The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S3E11

Episode Date: October 6, 2013

It's episode 11 of Season 3! We have many tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about abductions, strange sightings, and micro horror fiction.The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "Anecdotes in Ashes" written by The Assembly and read by Nikolle Doolin, Peter Lewis, and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:04:10)"Patient Sigma" written by Eric Ponslee and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:23:55)"All the Swans are Gone" written by Catriona Richards and read by James Cleveland. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:37:45)"Captivity" written by Aaron Harris and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:54:00)"The Red Light in the Warehouse" written by Chance Patrick and read by Peter Lewis. Music by Tice Thomason & David Cummings (Story starts at 01:23:10)Click here to enter the Anecdotes in Ashes Contest!Click here to learn more about the Anecdotes in Ashes novelClick here to learn more about Nikolle DoolinClick here to learn more about Peter LewisPodcast 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 I was listening. Trapped in a bad. There's little boys who die. A face in the window. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode 11 of season three. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have many tales for you in this episode,

featuring stories about abductions, strange sightings, and micro-horror fiction. It's my pleasure to begin this episode with a selection of stories from the new collaborative novel of micro-fiction from some of No Sleep's most prolific authors. Anecdotes in Ashes is the novel I promoted back in episode 8 of this season, and we will be featuring nine of the short stories from this collection. That's one story from each of the authors who make up the collective known as the Assembly. For those of you who don't know, microfiction is the name given to very short stories, usually with word counts less than three or 400 words.

When you consider that most good horror stories require time to build the sense of fear and dread needed to be frightening, an author is facing a considerable challenge to create horror with such extreme brevity. The assembly have put together a collection of outstanding short stories that pack a lightning fast punch. I want to encourage you listeners to change. Check out the show notes for this episode to find the link where you can purchase this novel, either the e-book version for the Kindle or the paperback version. And to really bring this novel the exposure it deserves, we are having our second No Sleep podcast contest. I will be giving listeners a chance to win one of the five paperbacks

and ten e-book versions of the novel we are giving away. All you have to do is visit our contest page at Contests.com. And email in your answer to the trivia question you'll find on that page. 15 winners will be randomly chosen, so be sure to enter for a chance to win. The contest closes on Friday, October 18th. So, with no further ado, let's begin the show and interesting. you to the kind of writing that makes up anecdotes in ashes.

Joining me in narrating the tales are Nicole Doolin and Peter Lewis. Together, we will introduce you to each of the authors and their dark and twisted views on the jagged realities of day-to-day life, as viewed through the eyes of the assembly. 15-minute warning by Edwin Crowe. We hear the church bells ring out as we played in the street, signaling our 15-minute warning. I watch as the sun disappears behind the horizon. We pick up our toys and run back to the house. I sit on the couch with my arms wrapped around my legs, rocking back and forth, trying not to hyperventilate again.

I watch my mother and father rush around the house, checking all the windows and doors, readying for another night of lockdown. My younger brother plays with a wooden toy train on the carpet. He's not known anything different. We hear the bells toll for a second time. The room falls into silence, waiting in anticipation. It's not long before I hear the low moans and shuffling approaching the house and the scratching on the front door.

I squeeze my eyes closed. It's okay, Julie. We're going down into the basement. We won't hear them down there. My dad says, trying to comfort me. Then a concern look draws upon his face. Where's the cat? That's when I realize what the scratches are.

I get off the couch and my dad grabs my arm. It's too late, sweetie. By B.C. Lawson. This isn't what I expected. No, the light is too bright. It hurts. Am I dead? I don't remember what happened.

It's coming into focus now. Killing me. I can't blink. That light is so bright. That overhead lamp? Where am I? Why can't I move? I can see people moving around me.

People in hospital scrubs. I'm in a hospital. What the hell happened? I still can't move. What the fuck is going on? I see a doctor. Wait, a surgeon. He has something sharp in his hand.

Is he going to use that on me? No, I'm awake. They wouldn't do that. They have to put me on anesthesia or something, right? I hear talking, mumbling through their masks, but I can't understand it. Why can't I move? He's moving closer, now closer to my face. He's placing a hand across my chin as he brings the scalpel closer to my face.

My eyes. Oh, fuck. He's gonna use that on me. No, I'm awake. I'm awake. I'm fucking awake. Move. Something, anything. Come on.

He just cocked his head. Yes. Yes. He knows now. He knows I'm awake. He just lowered his mask as he leaned in closer to my face. There's something... His mouth moves with no sound.

He says... By D.G. Collins. Is this some kind of joke? Jake asks out loud, then he gets embarrassed. There's a woman in the bookstore aisle near him, giving him a kind but quizzical look. Sorry, sorry, he mumbles. He puts the book back on the shelf and randomly pulls out another. Then another and another.

He gasps in shock each time. Do you need help? The woman asks him. She introduces herself as Angie. Please, Jake says nervously. Would you mind opening a book from this section? Any book. With a shrug, she does.

She finds a thick one, rifles the pages, and a plain white note card drops out. Scratchy handwriting on one side reads, Black Lab puppy named Percy. Angie doesn't understand until Jake shows her the other cards he's been collecting. On them are written things like bedroom painted blue and toast with strawberry jam for breakfast. And I'm watching you, Jake Allen Hammond.

That's me, Jake tells her. They're all about me. How is this possible? They spend some time going through the books and end up with an inch-high stack of note cards, each one describing some detail of Jake's life. Many seem vaguely threatening. Jake is understandably rattled, so they head out to get coffee and put their heads together. In the darkened, empty parking lot, Jake can finally smile again, as he surreptitiously tightens the length of cord in his hands and steps in close behind Angie. It's all over too quickly,

but it had been a fun game while it lasted. Easy marks are eager to trust people in need, he knows, and everybody likes a good mystery, especially in the mystery section. Lost between empty pages by Dave Taylor. No idea who this let me die in peace. A loving wife, two wonderful sons. More than a distant memory now. These people came and took me from my home one morning, and they locked me away in this room.

I beg them to let me leave this hellish place to go home to see my family again. All the heartless bastards do is shake their heads, offering insincere platitudes before shoving more needles into my veins. They won't tell me what's going on. They just talk amongst themselves and poke and prod at the husk of what was once a man. I would give anything just to see my wife again. To kiss her one last time before the poison these monsters pumping to me finally finishes the job. The old crone is the worst part as she hovers over me incessantly and refuses to answer when I shout demands to know who she is and what she wants from me.

She simply holds my liver-spotted hands in hers and silently cries. by T.W. Grimm. Here you go, old friend. Another whiskey for you, another for me, and our wives none the wiser, eh? Say there, old son. Earlier in the evening, I recall that you'd inquired

if I'd ever been to India. Well, I haven't, but it reminded me of a, well, shall we say, an odd story that I don't think I've ever shared with you. It concerns a young man that I once knew. A strange fellow who was obsessed with discovering the secrets of Vita Eterna, Life Eternal.

He was the nephew of my father's accountant, and he frequented the same social circles as I. I'd heard that he'd taken a sabbatical to the far east in pursuit of his morbid fascination. A year or two later, I saw him at a dinner party, an event that was organized in honor of a certain political figure at the time. He took me aside when the opportunity arose and informed me, his eye twitching, that he took him. He had divined the secret while deep in the heart of Indochina. When someone dies, and if your mind is open, you can see their soul departing. He told me, then smiled.

Oh, it was a ghastly grin, one that spoke of things that are best left unspoken. If you can see it, he continued, then you can catch it. Soon after, he was accused of the grisly murder of a prostitute, and his father helped him flee the country to avoid prosecution. That dinner party was the last I saw of the man, until a few days ago, that is. I was checking out of a hotel in New York when through the glass of the lobby doors I noticed a shabby-looking gent who was furtively negotiating with an attractive young prostitute. Oh, I am old and my eyes aren't what they used to be. But it was him. I am sure of it. He must have felt my gaze, and when he registered who I was, he quickly turned and outright fled from the scene.

What troubles me most is this. I last saw him 47 years ago. He should be an old man. now, just as I am, but he looked no different than he had at that dinner party. No different at all. Dear advice, by L. Chan. Little Timmy wanted to be a marine biologist. This Halloween he dressed up as Nemo to go to the fair, and like all the other children, he made straight for the haunted house. If he had wanted to be a builder, he may have noticed how quickly the house was built, too fast to be natural. Timmy's favorite sea creature is the anglerfish,

which uses its prey's curiosity to lure it just close enough. If he had wanted to be an architect, he may have noticed how smooth some of the walls in the haunted house were. How strange it was that there was a warm, meaty breeze in the house when all the windows were shut. Timmy's favorite sea fact is that the beautiful coral reefs are made up of filter feeders. His fronds pluck unwitting food straight from the ocean breeze. If he had wanted to be an accountant,

he may have noticed how only six children came out from the haunted house, or every seven that went in. A little career advice to me. Relevant isn't the same as important. And our heroes, by E.J. Lada, Jr., the flames are in full force now. Glass is shattering from the heat generated by this inferno, even the charred wood is beginning to splinter, unable to withstand the weight of the second and third floors above.

You know, it is fires like these that made me want to become a fireman? To see raging death dance across the floors, walls, and ceilings is an incredibly beautiful and mystical sight. Don't you agree? With each person I pulled out of this burning tomb, I saw more and more flashes of cameras from my fans and admirers. It feels, feels incredible to be loved and honored like a hero. It is intoxicating, even. I cannot get enough of it. That's why I keep going into the jaws of death

to save these irrelevant people, people like you. What they do not know is that I already know how the flame is going to spread, and I know where it is safe and where it is not. That's why I started the fire, there, there, and over there. Unfortunately for you, I cannot pull you from this beautiful place. You were the last one in the building, well, besides me.

My fans tend to question how dangerous fires like these can be if no one dies within them. That's why I must leave you here. My people must know how much danger I put myself in. The adoration is more sincere this way. You understand, don't you? Look, here is some advice for you, my friend. Inhale the smoke. Trust me when I say that it is better than the alternative.

Okay, then, I'll see after the cinders die out. House of Horrors by Kelsey Donald. I dropped the brain and plunge my hand. deep into a bowl full of eyeballs. Peeled grapes, definitely. I love this cheesy game at haunted houses. Walking blindfolded past containers of mock, guts, and gore. I can usually tell what the body parts are made of.

Grapes for eyes, spaghetti for intestines, and raw bacon for strips of skin. Obvious materials can take away from the horror a bit, though some haunted houses go all out and get something like a real cow. tongue. Gotta love the effort. This haunted house has really taken it to the next level. The moment I put on the blindfold was when the scares really started. The screams of terror no longer sounded like they were only coming from the speakers, and the growling and snarling I heard just moments ago sounded incredibly realistic. Even now, as I plunge my hand into the next bowl, I have to applaud

their work. It's intestines this time. Only I... I can't tell what they're made of. Heat radiates off the tangled sinewy tubes as they twist wetly in my hands. I plunge my hands deeper and hear a pained cry. Something is wrong. The innards pulse in a frantic rhythm, faster and faster, before shuddering to a halt. The room is quiet. It's only as I reach up to take off my blindfold that I hear the snarling beginning.

again. By Mew Calling. A couple of days ago, as I wandered into the dark underbelly of the internet, I stumbled across a disturbing website. It took a long time to load, so I opened another tab while it did, and when I switched back, a full-screen video opened. The video showed a dark room being filmed in black and white and five people suspended hanging upside down from the ceiling. They were dressed in tattered gray robes. All five of them seemed to be fine. They were occasionally moving and their body language showing no signs of distress. The only one with her face visible was an attractive Korean-looking woman, smiling contently. as she gazed into the camera.

In the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, a simple red word was overlaid over the video. Live. I mulled over the reasons why such a website should exist. The woman looked happy, deriving some sort of disturbed pleasure from being in that situation. In fact, her smile grew into a grin over time. almost as if she knew that I was looking at her.

It took me a few minutes to notice that there were no ropes tied around her legs. When a decorated soldier recovers from a near-fatal battlefield injury, his recovery becomes more than merely healing physical wounds. As author Eric Ponsley describes, the soldier soon manifests a disturbing response to his ordeal. which requires the expertise of a clinical psychoanalyst. We soon learn the terrifying secrets about the man known only as patient Sigma. Collecting scary stories is an obsession for me.

I had an opportunity to speak with a friend of my mother's. His name is Clive and he is a former clinical psychoanalyst. He has witnessed his fairer. share of the strange, but his most unforgettable is the terrifying case of Patient Sigma. Clive was a specialist in criminal cases, probing the minds of the most diabolical criminals to understand what creates monsters. A couple of years ago, he received an unusual and irresistible request from the military to investigate the case of Patient Sigma.

Sigma was the code name given to a particularly sensitive case which the military did not want to make public. Patient Sigma was an exemplary soldier, part of an elite Special Forces unit, highly trained and highly secretive. Notably, he was awarded for one particular act of heroism when he single-handedly protected 14 civilians from a raid until his squad could arrive. He was critically knocked out by a nearby mortar explosion and was clinically dead for three

minutes before the medic successfully revived him. While he had a young family that he worried about, he was a patriotic military man with a duty to serve his country. He was keen to resume his career despite his near-death experience. After being given a clean bill of health, he reported back for duty. A few days into his training, he started to develop a chill, no matter how warm the environment. Over the weeks, he became more and more distracted until the nightmares began. At night, he would suddenly start.

start screaming and whimpering, cowering at some unseen horrors that seem to be haunting him. The army psychologist initially assessed it as post-traumatic stress disorder, and ordered him to be confined to his barracks for a week's rest. Five days in, his entire platoon failed to show up at Revely. The squad captain marched angrily to the barracks to find out why. Upon entering the room, he was hit full force with the gruesome sight of blood-splattered walls and half-eaten bodies strewn all over. Patient Sigma stood at the center, naked except for a coat of blood,

crying in agony whilst gnawing on a dismembered limb. Rushing out of the room on pure instinct, the captain reched up his breast, breakfast before summoning the military police. When six MPs entered the room, Sigma shook his head manically, yelling, No choice, they forced me. They are watching. As they moved in to subdue him, he babbled. No, no, don't come near. They are here. And backed away.

After some stiff resistance, the MPs managed to secure him by the arms and legs to carry him out. One of the other MPs observed that as Sigma was being carried out, he was struggling wildly and crying out in pain. Large, animal-like bite marks appeared over his body, dripping with saliva and mixing with blood. In his condition, it was decided that it was best to isolate patient Sigma. A small unused building on the base was converted to a makeshift cell that was constantly guarded. Strapped to a hospital bed, his movements were restricted and under camera observation 24 hours a day. Despite heavy interrogation, he was completely unresponsive. He just lay there unmoving, staring at the corner of his room, his eyes constantly wet with tears.

It was at this point that Clive was brought in to help find answers. The following excerpts are notes from his journal. Tuesday, 17 August. Finished reading case file for Patient Sigma. Definitely intriguing. Why does a good man commit such evil? Initial assessment is acute post-traumatic stress syndrome combined with hyper-psychosomatic hysteria.

There must be more to this man than meets the eye. PTSS rarely involves cannibalism and spontaneous bite-mark wounds. We'll meet patient Sigma, tomorrow. Wednesday, 18 August. Patient Sigma was unresponsive to questioning or physical contact, checked his pulse to ensure Sigma was still alive. Elevated heart rate detected, approximately 170 beats per minute, and shallow breathing noted. Eyes appear alert and pupil dilation normal. least can confirm we're not dealing with a zombie. Good thing, as I don't believe in zombies. Thursday, 19 August. Patient continues to be unresponsive despite not being physically comatose.

Have reviewed surveillance footage in detail. Very strange. Sigma never moves. Even more strange, Sigma does not appear to sleep. Further, he appears to talk to himself when alone. Behavior particularly active during late night, early morning periods. Frustrated to find that surveillance cameras can't pick up sound, we'll need to get that fixed. Friday, 20, August. Have secretly added a microphone to the room during today's visit. Sigma is still unresponsive and has not eaten for the past few days. Muscle mass clearly deteriorating. Sigma continues to lie in the same position. He has not shifted since I've arrived. Observation confirmed with security footage. Patient just stares at the same spot all day and night. Tested a hypothesis this.

afternoon, stood directly in front of Sigma's vision. Sigma immediately began screaming, loud and frightening. Steped away, and Sigma resumed catatonic state, spent ten minutes examining corner that Sigma stares at. It's beige. Could that have a calming effect on Sigma? will require further observation Monday, 23 August. Spent the weekend reviewing more footage and new audio. Sound quality is poor, not picking up any distinct words, frustrated at having wasted two days of progress. Have a plan, though.

We'll sneak into cell this evening to listen in and record. Patient seems most active from 10 p.m. onwards. Visited Sigma again this afternoon. No change other than eyes being noticeably more bloodshot. Tuesday, 24 August. Wasted another night. Stupidly brought flashlight to sneak in. Sigma stopped talking on approach when he noticed the light.

But I have... have a cunning idea. Have managed to borrow night vision goggles from contact in unit supply. State of the art, active infrared, military grade hardware. We'll be able to walk in complete darkness. Plan to observe Sigma on camera, then sneak in when he starts talking tonight. That was the last entry in Clive's journal. He had abruptly resigned the following morning. Not long afterwards, a mysterious fire destroyed the makeshift cell block, incinerating everything inside, including Patient Sigma.

Clive had managed to sneak in that night, carefully peering into the room through his goggles. He saw the green outline of Sigma on the bed, staring at the corner. Straining, he heard fragments of Sigma's conversation with himself, in between heart-wrenching sobs. Promised, don't harm, family, leave Sarah, did as you told. After a few moments, Clive realized that Patient Sigma was not talking to himself, but the corner of the room. Curiosity got the better of him, and he stretched his neck to look there too. Sticking out of the wall were three monstrous goat-like heads, liquid dripping from their maws,

talking back to patient Sigma. Clive unconsciously gasped in horror, and the three heads snapped their attention right at him, their demonic glowing green eyes now aware of his presence. Pure terror compelled Clive to forget everything, including bladder control, and to flee the building. rushing past the door with his limited vision, he slammed into the guard on duty, tripped and knocked himself unconscious.

He was also lucky to have missed splitting his head on a sharp rock by just a few inches. It didn't take much more for him to hand in his notice shortly thereafter. Even today, Clive still does not know what he really witnessed in. the room that night. When pressed, he reluctantly reveals this much. He suspects that there are many things waiting for us on the other side. In those fateful three minutes that Patient Sigma was dead and finding his way back, he'd inadvertently brought something back with him. And he's not sure whether that something is looking for a way back, or having escaped, is looking to roam free. Wherever the truth lies, I do know this. Throughout our whole conversation,

Clive never once took his eyes off the corner of the room. 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.