The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E04

Episode Date: March 1, 2015

It's episode 4 of Season 5. We have five tales this week featuring stories about compelling creatures, callous cuisine, and creepy communications. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "Scarecrow" written by Liam Hogan and read by David Ault. (Story starts at 00:04:40) "Mummer Man" written by David Sharrock and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:18:35) "Long Pig" written by Jack Blakeslee and read by James Cleveland. (Story starts at 00:43:40) "My Name is Jennifer and I Live Alone" written by J. Chastel and read by Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 01:01:10) "Flight 370" written by M.N. Malone and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:11:45) Click here to discover more about Brandon Boone's music Click here to learn more about Liam Hogan Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "Scarecrow" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2015. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Warning. This is a horror fiction podcast. Beware. It's intended for mature adults, not the faint of heart. Aware. Join us at your own risk. But close your eyes, tales of horror to frighten and disturb as the sleepless hours take past. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Season 5. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales this week, featuring stories about compelling creatures, callous cuisine, and creepy communications. I want to begin by thanking all the fans who sent kind and encouraging words about our growing success on iTunes. If you haven't heard, the No Sleep podcast recently broke in to the top 100 podcasts in the U.S. iTunes store. We reached the 85th spot early last week out of all the podcasts in any category.

I know it doesn't represent the entirety of the podcast world, but the U.S. iTunes store is probably the closest thing we have to a ranking of the world's top podcasts. And when you consider that the majority of the top 100 consists of a lot of well-known celebrity shows and podcasts consisting of terrestrial radio programs like the many NPR shows on there. The fact that our show, made by a bunch of unknowns, with practically no professional experience, has reached those lofty heights. Well, it's a tremendous feather in the cap of all the people who contribute to the show.

So to all the narrators, authors, musicians, and yes, even you wonderful listeners, congratulations. Give yourself a firm pat on the back for sharing in the show's success. Let's hope we can reach even higher ranks as time goes on. And speaking of the people who contribute to the show's success, I am proud to make a special announcement about our musical maestro, Brandon Boone. Brandon has been looking after the lion's share of the music on the podcast for quite some time now, and he has played a big part in the growth of the show. Brandon has recently produced his first solo album, and it features music which he has composed for the podcast.

He's taken some of his No Sleep musical scores and reworked and massage them to craft an album full of glorious lush sounds and rich ambient sounds, tracks. In fact, the music you're listening to right now is one of the songs on Brandon's album. The album is entitled, appropriately enough, sleepless, and by the time you're hearing this, it should be released and available on all the major distributors of digital music, like iTunes, Amazon, Google Play, etc. It will also be available at CD Baby and directly from Brandon's website. I'll post links in the show notes so you can check out the great work he's done. You know, I'm not able to pay Brandon anywhere near the kind of money his talent is worth,

so I hope you'll consider supporting what he does. And now, watch out iTunes. It's time to start another show. In our first tale, we pay a visit to a farm. A local farmer has enlisted the help of a stranger passing through his village. The task in question? Simply to walk to the top of a hill and touch the scarecrow standing there. As we'll soon learn from author Liam Hogan, it's far easier said than done, especially since the scarecrow seems to be exceedingly good at its job. Narrator David Alt reads the tale for us, so let's listen in and find out why it's more more than just the birds that want nothing to do with the scarecrow. There he is.

The farmer nodded. I looked up to the brow of the hill where the crucified figure stood under a steel-gray sky, shirt-sleeves flapping in the wind. And what exactly do you want me to do? I asked, not for the first time. The farmer smirked. Just touch him, if you dare. I've got 20 says you can't.

I couldn't see the snag. The ground was muddy from the recent rains, but I'd been through worse. I shrugged and climbed up onto the gate. Just touch him? I asked again. The farmer rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Well, now, if you feel that's not enough, I'd be much obliged if you could uproot him and drag him back down here. Estered his time.

I looked out over the field from my perch. The wheat was right, but there wasn't a bird to be seen. I wonder why it hadn't been harvested yet. The neighbouring fields was strewn with bent straw. I dropped lightly over the other side, a satisfying squelch as my boots took purchase and started up the hill. It all seemed a bit too easy. Farmers like Magaskell didn't give away their hard-earned money for free.

I looked back to where he stood, resting his arms on the gate, and he gave me a cheery wave. Perhaps there was a bull loose in the field. Just the sort of joke a farmer might try on a townie. I couldn't see one, but that proved nothing. You could have hidden a small battalion behind that hill. I felt my heart pounding and wondered how fast I'd be able to run if push came to shove. The ground was drier on the slope, and I'd just begun to pick up my pace when my army issue boot struck something.

and I had a sudden and all too vivid image of being thrown through the air, my limbs shredded by an antipersonnel mine or an unexploded cluster bomb. I slowly raved my boot to see the piece of flint hidden beneath. The wind stroked the wheat, making the heads bend in waves that sped towards the foreboding figure ahead. I scanned the darkening horizon, pretty bloody stupid marching to the top of a hill in the middle of a storm. I slowed my pace, reluctant to keep going, even though my brain was telling me to get it over with quickly.

Touched the scarecrow and back down the hill before the rain and lightning began. To hell without rooting it, the farmer could do his own dirty work. I imagined him appraising me from below, seeing my faltering steps, judging me on my weakness. I tugged the collar of my coat up and stamped my feet a couple of times to chase away the feeling of cold. An odd noise it made, like distant mortars being fired, the whom-b-wump, which would be the last sounds you ever heard if they were on target. But this was crazy. This was rural Bedfordshire, less than a hundred miles from London, not some god-forsaken Afghan hellhole. And yet I could feel the hairs on my neck stand on end and my breath caught in my throat. Perhaps the farmer was just plain psycho and was waiting with a double-barrelled shotgun until I was silhouette.

against the sky before letting fly. He'd seemed sane enough, if a little taciturn in the pub last night, until his eyes lit up when he'd heard I was ex-services, and he'd casually suggested I'd drop by his farm on my way out of the village. Maybe it was the land itself. What might be buried under the soil? Carcasses from the BSE epidemic? Anthrax spores?

Or a mass grave from a Viking raid the bodies with their arms. arms tied tightly behind their backs before being dispatched with cruel blows of the sword or axe. I shook the images from my head. You wouldn't farm on contaminated land, and if it was some ancient burial mound, well, what of it? The bones were hardly able to hurt me now. I must have been about halfway up that bleak and desolate hill when I ground to a halt once more, raising my hand above my eyes to get a better look at what awaited me. I was approaching the scarecrow from behind. It wore tattered trousers and a jacket with the arms half rolled up, leaving the shirt sleeves free to flap about the wooden pole. The head was made of straw beneath the grey

cap, but it looked almost like there was hair there as well. Oh Christ, maybe it wasn't made of straw at all. Maybe it was a corpse left to dry in the wind, its heart rattling around its empty chest, its eyes rotted and, oh, God damn it. Anyone would think that I was a little kid, listening wide eyes and open mouths to ghost stories around the campfire. It was just a scarecrow, an inanimate object to frighten away the birds, not grown men, not me. I slowly took another half step forward. Maybe it was better if I just asked the farmer what the catch was. He could hardly refuse to tell me, could he? I was in no fit state to negotiate the hazard, whatever it might be.

My heart was racing, my back was slick with sweat, my left leg trembled as if it had a mind of its own, and was busy remembering past injuries. Last nightmares. I should ask. And then I was marching almost. skipping back down the hill at full speed, grateful for every step I took away from the dark shape behind me. As I neared the gate, I slowed, suddenly wary of the farmer's reaction,

but he just stood there white-faced, without a trace of a grin. He held out a dull grey hip flask, which I gratefully received, taking a good gulp of the fiery liquid, before hopping back over the fence. The farmer eyed me narrowly. It sure is something, isn't it? I nodded slowly, uncertain exactly what he meant. There is any consolation. That's further than I or anyone else from the village got. He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.

Even tried to take the tractor up there, flatten the bugger, but, well, we'll pass it on the way. I followed him along the edge of the field. We stopped at a gate. Look. He said, pointing down to some seed that had been spilled on the ground. It formed a neat line exactly where the gate passed over it. All the seed on this side of the fence, gone. eaten by the birds or mice or whatever.

All the seed on that side of the fence. Untouched, not a single bloody bird. They won't even fly over the field. He shook his head. This is the gate I tried to drive the tractor through. There were a set of tram lines through the crop, initially heading straight up the hill, then quickly wavering before veering dramatically off to one side. I craned my head over the fence and saw the tractor wedged at an angle in the hedge some 20 or so yards further along. I were a lucky not to kill myself.

I felt the tractor tip as I wrenched the wheel. Not sure how he got through the hedge, it's all a bit of a blur, but the tractor ain't coming out that way. Not unless I cut the edge down, which I thought of doing. I suppose I could tow it. I don't understand. What's causing all of this? He turned and stabbed his blunt fingers up the hill. That thing.

That bloody scarecrow. Best scarecrow you'll ever have, the gypsy said. Guaranteed bird free. The farmer spat. Nobody and nothing has been able to enter that field since he put it up. No, all that wheat's going to go to waste. I shouldn't really have expected you to do any better. I bristled at this.

Hadn't I gotten further than anyone else? But how far had I got? Not much more than halfway up the hill, that's for sure. I could get your tractor for you. He turned, a pained expression on his face. Yes, you sure about that? I trembled and suddenly realized I couldn't. Not today, anyway.

Not as much. Thanks for the offer, though. He gazed off into the distance. I hung my head. Look, I shouldn't have done that to you. It was mean, but I could hardly tell you, could I? Had to let you try on your own. Oh, damn.

Will you come back to the house? There's hot soup on the stove. We trudged in silence to the small farmyard. I felt drained, cold and weary, my mind numb. But as the farmer pushed the heavy wooden door aside, a border collie leapt up at us and I felt the warmth of the stove, even from the kitchen door. Daff pot, the farmer said, as he stroked the dog's head affectionately.

Only six months old and ain't a patch on his mother. But there you go. Refuses to leave the farmyard, never mind going anywhere near the scary man on the head. hell. Maybe not so daft after all. Make yourself at old man, I'll get your bowl. I shed the jacket and thought about removing my muddy boots, but Magaskel wasn't removing his, so I left them on. I sat on a wooden bench at the rough table, and he brought out a hunk of bread on a chopping board before plonking something more like a stew than a suit before

me. I ate ravenously, feeling the warmth and energy flow back. Have you tried shooting it down? He shook his head. You can't get a steady aim on that thing. Even from outside of the field. Not that my shotgun would do any damage from there. Burning it? I said between mouthfuls.

Ha! Well, that would get rid of it, but it would take out the whole crop as well. Besides, you can't even burn stubble these days without a pyramid. I thought for a moment. What about the gypsy? What about him? Have you tried to find him? Surely he'd be able to take the scarecrow down.

Oh, no doubt he could. At a price. Which, hell, I'd be willing to pay. But they don't exactly leave a forwarding address. Best I can hope is that it'll be back next spring. That'll be two crops wasted. It'll be too late to sow by then. Won't it seed itself?

It might, but it won't weed itself. It'll be okay maybe for animal feed, but now else. I was silent. gears whirring in my brain but with little effect. You done, the farmer asked. Uh, yes, thanks. I handed him my empty bowl. Look, I'm sorry, don't be.

He shook his head. You did your best. My own stupid fault. Never trust a tinker. At the door I shouldered my pack. Best be getting on, I said as I ruffle the neck. the border collie. The farmer nodded. Where next? I shrugged, suddenly unable to meet his eye. Northampton, I replied. It wasn't on my route, but the thought of another two weeks hiking,

even if it was for charity, left me cold. Walk for heroes. Some hero I'd turned out to be. A small detour to somewhere with pubs and people and rooms with showers wouldn't upset my plans too much if I did decide to continue. And even though my pack was heavy and my gammy leg complained bitterly, I left the farm yard at a brisk jog. I didn't even look back, averting my eyes from the brow of the hill as I passed,

eager to put some miles between me and that damned scarecrow. These days, with e-books, Kindles, and audiobooks, it's not easy to find people interested in the good old-fashioned printed word. But in this tale from author Stan Studens, we join in with a group of book lovers at their book club meeting. But an old and mysterious book soon reveals something very sinister and an incantation brings forth a bizarre entity.

Narrator Peter Lewis performs the tale for us about this mind-melting creature known as the Mummer Man. start at the beginning, probably as good a place as any. A bibliophile. A love. I love reading, and I love collecting this too. It's changed now, of course. I joined a group, local book club, in the hopes of meeting new people. I'd just come out of a shitty, shitty relationship. and I was low and feeling pretty hollowed out. Most of my

friends were her friends, and when we split, they mostly sided with her, so I was single and friendless. Thought I'd start over,

make... I saw online some life hack about local interest groups as a way to find like-minded fellows. So naturally, I thought, what about a book club? It was a good club, but it's changed lately. It's much more serious, not so much fun as it was to start with. A lady called Tara ran the book club. She was single and pretty, but also pretty strange, a hippie guru.

I decided early on that she and I were not going to socialize outside the club. The club met once a fortnight here in her cottage. All low beams exposed stonework and log fires. The first couple of meets were okay, of fun, like I said. The people work quite nice, really. Each session we took, we took it in turns to bring a book we intended to read. Everyone else had to source the same book and read it ready for the next meet. We actually did that, too.

It wasn't one of those book clubs where everyone used the book thing. as an excuse to meet and chew the fat. I liked the fact we read the books and then talked about them. I liked the fact they were proper bibliophiles like me. I liked that. But I don't like it now. It was a happier time. It's so dark now, not at all.

I'm doing it. It was my turn to choose a book. So I went for a walk. popped into a flea market bookstore, a place I hadn't been to before. It was musty, just like I like it. Downstairs was local history, upstairs fiction, hobbies, and children's literature. The staircase between floors was open plan and turned a corner halfway. Here was a half landing and a bookcase marked Esoteria.

I have a look. Weird books about mysteries, magic, miracles. I pick up an Eric von Daniken, ancient aliens. I decide to make this the book club's next read. Before leaving, my eye falls on something poking out from under the bookcase, I pull out a crusty old dome, leather-bound. and cracked.

I love this kind of thing, so I peel it open to find I'm reading a black magic guide. I buy the books, 50 cents each, dog-eared and old, and that's the way I like it. Next book club session is next evening. I take out the Von Danigan. This is our next read.

I get some groans. The old tome is in my bag and Steve spots it. What's that? I share the tome around and everyone has a look. It raises some eyebrows, especially when Steve turns to the back and unfolds a Ouija board. It's printed on the back cover, which is bifold. What's this? Steve asks.

He shows me and the others. It's a poem. written around the edge. Dost thou seek? Barking in the gimcrack land. What a gawk, that son of Pan. Let's haul him forth. Let's drag him down.

Let's speak together a timbers clan, calling forth the Mummer Man. Let's say together that back and all hoi, hoi, two, three, around and round, All fingers now upon the planch it. Speak again with voices dulcet. Call you. Debate. Play with the board and intone the chant or not. I wasn't fussed, but Terra wouldn't.

She was frightened. But the others are skeptics. Don't believe the mumbo-jumbo, so we give it a go with a grin and a laugh. Steve and me and anyone who wants to join in. We put fingers on the planchet and recite the chant. When we reach the last word, the planchet doesn't move and nothing happens. I get bored and put the book away.

We get on with the rest of the evening. Terra is tense. What her problem is. There's nothing in the Ouija board. tell her it's nonsense. She's trembling. I laugh. I tell her I'd go put the book in my car if it makes her feel better.

She wouldn't answer. Annoying. So annoying. And I said that's annoying. We use her house, but she's a useless hippie. See him? She cries out. Who?

The mummer man. Tara's bullshit act, I call it. Uh, yeah, okay. Someone clears the air with a smirk. Shall we get back to the books? But Terra is not letting go. A quivering finger toward the door, he's coming. Be cliches to embellish the Terra drama.

attention seeking. Always the same. Take out my phone. What are you doing? Getting a photo of the mummer man. What else? Then, everything changes. Clickety click, everything changes, lickety split.

Imagine you were living a life when one day you find a door to another world. But that world, is reality and yours is a sham. Your life is delusion in rules and truths written for by a liar whom you admire, like watching your killer slide the knife across your belly, dipping the tip into the button, pushing, pushing, so that everything sinks like a piece of elastic

to show the curve of space. See how the blood bubbles up. None of it is real. Only the pain is true. This is how I felt. You can buy my feeling, if you like, 50 cents to you. I don't know what he is, but he's here now. Where Terra said he would, the hallway dashing into the room small.

shapeless wrapped in brown, a wild mane and tiny feet flapping. His mouth is filled with sharp little teeth and a tongue like a swollen slug. He screams like a moon calf. His eyes bulge and roll as they land on us. In turn, he claims us by name. And wants his fun, we scream to clamber up. the backs of our chairs like chimpanzees curse and trip in our haste to get the fuck away. He tears through the room, then goes through the other door we can hear slapping as he runs.

His screaming fades to a faraway mumble. Would you like to see him? Describe the sounds I made. A scream. Like a pig. You stuck it with a knife, sliced it sideways and bled it in a bucket. He's over me now, making sometimes in my head like a smell. I'd like to sleep, but let me.

He wants me to do this, and then maybe he'll send me into a nightmare where we can spend some time alone. It's been a while since he first appeared in the night, little goblin-mumberman screaming his delight. We all ran for the door. Some were giggling, all part of a wonderful hoax, a silly mask, a funny man playing the part by me and Steve, probably. They hadn't seen the door to reality was open. The lie. Terra was first. Skinny legs running.

She knew the truth. She threw the door open, but no street or night. Only her bedroom were upstairs. Nobody remembered going upstairs. We wanted out, not up. We charged downstairs. They were pale with that sick feeling. What the fuck are you two up to?

Jim, to me and Steve, I grabbed the front door and throw it open. Let me out into the night out. Such sweet. I'm in her bedroom. The others behind her staring at me. The fuck. Jim scowls eyes so wide. I can see the fleshy.

read. There's the Mummer Man Larking in the Gimcrack land. What a gawk, that son of Pan. Let's haul him forth. Let's drag him down. And it's

very dark and cold how I got here. Don't remember how I got here. I suppose the mummer man delivered me. No. Never was. She looked like wood and pushed it down her throat. She has to look up now or she'll choke on her neck.

He made her hurt with those hooks. She gargles like she's drowning in pig fat. But he won't stop. Been days, I think. Hungry. But what is? food. All I know is this. You listen to it. It might make you feel. Now we're downstairs walking with our chins down a line of naughty children. He wanted the air to be cold so that our eyeballs would freeze.

He'd pop them out and slip them in a cup and crack them. like eggs with a silver spoon. Then he'd ask us, one by one, if we'd be so kind as to bite off our fingers and serve them on a plate. Tasty soldiers to dip in the goo. It's only a bit of blood,

so please don't cry. You're spoiling dinner for everyone else. He'd run in circles. hallway, living room, dining, kitchen, hallway, screaming and screaming, eyeing us to check we're good. Jim stopped speaking when the mummer man kissed him. His head is a cave, the edges quiver. He's gone larking in the gimcrack land where something bad will do bad things.

to him until there are no tears left. Can I go home? I sound. I was little, and Mommy didn't like my muddy trousers. I want mom. Steve growls. He's an animal now. From Never Never Land, naked and squatting as a fawn, pulling bits off.

Left leg first. He has to be. twist the long bone and I hear his knee pop like a cap. Surrey rhyme, the mummer man mangled father time. Steve is saying a pretty, there's a lot of blood on the floor. He's sitting in it. The mummer man watches me with his visible eye while he sucks it up. through a straw.

Mom wouldn't like a mess. Shakes his leg to empty the blood. He's cleaning it up. That back. Maybe if I do, then I can go home. Or I don't know what else to say. Hell is done. It makes me cry and shuffle until there's wall at my back.

nowhere left. He wants you, you to watch. Like, too, I'm his favorite. So he grants me a wish into the sham. That's why he left me for last. His fingers will feel strange in my hair as they tug. Blood will go in my eyes when the clumps come out And then it will be even darker He doesn't like me screaming So I'll have to Hook my mouth At either side

On finger here On finger there Tongue As hard as I can Healed it apart Able to see anymore Anyway, I won't want to see what comes after that. A Pitch, a tug.

You may feel a little prick. Something with my jawbone. He's making. Needs it for the Kudigra. Keep my fingers for feeling holding up my top. 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 nosleeppodcast.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 next week for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.