The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E15 - Halloween 2014

Episode Date: October 31, 2014

It's episode 15 of Season 4 and it's time for our annual Halloween episode! Featuring six stories of Halloween tricks and treats to help you celebrate the horror holiday. "The End of All Hallow's Eve" written by Michael Whitehouse and read by David Ault. (Story starts at 00:05:10) "The Albino Farm" written by John Jennings and read by Peter Lewis & Rima Chaddha Mycynek & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:20:20) "It Doesn't Stop After Halloween" written by Patrick Narvasa and read by Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 00:40:50) "Adrift" written by T.W. Grim and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:54:10) "Bye Bye Love" written by Christopher Bloodworth and read by Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:21:15) "Room 733" written by C.K. Walker and read by Jessica McEvoy & Rima Chaddha Mycynek & Alexis Bristowe & Susan Knowles & Corinne Sanders & David Cummings (Story starts at 01:36:35) Click here for "Tripping Over Twilight" by T.W. Grim Click here for The NoSleep Podcast Archives Click here to learn more about C.K. Walker Click here to learn more about Christopher Bloodworth Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse Click here to learn more about Susan Knowles Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about David Ault Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "Halloween" 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

It's Halloween, a time to celebrate horror, a time to appreciate the exquisite joy which comes from feeling terror creep down your spine as the hair on your neck rises. It's time to give fuel to your nightmares. This is the fourth annual Halloween episode of the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the 2014 Halloween episode. of the No Sleep Podcast. I'm the host and producer of the show, David Cummings. We have six tales for you in this episode. All of them chosen to remind you that Halloween is not just about kids, costumes, and candy.

It's also a dark night of horrifying tales which will keep you awake long past the witching hour. I'm proud to make this full-length episode. available to all our listeners to celebrate Halloween. I know we have many newcomers to the show who are listening to us for the first time. So we welcome you to our spooky little corner of the internet, where each week we bring you stories designed to keep you up at night. I want to welcome back to the podcast, a friend of the show who's been gone for far too long. Author T.W. Grimm returns to the podcast,

in two ways. First, we'll be featuring one of Mr. Grimm's Tales on this episode. If you remember back to season two of the podcast, we featured two of Grimm's Tales, and they remain two of the most memorable and talked about stories we've ever produced. They are nine brief scenes from the end of the world, and Strigoi. Make sure you check the archives for episodes two and twelve of season. Season 2 to listen to these Outstanding Tales. There will be a link to the archives in the show notes of this episode, where you can find

close to 100 hours of free content from the last four years of the show. Now, the reason T.W. Grimm hasn't been on the show lately is because he's been working hard on his new novel, entitled Tripping Over Twilight. In this anthology, Grimm invites you to pull up a chair. and watch the sun slip past the horizon with this dark and macabre collection of short stories. Tripping over twilight offers a disquieting look at what happens to familiar places after the comforting light of day has been extinguished by the creeping shroud of nightfall. Sounds to me like fans of this podcast will be right at home inside Grimm's horror-infested mind.

And in the spirit of Halloween, Mr. Grimm has some treats for all our listeners, even if you don't darken his doorstep while trick-or-treating tonight. Starting today on Halloween and running until November 2nd, you can download a free e-book version of Tripping Over Twilight from Amazon. Make sure you click the link in the show notes to download this outstanding book. And if you're hearing this after the free period, don't let that stop you from spending a few bucks on this excellent book. I'm truly passionate about supporting writers like T.W. Grimm, and I hope you'll join me in reading and supporting the talent he has to offer. That's Tripping Over Twilight by T.W. Grimm. Well, dear listeners, we have a jam-packed show. show in store for you. Are you ready for well over two hours of sleepless stories of Halloween?

Then turn off the lights, light some candles, and settle in. Because it's time to give in to your fears. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. In our first tale, we recall a bittersweet time from our childhood. A time when we reach an age where the excitement of trick-or-treating on Halloween starts to lose its appeal. A time when we realize we're getting too old to be seeking candy from our neighbors. In this tale from author Michael Whitehouse, he recounts the last Halloween he and his friends went out in search of sweet treats. But in this story, it wasn't just growing older which caused the change in attitude. Narrator David Alt reads the tale for us as we learn precisely why these friends never went

trick-or-treating again and what it was which brought about the end of all-hallow's Eve. It was all Hallows Eve, as the old ones called it, but to us it was simply Halloween. A time for darkened skies, for fallen leaves golden and brown, and the feet of children kicking with verve through them, for sweets and treats, for frightening films and spooky tales, for friendship, for the fear and love of the unknown, and for wide grinning turnip heads glowing in the clouded night. And costumes, yes, costumes. Some dressed as comical characters, superheroes and popular toys, others following the traditions of old, dressed as the dead and embracing the macabre delight of it all. Most kids had Christmas, which I loved too, but for us Halloween was the most important night of the year, that one time where we could truly be what we dreamed, falling into characters, creatures and people far removed,

from the fragility of our childhood selves. Stuart was an undead pirate who had risen up from his watery grave, and if we didn't take part in some luton and pillaging, we'd surely have found ourselves walking the plank. Andy was a Terminator, complete with leather jacket, a metallic cheek created with tinfoil, slicked back hair and sunglasses which hid a glowing red left eye behind. I was Van Helsing, armed to the teeth with wooden steaks, crosses, garlic, and a vial of water I assumed was holy,

because I had filled it from a tap in a local church's bathroom. Even back then, my mind was permanently stuck in the hokey sets and thick smoke of the old Hammer Horror Dracula films. Mack, he was dressed as an injured football hooligan, complete with torn football strip, blooded and bandaged head and his arm in a sling, all the more ironic as he would in fact grow up to be a footballer. The other Andy, who we affectionately called Squire, was decked in luminous skeleton bones, and with his wiry frame and hooded skull mask,

put the fear of God into quite a few of the younger kids in the neighbourhood. We were 12 years old at the time, and while none of us had openly spoken of it, we seemed to sense that it would be our last year, guising, a word which in itself would soon be replaced by the now deep-rooted trick-or-treat. I remember feeling a sadness in the pit of my stomach as my parents helped me prepare my costume. The others seemed a little more reluctant to go out that Halloween, and by the following year their delight for the entire celebration would be diminished for many subsequent years. And who could blame them? I just wasn't ready to

say goodbye to those fun-filled happy nights, wandering the leaf-covered streets of my local neighbourhood, laughing with my friends, carrying bags of sweets and chocolate and toffee apples accumulated from our Halloween rounds. It's rare that you recognise something is coming to its end, mourning for it before it has slipped away. It was seven o'clock in the evening when we first stepped out into the street, and the winter sky blackened everything from above. The start snuffed out by a thick shroud of cloud. My house was always the meeting point on those glorious nights, as my parents loved to decorate the house with spider webs, hanging skeletons, and mean-looking banners depicting vampires, ghouls and witches fermenting a strange brew,

not to mention all of the food. They both seemed to revel in the entire ceremony of the night, more so than anyone else I knew, and they had done since whenever I could remember. remember for both me and my older brother, who now helped out rather than went out. Such wonderful nights as my friends arrived and we all bobbed for apples or dropped forks from between our teeth into a bucket of water filled with fruit, hoping to skewer one to win a prize. There we were on the street curb, looking up the hill towards King's Drift and the web of streets we were going to explore in search of treats. In some cases we'd even be given much. We'd even be given money if the homeowners didn't have any food or had run out. In more recent times, the

jack-a-lantern has become popular, with myself carving a few pumpkins with ghoulish faces for the local kids and their parents, who always frequent our haunted house with its smoke machines, screaming skulls, and mountains of sweets. That night, however, I carried a Tumshahid to light the way, essentially a carved out turnip with a candle inside and a horrible face glowing outward lighting the way a far greater and malignant sight than any pumpkin holding the lantern by a thick piece of string which my dad had attached to the side of its face with two nails we headed out to enjoy our last night of geising the streets were abuzz with kids most of them a bit younger than ourselves accompanied by their parents or older siblings

which only made me realize how close to the end of our Halloween nights we really were. I believe it was the first time that I ever felt old, no matter how preposterous such a thought appears at only 12 years of age. Most houses opened their doors gladly. Occasionally you would see a light going off as we approached, signaling that people inside didn't want to be disturbed, but damn it we knocked and banged their doors anyway. This was our night.

and the grown-ups who are too stingy to take part should have known better. After an hour, we had covered three streets, each time the same social pleasantries taking place. We enter the house, slightly cautious at first of being in a stranger's darkened home, but the thought of five of us being together banished those worries soon enough. Each of us would then be asked to tell a joke or a riddle, and in return for the entertainment we would be rewarded with sweets and chocolate. Of course, Andy would try to push the envelope a little more than the rest of us, and on a few occasions delved into what to only be described as adult humour.

The grimaces on the faces of those listening were plain to see. As we passed the other children in their costumes, some great, some thrown together at the last moment, we joked and laughed and celebrated at the growing collection of food and money in our bags. Yes, even if it was going to be the last year, it was surely to be the best of haunts. As we ran through the darkened streets, lit only by the occasional spot

and splash of orange hue from the lights above, it seemed as though the unspoken finality of it, the end of those nights, those years of being what we wanted to be, of being kids, of not caring about how we were seen, that it all added the potency of the experience. We ran faster,

we giggled and laughed, and took shortcuts through gardens and places we were never supposed to tread. We lived and felt alive on that night of the dead. Squire's watch went off at 10 p.m., and we knew it was time to call it a night. We walked back towards my house where each year we would sit with my parents and some of my neighbors, drinking fizzy juice and stuffing our faces with the chocolate and sweets which we had been given by the bucket load. But our steps were slower than usual on the journey home, Our jokes less loud, our grins less wide, and as the lantern gasped its last as we reached the gate to my garden,

it was as if we sighed together, knowing that something precious was soon to be lost forever. As we piled into my house and were greeted by the happy smiles of my parents, they too appeared to sense that things were changing, as if part of their lives would never quite be the same. I think it is hardest for parents when their youngest child reaches those thresholds, those closed chapters of their childhood, never to be opened again, knowing that they too cannot live those wonderful nights in quite the same way either. Me, Andy, Stuart, Mac and Squire sat in a circle on the living room floor as an old horror film played in the background.

We each in turn emptied our bags assessing the loot. It was indeed a good year, and the sheer mass of sweets was sure to last us all for one's stomach-turning sugar-overdosing week. Chocolate bars, crisps, boiled sweets, jelly babies, strawberry laces, toffee apples, and all manner of other treats were quickly separated from the useless bulk fillings of monkey nuts and other fruit. Only the good stuff. Only the good. We joked and laughed once more. and in that cozy house we played the parts of kids again, dressed up in costumes, telling spooky stories, and for a moment it felt as though nothing would ever change,

that it would always be like that, together as friends, young, hopeful and courageous, until I asked almost automatically what we would all be dressing up at the following year. The question was never answered, and it didn't need to be. It was then that I noticed Andy had stopped talking and hadn't interjected with his usual jokes for at least two minutes, surely a record.

No, he was staring at something. We asked if he was okay, but he wouldn't respond, his gaze fixed, glazed over as if he was still wearing his costume sunglasses. We followed the root of that stare, and our eyes and our heads dropped almost. in unison, falling upon the source of our friend's peculiar silence. Andy was looking at my pile of sweets which sat in front of me. My heart began to thud helplessly, as I finally realized what had left the most talkative

of my friends are speechless. Poking out from that pile of chocolates, crisps and lollipops was a bloodied and severed finger. I can't remember who screamed first. It was probably me as my cool and calm Van Helsing soon melted away, revealing the shocked and fragile 12-year-old boy at his core. All I know is that my parents called the police, and within half an hour each of us, the undead pirate, the vampire hunter, the luminous skeleton, the football hooligan, and the killer robot from the future were being questioned about the strange finger sitting amongst my sweets. We were asked to try and remember which houses we had visited, but we had been to so many, had been so fervent in our need to make the most of that last Halloween night that we simply could not remember all of them. Soon, several police cars showed up, with red and blue and white lighting up the now lifeless and costumless street outside,

and without wasting a moment they began walking the neighbourhood with us and our parents. That place now torn from its disguise, moving swiftly from door to door, trying to find out where the finger had come from. Which one of those welcoming, friendly houses with smiling owners and warm fires, carved grinning turnips and buckets of sweets, had taken us into their dimly lit home and given to a child the most horrific of gifts. But it was all in vain. No one claimed ownership. There was no record of anyone at the local hospital losing a finger that night, not one shred of evidence. Just normal people concerned about the strange discovery we had made and what it might mean.

Perhaps it had been an accident. Perhaps it had been cut off in some sort of bizarre mishap, as I had heard of people storing a severed finger in the freezer so that it might be reattached. Maybe it got mixed up with the food somehow. But even at that age, I realized how unlikely and ridiculous such a proposal would be. That was indeed the last night we went guising. And in more ways than one, my friends simply did not have the stomach for the childhood charade of let's pretend any longer. Even I did not wish to go out the following year.

But for me, it wasn't about being too old for it all. I still loved Halloween and due to this day. it wasn't about outgrowing it, and it wasn't even about that horrible finger which had been placed silently into my treat back. No, it wasn't that either. What really stopped me from knocking on strangers' doors and asking for some treats was the bloodied thumb and three fingers carefully placed in the other boys' bags. Now that we've discovered that Halloween candy is only for the younger crowd. How do you celebrate the occasion when you're a teenager? Well, in this tale from author John Jennings, we find out how some high school seniors decide to spend Halloween night.

Naturally, they decide to venture out to an old farm, which has a reputation for being a place to avoid at all costs. Narrators Peter Lewis, Rima Chathamisenek, and I read the tale for you about this nightmarish homestead. So join us as we sneak into the albino farm. It was my senior year of high school. My last Halloween before embarking on a new phase of life. And my friends and I were driving along the outskirts of town. We drove past Greenlawn Cemetery and made a left onto a dark road, farm road 100.

Any other year the cemetery would make for a fine haunt, but tonight would be our last Halloween as stupid kids, so we planned to make the most of it. This is it, said Justin, letting out an evil laugh. I found his creepy grin to clash with his light-hearted costume, that of a Spanish inquisitor straight out of a Monty Python sketch. He looked silly, but I looked worse, decked out in a bedsheet cape, a felt mask and boxers over my jeans, a superhero costume done on the cheap.

Justin put his van in park. We exited, followed by his girlfriend, Christy, who carried on the Catholic theme with her pregnant nun costume, and Amy, a crush of mine, dressed in an all-black ensemble. and wearing a bright red Sydney Barstow wig. We flicked on our flashlights. Ahead of us was a road overgrown with vegetation and blocked by large boulders. They'd been rolled into place years ago after a long string of vandalisms and one particularly nasty case of arson. Justin's beam caught a concrete slab jutting up from the dirt. Engraved were two words.

Spring Lawn. Spring Lawn Farm, or the Albino Farm, as it's now more commonly known, was built around the time of the Civil War. In its heyday, it was a marvel drawing agriculturalists and breeders alike to see the most advanced farming practices of its day. It stretched out over 1,200 acres of farmland and wooded areas. At its center stood the Headley Manor, a two-story opulent mansion constructed of wood and stone. In 1905, Frank Headley Jr. sold the farm to Mike Sheedy, a man of Irish descent, hoping to provide a quality of life for his wife and seven children. For two decades, things went well, but then things changed.

Once plentiful crops withered into dust, animals fell ill and died, rotting in their pens. The situation was bad, but not dire. Sheedy had stocked away enough money to make it through a few bad seasons. But then the deaths began. In 1933, three of his sons met their ends in farming accidents. Then the youngest boy caught ill. and followed suit. A broken heart took his wife, and finally, that autumn, the inevitable came.

One crisp October morning, a young farmhand was greeted in the barn by Sheedy's corpse, hanging from a noose. Only Sheedy's three daughters were left. Tragedy had taken all that they knew in the world, and they retreated into isolation. They were ignorant of working the land and hired the wrong people to work it for them. Within a few years, after being swindled by various hustlers, the sisters found themselves at the tail end of their fortune. Farmhands that were once helpful and pleasant became hostile and uncaring once pay dried up. They all took off for greener pastures, save for one, as shivered as I shivered as I saw.

stood in the night air. I told myself it was because of the cold, not because of what I saw. My flashlight bounced off the empty husk of a building and into a pitch-black window. Underneath, sprayed in thick red paint, two words. Evil awaits. Just the scrawling of a wayward youth, I'm sure. Justin and Christy walked around the side. of the building, dead leaves crunching under their feet. Amy and I kept pace as I kept an eye out for vengeful spirits and overnight guards. I turned and noticed Amy shivering in the cold. I put an arm around her. She lay her head on my shoulder and I instantly felt warmer. Oh, guys and girls, so much more to see! Justin cried from up ahead. We follow,

The local legend of the albino farm fluctuates wildly based on the telling. Some say it was home to a secret underground hospital where a twisted doctor did bizarre experiments on albino test patients. The patients went insane, killed the doctor, and escaped into the Ozark Hills. Others say the farm was home to a mutant, cannibalistic albino family who kidnapped Capted victims and dragged them back to the farm for supper, a family that allegedly hunts unwary travelers to this day. Then there's the tale of the hatchet-wielding albino caretaker. With no fortune left, the sisters found themselves in a hopeless situation.

Neighbors expected them to be paupers or dead within the year. That would have likely come to pass had he, not stayed, one lone farmhand. He was tall, gaunt, pale, his hair a ghostly white, his eyes, a piercing red. No one's sure why he stayed. Maybe he pitied the sisters, or maybe he had no other place to go. Whatever the reason, the man who became known as the albino caretaker, soon became dangerously protective of the property. He was often seen brandishing a shotgun and patrolling the land for trespassers. Some reported being threatened with a hatchet, the man swearing to cleave their skulls,

if they came too close. Then, one night, it actually happened. Around midnight, the albino caretaker found two strangers crossing an iron bridge. He went into a murderous rage and beheaded one of the strangers with a hatchet, forcing the other to watch as he dismembered the first, piece by piece. Then he did the same to the second. We had been at the farm for roughly 45 minutes now. It was quickly approaching midnight.

We'd explored dilapidated silos and tall stone parapets of unknown use. We saw short brick columns resembling derelict tombstones, collapsing barns, feed lots on crumbling foundations. Each structure gave us a sense of unease, but the creepiest thing by far were the remnants of headly manner. Its rocky walls stood in front of us, encapsulated by the walls nothing but bushes and dying trees. The three sisters had spent their lives there, never marrying or bearing children, only having the others for comfort. As time dragged on, each died of old age. After Helen passed in 79, the property was put into probate, and all they owned was sold in public auction. A mysterious fire claimed what was left of the manor the following year, leaving nothing but a skeleton.

of stone ruins. It was suspected arson. The case was never solved. We climbed a set of steps and probed the remains with our flashlights. The only clue this once had been a dwelling was a stone chimney extending towards tree tops and darkness. Justin approached the monolith. He kicked the side hard with his foot dislodging a rocky brick. Dust and small rocks crumbled from its chute. Wait, said Justin. I think there's something in there. We watched in shock as he crouched down and climbed into the hearth.

It was cramped but large enough for him to squeeze into. He reached upwards into the stack and stretched his arm into darkness. I think I feel something. He screamed. He grabbed his elbow with his other hand. His arm was shaking violently. He cried out in pain as we rushed towards him. I grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him out,

expecting to see a bloody stump where his arm had once been. Instead, I saw him laughing. He wiggled his fingers at me, grinning like an idiot. Had you going? You ass! scolded Christy. Amy laughed in jittery relief. I let out a chuckle, muttering, could one? The darkness masked my embarrassment. I was plotting my revenge when I heard a faint rustling in the distance. My heart raced as I recognized the noise. They were footsteps, slow and distant, dead leaves crunching under heavy feet. I looked at. in vain somewhere beyond the trees, all I could see was pitch black night. Cold sweat began to permeate my skin. I wanted to leave quickly. Amy's voice cracked apprehensively. We need to leave. Now.

I tried to respond, but before I could, Justin began jumping up and down, waving his arms wildly. Elbinom here! Hath dropped. Christy and Amy looked at each other in sheer terror. Was he nuts? What the hell are you doing? Christy hissed. He turned to us, smiling, like a madman. Then he cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled.

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition. I had not been so terrified. I would have murdered him. But I had more pressing matters, calling my eyes. attention. For a moment, the footsteps stopped. All was quiet. Even the frogs and insects went mute. I stood there in the dead silence, heart pounding. We waited for what felt like a lifetime. Still, no sound. The thing passed. My horror, the footsteps resumed, this time faster, heading our way.

I shined my flashlight to the source and felt my breath stop. My eyes widened as I surveyed a quickly approaching figure, something thin, something tall, with red glowing eyes. Oh shit! Run!

We didn't wait for the order. We were already well on our way. Here we were. A Spanish inquisitor, a pregnant nun, a double spy, and the world's cheapest superhero, rushing through the woods, struggling against our stupid costumes for our very survival. All the while the sounds of a distant figure quickly closing the gap. We ran, we bounded, we sprinted, my burning lungs begged for reprieve, my aching legs mutining against my brain.

My progress slowed. I couldn't will myself faster. Up ahead, I spotted a structure along our path, something metal and arched crossing over what I presumed to be a dried-up creek bed. I gasped a pathetic cry. It was an iron bridge. The sight of two grisly hatchet murders by an albino caretaker who was chasing us that. very moment. I wanted to stop. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to slink away, but I kept racing forward. There's a joke, the one about how you don't have to outrun the bear. You only have to outrun your friends. Well, my friends had outrun me. Justin was the first to cross the bridge, followed by Christy, then Amy, and now the figure was feet away, close enough to feel its raspy breath.

When stiff and my head flew back, something had grabbed the end of my cape, it had caught me. Gotcha. A cold, damp hand clasp around the back of my neck. A blood-curdling scream escaped from my throat as I braced myself for the worst. Fun's over. A voice spoke from the darkness. Call your friends back before you get in real trouble. I reluctantly opened my eyes and faced the figure.

Through his flashlight beam, I could make out a tin badge on a weathered jacket. Looking up, I saw a man's mouth curled down in disapproval. Just an over. Overnight watchman, I let out a sigh of relief. My execution, it seemed, had been stayed. I called out as loudly as I could manage. In the distance, I heard a choking sob. A moment later, the silhouettes of my three friends made their way back across the bridge.

They were met with the sight of the night watchman grabbing a hand around the base of my neck. We were escorted back through the woods, shaken and human. Humiliated, but very much alive. Still, we each avoided each other's eyes, afraid to speak a single word. Though I did glance at Amy, she had tears running down her face. You know, you're pretty lucky I found you. There's a lot of weird things in these woods. Things that don't like being disturbed.

Things best left alone. Few years ago, a couple of folks found that out the hard way. Found them near that bridge back there, cut up in small pieces. By a hatchet, I recollect. It took us about ten minutes of walking to get back to the van. All the while, the watchman lectured us. He shared stories of countless disappearances, drunk teens, lustful college kids, homeless vagabonds. He went on and on as if recounting old memories. I couldn't wait to

escape those woods if for no other reason than to be far from him. I felt uneasy. There was something off about his tone. At last we returned to the large boulders blocking the old road. There we found Justin's van waiting. I took solace knowing that the this terrifying night and our time with the gabbing watchman was nearing a close. I'll let you all off with a warning this time, seeing as it's Halloween and you seem sorry enough. But you better not go and retry your luck, nor my patience, understood. A response wasn't necessary. We were already slamming our doors, ready to leave, and never return, back to freedom. Justin cranked the key in the ignition and spun his head to turn the

van around. The engine roared to life, and a pair of headlights illuminated the watchman, and for the first time, I saw him clearly. And it was then that the feeling of unease returned. There was something off about him, and my gut, it wasn't the way he was dressed, with him. It was a lot of ease, his cargo pants and dark security jacket, it wasn't his white hair or his pale skin. They were piercing. Whether you're young or old, one of the pressures of the Halloween season is trying to find the perfect costume to wear. Be it for trick-or-treating or for Halloween parties, it takes a lot of effort to get everything

right. In this tale from author Patrick Narvasa, we meet two youngsters who's, who's search for costumes leads them to discover some old videos, videos which make Halloween extra terrifying for years to come. We welcome our newest narrator, Mike Delgado, to the show as he reads this tale for us, and it's a tale with a warning. You see, it doesn't stop after Halloween. Hate Halloween. I'm not entirely sure of hate hate is the right term, but I certainly don't love it. It's just that I feel so uneasy when this time of year comes. I've already researched the origins of this particular celebration. I've read every

account on why it's celebrated, just so I could have a little bit of motivation. Receiving food in return for prayers for lost souls? I'm no cult specialist, but that's just plain stupid. Sadly, in every way I think of it, I still find it illogical. I find people over 12 years old who celebrate this nonsense, highly immature. I intentionally ranted about these things to my classmates and friends back when I was a kid, just so they wouldn't find it weird when I stopped dressing as a one-eyed skeletal pirate. Ever since I watched those videos, I never went out trick-or-treating again. I was nine back then when my friend Ramsey invited me over to his house. It wasn't the first time, nor was it the last, though it was the most memorable one. It was two days before the

trick-or-treating started. Peking outside our windows, you would see either big ladders being assembled so that Halloween decorations could be hung, or just simple wooden poles with pumpkins impaled on top of it, just for a cheap jackalantor. Halloween was significantly windy that year, so people loved putting white sheets over coat hangers for designs. They'll simply dash red paint over it, and voila! The Halloween decorators on my street may have seemed like they got all their ideas out of a ten easy ways to make cheap Halloween designs video, but the effort they put into their children's costumes sent smiles across everyone's faces.

Ramsey told me to come over at four in the afternoon, after school, but since I was just two blocks away from him, I went there at seven in the evening after dinner. He was kind enough to lend me some of his previous Halloween costumes, and in return I promised to lend him mine. We planned a small mix and match and a sleepover. We dug through pieces of cloth, red, blue, orange, black, violet with glitters, white with black markings, all kinds of cloth

were flying over our heads. But after hours and hours of going through plastic armor and his brother's old promitire, we were on the verge of giving up and deciding that we should just settle for ghosts. You know what? Ramsey paused and gasped as if he had invented a cure for some terrible disease. I have a cool warlock outfit stored downstairs. I raised my brows since we had already done barbarians the year before that, but since I wouldn't really settle for a blue cloth on top of my head to be a Pac-Man ghost, it was fine with me. I ran downstairs and greeted his mom while she was carving a golden, honey-glazed chicken at the kitchen. His father greeted me as well and even tossed me a butterfinger before I left and searched for that costume. I followed the instructions as I was told to

go downstairs and go straight at the narrow hallway at the right. After passing the door to the guest's room, see another door with a big lock. I turned right and saw the narrow hallway. It seemed like whoever designed that house forgot to put a light bulb on that hallway. It was dark, but not that dark. The light from the other parts of the house gave a bit of illumination. I got the key out of my pocket and opened the rusty lock. It seemed like it wasn't open for years since it took me three times to tug the door lock open. I opened the door, but some large boxes prevented it from opening all the way. It was dark inside, but there was enough light for me to find and turn on the light switch. The room wasn't as big as I expected, not really a room worthy of being secured by a

huge padlock. It wasn't big enough to make it look like a bedroom, but it wasn't as small as a bathroom either. The wallpaper was coming away from the walls and dusty boxes were scattered inside the cramped closet. I could see wrap droppings mixed with dust all over the floor. Bumping the boxes would send dust into the air, so I held my breath as I searched for a red cloth with black lining on its hood. My back ached after 20 minutes of searching through boxes and dust with nothing but old wedding antiques and dresses. I was about to give up and decided to finally stand up when something surprised me. I was intrigued how I hadn't noticed the large poster upon entering the small storage room. The poster was a picture of a plain white mask with the black background. The mask had

no particular emotion. It had sealed tight lips. It wasn't smiling. It wasn't frowning. The mask had black eyes that were printed perfectly, as if it were really hollow. Looking at it gave me the chills. I struggled to pull my gaze from the poster, trying to shift my attention to what was directly beneath it. Under that poster was a small box. Unlike the other boxes, it had less dust and seemed a bit new. I grabbed the box and it was heavier than I anticipated. Inside it was what sounded like plastic cases banging against each other. I left the room and quickly rushed upstairs, quick enough so I wouldn't be seen by Ramsey's mom or dad. Are these game consoles? I asked as I locked my friend's room while catching my breath.

I don't have game consoles, he replied, confused. Mom told me that video games rot your soul. As he was complaining about how I didn't find the costume, I was busy pulling back the tape to open the box. I opened it and revealed several CD cases. Is this? Ramsey started to say, it's porn, I whispered. We quickly turned on his TV and powered on his DVD player. We picked up the first case. CD number one was titled First. The film started out shaky.

was shot in a really poor quality. Remember those VHS tapes you and your family used to watch while they tease you about how silly you look on your first birthday? It was exactly like that. It was a few minutes into the video when we realized that the person who was filming it was trying to set up the camera on what seemed to be a doorstep. In the background were glowing orange jackal lanterns which lit up the dark gloomy streets. Five children all around 14 years old were happily skipping towards the door.

One had the typical ghost sheet costume, the other two were dressed like something from a famous cartoon, and the other two were dressed as dragons or something like that. After the door opened, the video stopped. CD number two was titled Einy Meeny Mimey Moe. The film started out as static. Then it revealed a table shot in black and white. We started to hear buzzing noises. We waited for about five minutes for something to have.

happen and that's when ten hands appeared, palms down on the table, shot from above. It looked like the hands could have been the five children from the first video. Then after a few minutes it blacked out. It turned on again, but this time it was in color. One child was trying to close his fist, but a much bigger hand was trying to keep it open. The hands trying to keep the children's hands open were wearing surgical gloves. Then the video stopped. CD number three was titled, Catch the Tiger by the Toe.

The video started where the last video left off. This time there was soft humming in the background which sounded like the einy, mini, Meany Mo rhyme. The adult hand wearing the surgical gloves appeared again and proceeded to tap each of the children's hand until the song stops. The song ended and nothing happened. Out of nowhere a hammer struck down on a hand. The impact was a heavy blow as the struck hand was quickly pulled off the table. Someone pulled it out again and placed it on the table, but the kid was fighting back.

The camera was being jostled and moved until it looked like it dropped to the ground. It was out of focus, but we could see a man pulling another kid's hair and dragging him somewhere. It had no sound, just silence. But before the video ended, there was a sudden outburst of crying and screaming from the video. The clip went darked, but showed a. brief glimpse of a red car. The video ended. CD number four was titled Pirate. The next video was a bit clearer, perhaps shot on a more modern video camera. A group of children looking to be about 10 to 12, dressed as pirates, went to the same doorstep as the first video. But this time they seemed to

have an adult with them. The camera angle was the same as the first video. The big trees swaying in the wind just like before. Then it ended right. after the door opened. CD number five was titled, Shave. The kids from the fourth tapes sat on a bench, restrained. They were each shaved until they had no hair left on their heads. Then some pictures of people we didn't know appeared. They flashed like it was sending some sort of subliminal message into our minds. The last few clips revealed fingers as their nails were being pulled out by pliers. I cringed and squeezed my own fingers as I watched the gory scene. The video faded to black. Distant scream slowly turned into muffled voices.

The video ended with silence. CD number six was titled Where the Candies Are. It showed the red car, only it was rustier. It seemed to be in poorer condition than the first video. Mud caked on the wheels and the windows were stained with bird droppings and grime. Then it faded to black. Then these words appeared. It doesn't stop after Halloween. All the videos ended with gruesome, cringing, unnerving scenes. Some ended just with black and showed the red car immediately. Each video seemed to get more recent as they progressed. They didn't only feature kids. There were adults too. Sometimes it doesn't appear even to be Halloween judging by the lack of costumes. I can't bring myself to remember all of what we watched, but we could

I couldn't watch all the videos that night. We agreed to throw them in the garbage and never speak of it again. Our foreheads were sweating and our hands were cold. We rushed downstairs and decided to take it out back to the storage room, but we ended up going outside and burying it under their neighbor's tree. We dug with all our might, dirt slowly staining our nails. The adrenaline made us hurry, trying not to get spotted by anyone. we convinced ourselves that the box was completely buried, we went back inside. We were scared,

but also dejected at the thought of having found no costumes to wear. I said to Ramsey, what if I borrowed that cool poster of yours? What poster? I rolled my eyes. The poster inside the storage room with a pale white mask? He stared blankly at me. Where exactly? You can't miss it Right after you open the door, it's hanging there, directly facing the doorway? He took a deep breath. Dude, you're sure it's facing the doorway? Yeah, I'm sure. Why? Because there's no posters in that room.

Just a window. In this tale, we eavesdrop while two old friends sit in the study and tell old tales over glasses of single malt whiskey. We learn of the salty yarns from years past. as sailors recount a particularly ghastly story of the high seas. Author T.W. Grimm shares his tale with us about what happens when a lone survivor is rescued at sea. His story will make all your Halloween candy seem even more delectable when you consider the alternative. Feel free to pour yourself a whiskey of your own as we listen to the tale.

about the man who was set adrift. Good Lord, surely the mantle clock lies. Is it really after three in the morning? Has it really grown that late? Oh, this has proven to be an interesting evening, but I'm afraid I must soon make for my bed. The fireplace is burning low. My eyelids have grown heavy, and we've drained the bottle near to the dregs.

There's just enough to revive our glasses one last time, and so we shall. A toast, my good man, to all that is and to all that shall be. Oh, that single malt burns, doesn't it? It burns like the fires that await us down below. The doctor has reproached me for drinking to excess on many occasions. He's even stated that it shall be the death of me. But I believe just the opposite. After a lifetime pursuit of all things arcane,

The drink is likely the only thing keeping me alive. Well, it holds the midnight terrors at bay, you see. It allows me to get some rest at night. What's that? I didn't quite catch the question. Oh, which one? That contraption sitting on the corner of my desk? Why, that's an old sextant.

It's a device used for nautical navigation. This one is very old. It was manufactured in the late 18th century. Well, to this very day, one could probably still rely on it to navigate their way across the high seas. It was given to me by a family friend, a distinguished old naval captain named Theodore Borgh. Burwell. Captain Burwell was a remarkable character. A stout, weathered little bear of a man, a decorated officer who spent most of his career

maintaining order down in the Pacific Station. He was larger than life, Teddy was. He loved whores and he loved to drink. We got along famously once I came of age and discovered that I, too, shared his enthusiasm for intoxicants and prostitutes. We'd spent many evenings together in cat houses across the world, sampling the various delights one can find in such places. Oh, right. Of course, the sextant. I got sidetracked. It happens more frequently these days

now that I am in my twilight years. It is a curio that comes with a story, as they often do, but this one is quite ghastly, I'm afraid. Do you wish to hear it? I knew that you would. On the night that the sextant passed into my possession, Captain Burwell and I had consumed almost 60 ounces of rum on his back terrace, and we were both trunk as lords. His house was a massive structure that rested upon the edge of a rocky cliff, and the terrace overlooked a placid tropical bay.

It was a grand place to while away a summer's eve and drink to the health of the sea, as Teddy was fond of saying. The tone of the evening had slowly degenerated from urbane and polite at dinner to a hazy state of rollicking body good cheer by eleven. Teddy's other dinner guests had long since taken their leave, so we retired to the terrace to drink, boast of the women we had lain with, and recount glorious tales of fistfights and drunken public house brawls. The captain played a few old warbling sea shanty records at top volume, and we waltzed with patio furniture as our partners,

only to curse them when the dance was over and hurl them into the bay. At one point, we actually got into a food fight with a passing troop of monkeys. Our drunken guffaws sounded no different than the enraged screeching of the primates, I've no doubt. One rude little fellow jumped up on the balustrade and began to pleasure himself in our direction. And I'll be damned if old Teddy didn't drop his trousers and give the monkey a dose of his own medicine. As the hour slipped into the single digits, however, our mood gradually grew somber and the laughter dried up into silence. The old man set about trying to load his tobacco pipe with palsied fingers, while I leaned back to stare up at the stars and wonder if anything might be staring back.

Teddy snorted at me and said, All the youth these days, wandering around with their heads out in space, Cast your gaze out across that bay. If it's mystery that you're looking for, I can personally attest that there are many wondrous sights out there. And there are horrors as well. Unimaginable horrors. My interest was piqued, and I asked him if he would care to elaborate.

Teddy tried to light his pipe and in the process spilled tobacco all over his waistcoat. He cursed and slapped it away. I witnessed many strange events during my years at sea, and I heard men speak of things even stranger. But there's one incident in particular that still haunts me. today, almost 40 years later. As I said to you already, lad, there are horrors out there. After some determined prying, the story poured from his mouth in a rush. I listened, not interrupting, and my jaw dropped to the table. Early one morning.

a few of Teddy's men had spied a sizable lifeboat bobbing along, adrift in the sea. Captain Burwell launched a rowboat to investigate the matter, and his men soon overtook the directionless craft. They returned with a hollow-eyed, emaciated wreck of a man, the sole survivor of a devastating shipwreck. His only possessions were the sextant that currently resides on my desk, a wooden-handled fishing knife and the ragged clothes on his back. The rescued man told them his name was William Macaster, and that he was ravenous and dying of thirst. Buell ordered the ship's cook to fix him a ball of corned beef broth,

which he drank with trembling hands. After he drunk his fill of the broth, the ship's doctor came round and washed the crusted sea salt out of William's open sores. The castaway was in terrible condition. He'd been burnt almost black by the tropical sun. His body was skeletal and his movements were palsied. The doctor asked the wretch if he had any notion as to how long he'd been adrift,

and after some deliberation, the gaunt fellow answered, three months, I think, probably more. The doctor proclaimed that the man was suffering from the effects of malnutrition and prolonged exposure to the blistering South Pacific Sun. but was otherwise fit for questioning. He and Captain Burwell sat with William in private, and they listened to his story in an opened-mouth state of mounting horror and disgust. The castaway claimed to have been a crewman on a small fishing boat. A miscalculation by the ship's navigator saw them run aground on a hidden river,

with devastating consequences. Miraculously, every man aboard the sinking ship managed to make it to the lifeboat. Seventeen in total, but the provisions on board proved to be woefully inadequate. Even with stringent rationing, every morsel was gone within a week. Sufficient quantities of rain fell to keep the men's thirst at bay, but their attempts to harvest nourishment from the sea were largely unsuccessful. Famine seized the lifeboat with skeletal fingers, and the men starved in its grasp. It wasn't long before the fishing boat's captain gave in to the madness of starvation.

In the dead of night, his mind snapped, and he arose to creep silently amongst the sleeping forms of his exhausted crew. His knife and his teeth both bared to kill. He fell upon the weakest of them, and the man's sharp cries quickly roused the others from their shallow and troubled slumber. Horrified, the other men hastened to interrupt the murderous assault, but were driven back by the wild strikes from their captain's knife. Many of the would-be rescuers were badly injured by his steel, two of them grievously so. With the other crewmen now huddled together as far away as possible, the captain's. and finished his prey by sinking his decaying teeth into the poor bastard's neck. William told his interrogators that he'd observe the fiends slurp up the dying man's blood,

and I quote, until he became so engorged, he vomited a vast wave of red all over the bottom of the boat. End. The fishing boat captain stayed with his grisly banquet night and day until the corpse was nothing but a rotten stick man of chewed gristle and splintered bone. The rest of the lot could only look on in revolted horror as the lunatic bent to his feast, crossing themselves and praying for deliver. Their captain had lost all semblance of humanity. The man had degenerated into a mute, wild-eyed savage, caked with a thick layer of dried blood and surrounded by a cloud of flies. He began to urinate and defecate in the lifeboat rather than over the side. His men suffered from infections. Several of them died and were given a hasty burial at sea by their mates

before their captain could violate the corpses with his horrible new appetite. When the madman's ghastly banquet had become too rotten and spare to consume any longer, he finally threw it overboard, and then turned his burning gaze to the remaining crewman, naked hunger in his eyes. The men decided to sleep in shifts in order to keep watch against their captain, but it was to no avail. That very night, a thick fog descended on them, under its cover. the lunatic slithered over to his crewman's side of the boat on his stomach, slowly like a serpent. One of the men who'd been badly injured during the first attack was set upon and dragged up by his foot.

After winning a grim match of Tug-a-war with the others, the captain dragged him to the stern of the lifeboat and grinning at the, the pleas for mercy from his crew, he cut the man's throat. After the second man's body was consumed, the ravenous monster stole another crewman, and then another. Days of tension blended into nights of terror, and the castaways grew steadily weaker from hunger and psychological torment. The ghoul in their midst, however, only grew stronger. Soon their captain became too strong for the others to fend off, even as a group.

At that point, he ceased the practice of waiting for his men to lose their fight against sleep and began to attack them at will. Much to their misery, the captain made a grisly discovery. Instead of killing a man outright and then hastening to consume as much of his flesh as possible before it spoiled, he found that he could simply cut or chew off a few mouthfuls of living meat as the need arose. Chunk by bloody chunk, he whittled the anguished castaways down until many of them were. little more than armless, legless stumps. If a man died, the fiend would concentrate his appetites on his body until it writhed with maggots. The scavenging seabirds began to wheel overhead in such numbers

that they sometimes blocked out the sun. Eventually, the only people left a little bit of Live were William and his captain. At this point in the man's narrative, Teddy and the doctor exchanged a troubled glance, and Teddy asked, How in the name of God did you manage to escape the fate of your crewmates? Why are you still alive? His voice, little more than a rusty croak,

William answered that he'd managed to catch his boogeyman unawares, and in an act of sheer desperation, he rushed at him and pushed the madman overboard. He stymied his captain's attempt to haul himself back into the boat by relentlessly slicing at the man's hands and arms with his own knife. Eventually, the waves and current pulled the boat away from its exhausted pursuer, and William lost sight of his flailing captain. He presumed the captain to be dead from either shark attack or drowning. When pressed on how he had avoided being maimed by the captain during his lunatic fits of cannibalism, William fell sorry. silent. Teddy pressured him to answer, and finally he mumbled. Through cowardice, when the others tried in vain to fight him off, I always hid behind them. I couldn't ever face him. I was too afraid.

Captain Burwell saw to it that the traumatized man received the best. care that he could muster and ordered the crew to make haste for the nearest port. Night fell. Shortly after the moon set, the night's gentle silence was broken by a clanging alarm. Everyone rushed to the deck only to discover that the rowboat was missing and the sentries were dead. They'd been stripped of their weapons and most of their flesh. The castaway was no longer on board. Poor Teddy was devastated that he'd been so adeptly fooled by the monstrous fiend.

He swore an oath to the murdered sentries that he'd personally see the degenerate bastard stand before a firing squad. He sought any and all records pertaining to the Custerway's missing ship and confirmed what he already knew to be the truth. William had not been a crewman on the lost fishing boat. He had been her captain. I asked Teddy if the madman had ever been found and apprehended, and he slowly shook his head while staring out at the bay. I never found him, nor did anyone else. As far as I know, he's still out there, drifting without destination, and setting upon any crew foolhardy enough to bring him aboard. He paused.

Then he said, When I retired from the service, I was embittered by my failure to bring the fiend to justice. But I was glad for it too, because the thought of facing him again made a cold sweat seep from my brow. William McCaster was no longer a man. he was a monster and monsters never die easily. He lapsed into silence after that, and it wasn't long before we both began to yawn. Teddy begged my pardon and announced that he intended to retire for the evening. I followed the old man into his study.

where he paused to present me with an impulsive gift, the cannibals sextant. I left with the thing clutched in hands that were quivering with raw, visceral excitement, a new-found thirst for the macabre that gradually became an obsession. My burning desire to seek out the unexplained has led me to the ends. of the earth and even further still, much, much further. Indeed, there are many wonders in this world, but there are horrors too. Unimaginable horrors.

Say now, would you like to have it? The sextant, that is? No, go on. Take it with you. I insist. I have many such objects in my collection, and I have no uncontested heirs to receive them when I pass. Take it, please. At the very least, it shall make for an interesting conversation piece. Life is too brief for dull conversations. I should be off to my bed. Thank you for sharing this evening of chills and intrigue. I do hope that you will come back soon.

Some tales are best shared after the sun sinks past the horizon, along with a bottle of strong drink and a comfortable blaze crackling in the hearth. Don't you think so? Have a safe voyage, sleep well, and take a bit of advice with you from a man who knows well of such things. Remember to always take care when stepping out into the twilight. light. The transition from light to dark can be treacherous. People have been known to stumble and fall. We shall visit again soon, I'm sure. I look forward.

If young people visit their neighbor's houses as a Halloween tradition, then I guess the adult version of that is visiting parties and bars on. Halloween in search of more than just sugary treats. In this tale from author Christopher Bloodworth, we meet a man whose Halloween night was extremely disturbing, and it's all because of a strange bar in a strange part of town touting a strange Halloween attraction. Narrators Peter Lewis, Jessica McAvoy, and I will bring this tale to you, as we find out why this man will never again want to hear that old song, Bye, by Love. Jason's missing.

That's misleading, though. Jason is gone. Missing implies the hope of being found, and there is no hope for Jason. Rewind to Halloween night. Our group of five were all housemates, ended up downtown on 6th Street to gawk at all the Halloween revelers. I went dressed as Doctor Who.

Fast forward two booze-soaked hours later when we're leaving a bar. We were stumbling and laughing on the sidewalk, having a great time. I look back now and try to remember those smiles. Try to remember my own. before the guy ran out of the alley, wearing one of those horse masks and a black barber's sheet. If you've been on the internet long enough, you know the horse mask that I'm talking about. The guy ran straight at our group in a dead sprint, screaming his head off. The guy in the horse mask plowed straight through us, catching Jason with a stray elbow that knocked him onto his back.

The guy in the horse mask kept running and screaming around the corner. Several of the mounted police pursued, and when we all looked back at Jason, his face was covered in a mask of blood. We asked him if he was okay, and he said yes, he was fine. It's just a bloody nose. We got him up and took him to the closest bar. The bartender inside gave Jason a ton of bar napkins, and we sat in the corner all the little on edge from the earlier excitement and of the blood.

Jason was the one that spotted it. Hanging above the hallway that led to the back of the bar was a sign that read Halloween special, Free Confessions, Enter here. Below that, in smaller letters, read something like Morta Futura est, or Mortaest Futura. something like that. I'm not really sure as it's all clouded over from a haze of too many shots. This I do remember, though. Jason smiled at all of us and said that was just what we needed to do, to confess, to change our bad luck. He pointed to his swollen nose. We all giggled and got up. I need to point out here that everyone in our group is atheist.

It was just a lark at this point to us, a little bit of sight scene, pulling back the veil to see how the other half lives. As we are walking back, I caught the bartender's eye, and I'm not sure if it was the booze that made me think I saw this, or if it actually happened. But I remember the bartender shaking his head, no, once, while staring into my eyes. I laughed, thinking of it as less of a warning and more of a,

you've been naughty and now you must confess, sort of thing. We all get in line outside a red door at the end of the hallway. It's the men's room door, with a post-it note covering a picture of Johnny Cash. A single word was written on the yellow paper in corny dripping letters. We all laugh some more at the farce of the whole thing until the door opened on its own. It's a single occupancy toilet set up, no urinal, single bulb, shiny black walls. Deep voice that sounded like it was blasted out through speakers, said. Jason shrugged and went in.

The door slammed behind him. It was silent for a couple minutes. Then we all felt heavy vibrations in the floor and the door opened. The bathroom was empty. No Jason. We all looked at each other and laughed. It's a pretty cool trick. I was sure that once you're in there, it would be easy to figure out how it worked.

Our friend Craig goes in next, and the same thing happened. It's silent, a deep vibration is felt, and then the door opens to an empty bathroom. The three of us remaining look at each other, wondering why the others haven't come back, either through the bathroom door or through the front door. Marcus goes next, leaving Jenny and me to wait. I don't think this is a good idea. Jenny said, it's a spooky Halloween trick. No big deal. Something doesn't feel right.

There's no God and there are no ghosts or demons. This is just a crappy bars version of a haunted house. It'll be fun. Vibration hit us and the door opened. We both look in at the empty bathroom. Let's go together. Fine with me, I said, walking into the bathroom. As I turned to look back at her.

The door slammed shut. On the backside of the door carved into the wood were words, and below the words were 18 deep scratches that looked like talas. I sat down on the toilet and read the words on the back of the door aloud. Blight me, Father, for I have exalted. A foghorn blew at that point, and the lights went out. I screamed. I'm not ashamed to admit it.

I shrieked out loud. Blind now, and with my ears ringing, I stood up and reached for the door. My hands, instead of touching the door, felt something like warm, wet blankets drape over them. I jerked my hands back. All right, let me out. This isn't funny. It behind my left ear, close enough to feel the hot breath. A male voice whispered, and pushed me, and I spun.

The voice whispered into my right ear, again so close that I could feel his hot breath. I punched my hand out, hoping to hit something, wanting it to be over, but only hit another of those wet sheets as someone punched me from the left. chuckle came to my left ear. Who's laughing? The voice screamed into my right ear. The light flicked back on, and I found myself in the same bathroom. No wet sheets, everything just as it had been. The lights flicked off.

Who's laughing? The voice crooned into my left ear. I spun. In that direction as the lights came back up, everything was just as it had been, except for the girl standing in the corner, facing away from me. She wore rotting pink cowboy boots, a jean skirt and a tank top. She wore Jenny's Halloween costume and hummed something under her breath. As I did, she slammed her face towards the wall as the lights flicked off. I heard the hollow sound of her head slamming into the tile in the dark and her humming. What she was singing

sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. The lights came back on and she slammed her head into the wall again and stayed off. I could still hear her humming and slamming her face. And slamming her into the wall, the humming and slamming was getting close. I reached for the door, and the humming stopped. It was replaced with a solid scream from the girl, punctuated with the thumps of her face slamming into the wall. I whispered into both of my ears, and I screamed again. This time, it wasn't because I was startled.

It was because I was terrified. I felt hot breath on both ears and a straight jacket covered my torso right before a hood dropped over my head. The girl kept screaming and I could hear her running towards me. I turned, seeing a bit of light through the hood and sprinted as hard as I could, trying to tear the straitjacket off as I ran. I ran into something but didn't stop. I kept sprinting until someone tackled me to the ground. I lay writhing there, kicking and screaming. Quit resisting!

A voice yelled at me. Quit resisting! My hood was ripped off and something was sprayed into my eyes. It burned like hell and I tried to run again. Stop resisting! I went limp. Giving up, feeling sick from fear. I could finally see I stared at the cops, one on horseback.

I stared at the familiar horse mask on the ground in front of me. I looked back barber's sheet hanging from my shoulders, started laughing. I spent the night in the drunk tank charged with public intoxication and disturbing the peace. Luckily, I avoided an assault on an officer charge. Back to our house. No one was there except for Jason. For the last few days, the calls have been coming in from girlfriends and parents, and I don't know what to tell anyone.

The others have all disappeared, Jenny, Craig, and Marcus. I've tried to find that bar down on 6th Street. but it's not there. It's gone like Jenny and Jason. Jason is gone too, but in a different way. He can't remember anything from that night. Tells me that he didn't go out on Halloween. He says that he stayed in and watched a scary movie.

He looks different too. He's balding now and has wrinkles around his eyes. I'd ask one of my house. mates about it. But how can I? It makes me feel like I'm the crazy one, like I'm the one that's gone. When the sun starts to dip below the skyline, Jason comes into my room and stands in the corner. He stands there with someone that knocked on the door three days after Halloween. Dr. Hu, the same song the girl in the bathroom hummed. I know what it is now.

It's by-bye love by the Everly Brothers. Jason and the boy hum that song against my wall. Our final tale, we visit the college campus of two female freshmen. Their best friends and roommates in an older dorm on campus. They soon discover that a room on their floor, has a frightening history, and all the horrors therein might not be relegated to the past. Author C.K. Walker has crafted this epic tale about the strange power held within that room, and the inescapable pull of its insidious grasp.

In this full-cast production, Jessica McAvoy, Rima Chathamysinic, Alexis Bristow, Susan Knowles, Corinne Sanders, and I will perform the tale about what took place in that malevolent dorm room. So beware, we're taking you to Room 733. The Suicide Room. That's what they called Room 733, as if I didn't have enough to worry about on my first day as a freshman. We had been assigned to dorm room 734, which, it turns out, wasn't one of the nice add-on rooms in the South Hall. No, we found ourselves in the older wing of the building on the seventh floor. I wasn't too bummed out, though. At least they'd honored my request to room with my best friend. Lydia and I spent most of the morning moving ourselves in.

By the time my resident advisor came by, I was taping up posters and Lydia was reading. Hi girls, I'm Beth. Chirped the bubbly blonde girl as she bounded into our room. I'll be your RA this year. Hi, I nodded at her. Wow, you girls really work fast. She said taking in our maid beds and hung up clothes. Beth picked up a drawing of Cthulhu that Lydia had done over the summer.

She turned it sideways, dudding it. Is this the Kraken from Pirates' Secret. of the Caribbean? Lydia glared at her over the top of her book. So anyway, I know our hall isn't as new as the South Hall, but trust me, there's a lot of history here. This building is almost 60 years old. Yes, I can see that, I said looking around. The rooms are pretty small.

Well, people were smaller in the 50s. Beth shrugged. Really? Lydia said flatly. Yep, really. Beth pursed her lips and just continued to stand there while the room filled with awkward silence. So, the corner room next to us, 733 is it?

It looks a lot bigger than our room. Is anyone assigned to that room, or could we maybe... Oh, you don't want that room. There were a couple suicides in there. A hanging and a jumper, if I remember right, They're not assigning anyone to that room. Anyway, I'd just like to remind you that this is an all-girl's floor and guys are not allowed up here after 11.

Before we could reply to her, Beth clapped her hands and with a quick... Well, nice meeting you. She skipped out of the room. Lydia dropped her book on the bed and stared out into the hall. I hate her. Did you hear that bomb she just fucking dropped? I'm going to call her... dumb shit Beth.

Lydia, seriously. Suicides? Becca, relax. Every college campus has a few suicides. Yeah, but in the same room? Lydia sighed. Really, who cares? It's the room next door.

Yeah, I guess. I turned to study the little window in our room. Can you imagine climbing out that tiny window and jumping? You'd be alive for at least. least five seconds before you hit the ground. Oh, fuck, Becca. Can you not? Lydia glanced at the window and visibly shuddered.

You know I fucking hate heights, and just talking about that shit is raising my blood pressure. We could always move into the suicide room. That one has a window on each wall. Fuck you. Okay, okay. But seriously, think about it. It would take a lot of commitment to squeeze out of that tiny window. Yeah, well, remember, people were apparently smaller back then.

Lydia mumbled as she pushed her bed further away from the window. Since Lydia was an outgoing and friendly person, we made friends at lightning speed. There were a lot of parties in those first few weeks, at one of which Lydia inevitably met a guy. I'd known the girl since we were in diapers, so I fully anticipated her having a boyfriend by the end of September. His name was Mike, and he wasn't anything special. Just your standard frat-pledge douche canoe. After about a month on campus, the novelty of college started wearing off. Lidia and I found our stride, and we spent more weekends studying than drinking.

Midterms were coming up in a couple weeks, and I was determined to maintain a 4.0 GPA throughout my freshman year. One night in early October, I was woke up by a loud grinding sound. I sat up in bed and strained to hear it again. Lydia was also wide awake and listening. What the fuck? She mouthed to me. It wasn't unusual for there to be noise in the hallway since other people came in at all hours of the night. But this sound had definitely come from next door.

The corner room. Is that? Yeah, that's the window next door. At Lydia's insistence, we kept our window closed at all times. However, there was no mistaking the sound of the window in room 733 being opened and closed again at regular intervals. Who's in there? Lydia shrugged. Anyone looking with us?

Is this like initiation? Lydia raised her eyebrow at me. Initiation to what? I don't know. College? Maybe they're hazing the freshman. It opened. Who's hazing freshman?

I shrugged. It's shut. Becca, I love you, but that was fucking stupid. I threw a pillow at her. Well, whoever it is, go tell them to knock it the fuck off. Me, I'm not risking being thrown out a window. Well, I'm not doing it. I'm an art major.

You're a political science major. You go lay down the law. Fuck that. Then call down. Some shit Beth. Isn't this the kind of nonsense that she should deal with? I'm not calling her. Don't you put that evil on me. Fine. Then we'll just have to ignore it. I have class at 7.30.

Then do something. Ugh. I got out of bed and stomped to the door, threw it open dramatically, and went down the hall to pound on the door to room 733, which simply said, supply room. People are trying to sleep. Please fucking stop, I said when there was no answer. Dude, seriously? I stepped back from the door and immediately noticed the problem. Room 733 was padlocked shut from the outside.

I hurried back to my room. What happened? I'm not going anywhere near that fucking room again. It's locked from the outside. I don't know how. How anybody could get in there? So you're saying it's a spooky ghost? No.

I'm saying there is creepy shit going on inside a room, colloquially called the suicide room. Lydia scoffed and rolled over to go back to sleep. You should have been a drama major. We didn't hear the window next door again that night, but the next morning you could clearly see from outside that both windows in the corner room were now wide open. I watched the windows on room 733 for an entire week, but they remained open. Occasionally at night, I thought I could hear a noise next door like marbles, dropping and rolling across the floor. Since it never woke Lydia up, I didn't bother to say anything. One afternoon, I was alone in the dorm editing notes on my laptop.

I had my headphones in, but the music wasn't loud enough to cover the noise of someone knocking on the door. Come in, I said, without looking up from the screen. A moment went by, and then I heard the knocking again. I jerked my earbuds out and slammed the laptop closed. I turned around. Come... What the fuck? The door to the hallway was wide open.

I'd left it open on purpose since Ian, a junior I was dating, was supposed to be stopping by. I heard the knocking again from behind me and literally jumped out of my chair. It had come from the other side of their room, the closet door. It was the closet that shared a wall with room 733. Lydia? You're not fucking funny. Nothing. Lydia, I swear to God, I will punch you in your face. Silence.

I walked over to the closet door and grasped the handle. Lydia, you're a fucking... A fucking what? Her voice came from the doorway, behind me. I let go of the doorknob and stumbled back, wide-eyed. Lydia threw her stuff on the bed and turned to me, crossing her arms. I'm a fucking what? I thought you were hiding in the closet.

What? Why? Because someone was knocking on the door. Jesus. Becca. Lydia rubbed her forehead and walked over to the closet, throwing open the door. There was nothing there but clothes and boxes. She made a swipe of her arm as if to say, What now? I swear. Becca, there's no one here. I know what I heard. We glared at each other until her little standoff was interrupted by the timely arrival of Ian. He immediately sensed the tension in the room.

Hi, ladies. What's new? I gave my roommate a hostile look. There's strange shit going on in that room next door, but that's not new. Which room? 735, or the empty one? The empty one. 733. Yeah, I'm not surprised. That's the suicide room. Right, we heard about the deaths. I sat down on my bed.

Yeah, it's pretty fucked up. Three suicides, all in one dorm room. Three? We were told there were two. Well, there were a couple people in the 70s, and then some guy about 10 years ago, he jumped out the window. Lydia and I both shuddered. Although she was much worse, we were both terrified of heights.

A falling death was about the worst thing I could think of. I'll admit, three suicides in the same dorm room is fucking disturbing, Lydia said in an apologetic tone. Yeah, I heard there's something in that room. Like what? No one knows, but every year someone has a new theory. Usually right around Halloween, something gets published in the campus paper. Whatever's in there, though, it ain't friendly. So has anyone ever come?

killed themselves in the neighboring rooms? Like this one? Nah, just 7.33. Honestly, I was surprised when I heard they were opening the North Hall this year. They told us we were the biggest incoming freshman class in 20 years. Yeah, I heard that too. You know, you could request a room change. Ian sat down on the bed next to me and I leaned against his shoulder.

Yeah, but they wouldn't keep us together. Becca and I have been best friends for 15 years. We can't room with other people. So we should just keep living here next to Satan? I glanced at the closet door again. Lydia shrugged. At least we'll have some stories to tell after graduation. These aren't the kind of stories I want to tell.

A few days later, Lydia began to believe my closet story. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of someone whispering. I looked over at Lydia, who was already staring at me with wide eyes. She slowly brought a finger to her lips. I listened intently, tried to hear what the voice was saying and where it was coming from, but I couldn't understand even one word. I got out of my bed and tiptoed over to Lydia's. The whispering was definitely louder over there, but then she shared a wall with room 733.

I listened harder. Never taken. Lydia leaned over and put her ear up to the wall. The whispers suddenly stopped and I leaned closer. Suddenly there was a loud bang from the other side. Lydia immediately recoiled and clutched her ear in pain. Someone was in there. Suddenly more angry than scared, I threw open our door and stomped over to the supposedly

empty supply room. I banged on the door loudly, not caring who else I woke up at this point. Are you fucking kidding me? I yelled at the door. This shit isn't funny anymore. Come out of that fucking room, you asshole. Silence. And then the doorknob started to turn. I don't know what I'd expected to happen, but it wasn't that. I backed up so far from the door that I ran into the opposite wall.

When the handle had turned all the way down, something started to push from the other side. The door groaned loudly, but the locks held. I held my breath until the pressure on the door subsided, and the handle slowly returned to its normal position. I noticed Lydia peeking her head out of our room. She held up her hands as if to say what happened. Someone thinks they're funny, I answered her out loud.

She shook her head and disappeared back into our room. I knelt down on the floor and brought my head down to the carpet, peering under the door crack. It was the first time I had seen into the corner room. Room 733 was definitely a supply closet. There were chairs stacked along one wall and bed frames along the other. A few rotting mattresses were piled under one of the windows, and a thick layer of dust covered everything in the room. The windows were absolutely huge, which was something you couldn't really tell by looking up at the building. They were open as always, and I could definitely see how someone could easily climb through them to the outside ledge.

The room didn't look like it had been disturbed in a couple of decades, which sent a shudder racking through my body. The moonlight, which had been providing enough light to see into the room, suddenly vanished, and I saw only pitch black inside. I blinked rapidly, trying to adjust my night vision. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, a large, yellow eye was looking back at me, only a few inches away from my face on the other side of the door. I screamed and woke up half the dorm. There was no denying that things were escalating. The next morning, Lydia and I put in dorm change requests with resident services and hoped for the best. In the meantime, we agreed to never be alone in our dorm room at night. Either we both spent the

night at home or neither of us did. We started spending more. most nights with our respective boyfriends. I told Ian everything that had happened, and he suggested I maybe talked to the campus paranormal society. I hesitantly made an appointment, and Lydia and I met with a small, cleanly dressed kid named Craig and four of his colleagues the following Tuesday. We told them everything we could remember, every incident no matter how small. Craig and the four other members of the paranormal society sat quietly and took notes for half an hour.

It wasn't until we were finished that anyone spoke. Is that all? Craig asked. Yes, I said slowly. Would you mind waiting out in the hall for a few minutes so that I may confer with my colleagues? Sure. Lydia smiled indulgently and stood up. Whatever you need.

The door had barely shut behind us when Lydia snorted and rolled her eyes. Let's go. Go where? Are you serious? Lydia, come on. We need help. I am freaking out. We haven't stayed one night in our dorm since Thursday,

so this isn't something we can just brush off. Okay. She threw her hands up. Let's hear what they have to say, and then we can go over to resident services and check on our move requests. We loitered out in the hallway for another 15 minutes before Craig came out and asked us to come back and take a seat. With all the pomp and circumstance of a meeting of Parliament, Craig cleared his throat and made his diagnosis. What you're dealing with, ladies, is a very angry ghost.

Is that your professional opinion, Craig? I shot her a look. Yes, a vengeful spirit. A spirit? I very much doubted that that's what we were dealing with. Yes, that's ghost to the layperson. Jesus Christ, Lydia groaned and rubbed her temples. Mistaking Lydia's frustration with despair, Craig rushed right into his speech.

Don't be afraid, ladies. We're going to take care of you. Well, it's true that spirits can be quite a headache if you don't know how to exercise them, which is why it's good you came to us. Suicides almost always result in angry ghosts. They need revenge. Revenge on whom? On other students. Perhaps this particular spirit was bullied into taking his own. own life, and now seeks to torment others. Uh, listen. We can take care of this for you right away. All we ask is a small donation to the society. We honestly didn't realize that room was having this much activity. It's really very exciting.

Great. Well, thank you for your time. Lydia said as she grabbed my hand and pulled me out of my chair. Do you want me to set something up for this weekend? Tell you what, we'll call you. Lydia hurried me out of the room wearing a wary look, and we didn't speak again until we were almost to the admin building. That was a waste of time. Look, I'm not disagreeing with you, but... Becca, tell me you didn't honestly buy into that.

So you don't think it's a... Uh... I was having trouble even saying the... word, it sounded so ridiculous. Ghost? Well, I don't fucking know, but neither do they. That guy had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. I pulled my hood lower over my eyes as we stepped into line at the resident services desk. Look, let me put it this way. They're playing Ghostbusters, and we're living the fucking exorcist. Fine. Then what do you want to do? Just keep sleeping at Mike and Ian's until we get reassigned.

I just want this to end. Lydia crossed her arms and stared straight ahead. We all wanted this to end. Even if living next to that fucking room wasn't scary, it was sure as hell distracting. All right, well, I mean, we're probably safe during daylight hours, so as long as we don't spend nights there, we should be okay. Our room is only ghost-adjacent, after all,

and our new assignments will come through soon. I checked my watch. Fuck, it's almost two. Shit, really? I gotta go. Mike got accepted into Sigma Kai and he's getting initiated today. Oh yeah, I forgot he rushed. The girl at the desk waved us forward.

I hadn't even realized we'd reach the front of the line. Let me know what they say, Lydia said as she ran out the door. The girl at the desk eyed me suspiciously as I approached. Hi, I'm... You're the other girl trying to move out of 734 in Riley, aren't you? She'd caught me off guard. Yeah, one of them. How'd you know? Sorry, I overheard you.

I also saw your file cross my desk a few days ago, and I got to ask. Why are you looking to transfer rooms exactly? I was tired. I was beaten down. I didn't have the energy to think of a lie. Because shit is going on in the empty room next door, and it's really freaking us out. Noises, whispers, knocking. The other night I saw someone.

You saw someone? Yeah. In room 733? Yeah, I looked under the door. There was definitely someone in there. The girl narrowed her eyes at me for a moment, and then nodded for no particular reason. Well, your rooms aren't ready yet, but I've pushed them through as a priority. For right now, you're stuck, though.

There just isn't anywhere else to put you. I sighed. I'd figured as much. I'm Alice. And, look, I've actually done a lot of research on the Riley suicides, and I think I can help you. Or, at the very least, offer some insight. Really? I asked hesitantly.

Absolutely. I'm in Taylor Hall, Room 3.10. I'll be back at my dorm room by 4 today. Thanks. We just came from the paranormal society on campus. Ugh, say no more. Alice rolled her eyes. Yeah, so I'll definitely see you at 4.

Great. Alice said and smiled. I was early to Taylor, but then so was she. I told our story for the second time that day, and Alice wasn't afraid to interrupt with questions, though her queries didn't betray. her thoughts. When I was finished, she leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply. I can't believe it. I'd always heard rumors, but I honestly doubted any of it was true.

I can assure you. Everything I've told you is absolutely true. And how is it now, when you're there? We aren't ever there at night, but during the day we've heard scratching on the wall, really quiet whispering, and sometimes we still hear the window opening and closing. in broad fucking daylight. However, every time I look up from the street, the windows to 733 are open. Alice nodded. Well, for the record, I don't think you're in any danger.

As much as it sucks, you guys are simply a casualty. You just need to stay out of room 733. I snorted. Are you kidding? I would never go in there. I believe that you believe that. But this thing... Whatever it is, it's tricky, manipulative, a liar, and it's smarter than you.

I'll try not to be offended by that. You shouldn't be. What do you think it is? Something very old and very evil. I regarded her skeptically and then let my eyes wander around the room. I hadn't really noticed the decor before, but to say Alice had an interest in the occult, was an understatement. I can't see any situation where I would be compelled to enter that room.

I know. But you have to be prepared that there may come a time when you have to make a decision about entering that room. Because what you're dealing with, it's already killed five people. Five? I thought it was three. Yeah, well, not everyone is inclined to do the level of research that I do. Let's see. There was Ellen Burnham in 1961.

she jumped out the window. She was the very first. And then Tad Collinsworth in 1968, he jumped too. Marissa Grigg in 1975. She hung herself. Aaron Murphy in 1979. He jumped. And then Eric Dostin in 1992.

He hung himself. Five suicides. How could the university still let people live in there? Well, they don't, apparently. That's why it's a supply room. And back then? Well, every few years, once everyone who would remember had graduated, the room would be reassigned. This was before the internet, you know, and the incoming freshmen were clueless.

But after that last one, Eric Dosten, they closed the entire North Hall of the 7th floor and built more rooms onto the South Hall. So, what does it want? Alice shrugged. Chaos? Death, souls, who knows. No one even knows what it is. Okay, so what do we know? Well, we know that it's somehow bound to that room,

though it seems to have minimal influence just outside of it. We know that everyone who ever died was alone at the time. And we know that it's a trickster. That's what we know. It wasn't enough. Why do you think they'd do it? I asked quietly. The victims?

I nodded. All I know is what's rumored to be in the evidence files. All the suicides were found with pictures or writings that were considered unspeakable at the time. They contained horrible, evil things that would make you physically sick to read or see, they say. And these people, they drew them? They wrote that stuff? Yep. Whatever's in that room drove them mad.

That's fucking terrifying. Have you guys considered getting somebody to bless the room? Jesus. Well, you'll have a hard time getting him, but perhaps some other sort of holy person? No, I mean, Jesus, you're talking about an exorcism. Alice shrugged. Maybe. The rumor in the 70s was that this all started with a Ouija board game gone wrong in 1961.

Really? That shit's made by Hasbro. Not in the 60s, it wasn't. Anyway, it's just a rumor. The only person on campus who would know is Tom Mowen and Admin. I've tried to talk to him, but he refuses to see me. Did he go here in 1961? Yes, and he was staying in Riley.

We need to talk to him. I need to know what the fuck is happening or I won't be able to live the rest of my life as a well-adjusted person. I suppose we can try and chase him down on campus. Can we talk to him tomorrow? We can try. Mr. Mowen wouldn't see us that day or the next. We tried to catch him on his lunch hour,

and then again while he was leaving work, but he got around us every time. It was soon clear that the old man was actively avoiding us. Lydia and I had seen little of each other since we'd continue to sleep in other dorms. I went back to our room twice a day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Usually the other room was silent, but that didn't make me feel better. I could always sense something on the other side of the wall, somehow watching me.

It felt like the calm before the storm. The Thursday before Halloween, I came back to the dorm to shower in the evening, much later than usual. I'd seen Lydia that afternoon, and she'd informed me that she had enough clothes stored at mics to last until graduation, so I knew I'd be there alone. I showered down the hall and the safety of the bathrooms, and then walked back to my room to change. I was supposed to meet Ian in half an hour to head out to a party, and I wanted to get out of here as quick as possible. Since the silence was unnerving me, I threw my iPod on the docking station and turned up ACDC. I got dressed and then stood in front of the mirror to dry my hair. I flipped my head over and blow dried upside down to try and give my hair some ballroom.

When I flipped my head back up and shut off the blow dryer, I immediately noticed the silence in the room. But that wasn't all I noticed. It wasn't my dorm anymore. Behind me was reflected the dusty bed frames and large windows of room 733. I spun around in a panic to find that I was actually standing in my own room. I looked back at the mirror to see 733 still reflected there. A slight movement behind me was all it took to make me run. I grabbed my person phone, and I fled from my room slamming the door behind me.

On the elevator ride down, I called Alice. Let's do it anymore. I said when she picked up. I can't go back in that room again. I told her. What do you want to do? I need to talk to someone who knows the only person we know was here in 1961. The only one I know of.

Maybe we can get him on his way in tomorrow morning. We'll just corner him and refuse to move until he tells us something. He comes in at 6.30 according to the schedule I have. Do you want to meet me outside the Starbucks in the atrium? Fuck yeah, I do. I have class at 7.30, but I'll blow it off. Okay, see you then. I wasn't usually much for parties, but I was glad I was going to one that night.

As soon as we got there, I asked Ian to get me a drink. Since I wasn't usually much of a drinker, he gave me a raised eyebrow. I gave him a brief synopsis of what had happened earlier, hoping he wouldn't think I was crazy. Ian made me a scotch and coke. It was the first of many. Around midnight, I went to have a cigarette and checked my phone. I had a voicemail from Lydia left at 11.04 p.m. Just had a huge fucking fight with Mike.

He, well, his frat, decided. that for Halloween this year, all the new brothers have to spend the night in the suicide room, in our dorm. I just, I can't fucking take it. He knows what's been going on with us, and yet he still agreed to do this. He's now trying to convince me that Sigma Kai is behind all the stuff going on in room 733 because they're trying to drum up buzz for their Halloween deal. I can't even... I hit End and threw my phone on my back. No wonder Lydia was pissed. This was not good.

Not good at all. I found Ian inside and asked him to take me home. I was suddenly very stressed, very tired, and very drunk. When the alarm went off at 6 a.m., it took everything I had to pull myself out of bed. I got dressed in the clothes I'd worn the night before and shuffled my way across campus to the atrium. Alice was already there with a black coffee in hand. I figured you'd need this. She laughed.

How'd you know? Your texts. I texted you last night? Yeah, at about one. You told me about... Oh, God, yeah. I pushed my sunglasses higher up on my nose and pulled my hood lower over my eyes. Those guys are idiots.

Remember how I told you that it's crafty? Well, what if the point? of messing with you was to make 733 provocative, you know, to seduce people into going inside. No one has been in that room for years. Can you imagine how hungry that thing is? Do you think they're really at risk? I asked as I sat down on the steps to the admin building. Yeah. In fact, the only thing they have going for them is that those suicide victims were alone at the time of their deaths. So it'll be less powerful with all of them there. theoretically we would know a lot more if we knew what it was and we can't know what it is without knowing how it got here and that's why we need moan what time is he supposed to get here actually twenty minutes ago alice said grimly

it was another half an hour before we resigned ourselves to the fact that mr moan had snuck around us as usual we went to the front office hoping to beg again for an appointment with him and anyway. The woman at the admin desk regarded us coldly. Tom isn't coming in today, or any other day for that matter. He quit yesterday. Looks like you won't be harassing him anymore. We weren't harassing him. We just desperately needed to talk to him. We still do. Well, you won't get any of his personal information from me. She said Snidly and walked away. What the fuck do we do now? Without Tom Mowen, there's nothing left to do.

Alice, fuck, I can't go back in that room. Well, then I guess it's good your transfers came through. They did? Yep, I got the notice when I checked my work email this morning. You're going to Morton, and Lydia is going to Tinsley. Oh, thank God. I thought you'd be happy about that. I also convinced my boss not to assign anyone else to room 734.

Think fuck. The only thing is you won't be able to move until Monday. I can last through the weekend, especially now that the end is in sight. I have to tell Lydia. I opened my phone to pull up Lydia's number, but my attention was caught by the red one badge over the voicemail logo. I hit play. It was the rest of the message from last night. I can't even look at his dumb fucking face anymore, so I'm going to go home.

Don't worry about me. I'll be okay. I'm drunk enough to sleep through any bullshit from next door. Just so fucking pissed off right now. I would honestly rather deal with dumb shit Beth right now than Michael. My parents must be siblings because I'm that fucking stupid Benson. Let's hang out tomorrow. Love you.

The message ended. God damn it. Alice gave me. a questioning look. Lydia spent the night in our dorm. Alice cringed. She's safe, though, right? As long as she doesn't go into 733.

She won't. I thought of the always open large windows of the corner room. If nothing else, the mere thought of those would keep Lydia the hell out of that room. Good. Well, since we have nothing else to do, do you want to go and look for theology books in the library? It's pretty much the only thing open right now. Sure, I shrugged. I didn't have another class until ten. The little old lady who sat behind the library's checkout desk must have been a thousand years old. Miss Staples' eyes were small and

watery, and her skin looked like it was melting off her skull. Still, she was nice and knowledgeable, and she sent us in the right direction for books on demonology, though she gave us a curious look as she did. There wasn't much. We read everything we could, but it either wasn't relevant or wasn't in English. We returned to her desk 30 minutes later. Do you have anything on The Occult?

The Occult? Uh... Yes, yes I do. Over there, to the left. Left of the reference section. Okay, thanks. Sorry, I'm too hung over to use the Dewey Decimal System. I don't think she likes the look of us.

Alice whispered as we walked away. Our look or our subject matter. Probably both. Within the hour, we were back up at our desk having struck out again. We could tell she was getting annoyed as her eyes narrowed suspiciously at us as we approached. Sorry. Do you know where we could find something on seances or Ouija boards or... Now, listen, girls.

Miss Stapley stood up from her desk and looked over her glasses at us. I really hope this is for class. It is. It's not. Alice answered simultaneously. It's personal research. Research? Research?

What kind of research? Look, we're not going to mess with a Ouija board or anything. Good. Miss Stapley smoothed her pleaded pants and sat back down. Because I can't have that sort of thing going on here again. Again. Alice latched on. The older woman suddenly looked very uncomfortable and started fidgeting with a stack of books on her desk.

We may have something on saying. Ms. Daepley, we're researching what happened in Riley in 1961. Alice interrupted. And also what's been happening there ever since. Miss Daepley smoothed her skirt as she sat down. Well, it's no secret, is it? A student committed suicide in that room. Dreadful, but not unheard of on a university campus.

Five students. I corrected her. But you know that, right? Alice was suddenly talking very fast. Because you sound like you're very well-versed in this story. Please, tell us how this started and we might be able to end it. End it. Miss Staples' voice became quieter, but more concentrated.

Don't be so arrogant, young lady. You can't end it. People have always died in that room. And they always will. There is no end to it, so you'd best stay far away from it. But maybe if we knew how this all started. It started just as you think it did. But everyone that was involved is either very old or very dead by now.

Just stay away from that room. Concentrate on your studies. I leaned over her desk. Well, I'd love to, but they assigned my friend and me to the room next door. Maybe you can forget about all the suicides, but we can't. It won't fucking let us. Young lady, I never forget. Miss Staples' voice was even quieter now.

My friend Ellen was the very first to be killed in that room. She was my very best friend, and not a night goes by that I don't imagine her wiggling out of that tiny window, standing upon the cold ledge in her bare feet, and jumping off the seventh floor of that building. Alice sighed. I'm really sorry. I didn't know. Yes, well, these are old wounds, my dear. Now, girls, I suggest you request a room reassignment immediately. No one should be living on the seventh floor of that building,

and that's all I'm going to tell you about it. Alice sighed but resigned herself to a nod. We wouldn't learn anything more here. Still, it was quite a breakthrough. At least we had some information now. Alice walked away, and I made to follow her, but my feet wouldn't move. Something was bothering me. A small yet poignant word had been buried in Miss Staples' story. A word that suddenly seemed very important.

Um, Miss Staples? Why did you refer to the windows in 733 as tiny? Because I've seen those windows and their windows. huge, like five feet tall. Dear, you're thinking of the corner room. That's the supply closet. Room 733 is next door to that. No, I stuttered. That's room 734. Miss, well, it is now.

When they built the additional rooms onto the south hall, they moved all the room numbers down. Oh my God. I suddenly felt very hot and very dizzy. Alice whispered next to me, her skin paling. Lydia, we took off across the campus at a dead run, witnessed only by the few blurry-eyed students on their way to morning classes. When Riley finally came into view, I stumbled on the pavement as my blood turned to ice.

From our vantage point, we could clearly see the windows of the corner. room were closed. The first and only time I had ever seen them that way. And the window to my room was open. We ran into the lobby, pushing past several latte-sipping, ug-boot-wearing freshmen who had just gotten off the elevator. I hit seven and watched the doors close more slowly than they ever had before. I leaned against the wall trying to steady my breathing. Alice, how the fuck did this happen? I don't know. I don't fucking know. She's been there all night, Alice, in our room, alone. Alice shook her head but had nothing to say.

When the doors finally opened on floor seven, we saw a quiet, deserted hallway. I ran toward my room with Alice right behind me. Round in the corner, I threw open my door hoping it wasn't locked. And it wasn't. Lydia looked back at me And for one breathless moment A cruel glimmer of hope crossed over her tear-streaked face

But it was too late The next second she leaned forward so slightly And she was gone She screamed the entire way down Alice ran to the ledge where Lydia had just been While I stood motionless She stuck her head out the window and looked down just as a different kind of screaming started from the bottom floor.

Alice closed her hand over her mouth and pulled her head back into the room as tears of shock ran down her ghost white face. The screaming from outside got louder as more people saw what remained of my best friend on the cold pavement. I leaned back against the dresser and slumped to the floor. A falling death. Lydia never wanted a falling death. I absentmindedly picked up one of the pictures that were strewn all over the floor.

It was a picture of Lydia's mother. She was dead. I picked up another picture. It was Lydia's baby's sister. She was dead too. There were dozens of pictures just like it all over the floor. Lydia had been busy last night. As for the things depicted in them, I cannot tell you.

Lydia was a talented artist, and I only saw a few before I got sick on the floor next to me. Ellis was standing in the doorway yelling something down the hole. I don't know what she was saying because all I could hear was a high-pitched wine in the room. Suddenly, a piece of paper slid out from under the crack in the closet door and glided across the floor toward me. I picked it up and studied it for a moment. It was drawn by Lydia, too, but it wasn't like the other. It was a picture of the closet from my exact vantage point. In the drawing, the door was cracked,

and there was something looking back from the darkness. I put the paper down and studied the closet. The door was cracked open, just like the picture. I squinted my eyes and tried to see inside. Just as I started to distinguish the defined lines of a long face looking back at me, Alice pulled me to my feet. We need to get out of here. I thought I heard her say.

I never went back into that room. My parents moved my things and I spent the rest of the semester in an apartment off campus. I transferred to an out-of-state school for my spring semester and finished my degree there. Every night, I dream of Lydia, pulling herself through the tiny window, shimming out onto the cold ledge, standing up and knowing there's nothing between her body and the terrifying abyss and front of her. I watch her look down seven stories to the black pavement below and realize, though not except her terrible fate. I see the blind horror cross her familiar features. I hear her

wildly pounding heart, desperately trying to race through every beat of the life she should have lived and knowing it has only mere seconds. I watch her look back at me, and I watch her fall. It has been nine years since that night. And every fall semester for nine years, I've called resident services to see which dorms are open for new student assignments. Riley is always open. The seventh floor is closed. This year, life and work got in the way and I called much later than usual. I was put on hold immediately. Resident services. A man finally answered. Were you the one asking about open rooms in Riley? Yes, that's me.

We're entirely filled up and there's a waiting list for Riley. But as it happens, you actually have great timing. Look, I make no promises, but we may be able to get you in. We just got approval this morning. Approval for what? I said slowly. We're opening up the seventh floor. Thank you for joining us for our 2014 Halloween episode of The No Sleep Podcast.

To learn more about the show and to find out how you can hear all of this season's full-length premium episodes, visit the nosleeppodcast.com. This is David Cummings. Thank you for joining us. Visit us again next week as we bring you horrifying tales year-round to keep you company during the Darkness of the Night at the No Sleep Podcast.