The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S3E06

Episode Date: July 28, 2013

It's episode 6 of Season 3! We have five tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about things seen and unseen, things found and things lost.The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "Just £3 a Month Can Save a Child's Life" written by Kevin Thomas and read by James Cleveland. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:04:20)"Bigger Fish" written by Eric Ponslee and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:16:25)"The M Show Fan Club" written by Anton Scheller and read by Leslee Mason. (Story starts at 00:35:30)"White Noise" written by Anton Scheller and read by James Cleveland. (Story starts at 00:45:30)"I've Been Intimate With a Ghost" written by Chance Patrick and read by David Cummings & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:58:00)Click here to learn more about Kevin ThomasClick here to learn more about Anton Scheller  Podcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise notedThis 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. And now he was listening. Trap in a bad. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode six of season three. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about things seen.

and unseen, things found and things lost. I want to thank all the listeners who entered our contest for The Conjuring. We had a great response, and I'd like to think we played a small part in making the Conjuring the number one movie at the box office on its opening weekend. I had a chance to attend an advanced screening of the film last week, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Highly recommend it. And now I'm happy to announce our work.

winner of the Conjuring Prize Pack and a season pass to the show. Our winner is Heather Sarazen from St. Louis. Her name was randomly drawn from all the contestants, and she'll be getting her prize pack in the mail soon. Keep listening and checking our website, Facebook, and Twitter feeds because we'll be having another contest in the coming weeks. This time it will be for the film Insidious Chapter 2, which opens Friday, September 13th. And speaking of being given a chance to win something, I am very proud to let our listeners know that the No Sleep podcast is officially a finalist for the 2013 Parsec Awards. The shows which make the finals are the podcasts that have made it through the nomination, the first round judging process, and are on their way to finalist judging by an elite panel of judges from the worlds of entertainment, writing, and publishing. The No Sleep Podcast made the finals in both of its nominated

categories. The first is for Best Speculative Fiction Magazine or Anthology Podcast. This is for podcasts that regularly present short stories from different authors, containing elements of science fiction, fantasy, or horror. The second is for Best New Speculative Fiction Podcaster. This is for the podcaster who release the majority of their shows in the past Parsec eligibility year, becoming a significant voice that has contributed to the community as a whole. There are some great podcasts that have made the finals, and I know it's a cliche, but I really do feel honored to be included among my fellow finalists. The awards will be announced on August 31st, so until then, we keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best. And now, with

all this talk of contests and awards out of the way, let's start the show. Our first tale is one that reminds us how important it is to give to charity. Helping those less fortunate than ourselves can make us feel good and provide assistance to those who need it most. As author Kevin Thomas shows us, sometimes an act of charity can provide so much more to the giver than first expected. James Cleveland narrates the tale for us that provides a certain special motivation for the simple fact that just three pounds a month can save a child's life. I apologize it's come to this for you to figure this all out. I apologize that I had to bring it all so close to home before you connect the dots. I thought you were more perceptive than that.

Your arguments were always so convincing that I presumed you'd be able to see the logic in what I was doing without me needing to spell it out like this, but obviously not. So, for that, I apologize. You probably don't even know how far back this goes. It probably irritates me the most. That's why I need to explain this to you now. You probably don't even remember me. I was just a friend of a friend of a friend at another bustling party. You probably met 50 others like me that night.

I'm not surprised I didn't stick in your mind. But that's not the issue because you stuck in mine. Not because of how you looked to what you did. Please, don't confuse this as some misguided attempt to address deeply reprimed. depressed sexual issues. I'm actually quite handsome, and I've been told I can be rather charming on occasion. Indeed, that very same party, I did not leave alone. Don't worry, she wasn't one of the girls I used to make my point, though she did give me your name so I could add you on Facebook and invite you unthinkingly accepted. No, it wasn't your outfit, nor the amount you drank,

nor the way you danced that sent me down this road. It was your words. I remember it clearly. I'm not a big drinker. I was still supping my only beer when you started your speech. You were not even addressing me as much as the whole room, but let me tell you I was enthralled. Truly enthralled.

You used words like artists you used. brushes and butchers used knives. You wove tapestries and then slaughtered them. Your arguments were beautiful, your logic infallible. I felt my eyes open and my horizon shatter as you effortlessly explored our social ills. You talked about third world poverty and I was nearly wrought to tears. The way you described their poverty and the injustice our a Western opulence was breathtaking. You even made reference to that great Jewish carpenter of law and how he would despise the riches reaped in his name while his flocks starve.

You truly open my mind to a whole new way of thinking. That very next day, I sold my books and the rest of my meager possessions that were worth anything in order to raise as much cash as I could. I triumphantly took the couple of hundred the sale had garnered and handed them over to Oxfam. The woman at the till was delighted with the donation, even going as far as to print me off a certificate of donation and giving me a box of leaflets to pass out to friends. I had the certificate in hand when I used the library computer to track your address through Facebook.

I know, I know. That was an invasion of private. and I'm sorry, but I had to tell you how you changed my life. I had to show you what I'd done. You had to know the impact your words had had. But when I got to your place, when I got there, look, I'm telling you this, because you have to understand why I've done all this, all right?

You have to understand why I had to make you see. I just, I couldn't believe what I saw when I got to your place and looked in the windows. The opulence, the sheer, hypocritical, decadent luxury in which you lived. I had just given up everything I own to save others based on your poetical arguments. And then I saw the blinding hypocrisy by which you lived. You claimed we needed to erase third world debt and tax the rich and increase foreign aid and redistribute food and water and buy mosquito nets and countless other things

that flowed like honey from your lips, but now tasted rotten as I saw the Mini Cooper in the drive. The HD TV on the Entertainment Centre, there was a PS3 and an air. Xbox sitting underneath. An iPad lazily hibernating on the couch. How dare you lecture me about poverty? You had food rotting in your bins and you dare demand that others do more for the homeless.

Forgive my bluntness, but I saw the whole room reduced to the currency of starving children. You told me. You told me that three pounds would buy a mosquito net that would prevent a child dying. You lectured me that five pounds would build a well that would give them safe drinking water. Yet there it was. Five hundred pounds worth of expensive TV just sitting on the shelf. Your house was a mausoleum. On every shelf, in every shelf.

cupboard, in every bin, in every wardrobe, with totems of international poverty. You watch the same advert about starving children that I do, but then you sentenced 30 more of them to death in order to go high definition. You sickened me. I had to make you see. I realised what it was. You were too far removed from it. You didn't equate your TV with dead children 3,000 miles away. Why would you? But that's what it was. So I had to bring that home to you.

So I made my first point and posted you one of the leaflets I'd gotten from Oxfam, urging you to donate that same day. I thought that when you connected the two, you'd make a donation and that will be that. You'd have seen the point. But when you saw the new. report about the homeless women I used to make my point, you didn't make the connection between it and the leaflet. You threw it away. You didn't even read it. I had to make another point. I made several more points with the homeless in your neighbourhood. Each time posting you a leaflet,

urging you to make the donation that would end this. But you never made the connection between the two. you kept throwing my leaflets away with the junk mail. You wouldn't even read the pleas written therein. One donation would have ended this. One thing that would have shown me that you'd heeded your own advice. But nothing. Eventually, it became dangerous to keep making the point in the same way. I had to make another point.

This time It was one of the baristas Where you bought your overpriced Coffee Maybe you spotted the missing posters around town Maybe not Maybe you've not even noticed he's gone But you still didn't get the connection

When you threw away the latest leaflet Begging for a donation You could have ended this If you'd recognise the point I was making But you didn't Today, I've already lost track of how many points I've made. You've missed them all, and thrown away all my leaflets. Ruined every chance you had of stopping this and adding the blood of my points to the deftole in your living room.

See, if you're reading this, you might be horrified. Your foe horror amuses me. I can almost see you, indulgently crying with your head. and theatrically cast over your comically agate mouth. It makes no difference. Let me ask you a question. Knowing what you do now, knowing it was all about you, would you do anything different?

Would you go back to my first point and make a donation like I wanted you to? Why? If you'd sell all your stuff to save that missing barista or all those homeless, why not for all those starving children and beaten animals? Or any of the countless others who's pleased for help you turn over from or throw away while at the same time polluting Facebook feeds with demand for likes and ruining dinner parties by waxing lyrical about how everyone, except you, should change their ways and save the world.

Why does it need to be someone you know before you understand? How can you cry for the deaths of your friends and family on one hand and then sentence a thousand more to death every time you want a new computer? I'm giving you one last chance. I'm writing this letter so I can hide it in the last leaflet. I hope you notice in time to read it. I won't even make a point for this one. You can have this one for free, but rest assured, I had better see a donation.

My next point will be one you won't soon forget. When a postgraduate psychology student needs to do some field work, he brings along a friend as he interviews the criminally insane. One inmate in particular is a curious case, and they try hard to get him to open up about his crime. Author Eric Ponsley shares the story about this former fisherman whose tale is both disturbing and mysterious. Who better than a fisherman to warn us about the bigger fish? Well, boys, let's talk.

Malcolm grinned through a beard that looked like a mangy kitten had stuck to his face. Do you have those siggies for me? This was the last of our three meetings with Malcolm. A model inmate, he was exceedingly polite and friendly, a stark contrast to the violent murders he was imprisoned for. I had agreed to help Steve with his postgraduate psychology thesis. This involved some field work interviewing dozens of patients. Most were fairly mundane.

A couple were truly horrifying. And Malcolm's was by far the most memorable. The interview had been set up by Steve's mentor, a jovial Dr. McKenzie. He thought it would be both a valuable experience and a character-building exercise to meet someone with a deeply disturbed past. As an added bonus, he would be amused to have Steve squirm a little. So here I was, locked in with a psychopath. because friends don't let friends accidentally get murdered doing homework. Our first meeting with Malcolm was unproductive.

Our thoughts mostly focused on trying not to get killed. As the interviewer, Steve was too self-conscious, too careful in avoiding saying the wrong thing or making sudden movements that might be misinterpreted as a provocation. In reality, we had nothing to feel. Though he confessed to the murder of six people four years ago, Malcolm had not shown the slightest violent tendency since. His good behavior had earned him the privilege of participating in this program. As Malcolm never had visitors, he was very pleased to finally have some.

The second meeting a week later was more relaxed. Malcolm opened up about his childhood. He was an only child in a middle. middle-class family in the middle of suburbia. A rebellious youth, he had run away from home at 17 to elope with a girl his parents disapproved of. For two years, they roam the country, taking up odd jobs, short-order cook, busing tables, minor theft, until she got bored and left him for a richer fling. Heart broken, he endured a few more years of drifting until his stubborn and pride relented, and he made his way back home to ask his parents for forgiveness.

He came back to find a foreclosed sign on a derelict house. His parents had spent their fortune searching for him, until they were tragically killed in a car accident a year earlier. He spent the next few years drowning his guilt with whiskey, using up what little remained of his inheritance. On the night of his 34th birthday, he had stumbled to a wharf to drown himself more permanently. Sitting on that dock, swigging the last of his Jack Daniels, he also drunk in the serenity of his surroundings. The boats bobbing up and down gently on the water, the twinkling lights reflecting playfully off the surface.

The gentle lapping sound of waves against the pier. He gazed at the horizon that beckoned with the promise of things yet to see and experience. He decided he wasn't ready to go yet, or perhaps he was too cowardly to go. He wanted to live. He didn't find God, but he did find hope, a reason to live. So he sobered up, worked steadily, and saved up until he could afford a small fishing boat that doubled up as his home. He loved to travel over that horizon when he could

and drop his fishing lines and just enjoy life on the water. There were many other things he wanted to see and do, but they would have to wait until he saved more money. But now, at our third and final meeting, we wanted to know just one thing. What drove Malcolm to brutally kill Todd Weber? His wife Tracy, their sons, Jack and Ryan, their Uncle Bill, and another victim that could not be identified from the remains.

We had to know what made Malcolm snap. Steve handed Malcolm the opened box of cigarettes. Malcolm grabbed them giddily and took a good whiff. Thanks, boys. These'll do nicely. He grinned, putting the box away in his pocket. Malcolm didn't smoke, but many of the inmates did. No doubt that box will buy him a few favors. So you'll be wanting to know what happened that night then, eh?

Yeah, why did you do those things in the police report? Steve pushed his body forward in his chair and pressed his arched fingers against his lips. Ah, you've read the report then. You already know what happened. The official court filings duly noted that Malcolm had confessed to the murders and pleaded insanity. A straightforward case, given the crime scene they found. We've done our research, yes.

We've gone through the court transcripts, but you never gave a motive. of, you never explained why you did it. Malcolm slumped back in his chair, and his body language noticeably shifted to one of apprehension as he crossed his arms and started chewing on his nails. He stared intently at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling for a few moments, furiously debating with himself in his mind. Finally, he whispered,

Okay, I'll tell you. I've wanted to tell someone, but couldn't. If you tell anyone else, though, I'll deny it and tell him you're crazy, okay? Steve exchanged glances with me, then nodded calmly. I leaned forward with a pen in my sweaty hands, ready to start furiously scribbling notes, as Malcolm closed his eyes and retold his story. It was a chilly Saturday night. I was in a happy mood.

I'd just filled my boat, smoother sailing with fuel. I was going to take her out to my favorite fishing spot. I upped anchor at 8 p.m. and pushed off the wharf, hitting full throttle when I got to open waters. My spot was three hours away, but I don't mind. I love the sailing, that feeling of cold air and sea. spray rushing over you. You know what that feeling is? It's being alive. I hadn't felt that in a very long time. Visibility that night was great and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Being winter and

all there weren't any other boats about. It was just me, the sea and the stars, just the way I liked it. Around 9.30, my radar picked up another boat about five miles ahead. I'd never saw anyone out there in deep waters that time of night before. So I went to check it out. It was on the way, anyway. Closing in, I saw the glow of a sweet-looking yacht. One of them millionaire's boats. All fancy and slick and big and lit up like a Christmas tree.

Oh, it must have been an 84. her. She was a real looker. I throttled back to get a good peek along her starboard side. She was the merry sea. I could see her name tattooed all fancy-like on that classy ass of hers. A couple of guys were on the deck and a family inside the cabin setting up dinner. I waved a neighborly hello as I sailed by, but only the guys on the deck saw me. Ah, they just stared and wrinkled their nose like I was some bad smell. So I changed my hand wave to an extended middle finger and sped off laughing. No way I was letting them spoil my mood.

I finally made it to my spot and baited my lines and dropped them in the water. I sat back and enjoyed my fishing in peace. for a few hours. I was hoping to stay there the whole weekend, but a storm worn and flashed up. Not wanting to be caught in a storm so far from the harbor, I pulled up me lines and made me way back. I did catch a good pink snapper, so it wasn't a wasted trip. I was a bit surprised to see the Merry Sea pop up on the radar again on my return route. It was around 4.30 a.m. now, and she hadn't moved at all. Getting closer, I could see she was still lit up,

but something was wrong. There was a big dent along the starboard water line, and she was listing slightly portside. I thought she may be taken on water. I got in close and yelled for the crew. Didn't hear anything back, but the waves slapping against the boat. I circled round slowly

and checked the radio for distress. signals. There was nothing on any of the frequencies. A lifeboat was still rigged up portside, untouched. The crew would still be on board. I may-daid the coast guard and moored me boat to the back of the yacht. There was a board and ladder I climbed to get to the deck. The lights were all on, so I yelled out again. No answer. Nothing. The deck seemed normal. Some half-drunk glasses of wine on the table and some untouched food. Nothing unusual. I went into the cabin and noticed that the doors were busted.

Like something big crashed into them from the inside trying to get out. The wooden frame was all splintered. I yelled out again to see if everyone was all right. Still, no sound. Inside her was another table set up with dinner. Everything was still laid out neat, no sign of struggle or trouble. Like the crew just vanished as they were tucking in. There was a galley next to the dining cabin.

It was a mess, but no different to what you'd expect after cooking. I could smell faint onions and meat in the air. Ahead was the forward cabin with the ship. navigation in a large lounge area. I was trying to check out the ship's log when I heard a sudden crushing sound behind me, back where the dining table was. I rushed back there, but it was only some glasses slipping off the table. The boat was now at a pretty bad angle. I saw some stairs leading down to the crew quarters and thought I'd quickly check them out. You know, before the ship sunk, just in case there were people trapped in need and help.

Heading down, the carpet was already wet with seawater on one side. I went down the corridor knocking on rooms and opening doors and yelling out for anyone who could hear. At the end was the master bedroom. I should have left the boat then and there. I wish I'd never opened it. There are some things that are just, better left unknown, but it seemed empty like all the others at first. But I noticed some small

shoes under some drapes, like some kid was hiding behind them. I walked up slowly, whispering, Hey, kid, it's all right. There's nothing to be scared of, but we need to leave now. I got no response, not so much as a twitch. So I got in real close, then ripped the drapes away. There was no kid there, just his shoes, and his severed feet still in them, like something and ripped them from his body. Oh, I fell back and gagged. I ran into the onsuit to throw up and then saw the mere was covered in blood.

I stepped back and slipped on the wet floor, but it was blood, not seawater. I had the blood all over me. I saw four more shoes lined up in the bath, with severed feet still in them like the first. I screamed and ran as fast as I could back up the stairs. Near the top I heard someone yell out to me. I was screaming and babbling, but they eventually calmed me down and cuffed me. The Coast Guard had arrived. They did a quick inspection and found more severed feet.

They were in the closet of two of the other rooms I had checked. They transfers me to their boat and detained me while they searched smoother sailing. Near my bunk they found one more set of shoes and feet. Another kids. I couldn't explain how it got there. Twelve shoes and feet in all. Six different people. They charged me with murder and maritime piracy.

When it got to my court hearing, I still couldn't explain what happened. I was the last person to see them alive. I was a thief in my youth and was found uninvited on a row. rich guys yacht. I had their blood all over me. Their remains were found on me boat. The merry sea had sunk by that mid-morning, taken any other evidence with it. What choice did I have, but plead insanity. Malcolm seemed to have aged 20 years as he finished telling his story. But then he looked at us, smiled, and the age washed away, along with the world. weight on his shoulders.

When our time was drawing to a close, the guard arrived and was cuffing him back to his cell. Steve still felt he needed some closure. Hey, Malcolm, so, so you didn't do it then? You don't have to be here. We can, you know, we want to help you out. Clear your name. Malcolm only chuckled. What makes you think I want to get out of here?

I confessed, didn't I? But why? Why confess to something you didn't do? That's crazy. Think about this. I know I've had a long time to think it over. In here, it's not so bad. I'm watched 24 hours a day.

Someone's always checking on. me. Watching carefully who comes in and out. Making sure I am safe. One thing fishing has taught me is no matter how good you think you are. There's a bigger fish out there

ready and waiting to eat your lunch. Or each you for lunch. And outside, well that thing is still out there. And still hungry. Out there, you have no one watching over you all the time, making sure you're safe.

So who do you think is really crazy, eh? That was the last we saw of Malcolm. Our 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 no sleeppodcast.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.