The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E24

Episode Date: January 18, 2015

It's episode 24 of Season 4. We have five tales for you this week, featuring tales about nasty neighbors, musical madness, and sentimental psychosis. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  Trigger Warnings "A Shortcut Home" written by Julie McGinn and read by Jessica McEvoy, Corinne Sanders, David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:05:35) "Birdseed" written by E. Blackburn and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:24:20) "Why You Can't Talk to the Dead" written by T.E. Parker and read by Nichole Goodnight & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:38:40) "Martellato" written by Catriona Richards and read by David Ault & L. Bentley. (Story starts at 00:47:20) "The Lovers" written by Michael Marks and read by David Cummings & Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 01:19:30) Click here to discover the Reddit podcast, "Upvoted". Click here to learn more about Julie McGinn Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "Why You Can't Talk to the Dead" 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

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 no sleep. Brace yourself. For the No Sleep Podcast. Beneath that ancient skin are sinews as strong as steel cables, which will snap-taught once her bony, gnarled hands have closed on your wrist. That old thing, with its pretty blue stone and simple silver setting,

were a constant around her neck. I'd never seen her so mad. She hollered in three things, shouting in her to get out, out, out, out. Shut up, get out! He saw through the dirty blonde hair stuck by her shoulders, the scars and mud around her knees, and saw the beauty she love over the streets. I tore against my bonds once again, hoping against hope that this time I could get free. It's episode 24 of Season 4. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings.

We have five tales for you this week, featuring tales about nasty neighbor. musical madness and sentimental psychosis. As most of you know, this podcast got its start in Reddit's No Sleep subreddit. And to this day, most of the stories on the show come from there. So Reddit and the No Sleep podcast go hand in hand. But what you may not know is that Reddit now has its own official podcast called Upvoted. It's produced and. hosted by Reddit co-creator Alexis Ohanian and each week it presents the story of how a particular post

or comment on Reddit has gone on to change the lives of the people involved. It's a fascinating idea and even with only two episodes released so far, you can start to see how interesting it is to hear about people whose lives have taken dramatic turns for the better simply by interacting with the Reddit community. As someone who's had to have had to be a lot of people who's had to be able to be able to be able to his life changed by Reddit and No Sleep in particular, I can certainly relate to this idea. So I would encourage you to check out Upvoted and hear about these inspiring tales. I'll post a link to Upvoted in the show notes, and you can find more details on the subreddit R slash Upvoted.

And as one podcast begins, another one must end. Yes, that's right. No Sleep Podcast is coming to an end. I mean the end of season four. Next week is our season finale, and we have a bit of a different kind of show for you, so make sure you tune in for that one. That's the 25th episode on the 25th of January. Season 5 of the podcast will be launching on February 8th,

so that means it's time to start thinking about signing up for a season pass 5 membership. Pre-orders will begin next Sunday after the launch of the season finale. And like last season, we'll be having a pre-order contest. If you sign up for your season pass five during the two-week pre-order period, you'll automatically be entered into a draw for various prizes, which have yet to be determined, but will likely include stuff like T-shirts and gift cards and maybe even a brand-new carbonated beverage.

of your choice. So that's season past five going on sale on January 25th. And now that we've taken care of all your podcasting needs, it's time to dig into an episode of this podcast. So let's start the show. In our first tale, we recall the days of youth when school kids told stories about the legends in their towns. Legends involving creepy people and places which were to be avoided at all costs. As we learn from author Julie McGinn, when two grade school friends break the rules after school, they discover that there just may be some truth to their town's legend.

Narrators Jessica McAvoy and Corinne Sanders read the tale for us, as we learn of the mystery that occurred when they took a shortcut home. Growing up, I had two major boogeymen. The first was drunk drivers. Drunk drivers became everyone's worst fear when, at the age of seven, Colin McCarthy's mother came to pick him up from school completely sloshed. And we were all gravely informed the next day that Colin wouldn't be coming back. No one died, mind you, not even the tree that Mrs. McCarthy wrapped their sedan around.

But she was charged with drunk. driving under the influence and child endangerment, and Colin got sent to live with a foster family and had to change schools. We never made the connection between drunk driving and bodily harm. We thought that getting into a car with a drunk driver meant you'd end up in a foster home. But at the age of seven, the idea of going to a foster home was far scarier than being maimed anyway. The second ghost of my childhood was the Crape Paper Lady. The crepe paper lady was a sort of witch we imagined to haunt the boggy underdeveloped area behind our school, St. Mary's. She was called the crape paper lady because she was so old that her gray, waxy skin appeared as thin as crepe paper.

But don't let that fool you. Beneath that ancient skin are sinews as strong as steel cables, which will snap-taught once her bony, gnarled hands have closed on your wrist. She won't let go. Oh, no, the Crape Paper Lady is inescapable once you've fallen into her grasp. Or so we told each other. What's more, the Crape Paper Lady is crafty. She'll trick you, outwit you, and then she'll get you.

Never talk to the Crape Paper Lady, or you're as good as dead. Oh, and she wouldn't just kill you. No, she'd play with you first. The only thing she liked more than torturing kids was drinking cooking sherry, which is why there were so many empty bottles strewn about the lot. But if there was no sherry, well, she'd poke out your eyes with a screwdriver, hammering your teeth, peel off your fingernails with pliers, or melt them off with hot wax. How we children had such dark little minds combined with a strangely sadistic fetish for hardware,

I'll never know. Much in the same way we made the erroneous correlation between the threat of foster homes and drunk driving, we made the erroneous correlation between the legend of the Crape Paper Lady and the bog. The bog had much more realistic dangers, you see. Our parents warned us never to cut through that swampy area between Pete's sweets and St. Mary's, even though the shortcut was 10 minutes and going around was 40. See, every few years, a child would disappear. here taking just the shortcut.

It was assumed either the child wandered into the swampier areas, where the ground was like a thick, heavy soup, hence why this plot of land was undeveloped and drowned. Or worse, the child was kidnapped by that boogeyman of all parents, a molester. It's worth noting, though, that you were far less likely to get mowed down by Mrs. McCarthy in the bog than on the sidewalk. In any case, we chalked up both. both the danger and the disappearances to the Crape Paper Lady, and for all we knew,

perhaps our parents created the legend themselves to dissuade us from crossing the bog. Unfortunately, as we grew, the legends became a source not of fear, but of fascination, and we began tempting fate to show off our prepubescent bravado to our friends. It's not like it was nearly as dangerous as it had been advertised after all.

Jeff Tully, whose father was a drunk and therefore could not be a driver, took the path that cut through the bog every single day to and from school. Jeff was two years older than us, having been held back two years, and said there was no crepe paper lady. Jeff's house was right next to Sweet Peets, and you could often see him or his father at the window. His father did not care that Jeff took the bog path to school and often stood there at the window and watched him go.

Jeff, it was rumored, was the one to have cut the hole in the chain-link fence behind Pete's sweets to gain access to the bog. But Jeff took no credit for this and said that the hole and the path had been there long before. The only real problem with the path, from our perspective, was that from Pete's sweets, you could see the hole and also any naughty children coming out of it. Now, if you were going to school, that was easy. The grownups would only see your back, and even if they hollered, you'd be long gone. But coming out of the bog, you were pretty likely to be caught and given a good talking to. So we mostly used the path for going to school, especially if we were late. I was about 10 years old then, and my best friend, Abigail McCready, was also 10.

We were only two days apart in age, making us best friends according to primary school rules. Both Gabby and I loved taking the path to school because of its forbidden mystery, though we rarely took it back because of the possibility of getting into trouble. Sometimes we played Crape Paper Lady Escape, and one of us would chase the other down the path to school. If we were coming back, though, we would take the long way, which was fine since we would stop by the McCready house, where Mrs. McCready would be waiting.

Mrs. McCready was a fine specimen of a homemaker. She was remarkably young and remarkably pretty. Every boy in class had a crush on her. Unlike my own mother, Mrs. McCready always wore lipstick and often a dress, and she was thin, even though she appeared to do nothing but bake cakes. She sang along with the radio and laughed a lot, and followed every bout of laughter with an exclamation of, Oh my goodness gracious!

Somehow, she never smudged her lipstick during those. bouts of laughter. Mrs. McCready was a domestic goddess, the antithesis of Jeff Toley's drunk father. Everyone loved Abigail's mother, and I, as Gabby's best friend, reaped the benefits of this relationship with her mother in the form of a bi-weekly slice of thick, moist cake. Anyway, we were ten, and we'd had quite a day at school. It had been the day of the science fair, and Gabby's a day of the science fair, and Gabby had won first prize, which came with a magnificent blue ribbon. Normally, I would have been

envious, but I was pretty sure it was rigged since Jeff Toley came in third with his mousetrap car, and I heard Mrs. Donahue say he'd submitted the same car last year. Besides, Gabby's first prize meant cake a plenty from Mrs. McCready. The two of us set off across the schooly, but then Gabby turned abruptly toward the bog. Come on, she said breathlessly. I want to get home. Well, of course she did. With a ribbon like that, who wouldn't?

Giddy with excitement, the two of us grabbed each other's arms and made a dash toward the bog. It was October, and so it was chilly, but there was still plenty of foliage, all of it into mere oranges and muted browns. The blue ribbon stood out in the drab atmosphere like a sore thumb. Our breaths came in plumes in front of our faces, and our cheeks turned red as we squelched our way down the path. It was always a little muddy, but if you knew where to step, on the little tufts of grass, you wouldn't get too dirty. Going from St. Mary's to Pete's Suites was a slight incline uphill and at a curve to boot. We huffed our way to the top through the mud, feeling clever to have taken the shortcut. It was a lot cooler than we'd expected, and we were both looking forward to high.

hot chocolate at Gabby's house. Tomorrow, I remember thinking, I'll have to get out my winter coat. As we rounded the bend, laughing merrily, two things loomed out at us. First, the chain link fence and the hole in it. And the second, blocking it, hands on her hips, Mrs. McCready. Oh, she was mad. So mad she was shaking. In a white dress with blue polka dots, she stood furious.

Our giggles died and our pace slowed as we approached guiltily. We knew the rules, and we knew we were in big trouble. How dear you! Hissed Mrs. McCready, swiping for Gabby's arm. She caught it, and Gabby cried out in alarm and hurt, and I saw that her mother wasn't just grabbing to drag her home, but was actually digging her fingers in. And that's when I noticed everything else.

The smeared lipstick and the flyaway hair, the wild horse eyes, the shoeless feet, slightly sunk into the chilly autumn mud, and, tying all these things together, the smell of alcohol. Mrs. McCready was fall-down drunk. You little bitch! She snarled, shaking poor Gabby by the arm. You know what mother's talk. Hold you. Never go into the bog. Never. You snot-nosed little brat. How dare you? Mommy, stop, cried Gabby, who wasn't really crying because I was there, but would definitely have been if I hadn't. She tried to pry Mrs. McCready's fingers off her arm, but they were like a steel trap.

I became fascinated with the ground because I was embarrassed for my friend. I noticed that Mrs. McCready's toenails were overgrown and slightly yellow, unlike her long, perfectly painted fingernails. The incongruence bothered me deeply. And you? Me. I looked up in time to see her swipe at me. I jerked back.

Come here this instant, you miserable little worm. I'm taking you home right now and telling your mother what you, been up to, said Mrs. McCready, her voice rising into a shriek. Taking me home. Taking me home? In the car? Panicked, I remembered Colin and his foster home. My heart pounded so hard I thought I would throw up, and delirious with panic, I turned heel and ran. Ran from Mrs. McCready, the drunk driver. Even as I ran, I remember wondering if I'd get in more trouble for running away from a grown-up, but Mrs. McCready was so pissed drunk that I knew she'd wrap us all around a tree and we'd end up in foster care and then it wouldn't matter if my mother was mad at me.

So I took off, with a slurring Mrs. McCready demanding for me to return, her voice echoing through the bog as I went all the way back to St. Mary's and then took the sidewalk to my house. By the time I got there, I was crying from a mixture of adrenaline and fear and a powerful stitch in my side. I'd made it in 28 minutes, an absolutely groundbreaking record. But no time to celebrate. I had to save Gabby from going to a foster home. Mom! I sobbed, running right into my mother's arms.

Mrs. McCready, Mom! Mrs. McCready! She consoled me, stroking my hair. Calm down now. Calm down. What's all this? Mrs. McCready! She's drunk, and she caught us in the bog, and I know we're not supposed to go, but she caught us and she took Gabby, and she's going to drive her home. Drunk! My mother managed to give me a stern look that adequately reflected her dismay that I'd been through the bog,

but held her tongue and went to the phone to dial. Who? The police? I waited with bated breath. Now, I don't think she'd drive from Peds to her house, love. It's only two minutes. She reassured me as she waited with the phone to her ear. Hello? Aha, the police!

She had them. Gabby was going to be okay. Hi, Mary. Just wanted to make sure Abigail got home okay. Mm-hmm? Well, yes. No? No.

Mm. All right. Let me ask her. She covered the phone and turned to me. Mrs. McCready said Gabby's not home yet. What? She called Mrs. McCready? Drunk? Mrs. McCready?

I stood there, dumbfounded, while my mother turned back to the phone. To this day, I don't know what all was said. I must have been truly unintelligible, or maybe the idea of Mrs. McCready being drunk was just so laughable that my mother immediately dismissed it. But whatever the case, a phone call confirmed that Mrs. McCready was home, perfectly sober and smelling of vanilla extract, while Gabby was missing. What followed is jumbled in my memory. I remember the police came and asked me questions, and I remember feeling confused. and changing my story a lot.

I could have sworn it was Mrs. McCready. But there was Mrs. McCready on my sofa, stone cold sober and weeping into my mother's shoulder, while another police officer asked her for pictures of her daughter. In the end, all I could say was that we took the shortcut, and only I'd come out of the swamp. I was not helpful, even though I wanted desperately to be, but I felt so scared and confused.

that in the end they gave up their line of questioning entirely and went out to search. I overheard one officer say I was traumatized. That was what I heard for years to come. Traumatized. False memories and PTSD. The list of things I got diagnosed with following Gabby's disappearance could have filled a book. They did find Gabby, though, eventually. It was five days later, and there wasn't much left.

They said that her body was a short distance away from a blue ribbon that was trod into the mud, and ultimately that's what led them to her. Her fingernails had been melted off, and her mother had to ID what was left of the body, leading to a breakdown. The McCready house went up for sale, and I didn't see Mrs. McCready ever again. Later, Mr. Tully, Jeff's dad, got accused of the murder. There was no evidence, so he was never actually charged, but he'd been found in the swamp with a neighbor's daughter

and his pants around his ankles and some kitty porn in his den, so they got him for that and sent him to jail for a good long time. They fixed the hole in the fence, and there were no more disappearances. But whether it was because they fixed the hole or sent Mr. Tolley to jail, I don't know. There's one more part of my story, though, one I never told the cops or even my therapist. This is the reason I don't think my memories are false and why I don't think I was traumatized.

It happened the very next day at school, long before Jeff Tolley's dad was arrested and long before Jeff Tolley had any reason to try to clear up his name. I was sitting in my desk, doodling, when Jeff nudged me. He whispered, leaning toward me. Where's Gabby? I don't know, I muttered darkly. I felt upset and guilty.

No one yet knew she was missing, except the teacher. Everyone thought she was sick, whispered Jeff again. What? Who was that old lady you guys were talking to yesterday in the bog? It always makes life more pleasant when you have a good relationship with your neighbors. Even if they have their quirks and people. peculiar behavior, it's good to be on friendly terms with them. In this tale from author E. Blackburn, we meet a man who was neighbors with a married couple

on his street, but he's no longer friendly with them because, well, I'll let Peter Lewis fill you in on why these neighbors won't be socializing any time soon. It's hard to believe the troubles all started with something as simple as, Birdseed. One had seen Carl's wife for almost a week. Many guessed that she'd gone on a vacation or something. After two weeks, most figured that she'd been visiting a sick relative. Three weeks and no one talked about it anymore. A month missing and no one would stop talking about it. So goes the gossip of small towns, I guess. Two months in, everyone seemed to believe she'd left her husband of over a decade.

After four months, everyone just stopped talking about it, save for when Carl's little blue jeep wasn't parked in his driveway. Even then, people were quiet. No one disliked Carl exactly, but the situation seemed to be something we mere neighbors shouldn't change. chat about. Carl was a good-hearted, grey-haired guy who would always smile and nod if he drove by. He and his wife, Janice, usually kept to themselves, which wasn't odd for an older couple. Whenever I'd see his wife out and about, rare in and of itself, we would chat about idle things, things that didn't matter much in the end.

Why she painted her nails purple this week, how my dog was liking his raw diet and normal things like that. She was kind with honey blonde hair and short, clean nails. Carl was a man who didn't care for his front lawn. It was a lumpy hill with sparse grass. His wife, however, made a lovely, though tiny flower bed for her tulips. The mailbox was surrounded by a rainbow of little blossoms that burst open overnight. Pruning, watering, feeding her flowers, it was the only time I'd see her outside.

It was, she once said, why she wore her solitaire ring around her neck. If I lost this old thing, why I'd love. lose my head. That old thing, with its pretty blue stone and simple silver setting, were a constant around her neck. I never saw her without it. While Janice adored her tulips, the most outdoorsy coral seemed to get was when he'd step out on his front lawn and dump a huge scoop of bird seed in front of the tree in their front yard. in and out in under a minute.

He did this every day, even if it rained, even if it snowed, even after his wife stopped tending the flowers, even after she'd been gone for months, even after the neighborhood gossips got to talking. I'd lived right across from Carl and his wife. His birdseed and her tulips were a common thing, like when I'd take their mail or newspaper to the mailbox or drag trash bags all the way to the curb. It was neighborly to do, and I'd get thanked now and then. Carl was pretty grateful for my help after his wife was gone, especially when he'd bring those burlap bags of birdseed into the house. It used to take both he and his wife to do it. Petite Janice wasn't the best at helping Carl lug those big bags into their house.

That's how the three of us started talking, really. I'd heft some big bags of bird seed for them. The three of us got along well. His wife, those rare times when she could, would drop off a casserole or something on my stoop. I'd bring back the dishes, washed and cleaned, with their men. or trash, it was our normal, and I never was one to turn down a good meal. Even after Janice was missing, I'd still find a casserole on the stoop. Carl was a damn fine cook, it seemed.

Then everything completely went to shit when my doxend slipped his collar on our nightly walk. Stumpy-legged lump that he was, he was still. growing and walks didn't always burn off that energy of his. He was off like a rocket down the street, scaring the shit out of birds as he went. Tartouf, here. He tore down the road, ears back, tongue lolling out like a hunk of boiled ham. I only caught up to him when he started rooting around in Carl's yard. He had to have startled a half-dozen crows who caught and flapped into the high-bushed.

branches ferociously, they'd get their food when I got my dog. Tartouf! Little sausage ignored me, tail going, eating away at the seeds, Carl tossed out. He was crunching away at what I assumed was a peanut. Little shit wasn't going to come when called, so up the hill I climbed, careful of the tulips, and hoisted him up by the scruff. He didn't yelp. He wasn't a wimp. Picking him up only made him crunch harder on the peanut. Tucking him into one arm, I pried the strangely soft peanut out of his little jaws.

I was ready to toss it back into the pile of seeds when I stopped. What I had in my fingers was soft with something hard in the middle. Whatever I pulled from my dog's mouth, it wasn't a peanut. It felt kind of meaty, kind of like rubber. Holding it up in the fading sun, still in Carl's front yard, crows overhead. I realized what my dog had had. It was widened at the sight of a small, shriveled fingertip. I bolted across the street, weiner dog in one hand, finger in the other.

The police were on my doorstep in under ten minutes. We talked for a bit, tartuff gnawing on a rawhide by my foot. Soon enough, Carl's little blue jeep rolled up the street. He was in cuffs after a few minutes. He had a jumbo bag of bird seed in his back seat. I was called in for more questioning, of course, but I couldn't tell the police anything more than what I had the day I called them. No one saw his wife for months, and everyone assumed that she'd left him. But never, in a hundred years, did anyone think this would happen.

I watched from my basement window, tartuff in my lap, as the police tape went up. I kept out of sight. There were so many plastic bags of evidence pulled from that house. I think I saw a cleaver. I know I saw a huge-ass meat grinder. A gurney with a misshapen body bag on top was carted out the front door. The police dug up the flower bed, the whole yard, the backyard, all of it. The neighborhood was a buzz for weeks after.

All about the man they thought they knew. about what he was hiding in his basement and his bird seed. According to the police report that had been released sometime later, Carl had been abducting older women around the area for God knows how long, mostly petite women with blonde hair. He'd been using the bird seed and the meat grinder to get rid of the parts he didn't want to keep. He used the empty burlap sacks to transport them into his own. bones, guts and the like.

The calves and feet from the knees down, he'd kept all their hair in a storage bin under his bed. There was a freezer full of feet, bonemeal, and crushed teeth. There were four women inside that house, but none of them were Janice. They had all been petite, older blondes. They had all had their lower. legs and blonde hair saved and they were all ground up like fucking meat in a back alley butcher shop. They were all well loved by their community.

But not a one of them were Janice. This all happened a few months back when I could still take Tartouf for walks without his stupid sweater. Even so, it took me a few days to get my thoughts together. on the matter. This crap didn't end with Carl's arrest and his M. I.A. wife, no. It ended in my kitchen last Tuesday night. You know how it goes sometimes not wanting to cook, not wanting to go out, not having the cash to order in. It was just one of those nights. And I was just looking for for dinner. Frozen pizza and chicken tenders were pushed aside when I saw a square tin covered in foil and out came a beautiful lasagna from who knows when. As much as I hated the idea of

eating something Carl has made hunger one out, I don't like wasting perfectly good food, damn my stomach. That lasagna, for the first few bites, layers of ground meat, ricotta, tomatoes and pasta, piping hot, piled high. Tartouf was munching away at his dinner, and I sat fork in hand for mine. Two forkfuls in, and one of my molars was lit with an ugly pain. My tongue confirmed that, yes, my tooth was chipped. I spat into my hand, my chair sliding back as I stood. I swear to God on high, I thought it was a pole tap that might have fallen into the damn dish.

I'd give my left arm for it to have been that, rinsing it under the sink, a second or so after. The links all snapped into place, and I dropped that thing into the sink. Bent over, my vomit was thick with tomatoes and bile. I'll never touch a goddamn lasagna again. What I'd spit into my palm, sparkling with tomato sauce, caked under the gem, sat a ring, a familiar, solitaire ring, with a pretty blue stone and simple silver setting. Ground up, a steaming hot dinner found what was left of Janice. In most families, there is usually that one person who is considered the black sheep,

the one who doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the clan. As we hear from author T.E. Parker, a girl grows up adoring her aunt, that one person who her parents want her to avoid. After all, who wants to have a psychic in the family influencing impressionable kids. Narrators Nicole Goodnight and Nicole Doolin read this tale for us, as the young girl learns a special secret from her aunt. It's a secret which simms. simply explains why you can't talk to the dead. My aunt was a con artist, and she learned from the best. Her father. Grandpa never made it big, but he lived for the game. Staying under the radar was probably what made sure he never did get caught.

Not once. He was so proud of that. Mom didn't take up the family business. She got religion instead and married a tax accountant. It's so ironic that it sounds like a joke, but it's true. Dad was the best for helping out with math homework. Mom's more colorful relations were kept at a figurative arm's leg throughout my childhood, lest they'd corrupt me into following a more interesting life path.

Aunt Cassie was the only one who could wiggle her way into my life. She was fully licensed as a psychologist, which made her a smidge more respectable. But Aunt Cassie used her ability to read a person in a whole different way, one probably not intended by the university who issued her degree. Aunt Cassie was a bona fide psychic. She had a shop in everything, crystals, herbs, candles, anything you needed to fill the mystic void in your life could be bought for a healthy markup at her little store.

There was even a private room in the back that was used for readings and seances. Because both my folks worked, I would often get dropped off at the shop where I would help Aunt Cassie out with those little shows. Anything from messing with the lights to knocking on walls. Playing with the thermostat was my idea, and it was an effective one. Customers came to get chills down their spine, didn't they? Why not provide? Cassie helped me become the skeptic I am today. Showed me all the behind-the-scenes sleight of hand stuff.

We'd watch daytime talk shows with magicians and mediums, and Cassie would explain every step from a basic rundown of cold readings to how to spot an audience plan. After one particularly convincing episode, I asked the natural question. Couldn't some of it be real? My aunt's reply was firm. The dead don't talk, kiddo.

Anyone who claims otherwise is blowing smoke out of their house. It was her conviction, more than anything that made me believe her. There was only one client I ever saw my aunt refuse. He was old, bald, and stooped, took his hat off when he came inside and twisted it in his hands as he talked. Cassie tinsed up immediately when she saw him. The man claimed to have worked in the prison systems, death row.

He had been responsible for carrying out the final punishments of the worst convicted criminals on the planet. In his old age, this tormented him, aided his soul. He wanted Cassie to contact the souls of the ones he'd killed, so he could apologize and beg forgiveness before he joined them. My aunt threw the most epic fit. I'd never seen her so mad. She hollered and threw things, shouting him from to get out, out, out, shut up, get out!

I hid under the counter with my hands over my ears until he left. Later, I thought her reaction was one of fear because of the man's job. An executioner has to be a con artist's worst fear. Eventually, I got found out. I wanted to put on a magic show for my folks, and stupidly I thought I'd do a medium bit where I pretended to talk to grandpa for mom since she missed him so much. Huge mistake.

Mom freaked the hell out and banned me from seeing her sister ever again. I left some textbooks at the shop, though, so I got to run in and grab them while mom fumed in the car outside. Aunt Cassie didn't even have to ask me what was wrong. She could read my face, after all. I gave her a hug and a teary snot-filled goodbye. She did tell me one last secret, though. Kiddo, there's a curse in this family that gets passed like a torch. I hope to whatever gods might be out there that I don't pass it on to you when I go.

We didn't get to talk again for more than nine years. That's when Facebook entered the popular public sphere and no parental ban could keep me from trying to reconnect. It was awkward. She'd had a tough go of life, diagnosed with a schizoid disorder that took her business from her. To pay bills, she went legitimate, and with her business went all her zest and playful passion for life.

One day I got home to a message waiting in my inbox that made my stomach drop to the floor. I dialed her number, already crying. No answer. Didn't stop me from dialing again and again and again. I was much too much of a mess to tell my mom. Police did that for me the next day. Car accident.

Drunk driver. The funeral was a blur. Relatives I'd never seen in the flesh packed the church. I sat between my pain. parents in the front row and racked my brain trying to figure out what it was my aunt wanted me to remember. We followed the hearse's cemetery in dead silence. The priest did the last little speeches and then I was left alone by her headstone still straining to remember. Snatches of my parents' conversation floated in and out of my attention span. If only Cassie hadn't been so

cryptic. I wasn't expecting such a small turnout. It's a shame. Small turnout? That bothered me. The service had practically been stuffed to the rafters. I turned around to say something and finally understood. Behind my parents, there was a whole host of people, all standing and staring dead ahead.

My parents weren't paying them the slightest attention. The priest muttered some soothing condolences and excused himself, walking right through the thick of the crowd without disturbing a single soul. At the head of the group, looking just like the day I'd seen her last was Cassie. All the rest and peace sentiment in the world wouldn't have done her any good. Her mouth was wide, wide, wide open. And just like that, I knew. I know what the family curses. I know why the dead don't.

pop. They're too busy screaming. Our episode has come to an end. Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep Podcast. If you would like to learn how you can hear the full-length version of this episode, featuring many more stories, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com and click on the season pass link. Purchasing a season pass will help support everyone who can tributes 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.