The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E23

Episode Date: January 11, 2015

It's episode 23 of Season 4. We have six tales for you this week, featuring tales about creepy communications, canine controllers, and circular confinement. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  "The Gossip" written by Mark Voltaire and read by David Ault. (Story starts at 00:04:40) "Flickering" written by Chase Duma and read by Rock Manor. (Story starts at 00:18:25) "Unknown Caller" written by Alex Grecian and read by David Cummings & Tisha Boone. (Story starts at 00:33:45) "I Loved My Dog" written by Nakhoda J Nichols and read by Rebecca Peason & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:58:25) "Hot Singles in Your Area" written by T. Laine and read by Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:17:45) "The Mailbox in the Woods" written by Julie McGinn and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:35:35) Click here to learn more about Alex Grecian Click here to learn more about Rock Manor Click here to learn more about Rebecca Peason Click here to learn more about Julie McGinn Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone 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

Warning, this is a podcast of horror fiction. It is intended for a mature adult audience. The stories presented here are intended to disturb. They are likely to contain death, graphic violence, explicit sex, including imagery of sexual violence, hate crimes, blasphemy, or other themes and images that disturb. We assume by your listening that you wish to be disturbed for your entertainment. If there are themes that you cannot deal with in fiction that are too strongly personal to you, please do not listen. If you feel that any particular episode is moving in a direction you are not comfortable with, please do yourself a favor and turn it off.

In other words, brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's time to give into your fear. There will be. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Thinking she had hold of one of the strangest robes by mistake, she tried to turn it aside and found that it was thick and warm and moving. In front of this homage to me was at least ten forward out chairs in a semi-circle. If he could figure out which one, where it was, he would crash his car into it and take control,

take back his life. The carpet seemed like it was moving under my hands and knees, but I was determined to go out. But I kept telling myself that it was all just a legal and harmless way for these guys to act on their fantasies. Now that you know how boring and small it actually was, you can imagine why we were wandering off the path and looking for adventure. It's episode 23 of season four. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have six tales for you this week, featuring tales about creepy communications,

canine controllers, and circular confinement. I want to say a big thanks to everyone who followed up on my request last episode to help spread the word about the show via social networking. I saw a big upswing in all the various networks. I really appreciate the positive reviews on iTunes. The podcast continues. to be ranked quite highly in our iTunes Podcasts category, and reviews play a big part in that, so thanks to everyone for supporting us like that.

You know, I'm so often amazed at the quality of writing which we're able to feature on the podcast. Even though most of our authors don't count themselves as professional writers, there are many of them who qualify to be ranked among the bestsellers. This week I'm proud to feature a story which does in fact come to us from a national best-selling author. Alex Grecian is the author of the Scotland Yard Murder Squad novels, including The Yard, the Black Country, and the forthcoming The Devil's Workshop. Alex co-created the long-running and critically acclaimed graphic novel series Proof, which NPR named one of the best books of 2009. Alex is sharing one of his short stories with us, and it's a pleasure to present our audio

adaptation of it to you. Make sure you check out the show notes for links to Alex's site so you can learn more about him and his outstanding series of novels. And so not one more minute should be wasted, dear listeners, as we jump headlong into the show. In our first tale, we are transported back to the days of old. When people lived in small villages and there were few secrets among them, it was also a time when people lived in fear of the dark arts and those who practice them. In this self-described folk tale from the West Country,

author Mark Voltaire weaves a tale about a woman in the village who seeks to learn, and disseminate all the sordid details of the villagers' private lives. But when she learns the secrets of a stranger in the village, she decides to keep them all to herself. Narrator David Alt reads the tale for us, as we learn why this woman came to be known as the gossip. Once upon a time, there was an old gossip who would do nothing but talk ill of her neighbors.

She listened at garden gates and behind doors and strayed into the kitchens of big houses, just so that she could come in and prattle with the servants there. On market days she went into town, and whilst she stood in the square to sell ribbons and lace from a tray, for such was her profession, she would whisper all the secrets she had heard and gleaned over the week to anyone who passed by. She loved nothing more than to make people's eyes stare at her, and soon she would be. she was thought of in town as nothing but a meddler. But a useful one for some becomes the ruin of others. Whilst the miller's son did well to learn from her, after he bought a yard of French lace from her, of course, that the farmer had had a poor harvest that year and planned to palm off onto

his family only the worst of the wheat. There were a dozen others who had their secrets aired in public. The washerwoman cleans her own clothes only once a year. The innkeeper's daughter her is not dead but locked up in bedlam. Such tales went on and on. Eventually, she found that all she had to do was listen, and some fancy would come to her. It didn't matter if it was true or not, and then she would run around her friends and neighbours on some pretence, whilst all the time spreading this new, violent lie. Well, it happened that one day a strange woman came to town.

and arrived at night at the village inn. Pray, sir, have you got to room this night? I'm tired and I've travelled by the crossroads to get here. The innkeeper, although he had indeed sent his daughter to bedland, was not unfeeling and sent her straight onto a warm room upstairs, with his best bed, and refused to take more than a few coins for it. She thanked him, her pale face hidden in her hooded cloak, and made her way along the day.

dim passages upstairs. She carried with her a leather bag, with some items clanking together in it as she walked. The gossip, sitting there in the corner with her little sup and bread, simply did what she was wont to do when anything interesting was happening, and followed her up to her room. She pressed her eye to the keyhole, and what did she see? The fire was lit in the grate, and instead of it being only the small fire in the tiny fireplace there at stairs. The glow was as warm and as large as the fire in the great downstairs hearth. The stranger opened her bag and brought out a ewer such as well-watery as poured from, a board of the type on which bread may be served, and a knife with a wickedly sharp point

and a silver handle. All these she laid out on the table, and then she clapped her hands three times. The ewer of water on the table was poured. but into the stranger's cup flowed out rich red wine instead. A small loaf appeared on the board, and the stranger broke it, and inside was soft white cake. No matter how often her hand reached for more, more was always there. Apparently not satiated, the stranger rose from the tiny table and paced about until she seized hold of the leather bag that she had carried with her. And she seized her silver knife, and stabbed it through. three times into the bag.

From it, she withdrew a joint of meat so tender and juicy and fresh that the gossip's mouth watered. The stranger hung it above the grate and baked it dry, and the most mouth-watering smells came from it. Pulling it down from the grate, the stranger did not take a knife to it as others might have done, but instead bit down on it and devoured it in whole chunks. Each mouthful was barely chewed and bolted, and she ate like an animal until all the meat and all the cake and all the wine was gone. Licking her board clean, she spat on the knife and set it down in the moonlight.

Now, if that gossip had half as much sense as she did a love of a good story, she would have realized that what she had seen was the work of enchantment, and that this stranger, by dint of spitting on her knife, was a witch, binding her enchantments to her. However, it was that the gossip was not born with any good sense at all and was greedy to boot. She sat in the darkness and waited until a whole household had gone to bed and decided to steal the bag and all its contents. Slowly she opened the door of the stranger's room until she could creep in and try to lay hold of the bag. She had seen it at the foot of the bed, but as she stretched out her hand to grab it, all she could feel was rough fur. Thinking she had hold of one of the stranger's robes by mistake, she tried to turn it aside

and found that it was thick and warm and moving. In the darkness of the chamber, only lit by the pale light of the moon, was the form of a huge, slumbering wolf on the bed where the stranger should have been. It whimpered silently in its sleep and paid no heed to the trespasser in the chamber. Without thinking, the gossip took to her heels and tripped over the bag she had so coveted it. They both fell with a crash, and the wolf on the bed rose up like a dark shadow across the face of the moon. It bared its teeth and flashed its golden yellow eyes, but the gossip made the sign of the cross with her right hand. The wolf recoiled, and she fled the room carrying the bag after her. The gossip reasoned that she would never be accused of any crime.

The stranger had obviously been eaten whole by the monstrous wolf in the chambers of the inn, and it was more than likely it was only a huge dog that the innkeeper had to protect him from bandits. She smiled as she thought of the story she would spread the next day. The innkeeper's murdered a guest at the inn. He's got a giant dog that looks like a wolf, and he's trained it to eat people whole. Once she was back in her own little cottage, she felt the pangs of hunger. Out of the stranger's leather bag, she pulled the tall yua and the empty board, and finally the silver knife. All these she laid out on the table, and expecting a good feast for her knavery, she clapped her hands as the stranger had done.

Once, twice, thrice. On the third clap of her hands, she stared at the board. On it, there was a small loaf. Grabbing it up eagerly, she crammed it into her greedy mouth and then spat it out immediately. It was nothing but ashes and pebbles inside. Thinking to rid her mouth of the nasty taste, she poured out the contents of the yule. It poured like fine red wine, but each and every time she raised it to her lips, it had turned into sour milk.

She spat it out into the fire and then grabbed hold of the silver-handled knife. She was determined to not be cheated of a good meal, and this was her folly above all else. Just as she raised the knife to strike inside the bag, from outside the window came the long, low howl of a wolf, somewhere outside in the fields, shaking her head and checking that she had barred the door, the gossip made the sign of the cross again, and then stabbed the silver knife into the bag, once, twice, thrice. Out of it she pulled a fat joint of meat that smelt aromatic and sweet. The gossip chuckled with glee at having made something work, and then she hung it up to roast on the grate.

She fell on it soon after and relished the taste, thinking at the finest meat she had ever tasted. She stabbed into the bag again and brought out another large hock of meat and hung this one in the chimney to roast slowly. After she had eaten, she fell asleep upon her counterpane, the scent of the slowly smoking meat in her nose and wonderful rumours building in her head. She awoke to a great crash of thunder, but it was not raining.

She tried to cry out but found that she could not sit up, A second crash came, and it was the door being broken down by the local bailiff and several strong men. With a great smashing sound, the door was broken down, and in they all came, strong, stout men with clubs and brands. Where is the old gossip? As God's truth is sure, you will hide. She tried to speak, but all that came out of her mouth was the sad yelp of a dog. She could not walk, and fell to the floor so that she could crawl on all fours, just like a dog. See, she even acts like an animal when the devil's with her, cried one.

Another man threw the silver knife and the board and knew her to the floor. Things of witchcraft, mumbled the priest, who had been woken from his bed not an hour before. The bailiff sniffed the air and poked about in the chimney breast for the large hawk of meat that the gossip had set to roast before she slept. Drawing it down, he recoiled with dismal. disgust. Instead of the large ham that she had set up the chimney, it was the arm of a fully grown infant, its fingers blackened with soot. One brave soul prodded the leather bag out of which the horrific meal had come, and out of it tumbled the mauled-a-about body of a small child. It was but recently dead, and its blood spilled over the floor.

Witch! breathed the bailiff, and they set her up and they set her up. in a chair and lit her in her cottage alight. The smoke and flames met the dawn, and by morning there was nothing left of the gossip but soot and ashes, and a little pile of burnt bones. Few missed her. After all, how had she known all horrible things about people? It seemed as though she had brought about her own end by being found out. The stranger who stayed at the inn stayed there but one more night. She thanked the innkeeper for his good hospitality

and left him with a board which he used ever after. The innkeeper's wife was most thankful because it seemed as though she never did have a moment free for baking. And this solved the problem admirably. After the cottage of the gossip was burned, no one visited there. Folks said, And still say that on the nights of the full moon, you can hear the hungry howl of a wolf.

and feel the hot breath of the beasts on your neck. But no one ever talks about it. It isn't right to gossip. When battling insomnia in a decrepit apartment building, a man tries to find ways to occupy his sleepless nights. But as we learn from author Chase Duma, the man picks a hobby which ends up revealing a surprising new detail about his apartment and the other residence.

narrator Rock Manor reads this tale for us about the apartment's most aggravating problem. It's the lights and they're flickering. June 24th, 2014. Happy birthday me. Another year closer to the end of my suffering, I suppose. These days, I don't even remember how old I am. 34, 35? I don't really see the point in even keeping track.

Anyways, my friend Will got me this journal for my birthday. My life's not interesting, but writing in it is something to keep my mind off how shitty my new apartment is, I suppose. Honestly, it's always drafty in here, and the lights flicker constantly, no matter how many times I changed light bulbs. I must have wasted a couple paychecks paying for new lights over and over. Fucking pointless. Shitty apartment 107. It hurts to see it on that red slab every time I stab at the keyhole. The red block, the shittiest, least expensive of the shitty, inexpensive apartments at this complex. Will did mention that venting into this would be therapeutic. He's right, I guess.

Sometimes blank pages are the best listeners. June 27, 2014. I want to keep writing in here, but I don't know what to say. My life is boring as hell. Wake up, shower, eat, work, come home, eat, sleep. Actually, scratch that sleep part. These flickering lights don't let me get anywhere near a good sleep. Honestly, the landlord should be paying me to live here instead of the other way around.

I'd talk to the fucker, but I don't think I've ever seen him. Excepts the rent through an envelope under the door. It's not like it bothers me. I hate people anyways. The less interaction, the better. June 30th, 2014. I'm back. I can't sleep.

Congrats. You guessed right. It's because of the lights. You'd think I'd get used to them by now. Nope. Let's see. Anything else I have to complain about? That's all I do in this thing anyways.

Ah, yes. I noticed some guy watching me from the street. I'm almost certain he was casing my place, finding the right time to strike. The kid looked odd, like something wasn't right about him. But I guess that's what happens when you have to steal to put food on the table. The only other thing I noticed about him were the dog tags around his neck. It's a shame to see a veteran resorting to thievery, although he didn't look like a vet. Probably just my exhaustion kicking in.

Who am I to decide what a veteran looks like? July 3rd, 2014. Is it possible to overdose on documentaries? All I've been doing is watching war documentaries. It helps lull me to sleep. Like they're fighting their own war on the lights. July 5th, 2014. Had the day off work yesterday, and I used it to go to the bookstore.

I picked up a couple of books on Morse Code. It's the one thing that really piqued my interest in all those documentaries. I figure with all that time I spend awake at night, I might be doing something productive. Hey, knowing Morse Code would be a redeeming quality about myself, and I haven't seen one of those in years. July 6th, 2014. As if this apartment wasn't bad enough. I woke up today with a cut on my arm.

How the fuck do I cut myself in my sweep? I probably ran my arm along the wall or something. The wall is disgusting and torn up. There's bound to be something there that can cut me. July 7th, 2014. Today, I got a call. from someone across the courtyard from me. I should explain that my apartment complex is arranged in a square.

The apartment's wrapping around a shitty courtyard in the middle that looks like an overgrown jungle. It could probably look nice if anyone cared. Anyways, she says she can see my lights flickering at night. She says the light covers the entire courtyard. I told her to fuck off and hung up. July 8th, 2014. I'm getting pretty good at this Morse code stuff.

I guess that's what you get when you spend all your sleeping time studying an unused code instead. July 10th, 2014. I spent tonight staring out my windows as the lights flickered. My Morse code phase is over. I get it now. There's nowhere else to go from there. I noticed a couple people staring out of their apartments at mine, watching the flickering. They probably couldn't sleep because of the lights.

I could have sworn I saw one of them wearing dog tags, but it was probably my exhaustion getting to me. And so what if they were? It's probably some new trend or whatever. Kids these days are weird. July 12, 2014. You're never going to guess what the fuck I just discovered. My lights! It's a message.

Okay, okay, let me tell the story. So I'm laying in my bed, just staring at the lights. It's how my nights go when I can't sleep, so basically every night. Okay, I'm laying there, just staring at the lights. And I noticed something familiar. It's fucking Morse code. So I start decoding. Red, 108, 10.

There's no mistaking that. It's the apartment right next to me. I have no idea what the 10 means. We'll get back to you when I figure out. July 13th, 2014. I sat awake decoding the message again. Same thing, except the tens, a nine now. It's a countdown.

I know it is. I don't want to know what they're counting down to. Tomorrow, I'm going to that apartment. I'm going to figure out what's going on. July 16th, 2014. You'll never guess what the fuck happened to me. My hand is shaking, just writing this. I don't know how long I can be safe here.

So, I go to the apartment next door. I knock. I go look through the window. And what do I see? The wall is covered in pictures of me. Not only that, oh God, it couldn't stop there. That'd be too nice. There were bags all over the wall. Hair, toenails. It even looks like there was a microscope slide with blood smeared over it. Hung on the wall next to this shit must have been ten separate necklaces, all with dog tags on them.

In front of this homage to me was at least ten fold-out chairs in a semicircle. I stumbled away from the window and looked around. Everyone was staring at me. Everyone was wearing dog tags. I sprinted to my car and left. I spent a couple nights in a motel to collect myself. When I returned today, I couldn't see any dog tags, so I figured it's safe to return to my apartment. Oh, and the countdown's on six now.

July 23rd, 2014. I have to leave. I need to get out of here as soon as possible. I'm wasting precious time just writing in this stupid fucking journal. The countdown's on zero now. I haven't been able to write for almost two weeks. I haven't left. I've barely slept.

I've spent all my time in my armchair staring out the window. Dog tags. Fucking everywhere. All they do is stare. I don't think they can do anything while I'm watching them. doesn't mean they're not dangerous. Hell, I fell asleep one night and woke up to my door wide open and a gash on my arm. I obviously can't watch them and write at the same time.

Their numbers increased. There was at least 30 here last time I checked. I'm packing right now. Fuck! The window shattered. They're coming. I've got to go. Wish me luck.

September 3rd, 2014. God damn. It's been a long time since I've seen this thing. I guess I should update you on what's been happening since I last wrote. Well, I've been on the run ever since. I have no idea what those dog-tag fuckers want for me, but damn do they want it. I've been moving constantly.

I'll settle down in a new city, get a part-time job to keep me afloat, and rent the shittiest apartment I can find. It usually takes a few weeks for them to find me. It's not hard to spot them. They still wear those dog tags. And besides, their arrival was announced by flickering lights in my apartment. Always spelling out some other apartment. in the complex, always counting down. They're not the sharpest knives in the drawer when it comes to being inconspicuous, but they sure do know how to track someone. So why did I come back?

Couple reasons. First, I wanted to grab this journal. I figured I could publish this stuff somewhere. It probably makes for a thrilling story. I might as well update it now and again too. I've definitely got a lot more to write about these days than I ever did before. More importantly, I came back to thank these lights of mine. When I moved here, I was miserable. My life was pointless. I honestly had no idea why I hadn't killed myself yet.

My life seemed more like a chore, whereas life should seem more like a privilege. Ever since I discovered Room 108, my life has been a never-ending adventure. It sounds weird, but the fact that those dog tag guys will stop at nothing to track me down gives me a sense of self-worth. And besides, I'm actually having fun for once. Living under the radar, constantly moving, having to be observant enough to avoid an unknown fate, has all seemed like some surreal movie experience to me. I've got to say, I fucking love it.

Anyways, I gotta go. The lights are flickering. After a recent health scare with his wife, a man tries to adapt to a new routine, which he hopes will bring he and his wife closer together. But as we learn from author Alex Grecian, the routine is interrupted by a strange phone call, and the person on the other end demonstrates a terrifying level of control over the man's whole world.

Tisha Boone joins me in narrating this tale about what the man must do to ensure his wife's recovery. That is, if he can keep in contact with the unknown caller. Harry brought his wife home from the hospital on a Tuesday. The first call to Harry's cell phone came Wednesday afternoon. The screen on his phone said, Unknown caller. Hello, Harry said. He was in the kitchen, heating up a can of soup for Christine.

A wife's new pacemaker, a man said. Who is this? It's not just a pacemaker. There's a device attached to it. A simple remote control. I'm hanging up. If you do, your wife will die. Harry hung up.

He was on the no-call list for telemarketers and had recently told the charities that kept calling to take him off their lists too. There was too much to handle after Christine's heart attack, too much stress even without his phone ringing off the hook. He supposed there was nothing he could do about prank callers, though. Things hadn't been easy between them before the heart attack. Christine wanted a child and Harry couldn't give her one. They'd been fighting a lot and Harry had started to suspect Christine was seeing someone else. But now, now there was a chance for a fresh start. She needed him and for once he was determined to be there for her.

He put the bowl of soup in the microwave and set it for a minute and a half, but his finger paused over the start button when he heard a thump from the bedroom upstairs. He took the stairs three at a time and found Christine on the floor by the bed. He couldn't remember whether he was supposed to perform CPR so soon after her heart surgery, and so he stood staring at her, swaying uselessly back and forth, trying to think. He reached for his cell phone, ready to call. Call 911 when Christine moaned and opened her eyes. Something happened.

Something in my chest, I think... I'm calling the doctor. No, don't. I think I'm okay now. I'm calling anyway, just in case. He lifted her back onto the bed and reached for his phone, brought up the keypad just as it rang again. Unknown caller.

Hello? Harry, we won't let her... I don't understand what's... You don't need to know how. You just need to know that it can and will happen again if you hang up this time. What do you want? I just want you to listen to me, Harry. I'm sorry I had to resort to that.

I really am. I don't like having to prove myself like this, so please do it. what I tell you and we'll get along just fine. Can you do that, Harry? Don't hurt Christine again. Well, let's see how you do. You haven't checked your text messages yet, Harry, but there's one there from me. It's the first part of a list. There will be 12 items that you'll need to get for me, Harry, and you need to get them before morning. You have one out of a list. You have one out of a list. You have one out of a list. There will be 12 items that you'll need to get for me, Harry. You'll need to get for me, Harry. You have one hour per item. At the end of an hour, if you have not procured the next item on the list, Christine will die. If you go to the police or attempt to get help from anyone,

Christine will die. How do I know you won't do something to her anyway? You don't. But remember what I said about trust, Harry. I've shown you that I'm a man of my word. I will do as I say When I hang up Check your text messages You'll get another call in two minutes And that will be your starter pistol So to speak

You will have one hour from that phone call To get me the first item on the list If you succeed And I'll be watching I'll call again And I'll be done with this No Oh, then you'll have another hour to get the next thing I text you, and there's another hour, and then another hour for each item on the list.

It's going to be a long night, Harry. There was a click, followed by silence. Harry looked at Christine sleeping on the bed. She looked fine now, but her heart had apparently stopped, and Harry needed to get her back to the hot. hospital. Maybe a new hospital this time. Someone at their regular hospital had allowed a remote control device to be put in Christine's chest. How was that even possible? He glanced at the clock and checked his phone. Sure enough, there was a new text message. One of Twelve, The Little Prince by Antoine Descent Exupery.

The phone rang again and the text message disappeared, replaced by two big words on his screen. Unknown caller. Hello? I don't. I don't know what that message means. Look. It's a book, said the man. Currently checked in at the public library. Three miles from your house. Okay, a book. I'll... He was interrupted by a high-pitched tone, and then the line went dead. The electronic sound of his starter pistol. He had an hour. He checked the clock again.

Two-16. He had until 3.15 to go check a book out of the library. But why on earth couldn't unknown... call or just go and check it out himself. Why go to all this trouble? How was a children's book worth Christine's life? Who was doing this? He pulled Christine's blanket over her, tucked it under her chin, kissed her forehead, and left the room. If these people could plant something in her chest, they could probably monitor his phone. Even the landline in the kitchen. They might be watching him even now.

Downstairs, he grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and locked the front door behind him. On his way to the library, he found himself glaring at people in the cars around him. Was one of them, unknown caller? Was there a remote control device in one of those cars that could kill his wife? If he could figure out which one, Where it was, he would crash his car into it and take control, take back his life. But of course, there was no way of knowing, and he had less than an hour. He parked as close to the library's front door as he could and hurried inside.

The library was busy for a Wednesday afternoon. Lots of cars in the parking lot. According to his watch, it was 2.37, which gave him plenty of time, but there was no point in cutting it close. He had no idea whether the next call would come at 315 or when he finished his task. Maybe unknown caller would leave him alone for the rest of his hour. If he didn't get the next call as soon as he had the book, that might mean he wasn't being watched and maybe he could go for help. He went to one of the computer kiosks on the main floor and logged into the library catalog. The little prince had the call number S-A-I in the young adults' room.

The computer showed they owned three copies, but only one was checked in and available at the moment. Harry took a moment to get his bearings and checked his watch again. 246. How had he spent nine minutes looking at the moment. up a book. He skirted the help desk in the center of the room and bore right, trotting under the arch that separated the children's section from the rest of the library. A policeman was loitering under the arch, keeping an eye on the library patrons, and Harry slowed his pace. He didn't want to bring attention to himself. Any one of those people around him could be

holding that remote control. Harry walked quickly, but not too quickly, past random arrangements of brightly colored, over-stuffed chairs in the center aisle, until he came to a row of bookcases with a little white card at the end that said, R-O-N-2-S-I-E. There was already someone standing halfway down the aisle, looking in the same area Harry needed to look. Harry bit the inside of his cheek and tried to peer around the man who looked to be in his late 20s, wearing a Kansas City Royals baseball cap and faded blue jeans with a Calvin Klein t-shirt. The guy kept moving forward and back, squinting as if he'd left his glasses at home.

Harry cleared his throat, trying to hurry the idiot along. He couldn't help checking his watch. 254. He was running out of time. Excuse me, he said. Whoa, sorry, I found it. Baseball cap said. He grabbed a book and turned, bumping into Harry as he hurried past, but he didn't stop to apologize. Harry didn't have time to worry about it.

He squatted and scanned the author's last names on the shelf. Savedra skipped directly to Sawyer. The little prince wasn't there. It wasn't there. The young guy. The guy with the baseball cap and the designer stubble had the book Harry needed to keep his wife alive. Harry sprinted down the row and slipped at the end, falling on his ass. He stood and walked carefully past the cop under the arch.

Then he ran again, the souls of his loafers smacking hard against the marble floor. The lobby was full of children being led along by two harried-looking teachers, but baseball cap wasn't in sight. Harry wound his way through the gaggle of kids and banged out the front doors. And there was baseball cap, almost halfway across the parking lot. He must have stolen the book. there was no way he'd had time to go through the checkout counter with it. Harry ran faster than he'd run since the war,

and he caught up with baseball cap as he was getting into his car, a maroon SUV with a child's car seat in the back. He grabbed the guy's shoulder, too out of breath to speak, and baseball cap spun around, his eyes wide. He looked terrified, as if he'd been on edge, already waiting for someone. I did it, baseball cap said. Don't.

I need. Harry said, still trying to catch his breath. That book, I need it. What? Is that the little prince? Yeah, but I... Please, give it to me. I can't explain.

but I need it. Baseball cap's expression changed. His eyes narrowed. Get yourself another book, asshole, he said. He looked at his watch, bringing his wrist up close to his face to read it. Oh, crap, I don't have time for this. I got to go. No, Harry said. I'll pay you for it.

I'll buy the book from you, whatever you want. Get off of me. I shouldn't even talk to you. If they see me, they might think that... Wait, if who sees, Harry said. Who do you mean? Nobody. Leave me alone.

Did somebody call you? Did somebody tell you to get this book? Baseball cap swallowed hard. His weak eyes darting around the parking lot. There was nobody around, and they were between the Maroon SUV and a silver camper. You're not one of them? They called me too. My wife.

They put something inside her, and they'll kill her if I don't get that book for them. I don't know what they want, but they need that book. It's my son, Mike. "'Besball cap said. "'If I don't get them this book, they're going to kill Michael. "'He disappeared from daycare this morning, "'and these people have him, "'and they want the little prince in exchange.'

"'It's the same people,' Harry said. "'You see that, right? "'They're hedging their bets or something. "'Like maybe if I didn't get it, you would. "'Maybe if we wait together. for the call. We'll both get the credit for it. We can work together. Baseball cap thought for a long minute. A minute Harry wasn't sure he had. Then shook his head. No, no, I can't take the chance. They might be mad that we even talk to each other. I'm sorry about your wife, man,

but this is for Michael. It's my kid we're talking about. I gotta keep this book. Listen to me, Harry said. He could feel his heart beating faster, Christine's chances of survival dwindling by the second. He had no idea what time it was, how long it was taking to argue about a stupid children's book. Get the hell off me, baseball cap said.

I'm sorry for you, but let me go. Harry realized he was still holding the guy's shirt at the shoulder. He tightened his grip and pulled baseball cap toward him, reaching with his other hand to grab the book. But baseball cap twisted out of Harry's grasp and fumbled for the SUV's door handle. Harry grabbed the younger man around his waist and lifted, slamming him against the camber. The baseball cap fell off his head and rolled under the SUV. Harry grabbed a handful of the guy's hair and smacked his head into the camper's side mirror.

A gash appeared on baseball cap's forehead, and Harry felt warm blood trickle over his knuckles. Baseball cap slumped to the ground, and Harry held out a hand. Here, he said. I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. Panic, I guess. Just give me the book and we can work something out. Maybe after they call me I can give it back to you,

so you'll have it when they call you. That might work. The young guy looked up at him. The cut on his forehead looked superficial, but Harry was no doctor. Before he realized the other man had even moved, Harry found himself pinned against the SUV, baseball caps, fists,

pummeling his sides. Fortunately, the guy didn't know how to fight and wasn't hitting Harry's kidneys or anything else important. Harry raised both his arms, locked his hands and jumped a little bit, bringing his elbows down on the back of baseball cap's neck.

Baseball cap grunted and fell, and Harry brought his left knee up into the guy's nose. Blood spurred it across Harry's khaki slug. He kicked baseball cap in the gut and heard an explosion of air escaping the younger man's lungs. Harry took a second to catch his breath. He felt tense and a little nauseated. He moved his head back and forth, trying to get his neck to pop. Then he knelt on the concrete and picked up the little prince.

Baseball cap reached out for the book, barely. conscious but unwilling to give up. Harry felt bad for him. He, more than anyone else, could understand what the guy was going through. Still, the stakes were too high to waste any more time. Harry bashed the kid's head into the concrete, pulled it up and smacked it down hard again, and again, and again, until baseball cap stopped twitching. He rolled the body under the camper and stood up, tucking his shirt back into his waistband. He picked the book up off the ground and checked his watch.

3.14. He had done it. He looked around, but somehow nobody had passed by. Nobody had noticed. He walked quickly to his car, and just as he opened the driver's side door, the phone rang. I did it, Harry said. What do you want me to do with this book?

I want you to know, Harry, that my money was on you this round. You've made me a very happy man. What? This is some kind of game to you? Well, of course it's a game, Harry. It's a scavenger hunt. That's all It's a damn scavenger hunt Well, it's also kind of a life or death situation for Christine, right? What's gonna happen to that guy's son?

Well, he lost, didn't he? I told you, I'm a man of my word And I'll honor the terms of our agreement with him. Too bad for his son Give me my wife's remote control, you bastard. Oh, Harry, don't be so impolite. We have a long night ahead of us. Sorry.

Just don't do anything to Christine, okay? What now? Are you ready for item number two on the list? I'm ready. Of one hour. Harry hung up. the phone and sat down in his car. He checked his phone and sure enough there was a new text message. He had an hour to steal a child's wagon from the backyard of a house west of town.

He turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, then changed his mind and popped the trunk open. He got out and circled around the car. The tire iron was wedged against the wall of the trunk, and it took him a precious minute to pry it out, but he figured the time was well spent. He practiced swinging it a couple of times and liked the weight of it. Armed, he got back in the car and pulled out of the library parking lot. The man in the gray station wagon sat a disposable cell phone down on the console between the seats and started his car. He pulled out of the lot and pointed the station wagon towards Harry's house. He had an hour to pick up Christine and get out of town. And if it took longer than that, well, then he'd give Harry another call and send him after

something else. At the first stop sign, he looked in the back seat at the sleeping boy. Christine had picked him out at the grocery store weeks ago, before her heart attack and before she'd thought of the scavenger hunt. It would take a while for the police to find Michael's father in the parking lot and track Harry down. It might take them forever to figure out that Harry didn't have Michael stashed somewhere, especially since Harry had Michael's favorite book in his car and would soon have his wagon. The man smiled. Michael was a fine boy.

The three of them were going to be a perfect little family. Our episode has come to an end. Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep Podcast. If you would like to learn how you can hear the full-length version of this episode, featuring many more stories, please visit the Noseleeppodcast.com and click on the Season Pass link. Purchasing a season pass will help support everyone who contributes to the podcast and in return you'll get 25 full length episodes and three

exclusive bonus episodes all for only 1999. This is David Cummings. Thank you for listening and join us again for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.