The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S3E03

Episode Date: June 16, 2013

It's episode 3 of Season 3! We have six tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about bizarre neighbors, mysterious children, and strange sounds. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales.  "Life of the Party" written by Ryan Anderson and read by Elle Hama. (Story starts at 00:03:35) "DECEASD" written by Benjamin Feiner and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:22:55) "The Bunk Bed" written by Aaron Chrisjohn and read by Cody Banning. (Story starts at 00:31:35) "Eggs" written by Garon Cockrell and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:39:30) "Have You Seen This Child?" written by Kelsey Donald and read by Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:55:45) "New Neighbors" written by Tyler Duke and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:09:15)    Click here to learn more about Garon Cockrell's novel, "Demonic"   Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin   Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2013. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness, the frightful tales creep into your mind. There will be... And now I was listening. Trapped in a bag. There's little boy who died. Face in the window. Brace yourself for the no sleep podcast. It's episode three of season three.

Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have six tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about bizarre neighbors, mysterious children, and strange sounds. I hope everyone had a chance to listen to our anniversary bonus episode released last Thursday. We're now into our third year, and I'm glad you're along for the ride. I wanted to mention that there's a new option available to those of you who would like to purchase a season pass. I call it our rent-to-own program. Instead of paying the entire 1999 up front, you can purchase individual episodes one at a time for only $1.49,

and when you pay for your 14th episode, you will be eligible to upgrade to a season pass at no extra charge. In this way, you're only paying a few dollars every month and still getting the full-length episodes. I hope this provides a more affordable option to those of you who don't want to be. want to miss out on all of our stories. Check out all the details on the website at the no sleeppodcast.com. I would also like to introduce you to a new author joining us this episode. Garin Cockrell is an award-winning screenwriter and novelist who is sharing one of his stories with us. Fans of Jimmy Pardo's great comedy podcast, Never Not Funny, may recognize Garin's name. I'll post a link on the show notes for those of you who want to read more of Garen's dark and twisted tales.

So, dear listeners, let's kick off our third year in style. Turn down the lights and enjoy the stories that are made, as I said back on our very first episode, for the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. Our first tale is about a unique encounter. during a delivery call. Author Ryan Anderson shares with us the story about a young woman who meets

an odd old man who was having a celebration for his wife. It's an event that leaves the young delivery woman wishing she never stepped foot on his property. Narrator El Hama reads the tale about one very

special guest who became the life of the party. When I was younger, My mother one day, seemingly unprovoked, decided I needed to be instilled with some sort of work ethic. She took it upon herself to set up a job for making meat deliveries for the local butcher shop after school. I didn't mind it so much. Mr. Kepetsky, the owner, was a Russian immigrant who came over to evade the reach of the ever-oppressive state. He had a big, full frame, but wasn't intimidating once you got to know him.

On any given day, he could be sought out by opening the back door of the shop and walking through the long corridor to what he called the kitchen. The first thing that hit you was the pungent odor from the large tubs of what we referred to as leftovers sitting beside the door. Only, this wasn't your mother's leftovers. This was a smell of blood and rot and sinew and marrow, marinating in buckets for days until we eventually gave them to a local farmer who used them for God knows what. As long as Kepetsky got his money, he didn't much care. Every day after school, I would travel the corridor to find Kepetsky waiting in the kitchen, tapping his nicotine-stained fingertips against the metal table. Once I was inside, he would pull a large wad of small sheets from his pocket.

These dirty slips of paper were, and always had been, the shop's only system of keeping track of orders, which often led to mix-ups. From there I would be given a few slabs of pre-butchered meat wrapped in paper, heavy and dripping with remnants of life. Then it was off to the homes of the clientele. In the first few weeks of working, I got to know quite a few. Most were elderly, and couldn't make it to the shop by themselves, and chose instead to patronize the delivery service. A few were younger, affluent, good-looking couples, who were just too lazy. The pay was good, and the work wasn't too difficult, so it was actually pretty grateful for mother's pushiness.

I still remember the sky that day. It was crisp and clear. Vibrantly green trees were extending their reach to the heavens. The air was hot and the sky was spattered with fluffy clouds. This was summer bliss. I had just made my final delivery for the night and was reporting back to Kapetsky to tell him. It was a Friday, which meant that somewhere in his pocket accompanying those dirty order slips was a paycheck for me. But when I arrived in the kitchen, he had different plans.

When I held out my hand, Kepetsky placed an order slip inside. What's this? I asked. Final delivery. Fritzhaus. You'll know it? He brought a fat finger down and tapped the paper inside my palm. No, I said, and I already made the final delivery. Kopetsky frowned.

You want paycheck, you'll make delivery. Yee customer. I looked at the paper. Scrawled in barely legible English was Mr. Fritz, to Brown Road, Reidsburg. This was underscored with the word imporant. I decided to overlook the error. Kepetsky pointed to a bloody pile of product on the metallic counter.

I picked it up, shot him a look, and left. There are certain places about which, for good reason, lore is crafted. Reedsburg was one of those places. In its heyday, it had been a railroad town in the pride of the eastern seaboard. The community blossomed into a prosperous one. families and businesses moved in, but, like all great things, it came to an end. Standard Rail decided to discontinue several lines going into the area, resulting in a hemorrhage of business and people.

Those with scents had moved on to bigger and better things long ago. All that remained now were sparsely distributed shanties among the hills and mangled trees, the remaining evidence of those who chose to stay. I remember people telling stories of Reesburg and things that took place into the cover of nightfall. And now, I was there. The thin dirt road seemingly stretched endlessly into the hillside. In spots, a few rebellious moonbeams trickled through the canopy and reached the road, but it did little to improve visibility.

The driveways, if you'd call them that, were greatly spaced apart and none of them matched the numbers on my piece of paper. Then I saw it. Nailed to a tree and cobbled out of woodblock was a crude street sign. It even had a small carving of a pointed hand. Following that, I started down a thin dirt path I wouldn't have even noticed if not for the sign. As I drove, I took in the night. Silence. The grinding of my bicycle tires on the hard clay. The buzzing of insects and the croaking of frogs just out of reach. Beside me, shadows danced among the dead trees, celebrating the coldest night so far that month. I was too busy looking at my surroundings that when I faced forward, I nearly drove myself into a wrought iron gate. Brown Road was a dead end leading up to a cemetery. There were no numbers, but this was the only driveway I'd seen the entire length of the road. The cemetery wasn't even marked, but I knew if I didn't go through, Mr. Fritz would surely complain to

Petsky, and I'd be out of a job. So, with the packages underneath my arm, I ran my fingers through my hair and started beyond the gate, passing rows of headstones. The air was sticky and sweet. As I walked, bugs flew up from the long, unruly grass and struck my face. Swatting at the air and spitting into the wind, I pressed on. Some of the tombstones were toppled over, and most of the riding was too faded to make out. Others still weren't marked and appeared almost fresh. And there it was. A light had appeared near the back of the site, and I realized that a house was there. It had been obstructed by the large, mangled oak tree in front of the cemetery. It looked like it had probably been a respectable home once. Now it was nearly collapsing in on itself, a dilapidated

reminder of what once was. On the second story, a single window was lit by a flickering candle. I stepped onto the porch and gave three knocks. On the third, the door creaked open and a shaky voice came from inside. What do you want? The voice asked. Mr. Fritz? I responded.

There was a quiver in my voice I wasn't proud of. The butcher paper was mixing with the sweat on my palms. What of it? Who's asking? The old man groaned. I'm from Kepetskies, I said, holding up the packages to the crack in the door. I have your order. There was a grunt from inside the house, followed by the sound of a mechanism being unlocked with what sounded like great difficulty. Then it opened.

He was shorter than me, balding on top with long strands of gray hair hanging from the back of his head. He wore a rather ugly sweater vest with khaki pants and his face showed every year of his considerable age. He was contorting it in a way that people do when they enter a particularly dirty restroom. He waved me in. You were supposed to be here an hour ago, he said, closing the door behind him. "'Sorry about that, sir. "'I just take the orders that are handed to me. "'U... where do you want this?'

"'The old man waved again, "'and we started down a narrow corridor. "'The walls were adorned with portraits of people long deceased "'and wallpaper that had turned yellow with age. "'It was peeled and flaking in various places, "'which fit with the unkempt tone of the household. "'Mr. Fritz shuffled down the hall in, into a large kitchen, in the back of which was a freezer.

He pointed a wrinkly forefinger to the freezer, and I noticed that his nails matched the faded yellow tone of the wallpaper. Lucky you came when you did, Mr. Fritz bellowed. I, diligently stalking the freezer, looked over my shoulder to see him. Oh, yeah? Yes. Fritz grinned slyly. We're having a party, he said.

I looked around. We? I asked. This sent a smile creeping along Fritz's face, exposing contours previously unrevealed. My wife, Fritz replied. It's her birthday. I didn't respond. Instead, I finished stalking as quickly as possible,

thanked Mr. Fritz, and before I knew it was speeding away from the cemetery. In those days, the design of bicycles was much more superficial. The manufacturers often went for aesthetics instead of practicalities. That's why I fault them for my chain breaking in the middle of a road that was completely alien to me, and in Reedsburg of all places. When I came to, I realized I had wiped out and was now low. lying inside some tall reeds along the side of the road. My pants were covered in muck.

Standing up, I tried to wipe them off as best as I could and regain my bearings. For a brief second, I could have sworn I saw someone across the road and among the trees. A woman with pale, stagnant, piercing eyes. She stared momentarily and then continued to her destination. She was in. Wait, I cried, but she wasn't there. Just trees, shadows, branches creaking in the wind. I was overtired and needed sleep.

The wind wasn't helping. It played an enchanting melody, and all I could think of was my bed. Forget the money. I was walking back to the road and chuckling at the absurdity when I stopped. That wasn't the wind. Somewhere, through the chirping of the crickets, was actual music being played. Crazy old man, I thought, but I had no other options. It was possible that he had a car.

Had I seen a garage? Maybe. I was too concerned with leaving to notice. Perhaps he'd have a telephone. It was my only option. I stepped onto the road and carried on towards the graveyard. Even though I knew it wasn't, I couldn't help but feel it was getting hotter. Sweat poured from my brow and the flies wouldn't stop coming.

Those damn flies? They battered my eyes and hair and found their way up my sleeves. They stormed my lips and nostrils and I swat and spat and fought the entire way. The sounds emanating from the cemetery were growing louder, and it was now clear that they were coming from a viola, or was it a violin? I was never musically trained, and to me they're the same. As I approached the cemetery, I crouched low behind one of the stones anchoring the gate. There, on his front porch overlooking the graves, was Fritz.

Beside him, a large man, clad in black, played the violin. He stood behind a small end table with cake on top. A single candle stuck atop the cake flickered. I watched his Fritz stepped down from the porch and into the grass. I knew I had to leave quickly and quietly as to avoid attention. Fritz began moving forward, his gaze still scanning the length of the cemetery. I froze. I couldn't move even though I wanted to.

Peering back over the top of the rock, I saw Fritz. Completely still, eyeing my hiding spot. I knew it was over. He drew closer. Then he bent down. After making sure it was clear, he yelled over his shoulder to the man with the violin. Keep playing, he yelled. Violin man responded by starting a beautiful melody.

It wafted through the air, and as it did, I could see that Fritz was moving. something outside of my field of vision, something below his feet. For an old man, he exhibited remarkable strength. It took him a few minutes, shuffling his weight and adjusting the placement, but soon he reemerged to my sight, this time with a load on his back. At first, I wasn't sure. I didn't want to be. The music was so sweet and delicate it almost.

made me forget the heat. As he turned, I made out the long, flowing gown. Then I saw the outline in full form from behind. It was the woman I had seen before. I was sure of it. Something was different. Her cheeks were sunken and her frame was gaunt. Her flesh sagged from her bones and it reminded me of some of the animals I'd seen inside the kitchen at work. And there was a little. There was a was a smell rising up through the Alabama night. She was dancing some sort of jig with Fritz, slowly waltzing to the music. I saw his feet trudge along the dirt patches, hers simply swayed inside the dress. She wasn't moving at all. Instead, she was being moved, controlled by a steady arm that Fritz had affixed to her back. Fritz spun the limp body around.

to the best of his ability. I sat from my hiding spot and watched as he completed dips in alternated pace, her head continually flopping around on his shoulder. When I next checked my watch, I realized nearly an hour had passed. How was that possible? The flies were still god-awful, and as one struck the back of my throat I couldn't contain the urge to cough. I clamped my throat shut halfway through as best I could,

and it came out stifled, but it was there. Over on the porch, violin man stopped. Fritz quit his dancing, and his partner went limp once more. He gazed over at the rock, still supporting the woman's head and neck with one hand. In that moment, all of my strength left me. Run, I told my non-compliant legs silently. It was no use. When I looked back once more,

violin man had dropped the instrument. It lay chipped by his feet. Fritz let the head of his partner go, opting to hold her by the hips instead, and it fell violently backwards. Through the silence, I heard the crunch of her neck quite clearly, and I winced something else. Slowly, her head turned towards me, displaying a sickening grin. I looked towards her. I looked towards her. Her head turned towards me, the ground. Her feet were now making contact. Looking back up, I saw Fritz making his way towards the rock, his partner standing independently. Her dress swayed in the breeze. The violin man had come down beside her. Arms outstretched. He held a small plate with what I thought was a slice of cake. The candle wax oozed onto it. Staring and smiling.

Smiling and staring, Fritz began moving forward. I don't know how many miles I ran home that night once I snapped out of it. I never really measured. I didn't plan on thinking about it ever again. I'm only telling you this, because I felt that you needed to know, just in case something happens to me. You see, I received a postcard yesterday morning with no return. address. On the front was a picture of that wood carved street sign that said,

Brown Road. The back, in a thick black scrawl, said, I was invited to a party. Working at a call center for a catalog shopping company is never a highly coveted job. Days spent on the phone with all manner of people can lead to experiences both frustrating and mundane. As author Benjamin Finer describes, one call in particular left a call center employee reconsidering the job altogether. I'll read for you his tale about a customer who needs to place a very important order. This is a tale called deceased. It ate my job. I'm normally very quiet. I tend to choose my words carefully in an effort to succinctly and intelligently get my point across. That being said, I don't know what possessed me to apply for and land a seasonal position

at a call center. It's a bit of a rough patch for me these days, I guess. I'm surrounded by hundreds of people all day long, yet it is the loneliest job I have ever worked. I have no real interaction with anybody outside of the phone. I just stare at my screen and talk to people who want to order clothes from our catalog and haven't quite gotten the hang of the Internet yet. So, as you might guess, a lot of them are elderly. We're talking really, really, well, old. Most are kind.

There is the odd grump here and there, but my actual work is. is not typically stressful. I'm just not a talker, and many of the callers would rather chat about their grandchildren than order anything. The reason I am telling you this is that yesterday I got a call I will never forget. It started like any other. Thank you for calling Dartmouth Clothing. My name is Benjamin.

How may I help you? I have said these words so many times that they have become. reflexive. I'm afraid I'll answer a call from a friend or family member like this soon. She sounded ancient. Okay, it's going to be one of these calls where I have my microphone basically in my mouth and I still have to shout. Yes, ma'am, this is Benjamin at Dartmouth Clothing. How may I help you? She said in a strange sing-song voice. Okay, this is going to be one of these calls where I have my microphone in my mouth and the caller is aged enough to be quite odd. Hello, are you ordering today?

I couldn't tell if the phone was breaking up or she was making full vocal stops in her speech. Okay, do you have your customer number handy? She tells me the number. I punch it in, her information pops up. Okay, is this Eileen? The same exact inflection as the last one. Are we billing and shipping to 112 Hickory Avenue in Parkersburg? The same again.

What the hell is this lady on? I put my polite phone voice back on. Okay, ma'am, whenever you're ready, you can... I notice it for the first time. There are prompts on the top of this page to remind us to offer things like an email confirmation or company card. Those two are there. Next to them, there is one I haven't seen before. Just one word.

Deceased. I can't think of anything to say. Scy- Coffs. Or at least that's what I think it was. It was more like a dry gurgle sound. Uh, yes. Ma'am, I'm...

I'm here. I'm losing my composure. This is really creeping me out. It's still there glowing on my screen. Deceased. I wish I could have disconnected before what happened next. consequences be damned. There was a moment of silence, and then, out of nowhere, a loud burst of static

that sharply decreased in volume. And I heard laughter. Dry laughter. I have had customers drop the phone on me before. That's what this was. I couldn't move. I was listening whether I wanted to or not. What I heard was a series of slaps and thuds,

like someone was dropping raw stakes on the floor, and an erratic clicking noise. I disconnected and ripped the headset off. I don't remember much of the rest of the day. I didn't sleep very much last night. What little I did I did with the lights on. I can't get this out of my head. I had to tell somebody.

I finally convinced myself to tell this story out loud because it dawned on me what that clicking was. Open your mouth and click your teeth together. Your episode has come to an end. Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep Podcast. If you would like to learn how you can hear the full-length version of this episode, featuring many more stories, please visit the nosleeppodcast.com and click on the season pass link. Purchasing a season pass will help support everyone who contributes to the podcast, and in return,

you'll get 25 full-length episodes and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. This is David Cummings. Thank you for listening, and join us again for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.