The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S3E17

Episode Date: January 19, 2014

It's episode 17 of Season 3. We have five tales for you in this episode featuring stories about creepy sights & sounds, writing tips, and disturbing childhood recollections.The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "I Used to Sit There" written by F.J.F. McTiernan and read by David Cummings. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:03:10)"Writer's Block" written by Serge Hellman and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:18:10)"1957" written by Chance Patrick and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:32:20)"Tent Number 7" written by M.J. Pack and read by Elle Hama. (Story starts at 01:01:20)"Tonight Us" written by James Birkenhead and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:15:20)Click here to learn more about M.J. PackClick here to learn more about F.J.F. McTiernanClick here to learn more about Chance PatrickClick here to learn more about Peter LewisPodcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise notedThe NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design.This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness, the frightful tales creep into your mind. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode 17 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 creepy sights and sounds. writing tips, and disturbing childhood recollections. I'd like to send out a big thanks to all of you who have sent me some very positive fan mail

and supportive comments recently. I've noticed a real upswing in the number of listeners, and I really appreciate those of you who have taken the time to write and let me know how much you're enjoying the shows. It's reminded me that it's time to mention how you can help out the podcast, by using social media. So if you haven't already, please consider liking us on Facebook,

following us on Twitter, and leaving a kind review on iTunes. Also, if you use Stitcher Radio, they now allow people to leave reviews of the podcasts. So please consider leaving some nice words for us there. I also hope to have a No Sleep podcast Tumblr account up and running soon, as I slowly drag my elderly ass into the ever-expanding world of social media.

So if you can spread the word about us far and wide through whatever networks you use, it would be much appreciated. And with no further ado, let's start the show. Our first tale is about a man who likes to unwind by relaxing on the shore of a small pond on his property. As author F.J.F. McTiernan tells us, the man soon discovers that he may not be entirely alone by the water. It's a tale entitled, I used to sit there. I used to sit there and smoke from time to time on the little wooden bench near the back of my house. It sat on the bank of a small, stagnant lake, almost completely surrounded by pine trees and over.

grown scrub. I say a lake, but it was more like a big pond. You wouldn't think it from the bank, what with the stone sitting visible underneath the surface, and the occasional leafy shoots breaking the surface tension of an otherwise calm waterscape, but it got quite deep. Near the center, it dropped off into a pronounced depression in the ground, though you wouldn't know it. I work as a bouncer at a local bar, and though I get a lot of job satisfaction, I have to admit that it's stressful sometimes. I'm well able to take care of myself, but I'm not the most intimidating to look at. Hence, I often find myself dealing with customers who wouldn't try anything similar with someone who was physically bigger. So I guess you could say that some nights when I get home,

when I'm tired from dealing with the fallout of the crapulence and the excess of others, I feel like I need to unwind before I can sleep. Usually I would throw the keys on the counter, say hello to my fiancée and our dogs and cats, roll up a joint and go for a wander out the back of the house. Sitting on the bench at night, the stars seemed clearer than they had ever been. I'm no expert or anything, but I know enough to spot Orion straining his tottened bow into the infinite. I would sit on that small wooden bench, and I would gaze up at his mighty belt, drawing long and slow from the roach end.

I would imagine him letting loose the string, and so then would I exhale, together releasing the tensions of the world in a moment of, of cathartic extirpation. Not so long ago, when I came home from work, I did my usual rounds and headed outside to the wooden bench. One of the dogs came with me, tail in the air and nose to the ground. I sat down, sparked up, and looked up at the big guy, but he had company.

The northern lights danced across the sky, shimmering in the cosmic breeze, meandering to and fro. It was the first time to see them for me, and so I remember it vividly, but they weren't the only lights from the darkness that night. Closer at hand, yet farther from view, flashes seemed to dim and then renew, like a camera or a flashlight held in trundling hands. They were far off at first. then closer in the tree line across the lake.

I couldn't hear a noise, any snapping branches or other sounds one would expect in such dense overgrowth. Not a thing, just the lights dancing in the tree line. I was not alone, however, in my perception. The dog held his ears back and yapped and growled across the water. I was so busy staring at them that I didn't see what had happened in the water until a large splash in the middle of the pool brought me to focus on it. It took me aback. A large wake rolled up onto the money banks and reverberated across the entire lake.

Whatever had fallen in, it must have been quite large. I waited for a moment, expecting to see a branch or some over. Overhang float to the surface, but there was nothing. The lights, too, had disappeared. I know my limits well, and I knew then that enough was enough. I ran back to the house and got my fiancé, and together with the rest of our dogs and a loaded rifle, we went back down to the lake. We were sure that it was just some kids toying with me, thinking they were funny,

out wandering with flashlights and throwing stones. We didn't find anything, though. No adolescent charmers or otherwise. Everything was as still as it ever had been. I half convinced myself that it was just kids, but the other half of me was still unsure. In any case, though I continued to sit by the lake in daylight, I stopped altogether at night.

What happened next still serves as a source of great doubt in my life to this day. Doubts in matters of faith, though I subscribed a few. Doubts in matters of life, though I have but the one I was given. But most of all, doubts about death. Since that day, a deep disquiet sits in me on this most of all, for I have seen what cannot be. I sat again on that little wooden bench, smoking and sunning myself. My day off, my day of rest.

I squinted up at the tall blue sky and felt the heat upon my arms. Then a splash and a crashing spout of water rose from the center of the pond, the same as where it had before. I stood up immediately and grabbed the dog by his collar as he strained to jump in too. He barked in a very threatening manner, shaking his head from side to side like I have never seen before. Screamed a man's voice just before something plunged back into the water, disappearing before I had time to see it. The water went still again for a moment and I looked around for someone to respond to. Then I saw a man rise to the surface, breaking it with all his might.

He splashed and struggled, throwing his arms wildly in the air, before disappearing under the surface again. He then broke the surface for a second time, only now he was more desperate looking. He struggled hard and the muddy bottom churned and whisked until the water was a soupy mess of dredgey. She weeds. I'm going to get help. I shouted. Hang on! Was the only reply, which he shouted in a hostile voice.

Swim to the shore! I shouted. A few yards, and you'll be in the shallows. Get off me! He repeated before disappearing under the water again, this time slowly with one upwardly outstretched arm. I rang the police, I rang an ambulance, I rang the fire department. They all told me to stay out of the water myself and to wait there for help. If I could, they suggested that I throw him a rope or a branch, something that could help haul him out,

but he never resurfaced. Well, I can tell you that I had what felt like half the state emergency services standing beside me about 15 minutes later. When they realized that he wasn't resurfacing, they had guys in boats, guys in wetsuits, guys in dry suits, guys with cameras and lights all out in the water searching for him. They were there all afternoon and most of the evening. I went down to the shore at about half past six in the evening with a cup of coffee in my hands. A local policeman, Officer Malloy, stood on the bank by the bench, watching the others wrap it up. I handed him the cup of coffee.

Oh, thank you very much, he said as he nodded his head. He held the coffee to his nose and then took a sip. Tell me again what happened, from the start, please, he said. I told him again that I had been sitting on the bench, enjoying my day off when I saw someone struggling in the water. I called for help and then waited for it to arrive. And you're sure that in none of that time this guy didn't just pull himself out of the water and just walk on out of here? He asked. Yes, he went under, out there in the center.

of the lake and didn't come up. Well, then, it seems that we have a small problem, because my guys out there haven't found anything. It's not that deep, except for that one spot, but we even checked there with cameras. There's definitely nobody down there. What do you think of that? I don't know what to say, officer. I replied and sat down on the bench. He squatted down on his heels and took another sip of his coffee.

With his other hand, he began to pick up some of my burned-out roaches sitting on the dirt. He held them in the palm of his hand and shook them, then put them to his nostril and sniffed at them. He looked over his shoulder at me with a knowing glint. It's a real bad habit, you know, he said to me. Oh, they aren't mine, officer. They were here before we moved in. Regardless, it's a real bad habit. And whoever these belong to, they should be a little tidier in a place like this. I simply gawked back at him. There's a man missing and this guy is worried about littering on private property, I thought. How long of you and your fiancé been living around here?

Six months, more? Yeah, about that. Well, then, I guess you don't know what I'm talking about, do you? I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. Let me explain then. Now, I'm not accustomed to scaring people or making them uncomfortable in their own homes. In fact, quite the opposite. I try and make people safe every day.

Failing that, I at least try and make them feel safe in their own homes. I usually don't tell people anything that they don't need to hear or that would otherwise disturb their peace. Baring that in mind, and given what you are telling me now, I think it's only right to at least mention the family that was living here. before you. They had a son. He was about 25, still living at home. He had some kind of psychological problems and they certainly weren't helped by all the pot he was smoking. Anyway, he used to come down here to this lakeside to smoke, away from the rest of the family. One day they found him floating

out there on the water, drowned himself out there in the deep part. His mother told me that he was always talking about lights out there in the trees and about how he was going to catch one and bring it back. They buried him and then moved somewhere out east. The house has been lying here, almost empty, ever since. What do you mean? Almost. Almost. empty, I asked. Well, you see, they buried him here on the property, so I guess that's what I mean. Their son is still here. Where?

Right beneath your feet. They built that contemplation bench here to sit with him, but must have thought better of it at a later date. I guess they removed the headstone because they removed the headstone because they were. they thought it would put buyers off. You can see the sense in it. It's a shame, though, that nobody knows it's here and are leaving their rubbish behind them. We have many gifted writers who share their stories with us here on the podcast.

As a service to them and any aspiring authors out there, we present to you a short course on horror writing. Author Serge Hellman gives us some hints on how to overcome the most common of writing problems, and Peter Lewis reads the instructions for us. It's our hope that you will learn what it takes to deal with writers' block. I've had trouble writing death scenes. No matter what I do, they always sound just a little bit false, a little off. I've read books by the score, taken clowns,

and talked to other writers, but nothing seems to help. They just lack a certain something that makes it feel real. And when you're a writer, that's practically a death sentence in itself. I've added bloody splatters, the feelings of terror in the victim, the feel of the knife in the killer's hand or the clenching of the fists as the killer tightens the garret around the neck of their intended, and the useless struggles as the victim tries desperately. to survive while their face turns an interesting shade of purple.

Suppose you'd call it writer's block, although a rather specialized version of it. I found a way around it, though, and being a friendly sort of person, I thought I'd share it with the rest of the writing world, so that perhaps it will help them too. It's simple enough. Just put yourself in the shoes of the killer. Imagine just for a moment what it would feel like. Imagine choosing your victim carefully. It has to be someone who won't be missed.

People who have links to others are generally reported missing much, much sooner, and you'll get caught. Once you've chosen your victim, imagine stalking them. You'll need to know their routines, obviously, because you can't just take them out in broad daylight. Once you've chosen them and know their daily routines, it's time to choose the method of death. Being a writer, I'm sure you can come up with plenty of ways. For me, it's a knife. There's something morbidly pleasing about stabbing someone. Maybe it's a throwback to our Neanderth all days, but the thought of the knife slipping in and out of someone's flesh, almost like a surgeon, is fun. Now you've chosen your victim. You know their routines. You know the method. All that's

is the preparation. Imagine the steps you need to take. You'll need a place that's soundproof, or at least muffled screams, plenty of cleaning materials and gasoline to remove the evidence when you're done. So far, everything's looking good. The writer's block is beginning to ease as you imagine the feelings of the objects, of the emotions, of the killer, of the smells and sounds that are running through your mind. This will be the best death scene. you'll ever write because you're so immersed in it. Now it's dark. This is the night.

You're going to get that victim because after all, your story requires a killer, and you'll be the best damn killer there ever was. John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, amateurs. They got completely unaware that tonight is their last on earth, and it feels good knowing that you have that power over them. You follow them carefully, always blending into the crowd at key moments

until they begin that familiar walk home, taking that shortcut that they know they probably shouldn't, but do anyway because it's quicker. That's what you're... A quick grab from behind, a rag with chloroformed the nose and mouth, and it's good night from them for a while. You've got to be quick,

though. You don't want to be spotted and ruin everything. Grabbing their inert body under the arms, you drag them to the car you parked nearby. You wouldn't be much of a killer if you'd parked too far away, would you? No, you're a good one because your story demands it, and because of that, it isn't too long before you've got their body in your back seat. You know better than to try and throw it in the trunk. If you got pulled over, it'd be game over before you'd even got to the fun part. Once they're in the back seat, you open a mini bottle of liquor and pour it

into their mouth. It doesn't matter if it dribbles a bit. It adds to the illusion that you're just taking a drunk friend home after one too many should the police decide to actually do their jobs for a change. Tucking the bottle into your pocket so that

not even that much evidence is left, you get into the driver's seat and turn the engine on. The show is about to begin. You get to your destination undisturbed. What can you say? Tonight, you're lucky, and nothing can or will go wrong.

This story is going to be so... You're really into this now, and the writer's block has disappeared. You're writing furiously trying to get every detail into the story, because you want your readers to be able to relate to everything you're doing, even if they're slightly horrified at the same time. Back into your imagination you go, chewing thoughtfully at the end of your pen as you call up the images of your victim.

You've got them safely into your secluded spot, in my case that would be the basement. It's a lovely house I live in, far away from people, because writers need peace and quiet to be able to think when the words are flowing. There's an old kitchen table set up in the middle of the world. the room bolted to the floor in case my dear friend decides to make a racket.

Their arms and legs to each leg of the table is time-consuming, but necessary. I need to make sure the knots will hold so that my victim can't escape. For good measure, I had a gag, because you never know. Someone could be wandering around outside, and you wouldn't want them stopping by because they heard screams, would you? The words are coming faster now, and I'm beginning. getting to breathe a little heavily, because even though this is only imaginary, I'm caught up in a fearful kind of excitement. I'm about to be a... Nobody knows. Nobody can stop into the basement I go with my trusty knife. I can't help but smile.

Everything has run so smoothly. Not a single thing has gone wrong. I can almost understand why killers do it. and my story is going to be all the better for it. My newest best friend is awake now and they're crying. Huge snot bubbles are coming from their nose, their eyes are streaming and they're struggling against the ties. Good, it's just a story. I say softly as though talking to a small, frightened child. They don't believe me, though.

They're shaking their head at me and trying to talk. walk around the gag, their eyes wide with terror. In the dim light of the basement, the knife gleams. I polished and sharpened it specially for this. I wouldn't want to risk infection, after all. Besides, this requires precise cuts, ones you can't get with a dull blade. Hands move furiously as I try to get the words out onto the page. Riders block ceases to mean anything to me.

The images are coming too fast for me to care about anything but getting those words written down. It really is a thing of my imagination, my newest best friend, screams at the first cut, and more surprised that you could hear a scream around a gag. Shrugging my shoulders at the incongruity, I stop for a moment, and admire the way the flesh has parted so easily. Blood wells up through the cut, A vivid red that contrasts nicely with the dirt in the basement, and I can see a strange, bubbly kind of meat underneath.

I make more cuts, trying to be artistic in a strange sort of way. I'm a writer, not an artist, though, and I get bored with hearing constant screaming at the shallow slices I've made. If I ever choose to be an artist, I'll definitely need lessons. abandoning attempts to be beautifully creative, I start stabbing instead. My stabs are shallow at first because I'm not used to being a killer. This is the first time I've ever used physical violence on someone, and I suppose part of me is afraid of what will happen.

When nothing is heard but the sobbing moans of my best friend on the table, I grin a little. This is way easier than I thought it would be. a little harder. Everything is fair game for my blade and do get a little annoyed when I accidentally hit an artery and it splashes up at me covering my jeans and t-shirt. They were bought to be disposable. The words are flowing so fast now. I need to take a break for a second because it's dark and my eyes are going funny in the lamplight. A coffee. Everyone knows caffeine is a writer's best friend. It's their fuel of choice.

It gives a kick when you need it most, when you feel like you're going to fall over from writing so much. Taking my cup back to the study, I set it down on my desk next to my notebook and get settled again. This is the book, the one that will be a best seller, because I've finally found the missing ingredient. I found the mind of a killer. Between sips of the slightly too hot coffee I get back to writing. Where was I? Beautiful. Disappear inside flesh, and then reappear with smears of red that are followed by a gush of it. I can see why they call it to work with my new best friend, but I can't risk it. Besides, something like this requires dim light.

I think it's almost a rule that killers work in dim light, and it's a rule I'm happy to abide by. Someone's laughing, and for a second I freeze, the sound stop, as a moment. soon as I do and I realize it's me. Boogie man waiting for me at the top of the basement stairs. It's... Just me. Enjoying myself. My imagination's good.

My arm's a little tired from stabbing so much and besides there's red everywhere now. And my best friend has stopped moaning and decided to start cutting bits off. It'll last longer and besides I need to do it anyway to get rid of the evidence. Thank God I remember to put some talk down under the table or I'd be scrubbing and bleaching forever. So, my friends, you see how easy it is to get past writer's block. All you have to do is put yourself in a killer's shoes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a death scene that needs to be written.

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.