The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E19

Episode Date: June 28, 2015

It's episode 19 of Season 5. We have five tales this week featuring stories about insidious inhabitants, harmful helpers, and hideous hidden history. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. Trigger Warnings "I Investigate Hauntings For a Living" written by Paige Fane and read by Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:03:15) "We Tried to Keep Them Out" written by J. Pfeiffer and read by Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:25:30) "Your Local Small Town Library" written by Rona Vaselaar and read by Nikolle Doolin & Susan Knowles & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:51:45) "The Day I Didn't Get on the Bus" written by Jackson Laughlin and read by Sammy Raynor. (Story starts at 01:11:45) "The Lost Town of Deepwood, Pennsylvania" written by C.K.Walker and read by Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:26:00) Click here for The Black Tapes Podcast's Kickstarter page Click here to learn more about Lissa Quon Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis Click here to learn more about J. Pfeiffer Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar Click here to learn more about Susan Knowles Click here to learn more about Jackson Laughlin Click here to learn more about C.K.Walker Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "We Tried to Keep Them Out" illustration courtesy of Lissa Quon 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 tick past.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales this week, featuring stories about insidious inhabitants, harmful helpers, and hideous hidden history. As I mentioned last week, we are welcoming some new artists who are sharing their talents with us here at the show. This week, I'd like to welcome artist Lissa Kwan. Lissa is also known as The Foolish Mortal, and she has a BFA in graphic design. For the past nine years, she's been doing freelance work, traveling, and peddling prints and artwork at various conventions around the States. We're thrilled to have her contributing her excellent art to the show. Thanks for joining us, Lissa.

As I've also mentioned recently, it's great to see many of our listeners enjoying the new show, The Black Tapes podcast. I wanted to share a quick update about that show. The team behind it have started a Kickstarter campaign to raise funds to help the tremendous amount of work involved in the show. They're hoping to raise enough to allow them to devote more time to the production so they can continue to release weekly episodes. They have the story ideas and plans in place for at least a couple of seasons,

but that kind of dedication to the project requires, some funds to cover the costs. I'll include a link in the show notes so you can peruse the rewards at various pledge levels. The No Sleep podcast is a proud supporter of their Kickstarter project and I hope you'll consider pledging your support as well. And with that, it's time to start the show. In our first tale, we meet a man with an interesting career. He and his assistant help people who are experiencing strange and potentially supernatural occurrences in their lives. As explained by author Paige Fane, one family are dealing with an entity in their home, and it's up to this man to rid the house of this unwelcome spirit.

Narrators Peter Lewis, Nicole Doolin, Jessica McAvoy, and Nicole Goodnight, read the tale for us as we find out more about the man who declares, I investigate hauntings for a living. I had met the tailors for the first time on a Tuesday. I was skeptical, but when I walked into their home, I quickly changed my mind. Alongside the wall, I could see her standing there, just out of the corner of my eye. I had learned when I was younger how to be. I had learned when I was younger how to treat these sort of things. You cannot look at them directly. It's not like there's much to see anyway,

what with their black eyes and distorted faces. How long have you been having this issue? The tailors first approached me a few weeks ago. They had originally gotten in touch with my assistant who had gotten in touch with me. They reported strange things happening. in their home, something I was familiar with, and something I fixed for a living. It's been about two months, maybe three.

Caroline noticed it first. It was the small things, you know. Like the cabinet doors would be open, the sheets would be pulled down. We thought it might be the kids playing a prank on us, but it's been a month since they went back to school and nothing has changed. I took notes. I was diligent like that. And from the corner of my eye, I could see it. Smile.

Maybe it's something you're doing yourselves. Just being forgetful? My assistant leaned forward a bit as she questioned them, doing her best to make eye contact. I knew she was wrong that something was here, but I let them speak. No, that can't be it. After the kids left, it's gotten worse.

We wake up in the middle of the night to banging or screeching along the walls, and every morning there's at least a few items that are in a different spot from the night before. Mr. Taylor turned to his wife, Caroline, and she grabbed his hand. She began to speak. We contacted you, Mr. Rhodes, because about three weeks ago, when I first called your office, I saw a girl standing in the hallway. There was something wrong about her. Caroline looked over to Mr. Taylor.

I tried to ask what she was doing, who she was, but she wouldn't answer so I moved towards her. She began shaking her head. It was something awful, Mr. Rhodes. There was something wrong with that girl. She didn't have any eyes. She wouldn't speak, and when I got close to her, she grabbed my arm. Mrs. Taylor began to roll up her sleeve, revealing her wrist. Against her skin was the shape of a human hand,

the impression of fingers left on her skin and nearly black. It won't go away no matter how much I scrub it. I've tried everything and it just gets worse. It was so much lighter before and now look at it. It's darker than black. The thing was standing over, Mrs. Taylor now, over her arm and smiling big at the shape of the handprint. I refused to stare at it directly, but rather kept it just out of my view, seeing the long strands of black hair and gray skin.

It had taken on the form of a little girl, strips of cloth and rags clinging to its frail body. I noticed that its feet were dirty as if it had been walking through a swamp. I wondered what had it done if it had drowned in its lifetime. I can help you with that, Mrs. Taylor, but I need to know what is causing this first. Have you seen her sense? What about the bathwater? Do you ever see anything unusual when you're washing the dishes, maybe your hands, even in the shower.

The tailors looked between each other, exchanging glances. When our daughter Katie was still here, she would always complain about the bathtub. She said that when she tried to use it, that the water would always turn murky, that something was coming up from the drain. We thought it was just the pipes, that maybe they were clogged. The ends were nearly shaking as I continued to write down notes. Just above me, I could feel it. It stare heavy on me as it now stood directly in front of me.

I knew it was smiling, just watching me. Are you here to save them? It reached out towards me, and I closed my eyes. I wouldn't look at it. I couldn't. Mr. Rhodes? I opened my eyes to my assistant shaking my shoulder. I looked at her. The rest of the room empty, aside from her, the Taylor's, and myself.

Mrs. Taylor, please, could you show me it? What happens when you fill the bath? Whirled my pencil between my fingers, consciously breathing as I stood up. Yes, of course. The bathroom is just upstairs if you'll follow me. My breath was deep as I began to follow her. I knew it was here, somewhere, just waiting. And it knew I was here, too. As we watched the bathtub fill up, there was a sort of dead silence between us all. I could tell they were all scared.

I couldn't blame them. I was afraid myself. Among us, I was the only one that could see as it climbed itself. tub wriggling down and holding itself against the bottom. It had made a point to look in my direction the entire time. It knew I could see it. It wanted to scare me. I took a deep breath and kept quiet, continuing to keep it just out of my view and watching as the water continued to fill. Mrs. Taylor, has your daughter had this problem since she left for school? I'm not sure.

Caroline turned towards me. She's away at school. I haven't spoken to her in a few weeks, but she hasn't mentioned anything unusual. I don't believe they even have bathtubs there, though. My pencil, writing more notes. And what about you? Or Mr. Taylor? do you experience anything strange or unusual when you leave your home? They looked between each other, as I asked.

Both of them looking wary. As far as we know, neither of us have any issues when we leave the house. It's only when we're home does something happen. Now, at this point, a cautious man might say that maybe this thing had attached itself to their home. that maybe it wanted it, or maybe it even wanted the family. But this thing is beyond that. It holds no reason. These sort of things do nothing more than seep into our world like a plague,

ripping at the seams and dragging us all to hell. I see. I moved my focus back to the bath. That is good news at least that whatever you're dealing with doesn't seem to follow you. It suddenly snapped up in the tub as I spoke, its head, turning towards me in a sort of stop-motion kind of way. I flinched, but kept my view on the faucet. They're all going to die here. I spoke again, and from the corner of my eye I could see what.

water pouring off its gray skin and dead body. I wondered what the others were seeing, but the look on their faces was enough to tell me that something was wrong. It's turning black. Sarah, my assistant, was the first to point it out, her eyes wide as she peered into the water. Mr. Taylor simply looked nervous as it continued, while Mrs. Taylor questioned if it was coming from the drain. I think so. Sarah answered, looking towards one end of the tub.

She was facing right where the thing's feet were. Its head now turned a step closer. Let me see. I pulled Sarah back out of its reach and looked towards the drain. The entire collection of water was turning black. just as they said, the murkiness coming off of its skin and tainting the rest of the bath. I can show you.

It twitched as it spoke, and in another stop-motion kind of movement it looked towards the drain. It was then that bubbles began coming up from it, slowly at first and then more rapidly. It made me think of someone in the pipes holding their breath and letting it out one gas at a time. I pulled the plug. I've seen enough of this, thank you. I turned towards the tailors and smiled. Is there anywhere else where you've been experiencing issues? Staring at me again.

And I stood up, ignoring my body as I felt the shaking return. In our room, Caroline and I keep waking up to the closet door. At least that's what we think it is, slamming open and shut at night. It continued to take down notes as we now left the room, ignoring it as it stood against the wall again, this time ripping at its hair. It was soon after that I saw their bedroom for the first time. It was simple, not much furniture, but I'm not. made my way towards the closet in the corner. How often do you hear? I turned towards the tailors as I stood directly in front of it now. It only happened a few times before, but in the past week we've woken up to it almost every night. We've tried everything, even installing a lock and shutting it at night, but it keeps happening. I began to run my hand down the door.

Is it unlocked now? Mr. Taylor looked at me for a second before reaching into his pocket, walking over and handing me the key. We keep it shut just in case. We don't want the noise to start again. I looked at the key and then the door again, deciding on opening it. Inside, it was standing there, looking directly at me. Get out, get out, get out, get out! It grabbed the side of my head, forcing me to look at it. My whole body flooded with images as our gaze met,

my eyes meeting its dead, empty sockets. It was a sickening, twisted kind of feeling like watching my own death, my friends and family, everyone I had ever known. All dying in one quick motion, sick, crying out as it finally let my head go. I nearly dropped to the floor with my ears ringing and throat burning, coughing and heaving as tears streamed from my eyes. Mr. Rhodes, what the fuck? Sarah was at my side now, her hand against my back. I looked down and saw blood.

My nose was bleeding. Sarah, don't look in the closet. I need you to shut the door. I felt dizzy and began looking around slowly. My hands on my knees and the tailors both looking at me with horrified expressions. Okay, okay. I heard the door slam as my world continued to spin. There was so much pain, but between.

at all, I could only think of one thing. And Sarah, something else. I need you to get my kit. It had touched me, and it had done so willingly. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, I need you both to get out of the house. I was just barely recovering as Sarah helped me down the stairs, my kit in one hand, supporting me with the other. The tailors were frantic, the both of them asking questions while my head continued to spin. I'm sorry, but please, listen. Sarah continued to help me towards the living room where we had all spoken for the first time. I spoke out as I began to open up my kit, pulling out various items. Mrs. Taylor? Yes. Caroline moved toward me and I handed her a bottle.

Rub this on your arm. It will make the mark go away. She gave me a sort of half smile before Mr. Taylor ushered her out, leaving me and Sarah in the house by ourselves. I began to put on rings, one for each finger. Sarah, I need you to stay with the tailors. Let them know that I'm going to solve their problem, but they have to stay outside. I'll get you when I'm done. As I continued to unpack my things, I began to look around the room.

It was here somewhere, just hiding. I could feel its presence. Where did you go? I spoke out loud, hearing the door slam as Sarah left. Is this your plan to save him? Behind me, it had a sort of amused tone, and I pictured that smile, that awful smile, with the mangled teeth and distorted face. I gripped my hand into a fist, holding my breath in fear. I closed my eyes.

I didn't want to see it again. I began to pace around the room, feeling along the wall as the whole house seemed to come alive. From upstairs, I could hear doors slamming and screeching like nails on a chalkboard. You should leave, Mr. Rose. It mimicked Sarah's voice, and I turned in its direction, opening my eyes just barely. I could see it standing there. in front of me, staring directly at me with its smile, before reaching up. And then I slammed it against the wall.

You should leave, this time opening my eyes. I had managed to grab it by the neck, the rings on my fingers burning it as it began to cry out and scream. You touched me. I slammed it against the wall again as it clawed at my hands. It reminded me of the way a spider shrivels up when it dies as its limbs begin to peel back towards its body. Have you forgotten? I closed my grip further. Its gaze pouring into me.

It screamed out even more, completely withering now. You touch me. With another slam against the wall I watched as its head flew back looking towards the ceiling. All sounds but its screeching and crying had ceased. I was watching it die, its body turning black and withering more and more. I could feel the rings burning as it shriveled beneath me before turning into nothing at all, leaving behind an outline of its body against the wall in ash and soot for the front door. It took great care and explaining to the tailors what it was that they had been dealing with.

I noticed that the mark on Caroline's arm was now gone, and I explained to them that they wouldn't be having any more issues. There were questions I let Sarah answer, questions I ignored as I took out a small vial and began, to collect the ash along the wall. The problem with these sort of things is that to get rid of them, you need to make them feel safe. You need to give them space, feed them a bit with your fear.

And once they feel confident enough, well, only then can you destroy them. But, as I said before, these are things that I am familiar with. These are things that I know how to fix. My name is Mr. Rhodes. I investigate hauntings for a living. When a daughter helps her mother move into a newly inherited home, the women start to realize the place comes with a mysterious past. In this tale from author Jay Fyfer,

the daughter discovers a strange door in the basement, which is clearly not meant to be opened, but curiosity about what's behind the door wins out. Narrators Jessica McAvoy and Nicole Doolin read the tale for us about the dire consequences of their actions and the apology they offer as the women state, we try to keep them out. Close your eyes and think about all the doors you pass through each day.

hundreds of doors thousands in your lifetime breathing in and out you probably think of them as nothing more than a means to an end a way to get from point a to point b doors with handles doors that glide open electronically when you step in the right place doors that creak and groan with age and remind you to pick up wd40 next time you're at the store but some doors are different. Some doors are not meant to be traveled through. Quite the opposite. Some doors are built to prevent people, or even, things, from getting in. Some doors are built to keep things from getting out. I'm not a believer in the paranormal.

I don't put stock in ghosts or demons or monsters. The things that go bump in the night, I generally think they all have some explanation one way or another. The human brain is an easily frightened, painfully irrational organ. When others stand shaking at the tops of dark basement stairwells peering into the damp black, I charge ahead straight to the bottom. Leaky pipes and cobwebs and corners don't frighten me. Why should they? So what my mother told me she felt like something was off in her basement of her newly inherited home, I laughed.

She was always chattering about her fantasies, ghosts and vampires and angels. She claimed that I felt the spirits too, and I would open my eyes someday to see. I raised an eyebrow and reminded myself one of these days I was going to miss the same. sound of her voice when she told me her ghost stories. I had driven four hours across the state to help her move cardboard box after cardboard box from a rental storage unit into the house. Well, I call it a house, but it was more like a cottage with its oddly shaped living room, cramped little bedroom with an attached bath and galley kitchen. The great aunt who had lived there before was a spinster, with no love for any living being save her cats.

She had taken good care of the place, though, and for some reason, given thought to passing the property onto her sister's daughter, rather than one of her own children or grandchildren. My mother's financial troubles had made it impossible for her to rent more than a single room in a boarding house over the last decade after her last child left the nest, so it was exciting for all of us that she now had a stable place of her. own to live. I just get the strangest feeling when I go down there.

Like something wants me out. She was talking a mile a minute as we worked through boxes of kitchen paraphernalia. Her tendency to hoard over the years had caught up with her in this place. I made a mental note to smuggle a few boxes of junk out when I left and dump them at a local goodwill. We had spent the morning working on her bedroom, and rays of mid-afternoon light were now streaming through the high windows in the cottage's western-facing wall. The yellow and green floral pattern of the kitchen wallpaper seemed to brighten in the sun, creating a cheery, cozy atmosphere. I couldn't imagine a single thing about this place making anyone feel ill at ease.

Sounds to me like you're just trying to get me to carry these boxes of canning supplies down there on my own. I teased. She laughed, a slight edge to her mirth that gave me pause. I could tell from the way her brow knit that she was serious. A pang of guilt rippled through me. I hadn't been around much in the past few years, and I knew she was lonely and tired. of being alone. She was likely experiencing some apprehension

at the thought of living here all by herself, apprehension that I was now poking fun at. What a great daughter I made. I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, trying not to wince at the feeling of bone just below her skin. The increased fragility that betrayed her aging was an all-too-real reminder of her mortality.

Even though the women in our family typically lived into their 80s and 90s, giving my mother another possible few decades, I was increasingly aware that she was no longer the immortal superwoman I had grown up loving. As thoughts of her inevitable death flashed through my brain, I pulled her in close for a hug. Oh, she squeaked, setting down the crockpot lid she had been examining for crack. before wrapping her arms around me. No matter how old you are, there's nothing quite like a hug from your mom. After a few quiet moments, I pulled back and kissed the top of her forehead.

Grabbing up a box of canning supplies, I asked for directions to the basement entrance. You walked all over it this morning. I followed her directions and found the seam for the trap. door on the bedroom floor, just a few feet from the foot of her queen-sized bed. I set the box down on the quilted bed spread and bent down to get a good grip on the wood and lifted up slowly. The trap door revealed a set of weathered but sturdy-looking stairs,

leading down into the inky darkness under the house. Cool air drifted up from the subterranean room, and I breathed in the familiar basement smells of musk. can damp. Is there a light switch somewhere? I called to the kitchen. Not until you get down to the bottom. There's a bow with a string right overhead when you reach the ground. Great.

Let's hope I don't break my neck on the way down. Grabbing the box and being careful to leave the trap door open completely to let in as much light as possible, I began slowly making my way down the stairs. The staircase had no railings or wall to lean against, so I relied on my less than fabulous balancing skills and luck to reach the bottom without tripping. The temperature change as I descended was drastic, and I found myself shivering a little in my lightweight summer clothes as I took the last couple of steps.

I could just barely make out the dirt smeared floor in the pulmonary, tree light from above. Looking up, I spied the string hanging from the bulb. I steadied the box against my hip and reached up. As I did, I heard something behind me creak. I whipped my head right toward the sound, but saw nothing in the darkness. Probably my mom moving around upstairs or a pipe settling. Rolling my eyes at myself, I yanked on the street.

string, and dim yellow light from a naked bulb illuminated the room. The first thing I noticed was that the basement was much larger than the house that sat atop of it. I couldn't tell exactly how much larger, given the pathetic amount of light provided by the single bulb, but I could feel that the room was more immense than I had expected. Odd, but I reminded myself that this part of Ohio was relatively rural. and used to seeing long, hard winters. A large basement allowed for more storage of canned fruits, vegetables, and other goods difficult to come by during the snowy months.

Glancing around, I spotted some shelves against the left wall, which seemed designed for just such a thing. I moved over to them and felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck when I left the circle of light I had been standing under. I had read ones that, The vibrations of pipes can sometimes cause feelings of dread in people, often misinterpreted as something paranormal. I flicked my eyes up to the network of exposed pipes above my head and smirked. Of course.

Quickly, I set the box down and got to work stacking empty mason jars and rows on the shelves. My mom was a prodigious gardener and would eventually fill up the canning jars with homegrown goodies. but that would have to wait until next year, as summer was coming to an end. Winter would set in quickly in this climate, and the ground would harden against new life until the late spring thaw. When the box was empty, I pulled my Swiss Army keychain from my back jeans pocket and broke it down with a knife. Curiosity got the best of me, and as I replaced the keychain,

I pulled my cell phone out of my other back pocket and toggled its flashing. setting. Sweeping the bright light in front of me, I explored the parts of the basement not illuminated by the single bulb. A twisted heap of metal yard tools lay in the corner opposite the shelves, rusting from what I imagined was years of disuse. I couldn't imagine great Aunt Ira coming down here much in the past 15 years, not with her hip problems. Behind the stairs was the basement's back wall, and I immediately noticed it was made of a different material than the rest of the basement walls. Moving closer, I brushed it with my hand. Some kind of corrugated metal, it felt like, which seemed out of place, considering the rest of the walls

were soft limestone, crumbling in some places. My hand trailed along the cool metal wall, until I found myself standing at a doorway. The door was made of solid wood and sat almost exactly behind the staircase. It had been covered over, crudely, with wooden boards nailed across it. Well, that's weird. It felt like the temperature over here was at least 10 degrees colder, and my teeth chattered as goose pimples sprouted up all over my arms. I knew. I knew that the for many years spent in the Ohio educational system that homes all across the state had been used

as shelter for runaway slaves during the Underground Railroad period in America's spotted history. This area specifically prided itself in its abolitionist history. Perhaps I had stumbled upon an old, forgotten slave hideaway. Excitement coursed through me as I

contemplated the fun of being the first to rediscover such an important important historical site. Maybe there'd even be artifacts left behind. Growing up, I'd been fascinated with Indiana Jones and longed for the adventure of Hollywood-style archaeological discovery. Without thinking twice about it, I reached for one of the boards and gave it a tug. It was nailed pretty solidly, but I felt that it could easily give way if I put my back into it. I set my phone on the floor, screen side down, so the light was shining up at the door and gripped the board with both hands. I wasn't a bodybuilder by any standards, but I did lift weights at the gym on a

fairly regular basis, and my efforts were rewarded with a pop-pop-pop as the board came free. One of the nails stuck in the metal, the other hung limply from the board, which I sat down carefully behind me. It didn't take too long to remove most of the boards. The door was most heavily boarded at the top, with a couple of longer boards covering the bottom. I was fortunate that the basement ceiling was low. At 5-2, I had little hope of reaching something

at the top of a standard-height door, but this door was only a few inches taller than me, and I was able to reach and pry loose the single board at its top with relative ease. The effort of removing the boards had me panting and sweating a little. The basement's chill cooling the droplets as they slid down the back of my shirt. Finally, my task was complete, and I was ready to crack open the object of my fixation for the past 20 minutes or so. I could hear my mom's movements upstairs, and figured since she hadn't called for me yet, she would be okay on her own for a little while longer.

The handle was long and rusted. I could feel some of the material flake off as I grasped it with a sweaty palm. I tugged gently, expecting to be met with resistance. Instead, the door popped open as easily as the sliding door of a 7-Eleven. I stumbled back a bit, kicking aboard with my heel, causing it to skid across the floor with a hollow clatter. I was met with a blast of air that thought. felt almost Arctic, especially considering the basement was already fairly cool. It took a moment before my nostrils began to absorb the smell, but once it did, I nearly gagged.

The frigid air emanating from the dark doorway was tinged with something rotten and earthy, like garbage that had been left out in the heat of the August sun for far too long. A horrifying thought occurred to me. What if whoever hid down here never left? With trepidacious curiosity, I reached down and picked my phone up from the floor and pulled the door open all the way, shining its light directly into the blackness. I took a moment for my eyes to register what was right in front of them. I felt my heart slow, the blood in my veins.

veins turned to ice as a rush of naked fear cascaded over me. Eyes. Staring through the darkness barely visible but for the weak light creeping past the doorway from the single bulb and what little illumination my phone provided. Each pair was looking straight at me. I took a shaking, instinctive step back out of the doorway. A hungry moan came from. from somewhere in the room. It was a gruesome, rasping sound that filled me with dread.

Holy fuck. I whimpered, taking another step back. The sound of movement, scraping noises, shook me into action. My phone clattered to the floor, forgotten in my haste. I didn't want to know what was in there. I didn't want to see. I gripped the roughwood edge of the door with a damp hand and pulled it shut. It caught on one of the loose boards I had worked so stupidly hard to pull off just moments before.

I registered movement in the darkness in front of me, the sense that something was close. Frantically, I kicked at the board, yanking the door hard as it slid out of the way. It slammed shut with a satisfyingly heavy sound, but as I leaned again, against it, my breaths erratic and my heart pounding. I felt a thud as something impacted with the door. That moan came again, desperate and needful. Another thud, this one hard enough to rattle the door in its hinges. Particles from the ceiling above rained down on my head. I wanted to cry. I needed to re-board the door. Bracing one hand against the door just in case, I reached down and grabbed at the first board

I could get my hands on. Some of the nails were still embedded, but others were scattered across the floor. A thud against the door shook the frame and my nerves. They wanted out. I did what any rationally minded, terrified person would. I screamed for my mommy I heard her hurried footsteps approach overhead from across the house What's wrong? Did you hurt yourself?

Did something bite you? No, but something might be about to bite me. Shouting back, I said. No, it's... I don't... Mommy! I moaned the last bit as another thud shook the matter. and wood I was pressed up against. I'm a heavier woman, but I wasn't strong enough to hold a door shut forever,

especially considering how many of those things there were. There were so many eyes. So many eyes. Eventually, my strength would give out. She thundered down the stairs, faster than a woman her age with bad knees should, but I guess that's the power of motherhood. As she rounded the corner, it felt like more than one of them slammed into the door.

I felt one of my flip-flop-clad feet begin to slide, and the door opened just a crack behind me. I screamed and strained, regaining my footing and shoving my full weight against the door to close the gap. My mom was staring at me and the door with an almost knowing look. What did you do? I fucked up, obviously, I said, through gritted teeth. Even under duress, she managed to get under my skin.

Do you have a hammer? We need to nail the boards back over the door. Yes, I'll go get it. She rushed up the stairs and away from me. I was alone again with them, and I didn't like it. I began to sob. tears stinging my eyes. I didn't wipe them away, not daring to move even an inch in case I lost my tenuous advantage.

It felt like hours before she returned, but she did, moving slightly slower this time down the stairs while lugging a box behind her. It thump, thump, thumped down the stairs behind her, its contents rattling with each impact. I brought my entire toolbox just in case. She pulled out an enormous ancient hammer. I recognized as the one responsible for almost destroying my thumb in second grade and a smaller one with a sleek black handle and a shiny gleam to its metal.

Handing me the ladder, she picked up the board I had kicked when I opened the door and moved toward me. Keep your weight where it is, but duck down a bit. I'll start at the top. Okay, hurry. She began hammering, and as the first snail was returned to its place, a piercing howl began from the other side of the door like I was going to throw up. What the hell is in that room?

I don't know, honey. I don't know. I told you something was wrong. When the first board had been nailed across, we moved the heavy box of tools she dragged down with her against the base, and I braced my foot against. it so I could keep weight there while helping with the nailing process. Two boards, three boards, four. The howling continued, backed by that same hungry moan. The hair on the back of my neck seemed like it was never going to lie flat again. Some of the boards were rotted, and one split in our hands as we began to hammer. Shit!

I yelled, kicking its remnant. so several pieces scattered away from us. Don't think about it. Just keep going. My mom was panting. Her salt and pepper hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she was breathing as hard as I was. We placed the last board across the bottom of the door,

just an inch or two from the bottom. The howling had stopped, but the moaning never did. I'm not sure it ever will. It didn't look as solid as it did when I discovered it, but of course that makes sense. I disrupted something that had probably been there for years, maybe even decades. Who boarded the place up? What was in there? Did Great Aunt Ira know about this?

What the fuck were we going to do about it? I voiced none of this to my mother, instead keeping something. silent as we piled anything and everything we could find in the basement against the door. I managed to remember to snatch at my phone before thundering up the stairs in front of my mom, anxious to get back somewhere that wasn't cold and damp and full of that fucking smell. Once I had helped her up from the stairwell, I slammed the trapdoor shut, and we moved her heavy antique dresser over top, then piled a few boxes of books. yet to be shelved on top of that for good measure.

We collapsed on her bed, and I cried while she held my shaking body, stroking my hair and whispering soothing words, even though she was probably just as scared as I was. We stayed like that all night, trying to make sense of what the hell happened. It's now morning, and I'm sitting in the living room, which from my estimate is right over where the door is, and I can hear faint moans rising up from underneath me. What did I awaken?

I opened the door. I pried off the boards, and I opened the door, and for that I am sorry. For my curiosity, for my stubborn refusal to consider the door, consequences of fucking with something that was clearly meant to not be fucked with. For my inability to leave the door alone and forget it ever existed, I am sorry. We've done what we can, but I can't help but shake the feeling that it wasn't enough. Not every door is meant to be opened.

It's only human arrogance that makes us a source. assume we have a right to know, a right to see what's on the other side. 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.