The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E08

Episode Date: April 5, 2015

It's episode 8 of Season 5. We have six tales this week featuring stories about fiendish families, intense insanity, and devilish dolls. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  Trigger Warnings "The Worst Thing About Growing Old" written by Eric Ponslee and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:04:45) "The Prank" written by Harlan Guthrie and read by Mike DelGaudio & Elie Hirschman & Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:22:25) "Spring Cleaning" written by Doug Hantke and read by David Cummings & Rima Chaddha Mycynek. (Story starts at 00:37:25) "The Wishing Tree" written by J. M. Kendrick and read by Mike DelGaudio & Elie Hirschman & Rima Chaddha Mycynek. (Story starts at 00:51:25) "The Strange Case of James Monroe" written by Michael Marks and read by Peter Lewis & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:02:35) "The Doll House" written by C.K. Walker and read by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:27:10) Click here for to discover The Sonic Society and audio dramas Click here to learn more about Harlan Guthrie Click here to learn more about Doug Hantke Click here to learn more about Michael Marks Click here to learn more about C.K. Walker Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about Elie Hirschman Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "The Worst Thing About Growing Old" 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 as the sleepless hours tick past.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Season 5. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have six tales for you this week, featuring stories about fiendish families, intense insanity, and devilish dolls. I hope everyone is enjoying themselves this weekend with all the headless corpses strewn around you. while I'm assuming those of you who celebrate the holiday do so by decapitating those poor chocolate bunnies before devouring the rest of their sweet, creamy bodies. Isn't it fun to have a psychotic sweet tooth this time of year? And speaking of psychotic, I hope all of you heard the special bonus episode released last Wednesday.

I felt it might be a good way to start the month. The episode really is indescribable, so check it out if you haven't already. With a lot of new listeners joining us lately, I've had a number of people asking us where they can find more shows like this one. Of course, I never hesitate to remind people of the other great horror audio fiction shows out there, like pseudopod, Tales to Terrify, Knife Point Horror, and so on. Plus, there's the wonderful drabble cast. and while not exclusively horror stories, they do offer, as they put it,

strange stories by strange authors for strange listeners, many of which are downright creepy, the stories, not the listeners. But outside of straightforward audio horror storytelling, a lot of people are discovering, or rediscovering in some cases, the wonderful world of audio dramas. What we do here at the podcast is sort of a hybrid between audiobook-style narration and audio dramas, which are the fully scripted productions of stories, sort of like movies without the video.

Thanks to the connectivity of the internet and the dedication of many, many talented people, audio dramas are making a big comeback from their heyday back in the 40s and 50s. There's a wide range of genres being produced these days, so if you're into sci-fi, fantasy, action adventure, or even, dare I say, horror, you'll find lots of good stuff out there to listen to. Perhaps the best place to look for these audio dramas is through the portal from our friends over at the Sonic Society. Jack Ward and our good friend David Alde keep the site updated with lots of news and news. about the resurgence of audio dramas, and they provide links to many of the most active and popular shows. So drop by Sonic Society.org

and discover the wonderful world of audio drama. But, of course, you'll want to wait before heading over there, because we've got some dramatic audio for you right now. So, let's start the show. In our first tale, we are confirmed, fronted with the inevitable passage of time and what awaits us in the years to come. Author Eric Ponsley shares the details about a nursing home where the elderly residents are mistreated if they misbehave. There is a special room in the home which has a sinister past and it is used to punish disobedient residents.

We may be aware that we will experience weakened boss. and failing minds, but it's what takes place in that room that shows us the worst thing about growing old. Most of us will one day face a moment when we realize our best days are far behind us. That moment may stalk up gradually. When one day we'll blink and our hands have become old, our bodies pained and feeble, our souls weary, and our minds forgetful. One day a stranger will be reflected back when we gaze in the mirror. The person we were, beautiful, healthy, brilliant, will have faded forever from the earth, lost for all eternity, never to be found again.

Gone too will be people. so loved and nurtured and cherished over a lifetime, down their own distant paths traveled. It becomes a prison built of failing flesh and mind, filled with a lifetime of regrets of things left undone. Many of us will become a burden for our families and find ourselves in a nursing home to wither away our remaining days. Growing old was a natural topic of discussion after great-grandma Cassandra's funeral. At the wake, my uncle shared some stories from another relative who worked in a nursing home many years ago. It had undergone many name changes over the years, but started reputably

enough as the sun set Eden with a caring and dedicated nursing staff. An orderly is often an underappreciated job, being neither pleasant nor easy. Not because of having to clean up after

elderly bodies, that's the easy part. It's more the psychological toll. The elderly residents are there simply because they have problems their families can no longer deal with nor want to. Their medical complications, their fractured minds with unpredictable personalities and moods, their constant demands are now all your responsibility.

Multiplied several times over with multiple patients, and even the most caring nursing staff would be tempted to keep their patients sedated just to get through the day. Over time, as the sunset Eden grew larger and the management changed, so too did its priorities. Profits became the focus over residents. Overworked nursing staff found themselves stretched thinner, looking after more residents in the name of efficiency.

Combined with budget cuts, the quality of the people hired deteriorated. with the wages offered. The worst of these new staff would use their positions of power to abuse, mistreat, and steal from the vulnerable residents, not unlike the guards from the infamous Stanford Prison Experiment. Patients and sympathy were replaced with punishment and fear as the main tools for compliance. And no tool was more effective at the Sunset Eden. than an infamous room with a sinister reputation.

Officially called Ward 306, it was known as the suicide room by staff and residents due to its unusual history. A small ward with space for two beds and its own onsuit, it was part of a hospital building converted in 1932. For the first few years, nothing distinguished. it from any of the other rooms. That changed in 1936. The elderly Mr. Finley, the room's only resident at the time, was found hanging from the ceiling one morning. A crude makeshift rope made from an assortment of ties had snapped and broken his neck. After a thorough police investigation, no motive nor suspicious activity was ever

found, so the case was officially closed off as a suicide. Death is not an unusual occurrence in a nursing home, but over a quick span of the next eight years, five more deaths would occur in that room, all ruled as suicides. One resident had drowned in the bathtub, another had consumed a box of rat poison. The third and fourth had simultaneously placed pistols in their mouths and splattered the walls with their brains. The fifth was the most unusual and the only one to leave a note. He had stabbed deeply into his own eye with a kitchen knife after mutilating his body with his straight razor. Above his body on the wall was a message written with a message written with a kitchen knife.

his own blood. In jaggedly scrawled capital letters with a gruesome three-by-three grid were the cryptic words, Tempus edox rarum, erum quads, eras quadsum. From there, the legend of Ward 306 grew. The management would make numerous attempts to repaint the walls or cover them with paper, but stains would always gradually seep back through, marking them with splashes of blood or ghostly faces. The faint stench of something foul and putrid began to linger, cutting through even perfumes used to mask it. The air in the room took on a constant,

chill dampness, no matter the weather outside. Occupants complained of strong. strange sounds heard at night, mournful wailing, soft sobs that echoed around the walls, particularly from the bathroom, and refused to stay in it. Over the years, the room would be inspected many times by different engineers to explain the causes. They concluded the wall stains were most likely the accumulated leaks from rusted pipes running through the inner walls, the putrid smell from broken sewer drains under the bathroom. The room's acoustic signature amplifying vibrations from an outside air conditioning unit to create strange noises, and its condenser increased the humidity in the room.

Combined with the room's aspect that kept it away from direct sunlight, the temperature would be constantly cooler than outside. Despite these assurances, residents and staff still avoided the suicide room. Even a luxurious renovation could not convince any residents to move in. For a profit-minded administration, it was too valuable a space to be left unused. In 1971, they had what seemed to them a clever idea. Ward 306 would be used as an unofficial punishment room. When elderly residents weren't being cooperative enough,

they were threatened with being placed in the suicide room, euphemistically called, Spending the Night with Sue. Knowing the history, the longer-term residents immediately, if reluctantly, became more compliant. Newer residents would be more defiant, however, until they had their first nights with Sue.

The stories of their experience later would only further fuel the room's reputation. Such as that of a certain Mr. Fisher. It had become a standard procedure for a night watchman to patrol the wards through the night. To check on residents, they've worked, would shine their flashlight through square windows cut into each door. Mr. Fisher had dared to accuse an orderly of stealing his watch

and was locked in 306 as a punishment. During one round as he watched the bright flashlight beam light up through the window, then move on. He was startled to find a figure standing quietly in the room by the door. It was a young girl. thin, deathly pale and unmoving. She stood facing the bed and staring at him through her empty eye sockets. Frozen in fear and unable to scream, he cowered under his sheets like a frightened child,

staring back at the girl and waiting for her to move. It was not until the footsteps of the guard returning could be heard that the girl shifted. She turned towards the bathroom and silently glided towards it, eventually disappearing from view. Mr. Fisher stayed awake, staring at the onsuit, but the girl did not return. He eventually tired and succumbed to sleep. Waking in the morning, he saw a trail of water in the shape of footprints coming from the bathroom, leading all the way. up right next to his bed. His bed sheets were soaked.

Other residents told of tapping noises, like hard claws against the tiles from under the bed. They would feel their blanket slowly being dragged from below. It would start as a gentle pull, like a heavy blanket slowly falling from its own weight. If they attempted to pull it back up, the tugging would suddenly become stronger and more violent. The staff would open the doors in the morning to find these residents cowering and huddled in their bed with their blankets cocooned and shredded underneath them on the floor. But of all these stories, the most chilling was that of Mrs. Wainwright. She was strong-willed and had lived in the Sunset Eden for many years.

She grew concerned over the treatment many of the residents were suffering and was accused of inciting disorder when she started to strongly voice her opinions. To serve as a warning to others, she was confined to 306 for two whole days. She was dragged screaming and shouting to the room by two orderlies. At the door, she pushed with her arms and feet against the frames, spitting at the orderlies in her desperate struggles. It was a futile effort, and the moment they pried her arms away and carried her through, it was as if all the fight had drained from her body.

She was suddenly quiet and cooperative, just smirking and nodding while they tucked her into bed. As they locked the door, Mrs. Wainwright was still smirking and nodding at them through the glass. That night, the guard doing the rounds would find her in the beam of his flashlight, still lying in bed, smirking and nodding towards the door. On his next round, she would be sitting perfectly still by the side of her bed, facing the door with the same expression. When told to go to sleep, she simply nodded, but otherwise stayed as she was. The following day, she didn't touch any of the food that was brought to her.

She just followed the orderlies around with her eyes as they went about their duties in the room. If they got too close to her, however, she would hiss and scream and bite. Mrs. Wainwright was starting to creep all the staff out, especially on the second night when the patrolman reported shining his flashlight through the door, only to see her face right next to the glass, smirking and nodding. When it was time for her to be released the next day, The orderlies found her sitting on the bed with her back to the door. Cockroaches were crawling out from her open mouth.

She was dead. Rigormortus had already sat and started to fade. An autopsy revealed she had died two days earlier from a cardiogenic shock or heart attack, likely brought on by the stress and exertion. and her struggles being brought into the room. The family of Mrs. Wainwright were appalled and livid by the news of her death. They sued the Sunset Eden, but eventually settled out of court for an undisclosed amount and agreement to never speak about the incident.

No resident was ever placed again in Ward 306 after Mrs. Wainwright. The Sunset Eden would go bankrupt a few years later and be demolished to make way for new office blocks. Even buildings will face their end. Any resident of the Sunset Eden can tell you it's a torment to grow old, to lose all that you value, your health, your memories, your independence, your freedom, your dignity, your friends. your family. But they would also tell you that it's not the worst things

about growing old. It's knowing there exists forces, dark and sinister, lurking beyond and waiting patiently. And that death may not mark the end of your torment, but merely the beginning. Tempus Eddox-Reyer Erem quads, eras quadsum.

Translated as time devours all. I was what you are. You will be what I am. It can be a lot of fun and slightly annoying to grow up with parents who consider themselves a couple of jokers. In this tale from author Harlan Guthrie, we meet a man who recalls his younger days at the family cottage, and the special trick his dad liked to play on the kids. Narrators Mike Delgadoio, Ellie Hirschman, and Jessica McAvoy read the tale for us, as we learn about one fateful night when the trick didn't turn out as planned. It was the last time they had to deal with the prank. We spent every weekend growing up at the cottage, mainly because we didn't really have a choice,

but it was also family fun. Every weekend during the summer months, we stayed at the cottage. There was a dance at the local pavilion. It was put on by the township and generally had a fair number of people there, the sum of which was made up by a plethora of random people. teens, some elderly, the year-round cottagers, a handful of city folk just trying to let loose while Cotton Eye Joe blared over the sound system. We fell into that last category. Our cottage is set off a small lake fairly deep within the woods.

You can walk almost in any direction for a few kilometers before running into anything of substance. I imagine that it's part of the reason why my parents picked it. The cottage itself was actually built on the land. dad bought, brick by brick, over a number of years, so we've all grown up with it. The cottage is a typical dollhouse shape, at least when we were kids, that's what we called it. It doesn't go underground at all, and has a couple of really cool features, one of them being that there's a natural rock on the ground floor that the house was built around. Other things that we loved as kids were the skylights in the bedrooms upstairs.

Since there's no light pollution up north, you can lay in bed and fall asleep, looking at the stars. Being inside safe and warm was a wonderful way to view that world, especially with a dad like ours who insisted on telling us spooky stories around the campfire. For the first few years of my time at the cottage, I was convinced that it was built on an Indian burial ground. He also used to tell us this story of how every summer a creature would crawl out of the lake and search for children to eat. Looking back, I get that it's a all in good fun. But let me tell you, as a child, there were a lot of sleepless nights at the cottage. When we were younger, we loved going to the dance and sliding around in our socks on

the waxed pavilion floor or trying to look cool in front of the other kids who were dragged to the dance on a Saturday night. We actually had to drive past the pavilion itself when we came to the cottage. So to get back out to it on a Saturday night, you had to drive maybe 15 minutes back down the winding one-way road, which twisted and turned towards our cottage. The road itself was surrounded by trees, so any slight deviation in the path could lead to a head-on collision with a tree. This can be especially dangerous at night after having a few drinks. Because of that, the road was no stranger to accidents. The first time my dad played the prank in question, we were coming back from the dance, maybe around 11 o'clock. Part of the deal after making the

hour and a half trek to the cottage was that once we met the one-way winding road just past the pavilion, we were always allowed to take off our seatbelts. Why, I have no idea. It's by far the most dangerous part of the journey, yet this has always been the way. Even to this day, the rare times I go up there with by friends, even they know the rule and unclipped their seatbelts at the appropriate time, as if to acknowledge the tradition. On our way back this night, however, my dad had a brilliant idea, and ten minutes from the cottage, at the darkest point in the road, he let out a curse word. He said almost under his breath. What? My mom said. Even to this day, I don't know whether my mom was playing along or simply just curious as to what was happening, but either

way, it was convincing. Something's up with the car, he said in a serious voice. Part of what bothered us so much about this road as kids, besides the creepy winding nature of it, was the fact that it was so isolated. Even at an early age, the feeling of being alone is an absolutely bone-chilling thought. After a brief moment and a few more curse words, the car rolled to a stop and the engine cut out. As the lights turned off and the car became bathed in darkness, my brother and I just shared a look of absolute panic and fear. The road was pitch black. and immediately the outside world beyond the car became crystal clear as all light disappeared within an instant. My mother at this point must have got the joke because she started twisting the knife.

Oh no. Kids, I think we have to walk back. She said without turning her head towards us, probably because she was smiling. My brother and I now shot a look to my sister in the back seat who at this point was just waking up from passing out at the dance. She is the youngest of us and of course the most susceptible to believing the lie, but at that point I think we all felt like my mom was telling the truth. We kept saying, try the car again. We asked questions like, how can it be dead or what happened? Is it the tires? Obviously, knowing nothing about cars helped my parents sell the lie. After an exasperated sigh from my dad, he turned to us and in his serious tone that we'd all come to fear after hearing it countless times.

times and said, Okay, kids, hop out. Being stuck in a dying car on a one-way cottage road in the middle of the night as a young child is a terrifying ordeal. Being told that you need to get out and walk home when you don't really know the way is an even more terrifying ordeal. And luckily, the eruption of tears from my young sister was enough to end their joke. My parents didn't dare let their fun end, though, and continued in character. Well, I guess I'll try the car again. Sure enough, it started up with a sigh of relief from all three of us.

In the moment, we were just glad to be in the safety of the car. They must have felt it was particularly funny because of the frequency they did it from that moment forward. It became a regular thing, and anyone who visited the cottage for the weekend got dragged along to the dance and got a grand showing of the stalled car routine. By the third or fourth time, we'd had all manner of people in the van with us when it happened. Grandparents who played along, friends who nervously acted tough, and a slew of aunts and uncles who took up my dad on his offer, getting out and walking home on more than one occasion. Looking back, it was mostly in good fun, and I think that's how my family remember it. But that's not the whole story.

This? This next part? I never told anyone. As I said, we never wore our seatbelts on this country road, and once this was realized by everyone coming with us to the dance, the prime seating for the children became the trunk. The van had a large rear window, as most family vans do, and seeing the red lights of the van illuminate the road behind us

as we drove the twisted trail home was exhilarating. That and it was just so neat to watch the road trail out before you. My best friend Tommy and I were maybe 11 at the time, old enough to know things or jokes, but young enough to still get rattled when the time came to pile into the van to take the winding road back to the cottage while we sat in the trunk. Tom and I sat in the back seat and watched the road barrel away from us as my dad took us back to the cottage, and as if on cue, a familiar sound came from the front seat. My dad sat under his breath. To my brother's sister and I, we knew what this meant.

However, no matter how many times this happened to us, it still unnerved me. Maybe because just the idea of being stuck in the woods terrified me. Or maybe because each time my dad would add another level of tension, such as a longer wait, getting out and checking something under the car or sometimes actually making us get out. This time was different. The car rolled to a stop and he turned off the ignition. I turned towards the front of the car and saw Dad putting on his show for my sister and her friend, while my brother, being almost 14, probably tried to help my dad weave his tail.

I watched them for a few minutes as the silent woods creaked around us with each gust of wind outside the car, and eventually I turned back to Tommy, who was staring out the back of the van. All the color was drained from his face. Tommy? I said in a hushed voice of concern. He didn't stir. He just kept staring out the back of the window as the front of the van continued their routine.

I saw tears begin to well up in his eyes and I turned to see what he was looking at. To this day, I wish I hadn't because it still eats at me. On the cusp of the woods behind the van stood something staring at us. Here's exactly what I remember. Believe me or don't, I don't care.

It was the height of a man, that's for sure, because it had one hand on a tree. Its skin was loose and hanging from its body. Its hands had only three very long fingers and were covered in dirt, and what I can only imagine now was wet blood. Above all else, what stuck with me the most were the eyes. eyes. They were black and empty. They looked devoid of any life. Then it fell to the ground and began crawling towards us on all fours. I cannot fathom what I would have said had I tried to explain myself back then and for an instant I could not speak. I was paralyzed with fear as this creature slowly dragged its loose skin across the dirt road towards us.

The silence of the trunk was broken by Tommy, who began bawling, which in the moment I couldn't have thanked him enough for, because hearing that made my sister break out crying as well, based on the situation in the car, not what went on behind it. This signaled the end of my dad's joke. My attention briefly shot to the front of the car to see my dad starting the car and my brother comforting my sister. I quickly turned back to Tommy who was staring at me as the car started up, and in the instant, A horrible tableau was imprinted in my memory. The red light of the brake lights illuminated the creature's face, which was now inches away from the van's rear window.

I screamed, and my dad drove. In the fading light, we could see the creature fall back onto all fours and begin crawling. Just saying this has made me remember that night more vividly than I wish I had to. No one else saw the creature in the back and time. Tommy and I silently went to bed. That night, I tossed and turned. Tommy and I shared one of the bedrooms, and I don't think he slept all night. I did eventually pass out around three or four in the morning, confident that at least

I was safe in the cottage, but it wasn't a sound sleep, I remember. When I woke up the next day, Tommy was packed and ready to go, his stuff by the door. The two of us shared a knowing look, but something was wrong. His eyes were bloodshot with fresh tears, and I had a nagging feeling. Eventually, he pulled me aside. Last night? I know. I saw it, too.

I said, trying to reassure him. We're leaving today. It never happened. You saw it too? He asked as if he didn't believe me. Yes, of course. I said, concerned. How the hell did you get to sleep then?

He asked almost aggressively. I don't know. I guess I just wanted to stop thinking about it on the road. But he cut me off before I could finish. No. He said tears welling in his eyes. I mean, did you see it again last night? In the skylights.

To this day, in the bedroom upstairs, You can see the imprint of the creature's three-fingered hand on the glass, the spot where its long fingers stretched out over a small portion of the window, leaving a greasy red stain behind. A constant reminder of the creature that found us after a simple prank my dad played. For most of us, it's that time of year. Winter is gone, the warm sun has returned, and with the arrival of spring comes the yearly ritual of cleaning the house.

But as we learn from author Doug Henke, one family's cleaning ritual involves a particular room in the house which only the wife deals with, and it becomes clear why that room is off limits to everyone else. Rima Chathamycinic joins me in reading this tale as we realize that there is a darker side to spring cleaning. My wife and I decided to do some spring cleaning this weekend, as we do every year around this time. We moved into this house in the late 80s and have engaged in our spring cleaning ritual for the past decade.

The house is too small for us now, but my wife wanted to wait until our youngest was off to college, before moving. I've learned over the years that arguing with her is pointless when it comes to matters like these, so I have kept quiet and patiently waited for that day to arrive. Our son, Paul, starts college this fall, so I'm hoping that this will be our last spring cleaning at this house. I've become efficient in this ritual over the years to the point where I've become less of a pack rat during the calendar year.

The basement, which used to be the biggest hassle, had little to no clutter this year and was cleared out in only a few hours. The garage was the next area of interest and took the remainder of the evening. My wife's job every year was to clean the attic. She would spend the day locked away in that room and would return around dinner time with a few large bags full of things. I was always curious to where the things came from because I could never recall a time where either of us had ever gone into the attic. I personally hadn't stepped foot in the room upstairs in over a decade. More than usual this year, I said to my wife as she

carried the last two bags from the attic. It's been a busy year. She smiled, tossing the bags into the last empty bin outside. All done. Almost, just a bit more, but I can get it tomorrow. Oh, I can get it. That's okay. She said, kissing my cheek. I can get it.

I stared at her with a curiosity that was new to me. This was always such a strange time each year. I remember how friends. frantic she had been when she first brought up spring cleaning. It was strange because, if I recall correctly, the house wasn't even that cluttered the first year. She always wanted the attic, which is probably why I've never gone up there. I don't even know what's in the attic. I decided I was going to go look, but I couldn't do it while my wife was home. She was always so protective over the attic. The next morning, she said she needed to run to the store. I kissed her

goodbye and read my newspaper at the breakfast table. I watched her walk out to the car and pull away. Once I was sure she was out of sight, I put down my paper and rushed to the attic entrance. My heart pounded as I pulled the attic stairs down to me. I felt dumb. Dirty spying on my wife's attic, but a part of me felt scared. We were so honest with each other in our relationship. This attic seemed to be the only secret. I have no idea why I never checked before that day. I stepped up onto the first stair of the ladder,

and the cold air from the attic rushed over my face. cold air from the attic my pulse quickened as i climbed the ladder a low rumbling sound filled my ears as i neared the opening to the attic my eyes peaked into the room and opened in confusion the floor was a bright white laminate and the room was surrounded with fans the fans were attached to large cooler which seemed to be connected by piping. I walked over to one of the coolers and opened it with a reluctant pull. The container was full of ice water.

That explains the cold air. I assumed that each of the coolers was filled with the same and the pipes ran the water to each from the main line. A metal table sat in the center of the room near a boarded-up window. My chest felt like it would cave in on itself. My breath circled my face in pillows of vapor. What was going on up here?

A small metal case sat in the corner on top of a metal stand with wheels. To the right of the case sat a box of latex gloves. I open the case. and swallowed the lump that formed in my throat. Sharp objects lined the inside of the case. It reminded me of a surgery kit. Every instrument was spotless and shining. I looked around the room and noticed that everything was polished.

My mind ran wild with images of what this room could be used for, and they all starred my wife and a dead body. I pictured her with a mask over her face, cutting into a young girl as she cried for her mother. My wife carrying bags of severed limbs to the garbage after storing them up in our attic for months at a time. There must be a better explanation for this. My eyes searched the floor and noticed drains under each cooler for the first time.

I crawled on the floor and peered inside the drain, unsure of what I would find. I used the light from my phone to light up the inside of the dark drain and gasped at the sights. Blood! I heard a car door slam and leapt to my feet. I rushed to the attic entrance and almost fell through the opening. Keys rattled against the front door as I secured the attic door above me and ran back to the kitchen. I was putting my plate in the sink as my wife entered the room. You all right? Yeah.

Why? Looks like you've been running. She laughed. She walked over to me and gave me a hug. Her eyes narrowed as she pulled away. You're freezing. She knows. I had to think fast.

Must be getting sick. I said attempting to give her my best sick face. You do look a bit pale. Yeah, I just found out that my wife. Wife is a serial killer. I'm just going to go lay down. You do that. I'll finish cleaning the attic.

The words made me shiver. What did she need to finish exactly? The room was spotless. Oh, okay. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes. Visions of victims screaming while my wife cut into them like lab specimens fill my dreams.

Blood poured from the wound she inflicted as the screams deafened me. I watched as my children took the place of the victims. One by one my wife murdered our children until it was finally

my turn on the table. I woke in a cold sweat with my wife staring at me from our bedroom doorway. Her eyes were cold and menacing. Honey? I asked nervously. You went to the attic.

Uh, no, I didn't go. I thought I told you to stay out of the attic. Her reaction wasn't what I expected. She seemed sad, but I expected anger. What is the same? going on? I can't let you leave. She sobbed as she

pulled a syringe from behind her back. I'm sorry. She lunged at me onto the bed. The needle pierced my thigh, but I was able to use her momentum to toss her off the other side.

Blood trickled down my leg as I ran to the front door. I heard a gunshot shot ring out as I turned the corner to the living room. Tears rolled from my cheeks as I sped out the front door as a second shot nick the frame. I ran across the yard waiting for the next shot to take me out, but it never came. I disappeared in the trees behind our neighbor's house, and only when I was out of sight did I look back. My wife's, sat crouched down on our front doorstep with my gun in her hand, crying.

The police arrested my wife, and I watched them carry the coolers out of the attic for evidence. They found pieces of a young boy who was reported missing a few weeks prior. I looked into my wife's eyes, and I couldn't recognize her. She looked at me with regret. A fear in her eyes swelled into tears as the car pulled away. I woke up the next morning and turned on the television. Every news station was playing the same story, my wife, the serial killer.

I felt dirty in my own home. How many people met their aim? in my attic. The police were already estimating that it could be in the dozens. The thought nauseated me.

I grabbed the box of cereal from the cupboard and poured myself a bowl as I watched the footage. The pundits were discussing how I could have possibly not known about these things occurring in my own

house. I had thought the same thing. I grabbed the milk from the fridge and opened it. I glanced down to the bowl and stopped as the first drop hit the paper that sat in my cereal. I grabbed the nose and unfolded the paper. My heart pounded in my neck as I read these words. It's Paul.

you should be afraid of. 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.