The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E22

Episode Date: July 26, 2015

It's episode 22 of Season 5. We have four tales this week featuring stories about sonorous spirits, mystical muses, and suspending suspense. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "Voices in the Spirit Box" written by Michael Marks and read by Jesse Cornett & Jessica McEvoy & Rima Chaddha Mycynek & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:03:55) "My Grandfather's Journal" written by Paul Bae and read by David Cummings & Peter Lewis & Jeff Clement & Paul Bae & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:31:50) "Out from the Ashes" written by Michael Kemp & C.K.Walker & Michael Marks and read by Peter Lewis & Mike DelGaudio & Tim Valencia & Iris Orion. (Story starts at 01:03:30) "Beacon House" written by Raymond Taylor and read by Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:28:30) Click here to learn more about Michael Marks Click here to learn more about Paul Bae Click here to learn more about Michael Kemp Click here to learn more about C.K.Walker Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Jeff Clement Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "Out from the Ashes" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski ©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. Ween us as the sleepless hours take past.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Episode 22. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have four tales this week, featuring stories about sonorous spirits, mystical muses, and suspending suspense. I am very proud of you, dear listeners. Do you know that? You see, in the past few weeks, I've made you aware of a number of causes and ways in which you can lend your support to many different endeavors. I mentioned our audiobook contest provided by Marcus D'Amanda and Jessica McAvoy, and many, many of you entered. The contest is now closed and the winners will be contacted

shortly. Thanks so much for your interest. I mentioned the need of our friends over at Tales to Terrify, and many of you offered your financial support to keep that show running. They still need your help, but there are reasons to be optimistic. Thanks for supporting that great show. I encouraged you to check out the excellent new podcast, LOR. And judging by the response on social media, many of you have become ardent fans of that show. Be sure to keep spreading the word.

And finally, I made you aware of the Kickstarter campaign for the Black Tapes podcast. I'm happy to announce they were successful in meeting their goal, and new episodes are coming soon. As a treat, we have one of the Black Tapes executive producers with us this week. Paul Bay is not only sharing one of his excellent tales with us, he's also joining us with both the introduction and epilogue to his tale.

It's great to have Paul with us to share that extra personal touch for his story. And I want to welcome a new narrator making his debut this week. Tim Valencia shares his voice skills with us, so we welcome you to the show, Tim. So thank you to everyone who entered our contest, shared some money with our fellow podcasters, and who became fans of new shows. It's really true what they say.

Podcast fans are some of the most involved and passionate people out there. You should be very proud of yourselves. In fact, I'm so proud of you, I think I'll treat you to some scary, stories and start the show. In our first tale, we seek out the paranormal. There are well-known methods like Ouija boards for attempting to speak with the dead, but a more recent device gaining popularity is something called a spirit box. It's sort of like a radio receiver

which is used for contacting spirits through the use of radio frequencies. In this tale from author Michael Marks, we meet a brother and sister who are seeking closure by contacting their departed parents. But as the old saying goes, be careful what you wish for. Narrators Jesse Cornett, Jessica McAvoy, Rima Chathamisenk, and Nicole Doolin read the tale for us as we listen closely for voices in the spirit box. When I was 17, my mother was murdered. But this story isn't about her. My mother's killer is still in prison for his crime.

No, this story is about what happened afterwards. About a year after my mother's funeral, my dad started mentioning that she would come visit him at night. He said she glowed in a pure white light and reached out to him with a warm smile on her face. He said she looked just the way she did. the last time you saw her before she left for the store on the last night of her life.

My sister and I both missed my mother very much and we wanted to believe it was true. We did whatever we could think of to try and contact her, but it was only my dad who ever saw her. We just wanted to say goodbye. Ouija boards, spirit boxes, automatic riding, psychics, and mediums. We tried them all, and all proved to be a little more than that.

than distractions. About three months into our efforts, my dad had his first blackout. He claimed it was just stress, but my sister and I agreed in confidence that it was more than that. He would forget things all the time, talk about old memories out of the blue, and then he started getting these horrible migraines. We didn't learn the source of it all until he finally agreed to go to to the doctor. He had a brain tumor. Inoperable. His doctor told us it was the likely source of all he'd been experiencing, including the hallucinations of his dead wife. My sister and I lost all hope and ever saying goodbye to our mom and focused on our dad instead. By then I was nearly 19 and my sister was 22.

She ended up moving back in with my dad and me to help take care of him. Even with treatment, he only lasted six months, though, which was three months longer than the prognosis. and when my dad finally passed away, we were both devastated. I can still remember that night so vividly in my mind. The loneliness, the realization that both my parents were gone. And it was worse to realize that in all of our attempts to find proof of some kind of afterlife, we'd found nothing. Dad's last words to both of us were about mom.

She's telling me to come with her. She looks so beautiful. So beautiful. My actual story starts almost a year later, though, when I finally decided to move out of my parents' house and in with my longtime girlfriend. I could hear my sister yelling for me downstairs. She had moved back in with her boyfriend months ago,

but she was home to help me pack up the last of our parents' things for sale or donation. Alex, what do you want to do with all these dishes? I poked my head out of my half-packed room and yelled back down to her. Donate! What? I sighed and went bounding down the stairs, taking the last five in a single jump, landing in the hallway. My sister stood in the kitchen doorway and repeated her question. What do you want to do with all these dishes?

Donate. Clean your ears, Lily. I can hear you just fine. Are you telling me to clean something? That's a fucking laugh. Lily spun around and went back into the kitchen, talking as she walked. Are you sure you don't need any of this stuff? Nope. Carla has everything we need in the dishes department. I followed her into the kitchen and saw her staring down at a beige plate decorated with a chicken and two ears of corn which sat below its feet.

It was from our usual dining set. I remember sitting down to dinner every night to those plates in front of me. I think I want to keep one of these. Lily's eyes had missed it over, and I knew how she felt. It was the little things that seemed to catch you. I smiled and walked over to her, placing my hand on her shoulder. Yeah, you should. Save one for me too, okay?

She looked up at me and smiled. Suddenly, we both felt something whizzed between our heads at a high speed and heard it crash against the far wall just below my mom's old cat clock. Lily nearly dropped the plate she was holding as she jumped back and let out a yelp. We had both been startled right out of our family moment and I could feel my heart beating at a mile a minute. What the fuck was that? Lily set the plate down on the kitchen table and stepped toward the far wall.

She bent down and disappeared behind the tablecloth for a second before re-emerging with a piece of broken plate in her hand. She had a confused look on her face. One eye must have mirrored. We were the only two people in the house. No one else could have thrown that plate. On the sliver of porcelain Lily was holding, I could see a chicken's foot raising up from behind in the ear. of corn. It was from the same set we had been discussing. You gotta be kidding me. I turned my head to glance at the cupboard full of dishes and then back at Lily. She shrugged and gave me the I don't know look. That's when I noticed that the familiar ticking from my mother's cat clock,

a sound I had been accustomed to hearing for years, had stopped. I looked up at the wall behind and Lillian noticed the cat's tail had stopped swinging, and it's always shifting eyes had frozen in place. It was staring directly at me. I shivered involuntarily and went to help Lillie pick up the pieces of broken dish scattered about the kitchen floor. The played incident reminded us of all our efforts to contact our mother. In all of our attempts, we never saw anything even remotely paranormal happen, yet here we were face to face with an event that neither of us could explain. It didn't take long to decide we should pursue it. The incident had also cast doubt on the theory that my father had been hallucinating prior to his death.

In our desperation, we eagerly jumped on the small chance to talk to one of them one more time. I know now that hope can be as dangerous as it is comforting. Lily and I went to our significant others and explained what we were going to attempt. We wanted to give the Ouija board and the spirit box one more try. Carla was open to the idea when I told her about it and she actually seemed kind of excited. Lily had a harder time with David. As she related to me, she had to drag him along, kicking and screaming. In the end, though, he showed up and I knew.

knew that even if he didn't buy into any of it, he would be there from my sister. Two nights later, we all gathered at my parents' house. At the time, we were excited, giddy. We had no idea what we were signing up for. If we had, I would have walked away from that place and never looked back. Is everyone ready? Lily's fingers already rested on top of the planchette. Carla looked at me, green eyes that darkened to a near black in the dim, orange candlelight.

She winked at me and put her hands on the planchette next to Lily's. Then I placed my fingers on the other side of the plastic toy and did my best to ignore the disapproving look on David's face. He had reluctantly agreed to be our scribe, writing down the words that might be spelled out during our seance. Lily started moving the planchette around the board. and the infinity shape like we had always done before. I could feel the same excitement welling up inside me like it had the first time we'd tried this. I could see the same fervor reflected in my sister's expression.

What now? Now we ask some questions. Lily held her head high like she was trying to channel some kind of divine energy. My sister always got a little bit too into the theme. theatrics of the whole thing. I took the lead. Is there anyone here with us?

We all watched the board with bated breath, hoping to feel some movement beneath our fingers. Suddenly, the infinity-shaped motion stopped, and we watched the planchette moved slowly across the board towards the top left corner

before stopping at the word, yes. Okay, you guys aren't fucking with me, right? Because I didn't do that. Carla was looking at me again. I could see her out of the corner of my eye. I was stunned.

In the million times we had tried this, nothing had ever really happened at all. No. We aren't fucking with you. Ask another question. Lily was smiling like a crazy person. It was the same look she would get on. Christmas morning when we were kids, the joy of discovery and the satisfaction of finally getting

what you've been waiting for. I dove right in. What is your name? This was going to be the moment of truth. I was surprised at just how quickly the planchette started moving around the board. We called out each letter as the planchette briefly stopped, and I heard David scribbling away. I, T, S, D, D, A, D, D, Y. It's Daddy.

David's voice now contrasted his previously cool demeanor. Lily's hands left the planchette and she slapped them across her mouth. I could see her eyes quickly, fill up. with tears. Carla and David both sat there, slack-jawed, and I'm sure my face had a similar look. Lil, put your hand back on the thing. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Lily, please, put your hand back on.

She did as I asked, and when her hands left her face, I noted the smile she had been hiding. Yes. The response was immediate. We miss you so much, Daddy. It's been so hard since you and mom have been gone. W-E-M-I-S-S-Y-O-U-T-O-O-O. Holy shit. Carla couldn't contain herself any longer, and I found myself smile at his use of the word we.

Dad? I couldn't even hope to disguise the excitement in my voice. Is Mom there with you? Yes. My sister, now suffering through full-blown sobs of joy, leaned her head over and rested it on David's shoulder. He stared down at his notepad, re-reading the words, barely registering that she was there. I didn't know if he was stunned by what he was seeing or horrified at how deluded we all were. David had never been much of a believer.

Dad, can Mom talk to us? I wanted to keep the dialogue going. I'm sorry. I raised an eyebrow. at the response. What are you sorry about? I was unsure if I was speaking to my mother or my father. She's too cold, too hard for her.

The smile fell from Lily's face, and the mood of the room became more solemn as David read the last sentences. out loud. The planchette continued to move then without any more prompting. So cold here. So lonely. We miss

you. We miss you. It's daddy. Please help. Please. We need you. After the last you, the planchette suddenly shot out from under our hands, paused just milliseconds over, goodbye,

and then fired across the room and hit the wall at roughly the same speed as the plate that morning. I jumped up away from the board in shock. Lily was now sobbing loudly as David held her, but his eyes remained fixed on the board. as if it were the most alien object he'd ever seen. Carla touched my hand with shaking fingers, and I looked down to see fear in her eyes. I don't understand. Carla stood up.

I'm so sorry, baby. She wrapped her arms around me, and it was only then that I noticed the wetness on my own cheeks. I hadn't cried since my mom. murder and I figured something at me had broken that day. Even when Dad passed, I didn't cry. Now, though, in this moment, the tears finally came. We tried to contact my parents again all night, but the planchette didn't move again. We'd hoped contact with our parents would make us feel better, give us some sense of closure, but instead it had devastated us. Lily,

most of all. Most days she would sit in the living room for hours listening to the static of the spirit box, hoping to hear a voice. As the weeks went on, Lily became quieter and more introverted. She retreated into herself, hardly speaking to anyone. The conversation with the Ouija board had made an impression on me too, but Lily had become obsessed. I gradually became less interested. I gradually became less interested in contacting our parents again and more concerned about my sister's mental state. And then one night, I woke from that nightmare to a realer, more horrifying one. I answered my ringing phone to hear David's voice yelling through the earpiece. Your sister just took off.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tried to focus. Took off. What do you mean? Been way worse than she lets on. Lily doesn't sleep anymore. She just sits in the kitchen and listens to that damn little radio. The spirit box? Yeah, that fucking thing.

She says she can hear your parents talking to her. I want to believe her, man. But I sat for hours with her one night and didn't hear a single thing. Jesus! Alex, I'm scared for her. Tonight she was listening to it and talking back to it. Her voice woke me up. I couldn't understand exactly what she said, but she was crying,

and then I heard her bolt out the door and slam it behind her. She went back to my parents' house. It wasn't a question. I could feel it in my bones. I may not have known the full extent of what was happening, but I did know that something very, very bad had just happened of my sister. She couldn't cope with what the Ouija board had told us, and after all these years of suppressing her sadness, she just cracked. You think? That's what I was thinking, too.

I know you have keys, man. Can I meet you there? I think we need to get her help. I sighed into the phone, knowing he was right. Lily may never forgive us, but I was quickly becoming convinced that she needed professional care. The weight of the decision to admit her somewhere felt smothering. I looked down at Carla, who was awake, staring warily out the window

with lines of worry edged on her face. Yeah, yeah, just let me get dressed. I can be at my parents in 45 minutes. Let me see if I can talk to Lily. Thanks, Alex. I'm going to head over now. I'm a lot closer,

so I'll let her know you're coming. We hung up and I relayed the entire conversation to Carla. Despite my best efforts to keep her safe at home, she insisted on going with me. And when I protested, she challenged me to try and stop her. Ten minutes later, we were in the car heading to my old house. The argument with Carla had delayed my departure and we actually arrived at the house more than an hour later. Both Lily and David's cars were parked in the trunk. driveway, so I parked on the street, and Carla and I headed to the front door.

I noticed as we climbed the porch steps that no lights were on inside the house. The front door was slightly ajar, and I took a deep breath before pushing it all the way open with a creek. Beyond the door was utter blackness, a seeming void instead of a welcoming foyer. I had never seen the house this dark before. As I let my eyes adjust, I listened intently for any sound. All I could hear was the clicking of the spirit box, rapidly changing channels through the soft static. I finally stepped inside and made my way down the hall, taking Carla's hand as she followed behind me. Lily?

I heard the acute fear in my own weak, shaking voice. I couldn't understand why I was suddenly so terrified in my own house, but I couldn't shake the feeling. I hugged the walls until we rounded the corner into the softly lit living room. A dull blue light was emitting from somewhere, and I could see Lily sitting in front of it. She was cross-legged on the floor. The spirit box was in front of her, and her head was hung between her shoulder blades. blonde hair covering her face, I whispered, squeezing Carla's hand as I let go to walk toward my sister. I was halfway to her when Carla suddenly flipped on the light switch and screamed.

I was blinded at first and disoriented by the screaming, but my eyes gradually made the adjustment. I blinked a few more times and found myself still facing Lily, who had remained sitting on the floor with the spirit box. front of me. Her forearms were cut, wrist to elbow, and she was sitting in a pool of blood. David was there, lying next to her. Stapped God knows how many times in the chest, neck in the face. I could only assume it was him as the body was unrecognizable. I heard Carla take off down the hallway and slam the front door as she left the house. As I adjusted to my state of absolute shock, I scanned the room calmly before hysteria set in. The walls were covered in writing the same three phrases over and over again written in fresh blood.

It's daddy. I snapped out of my trance suddenly and stumbled over to Lily. I begged every God I had ever heard of to let her be alive. somehow to let me save her. I choked on prayers as I rescued Lily's limp body out of the crimson puddle and screamed for Carla to call 911. Her skin lacked the warmth of life and I pressed my face to hers, begging her to wake up. My whispers falling on dead ears. I cried.

The soft static of the spirit box played the score to my pain. How many eternities passed before Carla returned? I do not know, but I saw her there, finally, standing in the doorway, talking to emergency services and staring at us. I cradled Lily's body and rocked back and forth. I could tell from the look of disgusted pity set upon her face that Carla couldn't hear the sounds coming from the spirit box. It was faint, but it was her. My mother's voice was unmistakable. A year later, when the detectives finally called to let me know they were releasing my sister's things,

I brought the spirit box home. I didn't let Carla know that I had it. She had never quite recovered from what she'd seen the night of the murder-suicide. The media had called Lily's case a true. tragic descent into madness. Carla and I couldn't have agreed more. But sometimes late at night, when Carla is asleep, I slip out of bed and sneak into the living room.

I pull the spirit box out from behind a stack of books, and I turn it on just for a few seconds. But in those moments, I listen closely to the clicking sounds of the radio quick. scanning through the static. I strain to hear their words, the voices of my family. I hear them in a few seconds. I've heard them say many things. They tell me that they need me, that they love me, and it's lonely without me. They claim it's cold. They beg me to join them. Lily says it's easy, and that I should bring Carla with me. They say we'll all be happy.

There is something behind their voices, something that sometimes bleeds through. Lily must have either ignored the sound or blocked it out completely. Beneath their warm invitations and desperate pleading, I can hear something laughing. Something. Upon discovering an old journal from his grandfather's youth back in Korea, author Paul Bay decided to translate one of the stories. It tells of what his grandfather and family went through

on one fateful night while waiting for a fairy to take them to a new life. With the author himself introducing the story for us, we have Peter Lewis. Jeff Clement and Nicole Doolin joining me for the story. Let's venture to a riverside in Korea and hear the tale from My Grandfather's Journal. Two years ago, as I was going through my grandfather's personal effects after his funeral, I found a box full of photographs and books from his time as a young man in North Korea.

He was 18 years old when he and his family suddenly left his hometown of Samdung. The following excerpt is from, one of his personal journals he kept as he followed his parents south across what would eventually become the DMZ years later. I've translated it to the best of my ability with some help from my family. August 18th, 1945, we were waiting on the north shore of the river for the boat that would ferry us to safety to a town on the other side. Father was talking to the men who had arranged to take us across. He should not speak too much. This is what got us into this mess in the first place.

He likes to talk, mainly about things of which he knows very little, like God. What possessed him to take on the role of church elder five years ago, we will never know. My mother protested at the time, accusing him of taking on the American's religion. She was wrong, of course. Father was not baptized into Christianity for the sake of pleasing any outsiders, though he did like to please people. Father actually believed. He was a true convert to the religion of blood and broken bones on a broken cross.

He sang the Western hymns. I had never known a Korean man to sing so much about the state of his heart. It was shameful to me, and I knew it was embarrassing to Mother. So when the pastor came to our house last night, warning father of the approaching communists, I understood why Mother yelled at him when the pastor left. He had brought danger upon our house, our family. I heard the pastor tell Father,

you are target number one. I understood that. Father is easily the most western man in Samdung. He inherited his taste for fedoras and slim cigarettes from the Americans who would occasionally wander through town, praising the virtues of hard work and personal accountability. In our steel factory, he instituted the practice of bonus pay for workers who, in his eyes, earned it. Of course, this rattled the world. the local communists, but they were such a minority that father found them easy to ignore.

Until yesterday, so here we were in late summer, the sun beginning its steady decline under the horizon, lighting up the clouds in a dazzling display, as if reminding us that all things have their moment in the sun until darkness falls, drowning all dreams. Tehan was feeling a chill So mother wanted to start a fire But the men forbid her They said it would attract attention My mother said we were too far from the road

For anyone to notice Then one of the men said Not the notice of men The other men looked away As if hiding a shameful secret Or fear The way children look over away when forced to admit a phobia of heights or spiders. My mother asked how they were supposed to

cook our dinner, and the men just shrugged again. Frustrated, my mother uncovered a large pot of cold rice, and another of stringed spicy beans, and served them to everyone, including the men. Father then called for everyone to bow their heads for grace, and that is when one of the men grabbed Father's arm. Don't. Not here. Father looked at him, challengingly. He who does not give thanks for small blessings gives thanks for nothing.

You have it wrong. We are very thankful, especially for our lives. That's why we would rather you didn't pray. The other men grumbled in agreement. I had no idea what he was talking about. Father straightened his back, his palms out as if Jesus himself before a crowd. Brothers, what do you have against praying? Are we among friends or not?

Father scanned all their faces. We have nothing against prayer, but something does. What do you mean? something. The man said nothing and turned his head towards the river. I peered out over its dark waters. It was wide and looked much too fast to swim safely. It meandered silently around the next bend,

the shores gently sloping into the currents. Was there something in the river? Is that what he meant? I stared at that, at that river for the rest of the evening as my parents prepared our camp. The fairy was not due until the morning. I awoke in the middle of the night, under a ceiling of stars and a half-moon off to the south, where we were hoping to be. Tehan was pressed up against me, rolled up in his blankets from head to toe. My nose was cold to the touch, so I pulled Tehan's blanket gently up

over his face for warmth. I turned towards the sounds that had woken me. Father was still up, talking to one of the men. They were standing closer to the river. I strained my neck to try to hear what they were saying. I worry about my youngest. He is not built strong. My oldest I worry about too, but only because he wants to be a writer one day.

The other man chuckled quietly. I could see them passing a clay bowl of mockily back and forth between drinks. Why didn't you want me to pray? The man finished taking a large sip from the clay bowl before passing it back to Father. You ever have those American Christians pass through Samdome? Of course. We had one here with his wife five years ago. He was a good speaker, so when he announced a baptism in the river, everyone came.

Father passed the bowl back to the man who took another sip from it before continuing. I think there were almost 300 people here lined up to be baptized. People were being dunked and they yelled with joy at promises of salvation. And then this woman gave him her son. They were well known here. She was a Pansari singer. Not the best, but she put a lot of emotion into her singing. He accompanied her on a barrel drum,

even though he had some kind of handicap. He was very thin, and drool ran down the side of his mouth, and he had trouble walking. But he could still hit that drum hard with passion. Anyway, when she showed up with her, son, you could see the American was nervous.

I can still see him taking the boy, struggling to get him in the water, and you could tell that the boy wanted no part of this. He was gripping a small bouquet of yellow lilies he had picked that day. We would always see

him in our streets with such an arrangement of flowers as he sat next to his mother, singing and begging for money or food. His mother was known to tell the neighbors how yellow was a calming color for him. So when a Japanese soldier handed him some while marching through our town, the boy was entranced. But on the day of his baptism, I remember the way he turned his face towards his mother. Even though his condition made his face

always look sad, I could tell he was even sadder that he had to do this to please his mother, and I can tell you she did not understand what baptism was. She thought God had cursed her son, and that if the boy was baptized, God would heal him. So when the boy felt the strange white man speaking in an alien tongue, put his hands on him, and the man started pulling him backwards into the deep, cold water. The boy started to panic.

He began kicking to start to panic. screaming. At one point he even hit the man in the face. But the man kept pulling, yelling, even louder, looking up at the sky. He tried pushing the boy's head in the water, but the boy kept fighting. So the man pulled him into the deeper current, trying his best to calm the panicking boy. And then the man slipped. His feet had given way under him. But by the this point he was the boy's only source of balance. So when the man went under water, so did the boy. The mother started screaming. Men jumped in the river and by the time the first man reached the American and pulled him up out of the water. The boy was gone. And then we heard the mother

screaming, pointing down river, and I saw the head of the boy bobbing up and down in the current before he disappeared around the far bend over there. I could barely make out in the faint moonlight an arm outstretched to the west. Father had not spoken during this whole time, which is a rare occurrence. Having Father interrupt a speaker was, for him, a part of the storytelling experience. A story was not a story until he could somehow insert himself into the middle of it. If it was some small local gossip, my father somehow knew the subject of the scandal. If it was a tale of the beginning of the universe and God's intention for it, my father knew he was part of that purpose.

So it surprised me that he actually listened. Then father spoke. What happened to the boy? We found his body on the far shore a few miles downstream. His mother was now alone in the world, except for a few neighbors who didn't much like the woman, but still felt sorry for her son. The man then cleared his throat. He was still clutching the flowers when they found him. I could see father turn fully towards the river, his back to me, and I heard him drink deeply from the bowl.

That is tragic. They buried him out in that field. The man pointed to a place I could not see. His mother made sure to keep his tombstone adorned, with the fresh yellow lilies the Japanese brought over from Mount Asama. The ones her son always carried around. Is the mother still here? I heard the man's footsteps on the stone.

Beach as he paced. She was inconsolable. She would stand in the town center and sing Pansari by herself. No drum, just her voice echoing loudly through the streets. She had no tone, no drama, just the same level of emotion in every line, like some street merchant calling out her wares in the alleys. and it was always the same song. The man now crouched dramatically,

and in his best Pansori voice, began to howl these words. Light of the moon, and that is how you left me, my boy, my sweet, innocent child. The waters took you from me, and I need you to return. Come back to me.

Or prepare a place for me, beside you, where darkness hides my shame. I was moved. I had heard Pansori many times, but this particular rendition of her mournful wailing, knowing it was about real, fresh loss, it struck me deeply. She sang this every hour, every day, for many days. He stood upright, taking a deep drink after his performance. I like a good pansari here and there, but without the drum, it's just a crazy, lonely woman crying in the streets. But you have not answered if she is still living in town.

In town, yes, but not living. He turned and pointed somewhere I, again, could not see. She is buried next to her son. They found her by the river, very close to where they found her some. She threw herself into the river? That is what most say, but there is another theory, a rumor. The man looked around before continuing. Some say they saw something climbing out of the river a few nights after the child's day.

It had human shape, and it limped just like the boy. I could hear him taking a long drink before continuing. Some feared it was the ghost of the boy. Some think it was the boy himself returned from the grave in bodily form. And some, some people believe that the boy is a whole. Holy abomination, a product of a failed baptism. And it is these stories that make some people believe that he crawled out of the water to take his mother back with him. He heard her songs, her entreaties, and being the obedient, dutiful son, complied.

I suddenly felt the cold wrap itself around me. My ears and nose chilled from exposure. And then I heard Father praying. The man protested. What are you doing? We don't pray by the river. If there is a curse here, it must be lifted through prayer. Through God comes all grace.

There is no room for grace here. The man's voice was rising. Your prayers will seem like mockery to him. You will stir his anger. In the dim light, I saw Father standing near the shore. His arms raised to heaven. A hushed prayer stole forth from his lips. And I could hear the river churning, massive, eternal, moving.

It was well past midnight. when I awoke again. It was a sound, a splash, as if someone were bathing in the river. But I could have been dreaming, given the stories I had heard that night. I was still groggy from sleep. I turned to Tehan, thinking it might have been him who made that sound. I carefully sat up without disturbing anyone and looked at the sky. Stars were everywhere, and the moon now hung higher in the night sky, lighting up the trees and hills around us.

Father was still not back in his bedroll. I silently moved away from the makeshift camp in search of him. That is when I heard it. At first it was so faint that I thought it was the breeze whistling through the trees. but then it grew steadily in volume to a hoarse whisper. And then, through the trees, the words drifted towards me. Blasting to your spark of day. It sounded like the low, barely coherent sing-song ramblings of a drunken man,

quietly growling a lazy pansori. And he sounded like any of the men from, the village we had met earlier that day. So I walked towards the voice. I thought if I follow the drunk I would find father. I cautiously walked towards the sound, but I had to be careful. It might be one of the men just relieving himself in the bushes, singing his inebriated tune to himself. My eyes were adjusting to the moonlight when I saw, saw the figure slowly stumbling under the trees. He was clearly drunk, but instead of returning to the camp, the man walked further away from the river.

I followed at a distance. I could see something in his hand as he swung his arms, probably a jar of mockoli or soju. And he still sang as he walked, his voice a soft, raspy tambra, as if he were in pain. The water does not soothe nor saves, like a flame of ice. He was bent over, lurching with each step, one arm by his side as if paralyzed.

I followed slowly, cautiously, careful to stay in the shadows in case father suddenly caught me trying to follow him, I lost track of how long I had been following this man when I realized I could no longer hear the river. I had been engaged in my crouching and hiding from tree to tree for quite a while. I looked farther ahead and saw that the man had left the trees and was now shuffling through some tall grass in a clearing.

Father was nowhere to be seen, but I thought perhaps he was passed out in that field ahead, and this man was returning to him with another jar of the local drink. I was so low in the grass that I was almost crawling. I occasionally propped myself up on one knee to make sure the man was still in sight. And that is when he sang the words that I know will haunt me for the rest of my life. The waters have washed me clean And they will cleanse you together

Grass where the deed's all secret Was frozen to my spot Crouched, hidden by the grass I found myself trying not to breathe For fear of being heard And then as carefully as I could I peered over the grass. I could see him limping away from me in the light of the moon.

His last words wrought with deep pain, laced with a terrifying sadness I had never heard before. Then he stopped. I could see his silhouette, his head turned toward something on the ground. He stooped down, and I heard, something that chilled me even more, I heard weeping. But this time, his voice was different, changed. It was the crying of a boy. Frightened beyond my wits, I crouched as low as I could.

I was too afraid to look for fear of not only being seen by him, but of seeing his face. It was not something I wanted to look at, for his moon-tinged figure and the ghostly sound of his voice had already sent my imagination reeling at the possible horror producing those sounds. I had once seen a body dragged out of a river. It had been faced down for many days when it was found. The face looked melted, the eyes eaten away. by fish. The hair long and wispy plastered to the forehead. That image now came to my mind as I fought the temptation to see it suddenly animated its low-hanging mouth coming for me, and then I heard its footsteps, closer than I had remembered them to be. I looked up just in time

to see the top of his head moving towards me. And I ran. I had never run so fast in my life. I didn't even look behind me for fear of seeing him hovering right over my shoulder, reaching a ghastly, decomposing hand towards me. I found myself running out from under the tree canopy and hurtling the logs lit by the moon. And as I raced forward, I suddenly saw the outline of my family's camp. And I stopped. I didn't want to lure that thing towards my family. I was shaking, but I had no choice. And slowly I turned to confront my fate, this entity that did not belong on this soil. And there was nothing there.

I scanned my surroundings, and all was clear. It was all stillness. and silence. My breath was coming in heaves, and then, feeling dizzy, I bent over and vomited onto the grass. I must have collapsed, because that is where mother found me. I was woken at the break of dawn with her kneeling over me, gently slapping my cheeks. She yelled for help and a blanket, while others rushed to start a fire to warm my body. I was shaking from a night in the cold. Where is your father?

Mother asked in a panic. I had no idea what she was talking about. Surely father would have made his way back to camp by now. Even though he liked to drink, that never stopped him from returning to my mother's arms each night. Men were scurrying everywhere, calling out to each other as they searched the riverbank. Several hours later, Father was still missing. We didn't know what to do.

Tehan was crying, worried about Father. Mother put on a brave face for us, but I could tell from the men's faces that they had little confidence in Father's safety. He shouldn't have prayed over the river. I turned to see the man who had been drinking with father last night. Some men nodded their heads. Mother was too distracted to notice. The fairy was coming at any moment, and father was nowhere to be found. Most of our money had been spent arranging this boat to take us safely to a village on the other side of this river,

several miles upstream. If we miss this boat, we were stuck, and the communists would surely find us. Mother was pacing, distraught, knowing that if father did not show up, we would have to leave without him. That is what he would expect of us. I rose to my feet, feeling slightly better, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket. I told Mother I had to find a private place in the woods. She told me to make it quick and to cover it up so no one steps on it. I looked at the line of trees and started walking. After a few minutes, I was back in the place I had run through just hours earlier. But now, there was no horror here, just the tranquility of the forest.

I kept walking, and I soon found myself back in the clearing where, in the clarity of day, I could see the beauty of the place, nestled in a peaceful mountain valley. The tall grass waved slowly like seaweed. I kept walking to where I had seen him stoop, and there it was, in the middle of the field, stones, lots of them. I was standing in the center of a makeshift cemetery. And off to the side, I found the ones I knew would be there. Two unmarked graves.

One of them had fresh yellow lilies laying on it, undisturbed at peace. like a beautiful wilted carcass. My grandfather never found his father. He caught that fairy and left what would eventually become North Korea with his mother and younger brother. He never saw any of his relatives again. 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 week for the next next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.