The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S3E23

Episode Date: April 13, 2014

It's episode 23 of Season 3. We have six tales for you in this episode featuring stories about mystical memories, agonizing antics, and sweet suffering. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales.  "Morning Mail" written by Karen Tory and read by L. Bentley. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:03:50) "The Stuff My Grandpa Saw" written by Miss Hannah and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:17:50) "The Journey of a Solipsist" written by Alexander Isaacs and read by Jessica McEvoy. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:34:00) "Pranks" written by Eric Ponslee and read by Peter Lewis. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:46:00) "Icing Addiction" written by Lykaia Quinn and read by Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 01:00:25) "Sessions with Sarah" written by L. Chan and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:22:00) Click here to learn more about L Chan Click here to learn more about Alexander Isaacs Click here to learn more about Lykaia Quinn Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise noted The 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. Night, there will be no sleep. And now he was listening. There's a little boy who died. A face in the window. Brace yourself for the no sleep podcast. It's episode 23 of season 3. Welcome to the show.

I'm your host, David Cummings. We have six tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about mystical memories, agonizing antics, and sweet suffering. I want to express my sincere thanks to everyone who sent emails and messages and comments regarding the announcement

about season four. I'm thrilled so many people are not only looking forward to the new season, but that many of you have expressed your willingness to support the show by purchasing a season pass four. I'm going to have more information about season pass four on the next episode, but I do want to make just a couple of quick points. Despite the fact that my announcement in the last episode made it sound like the season had ended, season three is not yet over.

Obviously there is this episode, and there will be two more after this. Episode 24 comes out in two weeks on April 27th, and episode 25, the season finale, comes out on May 11th. I'll take an extra week off in between seasons, and season four will launch on June 1st. I've got some exciting stuff planned for our season finale. I'll announce a contest where you can win a season. a limited edition No Sleep T-shirt. As well, the release of the season finale on May 11th will mark the first day of pre-orders for Season Pass 4.

Also, if you're a Season Pass 3 member, you can expect another bonus episode coming out soon. It's an episode of Flash Fiction, those short but terrifying tales that are fast but frightening. So whether you're a member or, or a free listener, make sure you check out those upcoming episodes. There will be plenty of good stuff to hear. But, as I said, season three is not yet over, and episode 23 is just getting started.

So let's get on with the show. In our first tale, we meet a woman who discovers a puzzling package that has been shipped to her. As author Karen Torrey explains, the mysterious story. gift causes her to recall an incident from her teenage years, and the memories are certainly not fond ones. Narrator L. Bentley reads the tale for us about the ominous message found in the morning mail. This morning, I went out to get the mail. On the way back inside, I noticed a box wrapped in brown paper, addressed to me and sitting on the front porch. The label said it was sent over night, so I figured it must have been dropped off either in the late delivery last night or early delivery this morning.

I didn't think anything of it, really. I shop online all the time, and though I didn't recognise the return address, I thought it was probably something I'd ordered. Of course, I immediately opened it when I got inside. After tearing through the brown paper, the first thing I noticed was that the box was an Adidas shoe box. I love Adidas, they are my favourite shoes, and I've been wearing them since I was ten years. I must have 15 different pairs of Adidas sneakers currently in my closet. Got to admit, I was excited just at the sight of the box. Maybe my husband ordered these for me as a gift.

What an awesome guy. Anyway, with the thought new shoes running through my brain, obscuring all other thoughts, I wasted no time pulling off the top of the box. And guess what? Yay! Shoes! But I quickly realized these were not new shoes. not new shoes. Now, they didn't look ratier worn. They were in fantastic condition, in fact. Supple, dark red suede, still soft to the touch. The sides of the souls, the Achilles

protector and back, and the three leather stripes on both sides, still super bright white. They were classic Adidas gazelles. Really awesome, I thought. And it's no wonder I like them so much, because the shoes that I had just got in the mail, they were my old shoes. I bought these shoes brand new 15 years ago when I was a junior in high school, using the money from my first real paycheck. They cost half my two-week take-home pay, and that was one of the reasons I was so completely bummed when I lost them at St. Joseph's Hospital a week later. When I was 16, I bused tables at a very busy pizza place two nights a week, and on the weekends too. The restaurant was about a mile and a half away from my house, so I would walk there when

my dad wouldn't let me take the car. There was a park just a couple of blocks away from my house, and that was a good shortcut there and back. When I bought the shoes, I wore them every night I worked, because I thought they looked especially good with my black uniform jeans and the white apron I had to wear. The night I lost my shoes, I took the shortcut through the park on my way home from work. It was almost always deserted there after dark. especially on weekdays. We lived in a good neighborhood full of families that tucked in every night as the sun was setting, and because it was a school night, even the high school kids who would sometimes come out late on the weekends

and set up blankets to make out weren't going to be there either. I had no reason to think I would run into anybody on my way home that night. About halfway through the park, just as I began to cross through the middle where the little kid's playground was, I noticed somebody sitting on one of the swings looking in my direction. He, I assume it was a he, honestly, though I'm not totally sure. It was dressed all in black, wearing a black knit cap with a full face mask, black gloves, and black shoes. He swayed slightly. He sat in on the little rubber seat, hands at his side, sort of hunched over and leaning on the left side chain.

He seemed to be looking straight ahead. I knew he could see me from there. It was really creepy. Since I was in the middle of the park at this point, no other way out would have been quicker than to just keep on going on my normal path. I kind of went wide, trying to avoid walking near to the playground

without looking like I was trying to avoid walking near the playground, but I hurried. My mind was racing with all the possibilities of who that person could be, how they were going to kill me, what they would do with my body, but I was old enough to realize that I was working myself up for what in great probability was nothing.

I was well into my third year of high school, so I knew that people did strange things all the time. I wanted to keep my wits about me and just get out of there quickly. I was almost fully past the playground. I could just start to see the neighborhood streetlights over the little hill, and I threw a quick glance over to the stranger. He didn't seem to be looking at me at all. His line of sight hadn't changed.

I felt relieved, but only for a second. and then I heard the unexpectedly loud sound of the rattle of the chains on the swing, which caused me to jerk my head over in time to see him leap up from the seat. In what seemed like a millisecond and with full force he was running directly at me. I took off. I never considered myself a fast runner, but I swear at that moment I was flying. I wasn't sure how close he was, but I could hear clearly the pounding of his footsteps behind me and his loud, heavy breathing.

It sounded like a growl, vicious, almost inhuman. I heard him making a grunting noise, and I felt his hand wrap around my hair which was in a braid and back. I jerk quickly to the right, whipping my head to the side, and luckily the black terrycloth hairband that I was wearing, and that he was holding on to, slipped out of my hair in his hand. Free from his grasp, I somehow ran even faster. I then cut sharply to the left, and I felt like I gained a few more steps on him, and finally I could see the house lying straight up ahead.

If anything, at the sight of it, made me run even faster. I don't know when he stopped chasing me, but I burst from out of the treeline park running full speed as I crossed over the sidewalk, and then the gravel-filled parking strip between the sidewalk and the road, and then finally into the road, never slowing down. Well, until the car hit me. It was totally my fault, of course. The guy was driving pretty slow,

but the impact launched me about eight feet in front of the car. I immediately jumped up when I hit the ground, still trying to get away from the creep that was chasing me. Thank God he wasn't there, though, because it turns out that my left ankle was pretty badly sprained and left arm was fractured, and so I probably couldn't have run anymore even if I had to. The poor old guy who was driving the car was a wreck.

I felt really bad for him. He said he didn't see the person who was chasing me. My family lived just one street over. One of the neighbors in a nearby house heard the accident, recognized me sitting on the ground when they came outside and called my parents. They were there in less than five minutes. I explained everything to them about the man in the park as they drove me to the hospital. At the ER, when I got into an examination room,

they made me take off my shoes and my clothes and put on a hospital gown. While I waited for the doctor to see me, a police officer came into the room and took my first. statement about the person in black clothes who was chasing me. He told me that they had not received any other reports of suspicious activity in the park, but they were going to look for the guy. He asked how I'd got away. I told him I ran really fast.

He made a joke about how it had to be the shoes. I laughed. My mom and dad laughed too. He was a nice cop. To my knowledge, they never found the guy in the park. I ended up having to stay. overnight so they could be sure I was okay. My mom folded up my clothes and put my shoes on top and set it all on the chair in my room. When the nurse came to check on me that night, she noticed

my shoes on the chair. They were hard not to notice, I thought, bright red and white, super cool. I was already feeling loopy because of the pain medication, so when she said she liked my shoes, I told her that they saved my life. She didn't get the joke. I was out of the same. I was out of like a light that night. The next morning, I hurt a lot more than I had the night before. I was very cranky. I was anxious and still sort of scared, feeling nauseated from the pain and the pain medication which I was still taking, and when I looked for my shoes to take home, they were gone. I was really upset about it. I cried. I wept. I was certain that the nurse had stole them. My mom promised to replace them. That wasn't the point, I told her. I bought them with my own money. They saved my life.

We asked around again. They couldn't find them. We left a note with a day nurse, asking her to look for them and give us a call if they turned up. We never heard back. I had a rough couple of weeks there, getting over this whole thing. Nightmares at night. I was really jumpy during the day. I had to quit my job, and I never walked through the park alone. again. But it was only a year and a half until I went away to college and there I had a lot of other better stuff on my mind. The man who hit me with his car sent me a Christmas card with a check for $25 every year until he passed away. I always felt bad for him. So I guess when I opened up the box this morning and saw the shoes, the first thing that popped into my mind was the nurse.

Maybe she's in AA now and has to make up for her past wrongs or something. But she stole my shoes and never even wore them, kept them perfectly pristine and hiding in a shoe box, an Adidas box no less, for 15 years and then one day just looked me up somehow and sent them to me? It doesn't make sense. I figured there must be a card or something in the box too, an explanation at least. I took out the shoes and began looking for a note or something. I looked in the scraps of brown paper too. There was no card, no folded piece of paper, no apology written in Sharpie on the box or anything else like that. Just the shoes. It's so easy to rationalize things when you have already chosen the best

outcome for yourself. I was happy to have my shoes back. What circumstances could I construct that would allow me to remain happy to have my shoes back? So I decided the box was from the hospital. The day nurse probably found the shoes, but then forgot to call us. She probably attached the note that my mom wrote to the shoes, then somehow they ended up in a back room somewhere, and recently somebody came across them again. They saw our name on the note, found my address using my social security number, and sent them to me, probably not even realizing they'd been sitting around the hospital for 15 years. What a great story. That must be it. Happy ending. Favorite shoes returned to rightful owner. The end. So excited to put them on again. I stuck my

hand into the left shoe. I could tell it was a little tighter than my regular shoes. I loosened up the laces a little bit and once I got it on, I thought it felt perfect. Then I stuck my hand into the right shoe to do the same thing. I felt something in there. I immediately pulled back. It's a horrible feeling, touching something you don't expect and you can't see. I paused for a second, wondering what I should do. What could be inside this shoe? I held it upright vertically, toes at the top, opening in the bottom, and banged the heel on the table. Two things fell out. First, and I recognised it immediately, the black terrycloth hairband that had been holding my braid together that night as I took the shortcut through the park after work.

I could even see a few strands of my 16-year-old hair twisted in it. And second, there was a piece of paper about the size of a post-it, note, with one sentence clearly and carefully printed on it. Six words only, harmless words in and of themselves. But knowing who wrote them, wondering how he got my shoes that night, understanding that he's kept them for 15 years tucked away somewhere, trying to figure out how he knows where I live now and for how long he's known, imagining what on earth he could be planning and where.

And when the note read, you are going to need these. It's not uncommon for people in the military or police force to avoid talking about the disturbing aspects of their careers. But as author Miss Hannah writes, When a young man probes his grandfather for the grisly details about his time as a police officer, it quickly becomes clear why the long-buried story has remained a secret. Against his better judgment, we learn the details about the stuff my grandpa saw. Okay, so technically I'm not supposed to be telling anyone this, but I feel this needs to be shared.

I do feel a bit guilty, but someone needs to hear this. My grandpa is a pretty reserved man. He is usually emotionally stoic and doesn't regale the adventures of his past years too often. But once in a blue moon, you can get him to tell you one of his killer stories. I've heard plenty of stories from my grandpa before. All of them have been either incredibly amazing or just utterly bewildering. My mom says that the best stories my grandpa has are from his war days and when he was a police officer. Last night it was just me and my grandpa at home together and we got into a pretty deep conversation while sitting in the living room.

We somehow ended up on the topic of his law enforcement days. I knew my grandpa didn't like dwelling on this particular topic, but my nagging cute. curiosity got the better of me. Hey, grandpa, what do you think was the worst thing you saw being a cop? I mean, aside from like murders and stuff, I mean. Suicide. His answer was curt and emotionless. I knew he was trying to avoid the topic entirely.

But the nosy little bitch in me still wanted to hear the details. How many cases did you see? Just one. This time I could see a twinge of sadness creeping up into his eyes. Whatever he was remembering was something he wanted to forget. As much as it pained me to see my grandpa like this, I had to hear this story. I asked as delicately as I could. So, what happened?

He stared at the wall for a second before sighing and turning slowly to face me. Oh, that's my grandpa's nickname for me. Bug, promise me you won't repeat this to anyone. And I mean anyone. Not your mother, not your friends, not your sister, not even your grand. That last part kind of shocked me. From what I've heard from my mom, my grandma knew absolutely everything that happened to my grandpa when he was both in the service and the police force.

There wasn't anything he told my family that she hadn't heard before. But apparently, she didn't know about this. I agreed to keep his vow of silence, which I'm breaking right now. Now, with genuine guilt, I assure you all. And I leaned in to hear my grandpa's unspoken tale. This is what he told me. My grandpa was working late when a message came in through his radio about assistance being needed with a home investigation on the other side of town.

A call had come into the station from a worried woman saying that she hadn't heard from her neighbor in over two weeks and was beginning to think something terrible had happened. My grandpa, as well as two other cruisers, were dispatched out to the house of the man in question. According to my grandpa, the man's house was up in a place known as Pill Hill. The area had been nicknamed as such by the locals because the only people who lived up there were excessively wealthy doctors. When my grandpa arrived, the other two officers were already there. There was no answer when they knocked on the door, so they had to forcibly enter the guy's home. My grandpa said that this place was one of the biggest houses he'd ever seen.

By the looks of everything, this guy probably wiped his ass with $20 bills. The walls seemed to go on for miles in practically every room. room and priceless antiques and expensive-looking furniture littered the place. As nice as the house was, my grandpa said something about it wasn't right. All the furniture, the couches, chairs, tables, etc., had been turned upside down or clustered in front of all the closet doors. Something even more unsettling my grandpa had noticed was that whoever had been in the the house had taken all the mirrors off the walls, which were now resting on the floor, and covered them completely in black electrical tape, or broke them.

Aside from the weird placement of the furniture and the mirrors, the house looked normal. There was no sign of a struggle or forced entry. The place looked virtually untouched by any kind of criminal activity. The house was enormous and had dozens of different rooms that needed to be explored. Since there were only three men on site, taking the time to look in every room was a pretty time-consuming task. The longer my grandpa looked, the more he began to feel uneasy. The house looked inhabited, but there was no one to be found. About ten minutes into the search, my grandpa took the liberty of heading upstairs alone.

You see, he was armed, so he didn't require full assistance. While the other two officers were still spread out across the massive lower floor, it only took my grandpa a few minutes to realize that something upstairs was very wrong. There was shattered glass everywhere, and all the furniture was destroyed. Upon further inspection, all the glass scattered around appeared to be mirror shards. Every single one of the rooms were trashed and nothing was in one piece. My grandpa called for the guys downstairs to come up to the second floor and look through all the mess he was standing in.

The three of them began to look in all of the various rooms. in hope that the owner of the home was upstairs somewhere. That's when things began to get unsettling. As my grandpa investigated the upper level, he and the other officers were seeing something unusual. In almost every single one of the rooms, there was a recurring phrase scratched into the walls. We many, I many.

What those words mean, I have no idea, and neither does my grandpa. Needless to say, everyone in the house was beginning to feel uneasy. Something was indeed very wrong. My grandpa tried to calm his nerves by rationalizing that maybe this man had a history of mental illness, or took some sort of medication that made him act erratically. Obviously, whoever owned this house was the culprit of all the disarray. But where the hell was he? At this point in the story, it was clear that my grandpa was beginning to relive everything that happened that night.

The ending was close, I could tell, and it wasn't going to be good. I just stared at my grandpa, practically leaning inches from him. his face to hear the climax. He looked me straight in the eyes with an expression of honest fear and horror seeping from his aged face. He let out a ragged breath. When we found him, my grandpa was the first one to enter what appeared to be the man's master bedroom. There was blood everywhere. It stained the floor like a gruesome tie-dye. The officers who were following closely behind my grandpa stood stock still in utter horror, slowly turning their heads to gaze upon the vast quantity of blood that was spilled inside the room. One of the officers quickly radioed the station to dispatch a team of

paramedics and any additional officers. Something awful. happened here. Looking closer at the blood, it appeared that there was a long stain that led into a small passage branching off of the room. Moving painfully slow, my grandpa in the lead, the man made their way into the passage that appeared to lead to another room. After following the trail of blood to its end, which wasn't that far. My grandpa and his fellow officers ended up in the master bathroom. It was then when they saw him. The missing man was lying sprawled out in the large claw foot tub. He was stark naked and was hanging over the left side of the tub. His arm limp and his curled fingers pressing against the stained tub.

Just like the bedroom, the bathroom was covered in an unnatural amount of blood. It was running down the walls, slathered across the tiles, and even formed a small puddle in the sink. How that much blood could come out of one human being, I have no idea. And like in every other room, the same words were written on the wall. Only this time they were smeared in blood, in barely legible English, and they were missing the first half. All it read was, I, many. This is where my grandpa began to get shaky. I could see the tremors he was trying so hard to suppress, rack his hands and lower lip.

I could hear the crack in his voice when he spoke. Face, face! The man's head was lulled to the side. His face was directed towards the door of the bathroom, where my grandpa and the two other men were standing. According to my grandpa, his eyes were wide open, and the corners of his mouth were pulled up into a twisted smile. Like he was laughing at the expressions of horror spread across the living officer's faces.

Although every officer present was terrified, they had to do their job and figure out how this poor soul had died. And whether this had been a murder. Upon further inspection, it appeared the man had slid his wrists. The cuts were inflicted with a rather large shard of glass, which was found lying inside the tub and ran almost the full length of his arm, starting at his wrist and stopping near the elbow. Both arms had been cut,

and it was obvious that his wounds were self-inflicted. This was a suicide, a very gruesome suicide. Not long after the man had been discovered, the paramedics arrived, along with two other policemen, and all of the officers ventured downstairs to convey what had transpired. My grandpa said he had a hell of a time trying to explain to the paramedics what was waiting for them upstairs.

Being a respectful man, my grandpa decided to wait to leave until the deceased man was brought downstairs and taken out of the home. Wanting to be alone for a moment to collect his thoughts, He wandered into the living room to sit down for a bit. He pulled a lone chair away from a cluster of various furniture pieces and took a seat. With closed eyes, he craned his head back in an attempt to rid his mind of the disturbing scene that he had just bore witness to. He opened his eyes. That's when he saw them. Footprints.

human handprints and footprints covered the ceiling. All of them done in blood. 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 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.