The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E10

Episode Date: April 26, 2015

It's episode 10 of Season 5. We have six tales this week featuring stories about frightening forests, craving creatures, and paralysing possession. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  Trigger Warnings "Whistling from the Well" written by Michael Marks and read by Jesse Cornett & Nichole Goodnight & Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:04:30) "They Walk Slowly, But They Never Stop" written by Michael Marks and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:19:25) "Mr. Wednesday" written by Edwin Crowe and read by Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:37:55) "All Doors Lead To The Hallway" written by William Dalphin and read by David Cummings & Alexis Bristowe & Mike DelGaudio & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:59:30) "The Baby-Fruit Tree in Bleachers Woods" written by Kevin Thomas and read by David Ault. (Story starts at 01:22:50) "A Possessed House" written by Father John Raptor and read by Mike DelGaudio & David Cummings & Jeff Clement & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:37:25) Click here for David's "Talent Around the Block" article. Click here for David's interview on Podcasting 101 Click here to learn more about Michael Marks Click here to learn more about Edwin Crowe Click here to learn more about William Dalphin Click here to learn more about Kevin Thomas Click here to learn more about Father John Raptor Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett Click here to contact Alexis Bristowe Click here to learn more about Jeff Clement Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "Mr. Wednesday" 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 10. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have Six Tales this week, featuring stories about frightening forests, craving creatures,

and paralyzing possession. It's good to be back with you after my week off to recover. I really appreciate all the warm wishes and good thoughts. It's nice to be missed. But we're back at it and ready for a new show. I want to make you aware of some media exposure the show has received recently. I had the genuine pleasure of meeting the Toronto-based photographer Juliette-Captiviel at her studio a few weeks ago.

Juliet has a regular series on her site called Talent Around the Block, which features creative talent from the Toronto area. It was great being photographed and interviewed about the podcast. Check the link in the show notes to see and read the article. It would be wise to provide a trigger warning for this article, however. You see, it contains graphic images of my face. I know you folks like horror, but some things go too far. In all seriousness, Juliet did an amazing job making me look presentable, so make sure you check it out. And if you'd rather stick to listening to me instead of seeing me,

the latest episode of Podcasting 101 with Jason Parsons is out. Jay and I had a great talk about the current state of this show and what goes on behind the scenes. Again, check the show notes for the link and have a listen. This is my second time on his show, and I love the fact that Jay has a real passion for podcasting. It's always fun speaking with him. I want to introduce a new member of the No Sleep Podcasting team. Jesse Cornett is joining us, this week as a narrator, and in the future, as a producer and narrator.

Jesse is one of the driving forces over at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, and brings a wealth of producing and narrating experience to our show. So welcome, Jesse. It's great to have you with us. And to our season past members, we have a treat on this episode. You'll recall in episode one of season five, we featured William Delphin's great story, Painting of a Hallway, about a haunted painting tormenting its owner. Well, William has written a sequel to that story,

and we're featuring it on this episode. It's the first time we've done a follow-up story like this, and I know you'll enjoy it. And speaking of enjoying stories, let's start enjoying all of them right now. In our first tale, we join a young man as he strolls through the forest near his house. As we learn from author Michael Marks, this lad discovers an old well out there, a well which seems to have a sinister intent. narrator Jesse Cornett is joined by Nicole Goodnight and Jessica McAvoy on this tale.

Have a listen and see if you two can hear the whistling from the well. When I was 15, I found a well in the woods behind my house. We had already lived in that house for a few years by the time I found it, and I was surprised that I had never run across it before. It was made of cold gray stone and jutted about the house. three feet out of the ground. The top had been covered with boards. Dead leaves framed its base and coated the boards almost like a camouflage. I marked the location in my head, making a mental map. I figured it might be cool to find my way back there at some point to read or draw. It was a really

peaceful spot. It was summer and I was kind of a loner with little to do. Most of the time a peaceful spot to be alone was all I wanted. It took me a year before I found the well again. I could swear that I had met the path back to it in my head perfectly. It wasn't like it was that far from my backyard, maybe a mile into the woods, if that. I spent most of the rest of that summer looking for it. I would walk the tree line for hours back and forth. I didn't even care about using it as a spot to have.

hang out anymore and I just wanted to prove to myself I wasn't crazy I asked my parents if they had ever seen it during times they would go for walks out there and they just shook their heads and told me that they didn't know anything about a well after a while I just gave up it wasn't really worth the wasted energy after all I figured it was out there somewhere perhaps I had just been deeper than I thought the day I found it Time passed. Another school year came and went, and I had a birthday during that time. Turned 16, started driving. Found a girlfriend at school and went about my life as normal. The next summer, I found myself bored on a day that my parents had both cars and decided maybe I should take a walk in the woods. I hadn't actually done it for a while, and besides, by that point, I had started smoking and wanted to keep it as far away from the house as possible.

to hide it from my parents. About 45 minutes into my walk, I found it. The well. It was in the exact spot I had originally matted out in my head and long since forgotten. Right there where I would have expected it to be a year earlier, still cold gray stone, still boarded up, still covered in dead leaves. I did a double take on it,

honestly wondering how I could have not found it when I was looking for it, but just kind of stumbled across it when I wasn't. I leaned up against one of the trees about four yards from it and stared at it, totally baffled. I tried to shrug it off, but it was so weird. I pulled out a cigarette and stood smoking and tracing the well with my eyes, as if it were some kind of alien species. That's when I first heard the whistling. It was soft and low.

At first I had to strain a bit to even hear it. I looked around the tree line to see if I could spot anyone else walking around the property. Maybe my mom or dad had come home at some point and were taking a stroll through the trees, just like me. I didn't see anyone, though. No distant shapes. No figures wandering the tree line. I followed the direction of the sound with my ears as it started to get louder. I even recognized the tune.

Mary had a little lamb. It got louder and louder. Till it seemed like the source should be right near me. I soon realized that it was. It was coming from inside the well. I walked over to the well and started to clear the boards off the top. They weren't fastened to the top by anything, so it was as simple as just picking them up and tossing them into the grass. Once the last board was cleared, I stared down into the black pit.

A foul stench rose up from below, like wet and rotting vegetation. I trained my ear back towards the whistling once again, just to be sure I wasn't crazy. Sure enough, it was echoing off the stone walls of the well before it reached my ears. Hello? Are you okay? The whistling stopped. It just cut off at the sound of my voice. It was followed by a long and empty silence.

It made me feel gradually more uncomfortable with each passing second. I swallowed hard and called out again. Somebody down there? My question was once again answered with only silence. I sat under my breath as I leaned up from the hole and took a drag off my cigarette. Suddenly, sharp and manic laughter exploded from deep within the well. I nearly stumbled backwards from the surprise. I quickly stuck my face back down into the top of the well and yelled with all I had.

Who's down there? Another long pause. I felt like I was standing on the precipice of hell. The stench of rot grew ever stronger in my nose. I had to choke down each breath I took. The silence was broken by what sounded like a low whimper. And then a voice. A voice that...

sounded exactly like my mother. Honey? Is that you? To help me, I think my legs are broken. My mother had left for work that morning. I watched her drive away. She had called the house before I went out on my walk, in fact, asking if there was anything special I wanted her to pick up from the store on the way home. Whatever was talking to me was not my mother. That much, I knew for sure. The imitation was perfect, though.

I stood above that well, staring down into the black. I was stunned and unsure how to respond to what I had just heard. Then, up from below came another voice, my father's voice. Is this how you treat your mother? Ignoring her pleas for help? You have always been such a rotten little shit. should have smothered you in your crib or fed you to the dogs when you were a baby. I felt sick.

Obviously, whatever was down there was trying to mess with my head. As crazy as it seemed, that was the only explanation. Still, even knowing that, hearing those words in my father's voice hit me very hard, I backed away from the well. It screamed again in my mother's voice. voice. Help me, please! The rats! The rats are eating me! It screams for help dissolved into a high-pitched squeal, and then died out in a gurgling, retching noise. I turned from the well entirely and began to run away from it, back the

way I came and towards my house. I could hear whatever was down in that well behind me, laughing. As I moved through the woods, as fast as my feet would carry me, I could still hear it whistling. Long when I should have been out of earshot, I continued to hear it. It whistled Mary had a little lamb just like when I first heard it, but as I reached the edge of the forest, the tune changed to a funeral march. I sprinted to my back door, which I had thankfully left unlocked before I left. I got inside quickly and locked it behind me. I went into my room on the second floor of the house and stared out my window.

It overlooked the backyard and I had a clear view of the woods beyond. Nothing was chasing me, at least not that I could see. Still, I sat at that window until my parents got home from work. I thought about telling them about what I had heard from the bottom of the well, but I knew they wouldn't have believed me. I ended up keeping it to myself. I never went into those woods again, and every time my parents would go for their walks,

I'd always tell them to be careful. I knew there wasn't much else I could do. What was I supposed to say? If you run across a well out there, book it mom and dad. That shit is evil. I'm sure that would have gone over real well. like me in therapy for a few years well. They never did see it though.

Or if they did, they never mentioned it. Months later, I started hearing someone whistle the funeral march outside my window every night for a week. Every time I'd look to see what was there, I could never see anything, though. This happened every few months, and when it did, it would drive me crazy. I wouldn't be able to sleep at all. I would just sit up in my bed and listen in terror, helpless to do anything about it. My parents never heard it.

Eventually I moved away from my parents' place, out to California. I got a job in the Bay Area working at some tech company, met myself a nice girl, even got married. For a while, I even forgot about the well. That is, until I went on a nature hike with my wife a few weeks ago. We were just walking along in the woods, talking and having a nice weekend with each other. We followed a trail that led us into a clearing, and I froze in my tracks when I saw it. A well sticking about four feet out of the ground, covered in dead leaves.

The boards had been removed from the top and scattered about the base Exactly as I had left it My wife had noticed I had stopped walking with her and turned to me with a puzzle look What the hell is wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost She said smiling and walking back towards me Do you see it? I said

Pointing a finger towards me the well. She turned her head and then turned back to me with a raised eyebrow. The well? Yeah, I see it. So what? I wanted to tell myself that it was a different well. It had to be, right? I hadn't seen it in over ten years and I was in a different fucking state. I knew, though, just by looking at it, that it was the exact same fucking well. I found it again. I found it because I had stopped looking for it.

I grabbed my wife by the wrist and started walking the other way. What the hell are you doing? She said as I dragged her along. Let's get out of here. And then realizing just how weird I was being made a quick excuse. I'm really starting not to feel good. Okay. She still sounded puzzled, but placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.

About halfway back down the trail, I heard whistling. The same tune I had heard the first time I looked down that damn well. I looked back behind me, half expecting to see some nightmare bearing down on me like something else. of a horror movie. Instead, I just saw my wife whistling Mary had a little lamb and smiling as she walked. It's often very difficult to figure out what motivates some people to commit the most heinous of crimes. What drives them to their nefarious deeds? Well, in this, our second tale from author Michael Marks, we meet a man with the dark intention of taking a life. But as we'll learn, perhaps there is a deeper meaning to his crime. Perhaps he alone knows the reason why they walk

slowly, but they never stop. Thinning hair atop his head, adorned with liver spots, sagging, wrinkled skin causing his face to droop like wax. slowly dripping from the top of a candle. His business suit, tweed, disheveled and looking like something rejected by the 70s and transported through time. His tie hangs loose. It mimics the noose he wishes was around his neck. Momentarily slack before he leaps from that chair and into the great beyond. The souls of his shoes worn, each step,

through the streets, bringing them closer to opening up and allowing in the filth beneath his feet. Filth. It's sadly been a common theme in his life. He stinks of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. He's a man who continues to exist through the numbing effects of alcohol. A drunk, a lost, worthless waste of skin, bones, meat and blood. Not someone anyone would ever miss. If he has a wife, she's prefixed by X. If he has children, they don't speak to him. The possibility of friends is unlikely as well.

There may be a few pathetic sad drunks who grumble with him at the back of some dive on occasion, but no one that would ever look for him. He is a few pathetic sad drunks who grumble with him. He is perfect. It can take time to find exactly what I need. Discretion is beyond necessary in these situations, though, and it's worthwhile to take your time and be picky. I sit a few seats behind him on the train, breathing in his loneliness as if it may sustain me. All the others on the train stare down at their phones in some kind of trance, texting, searching the internet, watching something to amuse themselves, blissfully unaware of anything and everything around them. Not him, though. He stares blankly out the window. I can see his vacant eyes reflected back

in the shaking plastic. He's aware. Oh yes, he is very aware. aware of every ounce of pain and suffering he's endured. I think to some degree he's aware of me. The looming specter hanging just over his shoulder, awaiting the moment to bring the cold chill of death down upon him, like the headsman with his axe raised, waiting for that perfect moment to bring it crushing down. I am no headsman, though.

I'm a creator of kings and servant of gods. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as the conductor announces his stop coming up next. He breaks his gaze from the world that was speeding by him and crawls from his seat with an aching groan. I almost pity him in this moment. Such a sad and pathetic waste of life he is. nothing worth saving by any stretch of the imagination. Still, I find myself curious where he's going,

what he intends to do when he gets there. What possibly could such a pointless creature as him be planning for this evening? Nighttime TV and a bottle of Jim Beam is the most likely thing, but I have been wrong before. at fucking woman. She ended up on the news the day after she vanished. Flyers, posters, the whole goddamn works was brought out to find her. My instincts were dead on.

She was a loner, a pathetic nothing, sleepwalking through a life without meaning. Her sister, on the other hand, she was some big-shot member of the city council. An upstanding citizen of the community who wouldn't rest until her sister was found. Of course, she found nothing. Despite my choice of victims, I'm still exceedingly careful. Still, that one stuck with me long after.

How could I have not picked up on a sibling, one who would search? That time, they had found nothing, but what if this? time was different. What if this time they discovered where the people were disappearing to and who was involved? It would most assuredly be the end of me, and even worse, the end of everything else. No, I tell myself, I'm being silly. My instincts have always correctly guided me. One hiccup in a system doesn't mean you throw it away and start all over. You correct and retry. The man looks back at me as if to say hello. Something about me caught his attention. I wonder to myself if I spoke out loud and he heard me. I turned to look at the person who

is sitting directly across from me. They're absorbed into the glowing, screwing. of their phone, unaware of anything but their primary focus. No, I didn't speak aloud. He just senses it. Our connection, that we both have a very special role to play in this world. Savior and victim, king and slave, we are both set upon a path that simultaneously leads towards both absolution and disloation and destruction.

The train slows to a stop, and with the audible ding and robotic announcement of its arrival, the doors open. The man steps off, with me only a few steps behind him. He once again seems blissfully unaware of my presence. This is good. He turns the corner from the station and heads down a flight of stairs leading towards a parking,

lot. Slow, uneasy steps recall memories for me that I'd rather forget. I'm good at my task, though, and I keep pace with him. Not too close, though, as I would rather not arouse suspicion. Other people around us begin to thin out, the crowds from the commuter trains dispersing to their cars. Eventually, it's simply me and him, as if it was meant to be. He turns down a row of cars and starts heading towards a filthy brown station wagon. Wood paneling, cracked windshield, and while I can't tell from where I am, I would guess at least one broken light somewhere on the damned thing.

It's just as I thought. This man serves no purpose in this world. It's reflected in everything from the... gate of his walk, to his car, to his dull, lifeless eyes. I'm closer behind now, pretending to make my way towards a car further down the line, just happenstance, as far as he can tell, just another traveler headed for home. As I grip the blackjack in my pocket tightly, my knuckles undoubtedly turning white as I squeeze it tightly with anticipation.

The hunt is nearing its end. I hear him remove his keys from his pocket and sharply turn towards him. I nearly break into a sprint as I remove the blackjack and raise it to strike. I see the look in his eyes, the brief flash of terror in the mere moment between when he realizes what is happening, and how little time he has to react. I feel the weighted club strike his temple, the vibrations making their way down my arm. The man collapses, striking the other side of his head on his car.

No time to scream, no time to react. I collect his keys from the ground and open up the back door of his car. I pick him up off the ground. a small wound on the side of his head leaking blood onto my jacket. I lament this fact, as I'll now have to burn this jacket, and I liked it too. I shove him into the backseat of his car and then enter the driver's seat myself. I take only a moment to calm my nerves, a deep breath before the next part. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I look tired. A man in desperate need of sleep. A man on the edge. I shake these thoughts from my head and start up his car. A smile brushes across my face at the fact that this shitbox even runs. I head towards our eventual destination slowly and the man never wakes in the car. They never do. When the man eventually wakes up,

he realizes he is at the opening of a small tunnel dug 15 feet into the ground. There's a roof high above his head as we're in an old manufacturing plant. I'm unaware as to what they used to manufacture here, as by the time this place found me, it was long abandoned. He also sees me sitting above him. him, my legs dangling over the edge as I stare down at him. His hands have been bound, as have his legs, and he's seated in what would seem to him like a throne made of marble, and he's honestly not far off.

Tonight, he becomes an unsung king for mankind. What's going on? He asks, his voice meek and rancers. A man waking from one dream and slipping into another. He struggles against his bonds for a moment, then stares up at me, his eyes pleading. I'm glad you'll be awake for this. I say, my face lit up with delight. I always hate when they sleep through it.

It's better to witness the glory, I say. What the first. What fuck are you talking about? Let me out of here right now. Do you hear me? I watch him shake and struggle, scream and plead. It's already over, though. I can see the light building at the entrance of the tunnel.

Look forward. I tell him and point to the opening directly in front of him. I watch his head slowly. turn, his eyes widening and his screams freezing in his throat. He is witnessing the glory and the majesty for the first time, and I envy him. What are those things? He asks as if any human tongue could speak their names or describe their visage. We need you. All of human, They require a sacrifice to be appeased, and I chose you. We thank you for what you're doing.

I feel the tears streamed down my face, and my smile widen across it. It's beautiful to me every time, something of true greatness. Why are they moving like that? What are they? What are they going to do to me? The time for answering questions is over as I simply watch the rest of the events unfold. The light at the entrance to the tunnel grows ever brighter. A pale blue like a post-dawn sky.

The man's screams are like a chorus. He continues to shout questions to me even as tendrils of light strutely. out from the mouth of the cave and wrap around him. People have said before that it burns to be touched by them. They've screamed it. This man goes silent, though, silent. His lips tighten as he is dragged from the marble throne towards the light. He stares up at me with pleading eyes.

Before he disappears into the light, I mouth my final words to him. Thank you. I fall asleep on the earthen ground around the opening to the sounds of screams echoing in my ears. When I wake the next morning, I find exactly what I expect to find. A skull, strange markings burned into the bone. It means I've satiated them, and they're pleased. I take the skull and bury it with the others behind the building, as I was instructed to do the first time this place found me.

I've lost count of how many are out here. I've lost track of how long I've been charged with this task. As I walk from the building, I spy the inscription left by, whoever came before me, or possibly even before him. It's carved into a piece of wood which hangs above the large doors that used to be used for shipping and receiving. It reads, Keep them here and keep them fed,

lest the world burn in their radiance and glory. They walk slowly, but never stop. stop. I leave those words fresh in my mind. The cycle begins again, and I need to seek a new king for the throne. For now, though, I go home to my family. My wife and daughter, safe for another few months, alive to see a new dawn. I gave him purpose. He saved the... often have imaginary friends. Sometimes it's those invisible friends who can help them in their development. But as we learn from author Edwin Crow, when a man recalls his younger days and the difficulties he overcame, it makes him draw a connection to his own daughter going through

a similar struggle. Narrator Peter Lewis is joined by Nicole Doolin and Jessica McAvoy, and And we'll learn that sometimes unseen people aren't always that friendly, especially if one of them is named Mr. Wednesday. The living room and saw my daughter sitting, cross-legged, playing. I allowed myself. This was not something I'd seen before. She picked up one of the little figurines and placed it in front of her playmate. My wife got up from her chair slowly and crept over to me.

She placed her arm around my back. I felt her shoulders heaved as she began to crud. See? Just like the psychiatrist said. Just give it time and she'll come out of her shell. She'll start talking. We're going to have to arrange some playdates. Yes, rolling down my cheek. I tried to fame.

smile. I started life in much the same way as my daughter. I was quiet. I kept to myself. I didn't start talking when all the other children did. I went from psychiatrist to doctor to psychologist. I was diagnosed to autistic. They didn't understand the condition as well back then as they do now. They thought I was stupid. Looking back, I cannot remember attending preschool or many of the children my age, but I do remember my friends, the ones I talked to in my head. They always told me how great I was at a time when my parents just pushed me from stranger to stranger to work out why I was too intellectually stunted. They gather children. They'd betray me. So, they all had names, but now I can only remember Mr. Wednesday. I think I named him that,

but I'm not sure now. I never saw them in the daytime. However, I was always conscious of them being there somewhere out of sight like over my shoulder or under the table. My dad was always supportive. I think he thought I was special and needed extra help coping socially. When he tucked me into bed at night, he'd shine a flashlight underneath and state, You're all clear of monsters, sunshine. After the door shut and the room fell back into the darkness. I could make out the dark silhouettes of them, huddled into the corners of my room.

They scared me. They took on a whole new reality. Their shadow-like ethereal bodies made all the more real by the veil of night. I held my eyes shut tight as I felt them slink back under my bed calmly. When I finally did open my eyes, the silhouettes were gone, but I knew where they were, just feet under my body waiting for me to wake. When I was eight, I spent the weekend at my grandma's house so that my parents could go on a short trip. I recalled my mother hugging my grandma so tightly and repeatedly thanking her for the opportunity to get away. as she turned

she knelt in front of me and said You'd be good for your grandmother She doesn't have the energy we do So if you make her life hell She sighed Just be good honey Okay Again

Just like she always does And I'm sorry She said Pulling me clove from the porch As the car pulled away My grandma's hand rubbing my back. They disappeared into the distance. She leaned over and said, Let's get some cookies for you and your friends. My eyes like saucers.

Your parents have told me all about them. The bungalow was small, but cozy. The fireplace kept the whole place warm, sometimes too warm, and I'd need to take off my sweater. My grandma finished stoking the fire and hobbled in to the open place. in kitchen, her feet shuffling on the wooden floor. She took her seat at the dining table opposite me. I stared at the plate of cookies. Leaning forward, she asked, Aren't you going to eat one?

I shook my head. That's a shame. I'm sure one of your friends would like one. She continued looking at me quizzically. Shrugging, she picked up a cookie for her. herself and began eating. Finishing the last mouthful, she said. Would you like some milk at least?

I shook my head again. Not much of a talker, are we? That's okay. I don't mind doing all the talking. I don't get to see many people these days, and when I do, it's hard to get a word in edgeways. How about we do some crafts? She pulled an old, varnished wooden box.

towards her. This will be fun, trust me. She opened the box. Curiosity got the better of me, and I looked up. So you are interested, then, she announced with a smile. She took out some cotton wool, and with a piece of cloth, she wrapped it up.

Carefully, she dipped back into the box and withdrew a piece of string. So, the... friends of yours, are they nice? I nodded my head. I bet they tell you good things about you. I nodded again. Do they say bad things about other people?

I hung my head. Do they say bad things about your parents? She had now stopped what she was doing. I looked up and she was staring at me. Do you ever see them? I acknowledged her by not breaking my gaze, thinking of the silhouettes I saw in my bedroom at night. Do you want them to go away?

She handed me the creation, and I took it. It appeared to be a crude representation of a man. The cloth and cotton wool made up the body and head. The string was used to separate. the two, arms and legs represented by twigs. Do you want me to show you how to make one of these? Stortled, I looked over to the far corner of the room. Against the wall, two feet off the ground, I saw a man in a tattie black suit,

a white shirt underneath torn and dirty. His face in shadow cast by his unkempt, that was the clearest. I ever saw Mr. Wednesday and dread butterflies gathered in my stomach and I felt faint. He began

slowly shaking his head. Okay, little one. Maybe later. My grandma said, suddenly somber and distracted by what took my gaze. Hey, I've got something to show you. She said,

getting up from the sea, and taking my hand, and held her hand tightly. So warm and gentle against mine, she squeezed my hand in response. We stopped in front of a glass cabinet high up on the wall, just out of reaching distance. Gently she opened it and took out a small box, similar to that on the table, but this one came with a combination lock. Out of view She sat in a little cloth

Men Some were very basic And some very intricate Their faces painted Some dressed in miniature clothes These are mine She started No

She scolded as I reached out to touch You mustn't These are not to be played with I made each one of these for every one of them That talked to me did things to me. For you, they may seem friendly, but I assure you they are not. These, as long as I keep them, they will not bother me or others.

She closed. I don't know what kids like to do these days. Would you like cartoons? Sitting, I tried to smile and watch the TV. The suited... I haven't had to do this for years. I'm sorry if it is not. how you like it.

My grandma announced as she pulled the sheets up around my neck. Don't let the bedbugs bite, sweetie. The approach to the threshold of the door, took one more look at me, and waved, closing the door. Watched the room descend into darkness and closed my eyes before it was pitch black, making sure I didn't get a glance of them. I waited for sleep to visit me. Suddenly I became aware I was not alone.

The feeling so heavy it took my breath. Get that! Over in bed and scrunched my eyes shut. Wouldn't you like some more friends? It opens over my ears. Boy! Clamped down on my slammy swearing if what I just experienced was a dream, I felt my heart race trying to catch my breath.

Don't disappoint. It reverberated in my head. I was sure my grandma would hear and walked towards the bedroom door, hearing my feet slap against the parkey floor. Opening the door, I took a deep room. As an unseen hand pushed me out of the room, walked along the dimly lit corridor to the living room.

It as I could be, I creeped past my grandma's bedroom and slowly turned the handle to the, still-worned, The glass cabinet hung high on the wall and my pulse quickened. An anxiety let loose around my nervous system telling me to run, run to my grandma's room and dive into her bed. I turned and jumped in shock.

Mr. Wednesday of my bedroom door was just behind him. Her pigtails cut off near the root, leaving uneven knots of greasy hair on top of her head. ears, what was left of a bun. Her smile appeared unnaturally large. Hundreds of teeth slithered in her mouthings. Sat at the tongue, slack, staring back at me long sense stitched, and ran into the living room

closing the door behind me. Stepping away from the door, I tried to catch my braddle to the lounge, began to turn to speak. Um, I am trying to. Stop it. It labored and stuttered, as I was not used to speaking. With all my might, it squeaked as it relented. I winced at the sound.

I sighed in relief when it came to rest under the cabinet. I jumped on the couch and again to close. What do you think you were doing? My grandma shouted through the now open living room door, starting to quiver, tears collecting in the corners of my eyes. I am sorry, Grandma. I am sorry. They...

They... ...the side and shuffled towards me as fast as she could. Oh, I am so sorry, dear. Come. She opened her arms. I jumped down and ran into them. Everything's going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.

The doorbell rang, and my head responded by looking straight at it. My grandma got up from the chair, muddled her way to the front of the house, and opened the door. Welcome back, did you have a nice trip? She asked my mother. It was great. She responded, walking into the house. Looking at me, she asked. How's my little guy?

Stared. Don't you have a little? have something to say to your mother dear? My mother looked at her, confused. I, happy to see you, I mustered. She brought her hands to her face, her eyes beginning to glass over. Richard, get in here now. She shouted out for my father.

What, what is it? He responded, bounding into the house. Our little boy spoke. Really? Seriously? I glanced at my grandma. She nodded, knowingly, shuddered as he began to smile. He rushed over and hugged me. His friends are gone now.

He'll be fine. My grandma soothed. We left the house that evening after eating dinner. The cold night turned to vapor as I breathed. Hey dear, don't forget these. To see my grandma. Here, take it. Remember, as long as you have them in here, they can't hurt you.

I grabbed the box and on tiptoes kissed her on the cheek. I'll miss you. You know that, right? She said, as I waved and trotted towards the car, seeing my daughter, playing, brought back. Back all those memories peered at her playmate. He sat cross-legged back suit. His white shirt underneath, torn and dirty.

His face in shadow cast by his unkempt hat. Mr. Wednesday. Stay. Stay. Stay for dinner. Can you believe it? My wife said. overjoyed, clapping enthusiastically.

Where's your friend can stay? She said, confused, looking at her sitting there on her own. So happy her daughter had finally spoke, I feigned us and stared, scattered on the carpet. Little cotton effigies not move. Tension turned to Mr. Wednesday. He slowly shook his head. and brought his finger.

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.

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