The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E12

Episode Date: October 12, 2014

It's episode 12 of Season 4. We have four tales for you in this episode featuring stories about cadaverous customers, bedeviled boys, and a tiny terrifying town. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales.  "What Hurricane Sandy Uncovered" written by Victor King and read by Peter Lewis and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:03:00) "A Childhood Memory" written by Greg Luporum and read by Ben Williams, Jessica McEvoy, and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:20:00) "Charlie" written by Ashlee Osborn and read by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:42:55) "Ash Hollow" written by R.J. Wills and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:54:10) Click here to learn more about R.J. Wills Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "Hurricane Sandy" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski 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

The sunlight fades to the freight. It's time to give into your fear. There will be no sleep. The no sleep pot. It was maybe halfway through my second game when I heard the bell over the front door tingled. I put down the pool cue to the sound of a scraping stool. Like most kids, I was willing to persevere up a long climb of stairs simply for a cheap pot with answered curiosity. Charlie would scream and laugh and cry like a lunatic.

and I would chase down and beat up any kids I happen to wander by and yell out a freak in his direction. We're pretty isolated up here. And what with the woods and the steady flow of hikers coming through? I guess it's only natural that a lot of stories circulate. It's episode 12 of season four. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have four tales for you.

Well, really eight tales in this. episode featuring stories about cadaverous customers, bedeviled boys, and a tiny, terrifying town. We have a new narrator joining us this week. Ben Williams is sharing his voice talent with us on our second story. We welcome Ben to the show. Speaking of new narrators, I want to thank the many people who have contacted me recently about narrating for the show. To be honest, I'm having a hard time keeping on top of all the emails I'm getting lately, so if you've contacted me and I haven't responded yet, please be patient. I'll get to you as soon as I can.

This new weekly release schedule is taking a bit of time to get used to. And because of that, there's no time to waste. Let's dig into this week's show. In our first tale, we hear a first-hand account of the aftermath of a rather, unprecedented storm. It was just over two years ago that Hurricane Sandy ravaged the northeast coast of the United States. As we learn from author Victor King, when a bartender goes out to survey the damage to the bar he works at, he discovers that the storm has affected more than just property. Narrators Peter Lewis and I will read the tale as we find out what Hurricane

Sandy uncovered. It was 2012 when Hurricane Sandy hit the northeast United States. New York City was fixated on a dangling crane in Midtown Manhattan. Weird stories and photos circulated the internet and social media. Most notably, a picture of a shark on the flooded front lawn of a New Jersey home. One of the more disturbing pictures. I saw was of a casket floating down an empty street. I've searched high and low for a copy of that photo.

More to prove my story than anything. Caskets floating away during a flood aren't a new thing, believe it or not. In New Orleans, the problem of airtight coffins popping out of the ground because of heavy rainfall became so bad. Most graves are now either lined with concrete or built above ground. Before Sandy, this phenomenon was unheard of in the state of Connecticut. I never saw it personally, mind you. I just saw the picture I mentioned and a few stories from patrons at the bar I used to work at. Problem is, drunks aren't exactly known for their honest storytelling.

The story I'm telling you took place the day after the hurricane. The bar I work at is located on. on the outskirts of Waterbury, Connecticut. My boss called me and asked if I could go check out the place and make sure it hadn't been damaged or looted. I said I would on the condition that I could drink for free when I got there. He agreed, not much choice he was flooded in, and I was in my truck and on the way, figuring I'd spend the afternoon relaxing at an empty bar.

There's something creepy about a serious. The city after a storm. Major roadways are abandoned, street lights are out. One major intersection I had to go through simply had a stop sign stuck in a Home Depot bucket in the middle of the road instead of its usual working stoplights. The power was out,

so most of the houses I passed were pitch black. Pure silence, with the exception of my truck's engine and the radio station I was listening. to came to mind at that moment. To the strip mall, where the bar was located, I locked up and moved towards the glass front door. The neon sign outside had been broken in the storm. McKinley's gin mill was written in Hunter Green Gothic type on yellowing plastic. The break in the sign was in the top left corner where an Irish caricature grinned over a mug of beer.

With the top left part of his head missing, the single remaining eye made his smile seem more sinister than sarcastic and flipped the switch. The lights stayed off. Powers out, signs broken, but I couldn't see any other damage. I grabbed a green Jameson bottle along with a portable iPod player we kept under the bar and made my way into the adjourning room. The way McKinley's was set up was as soon as you walk through the front door, you're in the bar room. The room had wood penling and was decorated with photos, posters, and signs scattered on the walls. Across from the bar was a five-foot gap in the wall that led to an area with a big screen TV, pool table, jukebox, and a few tables. I put the bottle on one of the tables and set up my iPod.

I enjoy solitude for the most part, and the idea of drinking a bottle of Irish and listening to music while improving my pool game was welcome compared to how I usually spend my nights. Noisy 20-somethings taking Instagram pictures and comparing how drunk they are. I put my chill-out playlist on and set up the table. I was maybe halfway through my second game when I heard the bell over the front door tingle. I put down the pool cue to the sound of a scraping stool. I walked back into the bar room and saw the man's back. You got a drink, friend? He asked in a sing-song voice.

I made my way to the shelf with all of the liquor bottles. The man was dressed odd compared to our usual clientele. He was wearing a dark, black suit. Like the guy just gotten out of church. What do you want? He wrapped his knuckles on the wood. Four roses bourbon. Three fingers, neat, if you don't mind.

I reached up to the top shelf and grabbed the dust-covered bottle. I took a clean rocks glass from the bottom of the shelf before turning towards the man and pouring the drink. The man grabbed the glass, and I looked up at him. That was the first time I got a real look at him. His suit wasn't Sunday best, as I had originally thought. Patches of it had rotted away.

It was covered in mud, dirt, and pus-yellow stains that shone past the black. The shirt underneath which had once been white was now a light brown, with the same sickly yellow blotches scattered about. But that wasn't the horrifying part. His eyes were glazed over white, with the only evidence of pupils being putrid milk-colored dots. His skin was pulled tight against his skull like pale cling film. The right side of his face didn't even have that much.

The bottom of his right eyeball was visible past a half-rotten eyelid. Cheekbone, jaw, teeth were all visible and a deep yellow color. He sipped the whiskey and brown liquor ran out through the gaps in his teeth. Damn good stuff. He said with a half grin, and the man gave a deep laugh. I know, I know. I look a mess. I caught my reflection in a store window. Oh, don't worry.

I don't mean any kind of harm. To you, at least. I reached under the bar. My hand wrapped around a sawed-off baseball bat we kept in case of a robbery. If you use that bat, you better make sure your first hit. That is true, friend. I don't want to hurt you, but I will. How did he know what I was thinking?

Did he check under the bar when he walked in? Did he see the reflection in the mirror? He answered for me. When you're dead going on 60 years, you start to see things no one else does. He said, while pointing at his half-exposed eye. The eye sees all, I'm afraid. I see your heart racing. I see the bat.

I see you, Frank. My fingers tightened around the leather grip. He took another sip. I don't know how I know either. Oh, please, let's go the bat. I just got out and would just like a bit of conversation. Grab a drink, pal. I'm buying. I let go of the bat and tried to feel the shelf behind me.

I half swung my hand around until I felt fingers touch glass. I put another rocks glass on the bar top in front of me and not wanting to lose sight of the stranger. When a man with half a face who somehow knows your first name asks to have a drink with you, you have three options. Option A is to try and kill him. That wasn't a choice if he knew what I was thinking before I thought it.

Option B is to scream and run. But to who? The police? Sorry, officer, but can I trouble you to take care of this zombie in my bar? Yes, I have been drinking. Why do you ask? Option C, have the drink. and hope for the best. Poured myself a bourbon and tried to avoid staring at his face.

Ah, go ahead and look. Before you ask, I don't know why I'm here. Well, not here, here, I'm here here to have a drink and a conversation. Here, though, that's a surprise. Woke up staring at silk. clawed at it, screamed, oh, I don't know for how long. Could have been a day, could have been 60 years.

I didn't exactly have a calendar. All I know is the box I was in started to move. The wood was old enough that after a few hits, I cracked it. Ripped apart the top and made my way here. You can imagine it's been quite an incredible. interesting day for me. He chuckled. I drank deep and poured myself another.

Say, is East Windsor Road still three blocks down? No, three blocks down is Kennedy Street. He looked confused. Kennedy Street? Who's Kennedy? No, no, I'm talking three blocks that way. He said, while pointing behind himself with his thumb.

That's Kennedy Street. And that's Kennedy. I said, while nodding towards a black and white photo of JFK we had hung on the wall by the mirror. Kennedy, hmm. Well, what did he do? I responded to the 60-year dead man the same way I would a drunk patron. First Irish Catholic president. The man laughed.

Oh, Irish Catholic. Oh, God, I would have loved to see that. What else? First female president? First black man. First atheist? I stared at him a moment,

hoping he wasn't racist. We have a black president now, President Barack Obama. He laughed so hard. He almost fell out of his chair. Oh, my God, a black man as president. What a time. Oh, God, I've missed so much. He wrapped his fingers on the bar. Oh, you believe in fate, friend.

He shook my head. Oh, well, I do. Or at least I do now. Sixty years in the earth. Only me to keep me company. I know why, too. My pretty wife. Well, I guess pretty ex-wife. She killed me.

He shook his head. Oh, I knew that stew tasted funny. Anyway, my wife wanted to be with my friend Teddy. I knew at the time they were running around together. One night I go home and eat a nice home-cooked meal. Next thing I know, I'm clawing at the ceiling. He finished his bourbon. Dark brown trails on yellowed bone through gritted teeth.

I'll have my revenge. I'm going to walk down E. Kennedy Street. Go right up to my house. Knock on the door and yell, Honey, I'm home. Then, when I see her face, well, she won't be so pretty anymore. Oh, God, I hope Teddy is there, too.

He stood up. I'll pay you back, friend, when I get a chance. He turned around and walked out the door. As the bell above the door tingled, I fell to the ground, shaking. It finally composed myself a few hours later in the mid-afternoon. I locked up, texted my boss about the damage, and went home. I didn't sleep much, and I ended up calling out of work the next few days, but with a combination of sleep deprivation and repeating,

it was a bad Halloween prank, I finally found the courage to go back. Then, a week after my return, I was opening up, when I found an envelope shoved under the door. Inside was a newspaper clipping about an elderly couple who seemed to have been ripped apart by an animal. Also, $9. Once I found out from the owner that a glass of four roses cost $3 when they first opened up in 1951, I quit and left the state of Connecticut for good. children, the scale of the unfamiliar world, can be daunting. When a young boy accompanies his mother

to a large house on the market, he discovers the huge house has exciting new places to explore. But as author Greg Leporum writes, there are some parts of the house which are best left undiscovered. Narrators Ben Williams, Jessica McAvoy and I will read the tale for you as a we find out what darkness lies within a childhood memory. As I sit here, considering the story I'm about to tell, I wonder if it constitutes as even worth telling. I've buried it deep in my mind as either hallucination or a work of childhood imagination, but I still can't quite let it go.

Until tonight, I've kept this to myself, after all, even if I'm not sure what to believe, who else would believe it? Have you ever thought about a memory in your life with such a sense of intensity that the said memory seems to detach itself from reality? What I mean to suggest is that, without deliberately trying to sound pretentious, there is a point in which the memories we have built of our lives leave our brain and enter into the world around us. Maybe just privately, in our diaries, or perhaps said to a close friend and relative.

But it's at that point that the memory becomes something apart from the reality as we know it. It's a scissogy of reality and fiction, a place where the two intersect and overlap. Maybe the memory required an embellishment for the story to be digested by its listeners, and in that, the story took its own form, a form that worked better for the sake of storytelling. That's how you might transition from hearing strange noises in your house one evening to telling your cousin that you truly saw a ghost lurking in your corridors. I think we're all more aware of this happening than we want to admit. After all, who wouldn't be interested in the story if it wasn't any good?

I've wondered, though, if the opposite might occur. Reality begets a fiction, but that fiction, in its act of repetition, eventually overrides reality to such a degree that the two become one and the same. You're no longer lying, but rather telling something you've taught yourself to be true. Years have passed since the story I'm about to tell, and I hope it's just that. A story. A lie my brain concocted to explain what it might not have been able to comprehend. My mother's been a real estate agent for as long as I can remember, and for a good chunk of my childhood was a single mother.

While she eventually married when I was 10, prior to that she would often take me to her various real estate events. While she had no problem affording a babysitter, there were times where she had to be on the site with little notice to show houses to prospective buyers, and with no faster alternative I was brought along. I didn't mind all that much, as I liked the opportunity for exploration and discovery. Some of those houses I gladly explored with a sense of awe and wonder. The city I grew up in, located square in the rust belt, had been caught in the steel mill collapse of the 70s. Many people woke up, got dressed, drove to work, and discovered that they didn't have a job anymore. As such, even the nicest parts of the city had become abandoned shells of what they once were. Families fled elsewhere in desperation, leaving behind the neighborhoods and homes that they had spent their entire lives in.

As such, there were some very old but certainly beautiful homes. homes waiting to be sold for the right price, and of course for my mom to collect the commission. Looking back on what happened that day, I'd like to think that in our present day and age, something like this simply could not happen, but it was the mid-80s back then, and everything was, if I had to hazard a guess, a little less strict on standards and policy. During the autumn one year when I was seven, my mom dragged me along to an open house she was overseen. in the historical district of the city. While I never had an eye for home decor, feng shui, or anything in between,

I still remember the house's monstrous appearance compared to my small stature. It was three stories tall, and it looked down on me with a foreboding gaze. It had a faded, thinning layer of yellow paint rang across it while the window panel was an evergreen hue. The roof had a number of light cracks running across, and the yard itself was barren. save for a few aged trees. While I knew that some homes were two stories, I had no conception of houses with a third.

Sure, a skyscraper could have a third, fourth, or even 17th floor, but not a house. After seeing the highest window, I remember asking my mom as we walked up and her telling me that lots of older homes had three floors. I knew that I would need to see it for myself. As my mom toured prospective buyers throughout the house, I wandered around in awe of the sweeping giant structure. Most of the rooms weren't furnished, adding to the house's illusion of size. It had the makings of a home with a fast, hidden history.

The large cellar with the ancient furnace, the candlelit lamps that had been refitted with light bulbs, and a chandelier-guarded foyer with a winding staircase to the second floor, all seemed to indicate a home that had been frozen in town. Of course, knowing that a third floor existed, I became determined to discover it. I moved through the second floor hall, opening door after door, but found no stairs. I was certain I had checked every possible location for a flight of stairs in the hallway, short of the small closet door at the beginning of the hall. The door was quite tiny in comparison to the other doors in the hall.

The bedroom door next to it had a good foot, perhaps even two, on it. So much so that in my initial exploration, my brain did not register the idea that a flight of stairs could be concealed behind it. With no other place to look, I slowly opened the closet door, and, as you might have guessed, found a very cramped flight of stairs concealed behind. They arched leftward behind the door, and as I peeked my head around, I remember the seemingly dangerous intent of the doorway at the top of the stairs looking down at me, nearly begging me to enter and discover what mysteries lied beyond. Like most kids, I was willing to persevere

up the long climb of stairs simply for a cheap pop of answered curiosity. For what it's worth, though, I have been describing this as a full third story. As I arrived to the room, it became obvious that this was nothing more than a glorified attic. The floor was wooden and cobwebs coated the corners, as did spiders on the walls. As I stepped forward, a small cloud of dust formed around my feet. The room was empty, saved for a single light fixture on the wall in a window overlooking the yard at the street. There was a small closet with a door no larger than the one that led up the steps,

though this door seemed far older than any other in the house. The wood looked nearly rotten. I attempted to open it, but it was locked. For those unaware, homes like these often used old skeleton keys for doors like this. While my mom may have had one, I certainly didn't. After a few half-hearted attempts to brute force my way through, I turned my attention to my original goal of seeing the view of the nearby window. I peered slowly out the window, looking down onto the road.

No matter how high up I've been since, whether it was on a skyscraper or otherwise, nothing will seem as high as when I looked out that window. If you would have asked me then, I very well might have said I was in outer space, looking across the top of building after building that spread across the neighborhood. I stood there for a good five or six minutes dumbfounded in awe of the few beneath me. I don't know the exact order of what happened next. Sometimes I seemed to remember turning and looking at the door and then the shaking and yelling to start. Other times I was looking out the window when I heard it. Either way, it shook me enough that my memories of it remain unclear. The closet door began to shake, and a voice almost immediately followed.

Is anyone out there? Please help. Help me! I turned my attention to it immediately. It was a male voice, not particularly deep, but certainly an adult. I'm trapped. Somebody, please. Let me out. I stood there momentarily, listening to the closet muffled words I was hearing, trying to process what was occurring. While our natural urge as adults would be to immediately react, as a kid, I was more confused and, to be honest, a bit of a bit.

frightened. There was a stranger behind that door after all. Eventually, I mustered out a pretty meager response. Hello? Hey, mister, I'm out here. I suppose I was more curious than I was urgent to help. In my defense, I think I hadn't quite developed proper protocol for reacting to someone being trapped in a closet. He quickly, almost immediately, responded. Goodness, can you unlock this door? I managed to lock myself in. Silly me, let me out, please. Obediently, I walked over and began to pull on the doorknob.

Like earlier, nothing happened. It was sealed pretty tight, certainly tight enough that our kid my size lacked the strength for. The man kept crying out in command, each a little more intense than the last. Help me, oh, don't you want to help me? me out of here? Don't you want to let me out? I could feel the man's breath on me through the keyhole on the door. My child brain was caught between two competing urges to help someone in need and to not talk to a stranger. I paused for a moment, considering the right course of action.

The man didn't take too kindly to that, I guess. I said now, I want out now. I don't want in here anymore. I'm tired of being in here, here of all places. Something had changed. His voice intensified. There may have been fear there, but I can now hear aggression and command in this deepening voice. Unsure, but still wanting to help, I tried once again to pull on the door. Try as I might, it refused to bludge. Let me out of this cage.

Let's be out. Get me out. Away. Help me escape. Evacuate this place. You want me to escape, right? I want to be out in the world where the kids run free. Kids like you. Even though I was just a child, I could detect that something, whatever the case may be, was off about the situation. I no longer heard the voice of a frightened soul. Instead, I heard the ominous commands of a caged rat shrieking for freedom. I stopped once more, feeling more uncertain than ever that opening this door was the correct course of action. The man's pleas turned to demands, and any sense of helplessness in his voice disappeared, leaving only a sinister tone of domination and a hint of insanity.

Get me out of here, you little shit! I'm stuck. I'm sick of being in here. I've been in here a long time. A long, long, long, long time. And I want out. Nothing wrong with that, you know? Nothing wrong with that?

I didn't appreciate the swear. In my youngster logic, I thought my mom would get angry at me if someone around me said a bad word. Just as soon as I stopped again in concern, that the door began shaking with a violent rhythm, followed by a loud thud, over and over it went.

So did the man's voice. Why have you stopped? Don't you want me out, little boy? I've been cooped, cranked, coddled, and crinkled up in here for far. Oh, too much, too long, long, long, long, Long, and I want to show you what my home, my house, my humble abode looks like. See where I live and where you certainly want to see, don't you, don't you, don't you?

Come in, come, come, come. I was frozen in fear for a moment. Why, I thought, would this man want me to come in? Moreover, it puzzled me as to why he hadn't cried for help in the first five or six minutes of me being in the room. A sensation of fear overcame me, and it became clear that I needed to leave before I abruptly looked down. To my shock, I noticed at the bottom edge of my eyes, something moving between the gap

between the floor and the closet door. Four little gray masses inched their way. forward, following by a fifth, hand that inched towards me with the inquisitive deliberateness of a spider coming within a centimeter of my shoe. I looked down at this now protruding arm. It wasn't like any arm I've seen. Parts of it were deep, dark. And as I look back now, rotten.

It was frozen in fear, uncertain how to react, and completely unable to process my surroundings. The index finger rose up to touch my shoe before I suddenly heard another voice from down the steps. Relieved the sound of my mother's voice, I quickly darted back down the steps. The sound of shaking behind me, the sound of violent yelling carrying down the steps.

I grabbed a hold of one of her legs. What's wrong? Nearly crying, but too proud to show her, I told her that a man was trapped in the closet and that he wanted to escape. I told her that he had to escape. I told her that he was nasty and that he shouldn't be let out. She laughed.

Really? Well, I'll go take a look for myself. She proceeded up the small staircase, kneeling slightly so that she would fit through the thin corridor. I think more to quell my worries than out of any pressing concern. As she proceeded undaunted up the steps, I fearfully found another room that a prospective buyer was looking at and feeling a bit unnerved. so did idly by him underneath his puzzled gaze. Only moments had passed when we both heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the third floor. My mother's.

The buyer accordingly darted towards the screams. They were eventually accompanied by his. What followed is a bit of a blur. My mom promptly came down the steps, quickly grabbed me, and we darted out to the front lawn. The buyer ran to a neighbor's house frantically pounding on the door, demanding to use a phone. Soon there was a sea of police in the house, and out in the yard, a sea of neighbors and onlookers. I remember being asked a lot of questions about the room upstairs.

I told them my story, about the man that asked me to help him out, but I know the officers kindly laughed most of it off. It wasn't for another decade that I was told what happened when my mom went into that room. You see when my mom, who noticed a foul odor when she entered the room and saw something sticking out from underneath the closet door, finally managed to budge it open, out fell the stinking, rotting corpse of an unidentified man. My mom said it was almost as if the man had died kneeling against the closet door. The police identified him as an older man, probably in his late 60s or early 70s, and were absolutely flabbergasted as to how it could have happened without being detected.

I've thought it through a few times myself. How did a body find itself in an old, abandoned property like that? Your guess is as good as mine. My mom has mentioned that the house was a bankful closure. Either the bank did a terrible job of inspecting the house, or somebody broke in and dumped the corpse. Either way, from what I heard, it's very obvious. obvious that the man hadn't died recently.

While the police did tell my mom that they were planning on contacting the previous owners, I don't know what happened next. A few times I've looked through the backlogs of old local newspapers and even done a few web searches, but it seems as if the story ends there. Over the years since then, I've thought long and hard about what happened that day. I know that memories aren't always the way we think they are. I know that kids see the world in a different right. Still, the image.

The hand creeping underneath the door, inviting me past the veil to see whatever lied beyond, hasn't spared me even a day of passing through my mind. I still managed to sleep at night because I've told myself that it was my overactive imagination, that my seven-year-old brain saw something, perhaps the finger of the corpse, sticking out underneath the... And I formed some sort of narrative around it. I liked stories, and perhaps, not knowing the gravity of the situation, my child's self spun a yarn for the police officer.

Maybe my imagination ran rampant, and the various images of the fiction I created put images in my head that terrified me so greatly that I convinced myself that it was reality. You see, that's what kids do. They see the world in a different light. They tell silly lies born from their imagination. They simply don't know the meaning or the consequences of their action. Even in that hopeful fiction,

I've often wondered what lied behind that door the day I was with my mom. As I sit here, now in my late 30s, I look out in my closet. The door is closed and it's windy out tonight. I know that there are only clothes. in there. I've been in that closet thousands of times. But I can still picture those fingers. I can still hear

the pounding and near cackling voice begging me to be its escape. They may have found the body but did they truly find. Well, it? No, it can't be anything. I know that.

It's just a fictional memory, I tell myself. A memory planted by the imagination of a child if I push that memory to its natural edge deeper than any thought should ever go into the recess between fiction and terror. I swear I can see a glowing red eye staring back at me

through that keyhole. 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.