The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E21

Episode Date: July 19, 2015

It's episode 21 of Season 5. We have five tales this week featuring stories about sinister stalkers, mystical madness, and static cling. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "My Momma and Aunt June" written by C.T. and read by Jessica McEvoy & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts at 00:04:55) "Why I Nailed Shut My Cat Flap" written by Louise H. and read by Erika Sanderson & David Ault. (Story starts at 00:32:00) "Letters to Stephen King" written by Rona Vaselaar and read by Rima Chaddha Mycynek. (Story starts at 00:50:50) "Nightmares" written by Edward Stillson Day and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 01:03:10) "My Family Was on the Run" written by The NoSleep Writing Team* and read by David Cummings & Jesse Cornett & Peter Lewis & Erika Sanderson & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:28:05) *The NoSleep Writing Team members: Andrew Harmon, Catriona Richards, T.W. Grim, Trevor Boelter, Manen Lyset, & Karae Vickery. Click here for The Black Tapes Podcast Kickstarter campaign Click here for the podcast Lore Click here to learn more about the new Art Bell podcast Click here to learn more about C.T. Click here to learn more about Louise H. Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett Click here to email Alexis Bristowe Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "My Family Was on the Run" illustration courtesy of Lissa Quon ©2015 - Creative Reason Media - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media. 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. Episode 21. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales this week, featuring stories about sinister stalkers, mystical madness, and static cling. I want to offer a belated welcome to a new artist who provided last week's outstanding illustration. I completely forgot to mention that the stunning drawing of the crow came from the visualized. artist known as Sabu. It's great to have him joining our team of artists. So we welcome you, Sabu.

We thank you for sharing your talent with us, and we look forward to more illustrations from you soon. And a big thanks for returning artist, Lisa Kwan, for this week's wonderful illustration. The artwork for each episode really adds to the overall effect of the show. I want to mention some news about some other podcasts this week. As I've mentioned in the past, the great show The Black Tapes podcast is working hard to bring us the second half of their first season. Their Kickstarter campaign is coming to a close this Wednesday, July 22nd. They are achingly close to reaching their goal, so if you have yet to pledge some money to

their campaign, please consider doing so soon. In honor of their upcoming seventh episode, they've had to have to be akeingly close to their at a new $7 reward level. The show notes will have a link to their campaign, so check it out, and let's make sure they meet their goal so a second season can make it to our ears. And since a lot of people often ask me

for recommendations for other podcasts, which feature scary stories and interesting, spooky content, I hope all of you are aware of the lore podcast. Hosted and produced by author Aaron Manky, LOR is a bi-weekly podcast about true life scary stories. The people, places, and things of our darkest nightmares all have real facts at their core. Each episode of lore looks into a uniquely scary tale and uncovers the truth behind it.

As they say, sometimes the truth is more frightening than fiction. It's a truly entertaining and informative show, which I highly recommend. And finally, I know that many of you seekers of scary stories are familiar with the name Art Bell, one of the founders and original host of the paranormal-themed radio program, Coast to Coast A.M. He's bringing back his unique style of show in the form of a new podcast called Midnight in the Desert, starting July 20th. I know that many people find his shows to be extremely entertaining and downright frightening. So check out artbell.com for all the details.

It's great to see that here in 2015, 10 years after the iTunes store introduced the then-new concept of podcasting to the world, that we have all these quality shows providing excellent on-demand audio for all the horror lovers out there. Let's celebrate that fact by kicking off our own contribution to the, that genre and start this week's show. In our first tale, we're reminded that oftentimes family members can share both a loving bond and a fair amount of dislike for one another. In this tale from author C.T, we meet a woman who has to deal with the fact that her mother and aunt don't often see

high to why. The aunt, the black sheep of the family, shares a strange tale with her niece of an event from her high school days, an event which explains a great deal about her family. Narrators Jessica McAvoy and Alexis Bristow read the tale for us, as the woman explains what happened long ago to My Mama and Aunt June. My Aunt June was a liar. Mama always said so, rocking back and forth in her rocker, absent-mindedly rubbing the pale white scar on neck. Mama would say, she'd go to the grocery store, tell everyone when she'd come back that five or more good-looking men was talking to her and telling her how pretty she was, asking her on

dates and all that. And you know your Aunt June. Does that sound like something that happened to her? Well, no, they didn't. Aunt June was a large woman, real big, bosomed and matronly, with a ruddy face and hair the color of dishwater. Plain is what they called her when they were being nice. Nobody really liked Aunt June, for in addition to being plain, or flat out ugly as homemade sin, as she was sometimes described,

she also had a reputation for lying, cheating, and in general being an all-around unpleasant character. But I liked Aunt June. She was the funniest lady I'd ever met, And she always fed me delicious homemade food till I just about puked. I'd beg my mama to let me go over to Aunt June's house to help her out with household chores. And Mama, being a supposedly good Christian woman, if in name only,

felt it her obligation to let me go, as long as I was helping Aunt June and not just sitting around stuffing my face with blackberry pie and chocolate moose. But of course, that's exactly what me and Aunt June. June would do. She'd get off of her shift as a tailor at the dry cleaners, and then me and her would sit at her rickety old kitchen table, and we'd talk. Aunt June had a million stories about all the crazy customers that came into the dry cleaners. Like the old lady with blue hair who always brought her ferret inside with her, and it would always get loose. Or the snoddy housewife who told Anne June she could stand to lose a few pounds. But the funny part was con.

I was at the movies the other night, and I saw that snubs. Her be there with a pretty young thing on his own. That most certainly was not her. We would also talk about more serious stuff, life stuff. Aunt June was real open-minded about things. Unlike my mama, who may as well have been a member of the Westboro Baptist Church. When my best friend Jenny came out to me as gay, I told Aunt June about it. Well, you know, Carla, I personally don't believe that loving anyone is a sin,

no matter what they got in their pants. Who the hell cares what other people do in their bedroom? If her parents got a problem with it, they can come talk to me and I'll tell them what I think. So, despite what everyone said about Aunt June, she was one of my favorite people in the world. I knew that sometimes she stretched tails a little far, but I also heard. knew that there was a lot of truth in what she said. You can just tell that with people sometimes. I think what really bothered a lot of people about her was how rough around the edges she was, rather than her supposed dishonesty. That's why, when she told me about what can happen when you're

not satisfied with your own life, I listened real close. That night, Mama thought I was tending to Aunt June while her fibromyalgia acted up, but in reality, we were just hanging out doing nothing. We were sitting in her living room on her two recliners, rubbing our bare feet against her nubby brown carpet when she started talking. Her manner was different than usual. Her voice was quiet, so much that I could barely hear her and had to crane my neck halfway across the space between our chairs to do so.

It was late at night, and the crickets cried in the distance. their chorus a sorrowful backdrop for Aunt June's husky voice. Carly, you're a happy girl, for the most part. I have a lot of respect for that. You've had a lot of shit happen to you, girl. Mama being crazy, daddy drinking, almost killing me both too many times to count before he ended up doing himself in. And I know you don't have all that many friends at school.

You're too smart about your own mind. But all those reasons might have made you end up feeling sorry for yourself. And you don't. You still keep a smile on your face, and you're always ready to help someone who needs it. Aunt June paused, squinting at me in the dim light. I looked back at her, touched by her words, but confused as all hell. She wasn't usually sentimental. I want you to know something, Carly.

And you think I don't realize that none of the people around this shithole of a town like me. They say I'm a storyteller, that I'm nothing but an ugly old spinster who likes to make up things. I know you've heard that from just about everyone around here. I nodded, wondering where all this was going. Well, I think you might know by now that I'm a hell of a hell of a little bit. a lot better person than they are, and a truth tell it to boot. They like to say I tell stories because they don't want anybody to remember what happened. Their whole purpose is to make me sound as crazy as possible.

But they're the crazy ones if they think they can make it go away by pretending it doesn't exist. Aunt June, what do you mean? I started to feel unnerved. What are they pretending? doesn't exist. And this is what she told me. It was a long time ago, about 20 years before you was born. Your mama and me were about the same age as you are now, 16, 17.

We're only a year and a half apart, me and your ma. But even back then, we never got along. I was always the ugly one, and your mama was one of the prettiest girls in school. She had a lot of friends, but it wasn't because she was a nice person. She already had that kind of personality that would bite you like a snake. Real venomous. She could take down people just with a look, make them cowl whenever she walked by. And she used to do some real horrible things to people.

I remember she used to make friends with... How can I put it? Less fortunate girls. ugly oddball girls like me, and then get them into terrible situations. Her favorite was setting them up on dates with the handsome football players, only to have the football players take them out to the middle of the field, make out with them, get them half undressed, then speed off and leave them in their underwear,

sometimes without their bras or panties. Yeah, your mama was a real trip. It was after your mama pulled one of these stunts that one of the girls figured out that your mama was somehow connected to it. Amazingly, most of the girls either didn't realize it or else they did and were too ashamed to do anything about it and decided that she wasn't going to get away with it.

So she asked me for my help and getting back at my sister. I knew how awful my sister was, but kept my mouth shut most of the time. A few times I had spoken up about her, I got jumped in the back of the school or ridiculed worse than I could take. But when the girl actually came up to me and asked for my help and her revenge, I agreed. Your mama needed to learn a lesson. Turns out this girl, let's call her Marianne, was interested in spells and witchcraft and the like,

and her grandmother knew a lot about this kind of thing. I wasn't so sure about dabbling in that. because, you know, your grandfather was so Christian you'd think he'd written the Bible himself. But I think part of me was kind of, what's the word for it? Intrigued. And it felt good to go against all the preaching and the righteousness. So I told Marianne I would go with her and talk to her grandmother about what we could do to put my sister in her place. She said that she needed a few strands of my sister's hair, which I plucked from her hairbrush.

We walked to her grandmother's house one hot Sunday afternoon. It was an eight-mile walk from town, and the sweltering heat had my ankle swelling like watermelons. By the time we reached her grandmother's place, I was close to delirious. We trudged up the stairs to the rickety house, which must have been from the mid-1800s, and Marianne knocked loud three times. After what seemed like forever in a day, an old woman came to the door. It was like she had just come out from a crypt or something. She had a huge, knotted mass of gray hair sitting on top of head and stringing down her forehead.

And she was so small, I couldn't believe it. It looked like the sheer force of us opening the door would knock her over and cause her paperly limbs to explode like confetti. But they didn't explode, and she ushered us into the house. Slowly she led us to a room in the back of the house. being real cautious with each step. She still hadn't said a word. Marianne had stepped into the room and I followed, wondering if I had made a huge mistake.

When I was inside the room and my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I looked around, biting my lip harder and harder until a thin stream of blood started to trickle down my chin. The room was painted in shades of deep brown and red with a sea of burgundy carp in the floor, and mahogany furniture and dark trinkets taken over the room. Floor to ceiling shelves covered three of the walls, and the fourth wall was bare,

save for a strange symbol painted in syrupier brown. In the middle of the room was a table with an incense stick, a candle, and a book, already open to a dog-eared page. Mary Ann's grandmother motioned for us to sit down on the dark red velvet cushioned seats. She lit the incense stick and candle, and the combination of the smoke, the scent, and the flickering light worsened my delirium. And my head started two pounds. I was having trouble thinking straight.

Marianne's grandmother beckoned for me to hand over the baggie with my sister's hair in it. She began speaking in a low voice, and that sounded like some sort of Eastern European accent. I could only make out every five words or so, but Marianne was leaning in and listening real close. Her eyes fixed on her grandmother's face. I was unable to do anything except watch the light dancing off her eyes, which seemed much darker than they had earlier. Marianne's grandmother had us all joined hands and say some words that I didn't understand, and I just did my best to follow along with the sounds.

after we chanted, Marianne's grandmother crossed over to one of the bookshelves, opened a little compartment, and pulled out a small silver dagger. She placed the dagger in a red bag and placed it in Marianne's hands. I remember her grandmother telling Marianne to be careful. As we walked away from the house down the sun-dapel pathway, I looked at Marianne's right hand clutching the little bag, and I said, her exactly what the hell she planning on doing with the knife. She answered back real cavalier, saying she was going to use it for some sort of minor ritual and no one would get hurt. I didn't know what to say, and my head was still pounding.

So I just kept quiet for the rest of the long walk home and bid her real quick goodbye when we reached her house. It was at that point that Aunt June stopped. I'm real tired, Collie. She started stretching Seriously, Aunt June? You're not going to tell me what happened? My mind was reeling with fear. I could smell the incense from her story,

see the silver glinting off the dagger and the candlelight. Ah, Tamara, Carly. We have to get some sleep. It doesn't do the mind any good to think about these things for too long anyway. I watched as a... as she made her way slowly up the stairs, the hems of her tattered robe and once white nightgown trailing lazily behind her. And then I looked back and turned on the TV, the light film of dust on the dancing screen doing little to soften my thoughts of Mary Ann's black eyes

and what secrets that lay within them. I woke up late the next morning, blinking against the dusty light streaming in through the blinds. I had my own room at Aunt June's. It was no bigger than a nook, really, but I felt more comfortable there than in my room at Mama's house. The slanted ceilings were plastered with sun-fated posters of rock-and-roll legends and old movies, and I could spend hours up there memorizing taglines and billings, studying the untamed curls of 60's hair. But that morning, I had few moments of peace before Aunt June's story from the night before flooded my head in ruffington. into my chest, threatening to burst through my lungs.

I needed to know what happened with Mary Ann. Obviously, my mama had emerged relatively unscathed from whatever had happened, but that didn't diminish my concern over the whole thing. Just the idea of someone doing some sort of spell on my family member, and a seemingly harmful spell at that, chilled me somewhere deep inside, somewhere unknown that could therefore never be warmed. I tiptoed over to Aunt June's room, stomach twisting. I had to convince her to tell me the rest of her story.

Stepping gingerly through her doorway, I could hear her lightly snoring. One thick arm was thrust across her face to block out the morning light. It was always a relief to see that Aunt June was okay in the morning. Ever since her heart attack two years ago, I had been constantly terrified of finding her in the morning, stiff and without breath. I made my way over to her side of the bed

and gently shook her shoulder. Aunt June. I shook the shoulder a little more. Aunt June! Wake up! Her eyes opened slowly, reluctantly. She groaned a little. when she saw my expectant face.

Collie, you're not going to start that nonsense again about what we were talking about last night. I was just talking. She turned her face away from the light. I started to get annoyed. No, that wasn't just nonsense. You were totally serious, Aunt June. Please, tell me what happened with Mama and Marianne.

You can't just tell me all that and then not finish the story. Aunt June turned her head and looked at me. Her gray eyes looked very old and weathered, like she had seen too much, more than anybody should in a lifetime. She shook her head. Come on then, you old shit.

Let me make your breakfast, and I'll tell you the rest of the story. But don't blame me if it's not what you wanted to hear. So as you know, your mama was a cheerleader in high school. I know nowadays most of the popular girls in your school play volleyball or soccer, but back then, cheerleading was the thing to be in if you were a girl to be reckoned with. As you can imagine, I never went to football games or any of the sort. I was more interested in staying in my room and sewing, making things.

Your mama used to make my life a living hill because I was just a fat girl who stayed in her room and sewed stupid shit, according to her. But I guess in the end, my hobby did more good than your mama's hobby did her, though. At least I made a career out of it. Just keep that in mind next time someone makes fun of you for liking to read your science books or doing your chemistry experiments. Anywho, so one Friday night, not too long after the strange day at Marianne's grandmother's house, I was sitting in my room working on a dress or something, when all of a sudden the doorbell rang. My parents were out to dinner, so I ran downstairs to get to the door.

It was Marianne. She asked if I could come over to her house. I couldn't believe it. For a moment, I had forgotten all about the creepy visit to her grandmother's house and was just wrapped up in the excitement that a friend wanted to spend time with me. I threw on my jacket. It was late falling a little chilly out, and we walked over to her house. Marianne let us in real quick.

like she was trying to close out the cold outside. I started to hang up my jacket on the coat hook by the door, but she stopped me, grabbing my arm and pulling me upstairs. I asked her what she was in such a hurry for, but she just told me that she wanted to show me something. All of a sudden, I started to think back to the day at her grandmother's house, all the chanting and the symbols and not least of all the dagger. I was getting more and more nervous as we were walking up the stairs,

stairs and into her room. She had told me her parents were away for the weekend and that it was just us, sir. That particular piece of news didn't make me feel any better, as you can probably imagine. She sat on her bed and her eyes shined with excitement. I took a seat on the third bear rug on her floor, looking up at her and waiting for her to show me whatever she was going to show me, when I noticed the little silver knife shining in her hand. I scrambled to my feet and backed up toward the doorway, my hand clutching the doorknobs so tight I thought my fingers was going to fall off. Marianne looked at me confused. She told me she was finally getting back at my sister for all the pain she caused everyone around her. I said that if her revenge involved using

that knife, then I was having nothing to do with her. I started to tell her that I would not let her hurt herself, my sister, me, or anyone else, and she interrupted me by shoving the dagger into her stomach. Imagine jamming a knife full force into a half-baked potato with a real thick skin. And you have an approximation of what the dagger pierce in her stomach sound like. I screamed. Unable to do anything but watch as deep red blood soaked her clothing and pulled onto her bed. She pulled out the knife with a terrible squelching sound and drove it into her neck. Everything around her turned crimson. I finally found my voice and screamed out of the stop. But to my horror, she just started laughing and stabbing herself, blood pouring out of her mouth like water.

And then she sputtered out, didn't you hear what my grandma said? I'm a human voodoo. dog. Anything I do to myself with this knife happens to your sister, and as long as she dies first, my injury is here right away and just leave scars. Suddenly, I was overcome with the horrible implications of what she just said. If the spell had worked, and she was a human voodoo doll with my sister as her proxy, then my sister would surely die first due to the exertion of her cheerleader at the game. Her heart would be pumping so much faster than Marianne's that she would bleed to death much faster,

leaving Marianne unharmed and my sister dead. And then I remember what Marianne said. Everything she does to herself with a knife would happen to my sister. But what about other weapons? After all, whoever died first would cause the other to remain unharmed. I didn't even hesitate as I grabbed the typewriter sitting on Marianne's desk and lugged it over her head. She didn't notice me struggling

as I raised it up high as I could and brought it down on her head. There was so much blood already I couldn't tell how much of it was from the impact and how much was from her stabbing frenzy. I raised it up and brought it down again, again, again, too many times to count,

lost in my singular goal to save my sister. Marianne had long-stop moving before I stopped with the top rider. When I was done, I wiped off the damn thing and the doorknob with some tissues from her desk. Stuffed the rags in my pocket, wrapped myself in a bathrobe from her closet to hide my bloodstain clothes and went home. I stared at my aunt, mouth agape. I was sure my face was as pale as the moon. The people who was at the game don't admit what they would. witness that night. I know that the part of the field your mama was on was coated in blood,

and lots of people was admitted to the hospital for psychiatric treatment because of what they saw. I was still in shock at what I had heard. And the hospital convinced them that it was some sort of mass hallucination, some type of hysteria induced by crowds. They cleaned up the blood off the field, the people were discharged from the hospital. Nobody mentioned it again, except me. And that's why people... And that's why people call you a liar. The scrambled eggs on my plate were freezing cold by now,

and hardening into little yellow balls, as of trying to disappear into themselves. Aunt June nodded. And your mama and I never talked about it. I don't think she has any idea what happened to her that night, or how her wounds shriveled up into little scars just a few minutes after they appeared. I thought of the scar on Mama's neck

and how she rubbed it when she talked about Aunt June. I think she knows what happened. Maybe so. Maybe she made the connection when your daddy died. What do you mean? My muscles tightening at the very thought of the abusive, evil bastard. You know how he died from a heart attack,

same day I had mine, I took some very special pills that day, pills that turned me into, for lack of a better term, a human voodoo dog. I looked at her, suddenly understanding. Daddy's body, after years of alcohol and drug abuse, was much weaker than Aunt June's, and so he died first. I got up, went over to Aunt June, and hugged her. attacked. I thanked her for saving me and my mama once again. Like so many of us, the woman in this tale has a very familiar, fuzzy companion. Yes, she has a cat. But as author Louise H explains,

her cat, and the requisite cat flap in the back door, is the cause of some deeply unsettling events. Narrators Erica Sanderson and David Alt bring the tale to life as we find out what drove the woman to fear for her life as she explains why I nailed shut my cat flap. I am a female in my late 20s who lives alone. I have a small ground floor flat with a garden and an outlook onto fields to the rear, the perfect haven for my cat to explore, though I've often felt uneasy about security to the rear of my property. I have a cat flap on my back door to allow stinky to roam as she pleases

rather than have her cooped up alone while I'm at work. This cat flap, which I installed as a matter of convenience, has become the catalyst for a six-month chain of nightmarish events. It began in January when I returned home from a late shift. It was close to 1am and pitch dark,

and I was desperate to get into my bed. But as I pulled up in front of the flat, I spotted something that made my heart lurch. There was a man crouched at my front door, his hand through my letterbox. As I switched off my ignition, he spotted me and began to walk towards my car. God knows why, adrenaline, tiredness, sheer idiocy. Instead of locking my door and staying put, I got out of the car and met him midway. He was fairly nondescript, roughly my age or a little older, wearing dark jeans,

and a heavy duffel coat. Can I help you with something? You own a grey cat, don't you? I'm really sorry, but I found it injured by my door earlier this evening. It's at my house along the street here if you want to collect it. I felt sick to my stomach. I'm not a crazy cat lady, but this little bugger's been my best pal for the past three years,

and the thought of her injured made my blood run cold. I didn't stop to wonder why he was still trying my door at 1am if he'd found her earlier, nor did I stop to consider I had never seen him before. I thanked him profusely for letting me know and asked if he could wait a moment till I went inside to collect her carry case. Why do you need a case? I have it wrapped in a towel.

Just come get it now. It's late. I was surprised by how agitated he suddenly seemed. If she's hurt, it's best for me to put her in her case where she'll be safe. If I try to carry her in a towel, she might wriggle away. I was confused by his attitude. No, we don't have time. Just come on. He was practically hopping from foot to foot now and made a move to take me by the elbow.

I sidestepped him and walked to my door, keeping my eye on him. I really appreciate you taking her in, but please, just let me grab this case. I'll be 30 seconds. I put my key in the lock. As I swung open my door, he lunged towards me. Completely taken aback, I acted on sheer reflex and swung my elbow up into his face.

Stunned by the impact, he staggered back, allowing me just enough time to slam the door shut and turn the lock. He furiously pounded on the door and attempted to stick his hand through the letterbox, presumably trying to reach the key handle from there. Again, sheer instinct made me slash the rough edge of the key across the back of his fist, and he withdrew it immediately, cursing at me all the while. I stood inside the door, completely stunned and confused. When Stinky herself suddenly appeared at my feet and twined herself around my legs, clearly right as rain, it dawned on me that I had almost stepped into some sort of lure.

The letterbox opened once more, but this time he leaned his face into it and whispered something that made every hair on my body stand on end. I'll come round the back way then. You do know that cat flaps on. very safe, don't you? Shear terror overtook me as I imagined his arm reaching in that flat. I sped to the back door and dragged my dining table in front of it as quickly as I could. Within seconds, his face appeared in the glass panel.

He looked maniacal to say the least. The whites of his eyes stood out starkly in the dark and he was panting excitedly. Well, fucking shitballs, he knew my name. He slid down the door and started to nudge, open the cat flap with his arm. I was by now a whimpering wreck, kicking ineffectually at the door and desperately trying to dial 999 on my mobile at the same time. Ja, can it be spending some time together?

My trusty cat did not let me down. Spotting his arm snaking through her cat flap, she naturally assumed it was a game and pounced on him, her claws raking his bare skin. She sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of his forearm. and began to kick furiously her claws inflicting more damage. He cursed and withdrew, standing up to glare at me through the glass. Emergency services, how may I direct your call? I sagged in relief as I was connected to the police.

Hearing my conversation, he gave me one last meaningful look and disappeared. The police arrived promptly. The officers who took my statement were kind and did a lot to calm me down, telling me that though I shouldn't have engaged him at all, I'd done the correct thing when I became suspicious. They tried to play down the fact that he knew my name, pointing out that I had my works ID lanyard around my neck, with my name clearly visible.

We're sure he won't be back, but we'll put a patrol outside for the next few nights while you're on late finishes. You might want to ask a friend or family member to stay with you. My boyfriend stayed with me for the next few nights, and for a week or so I thought they were right. This was just a one-off experience with an opportunistic ass who'd spotted the cat flap and concocted a story accordingly.

After a week or so of peace, I assumed that the police were correct. My late-night visitor was just an opportunist who'd learnt his lesson. Then, in mid-February, the phone calls started. The first call came at around 9.30pm in the evening. I was lying on my couch reading a book. and answered it breezily enough. Silence greeted me. I prattled some hellos down the line for a moment or two,

wondering if it was a bad connection, before hanging up. Within seconds, the phone rang again. Breathing. Unmistakable. Is somebody there? A low chuckle. A little unnerved. I hung up and headed to the kitchen,

thinking a cup of tea would soothe me. I jumped slightly when the phone rang for a third time. I peered out the glass panel of the door, to my back garden as I answered, but only my own face reflected back at me. Who is this? That low chuckle again. I shivered. See, you moved the table back.

I froze. Backing up from the door, I reached behind me to switch off the light. He sniggered. Turning it off. I know you're in there now. Can see. Repulsed in horror-stricken, I hung up and dashed back to the warm comfort of my living room. I desperately wanted to go straight out to the door to my car where I could drive somewhere safe.

Problem was, he was clearly outside. I actually yelped when the phone rang in my hand again. I rejected the call and started to dial my boyfriend's number. And then I heard the unmistakable sound of the cat flap creaking open. I froze. Stinky was curled up on the armchair not three feet away from where I stood. The sound was most certainly caused by something else. This time I took the cowards option.

Knowing that my visitor was currently on his knees with his arm through the door and therefore otherwise engaged, I bolted out the front door and into my car, heading straight for the police station. I arrived home with three officers in tow. Stinky lay asleep where I'd left her, unmoved by our visitor. When we filed into the kitchen, my heart sank as I saw what he'd left us. Christ! One of the officers mumbled.

Muddy handprints smeared the entire lower half of the door, with some streaks up near the handle where he clearly tried to reach up. On the floor by the cap flap lay a piece of paper. The lead officer picked it up and visibly balked. What is it? My stomach was roiling as I asked my question. He handed me what turned out to be a photograph. It had been taken during the day, clearly through the panel of the back door. I was walking through the hall beyond.

My hair wet from the shower and I was wrapped in a towel. Stinky was by my heel. I handed it back with shaking hands and filed my second report. The police attempted to take some prints from the muddy back door, advised me to call my boyfriend to keep me company and left. For two nights he let me be. But I couldn't expect my boyfriend to stay every night. He had his own job and I was determined not to let this joker make me feel uneasy in the home I loved.

On the third night, I was home alone. At 10pm, the phone rang. That low chuckle. Fear pricked me. You're on your own today. I like that best. But you must be lonely. I think I'll pay you a visit.

I hung up immediately. The phone rang and rang, but I refused to answer. For the next three nights, he bombarded my hands. house with calls. On the fourth day, I lost my patience. My nerves were shattered, and I organised a change of number with my provider. For a week, all was blissfully quiet, but something in my gut told me he hadn't finished with me yet. I started to receive disturbing photographs by post. I forwarded each one to the police, who were by now taking my stalker quite seriously. Random patrols went past my house every night, but they couldn't exactly grab.

grant me a 24-7 bodyguard. I was a nervous wreck, jumping at every bump and crying over silly things. The photographs ranged from me making tea at my kitchen counter in the morning, seemingly taken on a long lens through that glass panel at the back door, to leaving my work office at night. He had followed me relentlessly. I almost broke when I received the photo of me working at my dining table, a book in front of me and stinky fast asleep by my side. He had scratched both our faces. Deep, violent gouges that made his intent all too clear. Things escalated.

In early March, I discovered a set of sharp razorheads hammered into the top of my fence, which stinky often walked along. Thankfully, I was able to remove them before she did herself any serious damage, but I was sickened at the aggression. The photos continued to arrive by post, often accompanied by heinous descriptions of how my story, wanted to hurt us. I signed off work for a fortnight by my doctor, who was concerned about my stress levels.

I became fearful of leaving the flat and spent days on end watching daytime television and sitting around in my pyjamas. I slept a lot, finding no joy in my usual pastimes. One morning I found several dead birds scattered by the back door. In May, things came to a head. I was fast asleep one evening when I woke suddenly. I sensed that a noise had disturbed me, but all was quiet as I lay in the dark. I looked down to the foot of the bed, where Stinky had sprung up, alert.

Her ears pricked. My heartbeat roared painfully. I slid under my covers as stealthily as I possibly could. I noticed Stinky's hackles were raised and a low hiss was beginning to emanate from her. I patted her head lightly, trying to keep her calm and quiet. As I crept towards my bedroom door, I dialed 999 on my mobile. I didn't speak when they answered, hoping that they would connect the dots and send a car. I knew that they could easily track my location and I didn't want my visitor to know that I was awake, so I remained silent.

I could see a shadow moving slightly beneath the crack of my door. This is it, I thought. This is how I'm going to die. Just as I reached out to push the door closed, thinking I could. could perhaps jam the handle quietly. The wood slammed forward into my face and lights exploded in front of my eyes. Stinky snarled as I staggered back from the blow.

Fleeting relief as I saw her whip past us then my visitor kicked my feet out from underneath me, sending me crashing to the floor. My mobile skidded out of my hand and slid under the bed, ricocheting off the wall. A tiny flame of hope assured me that the police had heard this, that they were coming.

At that point, I think I blacked out. I woke up in my bath. I was fully clothed, submerged in cold water, and my head felt three times its normal size. As my vision cleared, I gazed at the photographs plastered over the bathroom walls. All of me and stinky, my face gouged away by scratches.

One photograph was propped behind the taps, and I leaned forward to read the scrawl across the top. Now you know I can get in. See you soon. Again, not the end. I think that was worse. The nights became a living nightmare. Whenever I was alone, I would wake to tapping on my bedroom window

or the catflat creeping ominously. Every time the police arrived, he'd long gone. I nailed shut the catflat. Poor Stinky became housebound, much like me, and I had double locks fitted on every door of the flat. Some nights I lay paralysed for hours, watching his shadow pace back and forth by my bedroom window. On the worst nights, he would speak to me through the glass, whispering dreadful, terrifying things about me. I won't repeat some of what he said, but for some reason his repeated mantra,

You belong in the dark with me, you belong in the dark with me, you belong in the dark with me, you belong in the dark with me. was the most heart-stopping. He tried to break in several times and was successful on one more occasion. I managed to barricade my bedroom door shut and I spent an agonising 15 minutes listening to him scratching his nails down the wood before he heard the police sirens and bolted.

I couldn't sleep, could barely eat. He had taken my life away from me. I put my flat on the market. I sold it for significantly less than its value, desperate for a quick departure. Last month I moved in with my boyfriend, and for the first time in months I had some peace. I was able to return to work last week, and even went out for a meal with some friends over the weekend. I thought it was over. I thought I was safe.

But yesterday morning I received a photograph in the post. Me and my boyfriend in bed fast asleep. The photo had been taken not inches from our faces. Our eyes were gouged away by deep scratches. Soon, it read. Today we've packed up the car. We'll drive as far away as we possibly can. Stinky will stay with a friend where she'll be happier and safer.

My heart is broken. I'm afraid. I pray he won't find me this time. Goodbye. 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.