The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E16

Episode Date: November 16, 2014

It's episode 16 of Season 4. We have seven tales for you this week, featuring stories about horrifying hallucinations, scary cemeteries, and sinister storytelling. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  Trigger Warnings "Pete the Moonshiner" written by R.D. Ovenfriend and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:06:15) "A Story to Scare My Son" written by R.D. Ovenfriend and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:15:40) "A Helping Hand" written by Ryan Schwartz and read by Alex Beal & Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:25:45) "Don't Let Your Child See Your Fear" written by Rayne Akhten and read by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:47:40) "The Girl in the Tree" written by D.B. Bond and read by David Cummings & Rima Chaddha Mycynek. (Story starts at 00:57:40) "The Graveyard Beside My House" written by Johnathan Sparks and read by Corinne Sanders & Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:11:00) "The Lockbox" written by I. O. Ptah and read by David Cummings . (Story starts at 01:26:25) Click here to enter the In Ear Entertainment Contest! Click here to learn more about R.D. Ovenfriend Click here to learn more about Ryan Schwartz Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "A Story to Scare My Son" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski The NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design. This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The sunlight. The freight freight. It's time to give him to your fear. There will be no sleep. The no sleep part. My son knew the scary part was coming up. In spite of his tough talk, he leaned forward, wide-eyed. Simultaneously, all the lights in the station went out,

and the man was nowhere to be seen on the other side of the blaze. The doctor says that because his fever was so high the night of his first night terror, something in his brain was changed. The ravine became shadier and narrower until the sun was almost completely shut out. Figures at night. Apparitions following people. Stones moving themselves. Condensation was rhythmically accumulating and dispersing as the breath of something large and dark just outside hit it. It's episode 16 of season four. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have seven tales for you this week,

featuring stories about horrifying hallucinations, scary cemeteries, and sinister storytelling. Well, we survived Halloween, even with last week's hangover, and the season moves on. Because of the nature of the Halloween shows, I didn't spend a lot of time giving credit

to the many different people who made the two Halloween shows possible. First and foremost, I want to thank Brandon Boone for his incredible work on the music. I gave Brandon almost all of the stories to score, and even in the short amount of time we had, he still came up with his usual brilliance on each of them. He's been a stalwart, keeping the music playing as we continue to develop our workflow with the weekly release schedule. I tend to get most of the credit for this podcast, but simply put, without a single-one-one-

Brandon, we wouldn't be putting out shows every week. So a huge thanks to you, Brandon. Great job as always. I also want to thank all the hard work done by the narrators for those shows. We had 12 narrators in total, with many of them performing on multiple stories. A big thanks goes out to writer Edwin Crow for scripting the interview segments of the season past bonus episode, along with narrator David Alt, who played the role of the interviewer. Last, but certainly not least, I want to give a proper and official welcome to our newest narrator who joined us on the Halloween shows. Mike Delgado shared his impressive voice with us, and will hopefully be returning to the show soon. So we welcome Mike to the podcast.

Right before Halloween, we sent out the prize packs for the five winners of the Daylight DIMS, But even if you didn't win a prize on that one, we have another great contest for you to enter. And with this contest, every person who enters will win a prize. This contest is in conjunction with In-ear Entertainment. In-ear Entertainment is an audiobook publisher and podcast production company, which focuses on helping up-and-coming creatives. They publish science fiction and horror short short. stories and novellas in audio form. Working with up-and-coming authors and actors, they produce

high-quality, low-cost audiobooks to give these rising stars an income stream. They also have free to download podcasts that showcase up-and-coming talent. For this contest, the concept is very simple. All you have to do to enter is sign up for their free email newsletter. In doing so, two things will happen. The first is you'll be automatically entered into a draw for an original art print by Michelle Harvey. It's worth 65 pounds, or around $100 for those of us on this side of the Atlantic. It's a visually striking piece of art which was created for use as the cover to their horror short story collection. They who cry out seek to be heard. Along with the chance to win the artwork, every person who signs up for the newsletter can download a free audiobook from In-Ear

Entertainment. The audiobook contains one horror and one sci-fi short story, so how could you resist that offer? A free audiobook and a chance to win an original art print. It's a no-brainer. Check the link to the sign-up page in the show notes of this episode, or you can visit contests.t the no sleeppodcast.com for the link. The contest runs until December 7th, so sign up now and enjoy an extra audio bonus to go along with the show. So we've given our thanks for Halloween, we've given out some gifts, and we've welcomed you into the show.

I guess it's time to get things started. In our first tales, we're featuring two short stories. from author R. D. Ovenfried. The second of the two stories recently won the monthly writing contest over on Reddit's No Sleep Forum. These tales are excellent storytelling that feature, in fact, people telling stories. The first tale is entitled Pete the Moonshiner. In it, a man recalls the days when he used to stay over at his friend's house, two brothers who loved to tell the frightening legend, of Pete the Moonshiner. In the second story, entitled A Story to Scare My Son, a Father tells his son a story with a moral to help him understand how to use the internet safely.

Both stories are narrated by Peter Lewis. So let's listen in to the stories about storytellers as we begin with Pete the Moonshiner. And fifth grade, I spent the night at my friend Tom's house almost every weekend. Tom lived in a run-down farmhouse in the country. He shared a room with his older brother, Walter. The three of us would stay up late telling scary stories. The scariest was a true story. Here's how Walter told it. In the 1920s, this house was owned by a different family. Their closest neighbor was an inbred moonshiner named Pete. He lived in a shack deep in the woods and was frequently in trouble with the law. The parents warned the little boy and girl who lived here never to go near Pete's land.

The young boy lived in this very room. One night he was awakened by the sound of shattered glass, somewhere inside the house. Living so close to Pete, the boy was very cautious, and instead of opening the door, he locked it. He pressed his ear to the door and listened.

The boy heard bootsteps stumbling down the hallway that were much too heavy to be his father's. He could almost smell moonshine through the bedroom door. Let me in, boy. It was Pete, but the boy wouldn't unlock the door. Overcoming his fear, he shouted, no!

After a minute, the boy could hear Pete's heavy boots fading back through the house. In a distant room, he heard his father shouting at Pete, but the shouts soon turned to screams. For almost an hour, the sounds degenerated as the father shred his vocal. cords to ribbons while screaming. The boy thought the pleading in hoarse agony was the worst thing he had ever heard, until it was replaced by something worse. Pete's bootsteps lumbered back through the house to the boy's room.

He pounded on the solid oak door. Boy, open up this door or you'll regret it. The boy could smell the moonshine through the door again. He cried, no! And so it was his mother's turn. Her shouts and screams lasted for two hours. When they stopped, the heavy boots stumbled back to his door. The stink of moonshine was overwhelming.

Boy, I said, open up this door. This is your last chance? The boy was terrified. Please, don't hurt my sister. Was drunk and enjoying himself. He chuckled. Then open up, boy. That's all he spent the next three hours listening to the screams of his younger sister.

When the police came to investigate the house, Two days later, they found the dad, the mom, and the sister tied, spread eagle to their beds. Pete had cut a small hole in each of their lower abdomens and pulled the bowels out of their belly, inch by inch, as they died screaming in pain. They found the boy dehydrated but alive. He was still locked in this very room, pressed against this very door. He was completely catatonic. He spent the rest of his life in a sanitarium, occasionally mumbling.

I have opened the door. Was eventually caught and executed. His shack was torn down. But his ghost still haunts. house. Sometimes we can smell a hint of sweet moonshine in the morning and a pain in our bellies. And when we do, we know Pete was here during the night trying to pull out our insides. Now this story really creeped me out like ten out of ten. I always insisted that the three of us sleep with the bedroom door locked and the

lights on. Your imagination is so strong at that age. I was terrified of every noise in the house before finally falling asleep. Whenever I woke at their house, I could even smell the faint, sweet aroma of Pete's moonshine. To be honest, I could usually even feel a pain in my lower belly. Whenever I told the two brothers about it, they would giggle and play along. Yeah, I smell it too, said Walter. Me too, and my stomach hurts, chimed in Tom, pretending to be scared. They moved to Utah when Tom and I were in the fifth grade. I haven't seen them since.

Flash forward to this morning. I'm sitting in chemistry lab on campus. As we were setting up the experiment, one of the chemicals smelled exactly the same as my memory of Pete's moonshine. It's an incredibly distinct, penetrating, almost sweet scent, not exactly like hard alcohol or real moonshine, but similar. I had not smelled it since those mornings after sleeping over with Tom and Walter. This was the exact same smell.

It was ether. It was ether. He stared across the last. lab in a day's frozen. I remembered locking the door of their bedroom every night. I thought about waking with the faint smell of ether in my mouth. I remembered the distinct pain in my bowels each morning. And I realized there was no Pete.

The moonshiner had been raping me. A story to skil. My Son. Son, we need to have a chat about Internet safety. I slowly crumpled down onto the floor next to him. His laptop was open and he was playing Minecraft on a public server. His eyes were locked into the action. Comments scrolled down the side of the screen in a chat box.

Son, can you stop your game for a minute? He exited the world, closed the laptop, and looked up at me. Is this going to be another cheesy, scary story? I faked hurt feelings for a second and then grinned at him. I thought you liked my cautionary tales. He grew up listening to my stories about children who encountered witches, ghosts, werewolves, and trolls. Like many generations of parents, I used to,

scary stories to reinforce morals and teach lessons about safety. Single dads like me should use all the parenting tools at their disposal. He scrunched his face a little. They were fine when I was six, but now that I'm getting older, they don't scare me anymore. They seem kind of silly. If you're going to tell a story about the internet, can you make it really, really scary? I squinted at him incredulously. He folded his arms.

Dad, I'm ten, and I can handle it. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Colby. His expression indicated that he wasn't impressed with the terror of the introduction. He sighed deeply and settled in for one of Dad's cheesy stories. I continued, went online and joined several children's websites. After a while he started talking to other kids in game and on the message boards, he made friends with another 10-year-old boy named Helper 23. They liked the same video games and shows.

They laughed at each other's jokes. They explored new games together. After several months of friendship, Colby gave Helper 23 six diamonds in a game they were. were playing. This was a very generous gift. Colby's birthday was coming up and Helper 23 wanted to send him a cool present in real life. Colby figured it wouldn't hurt to give Helper 23 his home address as long as he promised not to tell it to any strangers or grown-ups. Helper 23 swore he wouldn't tell anyone else, not even his own parents, and set about mailing the package. I paused the story and asked my son,

Do you think that was a good idea? No, he said, shaking his head vigorously. In spite of himself, he was getting into the story. Well, neither did Colby. Colby felt guilty about giving away his home address and his guilt began to grow. At the time he put on his pajamas the next night, his guilt and fear were larger than anything else in his life.

He resolved to admit the truth to his parents. The punishment would be steep, but it was worth it to have a clear conscience. He squirmed in his bed as he waited for his parents to tuck him in. My son knew the scary part was coming up. In spite of his tough talk, he leaned forward, wide-eyed. I spoke quietly and deliberately. All the noises of the house, the washing machine bounced around in the laundry room,

branches scraped against the brick outside his room. His baby brother cooed in the nursery, and there were some other noises that he couldn't pinpoint. Finally, his dad's footsteps. echoed down the hall. He called out nervously. I have something to tell you. His dad stuck his head in the doorway at a weird angle.

In the darkness, his mouth didn't seem to move, and the eyes were all wrong. Yes, son. The voice was way off, too. Are you okay, Dad? The boy asked. The father in his strangely... affected voice. Colby pulled his covers up defensively. Is Mom around? Mom's head popped into the doorway below Dad's. Her voice was an unnatural falsetto. Were you about to tell us that you gave

our home address to help her 23? Oh, you shouldn't have done that. We told you never to give out personal information on the internet. He continued. He wasn't really a kid. He just pretended to be one. Do you know what he did? He came to our house, broke in and murdered both of us, just so he could spend time with you. Wet jacket emerged in the child's doorway, holding the two severed heads.

He shrieked and gasped as the man dropped the heads on the ground, unsheeled. his knife and moved into the room to work on the board. My son screamed too. He twisted his hands defensively over his face, but we were just getting started with the story. After several hours, the boy was almost dead, and his screams had become whimpers. The killer noticed the wailing of a baby in another room

and removed his knife. from Colby, this was a special treat. He had never murdered a baby before and was excited about the... Helper 23 left Colby to die and followed the cries through the house like a homing beacon.

In the nursery, he walked to the crib, picked the baby up, and held it in his arms. He moved towards the changing table to get a better look, but as he held the baby, the crying died down. The baby looked up and smiled. Helper 23 had never held a baby, but he gently bounced it in his arms like a pro.

He wiped his bloody hands on the blanket so he could stroke the baby's cheek. Hey there, sweet little little. guy. The beautiful rage of sadism melted into something warmer and softer. He walked out of the nursery, took the baby home, named him William, and raised him as his very own. After I finished the story, my son was visibly shaken. Between ragged, staccato breaths, he stammered. But dad, my name's William. I gave him a classic dad wink and tussled his hair.

Of course it is, son. William ran up the stairs to his bedroom in a fury of sobs. But deep down, I think he liked the story. A late night drive and a stop for gas begins an extreme. unsettling night in our next story. In this tale from author Ryan Schwartz, we meet a man who is thrust into a nightmarish world of a series of gruesome crimes.

As events unwind in more and more bizarre ways, the man must struggle to hold on to what is real while avoiding the aberrations. Narrators Alex Beale, Jessica McAvoy and myself, read the tale for you, as we find out that it's not always a good thing when someone offers you a helping hand. It was a long trip to nowhere, mindlessly flipping radio stations, catching snippets and static. Breaking news, in Delaware, it appears more hands continue to be feeling like you're in a rut lately. Well, what? Off. The sky had finished its usual shift into speckled ink, just as I finally found a gas

Rural Pennsylvania is a beautiful wasteland at night. Not a single soul around, unless you counted the old man on the tractor I had nearly sidest wiped 20 minutes prior to discovering this gas mecca. The stars burned lonely holes into my eyes, letting me know in their crowdedness just how isolated I was. But fuck them. They're stars. What do they know? I was driving for the exact reason the cosmos mocked me. I needed to escape. My relationship with a girl I assumed was the one blew up in my face after discovering her infidelity, having managed the tired cliche of cheating with my best friend.

Of course, I learned about their tryst from someone I met once at a work function in Florida on a Tuesday or something, something. They just kept fucking talking. I wanted to vomit, and they insincentive. I sensitively wanted to reminisce after a cursory, oh, I thought you knew. It doesn't help that I'm a recovering alcoholic, so the shock nearly relapsed me after two good months. I still wish I would let myself slip a little, but the drinking is the reason I've alienated my family. So, yeah, you could say things have been pleasant.

Anyway, I pulled my pickup into one of two pumps, looking around for an attendant. The New Jersey in me never fully left. I still feel entitled to a gas slave. The one attendant was a man of obscure ethnicity, sitting in an office bathed in harsh fluorescent vibrance. He stared at me with disdain from behind plate glass, coated in dirty neglect. I chose to pay at the pump.

I don't think I need to describe the act of pumping gas, but immediately after picking my grade, as I stood against my truck, a man appeared. I guess, appeared isn't the correct term. He didn't just materialize, but this station was bright enough that the surrounding area turned to opaque darkness. Since the man was dressed in a black duster,

black loafers, black-wind hat, black slacks, and a black waistcoat over a white blouse and red bow tie, he blended in pretty well. He was also walking, with no car, in sight. The stranger approached the second pump 10 feet from mine, giving me a slight wave before breaking awkward eye contact to insert nothing into the machine. The man literally inserted nothing while holding his fingers to appear he was using a card. He removed the

pump and it inexplicably began spewing gas onto the pavement. I gave a desperate glance to the attendant in his base some yarns away. He was big. busy with a TV small enough to wrap my hand around. When I glanced back at my weird station neighbor, he was looking at me with eyes that wrapped two bright whites around deep black irises. He wasn't staring. It was a nice look with the kind of cordial smile one adopts for small talk, positioned within a meticulously managed gray handlebar mustache.

Nice night, huh? Completely normal tone from the man chaotically spraying, fuel. I... You're not filling any... You won't survive it. He cut me off with a cheerful tone. I noticed behind the friendly voice was a sound I may have imagined.

It was like the horn section of an orchestra, trying to play a piece in E minor while they were all brutally murdered. I couldn't hear it as much as feel it in my spine. Excuse me? The night, you won't survive it. But hey, at least there's a lovely breeze. With those words, the man replaced the pump, turned around with a wink, and began to stride away. Two steps, and he stopped short, producing a match from his pocket.

He lit it. He threw it over his shoulder. Take care now. The gas burst into flames. Simultaneously, all the lights in the station went out, and the man was nowhere to be seen on the other side of the blaze. The attendant, whose office light was unaffected, charged out of his office, shouting in an accent I couldn't place. You son of a bitch, you're destroying my business! It took me a second to realize he was directing his rage at me. The heap distorted my view of this angry little man, but I could tell he was holding a shotgun.

Holy fuck! I sprinted to my truck, pump still feeding into the tank. Luckily, the flames hadn't jumped the gap to my side. I heard a burst of gunfire and the sound of ripping metal. This prick shot my truck! It didn't register that it could have just as easily been the sound of ripping flesh. Regardless, I made it inside and floored it, ripping the gas line out, which swung out into the puddle and ignited.

By some miracle or the sheer acceleration, the nozzle was flung from my tank before I became a douchebag flambay. I had heard the attendants muffled shouting, even as the gas station turned to a spot of light in my rearview. I was still an hour from home. The drive was tense and silent. The radio wasn't about to interfere while I processed everything that had just happened. I was shot at and almost blown up in a gas fire, but none of that really mattered to me since it wasn't what he meant. I know it wasn't what he meant.

You won't survive the night. I paraphrase the stranger in my head, somehow expecting there to be some hidden meeting in five words. What if it was a car crash? Was this man clairvoyant? Did he really just disappear, or did the fire obscure him? I continued this mental interrogation long into my drive, eventually making it to my driveway, barely registering that a UPS truck was also sitting there.

It was 3 a.m., but here was Mr. Brown Shorts, jumping down from his seat with a grimace that indicated a graveyard shift that doesn't actually exist. You Nathan Kingsley? Spat as curtly as possible. Uh, yeah? Here's your package. Thanks for fighting for it to be delivered right fucking now. Next time, wait like everyone else.

Before I could retort, this slightly overweight, slouch-shouldered courier was wearily flipping me off as he backed out of my drive. I couldn't fire anything back. My mind was once again blank, unable to comprehend the package in my hands. It was a simple cardboard box. I ran into the house and flung it onto the couch like it contained a plague. Sitting on the floor on the other side of the room, I surveyed the box. It was medium-sized, cardboard, and had a logo emblazoned on the side. Resting Rock Industries I knew that name, so before I even opened the box, my laptop was out and ready to Google. The results jogged my memory.

48 die in Resting Rock Industries fire. Massive headstone, business closes as the three Healy brothers, owners of the company, are found dead of smoke inhalation in the basement. The three were missing their hands. The investigation lasted four months, and one man was suspected, Eli Mull. He was the former janitor, having been fired a month prior to the incident. I remembered live news footage of the cops busting into Eli's house, only to find him dying in the bathroom. He was surrounded by heroin-filled syringes, his body badly burned.

The cops released one thing, he said as he died. I'm a failure. It was ruled suicide by self-immolation. There was a big thing later about his hands being removed from his body while he was in the morgue. Nothing showed up on the security tapes. It was written off as another case of necrophiliac creep gets a job as a coroner. I'm not an idiot. I put the pieces together in.

my head as best I could. Not being someone who discounts the supernatural, the feeling of, I'm fucked either way, descended on my tightening chest as I chose to open the box. It was a bottle of the McCallin 30-year, a $2,000 bottle of scotch. Two fine crystal glasses accompanied the bottle, as did a folded-up piece of paper. Obviously, I read that shit. This is probably poison. I can test it for you. Just let me in the house. One single knock on the door, followed by ten very long seconds.

Then a flurry of vicious pounding on all parts of the door. Snarling, muffled shrieks. Complete silence. Incredibly thick silence. Nathan. Hey Nathan. I know you're in there. You should let me in to test the bottle.

Otherwise, you might not survive. Fake, saccharine words from a voice I knew was the man from the gas station. The only problem was he was using my own voice through the door. I mean, you could certainly try it yourself, but you've come so far without it. Let me prove that it's dangerous. Just let... Me the fuck in. The pounding began again, and I sat frozen on the floor, curled in a ball for half an hour before the TV blinked on by itself.

The video was of my best friend Travis with Melanie, the love of my life. No, perverts, this was not a video of them fucking. This was worse. This was them in a diner discussing my faults, discussing why they needed to be discused. together and edge me out of the social circle I helped bring together. He's such a downer lately. I understand he's at a dead end, but it isn't like he's ever going to come out of it. He was always the party guy.

The party guy ends up sad and alone. I know it's harsh, but Mel, you need to let him go. My best fucking friend was grinning smugly as he manipulated. the rock in my storm of a life. I mean, I know, Trav, but I think I can fix him. I want to fix him. She seemed unsure, like she was justifying the relationship to herself. You can't help someone so flawed.

He's spiraling, and he'll take you down with him. I won't allow that to happen to you. I love you, Mel. He was a bold asshole. I love you too, Travis. This wasn't something she was forced to see. Her voice held some relish in the words. That's when I noticed I was sitting on the couch, clutching the still-closed bottle.

The plastic seal, however, had been removed around the lid. The TV went out again. Hey, Nate, that's such a shame. If you let me in, maybe we can show. share a sip or two. He was back. Fuck it. I'm confronting the bastard.

Moving towards the door, I was overtaken by thought. My hand touched the handle, but before I turned it, everything flooded into my brain. He knows your name. He knows where you live. He is mimicking your voice. He literally

fucking disappeared. Is this someone you want to confront? Regardless of how fuck you think you are, he hasn't made an attempt to come into the house other than coaxing. Sit down. I had a point. Back to the couch. Oh, buddy, come on.

You were so close. We can have a blast together. He was pleading, but it wasn't pathetic. There was more malice now than in his yelling. Fine. Do it yourself. It was silent again. There I was, staring at a blank TV screen with a sealed bottle of one of the best scotches money can buy sitting next to me.

Maybe just a sip. The phone rang. It was 4.36 a.m. I answered anyway, being greeted by my mother with a somber note in her words. Hi, Nate. I know it's a terrible time to be calling, but we have to be. haven't talked in so long. You should know that your father and I had our last fight tonight.

He just left the house. We're getting a divorce. They were married 28 years, and you could feel the love between them. Now, I'm sure you have a lot you want to ask me. You're damn sure I do, but it's about you guys ignoring me for the past two... It's natural for a child to feel like it's his fault. Something definitely wasn't right about this call. You know, aside from the timing.

So if you're afraid it's your fault, just know it is. Have a good night, sweetheart. That was that. The bottle was opened. I poured a glass. That marvelous sip. It was smoky silk running over my tongue, bathing my palate in the flavor and feel of expensive alcohol.

But I snapped back into perspective before drinking again. There had been a distant chuckle somewhere outside that concluded with a sigh as the glass once again joined the table. I felt light and relaxed, far too relaxed for one sip of booze. But the seal wasn't broken. The bottle had been in its original box with that perfect circle of glue holding the lid closed.

I refused to believe I wouldn't notice tampering. No, I knew for a fact that it was not tampered with since I've ripped through enough bottles of whiskey in my dark years to kill a small village. Still, something didn't feel right. Again, something didn't feel right aside from absolutely everything being fucked. Sitting in silence after taking the sip was actually somewhat easier. The temptation was gone, strange enough.

I even allowed a smile when the dull light of dawn seeped through the windows. Looks like I survived the night. Did I understand the night? No, I have no fucking clue what happened. I called my mom that morning, and when my dad answered the phone, confused and assuming I was drunk, it was surprisingly comforting. If only the videos of Travis and Mel were false. You just can't have everything, I suppose. Realizing what needed to be done, I opened my front door.

That turned out to be a mistake. Severed hands laid neatly in pairs at my door. Every pair was burned in some way, and they all lay with fingers spread in my direction, arranged as a semicircle before me. Right in front of the circle was a box of matches, with an ornate design of gold leaves and vines. There was a rather prominent mark indicating that the brand was from the 20s. I had certainly never seen it before.

The police arrived within minutes of me describing the scene. The first officer to respond surveyed the porch before turning to me for a statement. Sir, do you have any idea who could have done this? I do, but I don't know a name. I could barely recall a face. Wait, there was the package for me. Well, it was a bottle of scotch from resting rock industries. I know how strange that sounds.

The officer's attention wandered off into the distance for a bit before turning back to me with a stern expression. I'm going to need to analyze that. The look changed. You know, I shouldn't mention that. to you, but you deserve to know after seeing this shit. The Healy brothers and that heroin addict both had something in common besides the hands. And the death by fire.

Eli was found with heroin, but what wasn't reported is that the brothers were found with pounds, fucking pounds of coke. The drugs and their systems were full of muscle relaxers. You're lucky, kid. Pictures were taken. No one was sure what to make of this. I produced the bottle for the officer, and soon the cops and the hands were gone. Some weeks later, I was checking the mail.

Two letters, one envelope from the police department, and one with no return address that felt uncomfortably warm in my hands. Naturally, I decided to open the former first. It held the results of the toxicity screening for the... the bottle. Muscle relaxers. That wasn't surprising. It took a lot out of me to open the second envelope. It sat on my kitchen table, screaming imagine profanities and insults and its cream-colored arrogance. Finally, managing to remove the contents, my legs crumpled beneath me. A demented take on calligraphy, committed to what I decided to assume was parchment, compelled my senses to devour the polite, sinister words that outlined.

Dearest Nathan. Congratulations on your success. I knew you could do it. I know I certainly lent a hand. Get it? No? That's fine. I can't promise that if we meet again, it'll be as simple.

Next time, you may need to lend me a hand. Sincerely, Nathan. For episode has come to an end. Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep Podcast. If you would like to learn how you can hear the full-length version of this episode, featuring many more stories, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com and click on the Season Pass link. Purchasing a Season Pass will help support everyone who contributes to the podcast,

and in return you'll get 25 full-length episodes and 3rd. three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. This is David Cummings. Thank you for listening, and join us again for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.