The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E17

Episode Date: June 14, 2015

It's episode 17 of Season 5. We celebrate four years of The NoSleep Podcast with six stories about fractured families, desolate destinations, and nasty nocturnal admissions. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first four tales. Trigger Warnings "The Perfect Family" written by L. Matuse and read by Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:12:35) "From Hell, You Must Entertain Heaven" written by Alice Lily and read by David Ault & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:29:55) "Love, Abby" written by L. Stark and read by Corinne Sanders & Erika Sanderson & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:55:55) "The Screaming Starts At Midnight" written by Michael Marks and read by Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:13:15) "Elsewhere, Kentucky" written by Seamus Coffey and read by Mike DelGaudio & Nichole Goodnight & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:42:55) "Nearby" written by Michael Whitehouse and read by David Cummings & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 02:02:35) Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about Michael Marks Click here to learn more about Seamus Coffey Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse Click here to learn more about William Dalphin Click here to read more from T.W. Grim Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "From Hell, You Must Entertain Heaven" 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. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have Six Tales this week, featuring stories about fractured families, desolate destinations, and nasty nocturnal admissions. This is a very special episode for us

because it was exactly four years ago this very weekend that a plucky little podcast launched its first show. That's right, it's the fourth anniversary of the No Sleep Podcast. It was all the way back on June 13, 2011, when I first welcomed you to join us while the sleepless hours ticked past. We've certainly come a long way since then. And as much as I'd like to go on and on about the show and what it's meant to me, I'd rather give the floor to some of the many people who have contributed to making the show what it is today. And so, here with a message for all of you, are some of the people who create the magic which creeps into your mind each week.

This is Jessica McAvoy from Arizona in the southwest United States. I just want to say thank you to everyone for allowing me to have the most fun being able to read stories to you. I don't know if I can ever adequately express just how grateful I am to have been able to get to do this and share this with you. I've only been here since season three and some of you have been here longer. So thank you for sticking with us and I hope you will continue to stay with us. So keep listening for more stories, more monsters, more villains, more mysteries, and together, hopefully we'll never sleep again. Hi, I'm David Alt from the United Kingdom. I binge listened to series one and two when I first discovered the No Sleep podcast,

and I was determined to be part of the team. And so now here I am in season five, thanking firstly David Cummings, our wonderful producer, for continuing to get all of these amazing stories out week on week. And also thanks to you, the audience, for staying with us through these first five seasons. And I know that there is much, much more to come. many more sleepless nights ahead. Hey guys, this is Corinne Sanders from Utah.

I just want to thank all of you for listening and for your amazing support of the No Sleep podcast throughout these first four years. Those of you that have been listening from the beginning, myself included, know how much we've grown in that amount of time and you are the ones to thank for that. If not for your generosity and support, this show would only be a memory.

I honestly don't feel like just a contributor. I feel like part of an amazing community. I know you guys love this podcast as much as I do, and you want to see it continue to grow and improve. So just please continue supporting us into the fifth year and beyond, you know, however long we can make it go. If none of us ever get sleep again, I mean, at least it's a worthwhile trade, right? Hey there, my name is Mike Delgado, and I'm from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

I'm honored to be one of the No Sleep Podcasts regular players I have been since season four. The podcast is growing up, maturing, asserting its independence, and finding its true creative voice. As a narrator, I have truly, I've just had a blast participating in all the stories that I've had the privilege of playing for you. It has been an honor to have the opportunity to entertain you. So truly, thank you for listening. Thank you for subscribing. There is lots more in store for the podcast, and I encourage all of you to please keep listening.

Thank you all so, so much for listening. Thank you for subscribing and happy birthday no sleep podcast. This is Michael Whitehouse from Glasgow, Scotland. As a regular contributor to the show, I just want to say a huge thank you to David and everyone else involved at the No Sleep podcast for making it the best horror podcast on the planet these last four years. Most of all, I want to say thank you to you, the listeners. You're the reason why we tell stories,

why we step into the darkness, and why sometimes we bring something back with us. I hope you're ready for our fifth season, as we delve deeper into the abyss than ever before, for something ancient and hideous lurks nearby, and you'll only find it on the No Sleep podcast. Hi, this is Nick Colkin Knight from Rochester, New York. I just wanted to say thank you guys so much for being so supportive over the past four years. And as we're about to enter our fifth, I just can't even express how grateful I am that we have so many wonderful listeners. This is such a pleasure to do, and it is just a dream come true to do this. So thank you guys so much. And I look forward to many, many years to come.

Hi, this is T.W. Grimm from Southwestern Ontario. I'm happy to have been given this opportunity to thank you, the listeners, for supporting the podcast and taking time out of your day to sit back and listen as the narrators bring our stories to life. I've always enjoyed working with David Cummings, and I'm always impressed with the dark, ominous tone that the No Sleep podcast breathes into my words. Here's to another four years, David, and another four after that. Hi, this is Erica Sanderson from somewhere between Oxford and London in the UK. And I just want to say a massive and heartfelt thank you to everyone who's been listening to the No Sleep podcast

over the last four years, whether you're a regular old listener or a newbie like me, does mean a lot to us and we appreciate you listening to our stories week after week. It's been a great pleasure for me to have been invited to have been part of the No Sleep Ensemble and joining this crazy, wonderful family and getting to record all of these wonderful different voices for you each week. I've loved doing it. I hope I get to be a part of it for many, many years and stories to come and I hope you keep listening as well. So from over here in the UK, wishing you all a great evening. Thanks very much for listening. Take care now. Bye-bye. Hey, no sleepers. This is your maestro of malevolence,

Brandon Boone, composing for you from David's Basement. Uh, I mean, Cincinnati, Ohio. I'm probably the only person on the show whose voice you haven't heard before. Sorry for making you wait so long to hear these sultry tones. The time that I've spent working on the show is time that I'm never getting back. So please, keep listening. All joking aside, I love working on the show and couldn't have a better audience. Thank you for listening all these years and all the years to come. Stay sleepless. Hi, this is Will Dalfin from Haverill, Massachusetts. Whether you're a long-time listener or fresh meat, thank you for listening to the No Sleep podcast. I regret to inform you that this is Peter Lewis, speaking to you now from just outside Denver,

Colorado, in these United States that I've been hearing so much about. Now, I know what you're thinking, and yes, I do plan on contesting the restraining. order. While I maintain this court-mandated distance from you, however, it is my privilege to offer a word of thanks. David informs me that we will be seeping wetly into the fifth year of frightful fables here at the old no-sleep podcast, and if you've been along for the ride, even for just these past few minutes, you have my undying gratitude. While I do enjoy sitting alone in a darkened closet, clutching a microphone that I loosely cobbled together out of discarded toothpicks, a semi-luminous glowstick, some of David Hasselhoff's used chewing gum and an old shoe, it's far more gratifying

to know that the rough, thoroughly unwelcome sound of my voice is being cast out across the interwebs and directly into your vulnerable ear holes. You, all of you, in our steadily increasing horde of almost unnervingly gorgeous listeners are what makes this podcast so much fun to be a part of. From the bottom of my thing with the ventricles and the aorta and whatnot, thank you for all of the time and support you've given us. Here's hoping you'll join us as we stride, trembling and goose-bumpy, into our fifth fantastic year. Oh, and uh, I'm sorry I called your ear holes vulnerable. This is Jimmy Giuliano from Wakanda, Illinois.

You might also know me as Chance Patrick or as Red Grin on Reddit. Thank you to all the listeners and subscribers of the No Sleep podcast. And of course, thanks to David for including my Campfire stories on his show. I'm extremely lucky and honored to be a part of this really cool thing David has going on. And I hope everyone keeps listening. I know I will. Hi, everyone. This is Nicole Doolin recording from the East Coast of the United States.

I just wanted to let you know that I truly appreciate all the support you've shown the podcast over the past four years. Without you, No Sleep wouldn't be entering its fifth year. Your generosity fuels this dynamic production. I've been truly glad to be a part of No Sleep. Not only does this show have one of the best audiences, it also has a terrific producer in David. He is a delight to work with. He always makes me feel like my work is very much.

valued and that inspires me to do more. I have to say that I admire how David shaped the podcast into a multi-award winning production. His vision and efforts have yielded noteworthy and engaging entertainment and I'm excited to see where he'll take no sleep next. You know, this isn't just another podcast. This is a dynamic community of artists, writers, actors, musicians, sound designers and visual artists who all play a vital role in making the show what it is by sharing their unique talents with each other and ultimately with you. So while you're listening to a great audio production of spine-tingling tales, and if you've been kind enough to subscribe, you are also sponsoring all of the artists who work behind the

scenes. As one of them myself, I wish you good fortune in all your endeavors, and I thank you for supporting ours. It's with an overflowing heart that I too thank you, dear listeners, for allowing us to share all of this with you. Words can't begin to express how grateful I am. As we begin our fifth year of the show, I hope you'll stick with us, keep sharing what we do, and banish sleep during the darkness of the night. And now let's start the show. In our first tale, we meet two young siblings who are finally allowed to explore the woods behind their house. As author El Matus explains, it was in that mysterious forest where they discovered an

unexpected house with some unexpected residence. After meeting them, the kids quickly realize it's a home to which they hope to never return. Narrators Jessica McAvoy and Nicole Doolin read the tale for us, as we come to realize there is no such thing as the Perfect family. My brother Elliot and I are close. Don't get me wrong. It's nothing weird or anything like that. We're just close.

Sure, as kids, we fought over dumb stuff, as brothers and sisters do. And as teenagers in high school, he pretended not to have a little sister. And I pretended he was just another jerk jock. But despite all of that, we're close. Now that he's out of the house and I'm in college, we don't see each other as often, but we try to talk on the phone at least once a week. Not many people can pinpoint why it is that they are close with their siblings, but I can. I know he can too.

Maybe without our shared experience, we still would have been close, but what happened to us really nailed it down. We never talk about it, but I know we both remember it. Every time someone suggests telling scary stories or starts talking about odd experiences, it looms heavily over us. Even to this day, I can't make sense of it. But this is the reason my brother and I are so close. If nothing else, this is the one thing. We will always have in common.

One thing that will keep us together. It happened in the summer. I was nine years old, my brother 12. It was a pretty uneventful summer so far. We grew up in a sleepy town in the northeast. It sits on the coast and is pretty much split in two, with half of the residents being dock workers or fishers, and the other being the wealthier type,

who commute to the city of the city. every day. With the exception of my family and a few others, it is mostly those richer people who have children, and even though the town is on the coast, it's not exactly a tourist attraction, so many of those wealthier people often leave on vacation for the summer. This, of course, means the children are gone as well, which means my brother and I had a long string of boring, drawn out summers with all of our friends gone. This summer was no exception. At some point during this summer, our parents began to get fed up with us.

Being bored and young, we often got into things and caused trouble. Looking back, I have to laugh. I mean, we really gave my mother, who worked from home a hard time. Elliot and I would run around, yelling and breaking things, while my mother tried her hardest to get work done in her office. My father was out working on the docks. One day, I guess my brother and I were being particularly terrible, and my mother finally told us to go play outside.

We could even go into the woods behind our house if we wanted to, something she had never let us do before. Of course, she told us we could. only go so far, but still, it was like we had a whole new world to explore. So Elliot and I gathered some adventurer stuff that we needed if we were going to explore this new territory. Elliot got his backpack from inside, a small green one with his name stitched across the side and frogs lining the outer pocket. He filled it with a compass he had gotten for his birthday, some walkie-talkies, a notebook, to take adventure notes, and some band-aids.

I was in charge of the necessities, which to us included a box of Pop-Tarts, two water bottles, and a bag of goldfish. It was around noon when we set off to explore the woods behind our house. With a worried smile and a warning to be back before 1.30, my mom sent us off. We started simple, walking in a straight line from the center of our backcountry. yard into the woods. To be honest, I'm not quite sure what we found to be so exciting. The woods were

thick and the air was hot and sticky, but still, we really felt like adventurers. Every once in a while, my brother would mark a rock or a tree with a sharp rock he had found, so we wouldn't get lost on the way back. We were about 30 minutes into our exploration and couldn't have been a more than half a mile away from our backyard when we saw it. There, in the woods, sat a little house. It was squat and made of brick and stone, and looked neatly kept. It looked as if someone had just dropped it out of the sky. Naturally, my brother and I decided to move closer and get a better look. As we walked, we noticed the plants from the woods around it thinning out and crunching under our feet. The closer we got, the more dead plants crunched under us.

We thought nothing of it and kept going until we got to the side window of the house. We peeked into the window, praying that no one was there to catch us snooping. What we saw has been ingrained into my mind forever. It was a perfect, pristine, 1950s-style kitchen, all pastel blue cupboards and linoleum tiles. I looked at Elliot, and he looked back at me. There was something eerie about this. It was clean and perfect, way too perfect for it to be in the middle of the woods. What is this place?

I asked Elliot, my voice quivering. I couldn't put my finger on it. This whole thing was just creepy. I don't know. He didn't turn his head away from the window. He took my hand in his and continued looking through the window. I'm not sure why, but I had the sudden urge to run, to take off with my brother and forget this place even existed.

Before I could say anything to him, we heard a booming voice behind us. Can I help you? We turned around, wide-eyed and fearful at the idea that we had gotten caught snooping. There stood a man in a crisp gray suit and a matching hat. A wide smile spread across his face. My brother was the first to speak. No, sir. Sorry to bother you.

We didn't know anybody lived here. The man laughed, just as booming as his voice. Well now, of course someone lives here. What's a house without someone living in it? Elliot and I looked at each other, completely thrown off by this man's friendliness. He had just caught two strange kids spying into his home, and acted as if we were old friends. Say, what's your names?

Would you like to come in? My wife and I were just about to have lunch. I glanced at Elliot, and he glanced at me. This whole situation was so surreal that we did the first thing that came to mine. We introduced ourselves. I'm Elliot, and this is my sister Gracie. We heard a woman's voice call out from behind the house.

Lunch is ready. As the woman rounded the corner, Elliot and I took a step back. Just like the house and the man, the woman was completely perfect. She wore a bright red house dress that flared out of the waist, and her hair was curled like a doll's. Just like her husband, she had a large smile plastered across. her face. Compared to the forest around us, they both stuck out like sore thumbs. Well, who are these two lovely children? Darling, this is Elliot and his sister Gracie.

They both continued to smile at us until the man spoke. Why don't you come around for lunch? You can meet our children. They're just about your age. Before we had any chance to do otherwise, the man put his hand on my brother's shoulder, leading him away. The woman took my hand gently and followed him, continuing to smile the whole time. I'm Mary Jean Edwards, and that's my husband, Robert Edwards. She smiled down at me, and nodded feebly, and as we turned the corner, I saw a small door, which led to the kitchen. Robert was already leading my brother inside.

I've made up some fresh lemonade and turkey sandwiches for lunch. I hope that's all right. She gestured for Elliot and me to sit down at the round table. We also have some potato chips, hot dogs, and I've just made cookies. As if to emphasize the point, she opened the oven, and the scent of fresh cookies wafted out. Mary Jean, where did those kids run off to? Oh dear, I'm not sure.

Perhaps they're in the foyer. One minute. Mary Jean ran off. Her heels clicking on the linoleum. Robert just continued to stare down at us, smiling. Here they are. Mary Jean returned with two children, a boy and a girl, in tow behind her. Of course, they were no different than their parents.

Each had a wide smile plastered onto their faces and flawless blonde hair. The girl was wearing a perfect purple dress with a white collar, the kind I normally would have envied, and her hair was pulled back in two braids with perfect matching purple. ribbons. The boy was wearing a more leisurely outfit of a polo shirt and crisp khakis. His hair parted to one side. Mary Jean gestured to her children.

This is Bobby, and this is Linda. Neither child said anything, but continued to smile at us. Mary Jean began setting out food. Well, how about we all sit and eat? Everything looks delicious. The kids sat across from us, and it was as I started to nibble on my sandwich that my brother kicked me under the table.

I looked at him angrily, but he wasn't looking at me. He was white as a ghost, and his eyes were fixed on one of the children. The girl. She stared at us, right at both of us. She seemed to be looking both of us in the eye at the same time. That's when I noticed what Elliot was looking at.

A steady drop of blood trickled from her ear. She continued to stare at us, seemingly unaware of the blood and smiling, still smiling, just as the rest of the family, none of them eating. Well, this is just delicious, Mary Jane. Robert broke the silence. The food on his plate was untouched. Thank you, darling. I know how much you love when I cook.

I looked over at the boy who was silently smiling at me, almost completely still. He blinked once, and even from across the table, I noticed a few of his eyelashes fall out. Well, who wants some cookies? Mary Jean stood, clearing the uneaten food of her family and replacing it with a platter of cookies. As she walked back to her seat, her foot caught the edge of my brother's chair. As she began to tip over, she grabbed the edge of the table. And that's when I knew for sure my brother and I had stumbled onto something completely unnatural.

When she grabbed the table, her hand made a hard, hollow. I recognized the sound from all the times I had awoken after a doll dropped off my bed. I don't know how, but my brother and I seemed to get the same idea. We both jumped up from the table and ran out the door. I remember him grabbing my hand as tears streamed down my face. I kept crying and asking who those people were. We somehow managed to find our way back home, despite us having no real concept of where we were going.

My brother had dropped his backpack, compass included in the house, and didn't pick it up before leaving. When we got back to the house, we told our mother everything, crying the whole time. She called the police, and they searched the woods. They found nothing. No family, no house, no sign of anything that shouldn't be there. The police thought we were lying.

My mother thought we just got spooked and somehow fabricated a memory. My brother and I, though, we know. We know it happened. Because just the other day, I got a call from my brother. Apparently, he had come home from work, and there was a package at the doorstep addressed to him. When he opened it, he said he nearly fainted. In it was the tiny green backpack with the frogs on it.

It was dirty and worn, but he could still make out his name stitched across it. What was worse, though, was that laying on top of it was a single, perfect, pristine purple hair bow. To become an accomplished musician, one must spend endless hours practicing and developing their skill. If all the time and effort doesn't pay off, it can be a source of crushing disappointment. In this tale, written by Alice Lilly, based on an idea. from our very own resident composer, Brandon Boone, we meet a man whose life is wracked with unfulfilled potential. It's only after he is visited by a late-night intruder that he starts to understand what it means to achieve immortality through one's music. David Alt and I shall

read the tale for you as we learn the truth behind the proclamation, from hell you must entertain I don't understand how, after my thorough attempt at drowning my blood in alcohol, the music manages to filter its way through my ears. It stirs my mind, even in its comatose state, even as I fight to stay asleep. There is nothing in the world that interests me at three in the morning. And this hour I strive to be as dead as everything else, maybe even more. It is a time to retreat deep into myself, where there is no sound, no thoughts, no dreams, no music, till it sings, somehow stronger than the glorious, inebriated numbness that I've achieved, stronger than the bottle of Jameson, which has now rolled to some dusty corner of the room.

Maybe it's because of precisely all this, that after some moments I decide to take to, investigate. It's all I can do to lift my body from the frayed sheets. As soon as my feet hit the cold floor, my head swims, desperate to rejoin with oblivion. It is after I undergo the painstaking task of standing up, but I really listen for the first time. It sounds like a piano. My piano, to be exact, I recognise the keys pounding into chipped wood resonating through my unimpressive apartment. The music is slow and sweet, expertly executed. The dissonance of my piano gives it an old and earthy feel with a touch of melancholy, as if I'm watching flowers slowly wilt, the dip of their heads reminiscent of a happier time. I start walking away from the solid, the solid. I start walking away from the

solace of my bed, past an assemblage of books stacked haphazardly, past strewn music sheets of unheard melodies, down the corridor which consists of a single table, laden with empty coffee mugs and beer bottles. When I reach the living room, I'm struck by the image of a figure bent over the old, rather neglected piano in the alcove. I knew that someone had to be playing, but it's been so long. The image ignites a despairing emotion in the pit of my stomach. He's hunched, focused solely on the music. As I approach, I take in his tattered trench coat, the ancient beige fabric beneath it. Coming around the piano, I become enraptured by his long, decaying fingers that should have handicapped his playing,

yet they're guiding smoothly across the worn yellow keys. making music that pains me with beauty. The next thing I notice is that the man is entirely translucent. I don't know if I'm dreaming or if I drank more than I thought, but I'm empty of fear. He doesn't seem sinister to me. And even if he is, I don't think I'd care so long as I can stand here, swaying to this melody. The piece crescendoes, coming to an end. The last note reverberates.

the walls and I can feel the silence afterward in my bones. The man stares straight ahead at a music sheet that isn't there. Beautiful. For a long moment he doesn't react. Then he brings two fingers to his mouth, an act I recognize as smoking, but there's no cigarette in his bony fingers. Beautiful? His voice is raspy with age. Beautiful is a lacking word. That was more than beautiful. I blink. Before I can think of words to redeem myself, he's gone. The next day, I have proof that the ghost wasn't a figment of my drunken imagination. There's a disturbance in the dust that has collected on the piano keys, and I sure wasn't responsible for it. I'm surprised the piano is still functional. It hasn't been touched since the day I decided all my dreams were broken, which is why when I hear music again at exactly three in the morning, I jump out of bed. I need to ask him if his purpose hit. Has he come to torment me, taunt me by making music in an apartment that's been silent since I introduced

myself to the bottle. But as I get closer to the living room, my brain becomes lulled. The music creeps through my ears and into my soul. easing my worries, reminding me to just listen. It's a different tune tonight, darker and unforgiving. No flowers this time, maybe a black, restless sea or an abandoned tower. The man looks exactly as the night before, tattered coat, hunched figure, long, skillful fingers. He plays and plays, his face. registering only a slip of emotion, and I'm enraptured until the very end. I'm so moved by this display that I forget my original question.

Instead, I say, I haven't played in so long. Again, he takes a long moment to acknowledge me. I'm thrilled at his interest, but before I can answer, his face becomes hostile. And he disappears. The next night, I try a different tactic. As his piece, fiery and loud, closes to an end, I shake away my rapture and will my mouth to speak. Will you teach me? He shifts ever so slightly, perhaps annoyed that I've broken the silence with my mediocre voice.

What have you got? I lift my hand, splaying my fingers across the keys. I press down as exquisitely as I can, playing the most beautiful chord I know. The sound floats into the air, and I can hardly breathe at this old feeling. But my ghost friend is so unimpressed that he disappears before the note drifts to silence. I pound the same chord into the piano frustrated. I slump onto the bench and shake my head. The view from here is strange, as if I'm trespassing on the ghost's property.

And this is my piano. My hands stretch out across the keys and I start to play. My fingers are stiff and ill-practised, but they are filled with memories. A tune surrounds me like an old friend. Shivers travel up my arms, but when my thumb slips and lands on a wrong note, I feel like ice water has been poured over me. I stand scurry away from the piano. What am I doing? It's three in the morning and my fingers just prove that they've become more adept at holding whiskey bottles than making music.

I sit back down. I lace my fingers together and stretch them out so tightly that pinpricks of pain dot my palms. Then I set my jaw and play the piano and don't get up until I have to use the bathroom a couple of hours later. With the sun up, I can think clearer. Throughout the day, I try to replicate what I heard in the middle of the night. The sweet melody, the dark melody, the fiery melody. But for some reason, the tune keeps slipping from my mind, as if it never happened at all. By the time 3 a.m. rolls around, I'm sprawled on my couch fingers weak.

The ghost announces himself with music. A sweet melody again. I don't know if falling asleep on the couch proved my dedication. But when I approach, he looks up at me. What have you... It's the same question as last night, but he hasn't stopped playing. Boldly, I place my forefinger on one key and press it down. It blends perfectly with the piece.

His only reaction is a raised eyebrow, wrinkling his forehead. I hold my ground until he decides to speak. Soul? I take my hand back. Where's your soul, boy? Has it been drowned? stolen or is it naturally useless? I don't really know how to respond, so I just stare at him.

Finally, he makes his point. It's not in it. I suppose your soul is intact then. I know plain well how mocking my question sounds with him being dead and all. He surprises me when he barks out a laugh, packed with pain and sorrow. It fills the room like a door. true haunting. Ha ha ha, a prick.

He vanishes. I take his place and decide to forget all about his melodies. I can't replicate them, so why waste my time? My own skills will have to do. I won't have a dead man showing me up in my own apartment and my own piano. I have soul that's filled with darkness. Dreams that will never be realized, faces that have forgotten me, a sense of insignificance in this world.

I haven't had a drink in a while, so all these emotions rear their heads and I put them to use. I make music and it's shattering. It's the fifth night, and this time I'm sitting at the piano bench. My fingers move across the keys and I'm entranced by an old coffee muck, watching the dust barb on the liquid surface.

My eyes are locked there as if it has a pull on my soul, and just as I think I'm about to drown, the ghost appears. He's inside the piano. He's staring right at me, so close that I see several lifetimes of wrinkles and eyes green like mould. I jerk backward, my mouth barely functional.

This is my seat. He's so still, staring and silent, half emerged from the piano. Slowly he glides forward, through me. My entire body shivers, and for a second I feel insurmountable torment. The kind that is often associated with the flames of hell, screams of the dead, fire of Brumstone, then it's over. And he's standing over me watching me play.

I've gulped about a hundred times and don't really know what to say next, and because of my agitation, my fingers have stiffened up, which makes him say, more, lacks my fingers. more flexibility I elongate my joints and land every key perfectly everything that I just felt that brief dip into perdition is poured into the music bells it's flawless

entertain heaven I'm not sure if he's speaking literally but I understand eventually he vanishes I'm still playing but I can feel his absence. I realize I'm sad that he's gone, and also that with just a few words, he has become the best piano teacher I've ever had. I must be under a spell because that following day, I find it impossible to leave the piano. I need to practice to impress him. I've barely eaten. My hair is

unkempt and my face unshaven. I can't shake off the feeling of torment. Ever since he passed through me, I've been filled with dread, like I can taste the flames of hell in the back of my throat. And every time I close my eyes, there is his face, silent, glaring, as if he was trying to tell me something, and I'm too mortal to understand. But as haunted as I feel, I am relieved when he makes his appearance on the sixth night. Finally, I ask the question, Why are you here? He doesn't answer for a long time.

I watch as his fingers make music more marvelous than I can ever achieve. I haven't heard that question in a hundred years. The melody takes a dive into melancholy. This is what he means. Soul. Along with the melody, emotion surrounds us. Once every. Every century, I am granted permission to share my music.

I repeat in my head, as in there is a greater power controlling him. The birth of the piano was the turning point of my life. My brain rummages for the time period in which the piano was invented. The 19th century. At a time when the world was dark. and lost, many found solace in music. Music that reached the soul and pulled it from the darkness. I shudder as he speaks.

His voice sounds like time and fatigue and deep, deep sorrow. His lovers rose to fame and entertained the masses I remained. Anner was bewildering. I was good. I was talented. I was worthy of the masses. And as deafening as my music was to my years, to the masses, it remained silent.

He clips the last word. Anger surrounds us. Years I suffered. the silence, years, until the day I was finally heard. It was a man, a towering man in garments of ivory, that finally heard. He came to me in my home. He came to me with an offer. He told me my music would be heard for centuries.

Art skips a beat. It's every musician's dream. He must have known that I would accept. He knows very well who to target. He drifts off, sending me a glance. And was your music heard for centuries? He plays a complex chord. It is heard every hundred years by a sense. single. My mouth forms a silent, oh. It doesn't sound like much of a deal. Sounds like a tormented man on a leash. What did he want in return? It took him a couple more chords before he answered. He is a persistent companion. I can't escape him. A constant reminder that I belonged.

Again, I taste acrid smoke in the back of my throat. I understand what he means. My ghost friend sacrificed a most precious part of himself, and he will suffer endlessly. Get seven nights. His eyes are half-lidded now. Seven nights, and then I return. Home! He says the word home so heavily, as one might say,

say the word prison. Only one night remains, I realize. I'm surprised by my grief at the fact. What will I do after that? Will I return to my drunken, friendless, soundless self? I hope you have enjoyed this exchange as much as I have. And he brings his peace to an end, fading until there is nothing left but dust and silence. I'm rooted to my spot trying to think. What am I supposed to do now? What is the purpose of all this? Above all, why me?

Of all the musicians in this world, why did he choose to appear in my apartment and my old dysfunctional piano? With resolve, I decide to ask him all of this tomorrow. His last night. The very last. Before he goes back home, I obsess over this thought throughout the day.

I can't remember the last meal I've had, but I do feel hollowed out. Nothing matters anymore except the keys beneath my fingers. Nothing matters more than stringing chords together and making music worthy of my ghost friend. Worthy so that he may find solace, if only for a few minutes. Worthy so that he can feel his visit was valued. Worthy so that he understands that I heard him. He needs to know to ease some of his torment. To feel hope that maybe someday he will be saved.

But at the next 3am, when music fills my apartment, it deafens me. It is so loud and abrupt that I startle awake. This can't be my ghost friend. It's a choir rattling my skull. I erupt from bed and run to the living room. Past the haphazard bookstacks, past the wrinkled music sheets, past the mugs of coffee and bottles of beer. I freeze at the sight before me.

It's a man in ivory. He is seated on the bench and his hands are frenzied as they run across the keys. But the music can't be coming from the piano. I hear violins, strings, flutes, a roaring wind. And if I listen very closely, I can hear screams. I'm trying to breathe and the man looks up at me smile. The chill runs up my spine.

His grin is cold as death, and with such arrogance, like he's tasted heaven. Deliberately, he stands and steps away from the piano. But the music doesn't stop. His eyes twinkle, and I understand that he was mocking my ghost friend by sitting in his place.

Isn't he? His voice grates my ear to. trumps. Every time he loses his last night. He clicks his tongue and it's so loud it sounds like thunder, adding to the storm of music. Well, no matter. In that moment his eyes catch the light and I see that they're black. Black as tar.

Like they're melting. Like tar will spill down his face and drown the apartment and the last. thing I'll know is blackness filling my lungs and blinding ivory erasing my soul. Gracious listener, I have an offer for you. As we know all too well these days from what's happening in our world, some of the most unimaginable horrors exist when religious devotion is perverted and twisted for evil intent. In this tale from author L. Stark, we meet a family who we meet a family who we

is struggling with grief and vulnerable to the promise of restoration at a religious commune. But the older daughter, off at college, soon realizes that it's not peace being offered her family. Narrators Corinne Sanders and Erica Sanderson read the tale for us about the heartbreaking letters she receives from her younger sister, letters affectionately signed. Abby. I was 19 and had just gone off to college when my mother died. I contemplated moving back home to help out with my sister, Abby, 12, and my brother, Julian, five.

But my dad wouldn't hear any of it. The three of them helped me move into my small dorm in McNally Hall and Abby sat on my bed, asking if she could stay. It was hard leaving them, especially with Mom gone now. things were so exciting at the university. My parents had always been your typical middle-class mid-westerners. We were your typical lower middle-class suburban family. There was nothing unique or strange about us. We had never been really religious, but my mother dragged us to church on special holidays. It was all more for show and pomp, though, and less about God and sins.

My parents prided themselves on rationality and reason and political, philosophical, and spiritual, light-hearted debates were a constant bonding activity in our household. The cancer changed a lot, and when mom died, it changed things even more. We didn't really pray. We just sort of waited and hoped. We did what most families do in that situation.

We survived as best as we could. I left for school in August Abby wrote me daily The letters she said would make me more comfortable Being away from home But really they were more for her I was the closest link she had to mom now And she wanted to hold on to that

I was states away The farthest I had ever been for many of them The letters came weekly And I tried to spend a few minutes each weekend Reading them and responding Sometimes it took a while to respond. I'd call too when I could. Lily, I miss you.

How is college? How are the boys there? Dad is sad now. He doesn't say much about it, but, you know, I'm not sure if he misses you or mom more. Julian says he misses you. He wanted me to tell you that. Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?

Love Abby. I made it home for Thanksgiving and noticed just how sad my father looked. He had lost weight. The pressure of supporting everyone on his salary alone and taking care of the kids was wearing on him. Of course he claimed all would be fine. At Christmas, when I visited again, my dad seemed to have renewed energy. I worried vaguely that he might have met someone new and I don't think I was ready for. for that yet. I don't think any of us were ready for that yet. He assured me that he had simply

made some new friends, mostly males online. Like a group? It was a group. He had spent all those sleepless nights when Julian had taken over his bed looking for support groups. I was really happy for him at first. I'd been dating the psych major at the time and he had told me that support groups were one of the best ways to heal from trauma. Abby was in therapy and Julian, too, but Abby hated it. She wrote about it in her letters. When I asked her about it, when I asked about mom, she didn't want to talk about her.

Lily, I don't want to talk about mom anymore when you call. I miss you. Dad spends a lot of time on his computer now and the phone. He keeps trying to get us to read these books, and he's talking about moving. Tell him we can't move. Thank you. Love Abby. It was summer by then, and I went home for a few weeks before heading out with some friends to the coast. I had big dreams of traveling.

I found my dad packing boxes. He had quit his job. Dad, where are you going? This place. It helps people. How? What place? The brochures and website were beautiful.

An island paradise for the lost and broken. They promised healing and spiritual wealth. They said they promised that you'd find God there. Meaning. I need to go, Lily. We can be happy there. Julian was excited. He'd been promised a new home with fun things to do and trees to climb.

He thought he'd find Mom there, I think. It is a happy place, Lily. He said while hugging me and begging me in his sweet little voice to go with him. Abby didn't want to go. She didn't want to leave the memories of Mom and how we'd kept all her pictures there and all those stupid little cute, fat baby figurines she'd collected. The house still even smelled like mom years later.

When I left a few weeks later to join my friends and the ridiculous boyfriend I thought was the one, I honestly believed they'd be okay. When school started up and I returned, I was greeted by a couple of letters from Abby. It had been about a month since I heard from them. I saw their move as just a family vacuette. I think. I knew Dad hadn't sold the house, so I assumed he'd be returning at some point.

Lily, there are no TVs here, and it doesn't look like the pictures. We got here by boat, but I don't know where we are. It is pretty, but the people aren't happy like they were in the video Dad showed us. The adults work all day, and we have to sit in class. They separate the boys and girls. I'm not allowed to sleep in the same house as Julian. Dad says it's because God says we had to. I don't really like God anymore.

I miss Julian. I think he's scared. Can you come get us? Love, Abby. I made a few calls to my dad's cell phone, but it had been shut off. I wrote Abby a letter and told her to give it to Dad. I just wanted to know what was going. on? Where were they exactly? The website was still there, the one he had showed me, but there

was no number to call. The pictures were stock photos. Abby said they weren't allowed to tell people where they were and that she had gotten in trouble for writing sad things. My father wrote me and told me all was fine. Dearest Lily, we're happy here. You should come join us. Love Dad. He included a picture of him and Julian and Abby. They were smiling and in the back you could see

huts and people wandering about possibly working. Abby looked sad. My dad wrote more letters, some asking for money, a lot telling me about God and all the wonderful things that were happening in their community.

That is what he called it. A community. A new community built on peace and brotherhood devoted to the word of God. In October, the letter stopped coming. It wasn't uncommon for the letters to be delayed, and by that time I was debating going to the police or the Department of Child and Family Services. I don't think my father would ever hurt them, but I was worried. I talked to a counselor at school who didn't offer much help.

My father constantly sent letters and pictures showing them alive at the very least. I spent sleepless nights searching for anything on that place, and the men who ran it. I came across a journalist, Greg, doing a story for the investigative journalism arm of a website that specialized in sensational news pieces. I emailed him my story and included a number. He contacted me almost immediately. It was the first time I'd really heard the place referred to as a cult. The way he said it increased my urgency for answers. My dad had always been a smart man.

He couldn't have fallen for a cult. No. Greg had hours upon hours of footage of previous members of that place, all telling the same story of forced work, slave labor, rape, child brides, etc. I asked if there was any way to get them out. Was he sure this was real? Was this really a cult? Was my family in danger?

He introduced me to more people. Former members, other journalists, family members of current members. They all gave me the same answer. Yes. Greg and I worked together to formulate a plan to get my siblings out. We talked to police, child welfare workers, anyone we could think of that had clout. The island was privately owned. Entering it would be trespassing.

We finally made plans to go there with some military buddies of Griggs. They promised we'd be safe. They had extracted members before. I was told not to write Abby and not to tip her off. I was told we could only pick up Abby and Julian. No one else could come, not even my father. I was nervous and excited. I had dreams of Abby and Julian and I getting a place together.

Maybe they could go stay with my aunt, my mother's sister, while I finished college. She had a farm and they'd love it and I could see them as much as I could. I missed Julian's little arms and his hug. I missed being a family. I was in class the day it happened. and Greg's text woke me for my lecture stupor. All it said was, call me, emergency.

I ducked out of class to call him, but by then it was all over the major news stations. I listened to his words as I passed by it blaring on the television in a student lounge. The island had been raided. At its core, it had been a shell for free labor and CP, all under the guise of a healing spiritual place. of communing and living a life with God. They had taken good people and perverted them. Some of the more fundamental members had fought back.

There had been gunfire. It was weeks before I found out if my family was among the dead. My dad had been killed trying to flee with my brother, Julian. He left behind a journal and letters for me that had never gotten sent. He'd started to believe he had made a bad decision, pretty early on, but he couldn't leave. He couldn't tell anybody. All he could do was try to watch out for Julian and Abby.

Abby died in a fire that had been started by one of the heads of the church. He'd corralled all the young, pregnant girls in a house on the far side of the island where they were being kept. He locked them inside with all the files and computers and set the house on fire, hoping to burn any evidence of crimes. Her letter came at 2 p.m. About a month after the raid. It was dirty and tattered and postmarked from about two months before. I wished we had developed a secret language. Some secret set of symbols or code words where she could talk without censorship,

what we hadn't. I never thought we would need such a thing. Lily, I love you. Love Abby. She was third. Julian survived. It was months before I got to see him. They were keeping him in some sort of treatment facility,

and they said a lot of people had to talk to him before he could go home. I quit school and moved us home. I got us a little apartment near a cafe where I got a job as a waitress. When he was finally ready to go to school, we'd drive by the old house on the way and talk about the way things used to be. Julian had changed. We both had. He was quiet and polite as ever.

He had brought home a love of the Bible that I figured would just slowly go away as he integrated more into our new home, but he carried it around with him always. This little white book that I was never allowed to see. The therapist told me to just let him have it. He'd open up in time. I read all the books about cult survivors I could. could find. I talked to everyone I could think of. I did what I could. I know what happened to him on that island. I know what those people did to him, but he doesn't want to talk about it. He's almost seven now. He still carries around that Bible. A few weeks ago, I got a call at work about an

emergency at the school. Julian had tried to burn a student alive for being a sinner. This little girl had just tried to hold his hand a few days prior to this. He had come home talking about it. He was appalled to no end. Maybe I had made it worse by telling him I thought it was cute and sweet. I should have known something was off when he refused to eat and went to bed early. He hit her over the head with a rock and crudely attempted to tie her to a tree with his coat. He'd stolen matches from the kitchen drawer. The little girl turned out fine.

A teacher had caught him before he had caused any permanent damage. But Julian? I don't think Julian is going to be okay. I asked him why he did it. God told me to. God talks to you? All the time, constantly. Does he tell you to hurt people?

Some people. Like who? Like you. A haunted house. It's perhaps the purest form of horror storytelling. Living in a home which is not yours alone, being terrorized nightly by any, entities which stake a claim to something rightfully yours and who won't leave you in peace.

In this tale from author Michael Marks, we meet a man who is trying to endure the torment of his home's past, to understand why he is plagued by these ephemeral intruders. Narrators Peter Lewis and Nicole Doolin read the tale for us, as we try to fathom what it would be like to live, in a house where the screaming starts at midnight. Well, they am. I hear the sound of the grandfather clock in the foyer chime out the midnight hour, and the screaming begins.

It's happened every night for the last month, and is the kickoff for the rest of the nightly events in my house. My wife begged me to just leave the house with. her, but it's become an obsession. I am determined to find out the mysteries of what is occurring here, and I will not give up until I do. I throw my blankets off, not that I was sleeping anyway, simply waiting in anticipation. This is besides the fact that the events do not seem to begin if I'm anywhere but my bed. I run from my room and down the stairs, towards. towards the source of the screams.

The last few nights, I've just barely made it in time to catch a glimpse of something moving from the kitchen into the dining room and vanishing without a trace. I nearly trip over my own feet in an attempt to get there in time to see the thing in full view. My bare feet slap against the hardwood floor as I take the final four steps of the stairs in a single bound. and come tearing around the corner. I am just in time crossing the threshold of the kitchen to see a woman in white standing in the center of the kitchen. She appears to be wearing a white dress, her lower extremities stained with blood.

She howls that exact scream that I've heard over the past month, and as she does, she pause at her waist and crotch. She makes brief eye contact with me, a look of absolute terror fixed on her pale visage before she turns and walks towards the dining room. My heart thumps in my chest as I run towards her, my fingers nearly making contact as I reach out. She vanishes into nothingness as she leaves the kitchen and steps into the dining room. My hand swings aimlessly through the air where she wants. once stood. I stand there for a few moments, trying to come to terms with what I just saw. A ghost? A reflection of

past events, a premonition of things to come? My heart continues to race, and I laugh to myself as I try to make sense of what it could mean. It's terrifying and exhilarating. There is little time to ponder the meaning of the woman in white. Like I previously stated, this is only the kick-off point for a whole night's worth of activity in the house. Next comes the pounding in the attic and the sounds of laughter. I can already hear it starting as I wheel around on my heel and head back up the steps at breakneck speed. I reached the attic door and jump up to grab the pole string yanking it open. On previous nights I had attempted to just leave the attic door open prior to going to bed, but found that that causes the activity to cease after the screaming woman.

As I unfold the climbing ladder and start heading up, I can already hear the man's laughter starting to fade. I'm quicker than I have ever been before, but I fear the laughter may stop before I catch sight of what is creating it. On this night, though, luck. if you can call it luck is on my side the attic has no light except what is provided by a small window this night is a full moon though and i'm fortunate enough to have a clear view due to pale blue moonlight pouring through the opening i can see a man he's kneeling in front of one of the thick crossbeams that provides support for the roof he is smashing His head against it over and over again, causing the dull, thudding sound that permeates the house as he does. He is laughing to himself as blood pours from open wounds on his face and head.

He seems mad, intentionally injuring himself as he laughs. He turns to me and smiles with shattered teeth. He mouths something at me, and I try to make it out, but find myself unable to determine exactly what he is trying to say. He then scurries away, and I chose that word very carefully, as that is exactly what he does. Like some kind of insect, he seems to scuttle across the floor and disappear into the darkness of the criss-crossing beams of the roof. I stand in shock at what I have just witnessed. My mind haunted by that broken tooth smile. I try over and over again to pull words from what he was mouthing at me.

Longing in dust is the best I can come up with, and I have no clue to its meaning. I back down the attic's ladder and into the hallway. I feel the warmth of the carpet between my toes as I stand, silently waiting for the next part to begin. I feel as if my excitement is starting to give way to fear. The way he smiled and how he moved as he disappeared into the darkness, it was all so inhuman, so alien to how I understand motion,

it makes me feel nearly sick at recalling it. My skin crawls, my heart pounds in my chest, my guts dance inside my body. my stomach, but my resolve refuses to waver. The next set of sounds starts, the bathroom at the far end of the hall. On previous nights, I've opened the door to the bathroom to find the air thick with steam, but otherwise empty. This night, though, I have been ahead of myself in catching sight of the things that prowl my house, closer than ever to understanding the truth behind. the events that had plagued my life since moving into this place.

Either I've gotten so expert in my attempts to see what is occurring, navigating the house with such speed as to finally catch all but the briefest views of these haunting apparitions, or the house itself has become lenient in its timing to allow me to finally see. As I push open the bathroom door and the heat of the steam strikes me, causing my shirt to stick to my skin. I feel it may be the latter. The air is thick, and I find myself having difficulty seen at first, but quickly the sight comes into view. Though perhaps it would have been better if it had me a woman sitting in the bathtub. Her head is lulled back as if she

is sleeping. Her shock of red hair darkened by the water and stuck to her head and face. The tap is still running, and the bathtub is on the verge of overflow. The hot water has been turned all the way up and is the clear source of the steam. I step closer and closer towards the scene. I feel a serious apprehension about getting closer, but force myself to do it anyway. Slowly and with great caution, I reach out towards the bathtub's hot water handle. My eyes never leave the woman. She stays, laying back, her eyes closed as if she is asleep.

Just as my fingers touch the plastic handle and attempt to turn it off, the woman's eyes spring open and she lets out a blood-curdling scream. It's the kind of sound you expect from someone who was being murdered. It even includes the wet, choking sound at the tail end. the kind of thing you would hear if someone's lungs were filling with blood as they attempted to call for help. I slip and fall backwards, striking my tailbone on the tile and nearly knocking the wind out of myself. I watch as the woman stands up and starts to exit the cut. He is blistered red from being submerged in what I can only assume is scalding water.

She is now standing in front of me. Her eyes fixed on me as I lay prone on the floor. She has a look of violent hate. It's the kind of look I would expect from someone who intended me the most grievous of harm. I start to back away, sliding on my bruised backside across the floor till my back meets the far wall. I expect the woman to step out of the tub and come after me, But instead, she just stands there staring as I cower in fear.

Her hands move up her naked body seductively, and she starts to sway her hips in some kind of dance. Were her skin not peeling, cracked, and covered in blisters, I would almost call what she was doing alluring. I sit watching in a mix of confusion, fascination, and revulsion. She continues her dance, but also starts clawing at her broken skin, tearing it off in chunks, and throwing it on the floor the way a burlesque dancer may toss a glove to a patron. I feel sick, and attempt to flee the room with the door slammed shut in my face just as I finally get to my

feet. I turn my head back towards the woman. Her body now covered in giant open patches of exposed bleeding muscle. Her dance has ended and she is stepping out of the bathtub and walking towards me. Now the screams are mine. Panic and fear have taken hold and I claw furiously at the door handle and the hopes that I can force it. open, but the house has somehow locked me inside the bathroom. I'm not looking in the woman's direction anymore, simply beating on the wooden frame of the door and yanking the handle as I beg to be let out. Drawing closer, though. In my mind, I see that look of malicious intent once again spread across her face.

I fear next she may begin peeling my skin off piece by piece. and leaving me to bleed to death on my bathroom floor. I feel her hands grip my shoulders tightly and start to turn me. Her skin is hot from the water she was soaking in, and I can feel a warmth radiate off of her as she pulls me close. I attempt to keep from looking at her, but a horrifying curiosity takes hold, and I turn my eyes in her direction.

Her eyes are rolled back in her skull, and her mouth is agape as she leans in close to me and presses her mouth to mine. I don't even have a moment to react as I feel some kind of viscous liquid begin to run from her tongue down the back of my throat. I gag and spot her as I struggle to break free from her grass, I can feel the skin sliding loosely from her shoulders as I push her backwards.

She loosens her grip as I spit a black, tar-like substance from my mouth and feel my stomach turn. I can hear her laughing softly as I drop to my knees and start to wretch what appears to be crude oil onto the bathroom floor. I look up. towards her again, and she's climbing back into the bathtub. I can still hear her giggling as she dips down into the water, appearing to vanish below the surface. I start to scramble across the floor in some kind of mad dash to peer into the water, but as I reach the tub, both the water and the woman have vanished.

I lean against the porcelain and finally realize that my mouth is, filled with a vile and rotten taste. I fling myself towards the toilet and throw the lid open just in time for me to vomit again. I can feel tears streaming down my face and a terrible sickness in my stomach. I do my best to collect myself and wonder what it all means. I ask myself over and over again what the fuck just happened. This should be the final occurrence. Never heard or seen anything after the steam in the bathroom.

I had hoped seeing more would bring about some kind of answers. Instead, I find myself laying on the bathroom floor with a terrible feeling creeping through my body. No answers, just more questions and a wonder if I may be going mad. I just to pull myself to my feet. I want to get to the kitchen and drink some water. While I could use the taps from the bathroom, the idea of staying in there. One more minute makes my skin crawl.

As I finally stand up straight and prepare to leave the bathroom, possibly never to return after what just happened, the door swings open on its own. Slowly as if to reveal what lies beyond in the most suspenseful manner, Nothing had ever occurred in the house after the bathroom, and I wonder what is about to happen with a newfound fear. My knees are shaking as my eyes adjust to the darkness of the hallway, and the woman from the kitchen comes into view. The one who starts the whole thing off, the one who screams at midnight. She is standing there, blood still soaking.

the lower part of her dress. She's no longer screaming, but instead holding her hands out towards me. Something is cradled in her palms, something that wriggles and shines with wetness in the moonlight. I wonder to myself if this is it. If this could be the moment of truth, the answers I've been looking for as to why this is all happening. What it all means? Slowly I overcome the dread I feel and start moving towards the woman. Her arms remain outstretched. The glistening mass continues to undulate in her palms.

She is quietly sobbing to herself. Her head hung low, dirty blonde curls hiding her face, but I can hear her very well. The house has gone almost entirely silent, except for the sound of her cries. The cries that seem to grow in volume the closer I get to her. The thing in her hand starts to come into view when I'm only a few steps away from her. I can see what appears to be small, flailing appendages, tiny arms and legs slick with blood, and waving wildly.

Yet I hear no sound of a baby's cry. I pray to myself that I'm wrong, that what I'm about to see is not as horrible as I'm imagining it to be. I tell myself to run, to leave the house and never come back. I tell myself no answer is worth the horror that lies in front of me. She blocks my way, though,

and I will need. to pass her before I can leave regardless. I make the final steps towards her and stop just outside of the reach of her outstretched arms. What I see brings the sick feeling back up in my stomach and makes my legs go so weak I can barely continue to stand. The thing in her hands appears to be an underdeveloped, baby. Its skin is soaked in crimson blood and thick black strands of something I can't identify. It is moving and slowly opening and closing its mouth, letting out small squeals as it does.

It's not human, though. It is something else. Its eyes are open and staring directly out. me, they burn like fire cutting through the blue hue of the moonlight. Small spiny protrusions are sticking out from its head and face like the spines of a porcupine. Its small fingers end in pointed claws, and its feet look almost like bird talons. You'll disgust at the sight of it as we look at each other. A sensation takes me over that adds to the repulsions. of feeling. It's as if my blood

is thickening, moving through my veins like sludge through a sewer. I no longer want answers. I want nothing more than to leave this place and never come back. The thing wriggles like a fresh caught night crawler, leaking blood between the woman's fingers, and cooos at me like a child. I want to scream. want to run, but my vocal cords are as frozen as my legs. The sludge-like feeling in my veins feels as if it's weighing me down to the spot,

and I can do little more than whimper out to small protests. No, please, no. Break my eyes away from the thing and look towards the woman's face. She is still hidden behind strands of flowers. filthy blonde hair, cast in shadows over her features, but I can hear her whispering something to... I don't want to know anymore. Curse my curiosity. I curse my damned nature for forcing me into this situation. I ask myself why it was so important to know and realize there's not even a clear answer. You belong. Longing woman looks up. Her hair.

Finally falling away and revealing her face to me, I can feel the tears stream down my cheeks as I look into empty voids where her eyes used to be. She is smiling, gently. You belong. Feeling the tears streamed down my cheeks. I feel like she's telling me the truth, though, and I don't know why. as she holds the wriggling fetal monster out towards me. It reaches its clawed fingers out in either an attempt to embrace or harm. I have no desire to find out which one,

as I finally find the will to move from where I am standing. I shoulder the woman out of my way and head for the stairs. Start to scream again, her blood curtailing midnight. Howells now mixed with what sounds like the painful whales of an infant. I don't. Low ceiling that hangs above. He is smiling and mouthing those words at me again soundlessly. Cold, longing.

Fuck you! I shout, as I take the stairs so fast I nearly lose my footing and go headlong into the foyer. The word, no, over and over again as I'm running. I'm screaming towards the front door. I no longer want to know anything. I have no desire to understand what's happening in this house, and I just want to get to my wife and tell her I'm ready to leave and never come back.

My hand grips the front door's knob, and I twist only to find that it refuses to move. I shout in a panic and start beating my fists against the wood in some vain hope that whatever is keeping me here will release me. I see them at the top of the stairs, not just the ones I've already seen that evening, but many, many more. Hales, smiling, and chanting. Men and women of all ages and races, too many to count, all of them chanting, smiling, and reaching out as if I were their long-lost love. The woman, with the full, fetal monster in her arms starts slowly making her way down the stairs towards me.

Step by step, she draws closer, and it feels like the fear is gripping my heart in a vice. I turn back towards the door, and I can feel as I pull on it so hard I feel as if I may shake it apart. I am near giving up, near turning back towards the woman and just take it. Taking that thing in my arms and being dumb with it. My blood screams for me to do so. My body is weak and heavy, and I know that it will all make sense once I hold that terrible thing. That's when I notice it.

The dead bolt is locked. I snap the turnkey to the right and wrench the door open, as if it's going to take far more force than it does. Night air hit me as I step across the threshold and out of that horrible place. I shout in triumph as I hear the woman screams, the babies cries, and a whole chorus of moans behind them. I make a break for it towards my car, but then I realize that my keys are still on the nightstand where I left them. My phone, keys, wallet, everything is still. inside that damn house. It's all just stuff, things that can be replaced. I know if I step back in there

ever again, though, they will have me. I give one last look towards the house before I walk away from it forever. In the open front door, she is bound there, just as I would have been. They all are. The thing is still in her arms. She cradles it as if it were any other baby. I wonder again to myself what they are, how they got there. The last remnants of my old curiosity, I look away. Sometimes it's better to not know. I stand on the sidewalk, cold concrete,

my bare feet. My wife is in a hotel nearly five miles away, and the night is cold. I have a long ways to go and start to head off in the hotel's direction. The last sound I hear before I am out of the earshot of the open door is the grandfather clock in the foyer striking out the chime for 1 a.m. 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.