The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E05

Episode Date: March 8, 2015

It's episode 5 of Season 5. It's episode 5 of Season 5. We have five tales this week featuring stories about ghoulish games, grasping groups, and glassy graves. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales. "I Used to Hack Baby Monitors" written by Manen Lyset and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:03:45) "The Puzzlers' Box" written by Andrew Harmon and read by Nichole Goodnight & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:19:55) "The Atlas Room" written by Leonard Petracci and read by Mike DelGaudio & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:38:00) "The D&D Group" written by Fernando Espino and read by David Cummings & Mike DelGaudio & Rock Manor & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:54:35) "Madness Above the Clouds" written by Michael Marks and read by Peter Lewis & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:41:15) Click here to discover more about Podcasting 101 Click here to discover more about the Sonic Society Click here to discover more about Manen Lyset Click here to discover more about Michael Marks Click here to discover more about Andrew Harmon Click here to sign up for the mailing list for author Leonard Petracci Click here to discover more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to discover more about Rock Manor Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "The Atlas Room" 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. Close your eyes, tales of horror to frighten and disturb. Join us as the sleepless hours take past.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Season 5. Episode 5. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have Five Tales this week, featuring stories about ghoulish games, grasping groups, and glassy graves.

I had the pleasure of recording two interviews this week for other podcasts. For some reason, people seem to want to know what I have to say about podcasting and audio drama. Yes, it baffles me too. The first was a return visit with Jay from Podcasting 101. We talked about the move to full-time podcaster and how the show continues to evolve. Then I spoke with a gentleman you're familiar with as he's a regular narrator for us. David Alt is the co-host from The Sonic Society, a group of dedicated individuals. who both produce and discuss the world of audio drama. David interviewed me for their Sonic Speaks segment,

and we discussed what makes audio dramas through podcasting so compelling, and how the No Sleep podcast fits into that world. Both interviews will be coming out in the coming weeks, so I'll be sure to make mention of them when they get released, both on the show and on our social media sites. Speaking of which, this would be a good time to remind everyone that you can keep up with all the news about the show by liking us on Facebook and following us on Twitter. I've noticed we've been receiving some very kind reviews over on iTunes as well, so all of that kind of interaction is very much appreciated. As you'll hear me say on my interview on Podcasting 101, it's the word of mouth advertising that you, the listeners, are doing, that's helping us grow a moment.

much larger audience. So keep up the great work and continue to let others know about what we do here. And what is it we do here? Ah yes, we tell you scary stories. Why don't we start some right now? In our first tale, we meet a group of high school friends, guys who like to mess with others through pranks and other shenanigans. But as we learn from author Man and Man Lyset, a devilish prank involving new parents in their neighborhood soon becomes a far more serious situation than they had anticipated. It won't take long to understand why one of the guys now uses the past tense regarding the prank. You see, he states, I used to hack baby monitors. When I was in high school, my friends and I had a peculiar pastime.

Like any teenage delinquents, we like to cause trouble. We weren't vandals, we didn't deal drugs, and we certainly didn't bully kids in our school. No, we like to scare the living shit out of new parents by hacking their baby monitors. We were insufferable little punks who thought we were too good to get caught, and that our little acts of mischief would go unpunished. One night, however, I learned my lesson and realized that I wasn't quite as bulletproof as my tremendous adolescent ego made me out to be. Dimitri, Kurt, and I went to the same school, shared many of the same classes, and hung out almost every evening after Chow Time. We watched prank shows, played video games, talked about who had the nicest rack in school.

One evening we were trading scary stories at the park. Kurt shared the classic story about the single mother who heard a haunting voice on her baby monitor. Like most horror stories, it sounded like total bullshit, but Dimitri told us it had happened to his mom once. On her own monitor, she'd heard a neighbor singing to her baby. Apparently it was possible to accidentally tap into someone else's frequency. In an instant, a light bulb turned on in each of our heads. When you're close enough to someone, you don't need words to know what that person is thinking, and we could all tell we were thinking the exact same thing.

We were going to buy a baby monitor and screw with people. Pardon the pun, but hack, hack, a baby monitor is child's play. All you need to do is find a device on the same frequency as yours. Never one to do things half-assed, I purchased a high-end monitor with a frequency dial so we could prank as many targets as possible. The following night we took to our bikes, roamed the neighborhood, and found our first victim. We could see the nursery from the suburban home second floor window. Dmitri grabbed the baby monitor and began tuning it to different frequencies until we heard breathing. I remember feeling excited as our plan finally came to fruition.

Dmitri pressed the button and began exhaling heavily into the microphone using a demonic voice. The light in the master bedroom turned on the gone almost immediately, and we heard a shrill scream. Laughing our asses off, we quickly rode off down the street, so we wouldn't get caught. We repeated the prank several times over the course of the following weeks, each taking turns talking through the monitor. Not wanting anyone to get wise to our little game, we chose different houses every time. People's reactions were priceless.

Some mothers would reply in a panic. Others seemed to know it was a hoax and told us to shut up. And one poor woman even started sobbing uncontrollably, begging us not to hurt her baby. I feel bad about that last one now that I'm older, but it was hilarious to me back then. My friends and I mimicked her high-pitched bawling And desperate cries for mercy for weeks afterwards Yeah, we were royal dicks But karma's a bitch

And I got what was coming to me one night Kurt and Dimitri were busy studying for their midterm So I went out on my own By then we'd gotten to be pretty much everyone in the surrounding area, so I decided to venture off across town and into unfamiliar territory. Finding a target wasn't difficult. You just had to look for cars with baby seats, houses with overly colorful cartoon-themed curtains, or toys left in the yard. I came across a house that fit all three criteria and parked my bike out of view.

Playing with the tuner, I eventually found the right frequency. I could hear the sound of a baby snoring very lightly. Devious little smirk pushed its way onto my lips, and my heart began pounding with excitement. It was my time to shine. I whispered into the monitor, using the creepiest voice I could muster. The house remained dark and lifeless. I figured the homeowners hadn't heard me. I said, louder this time.

Nothing. Just the sounds of crickets chirping and the occasional dull roar of a car driving down the street. It was a little odd. Parents usually reacted much quicker than that. I began feeling a little nervous and somewhat exposed. You know, like when you suddenly realize some sort of. creepers gawking at you. It was getting late, and I had a long bike ride home. Just as I was about to give up and leave, I heard a strange, moist, gurgling sound coming from the

monitor. The quiet, rhythmic snores ceased, and I assumed the baby had woken up and was about to start crying. Instead, a man spoke to me. he said softly. My stomach pirouetted at his words. How did he know my name? I felt sick. Something was very wrong, and I could feel it in my bones. I glanced up at the nursery window and saw a silhouette standing there watching me.

Had he been there the whole time? The air was thick and difficult to inhale, though perhaps fear was making it hard to breathe. My body quivered uncontrollably as a sense of dread poured into every inch of me. I climbed onto my bike, peddling desperately to get away. Part of me thought I was overreacting, but the overwhelming need to flee overpowered my rational mind. continued the man, even as I turned the corner. I flew down the street, not stopping until I reached a busy boulevard. Surrounded by cars and a few late-night joggers, I felt safe, whispered the man,

still talking through the baby monitor in my pocket. A passer-by gave me a nasty look as I yelped loudly in fear, practically ripping my hoodie and my frantic attempt at removing it. To the stranger, I must have looked like some snoddy kid tripping balls on something. He didn't know I was in genuine distress, so I don't blame him for walking off with an insulted huff, though I wish he had offered to help me instead. After stuffing the hoodie into my backpack, I noticed my name scrawled on the back. It was my fucking school jacket.

No wonder that bastard knew my name. Then it occurred to me that baby monitors were fairly short-range, so I was obviously being followed. I nervously glanced around to try to identify my stalker. Was it the empty-looking van down the street? That guy walking his dog? The car that had just driven by? Either way, the last thing I wanted was to hear that voice again, so I turned off the device

and started peddling towards my home. Fear had heightened my senses, and I began to notice every motion of the trees and the breeze, every crackle of twigs under my wheels, and every car that zipped past me. I flinched whenever anyone came near, paranoid that whoever had to be. spoken to me through the baby monitor was going to catch up. Fortunately, I made it home without incident. I parked the bike in my garage and crawled up the stairs to my bedroom. In one careless motion, I tossed my backpack and the baby monitor in the corner of my room and dove under my sheets like an Olympic swimmer. It doesn't matter how old you are. Nothing feels.

safer than being under your blanket. I closed my eyes, hoping I'd be able to calm down enough to catch a few hours of rest before class. But then I heard static coming from the monitor across the room. The monitor that was supposed to be off, said the voice, which still haunts my nightmares. Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink that night. I was too frightened to get out of bed until sunrise. When I got up, my first order of business was to remove the battery from the monitor and throw it in the trash. I didn't want anything to do with it anymore.

I came up with an excuse to give my buddies so they wouldn't think I was a huge pussy. With massive bags under my eyes, I got dressed, had breakfast, and we were. went to school. It wasn't until a few days later that I saw the house on the news. In an interview, a police officer explained that the small family who had been living in the house had been found in their beds. Necks slid open. I had been outside when it happened. The killer had heard me on the baby monitor and decided to fuck with it. me. It was definitely a wake-up call, and I thank my lucky stars that I hadn't gotten the shit murdered out of me. I was too busy feeling thankful that I survived to feel bad about the family

that hadn't. Empathy, like wisdom, comes with age. Now that I'm an adult with a wife and a daughter, I truly understand the consequences of my actions and the severity of the situation I put myself in as a tremendously stupid teenage boy. That dreadful night, I thought I reached the epitome of fear, but it was just the tip of the iceberg. As a father, I now know that fear thrives and multiplies when there's something more precious than your own life at stake. I can't say for sure whether the killer found me again after all these years

or whether a new breed of idiots had the same idea as my friends and me that I now understand what true terror is. Last night, I heard something on our baby monitor that sent chills into my very soul, shackling me with a paralyzing fear that I doubt will ever leave me. Whether it's the old-fashioned pen and paper method or the new versions on apps and smartphones, the hobby of puzzle solving continues to entertain people. Crossword puzzles, Sudoku, it's all a lot of fun.

But as we hear from author Andrew Harmon, When one puzzle aficionado inquires about an ad she sees in a puzzle book, it sets in motion a series of events which will force her to confront the most dangerous puzzle of all. Narrator Nicole Goodnight reads the tale for us about how the woman faced, the Puzzler's Box. I should have never responded to the small, mysterious advertisement I found in the back of that crossword magazine. You see, I'm what you call a puzzler. Crosswords, Sudoku, Cryptoquips, these are my indulgences. We're a small community, as puzzlers, but dedicated.

You may be familiar with my personal hero, Will Shorts, the editor for the New York Times Crossword and NPR's resident Puzzlemaster. It may be a bit of a dull hobby to some, but for vehement puzzlers such as myself, a real challenge just cannot be ignored. That's why, when flipping through the last few pages of an old crossword book that I had solved months prior, I could not resist calling the number at the bottom of this curious ad. The Puzzlers box. Puzzlemasters are dying to solve it, yet no one has cracked the case. Do you have what it takes to survive the ultimate enigma?

the greatest challenge of your life awaits. Call 317-154. When the call went through, an automated system answered and asked only for my name. No address, no callback number. Needless to say, I was skeptical. But that very night, around 3 in the morning, I was awoken by a phone call that jarred me from my sleep. I answered with an irritated, only to be.

be greeted by the same robotic voice from before. The apostle will be good in three days. Then the call ended. I wiped my bleary eyes and sat up in bed, pulling up my call history. It was the same number I had dialed, so I looked at the area code. Indianapolis, Indiana. Eastern Standard Time, same as me. So why on earth would they have scheduled the call at such a godforsaken hour?

The next night I received another call, this time at 2 in the morning. Your puzzle will be good in two days. The robot said, and the call ended. Now I was growing frustrated. I could forgive them for calling me the first night, even if it was a massively inconvenient time. But what need was there to call me every night and remind me of the damn thing? I was starting to wonder if this puzzler's box was some type of scam. The following night, at one in the morning, that monotonous bastard voice drone.

Your puzzle will begin tomorrow. Thank you for the fucking update. I cursed and slammed my phone back down on the nightstand. The following morning, I wasn't sure what to expect. Would I receive the Puzzler's box in the mail? I hadn't provided any shipping address. Was this something that would be conducted over the phone in the middle of the night? I went through my usual workday with a grim sort of anxiety, uncertain of what I was expecting.

The whole experience so far had left a sour taste in my mouth, and I almost wanted it all to fall through in the end. I received no packages on my desk at work. There was nothing in the mailbox when I returned home that evening. I sat through dinner, chewing my baked chicken breast with an uneasy tension. I showered, wasted a few hours in front of the TV, brushed my teeth, and went to bed just after ten. No mail, no phone calls, no puzzle had arrived. I awoke to a shrill siren in my ear, and when I sat up, I bashed my head into something solid just a few inches above me.

I was surrounded in darkness on all sides and could hardly move my limbs. I was still in my pajamas, but I was clearly not in my bed. I lie atop something hard and flat. I flailed my arms. My knuckles beat against solid dry wood. I began to panic completely blind in that darkness. My hands snaked up and down my torso, hoping that by some chance I had my cell phone around me. My fingertips skimmed over a small plastic tube and I clenched it against my palm, desperately trying to feel out its dimensions.

It was about two or three inches long with a metal cap in ridges. A lighter, it had to be. My hands were trembling so feverishly that it took me a half dozen tries to spark the flint. The orange flame illuminated my sarcophagus. I was in a coffin. Dear God, I was in a coffin. I held the lighter in one hand. and pushed the other against the lid,

pushing with the help of my knees to free myself. But the lid would not budge. Surely the coffin hadn't been nailed shut. Surely I wasn't underground. Why, God, would I awaken in a coffin? The ceiling of the coffin was criss-crossed with long, shallow scratches. The wood was...

splintered by gouges and hairline spider webbing cracks. Dried brown splatters of blood were smeared across the wood, and the sight of it caused me to drop the lighter. Complete blackness enveloped me again. I began to softly sob. After a few minutes of helpless weeping, I began to shout. I beat my palms against the wood.

I screamed for help until my throat felt like it were ready to tear apart. My lungs burned. Then I was reduced to cursing, ferocious string of profanity I had ever put together. This anger tapered off, though, and the realization crept upon me that the air in the coffin was stale and hot, that it was a finite resource, that all my yelling and, Hissing had used up a stupid amount of it. Oxygen. Precious oxygen.

Something that I had taken for granted. My very breath. So easy to come by in the world outside of this cursed box. This cursed box, the puzzler's box, I remembered, surely this was a result of that damned advertisement I had called. A glimmer of hope dawned within me. Perhaps there is a solution. All puzzles have solutions. I found the lighter beside me and sparked the flame once more.

My neck craned side to side in search of clues. I spotted a small block of text carved into the wood in the very corner of the board behind my head. I bent my legs and scrunched myself down towards the foot of the coffin so that I could twist my head. head around and read the tiny lettering. Good evening and welcome to the puzzler's box. Rest assured that there is escape, but beware. Light is fueled by fire, fire fueled by air. Arrange the tiles below you to open all the locks.

You have limited time to solve it a couple hours. Yours at least. Solve the riddle, crack the code. That's all you have to do. But I won't waste any more of your time. Here's your only clue. You share this with your brother and pay it to the priest. I let off the lighter immediately because I could feel the very air around me being sucked in and obliterated into that tiny flame.

I kicked and groaned and smashed my fist into the wooden walls around me. What kind of fucked up sadistic son of a bitch put me here? What could anyone possibly gain from burying strangers alive? I flicked on the lighter once more and examined the desperate scratches in the ceiling of the coffin. It was proof that I was not the first victim. It was proof that others had died right here where I lay. I spotted something lodged into the wood grain and reached out to pluck it out. A fingernail.

I shut off the lighter and had to brace myself to keep from vomiting. It took a lot of work to maneuver in the tight confines of the coffin, jamming my shoulders into the corner and squeezing my knees up against my hips while I rolled onto my stomach. The tiles that would unlock this death box were below me, according to the riddle. I cannot describe for you the physical strain involved in lifting my body up off the floor of the coffin to survey what lay beneath me. It was a grid of one inch by one inch wooden tiles that could be shifted around in their frame and rearranged like a sliding puzzle. except it did not appear to me that these tiles would form any kind of picture.

Each tile had a series of small dots tremble onto their face. But what on earth could they be? I let out a pent-up sigh and instantly cursed myself for breathing so freely. I needed to conserve oxygen. Every breath I took and every breath I took and every single. second of illumination that filled the coffin was converting my precious supply of oxygen into carbon dioxide. On the floor, just above the tile puzzle, I noticed another small string of words carved into the wood. Which do you fear more? Darkness or death? I turned off the lighter and

lay on my stomach for several minutes, thinking in the dark, sliding puzzle with dark. Godded tiles. It had to be a cryptic language, most likely Morse code, perhaps braille or binary. Unfortunately, I was only familiar with the first option. My brain was racking itself over the clue. What do you share with your brother? A family, blood, DNA, a house, parents. It could be any number of things, and all I could think of to pay a priest was tithing. Maybe you've already solved the riddle, but try it when you're cramped in a tiny wooden box.

The walls felt like they were constricting tighter around me. My lungs burned from the dusty, still air, as if I was breathing in the very darkness itself. Tendrils of claustrophobia were pulling taut around my throat. The silence was clogging my ears. I could hear my own blood coursing through my veins. Parents, levines, tides, I could feel the earth swallowing me down deeper. Mom, Dad, prayers. Jesus Christ.

how many minutes had wasted away. Church, houses, worship, death. I won't survive. I clenched my eyelids tight. I tried to remember the few years I had spent in Catholic school as a child. Tried to recall the drab recitations of Latin, the taste of communion wine on my tongue. The dark wooden box I was trapped in called forth a memory of the confession booth.

What confessions do you bring to me today, my girl? Father Burroughs asked from the shadows on the other side of the partition. My 11-year-old self-said meekly. Three Hail Marys, my dear. Father Burroughs spoke. Our fathers. Of course. I jolted with excitement, smacking the back of my head on the wall.

the coffin lid. What you share with your brother, what you pay to the priest, our father, my absolution, my salvation, it lay just below me. I felt the wooden tiles pressed against my ribs. Struggling, I lifted myself back up onto my elbows and stared down at the tiles below me, trying to decipher what I could from the shallow dots drilled into the tiles. Many of the tiles reflect in droplets of murky red where others had attempted to solve the puzzler's box with torn and bleeding fingers. My hands were shaking as I frantically rearranged the tiles, praying that the answer would be in Morse code. The tiles were dusty and old. Their corners often catching against one another so that they were difficult to slide into place.

I did this in short bursts of firelight, knowing that every second the flame shined, another breath was stolen from my lungs. Often the metal guard of the lighter grew so hot that it burned my thumb, and I dropped it, having to claw around for it in the dark. The going was slow, and I could feel the poisonous carbon gas growing more potent, more deadly by the second. I can't say how long it took.

This pattern of lighting the flame, moving a few tiles, and then gulping down thirsty breaths in the dark. I slid the last tile into place, spelling out the old prayer in its entirety. A metallic click sounded on one side of the box. Once the coffin lid was unlocked, I was able to pry it aside, just enough to force myself sideways through the gap. Black mud collapsed into the earth around me as I clawed my way towards freedom.

Dirt and bugs gathered in my mouth while I fought against the tide of shifting soil. I burst forth from the ground just as the sun was rising. Dawn, I will never forget. I survived the Puzzlers' Box. It's usually an arduous task to find a place to live, especially when you're in college and trying to find off-campus accommodations. For one college student, an ad on Craigslist seems ideal. Author Leonard Petrachi explains, however,

that as with a lot of ads on Craigslist, things aren't always as good as they first appear. Narrator Mike Delgado reads the story for us as we learn about the strange chores the new tenant is required to perform, chores which cause him to discover the Atlas Room. It was my third year of college when I switched from living in a dorm to a place off campus. The past year I had spent as a residential advisor to earn some spare cash, but two weeks before the start of the semester, my boss was fired and a new supervisor hired.

My old boss had lost much of the documentation, including the papers that stated I had worked for the past year, and in the transition I found myself without income or living space for the coming year. After a few unsuccessful calls, I determined none of them had any vacancy available, cursed myself for not moving off campus the prior year, and reluctantly logged into Craigslist. My college is in a city, and it is an expensive city. The exorbitant prices at bars had already given me some firsthand experience to the cost of living, but it did little to dull the shock of rent prices. Rooms half the size of my dorm were double the cost,

and a personal bathroom quickly became a luxury my wallet could not support. I spent an hour pouring over listings, checking different combinations of keywords, locations, and price ranges before I finally found a property even worth licking into. I stared at the page trying to see if the landlord had forgotten to tack on an extra zero. The description was for an entire three-story house, only 400 per month,

and even included a pool in the back. After a minute, I read the last few lines and realized the reason why it was so cheap. Tenant must be willing to perform regular chores around the house, including pool maintenance, lawn maintenance, and maid services. I work night shift, so tenant must be willing to perform these actions during the day to be completed by each night.

I smiled. Compared to the students I had to handle as a resident advisor, a little work around the house would be a small task. Plus, my family had owned a small pool growing up, and I kept it clean throughout high school. With a few keystrokes, I replied to the ad, and by next morning I had an email in my inbox inviting me to view the price. It was a 15-minute bike ride from campus, located deep in the back of a middle-class

neighborhood with more speed bumps than houses. A cluster of massive oak tree stood on either side of the drive and a concrete pathway led to the door, which was answered by a man in jeans who looked to be in his 50s. Hello there, said the man, opening the door wide with a gloved hand. His gaze lingered on me seemed to spend time in areas and shouldn't as if he were seeing a human for the first time and was not sure what traits to look for. Here to answer the Craigslist ad, I said, peering past him. The house looked clean enough from where I was standing, and behind me there was not much

yard to maintain besides raking the leaves. Ah, yes, come in, come in. My name is Jefferson, but I prefer to be called Jack. Luke, I said, stepping inside. The floors were wooden, and the frame of the door had been scratched and dented from years of use. The interior looked aged, but I wondered why he inquired for a housekeeper. He led me down a hallway and to the kitchen, gesturing for me to sit at the table. He took the chair opposite me, and when he moved, it seemed stiff, an odd mechanical movement that I attributed to old joints.

Before I go over the terms of the lease, we have to go over some ground rules. I assume you read I expect housework to be performed. Yep, that's not a problem. Good. Second rule is that since I work night shift, I may have some visitors in the late hours of the night before you wake up. It would be... He paused, choosing his words.

Quite embarrassing for my acquaintances to see that I can no longer adequately care for myself, and they may go as far as to doubt the state of my finances. I only ask that if we awaken you, that you stay in your room until morning, as to allow me to save face. Not a problem. I'm typically a deep sleeper. Ah, yes, yes, good, good. That's splendid. He said, nodding his head vigorously. Then continued. One more thing. Due to tax purposes, it would be highly beneficial if you were to have already lived here for the past two years. I'd be willing to refund you an extra $150 month if you could backdate these forms and sign as if you actually have been living here for some time.

I would prefer not to be caught by the IRS, though, so do you know it? If others have documentation stating you've lived elsewhere? Typically, I would choose to follow the law, but $150 extra a month meant my diet of ramen could be expanded into subsistence not resembling processed cardboard. Additionally, this put a positive spin on my boss, having lost my records. I'm in. Where do I have to sign? He pulled a stack of papers previously prepared, and I signed and dated each. Two weeks later, I added a few scrapes to those present on the doorframe when I moved my furniture inside and placed $250 in the sordid bills into Jack's gloved hand.

That afternoon, he showed me how to maintain the pool and I learned the significance of the gloves. This pool was built by my father for my mother back in the 60s. She loved it very much, and I must say I have more memories of her in the pool than out of it. It's sentimental, and as so, I want to keep it in prime condition. The size of my father's heart starkly contrasts his skills in construction, so the levels of chemicals have to be kept quite stable. They're controlled by this box. He gestured to an aluminum box with a pipe that led into the ground.

And must be manually filled daily. He then showed me where to dump powder into some. slots in the box, then showed me a sign-off list where I should note the levels of powder available in storage. The lids would have to be closed tight, or they would attract moisture from the air and become useless. It was unlike any setup I had ever seen, archaic in its design, but seemed simple enough. Unfortunately, I have a condition where I can't handle these chemicals, and the slightest change in pH affects my skin. I'm sure you've noticed my gloves. and that's why I keep them on, as my skin will crack otherwise.

We retreated back into the house, and he gave me instructions on the other household chores, before leaving me to unpack my belongings. I explored the house sometimes while he was gone, including the extensive basement where I washed my clothes with a small exercise rack in the corner. There was a portrait on the wall of Jack with his mother and father, both deceased. His father resembled Jack, and his mother looked at him. plain and dressed plain, besides a golden necklace that ended in a heart at her throat. Next to the exercise rack, there was an open doorway that led down into a single-roomed second

basement, with moist floors and no-working bulbs. An enormous Atlas spanned the entire wall, but besides the map, the room was empty except for a small buzzing. I never spent more than five minutes in the Atlas room. It was too desolate, too dark, accompanied by the feeling that I simply did not belong. The school semester then started and I saw little of Jack as the days turned to weeks. But as little as I saw him, the eccentricities of his lifestyle appeared everywhere. First, there was the cleaning. Unlike normal housework, Jack had me scrub the walls, wipe down the tables, and even dust individual objects several times over when there was no residue. He claimed this was due to a severe allergy to dust mites, but

Never had I seen him exhibit these symptoms. Twice I forgot to refill the pool chemicals, and each time the pool changed from clear to a dark murk in the span of hours, and I changed the chemicals before Jack could notice. Then there were the visitors. Nearly always I could hear the voice of a woman, or women, her voice tinkling down the hallway. I never saw her, but I cleaned up after them in the morning,

moving cups to the sink and capping the experience. expensive, expensive bottle that was Jack's favorite drink. Sometimes I'd see undergarments, and I would move these to the door of Jack's bedroom, where he would remove them by the next morning. Once I joked about how much more often he had female companions than I, but he cracked an odd smile and said in a low voice. One day, Luke, I'll teach you to have women swimming all around you. But these were mere oddities, strange doings that were Jack's business and not mine,

until one night. One night that I will never forget that since chills up my spine to this very day and causes me to double-check the functionality of my deadbolt. That night, I was awakened by a tornado siren at one in the morning, a howling that matched the sound of the wind as it buffeted the sides of the house. I stayed in bed trying to outlast the siren, but my window shattered in a sharp gust that sprayed me with a mixture of water and glass. I shouted in surprise, then threw off my blankets and headed to the basement, where it would be safest in the storm? Jack did not usually arrive home until at least three, and the storm should blow over by then.

I shivered as I ran down the steps and sat on the workout equipment near the Atlas room. Above me, rain splashed high against a window, and after a few minutes I moved down the steps into the Atlas room for fear this window would break. My eyes adjusted to the Atlas room, and for the first time I noticed just how old the Atlas was. Itself must have been from the 60s, and countries that no longer existed, as well as borders that had long fallen, crossed its surface. In one corner the Atlas was damp where a leak had sprouted in the wall, and I tried to smooth it over with the palm of my hand, but careful as I was, the corner ripped away from the pin that held it in place, and the side of the Atlas fell away from the concrete wall. Behind the Atlas, there was nothing but darkness and a buzzing that had grown slightly louder. My hand reached inside and found a light switch, which revealed the source of the buzzing. Off to the right, near the wall, there was a pool pump with piping.

Above it, there was a chute leading from the ceiling where I recognized the remnants of some of the pool cleaning powder I had been using the past few weeks. The pool and the chute led to a glass tank, larger than any aquarium I had ever seen. The water was eye-level, and the same color as the murk that filled the pool when I forgot to add the powder. The murk was dark, but transparent. and at the bottom I could see barely several oblong objects. I stepped over the Atlas and into the room. Next to me, there was a desk along with several pictures. With trembling hands, I lifted one and recognized my own face.

Next to the pictures, there were ten cups, each dusted to reveal fingerprints. A Sharpie circled the clearest prints of each finger, and I recognized, them as my own. Besides the cups, there was a tuft of hair, the same color and length as mine. And behind the desk, there was a pile of clothes taller than two months' worth of laundry. They were all women's clothing, containing skirts and dresses, and I swallowed as I saw several undergarment pieces I had cleaned up and left for Jack. I turned back to the tank and squatted to see the bottom. My stomach clenched when I recognized the oblong objects.

They were bones. Hundreds of bones. Some worn away more than others and getting smaller as they neared the bottom. In a corner of the tank, I saw something glinting in the light of the single bulb overhead and recognized a golden heart among the remains. My feet moved without any further prompt, and I ran, ripping the Atlas in half. Out through the basement door, weaving through the trees and knowing that the tornado was far less danger than the one I left behind. When I recounted my story to the police three hours later, after spending the worst of the storm under a bridge near the highway, they launched an immediate investigation.

They arrived to an open door and a woman asleep on the couch. Jack was nowhere to be found, but his footprints led down to the Atlas room. After examination, they determined that the woman had been drugged from a chemical in Jack's whiskey bottle. Even after searching for hours, they could find none of his fingerprints. The house had been scrubbed too carefully for that, and I had done the cleaning. The only ones they could find were mine. Strands of my hair were found in the pile of women's clothing as well as on the couch where they found the sleeping woman. and throughout Jack's room.

The oldest bones they could still find intact were from two years ago, and they identified the powder as a powerful cleaning agent, sodium hydroxide, that had dissolved the bodies. When checking records, the police found the owner of the house had died some years before and was registered as Jack's father. No one had been living in it since then, except myself, and the records showed that I had been living there for two years, as old as the oldest bone. My own handwriting detailed the daily use of the powder and storage by the pool as Jack had instructed.

With the overwhelming evidence against me, had it not been for the testimony of the woman when she awoke, the police would have arrested me for the multiple murders. 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 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.