you know, the night a few years back. I got the courage to tell him about the man and what he looked like. Yeah? He freaked out. He put his fingers in his ears and started shouting. He kept repeating, don't talk about the man, forget the man. I didn't know what to do.

His mom came upstairs and told me I had to leave. I'm back at home now anyway. I think I'm safe. So you should never come back, okay? What? That's when the phone cut off. I immediately rang back, only to be greeted by the sound of white noise. I stood there, shocked at what I had heard Alex say.

A moment later, he called me back. Sorry about that. The phone cut off. It's fine. Look, don't worry about it. I think we should talk when I get back. Talk properly. I'll be home in a week. I'll see you then. After I hung up the phone, Paul questioned me rigorously. I didn't tell him much of anything. There was no need to. And I barely spoke a word for the rest of the week there. After all, I didn't want to sound crazy. But all, all I could think. to myself during that final week was that Paul had always lived on the same street as me too. So why didn't I ever see him playing outside when he was younger? Maybe I was thinking too much. I arrived home feeling worse for where and noticed that Alex was waiting for me by the door. I was told that Tom's mom had disappeared and had just left him on his own.

All she'd taken with her was her jewelry box. Poor Tom went into foster care not long after his mom went missing. It wouldn't be until a couple of years later that I'd meet him again. Back in 2005, I was invited to my first high school party. All I'd wanted since I turned 16 years old was to experience alcohol, friends, and stupidity. all in the same place. And after a long, boring year, I was finally able to. I arrived at the party with Paul at 8 p.m. and immediately got to drinking. We danced, laughed, and avoided vomiting. But after being there for a few hours or so,

we began to get bored and realized that we hadn't been missing much at all over the past year. We finished the last of our drinks and headed towards the front door. But just as we were leaving, I heard somebody shout my name from the corner of the room. I turned around and saw Tom standing there, swaying from side to side and happily slurring his words. I decided to stay a little longer. After talking for a while, I felt as if I felt as if I was a little bit more. if I'd known Tom my whole life. He was a year older than Alex, but he seemed much more mature.

He was very open about everything that had happened and didn't seem to mind talking about it. He told me that his foster family are not the nicest of people and didn't seem to care about anything he does. They make him feel like an outcast and treat him like a stranger rather than a son. He told me that he hasn't heard from his mother since she disappeared and doesn't know whether she is dead or alive. He even mentioned that he was failing in school, but he just didn't care anymore. His life was ruined. When the party was over, I told Tom that he could sleep at my house, so he didn't have to make his way home. I set the futon for him and watched as he collapsed into a drunken slumber.

When I woke up the next morning, Tom was already awake and holding something in his hands that I hadn't seen in over two years. Where did you find this? he said. I haven't seen that in a long time. I forgot I still had it. Oh, okay, but where did you find it? I found it a couple of years ago. It was floating down a stream in oak shale, and I managed to fish it out of the water. Why? This is my mom's jewelry box. That photo was taken on my seventh birthday.

The day my dad left. Are you being serious? Did you find this box before? my mom left me. Yeah, I did. When I got home a week later, Alex told me that your mom was gone. Look at this drawing. That's me and my foster family. I'm sure of it. Even the old house looks the same. At this point, neither of us knew what to think. This all seemed impossible. I pointed to the man in the back of the drawing and watched as Tom's face lost all color. I had to ask him about the man. I told him about what Alex and I had experienced back when I was 12, how Alex had seen him,

but I hadn't. I mentioned to him about the scratching and the strange conversation with Alex back in Paul's grandparents' house. He listened to what I had. He listened to what I had. He listened to what I had to say, and it seemed to give him comfort. Maybe knowing that he wasn't the only one to see such things made him feel better. After a long silence, Tom began to speak. When I was younger, I would see him all the time. He would come to my window, find me at school, watch me as I tried to sleep. He was everywhere. As I've gotten old, I've been seeing him less and less, but I do still see him. He usually appears as a tall, scraggly-looking old man.

His eyes are the things I remember most. Pure black, but with the most intimate glow behind them, that almost seems relaxing. Yet you are always full of terror. It's strange. Before I could say anything to Tom, he picked up the photograph from the box and showed me something that was written on the back of it. Follow the stream to 66. I had never noticed that writing before.

Tom asked me if I would take him back to where I found the jewelry box in Oak Shale. The way I saw it, I had no other choice than to say yes. We set off with the hopes of finding something, anything to do with Tom's mother. But I don't think either of us really knew what to expect. We had been walking for around half an hour when Tom stopped and pointed to a sign in the bushes for a shortcut to oak shale. Upon seeing the sign, I was filled with a sense of fear that I'd never felt before. I really didn't want to take that shortcut. I told Tom that I had a strange feeling,

almost like deja vu or an extremely vivid dream. But he told me not to worry. As we were nearing the sign, I noticed a white-spotted bow on the ground. It was playing out exactly as I had seen it. I made my way back onto the main road and refused to go anywhere near the trees by the sign. I don't like to think of what might have happened in those woods. Eventually, we arrived at Oaksale and began to follow the stream.

As we neared an old wooden bridge, Tom pointed to a small house on the opposite side from us. We headed towards the front door, but there, didn't seem to be a house number anywhere. This must be 66, Tom said quietly. We made our way along the front path and knocked on the door. To this day, I still find it difficult to explain what happened when that door opened. Tom's mom answered the door and stared at both of us. I'm sorry, I think you're Mr.

taken. I stood silently as Tom exchanged words with the woman who was once his mother. Mum, it's me, Tom. Are you okay? What happened to you? I am not your mother. I don't have any children, so will you stop saying otherwise? At this moment, a man I had never seen before. A man I had never seen before approached the door and chimed in on the conversation. What's going on here? What do you kids want? Dad? It's me. Where have you been? Where has mom been? I don't understand. We must have stood there, shocked and confused for 20 minutes before Tom's dad ended the conversation. Look, we couldn't take it anymore.

It's your turn to deal with it now. We like it here, and I think we're safe, so you should never come back, okay? The door slammed shut, and Tom began to cry. We left that house and made our way home in silence. As we were heading back through the trees to reach the main road, I turned around to look at the house one last time. Standing on the bridge, as clear as day, staring right at me was a tall black-eyed man pointing at the stream.

I tensed up, feeling sick and dizzy, but I didn't mention what I'd seen to Tom. That was the first time I'd seen my worst fear. I wish I could say it was the last. A month or so after going back to Oaksale, I was given a school report to do on local history. I had been doing research, working my way through the years, and was going through hundreds of old newspapers.

I stumbled across a paper that was dated August 17, 1958. The main headline was detailed, the death of a young boy who had drowned near his family home. A headline from a paper dated May 8, 1960, was of another young boy who had drowned whilst playing near a local brook. Over the next six years, five more child deaths graced the front page of local newspapers. Then, in the winter of 66, the killer was killed.

caught. On November 12, 1966, the front-page headline boasted the quote, It's the only thing I'm good at. Solomon Wallace had killed seven children over the course of eight years and had finally been brought to justice. His final victim was seven-year-old Kimberly Matthews. She had been lured away from her back to the garden where she was playing and was drowned in the brook running along the back of her house on Kirshall Street, the same street that I live on. Her body was recovered when a passer-by noticed her white-spotted bow tangled up in a plant on top of the water. During the final court hearing of the brutal killing spree, a disgruntled father of one of the children shot Solomon.

Wallace three times in the back. He was taken to the hospital and placed in the intensive care unit. When his nurse returned to his hospital room, she discovered that it was empty. After weeks of intense searching, Solomon Wallace was never found. Most people believe that he died from the gunshot wounds, but some believe that he got away with it scot-free. However, some people like me are still unsure to this very day. Besides the odd nightmare, Tom, Alex, and I were mostly left alone. It wasn't until meeting Michael on my 20th birthday that things would become worse than ever. It was the day of my 20th birthday, and I was being forced into going for a meal with my family. I was never one for family events.

Being forced into spending time with relatives you barely know doesn't really feel like a present. But it made my mom happy, so I agreed. This happened to be my worst birthday yet. I hadn't exactly been feeling great. for the past year or so, and neither had Alex. The experiences involving Solomon had become more frequent, and were really starting to take their toll on all of us. Well, except for Paul, he seemed to be doing fine.

About halfway through the meal, I excused myself from the table so I could go to the bathroom. I had just finished washing my hands when somebody approached me. You're Jack, aren't you? He said. Yeah, I am. Do I know you? I don't think so.

I'm Michael. I live down the road from you. Oh, yeah, another kid who stayed secretly hidden. I said Snidly under my breath. I guess so. I actually used to see you playing out when I was younger. I was never allowed out, you know, because of him. You and your brother were pretty gutsy. Him? So you know too, then. Same shit, different story. Well, I know about it, so does my mom. We've never seen him, but my dad has. him and one of his friends were part of it all back in the late 70s. He gets to people, you know, fucks them up, drives people crazy.

That's what it did to my dad's friend. Either you or one of your little friends will be gone soon. Shut your damn mouth. We'll be fine. We have been for the past eight years, and we will be gone. be when it's all over. We just have to write it out. Sure you will. Make sure you keep in touch with them daily. Those most tortured usually suffer in silence. For the next few days, I took the advice of Michael. I made sure to keep in contact with Tom while Alex and I looked out for each other.

Tom seemed to be doing pretty well, considering he'd had it the worst out of the three of us, but Paul wasn't doing so well. He told me that something bad had happened and that things were worse than ever. Up until this point, Paul had never mentioned to me that he'd experienced anything out of the ordinary. I'd asked him once, but he denied ever seeing anything. I guess he was suffering in silence. Paul was looking worse than ever when he told me the story. Very thin, pale, and evidently tired.

He told me that it was around 3 a.m. When he was woken up by a breeze coming through his window, he expressed bewilderment at how the window had been opened because he keeps it locked at all times. He got out of bed, ran over to the window straight away, and tried to lock it, but the latch was snapped. After closing it shut, he slowly walked back to his bed and sat down. That's when he appeared. Paul had seen him at the window before, but not like this.

His face was not as distorted as usual. He could make out his black eyes and a look of sick happiness on his twisted face. The window slowly opened and Solomon's tall figure slowly began to jerk in through Paul's window. Crawling in and wheezing heavily, he kept his eyes locked onto Paul and he couldn't look away. Creeping over to where Paul was sitting, he pointed his finger towards Paul's wrist and marked a cross into his skin using his fingernail. In doing so, he stared at Paul and smiled. After that, Paul told me that he passed out. The mixture of pain and fear had become too much for him, and he woke up the next day with his window latch still broken. It wasn't a dream, and he had the scar to prove it. A few days had gone by,

and we were all terrified by Paul's story. We had no idea what to do. We couldn't hide, we couldn't tell anybody, because they'd react the same way Tom's parents did, and we definitely couldn't stop him ourselves. We were being tortured nightly by someone or something, and it was made that much worse by not knowing what we were dealing with. After a surprisingly good night's sleep, I awoke to a knock at the door. It was Michael. After getting dressed, he led me on to the brook along the back of my house. There's something you need to see. It's only about a mile away from here, he said nervously.

When we finally reached our destination, I was confronted by an old abandoned house. I immediately knew where we were, but I didn't know why. Why did you bring me here? I asked. I thought you should see it. I thought maybe you'd like to know that it's still here. Well, I didn't know it was still here, that's for sure. I really don't want to be anywhere near this house. You need more answers, and if there's even a slight possibility that you'll find some here, we should go inside.

I hated to admit it, but he was right. I had nothing. Some history on Solomon and the color of his eyes wasn't going to get me anywhere. I had to go inside, for all of us. Oh, okay, fine, let's go then, I said with an infinite sickness in my stomach. Upon going inside, we could see that it was completely abandoned and destroyed. The stairs leading to the second floor had collapsed into a pile of wooden rubble. The living room and kitchen looked as if they had been lit a light,

and there was nothing left in the house that indicated that anyone had ever lived there. The only thing that looked to be in shape was the basement door. Michael was the first of us to grab the door handle. He anxiously turned the knob, and began to walk down the rotting wooden steps. I nervously followed as the light from the living room slowly lessened the further I stepped into the dark hollow. As I turned the corner,

I was greeted by an entire wall of photographs, lit solely by a large candle on an old wooden table. Hundreds upon hundreds of images scattered all over the place. Some looked as if they were from the 60s, some were from the 80s, then there were the more recent ones. After looking through them, we had found pictures of everyone we knew. There had been crosses drawn on random pictures, while other pictures were clear of such markings. Tom's photo had a cross on it, Alex's photo had a cross on it. Paul's boasted the scribble, and so did mine. But Michael's was clear.

There were even pictures of our parents from when they were teenagers. Tom and Paul's parents had been crossed out, as had Michael's dad, but my parents and Michael's mum were clear. None of this made any sense. What did the crosses mean? It didn't mean death because all of our parents were still alive. So what did it mean? I was racking my brains in confusion. That was until we heard the footsteps from upstairs. We froze on the spot, too scared to move.

The bangs were getting louder as they approached the basement door. That's when I realized. I realized that I'd left it open. It was obvious that someone was downstairs. The final bit of light hitting the basement turned to black, and it was clear there was somebody standing at the top of the stairs. Michael and I tiptoed and hid beneath the steps, as Solomon began making his way down from above our heads.

He gasped for air as he reached. the bottom stair. His lanky frame hobbled over to the table and took a look around at the photographs. The fear I was feeling didn't scare me still. It compelled me to run. I nudged Michael and urged him to follow me. Right before we were about to run, Solomon turned around and let out an angry croak. We ran. We were running as fast as we could, but he could somehow keep up. He was only a foot behind us when we reached the basement door. Michael slammed it shut behind him as we reached the living room and headed straight out the front door. We made our way back down the brook and towards our homes with even more questions and no answers.

When I arrived at my front door, it was already open. I went inside the house, and my mom, dad, Alex, and Tom were sitting in the living room. My mom and Tom had been crying. The air felt cold. Paul had been found dead in his room. He had slit his wrists during the night. the night I had been having a good night's sleep. It seems that Michael was right, and now one of us was gone.

I just didn't expect it to be Paul. He drives you insane, and there's no escape when you suffer in silence. I'll never forgive myself for not giving Paul more of my time. I feel that maybe I could have saved him. I know one thing for sure. I lost a great friend that day, and I'll never forget him. Four years have gone by since Paul ended his life. I'm now 24 years of age and living in my own apartment far away from my old neighborhood.

Alex and Tom got their own place and went to university, while I got a simple retail job, barely managing to scrape enough money together to live off. Our lives had been scarefree for the past few years, and we were just beginning to get back to normal. We should have known better. About six months ago, I was over at Alex and Tom's place, having a few years. few drinks and watching a couple of movies. The talk of the intoxicated soon began, and before we knew it, we were discussing everything that had happened. None of us liked to even think about the events, never mind talk about them, but I suppose that's what alcohol does to you. We found ourselves dissecting Kirshall Street, remembering the people who used to live there and the people who left.

Tom's parents were long gone, losing their minds down in Oakshale. Not long after Paul died, his parents left too. Then Michael was forced to leave with his mum and dad, as well as other neighbors up and leaving. The street seemed so empty when we left. When Alex and I moved out, Mum and Dad decided to stay put. They liked the street, the area, their jobs, and they had never been a part of anything that had happened. It didn't take Alex and I too long to figure out that that was the reason we were the only kids allowed out to play in the street. All of the other parents were part of the strange history in some way. After a few drinks and some intense talking, the three of us fell into a drunken slumber.

It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that we were woken by a knock at the door. Alex and I opened our eyes and attempted to focus. our vision. Tom was nowhere to be seen. A feeling of pure sickness hit my stomach, and it wasn't drink-related. I immediately knew what was happening. Alex wasn't as fast to realize the situation we were in. After all, it had been four years. We stood up and made our way towards the front door. Just as Alex turned the handle, his face changed. It was almost as if at that moment he had the realization of what could be outside. He slowly pushed open the door, but there was nothing there.

Nothing except a small, white, spotted bow on the floor. We slammed the door shut and made our way back to the door. the living room. It took me a moment to realize that I knew where we had to go. The article, my deja vu, the beau, it all added up. The shortcut through the woods to get to oak shale. The place I refused to enter was where Solomon would hide the dead bodies of all the children he drowned. If Tom was going to be anywhere, it would be there. I still had the fear and didn't want to be anywhere near Oak Shale at this moment in time,

but we had to find Tom. After all, I suppose it was just a bad feeling. We eventually made it to the woods and stopped on the road. Everything seemed so surreal. I took a few deep breaths and said, stepped on to the grass. At that moment, Alex pulled the bow out from his pocket, as a brisk wind blew it from his hand and onto the ground where it had been once before.

I shouted at him, questioned him as to why he brought it. His only answer was that he felt like it was a big part of our whole story. As true as that may be, I didn't want to be. I didn't want to be reminded of what I saw in my mind. We slowly made our way into the woods and walked for a good ten minutes, but nothing happened. Maybe it was just a dream or a deja vu, or whatever you want to call it. But then the smell hit us. We turned a corner, cut through some trees, and there it was.

My nightmare. The moonlight shone brightly through the crooked branches of the trees. It bounced off the stream and seeped through every gap in sight. The tall, skinny figure of Solomon Wallace had his hands on Tom and seemed to be leading him to the water. The bodies of Paul's parents hanging in the trees, spinning slowly, drenched in blood and smiling like kids on Christmas. Tom's mom and dad were sitting slouched against the bark opposite Tom. They were disfigured, maimed, cut apart and sewn back together to seem smaller and younger.

Everyone looked so happy. The look of fear. on Tom's face was indescribable. It surely matched the horror that Alex and I were feeling inside. Solomon stopped and looked at us with his black eyes. He banged and scratched on the tree next to him, but we couldn't understand. He took a few more steps towards the stream and stepped into the water with Tom. The torrent only reached Solomon's waist, but it had completely submerged Tom.

We didn't know what to do. But then Tom fought back. He kicked and tussled until he broke free from Solomon's grasp. He slowly crawled out of the water as Alex and I helped him out. Solomon let out a deafening scream and marched towards us. The three of us picked up a large rock from the ground and rolled it into his legs. It knocked him over into the stream and fell onto his chest as he flailed to move it from on top of him. We couldn't stay to see the damage done.

We ran home as fast as we could and called the police. We told them everything. The story of Solomon, the dead bodies in the woods, the suicides, we didn't leave anything out. The police didn't seem to care. It was as if everybody knew but never spoke about it. An entire town built on silence. They sent a team out to the woods and found everything that we described. All of the disfigured corpses.

and even the body in the stream. It was finally all over. Nothing was put in the papers in the next few days, and none of us were questioned on what happened that night. I guess everybody was still unsure on the whereabouts of Solomon Wallace, and whether he really did die that night long ago. Two days ago, I got a phone call from the police down in my old hometown. The autopsy had finally been completed on the body in the river,

and the officers thought that I should know the results. The body belonged to that of a man named Mr. Ted Bradley, Michael's dad. I hung up the phone, called Tom and Alex, and told them to get over. to my place the next day so that we could talk. They arrived as I'd asked, and I erupted, rambling in fear, telling them that the body in the stream wasn't Solomon, that he was still out there. I was sobbing like a baby. Then they interrupted me. We just found this in the lobby downstairs. handed me a small box. We opened it up to find a broken window latch and a small drawing of my apartment. The picture was dated 5th of February 2013 and had a small cross next to it. On second glance,

Tom noticed it and pointed out the scribbled image of Solomon in the corner of the page. That's when we heard the scratching. The three of us ran into the bathroom and locked the door. That was over 16 hours ago, and it hasn't stopped. It seems as though nobody escapes, not even us. So here we are, terrified in our final moments. Razors at the ready. Or sleepless tales have come to an end.

Thanks for sharing the darkness of the night with us. Join us again in two weeks' time when we unleash more disturbing tales designed to afflict your night with no sleep. To continue your sleepless experience, visit the no sleeppodcast.com. Thank you.