The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E21

Episode Date: February 24, 2013

It's episode 21 of the second season of The Nosleep Podcast!  The episode features five tales about strange sibling scares, childish games, and a tormented traveller. This episode features these stories: Say's Who? written by anonymous and read by Tyler Privett (Redditor maverick49er). Children's Playground written by Arnie Kalkauskas (Redditor CryingCrow) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone). Baby Sister written by Leon Chan (Redditor straydog1980) and read by Michael McElroy (Redditor MikeTheInfidel). The Devil's Breath written by Arjun Anand (Redditor ImAfraidOfMe) and read by David Cummings. The Letter written by Hamish MacDonald (Redditor happy-jack) and read by Tyler Privett. 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 into your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode 21 of Season 2. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you this time, about, Strange Sibling scares, Childish Games, and a tormented traveler. A few listeners have noticed that season one of the podcast lasted 18 episodes,

and now that we're beyond 20 episodes in season two, they're asking how long this season will last. Well, season two, and each subsequent season of the podcast, will consist of 25 episodes, along with the assorted bonus episodes. That means season two has four more shows after this one. When the season ends on April 21st, I'll take a few weeks off, and season three will return in May. I've got some exciting plans for the new season that I will be explaining in the upcoming episodes. So make sure to listen in as we wind up season two and look ahead to what season three has in store for us. Now, let's begin the show. Our first tale is about two brothers who live on an isolated farm.

When they decide to break the rules and venture beyond the farm property, their rivalry ends up taking them to a very dangerous place. Tyler Privet reads the tale by author Andrew Zurich, as he describes how this rivalry leads to the question. Says Who? The year was 1981. Two brothers asked their father if they could camp out in the backyard and have a bonfire. The old farmhouse had many acres of land that they loved to play on,

but their father was rather protective since their mother disappeared a year ago. They both locked out when he said yes. Just don't go out past the fence. past the fence he said looking at them sternly I don't want you two getting lost ha like we would get lost tiddy thought we're almost teenagers and we lived up here our whole life he's never let us walk out past the fence and for no good reason Ralph had planned it perfectly we'll camp out in the back field and once the the lights are off in the house, that's our chance.

The tent was up. The sun was setting, and the fire was built. Hey, Teddy, bit you can't jump over the fire pit, Ralph egged him on. Says who? replied Teddy. He looked at his younger brother defiantly, snickered at him, and jumped over the backyard campfire without thinking twice. Perfect. Ha, see? said Teddy, hands at his hips, tongue sticking out.

Yeah, sure, Ralph said, rolling his eyes. Ralph didn't like when Teddy proved him wrong. He was always saying, you can't do this or you can't do that. And Teddy's favorite reply was, says who. They sat by the fire and warmed their hands, burning sticks and talking about one thing or another. Their father came out of the back of the farmhouse and called out to them. You boys all right? Need anything?

Nah, we're okay, Ralph shouted back. All right then, I'm going to bed. You boys be careful out there, and be in the tent no longer. later than midnight. Okay? Okay, Dad. They both yelled back in unison. Teddy was anxious to see

what was past the fence on the other side of the gulch, and he knew that Ralph was too. After their father called out to them, they sat silently, watching the flames with intense eyes. Ralph looked up

over his brother's shoulder. Okay. He turned off the lights. Let's go. Teddy nodded, glanced back at the house behind him, just to be sure. They both got up from their seats and began to walk across the field to the fence. It was one of those three-wire barbed wire fences, the kind to keep cattle in or out. It was colder than Teddy expected, but they were too far from the tent now, so he didn't want to run

back and grab his sweater. The grass was wet with dew, and the sun was gone, replaced by a crescent moon that dimly lit the field around them. The fence was just ahead. No turning back now. Come on, like this, Ralph motioned at Teddy, giggling as he crawled underneath the barbed wire. When he was on the other side, he stood up and waited for his brother. Teddy looked back hesitantly.

The farmhouse was dark and far away. You're scared, ha! Ralph snickered. Says who? He gulped and followed Ralph's lead, crawling under the fence. Let's go, come on! Ralph jogged ahead as Teddy followed after him.

They crossed over the gulch into no-man's land. ran down a hill and came upon another field. In the field, there was a solitary tree. The field was bordered by dense woods. It looked perfect for climbing. Ralph ran ahead and immediately jumped up into the tree and started climbing. "'Bet she can't climb higher than me!' "'Sus who?' Teddy chuckled,

climbing up after his brother. Once they got as high as they could climb, they both sat up in the treetops and looked around. The hill they'd run down blocked any view of the house. Ralph leaned over and plucked an apple and handed it to his brother, and then plucked one for himself. They sat up in the tree for some time,

saying nothing, just enjoying the moment. Do you hear that? whispered Ralph, looking off to the right. Something made a noise over there in the woods. He looked but couldn't see a thing. No, I don't hear anything, Teddy said, looking curiously at his brother and back again at the woods.

And then he heard it. He saw. Several people started to come out from the woods. They wore dark, hooded robes. The one in front was carrying something. A book, maybe. Yes, it was a book. Ralph looked at Teddy intently and whispered,

Don't. They don't see us. They came closer and closer, gathering at the foot of the solitary tree. Teddy tried not to move. To breathe. He just looked. Then the one who was in front spoke for,

first. Please take your seats. I shall read from the great book. They replied in unison. Yes, my Savior. He opened the book and read aloud to them in a loud, frightening tone. It is the midnight hour. Blessed are the destroyers of false hope.

for they are the true messiahs. Cursed are the God adorers, for they shall be shorn sheep. Might it so? Deceited ones replied, There is nothing sacred about moral codes. Like the wooden idols of long ago, they are the work of human hands, and what man hath made,

Man can destroy, he said to them. And we shall be the destroyers, they replied. It has been said. The truth will make men free. The truth alone has never made anyone free. It is only doubt which will bring mental emancipation. And we shall doubt, they replied. Ave satanis, he shouted.

Hail Satan! They retorted. Ave satanis. Hail Satanus. This went on for a few seconds. Teddy looked over at Ralph in utter fear. He knew that they had to get out of there, but how? Ralph leaned over to his brother and whispered,

But you won't throw an apple at them. Teddy looked at his younger brother, astonished. Was he not aware of what was going on? Ralph smiled at him, an evil grin. Teddy knew that Ralph was testing him. "'Hes says who?' he meekly replied. Ralph smiled again and stuck out his tongue. Sweat dripped down Teddy's face despite the cold.

He looked at his younger brother again to make sure he was serious. He simply nodded, grinning at him with an eyebrow raised. Teddy plucked an apple from the tree branch he was sitting on. He closed his eyes, clutching the apple. and said a quick prayer in his head. Eyes still tightly closed, he tossed the apple down, and it landed at the feet of the man holding the book. He looked up, right at them.

What? Get down here! Teddy's eyes shot open in terror. Get down here, or we will burn this tree down. down with you in it, he shouted angrily. Ralph looked at Teddy with cold eyes. They had been caught. Slowly, they descended the tree. Hopping down from the last branch, they both stood in front of this man.

An evil smile crept over the man's face as he looked at the brothers. Is this him? The man asked. Yeah. Am I in now? Ralph replied, looking up at him anxiously. Yes, my child. You are now one of us. With that, the man pulled a dagger from his robe and forcibly stabbed Teddy in the heart. Ralph stood over his brother, who was now on his knees.

Teddy, in disbelief, clutching his chest as the blood poured out of him, leaned in close, and whispered into his brother's ear, says me. Growing up in a quiet town means children can feel safe when they play together outdoors. The local park can be the place where many games and adventures take place. However, as author Arnie Calcoucass explains, sometimes even the most peaceful of places can hold unforeseen horrors. I'll read the tale of one fateful day down at the children's playground. This story is from my childhood, and although I was only eight years old at the time,

I can recollect every chilling detail. I'd moved to a new town. This was a much nicer, cleaner, quieter town than the one I'd lived in before. Not the sort of town you'd expect to have things go wrong. There was a very big public park right in the center. It housed rows upon rows of swings and slides, infested with snake-like tunnels that weaved in and around the playground, providing a maze for children to lose themselves in their games.

There was even a functioning merry-go-round, which seemed to always be slightly turning, inviting the children to hitch a ride on its platform of twerb. I have to emphasize the fact that it was a quiet, peaceful town. The kind of town where kids could leave their house on their own and take the short journey to the park. I had been given strict instructions by my parents that I should come home the second it started turning dark. My life was wonderful, or so it seemed.

It was a Friday. I knew the day because I remember coming home with a big smile on my face, as I knew I had the luxury of non-stop playing for two whole days. I did what I always did. I chucked my school bag on my bed and was ordered to change into other clothes In a matter of minutes I was ready to descend onto the world of fun

Nothing could stop me The tunnels were my favorite It was so easy to get lost in them Which made great fun for playing hide and seek With my only two friends Billy and Tom They were both in my class and we, like many eight-year-olds, loved any game that filled us with pure adrenaline.

We were going to play murder. I don't expect anyone to know this game. We made it up. The rules were very similar to hide and seek, except when the one seeking found you, they had to pretend murder you. It was nearing winter, as I remember being slightly cold. as I wormed my way around in the tunnels, furiously trying to find a perfect hiding spot. Billy was the seeker. Tom had hidden behind the marigot round. It must have been maybe ten minutes, which for an eight-year-old felt like a year. When I decided to do what all kids do when they get bored,

give up. I give up, I shouted. My voice is a little bit. I said. My voice is. echoing through the tunnels. I'm in the tunnels. I give up. I heard sudden shuffling from one end of the tunnel. Now I don't know why, but I froze perfectly still. I didn't call out again. I just waited.

Something wasn't right. Billy would always say something before coming in after someone in the tunnel. He'd always congratulate. them on being the last to be found or for cheating by hiding in the endless maze of tunnels. As I stood frozen, the shuffling grew louder. I could tell it was starting to get dark outside as the tunnels slowly began to lose any light in them, slowly but surely dropping into darkness. I began to slowly shuffle backwards.

The shuffling ahead of me grew louder, as if someone or something way too big for the tunnel was trying to navigate around. A very creepy voice echoed through the tunnels. It sounded like when a grown man talks to small children, talking slightly higher pitched. This was definitely wrong. I probably would have come out if the voice was outside. But it wasn't. It was inside the tunnels. Why would an adult crawl inside?

As I was shuffling further and further back, the face of an old man appeared in the darkness ahead of me, patches of hair on his head and a definite look of someone who hadn't showered in the last week. I couldn't see what he was wearing, but I knew it was tattered old clothes. He had a sharp, scraggly beard which was peppered with dirt. The second we made eye contact, he just smiled at me, revealing his filthy, unbrushed teeth, which had blotches of brown and black, covering them entirely.

I panicked, turned around. and began shuffling on all fours as fast as I could. The shuffling behind me grew louder and quicker. He was chasing me. I sped through the maze for what felt like an eternity. I only stopped when my legs refused to move anymore. I'd taken so many twists and turns that even I was completely lost. I don't want to hurt you.

I just want to talk. The voice echoed through the tunnels. I could tell he was nearby. I pressed my body against the bottom of the small, narrow tunnel, and listened. He continued to make soft, cooing noises, begging me to come out and present myself to him. I lay in that tunnel for hours. No exaggeration.

Even after I heard him curse to himself and angrily force his way out of the tunnel, I continued to wait. Thoughts raced through my mind of me coming out of the tunnel, only to be met by that same smile that once greeted me. In the darkness of the tunnel, I could make out blue. flashing lights on the outside. I heard frantic voices calling three names repeatedly. Billy, Tom, Michael! When I heard my name, my heart slowly began to calm. My parents had come. I easily shuffled out of the tunnels, guided by the wet dirt scrapings along the walls of the tunnel. the way the man must have gone. Outside I was greeted by several police cars, lights flashing.

There were groups of adults with concerned looks on their faces. I recognized two of them, my parents. Mom, Dad, I wailed, crying as I ran towards them. They began crying and ran towards me. lifting me off the ground and hugging me so tightly it felt as though I was being slowly crushed. Billy and Tom were taken that evening. They were later found hidden in a nearby skip, mutilated. They had been brutally massacred.

Their skulls had been caved in with a large iron bar, and their bodies had deep cuts everywhere. Large pieces of glass found buried in their backs. What chills me to the bone is that the wet dirt I saw in the tunnels wasn't entirely dirt. It was Billy and Tom's blood. After slaughtering my two best friends and making I conventus, contact with me in that tunnel, he just smiled. He had won the game. Only child often longs for a brother or sister to grow up with. When a young boy is denied

this opportunity, he creates an imaginary playmate in place of a sister. But he soon discovers that his imaginary friend might not be as imaginary as first. thought. Author Leon Chan has his tale narrated by Michael McElroy, and in it we learn why this boy feels such a connection with his baby sister. I thought I had a sister once, back when I was six. I hadn't thought about her for years until I saw her again last week. I didn't have a good time growing up. We never had much money, and I didn't know my father, and my mom never talked much about him. Turns out that she didn't know much about him either. We lived in a small apartment. They say people remember smells the best. This is what I remember of my childhood life. Four smells. First, the cloying

smell of the damp and mildew, the apartment complex that we lived in. In the day, the rich smell of cooking, the stewing of meat in pots to melt away the toughness of those cheap, unwanted cuts. At night, the low sour smell of sweat as the men returned from a hard day's work, sometimes overlaid with the sharper sour smell of stale beer. And the fourth smell? A deep woody smell. The smell of my sister. Mom never remarried. She worked at a clerical job. somewhere downtown. She did bring men home occasionally. One in particular stayed for a while. I started calling him Billy Daddy just to differentiate him from all the other men she brought back before that I had to be on an uncomfortable first-name basis with. Things were going well.

Mom seemed happy. I still remember that lazy Saturday afternoon when she pulled my hand to her tummy and told me that I was going to have a baby sister. I wasn't a kid with many friends, so the thought of having another child in the house hit me like fireworks going off in my six-year-old head. It didn't matter that it was going to be a girl, which was one of the wondrous things about being six. You don't really care who your next friend is.

I asked mom what my sister was going to be called, but all I got was a warm hug and her fingers. anger on my lips as she whispered. It's a surprise. It was a little later when I remember the fight between Billy Daddy and Mom. I was told to go to my room and I remember cowering in my bed, tears staining my pillow as I desperately tried to drown out the sound of yelling in the kitchen. When it was quiet, I crept out of my room and found my mom sobbing gently in a heap on the kitchen floor

and clutching at her obviously pregnant belly. I never saw a belly daddy again after that. Mom spent the next week crying to herself quietly, except that one day when I found her sobbing on the floor in the same position, clutching her belly. We never spoke about having a sister again. My mother withdrew into herself. Home life took a turn for the worse.

I was never good at making friends. The silence blanketed our home like a shroud. Like all kids with an overactive imagination, I figured that I could make up a friend a million times better than anyone I could meet, maybe even a sibling. That's when I started seeing her around the house. Never when my mom was around,

always when I was alone. She looked exactly like me. the same dark hair, brown eyes. A rich smell of wood surrounded her. She never said a word. She just stared at me with thoughtful brown eyes and smiled a quiet, small smile. I knew her name was Jenny without her telling me. Kids are closer to the true nature of things like that,

the same way they know what to name a puppy or a soft toy or a doll. They know exactly what a thing is and exactly what to call it. True names. I spent countless nights talking to her, but she never spoke. She'd just sit there and smile, and I'd talk about school. I wouldn't see her come or go. She'd just be there sometimes when I opened the door to my room, sometimes after I came back after brushing my teeth or taking a shower.

I would always smell her before I saw her. I never touched her, though, only once when I was nodding off after telling her about another dull day at school. I put my hand on her forearm to steady myself. She looked like any normal little girl my age, but her arm felt cool and dry, like the snake I had touched at the petting zoo the year before. Jenny wasn't always giving me that quiet little.

smile. I remember once the neighborhood cat took a swipe at me when I tried to pet it, scoring deep grooves down my forearm. She didn't say a word like always, but I saw her face hardened into a mask of hate that I'd never seen on any other child I knew. The next day, I saw her petting the cat in the middle of the road next to our apartment. No, not petting it. I saw its back, arched in its claws, scrabbling ineffectively at the asphalt. She was holding it down. I looked away when I heard the blaring of a car horn,

and all there was next was the sound of screeching brakes and two thumps, one for the front wheel and one for the back wheel. I looked up to see Jenny on the other side of the road, smiling her quiet smile at me. The worst thing that ever happened with Jenny occurred the last time I saw her. Billy was one of those large children who had discovered early on that being half a head taller than anyone in class

gave him access to a whole different physical vocabulary which consisted of shoves, punches, and slaps for the most part. My last encounter with him before the field trip was in the school yard. It wasn't anything special. I was just an obstacle between points A and B, which meant in Billy's mind that I would have to be moved. Of course, the difference in our weights meant that a small shove on my back sent me flying into the dirt, taking most of the skin from the palms I used to break my fall.

I remember seeing Jenny standing in the distance through the haze of my tears. I can't remember where we went for the class field trip later that week. My palms were still covered in scabs from my altercation in the school yard. The class was split into two. We had 15 children in my group. It was definitely an odd number because the teachers made us pair up and nobody wanted to pair with Billy. We were going down an escalator when I noticed it.

I was right at the back of the line of kids when I saw seven pairs of heads in front of me, including a head of long dark hair next to Billy right in the middle of the group. I saw Jenny tilt her head enough so that I could see her small. She knew I was watching. Just before Billy got off the escalator, I saw her lean against him, causing him to take a single small step to his left. And that's when the screaming started, followed by the chaos of the rest of the class piling into Billy. It was a good five minutes before we figured out what had happened. Billy had stepped too close to the edge of the escalator and his shoelace had gotten caught.

he didn't have time to react and by the time someone hit the emergency stop his foot had been sucked between two of the steps of the escalator Mom was overflowing with concern when she picked me up after the trip she must have known something was wrong when she saw all of the other children crying but she knew me better than that when I broke down and told her that it was the girl from our home that had pushed Billy she slapped me. It was the only time in my life she ever raised her hand to me.

She grabbed me by the arms, her long nails digging into my flesh deep enough to hurt. She isn't real. Don't think about her. Don't talk to her. Jenny doesn't exist. She hissed into my face.

I hadn't told my mom Jenny's name. It was then that I realized in spite of the harshness of her tone, that her eyes were filled with fear. She had seen Jenny too. That was the last time I saw Jenny on that escalator. I stopped wanting to see her and she knew it. I still felt her around from time to time, smelled that deep, woody scent, but I never saw her again.

I don't know how my mother came up with the money, but she bought me a second-hand Game Boy Color after that incident. I guess she knew what she was doing. The little machine filled up that void in the house with little imaginary plumbers and little green swordsmen. I didn't have the space in my head for late-night conversations with my imaginary sister after that. Then, life happened.

I grew up. I went to college out of state, got a job offer, and a girlfriend, and moved out. Jenny faded away, packed up with childhood cartoons and the other bad memories of my childhood. Until last week, I saw Jenny for the first time in years last week. I was dreaming and I was a young boy again. We were holding hands and staring at my mother sleeping. Jenny's hand still had that cold, dry feel I remembered from years back. I felt like I was holding on to a cold leather glove.

For the thousandth time, I tried to reason how such a pink and lively hand could feel so different to the touch. Jenny took a small step forward, letting go of my hand. I tried to say something to raise a hand to stop her. I already knew what was coming. She gave me one last smile and her face scrunched up in a look of beautiful. pure hatred as she locked her small, strong hands around my sleeping mother's throat. I woke to the chirping of my mobile phone. It was my mom's neighbor, but I already knew what she was going to say.

The funeral was a quiet affair. My mother had few friends. I'd already spoken to the neighbor that called me as soon as I got back to my old home. She was having dinner with a bunch of us oldies. She said, her eyes glistening. We were finishing up the main course. I think she had the roast chicken. She made a funny rattling sound in her throat.

Then she pointed for water. Then she... Then she was on the floor just clawing at her throat. Just ripping at it like she was trying to get something away from her throat. We were trying to grab her, give her water. or something, but she was just, oh God, I'm so sorry. She didn't have a mobile, so we could only call you when we got back from the hospital. Tears were flowing freely down her face by this point.

The medical examiner had pronounced that Mom had died of asphyxiation, although they hadn't been able to find a foreign body lodged in her throat. There wasn't any reason to suspect otherwise, with all her friends having seen her choking. I hadn't been staying at my old house because of the memories, but I still needed to pick up my mother's bank account information and a couple of other documents so I could get to work on managing her estate. It was tough going because my mother wasn't the tidiest of persons.

Her writing desk and living room didn't yield anything useful, so I moved on to the bedroom. I was looking under the bed when I found it. A shoebox heavier than the other shoeboxes around it. I opened it up. The room filled with the smell that haunted me when I was a child. Sandalwood. I ran my fingers over the small, plain box, feeling the grooves of the rough carving on the lid.

Jenny, there was a rustle cloth or tissue paper. as I opened the box. My first thought was that there was the carcass of a smooth brown rat nestled in a bundle of light paper, grinning toothlessly at me. Eyes that had never opened in life glared at me sightlessly from the box. Time had eaten everything away till only two dark pits and her tiny face remained. I'd been living with my little sister all my life, it seemed. There was one more thing.

I had to know. I reached out with my fingertit and touched the desiccated little corpse. Dry, just like the feel of Jenny's hand in my dream. I couldn't stop thinking about why I would see Jenny again after all these years when I was driving home across the state. Why would she kill her mother? Why now and why not before? My girlfriend was out at work when I got back home. I got the answer to that one burning question in the most unlikely of places when I started cleaning up out of habit.

A plain white tube in the trash with a little blue cross in a tiny window. That's why Jenny came back. When a college student shares a residence with an international student from Columbia, he hears many tales of his roommate's life, a life growing up in that turbulent country. One night, a story is told of a painful experience that centers around a strange drug that plagues many unfortunate victims. I'll read the tale from author Arjun Anand, who shares the reason why this horrible drug is also known as the devil's breath. Have you ever heard of the drug called scopolamine?

It's extracted from the fruit of a tree that grows freely across the northern part of South America. What sets this drug apart from the others is that, when administered in the right amount, you'll appear to be sober and conscious, except you are completely open to suggestion. That's right, your very free will is gone when influenced by this drug. It's a huge issue in Colombia because criminals can walk with you into your home and you'll help them out with your TV if they only ask. The victim will do anything and accept any suggestion made to them. Your ability to say no is gone. This is why it's colloquially known in Colombia as the devil's breath, because you'll be persuaded.

to do anything as if the devil himself had forced you. Things you'd never do otherwise. I learned about it through my roommate from college, Carlos. He was an international student, straight from Columbia. This guy told some fantastic stories about back home. We'd go out, drink, party, and when we'd end up coming back to the apartment without any lady friends, Carlos would bring out his stories. I preferred these nights because the tales he'd tell were sometimes funny, sometimes terrifying, but always gripping. They were amassed over 18 years spent living in a country nicknamed Locombia

because of the crazy things that could. happen every day with the massive drug, kidnapping, and otherwise general crime problem. His stories would often involve family members, and through conversations and these stories, I became pretty well aware of his family back home. There was an uncle that would come up in some of them, and although he was pretty open about all other aspects about his home life, I realized whenever he brought up his uncle, he became uncharacteristically vague until he got away from the subject. Curiosity got the better of me, and one night I asked him about it.

I wish I never had. As I said, Carlos was very open, and on the off chance that we'd broach a topic he didn't wish to discuss, he'd usually deflect the discussion to something else. This time he suddenly became stoic and quiet. He stared off into the distance and I thought he'd spaced out. After an uncomfortable amount of time, I was just deciding to go to bed when he spoke. I'll tell you about him. I had tried to dispel him from the idea, telling Carlos that it was clearly a rough issue

and that I was sorry that I had asked, but secretly I had hoped he would tell the story anyway. My hopes were answered, and Carlos assured me it was all right. I need you to promise not to tell anyone else this story. If I begin crying before the end, I'll be fine. Just leave me be. Is that understood? When Carlos spoke of tears, I wondered what I'd gotten into. Thinking back, had we not been liquored up like we were, I doubt Carlos would have even tried to tell the tale.

He began. When I was six, my uncle lived just a block from me. His son, Palo, was my age, so I'd often find myself playing at his house. sometimes late into the night. This was okay with my mother, and I even kept an extra set of PJs and a toothbrush there, so that when I did stay late, I could easily spend the night. A child walking home at night anywhere is a mistake, but in Colombia, her kidnapping would be a best case scenario. One night after Palo and I lost track of time building endless creations out of Legos, I realized it was far too late to head home.

I went about brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed. This night, however, I decided Palo and I would play a prank on my uncle. This prank saved my life. At this point in the story, Carlos became noticeably agitated. He was beginning to sweat despite the room being cold, and I myself sobered up quickly at the words, saved my life, wondering whether I felt comfortable hearing the rest of the tale. Curiosity is my vice.

and curiosity kept me silent despite it all. Not hearing any opposition from me, Carlos continued. I told Palo that I'd hide in the closet and wait for his father to come home. When he came to the room to check on Paulo, I'd burst out of the closet and give him a fright. Pallo loved the idea and giggled at the thought while I rushed to the closet. The minutes felt like hours to my child's mind, and I nearly came out when I heard a lock jiggle. I sat back and stifled my laughter as our playful plan came together. The door opened, and I heard several voices in rapid fire, hushed,

vanish. This was odd, as my uncle rarely wanted to do anything but sleep after a long day at work. Among the voices, I could hear my uncle. It was rare, but when it did come, it was only an okay or an all right. I remember wondering whether I should scratch the plan. Scaring my uncle would result in a laugh. Scaring his friends would result in a spanking. I'm lucky I was indecisive. As they came up the stairs and the voices became clearer, I began to understand that this was a more malicious situation than a house visit by friends.

There were two of them besides my uncle. One spoke in a deep, coarse voice, and the other a voice like a snake. They said things like, Thanks for opening the door, sir. Now, where is the jewelry? My uncle answered, there. Upstairs? Thank you.

Behind this door? Yes. Good. Any hidden money? Here. Great, thanks. Anything of value behind this door? Carlos's voice cut, and I suddenly realized he was getting choked up. Curiosity be damned.

I finally told him to stop, but he wouldn't. He only shushed me and continued. He said, The robbers had asked anything of value behind this door. If they had asked in another way, if they had said something about jewelry or money, my uncle would have said no, but they asked about value.

And what was most precious to my uncle in the world was behind that door. And so he answered truthfully. Yes, I heard the door open, and the snake voiced one said, Oh my. Hello, child. Hello didn't answer. He only said, Papa, who are these two?

The deeper voiced one chimed in. Come on, man, we got what we came here for. Let's go. I wish they had gone. They should have gone, but the snake-voiced man, with almost a gleeful hiss, said. Wait, let's see how well this scopolamine works. Sir? How about you take this gun?

At this point, I realized Carlos had never mentioned Palo in all his past tales. I begged Carlos to stop. Carlos continued with a face displaying anguish. His voice as if to say, you asked for this one. You got it. It was at this point Carlos told me about scopolamine, about how he was. the victim will do anything and accept any suggestion made to them. About how your ability to say no is gone. About how this is why it's colloquially known in Colombia as the devil's breath,

because you'll be persuaded to do anything as if the devil himself had forced you. Things you'd never do otherwise. Things like kill your own son. The second Carlos mentioned that, the dams holding back the tears broke, and all the pain from his childhood trauma became visible, held him until the tears lulled him to sleep. Then I put him to bed. I climbed into my own. No, no. Knowing my sleep would be light and restless. Carlos and I never spoke about that night again. The closest we ever got was when we both happened to be in the living room together, watching the news while doing homework.

As I tapped about on the calculator, I heard a word that immediately caught both our attention. The reporter was saying that a new drug was gaining. popularity in the states and had spread from Florida all the way to Texas and Pennsylvania in just a few short months. A drug being shipped from Columbia that was being used to make people hand over their money and belongings willingly. A drug called scopolamine. The Devil's Breath. For final tale, presented with some correspondence from a man traveling the world trying to find himself. From this, we learn that the man is currently in hiding and fearing for his life. Narrator Tyler Privet reads the tale from author Hamish MacDonald,

who shares how this man came to be so fearful. He experiences some very unsettling encounters. encounters he describes in the letter. I can't imagine how this letter will reach you. Can't even imagine where you are. So this story is really for me, not you. I'm writing everything down in as much detail as I can muster because I need to hold on to what's real.

For a long time, all I wanted was to forget. And even now, years later, a part of me still. wishes that everything which happened would fade away like a bad dream. I guess I'm starting to realize that ignoring my past doesn't always heal my scars, and that leaving monsters to writhe in the deep only helps until their halt to the surface. I've avoided riding because recording things has a way of making them concrete, and it's easier to cross a shadow than a wall. But things are starting to slip away from me.

Details becoming elusive, and I need something solid to hold. Something to rely on when things are so bad I can't trust my mind. Anyway, enough rambling. Before I begin, I should let you know that I miss you dearly and hope that you are safe and happy wherever you are wandering. I hope that you still think of me from time to time. And I know it's a selfish thing to wish for, but I even hope that you miss me, because I sure as hell miss you. As for me, I'm sitting on a grimy bed in some shit house motel room, about an hour away from the nearest city.

I hope you'll forgive me for not including the name of this city. It's a little like the room we had in Logan. I chose this place because it was cheap and didn't ask for identification. and because there were bars on the windows and a big padlock on the door. God, I must sound like a fucking lunatic. But I think you'll understand once you hear how everything started. Start at the beginning. That's the normal place, right?

Sometimes I think it's hard to tell where one story ends and another begins. Where does my story start? As far back as my memory stretches, with my birth? My conception? Doesn't every story ultimately go back forever along the chain of causation right back to the beginning of existence? Fuck! I'm rambling again. I haven't been sleeping too well lately.

I suppose this story begins when I decided to embark on a journey. You might remember I was studying law at the time, gradually burning out like a broken engine, never moving, instead just smoldering and buzzing and choking for purpose. I was working a dead-end job to support a degree I despised, and one day I just snapped and left the country in hopes of spending a few months alive. I traveled alone through Asia, well, sprinted through Asia, seeing innumerable wonders through the retreating rearview mirror of my car before finally succumbing to the loneliness of the solo truels.

traveler's life and settling down to spend a few months in Goa, a beautiful state on the west coast of India. All I desired was some friends with whom I could find some simple joys, or, failing that, somebody to share my loneliness with. Goa is a small state, and I decided to slowly make my way down the coast, moving from one stunning beach town to the next, whenever restlessness reared its head. After a few weeks of wandering, I found myself in a town called Benalium. Perched on the beach and cradled by jungle, Benalium is a seaside village so sleepy it would be more accurately described as comatose.

It was in Benalium that I first met Barry, who had become so inextricably entwined in what was to follow. Barry was an Irishman, older than me by about ten years, cursed with prematurely gray hair and an almost unquenchable flare for the dramatic. We met when he stumbled up to my car and told me, in a thick Irish accent,

that he only had hours to live before the thirst takes him. I immediately took a liking to him, and after sharing some bottled water that he complained was too warm, we set off to find somewhere to stay. We met a native on the road who owned a bar and some beach huts at opposite ends of the town, and he promised us cheap beer and Russian girls,

and continued to lower the accommodation price until refusal plainly wasn't an option. We paid for the keys to the two huts and headed straight for the beach. When we climbed out of the waves a couple of hours later, it was beginning to get dark. Barry wandered off towards town to grab his rented Jeep and bring it to the new. nearby clearing, while I lay on the dunes and watched the gorgeous Indian sunset cast fire across the waves. Behind me, the view was no less stunning. There is no such thing as a gradual transition in Goa, and the beaches lurched directly into

lush jungles before rearing into jagged cliffs and cascading down as waterfalls. As I absorbed the scenery, I thought that I spotted a figure perched on the edge of the and I gave a quick wave. It was getting too dark to make out any kind of response, though, and after a moment I turned back to the view. It wasn't until later that it struck me that this was the first and only person we'd seen since leaving the village. Barry still wasn't back.

I checked the time on my phone, and I realized it had been almost a half an hour. He was going to honk when he arrived. I contemplated searching for him, but I didn't fancy walking through the Indian jungle in the dark and decided to stay put for the time being. The palm trees, which lined the beach so beautiful during the day, began to cast shadows like giant hands across the sand, and for the first time, I began to feel uneasy. The walk to Barry's car shouldn't be taking this long, surely. I struggled to remember how long the walk to the beach had been, but it did.

didn't feel this long. I kept glancing over from where I'd seen the figure at the fringe of the beach, but I saw nothing but jungle squirming in the wind, and I waited. Almost an hour had elapsed by now, and Barry still hadn't returned. My skin was beginning to prickle at this point, and I was sweating in the cold. Why hadn't the figure I'd seen past me? Was there another way to the beach? that I wasn't aware of?

The trail back to the car was partially overgrown, and it occurred to me that it would be very easy to get lost in the darkness. I pictured Barry alone in the crawling jungle, becoming more lost and frantic by the minute. An hour was far too long. It suddenly hit me that I had to get help. Idiotically, I hadn't recorded any of the local contact numbers, so I decided to carefully make my way back to Barry.

from where I could follow the road to the local police station. By this point, the wind was picking up and causing an eerie moan to echo through the jungle, and the idea of walking the narrow trail in the dark sent shivers down my spine. I hadn't really left myself any other options, so I headed for the path. The sand was thick and dry, the kind that squeaks when you step on it, and it was slightly easier than I expected to find and follow the path. The moon was low and bright, and it was possible to make out Barry's returning footprints along the trail.

I kept my head low to the ground and focused on the prince, walking quickly and willing myself to ignore the sounds of the jungle around me. After a while, I stopped jumping at every crackling branch and twig, although the sudden bark of a wild dog still made me freeze. The sand was more sheltered from the wind further in the jungle, and the tracks became clearer. Two sets of footprints toward the beach where we'd walked from the car. Two sets headed back, Barry and I.

Two sets of... I remember stopping dead. Two sets of footprints before me headed towards the car. I looked behind three sets of footprints. Three sets? Barry lost. I hadn't noticed it. When had the third set materialized?

I walked faster now, my heart throbbing louder than the wind. I wanted to run, but was afraid to lose the trail. Something hissed near my foot, and I'm ashamed to say it, but I lost it. I sprinted as hard as I could in the direction of the car, vines and bushes grabbing at my legs. My heartbeat in my ears, like footsteps closing in. I glanced over my shoulder, glimped movement behind me, and almost choked with terror. All I wanted was to be out of the jungle. Trees flew past.

The trail was nowhere to be seen. I had no idea which direction. I was going. Footsteps in my ears. A car horn cut through the night. The signal that Barry was at the clearing. Almost choking with relief, I followed the noise, and suddenly I was in the clearing.

Barry's headlights illuminating the jungle. I looked behind me and saw movement, but nothing else. Just the wind in the trees. I jumped into the car, and Barry shot me up bemused. glance. Flat tire. I didn't have your number. Christ, you look like you've seen a fucking ghost. I grinned. Too glad to be pissed off at the delay. Barry was here and everything was

okay. I told him about the footprints and he shrugged it off. Kids played in the area and we've been swimming for a long time. Barry wanted to check out the bar before we retired to bear. so we drove back along the beach road. The Russian girls were a lie, but thankfully the cheap beer wasn't. I ordered a local Kingfisher beer. Barry stared at the young guy working at the bar for a moment, as if struggling to decide what to order. Make me a drink like you'd make for a man with nothing left to live for,

but more cheery, some passion for beauty in it, with lots of ice. The bartender stared hopelessly at Barry, who eventually relented with a grunt. I'll take a fucking whiskey, lots of ice. We sat down and talked about nothing late into their night and finally decided to head back and check out the huts that we had rented. I wanted to hire a rickshaw,

but neither of us had thought to save money for the trip home, so we took the Jeep instead. Barry insisted on driving, claiming he was too drunk to navigate. I pointed out some subtle flaws in this logic, but he shook it off and climbed into the driver's seat and we set off. The road back to our cabin was surprisingly active for this time at night. We passed a cluster of motorcycles, a dirty old truck with a dark-tinted windows, several rickshaws, and even a man riding a brightly adorned camel. which marched warily through the humid night.

The cabin was some distance away from the town, and we followed the road up into the tropical mountains, which wound around the coast. The ocean looked serene and infinite in the moonlight, and for a long time I just sat and let it all wash through me. A big, dumb grin plastered across my face. The road grew narrower and more twisted as it descended, And I wasn't surprised to hear the sound of an engine behind us.

When I turned to look, though, my throat tightened. Barry, is that the same truck as before? He turned a look, frowning in confusion. Yeah, the one with the blackest shit windows? Wasn't it going the other direction? We reached the bottom of the mountain, and I told Barry to speed up. He did. And so did the truck.

Suddenly, I had an incredibly bad feeling about the truck, like a fist clenching in my gut. I'd heard stories of robberies in India, and I placed my hand on the knife in my pocket, fiddled with it nervously. At least we were almost at the huts. Shit. Oh, shit!

Barry, you have to turn around. I don't know what this is. guy is doing, but we can't lead him to where we live, just in case. It's probably harmless, but this is India and I don't want to take any chances. Maybe he'll just leave. As if on cue, the truck behind us sped up and cleanly overtook us, pushing into the curtain of the night. I let out a sigh of relief. The truck wasn't following us after all. Two false alarms in one night, My nerves were tingling, and I was very keen to get home. Barry slowed down, and I gradually settled back into enjoying the scenery.

Ahead of us, the truck slammed on its brakes. Barry bellowed a garbled string of swears, somehow swerving around the truck, and only barely clipping it with the rear end of the Jeep. Behind us, the truck's engine roared, and it drew level with us, before swinging across and ramming the side of the jeep hard enough to shake my teeth, almost pushing us off the road. Up ahead, a street light turned red, and Barry cursed and began to slow down. Go through it, I screamed, and he accelerated through the light, pursued by the truck.

Barry took the first turn he saw, almost skidding out on the sandy road, and barreled along in front of the truck until we came to a crossroad with a stop sign in front of it. I saw to my horror that the intersecting road was one of the busiest highways in Goa, and barely had time to register that there would still be plenty of traffic on that road before Barry barreled through it. Somehow, missing all oncoming cars and careening to the other side of the road, I looked behind us just as the truck slowed to a stop at the sign. It didn't start again. Somehow, that was the worst part of the whole thing.

The truck just sat there, with big gaps in the traffic passing it by, as we drove off into the night. For the first time since Finding Barry, I felt real fear. Whoever was inside just sat there and watched us leave. I don't know why. We took the most roundabout route we could determine, and eventually found out. ourselves at the huts, shaken and exhausted by the failed robbery attempt. We'd rented separate huts, accommodation in India so cheap it might as well be free, and agreed to meet again in the morning to speak to the police about the robbery.

Barry retired to his room, and shortly I did the same. The hut didn't help my frazzled nerves. It was large and surprisingly luxurious with modern air conditioning and food. fully furnished rooms. However, in my shaken state of mind, everything seemed dark and frightful, and I settled into the hut without the faintest hint of relaxation. The potted plant on the window was just beginning to wilt in the heat, and it reminded me of the clutching jungle. The furniture was old, wooden, and gnarled, and the brightly colored beach towels provided seemed strange and deceitful.

Even the ticking of the ancient clock set me on edge. Worst of all were the paintings. One depicted the beach during a glorious sunset. It would have been soothing, but all I could picture was the figure on the fringes of the beach. The other one was worse. It was a portrait hung opposite the bed, depicting a man staring through the eye of a camera.

with a wide grin which stretched across his face without ever touching his eyes. The camera made me think that he was supposed to be a tourist, but something about the painting suggested a leering menace. The way his top lip curled into a sneer, the way the eyes seemed to follow you, the same way the old paintings do, of those eyes, which almost seemed to beckon the viewer closer. I lay in bed for a while before the portrait's malevolent stare proved too much, and I moved to sleep on the couch.

When I finally managed to slip into an uneasy slumber, after what felt like hours of tossing and turning, my dreams were plagued with shadowy figures. Storms interrupted by flashes of white lightning, drivers without eyes, and paintings that grinned without smiling, In the morning, I grabbed a sheet and headed to the bedroom, determined to cover the painting and reclaim my bed. But when I stepped into the room, all I could do was stare at the portrait. Not a portrait. Just an open window. I need to go now. It's getting light out.

I will write you again as soon as I can. 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.