The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E09

Episode Date: April 12, 2015

It's episode 9 of Season 5. It's episode 9 of Season 5. We have six tales this week featuring stories about villainous visions, ruinous revelations, and sinister solitude. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  "0600 Stockport" written by Catriona Richards and read by David Ault. (Story starts at 00:04:20) "March 29, 2015" written by Jessica M. and read by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:15:00) "Calls from My Grandmother" written by Jimmy Juliano and read by David Cummings & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:30:30) "The Shelter in the Mountain" written by Joel Fenton and read by Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 00:47:50) "Most Amazing Weight Loss Treatment Ever" written by Ryan Mott and read by Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 01:04:25) "Off the Beaten Path" written by Michael Whitehouse and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:12:00) Click here for the Facebook page for the movie "Room 733" Click here to learn more about the "Scary Stories" documentary Click here for the Indiegogo page for "Scary Stories: A Documentary" Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "0600 Stockport" 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 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 this week featuring stories about villainous visions, ruinous revelations, and sinister solitude. As much as we enjoy listening to horror stories being told in audio form, I know a lot of folks out there enjoy watching horror as well. To that end, I have news about a couple of projects which might interest you. The first is a documentary which is currently starting up production. It's about a series of books, which I'm guessing were the first books that many of you read

which exposed you to the joys and thrills of horror stories. The classic, scary stories to tell in the dark is a series of three children's books written by Alvin Schwartz and illustrated by Stephen Gamble. I've heard from many fans of this show who cite these books as the foundation of their love of horror stories. Filmmaker Cody Merrick has started a crowdsourcing project on Indiegogo to get his production off the ground. He has the support and blessing of the Schwartz family, so it should be a great look into

how these books came to be. I'll include a link in the show notes if you're interested in learning more about the project and how you can support it. Closer to home, there is some exciting news about a film which is making its way towards the big screen. Many of you will recall a story we produced on last year's free Halloween show called Room 733. C.K. Walker's epic story about two freshman girls living in a dorm, beside a room with a disturbing history. Well, that story has been optioned by a movie producer, and it continues in its development.

C.K. Walker herself has completed a teaser script for the movie, and production is ongoing. I'll include a link in the show notes to the new Facebook page for the movie, so you can keep up to date with all that's going on with it. It's very exciting to see this excellent story get the story, the attention it deserves, and especially for the extremely talented author, C.K. Walker. It's always a pleasure to include her stories on the podcast, and we'll be featuring more from her in the near future. Let's hope we'll be able to watch her story on the big screen soon,

along with listening to her tales on the podcast. And speaking of listening to horror stories on the podcast, I guess we should get started with that right now. In our first tale, we are transported to a British rail line, on which a security guard is tasked with reviewing the security footage from a recent journey. As we learn from author Katrina Richards, the lightly traveled route puts a passenger in peril when, unbeknownst to her, she is seemingly not alone in her carriage. narrator David Alt reads the tale for us, which takes place on the route known as the 0600 Stockport. 0600 Stockport

at Hazel Grove, Chinley, Edale, Hope, Bamford, Hathersedge, Gwringleford, Doran Totley, and Sheffield. 34 trains a day except on Sundays, which only has 25. When travelling from Stockport to Sheffield, There are two incredibly long, dark tunnels as the train passes through the Pennites. Just you, the sound of the track, and pitch-black windows.

Your company through the darkness is your own reflection. You can try to see things out the window, press your nose against the cold glass, but you won't. I know the route well, though there is one journey I will never forget. Since I flunked my A-levels at 19 years old, I've been working for security companies. Five years of patrolling, guarding and watching CCTV footage. You must have some great stories, my friends ask me. Well, I can tell you with full sincerity that cockle happened across the expanse of my career to date, until the day I lost my last job.

My last employer had tasked me to review the hours of CCTV footage recorded on the Northern Train Network. Full-time job of watching back hours of people sipping coffee, reading newspapers, and shouting at their kids to sit the fuck down and shut up. In my last week of employment there, I watched back the 0600 Stockport train. It was like any other journey, for the most part, apart from it was less busy than usual. By that I mean there were only about five people in all the carriages.

It's not like 0600 trains on Sunday mornings are ever really busy. There was an older gentleman in carriage B with tea in newspaper. Two suits in carriage C with Blackberries or whatever the trendy work-on-the-go devices people use these days are. A younger lad in carriage A who looked like he was suffering from a serious hangover with his head in his arms. Lastly, in carriage E, a young woman sat with her earphones in, staring out the window. I flick through the first 45 minutes of footage from each carriage with nothing worth reporting coming up. Well, the lad threw up on the seat next to him, and while I could try and chase up a fine on that, it was usually a pointless exercise. It was after the first tunnel that things got strange.

Just after entering it, all the lights went out in the train, and the emergencies didn't kick in. I imagined the driver over the PA. Sorry for the inconvenience. Do not be alarmed. Something, something, something. Obviously, security mode kicked in, and I eagerly skipped through the footage squinting at the screen to train. and see anything. Suitman 1 and Suitman 2 managed to illuminate their faces with their eye-duches, but I couldn't see anything else. I swapped to the camera for carriage E. Call me a white night, but I was concerned for a solitary woman on a pitch black train at six in the morning, even though I doubted the other passengers were capable of anything sinister. After around

15 minutes or so, light flooded back into the cabin. I had an instance of relief being able to see her in the light again, that was stolen away just as quickly as the feeling came. There was a shadow at the bottom of the screen, an arm just curled around the back of a chair. I quickly flicked through the other carriages, all other passengers present and corrected for. How did I miss a sixth? No, no, I didn't miss one. There wasn't a sixth passenger, and yet there was. The woman didn't seem to notice, rubbing her eyes to the sudden flush of light, then looking at the window. I wanted to bang the screen and point to her and yell, Hey, there's a creeper.

Just do anything. However, this had all already happened. It moved. Just a little. It pulled itself from behind the chair. It must have been quiet or the girl's music too loud because she didn't turn. I could see its upper torso now and it wasn't a person, I'm sure of that. It just wasn't shaped right, its forearms just too long as they stretched out along the floor in front of it.

Its spine curved and bent as it slid out into the aisle. Its neck twitched and jerked its head periodically. I felt sick watching it move. Even at the low frame rate and poor picture quality from a CCTV, there wasn't anything I had seen before and wasn't up to any good. It raised one hand up and then gently lowered it to the floor and began tapping. The girl still didn't move. I felt my heart in my chest, punching my ribcage.

I wanted to stop watching, but I had to see what happened. Another shadow slid out from the bottom of the screen. A leg? Yeah, a leg, but it was bent twice in the wrong places. A second one joined it, and the creature inched across the floor, tapping all the way. It was like it wanted to be seen. It wanted to frighten her before... Before what?

She kept looking out the fucking window. I begged her in my mind, let the track change, the battery run out, anything, just run! It jumped in a hideous but deliberate motion on top of one of the seats in front of her. Come on, you must have heard that! I yelled out to the camera. She didn't. It was only a few rows ahead of her when it started tapping on the window. One of its knees was bent up near its face.

the other knee jerked out backwards. I suppose the closest thing I could think of is like a gargoyle, but that's not even right. It was lean and it had no wings or anything and it twitched. I could see the side of its face now a big black eye with rows of teeth with no lips. It scuttled forward over the rose just two seats away from her. Instead of tapping, it just began to lean forward, slowly creeping itself close to. her. And still, the woman gazed on over the fields outside the train. The track on her MP3 player ended, or she needed to fix the volume, whatever it was. She finally pulled her eyes away to

look down. By then, its face was hovering above the table in front of her, its hands propping up on the seats opposite her and its legs stretched over two headrests behind it. I saw the look of panic. I saw her mouth fly open. I saw the thing shoot backwards to to retract its legs. And then I saw nothing as the train entered the second tunnel. I wanted to call down my boss immediately, but I had to see the rest. I flicked through the other carriages onto sea with its suitmen. Surely they'd heard a scream. Surely they did something. The little lights in their hands remained unmoving. Did she scream? Could she scream? The blackout lasted another 15 minutes when the sunlight flooded back.

into the carriage. I prepared myself for the worst E had to offer. I imagined blood strewn across the seats, gore on the aisle, a severed head hanging from the ceiling, staring into the camera. But there was nothing. No monster, no girl, no MP3 player on the table, it was all gone. For the remaining hour of the journey, I flicked through footage looking for anything, the girl, her bag, evil eyes laying weight under a table. Nothing. I watched as each passenger left the train at varying stops and more got on. I looked only for the girl. I ignored the toddler drawing on the tables. I ignored the drunk man breathing into an elderly woman's face with beer can in hand. I ignored the brat child who

set the fire alarm off and held the train up. When the train finally rolled into Sheffield, there was no sign of her. She never left the train. She just vanished. I scrolled back and made a backup copy of what I'd witnessed and then checked to see if there had been any damage to stay in to the train. There was nothing, so how the hell did that thing get on and off the train? I had to tell my boss, and that's when I was fired. Not immediately, though, he was obliged to inform the police, who watched it and accused me of forging footage for attention.

They threatened charges of wasting police time, accused me of being on drugs. After back and forth arguments for hours at the station, they let me go with a warning. After that, I was fired. Apparently having an impeccable record doesn't earn you any trust. The police confiscated the footage and the backup too,

or I would have made the video public. That's nothing I can do. All I can say to you now is keep your volume down low when you're travelling alone. You can still be snuck up on in, broads daylight. For those of us plagued by unsettling dreams and nightmares, it can be a welcome relief to find oneself in a normal dream. But as author Jessica M. explains, sometimes even the most benign dreams can suddenly turn sinister. Narrator Jessica McAvoy reads the story for us as we

discover what took place during the unrestful sleep of March 29, 2015. I woke up tangled in a variety of pillows and blankets, my heart pounding in my chest. A soft light illuminated a strange room that had a familiarity to it. It surely wasn't my room. The walls weren't plastered with posters. The bed was much too comfortable. and unread books didn't lie about on the floor. I must be dreaming.

I thought, getting out of bed to explore whatever world my brain had constructed for me. My feet met a luxuriously soft carpet, signaling a feeling of warmth and safety. Containing my excitement of finally having a normal dream, I patted my way towards the open door of the room. A soft beige hallway extended on either side, with three closed doors to my right, and an opening to some room on my left that radiated a cold light. Beyond that, the hallway ended with another door. A dim, warm glow radiated from a small crystal chandelier in the middle of the hallway. My relatively normal scene, but something felt off. I couldn't place my finger on it at first, but my instincts picked up a sinister air thick enough to cut through.

Then, my ears picked up a soft, yet frantic whisper coming from the left. The voice was moderately deep, a mixture of guttural and raspy. It seemed to sound normal, with just a little bit of something else underlying the humanity of it. I couldn't quite make out what was being said, yet I knew I should immediately lock myself in my bedroom until I actually woke up. Goose bumps rippled across my arms, and I couldn't help but physically shudder. I internally groaned at the idea of another nightmare, not wanting to deal with the anxiety that the one earlier in the week provoked. I yearned to wake up amidst my comforters and pillow pets to be able to turn and huddle into the back of my sleeping boyfriend. Seeing that this was not an option at the moment, I willed myself to block out the whispering and crawl back into the bed I woke up in.

But, because of that stupidity that takes over your mind in dreams, I made my way to the large room, peeking around the edge of the doorway. I should have locked myself in my room. The room was larger than I had originally guessed, about the size of a small car dealership's showroom. The vaulted ceiling shot up at least 12 feet, and was adorned with gold, intricate vine. leaves and flowers. Each minute detail stood out, creating a sense of realism to the plants. They shined in the cold light that seemed to be radiating from nothing. My eyes traced each vine to see that they all ended somewhere at the top of the walls, extending into golden roots that ended at the white marble floor.

Vains of black Weaved itself around the floor Shining in the light There seemed to be no tiles Just a whole slab of marble I searched for a source of light Finding nothing The cold bluish light

Seems to be coming from the air itself Creating no shadows I could have been mesmerized By that room for hours If the abrupt stop of the whispering hadn't snapped me back to the contents of the room, a black iron fireplace sat flameless on the wall opposite of me, with a matching bed on the adjacent wall to its left. The size of the bed was almost inconceivable, taking up over half the room.

How had I not noticed that when marveling at the floor? The headboard depicted the same kind of detail as of the gold vines, twisting up five feet from the mattress. Black sat in sheets flowed so elegantly over the bed. It gave the illusion of a calm, dark sea. On the sheets sat a man who I recognized as my father. Except he wasn't. He was too thin, too many bones sticking out of the wrong places. His spine rose like a small ridge on his back, accentuated by the hunched posture of his body.

I could individually count his ribs, including the floating ribs, from 20 feet away. His shoulders rose to his ears, arms awkwardly placed on the knees of his crossed legs. The tufts of dark brown hair sticking out of his scalp contrasted the pallid color of his skin. His face was contorted, revealing a mouth with multiple rows of teeth. And his eyes. Oh, his eyes! They were too large to be the eyes of any human. Yet there they were.

Stretched wide open on my father's emaciated face, practically glowing their solid color of fresh blood oozing out of a wound. They communicated such rage and hate, thick with the desire to revel in a massacre. Oh, fuck, the eyes! And they were staring at me, not blinking. He stared at me with hatred I had never thought existed. I wanted to run back into the bedroom. lock the door and wait out this monstrosity of a dream.

But I couldn't. My legs were frozen stiff, my mind cowering at the sight of this thing. I refused to think of it as my father. Just when I thought I could muster up the courage to run, its mouth started opening wider, wider than any human mouth should go. It reminded me of a snake dislocating its jaw to swallow large prey.

The skin at the corner of its lips began to bleed, eventually ripping with the sickening sound of tearing wet paper. Blood freely poured down its face, falling into its lap. No, no, no, no, my mind raced, briefly wondering what I did to deserve it. this. I didn't want to watch this. I didn't want to see this thing that looked like my beloved father mutilate itself. I didn't want to feel those terrible eyes burning into mine, into my soul. I needed to wake up. As if it heard me, the thing stopped opening its mouth and suddenly let out an inhuman shriek. The closest sense of it. The sound I can compare it to is the sound of metal on metal, two cars slamming into one another.

Covering my ears, I felt the sound resonating in my head, filling my heart with dread. The sound seeved into every crack and crevice in my brain, preventing all coherent thought. I crouched on the floor, squeezing my eyes shut, attempting to wake myself up. I could still feel the eyes boring into me, as if they were keeping me in this nightmare. Couldn't concentrate. I couldn't think. I was helpless. I didn't even realize I was screaming until the vibration of the shrieks and the feel of his eyes disappeared.

I abruptly closed my mouth. There was nothing. I couldn't hear anything besides my own ragged breaths. Convincing myself that maybe it was over, I was awake. I forced my eyes open to see what had happened. Oh God, I shouldn't have. The grotesque impersonation of my father was still on the bed, but it was looking at a black mass in front of it. It appeared to be shrinking back, willing itself to disappear into the sheets to get away from this new being.

Its eyes were still wide, but they conveyed absolute fear and despair. As for the black mass, I'm not sure I could even try to describe it to you. It didn't give off an ominous feeling, so I felt a sense of ease. Every time I tried to study it, my eyes would blur the being. When it was in my peripheral vision, the edges would be clearer, but I still couldn't define the blackness. No other colors, no definite shape.

Just black. I was starting to edge closer to it for a better look, but it raised some part of it. An arm, maybe? There seemed to be a sickle-shaped metal attached to a knobby black staff, raising with the so-called arm. A scythe? There was a sudden flash,

followed by human screams. The sound seemed. so out of place after the inhuman shrieking that had reverberated off of the walls just minutes ago. I flinched, blinking in the process. It was gone. No blurry black mass, no evidence of its presence, except the thing writhing on the bed, except wasn't the thing anymore.

The gurgling scream. were completely human. I sprinted to the bed, jumping onto its mattress and quickly crawling towards my father. When I got to him, my hands and knees became soaked in red. His face was contorted in pain,

but his normal blue and green eyes stared at me, pleading me. His cheekbones no longer jetted out, and the emaciated body the thing had possessed was now gone. His hands clutched at the gaping slash in his abdomen, covering his exposed organs and attempting to stanch the blood. The wound stretched from his right ribs to his left hip bone, revealing his liver, stomach, and intestines.

There was so much blood. Its deep red poured over everything, soaking the sheets, soaking into my memory. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but immediately spit up a glob of blood. My mind blank with shock and terror, the word hematemesis skittered across. My eyes did not stray from the face of a man I put above everything, even when severed arteries shot blood onto me, keeping rhythm with his slowing heart. even when he choked out the word go his hand momentarily gripping mine then coming to a rest i stayed held his hand and looked into those familiar eyes until the light left them and glazed over numb from watching i stayed like that for what felt like years maybe this wasn't a dream this horror and

grief felt all too real. But as all dreams do end, black clouded my vision, and I felt wakefulness begin to take me over. Relieved beyond measure, I closed my eyes and prayed that I would wake up in my own bed soon, and I felt a tap on my shoulder. It's a sad reality of life to realize our elderly family members are not long for this one. world. In this tale from author Jimmy Giuliano, we meet a man who learns that his grandmother has very little time left. This news sets off a recollection of events from his younger days, events which were long buried for reasons which will soon become clear. He is left to ask himself why he got those calls from my grandmother. On a Wednesday after,

Afternoon, my mom called to tell me my grandmother was dying. I had no reaction. I hadn't seen or talked to my grandmother since she moved to Florida when I was a teenager. That was 20 years ago. My grandmother was a miserable old curmudgeon, and we never had much of a relationship. The doctors said my grandmother had days to live. and my mom and dad were heading down to Florida to say their goodbyes. They wanted to know if I wanted to come along.

Sure, I said, even though I had nothing to say to her. The woman was practically a stranger. My only memories of my dad's mother were of her dusty house that smelled of mold and how she stared daggers at me when I was a small child. But when I hung up the phone with my mom, other memories began clawing their way to the surface. Fragments and snippets mainly, but they were there. My childhood bedroom, an old telephone, and my grandmother's voice on the other line. I began to put it together, a sequence of events that had sunk deep down to places,

I couldn't find. And so, the night before we were supposed to leave for Florida, I sat down in my parents' living room and attempted to assemble the puzzle. Speaking to my parents with a mug of hot chocolate in my hand, my story spilled out. When I was ten years old, I had an old rotary phone with a spinning and clicking dial on the nightstand next to my bed. At 2 a.m. one night, the clanging ring of the phone startled me awake. I picked up the receiver and heard nothing but ragged and harsh breathing.

It went on and on, and I just lay awake in bed with the receiver at my ear, just listening. I eventually fell asleep, and I awoke with the receiver, still on my shoulder and the dial tone beeping in my ear. A few nights later, the phone rang again at 2 a.m. I lifted the receiver and was again greeted with the same labored breath. But this time, there was a voice. My grandmother's voice. Birds came out slow and methodical, each syllable more important than the last.

I just listened in my dark and quiet room, unable to move, unable to run to my parents. The mug of hot chocolate shook in my hand as I told my parents what I heard my grandmother say. My dad's eyes were glazed over, deep in thought, like he couldn't believe that his own mother would do something like this. My mom looked at me with pleading eyes, eyes that begged the question, why didn't you tell me when it happened? The fact is, I was a bad boy. I'd done typical and naughty 10-year-old things. I'd slugged a kid on the playground and broke his glasses. I'd pocketed a candy bar at the store without paying. I'd cheated on a spelling test. Somehow my grandmother had known these things, and I remembered being a kid,

lying in bed with that phone at my ear, desperately not wanting my parents to discover the awful things I'd done. Because somehow my awful, wretched grandmother knew. I'm not sure how many calls there were, A handful, perhaps. But one night, a few weeks after the first phone call, the situation that changed. I was again awoken by the clanging of the phone in the dead of night.

I lifted the receiver from its cradle and put the phone to my ear, and I was greeted by the hoarse breathing of an old woman. But that didn't make the least amount of difference to me at the time. time. The phone went dead in my ear, and I then noticed the silence all around me. I listened intently to every creek in the house, every rustle of the wind through the tree branches outside my window, and then I heard the jiggling of the front door downstairs. I crept from my room and tiptoed down the hallway, and I knelt down at the top of the stairs peering through the wooden railings. The front door squeaked open no more than six inches, and a hand reached inside, gripping the end of the door.

I gawked at the hand's bony fingers and fingernails so long that they were beginning to curl. and I heard the breathing, the same gravelly and throaty noise from the phone. I turned away, put my back against the railings, hugged myself, and began to cry. My dad must have heard my whimpering because suddenly he was there, picking me up and sheltering me. I remember my eyes pinching shut and not looking at the doorway. I wasn't sure if the woman with the curved fingernails had come all the way inside or if she'd simply slinked away into the nights. My dad took me into his bedroom and I slept between my parents, shivering softly.

My story ended. That was all I could remember. remember. My parents sat in silence until my mom spoke up. She remembered that night. It was the only time after the age of five that I'd crawled into bed with them. My dad still looked spaced out. He had no memory of that evening, he said. Couldn't remember picking me up. Couldn't remember carrying me and my parents' bedroom. My mom put her hand on my shoulder and told me how proud she was of me for finally letting it out. I could only laugh softly. I wasn't purposefully holding it in all this time. I didn't know the story was there to begin with. We decided to still go visit my dying

grandmother. In the end, it was my decision. If I wanted answers, I didn't have long to get them. I looked into my future and saw a lifetime of wondering just how this monster could do something like that. I didn't want to live like that, so I seized on my only chance for closure. I told my Mom, and she nodded, saying whatever I wanted to do was fine. The three of us were silent throughout the flight. My mom bit her lower lip and sat with a crossword puzzle on her lap for three hours, not filling in more than five words. She simply turned the pen over and over in her hand.

My dad stared blankly out the window as if my mother, as if my mom and I weren't even there. Neither of them asked me any more questions about my phone calls. I got the distinct feeling my mom wanted to. She'd steal a look at me, start to speak, but decide against it. We touched down in Florida, cabbed it to the hospital, and were about to walk through the sliding glass doors when my dad stopped. He turned around, red in his eyes, and he began to sob.

He collapsed onto a bench and said he couldn't go through with this. He couldn't accuse his own mother. He couldn't interrogate a feeble old woman on her deathbed. An affair. He stammered. Twenty years ago, and he had a child with a child with a deathbed. another woman, a child the woman named Ben. My mom and I stood in the shadow of the hospital, shell-shocked. My story had finally opened up something inside of him, my dad said, and he was

determined to stop living a lie. I left my parents and dazedly stumbled inside. Nothing made sense. I needed to see my grandmother. I needed to know the truth. I found my way to my grandmother's room, and she was already dead. My aunt and uncle stood vigil by her frail corpse, holding her hand. There were no curling fingernails, no elongated fingers, just a real. Wrinkled, dead woman.

Maybe if I'd gone inside minutes earlier, I'd have recognized that hoarse breath as my grandmother inhaled and exhaled one last time. But now, I'd never know. I looked through the window and watched my father wander aimlessly around the hospital grounds, lost inside the new, hazy world. he'd created for himself. And I wondered how it must feel to keep a secret that you do know about for 20 years, and then how it feels to get something like that off your chest.

And I wondered about the other woman and about Ben and where they are now, and if I'd ever ran into them at the supermarket or driven past their house. and I wondered about the person that called me on the phone and crept into my house all those years ago. Was it not my grandmother after all? And just some cruel trick played by my dad's mistress, or someone that knew about my dad's affair? It didn't matter anymore. What mattered was my mom.

I found her sunk into a lobby sofa. and I sat down next to her. She looked oddly peaceful. She probably just hadn't absorbed everything yet. I put my hand on my mom's shoulder, and then she thanked me for telling my story, for remembering it all because it brought out the truth from my dad. And even though the truth was horrible and would change things forever,

It was good to know. But then I began to question my own story. Was it all in my head? Why did I not remember any of it until a few days ago? My eyes welled with tears. I told my mom it felt like I'd destroyed our family because of a story that could be make-believe. A story from the mind.

of a 10-year-old who was now lost to time. My mom reassured me she believed my story was true. She didn't know who was in our house and what my dad might have seen that night, but she believed me. But still, she said, there's one part of my story that she didn't understand. That old rotary phone in your bedroom, you do remember that was a play phone, right? 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