The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S6E15

Episode Date: January 10, 2016

It's episode 15 of Season 6. On this week's show we have six tales about sadistic slayings and subcutaneous sneaks. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales. "Follicles of Fear" written by Manen Lyset & Andrew Harmon and read by Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts at 00:04:00) "The Prince Edward Viaduct" written by Luke Hartwick and read by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:20:20) "The Defense Attorney" written by Jackson Laughlin and read by Jesse Cornett & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:32:30) "They Move Through the Trains" written by Henry Galley and read by David Ault. (Story starts at 00:53:40) "My Dog Was Lost" written by M. P. Camus and read by Jeff Clement. (Story starts at 01:13:00) "The House Sitters" written by Marcus Damanda and read by Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 01:39:40) Click here to enter the "Hide and Seek" audiobook giveaway!  Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset  Click here to learn more about Jackson Laughlin  Click here to learn more about M. P. Camus  Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda  Click here to learn more about Alexis Bristowe  Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio  Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson  Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett  Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin  Click here to learn more about David Ault  Click here to learn more about Jeff Clement  Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis  Click here to learn more about Jessica McEvoy  Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings. "They Move Through the Trains" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath Audio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories, you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment. You do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about sadistic.

slayings and subcutaneous sneaks. I think we need to face some cold hard facts right now. If you're listening to this podcast, I can safely assume a couple of things about you. You like horror stories and you like hearing horror stories read aloud to you. If this is an accurate description of you, then you're in luck. Because it means you are the ideal person to enter our new audiobook giveaway contest. That's right, we have 20 copies of the latest audio book narrated by our very own Jessica McAvoy. The book is written by Karen Leranaga, and it's entitled Hide and Seek. Even though Christmas is over, there are still plenty of reasons to cuddle under a warm blanket and listen to the chilling Christmas story.

Agatha isn't looking forward to Christmas. While other eight-year-olds are hoping for a pile of presents, she just wants her evil stepsisters to leave her alone. Summer and rain have a cruel idea of what passes for fun, and it always involves tormenting Agatha. When the three of them get stuck inside their house on Christmas Eve, the twins force Agatha to play. a twisted version of hide-and-seek.

But they aren't the only things hiding in the house, and someone is about to get more than they bargained for beneath the tree. So if you want a chance to get one extra Christmas present this year, all you have to do is enter the contest by going to contests.com and answering the trivia question you'll find there. Email us your answer and you'll be entered for a chance to win one of the 20 copies we're giving away. Now, since we've established that you enjoy listening to horror stories, I think the best thing to do now is present some for your enjoyment.

So let's start the show. In our first tale, we meet a woman who shares a tale about her time volunteering at a homeless shelter in Los Angeles. As conveyed to us by author Men and Lyset, the woman recalls one regular to the shelter, a man named Terry. When she noticed Terry had a problem which might require medical attention, she quickly realizes that doctors might not be the experts needed to solve his problem. Performing this tale is Alexis Bristow. So whatever you do, don't start to do.

scratching your head, especially if you have follicles of fear. With an estimated 140,000 people living without shelter, California has the highest homelessness rate in the entire country. In Los Angeles alone, there are approximately 50,000 of these unfortunate souls. When you see such staggering numbers, it's easy to lob them all up as statistics and forget that every single number is a person. with a story. This is the story of one homeless man by the name of Terry. Terry was somewhere in his mid-60s.

He couldn't remember his exact age, where he came from, or how long he'd been homeless. The years were muddled together in his mind. Every day, Terry would sit on a cardboard box on the corner, being ignored by most passers-by, harassed by others, and sometimes if he was lucky enough, given a small donation. He wasn't a drug addict, but he did waste a good portion of his earnings on cheap booze.

There wasn't much for him to do, you see, and alcohol offered a escape from the misery and discomfort plaguing his day-to-day life. Terry's favorite, and only pastime, was reading books abandoned around town. Wherever you found Terry, you were sure to find a backpack full of novels nearby. He'd read everything from police stories to trashy harlequin books. They didn't matter to him, as long as it helped pass the time. At night, Terry would walk around town trying to find a park bench to sleep on. From time to time, when things got tough, he'd try coming into the homeless shelter to recharge his metaphorical batteries.

It was by no means luxurious, but being able to sleep on a springy mattress, if only for one night, made a huge difference. That's where we met. Terry came into the Los Angeles mission about once a week for a meal, where I volunteered for a few years while I got my nursing degree. He was always patient, courteous,

and thankful for anything we could give him. He never complained about his situation to me or any other volunteer. He'd always give us a smile and a blessing when we served him before heading to a table and digging in. He was one of the few who actually picked up after himself

and brought his tray back when he finished. Once in a while, he'd offered a help with the dishes, and we'd chat about nothing and everything. All in all, Terry was a kind soul. I'd been working at the mission for about two years. One night, as I was closing the kitchen, I spotted Terry sitting in the corner with a book in his lap, pawing ferociously at the back of his messy hair.

Through years of neglect, it had become a mop of tangled dreads pointing in every direction, with twigs and sometimes bugs trapped between the strands. His hair dangled from his head all the way to his shoulders, but it was nothing compared to his beard, which was longer and messier. Dirt and dried food clutched to the coarse, curly mask of facial hair. Curious, I walked over to him. As I approached, I could hear him mumbling beneath his breath. Something about needles and things crawling, but it was hard to decipher.

I could smell alcohol on his breath, so I figured he was talking about the book he was reading. As he continued to scratch at his head, I knelt down and asked what was wrong. Oh, nothing. It's fine. My head just itches something silly. This was the first time I'd ever heard him complain. Come on back, we'll check it out. He shook his head.

Oh, no, no, no, no. I don't want to be a barter. As he lowered his hands, I noticed his fingernails were caked with blood. Looks like you hurt yourself, Terry. Come on, don't make me beg. Terry sighed heavily and pushed himself up. I could hear his old bones cracking as he straightened himself. We walked to a small bathroom in the back.

It was intended for our employees only, but we made an exception from time to time. Terry sat on a stool, and I started to pull his hair back to take a look. But when I did, a large clump came out. Cringing, I tossed the twisted, dry, straw-like hair in the bin and dug in again, fully expecting to find ticks or headlies dancing on his scalp. To my surprise, I found neither. What I found was a lumpy, porous, ping-pong ball-sized nodule protruding from the back of his head.

Near the center of the lump were two tiny dots that oozed pus when I applied pressure. This seemed to make Terry very uncomfortable, so I didn't play with it too much. The skin on and around the nodule was irritated and bloodied from Terry's scratching. Looks like an infected bug bite. I'll give you some neurosporone, all right? We'll see if that clears this up. Terry nodded quietly. No more scratching it, okay?

I applied the cool gel against his skin. No scratching. Good. I would have applied a Band-Aid over the area, but I was dead. Doubtful would stay on. There was too much dirt, grime, and hair in the way. As my hands pulled back, a few tufts of hair remained stuck to them. Thanks, ma'am. God bless.

Terry rose to his feet and slowly made his way out of the bathroom. We didn't see each other for a few days. Next time Terry came around, he was looking a little worse for wear. Large bags had formed under his eyes, and he didn't quote. quiet have as much pepinist step as he normally did. He didn't smile when I served him his meal, nor did he thank me as he walked off with his plate of food. Terry sat down, opened a worn paperback, and stared at it.

His eyes didn't track up and down the page, instead they were locked on a single spot, as though he wasn't reading it at all. The change in behavior had me a little concern. As soon as I had a break, I joined him at the table. He'd been sitting there for half, half an hour and hadn't taken a single bite of the lasagna he usually wolfed down feverishly. Everything all right?

He groaned and rubbed the back of his head. I could see several bald spots in his unkempt mane. Even his beard looked a little patchier than normal. My head? I remembered the bug bite and frowned. Maybe it had gotten worse. Let's get you checked out, buddy. He didn't fight me this time.

merely stood up and moved towards the bathroom. Again, I sat him on the stool and knelt behind him. Touching his hair was horrible. Not because it hadn't been properly cleaned or combed in ages, but because it seemed like every strand I touched came falling off. After one larger clump cascaded to the ground, I spotted a long, black creature wriggling about on the floor. I yelled and immediately brought my heel down,

on it, squashing it with a violent gush. Terria was startled by my outburst. I'm sorry, bud. You had a worm caught in your hair. Scared the bejesus out of me. Just a symptom of sleeping on the streets, I figured. When I finally exposed the nodule, I noticed it had grown by half an inch. The skin on and around it was very irritated and flaked off at the slightest contact. As I examined the swollen node, I noticed four odd strands of hair coming out of it.

Had they been there before? Though Terry's hair had gone gray a long time ago, these were pitch black. They seemed a lot thicker than normal hair, too. It must have been my imagination, but I swear that when I reached over to touch one, it recoiled. Terry, it looks like it's gotten worse. We should take you to the ER just in case. Terry shook his head quickly. No, no.

I frowned. They'll take good care of you. No more doctors. No, no. He jumped to his feet. I sat him back down with a sigh. All right, buddy. No doctors.

There wasn't much I could do to help poor Terry. aside from applying him more antiseptic cream. This time I wrapped his head with gauze to make sure it wouldn't rub off. Come back tomorrow, okay? I want to keep an eye on this. He didn't respond. Just got up and went back to his meal, leaving me to clean up the mess in the bathroom.

His hair was all over the place, and it took me at least ten minutes to sweep it clean. I didn't want the other volunteers. to get grossed out. The next day, I waited for Terry to return. Every time the door opened, I looked up hoping I'd see him, but each time, a different face emerged. By the time my shift was over, I was worried.

It was raining hard that night, and I figured Terry had sought refuge in a bus shelter near his favorite panhandling spot. Borrowing a few supplies from the first aid kit, I took off in my car looking for him. I saw so many Terry's that night. some young some old some drunk some high some wet some cold but all of them homeless just when i was about to give up i found my terry huddled in a corner under a blanket of newspaper i ran out of my car as fast as my feet could take me fearing for a moment that he was dead thankfully though he emitted a groan when i shook him and sat up and looked at me Terry, buddy, you were supposed to stop by tonight.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at me with a vacant expression on his face. It was as though he didn't recognize me. I carefully pulled him to his feet and helped him to my car, sitting him on the back seat where I could have a bit more lighting. Terry looked positively awful. His face sunken in like someone who'd gone through a year's worth of chemo treatments. I couldn't even fathom how to. he wound up in such a state.

I'm going to take off the bandage and check that bug bite, okay? No reply. I forced to smile and slowly unwrapped the gauze. His hair. Good God, his hair. It was so brittle and peeled away like leaves in the autumn wind. Then off came the last layer of gauze, and I felt my stomach sink to my knees.

Those black hairs I'd seen the night before had grown thicker. They stuck out of his skin and wriggled about as though they had a mind of their own. It wasn't fair to call them hairs anymore. No, these were something completely different. Tendrils, moving, twitching, slithering tendrils that shot towards my hand the second they were exposed. screaming, I pulled back and fell on my butt as the tendrils began to slide up and down Terry's scalp, tugging out every last clump of hair they could grab. I sat on the wet pavement in shock, watching the deforestation of Terry's scalp in utter disbelief. The discarded patches of hair began to slide toward me like caterpillars.

I could just barely make out a few of those black tendrils at the center of the mass, as though they were wearing Terry's mane. as a fur coat. My feet instinctively kicked them back whenever they got near. But there were so many of them that some managed to crawl on my legs. Terry began to groan and shake violently, lifting his arms to his head.

He scratched at the lump, peeling away the skin until suddenly I heard a tearing sound. The skin over the nodule peeled away like the rind of an orange. And inside the wound, I saw something stare back at me. Coded in a viscous fluid that seemed like a mix of gel and blood was an eye.

That's when I bounced to my feet and ran, screaming for help, begging anyone I came across to call 911, as I peeled the wriggling hair-coated worms off of me. I didn't know what to do or how to explain what I had seen. Terry was gone by the time I calmed down enough to think straight and call for an ambulance. The only thing left in my back seat were a few brittle strands of hair, blood, and a bag full of books and empty beer bottles. Terry's body was found by the river the next day. His head hollowed out in a large fracture at the back of his skull. Approximately, 49,999 homeless people live in Los Angeles.

That's a staggering number, isn't it? It's easy to think of them as just a statistic. But don't forget that every single one of those people have a story. This was Terry's. It takes a horrible series of events to drive a person to the edge of Toronto's bluer viaduct, a tall bridge spanning the Don River Valley. Sadly, a place where many face that fog. final desperate leap.

But as we learn from author Luke Hartwick, when a passerby tries to intervene and help a person on the edge, he quickly realizes that the man on the ledge isn't the only person whose life is falling apart. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado and Erica Sanderson. So if you're ever in Toronto, take care crossing that bridge. It's the one formerly known as the Prince Edward Viaduct. This actually happened years ago before they put up the suicide barriers.

But I can still remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Every single word I said to him and he said to me is branded in my mind as a constant, sharp reminder. Be careful who you let in. Funny thing is, I thought I was being a good guy. I'm not even the kind of person to go out of my way to help others. But when I found Mason standing on the parapet of the Prince Edward Viaduct, I felt compelled to say something.

His face was starch white, as cold-looking as the Toronto weather. I remember his lips shaking as he held onto the concrete behind him. I've never even known someone who had committed suicide before, but I could tell he wanted to. I could see it in the mesmerized way he looked down the hundreds of feet that would swallow him whole. So I stepped out, and I spoke as softly as I could. What's your name, friend? He was still staring down into the empty space below as he whispered his answer.

I spoke as gently as I could. I don't know you, Mason. I'm not even from Canada. I can tell that maybe you're having a rough time. That got me a look, but only fleeting enough for me to realize that he was sneering at me. He looked like he was in his mid-20s, not poorly dressed, but not too expensively either. He wasn't homeless, or at least it didn't seem like it. What the fuck do you want? I've got a lot on my mind, man.

I ignored his frustration. Edward. My name's Edward, and I can see that you have a lot on your mind. Maybe you want to tell me a little of what that might be? I've only been married for a year, and my wife is cheating on me. Every day I go to work, and I come home, and I can smell him on my bed. I can smell his cum in the air and the sweat, and she doesn't even care enough to take a shower afterwards.

I was at a loss for words. It felt so sudden and harsh, yet so familiar for some reason. I was that story so familiar. Did you ask her? Did you ask her? Did I ask who? Your wife. The wind suddenly picked up, bringing with it a few snowflakes, the first of the year.

As it whipped around us, Mason lost his balance a little. and I instinctively reached out to grab hold of his jacket. Even there, inches from the edge and slipping, he still didn't seem scared. What do you mean by that? He ignored my question. I'm also taking a pay decrease. The manufacturing plant I'm working at

is threatening to close up and outsource to Mexico if the union doesn't agree to take a 20% pay decrease. I'm pretty much the only. guy there who's saying that we should take the decrease rather than lose our jobs. There it was. Another familiarity. Only this time I knew exactly why it was so familiar. Everything he was saying, all of his troubles, were my troubles. Who the fuck are you, really? I was trying to restrain myself. Are you stalking me? You came here and talked to me, Edward. Why are you?

you getting so upset? Everything you're talking about has happened to me. That's my life you're complaining about. His eyes were cold, and if he was getting any amusement from this, he betrayed none of it. That's strange. Coincidence, I guess. It is funny, though. What's funny? That I'm standing here, looking down into the end of my future, and you're the... There, acting like everything is okay. It, the words caught dry in my throat like a wadded up napkin. It's going to be okay. I don't know for sure.

You know goddamn well that the smell on your wife is from another man. You can tell every fucking time you press yourself against her unwilling lips that they have already been satisfied by someone else's. This isn't funny. No, it's not. This is your life. Our life. I just stood there, not knowing what else to say. Was this some elaborate game he was playing with me?

I am from Florida, here visiting some distant relatives, and suddenly I run into a man who claims to have the same problems as me? Was that even possible? Look at the color of my hair, Edward. It's brown. As brown as mud, just like the color of my wife's hair. But do you know what color my youngest son's hair is? Fucking blonde.

There could be all kinds of reasons. Wake the fuck up, Edward. He reached over the concrete divider and knocked on my head with his knuckles. Suddenly he was more enraged with me than the end of his life lying beneath his feet. Wake up to what's going on around you. You're not known. 12 years old anymore, you coward. You cannot

just bury your head and your fantasies and pretend like your parents aren't fighting anymore. My parents? What do they have to do with this? It's how you've always dealt with your problems ever since you were little. Now when I think back to it, I should have realized that the conversation shifted completely to focus on me. But at the time, I was too shocked by the reality of everything

he was shoving in my face. It was so sudden. Where are your wife and kids right now anyways? Caroline had to stay behind to take care of... Caroline, blah, blah, blah. Came up with a good excuse to go play with her fuckboys some more. If we don't take the pay decrease, we'll all lose our jobs.

It was all closing in on me like a wall of ice. All of it was right there, restricting my throat, filling my head with an insufferable white noise. And over at all, I no longer saw Mason as a stranger. It was like I was looking into a mirror. They'll move it all to Mexico. What do the other guys call you, Edward? They say I'm...

Spit it out! He shouted inches from my face. I hadn't even noticed at the time, but he somehow wound up on the other side of the divider right next to me. How did I not even notice? Spit it out, you coward! That's what they call me. They say I'm a coward.

Suddenly I could hear all the guys from the union around me, berating me and telling me to leave the men to the negotiations. All the while, my boss, Keith, would look at me with this silent pity, like he was trying to apologize and ridicule me at the same time. Mason opened his mouth to speak to me, but the voice that carried his words belonged to someone else. It was Keith's voice that he spoke with. Just kill yourself and leave your wife to me.

No one wants you with a plant anyways. Something broke inside of me. Something came loose and I felt the icy wind on my face blowing up over the parapet. I looked down and I saw a light at the end. of a very long dark tunnel. I saw a warmth that I never realized had escaped me so long ago.

I felt the snow melting on my skin. I felt myself tipping. But before I could fall, I felt a hand reach out and grab me by the collar. I twisted to find her looking at me

with these big, emotional eyes. She looked like she was going to cry. You don't walk on the princess with Viadak. You don't ever walk here. I turned suddenly to see where Mason was, but he was gone. There was another man here. She pointed at the ground where the snow was falling. The only footsteps here are mine and yours. I looked down. She was right. All of the hairs stood up on my arms as I stepped back over the concrete divider onto the walkway. I glanced back to the sheer dropped that would have carried me to my death. I cried. I cried harder than I ever have in my life.

I cried because I could no longer pretend like all those things I've been avoiding weren't true. The woman took my arm and walked me back to the street where she hailed me a cab. I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone, not my relatives nor my wife. When I got off the plane, Caroline was waiting there with our kids, one with brown hair, the other with blonde. And when she came in for a hug, she smelled normal. But sometimes I come home and she smells like another man. Sometimes I still hear Keith looking at me in that pitying kind of way. And I remember Mason. I can see him shaking his head at me like I was a disappointment. I can hear him whispering to me. You didn't even have the balls to win.

One of the keystones of the U.S. judicial system are the public defenders who, sometimes unwillingly, take the cases of those who cannot afford to pay for a legal defense. In this tale by author Jackson Loughlin, we meet one such lawyer who defends a man charged with a heinous series of crimes, and who seems entirely innocent of the charges. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett and Nicole Doolin. So there's no need to raise an objection unless you happen to be the defense attorney. The irony is that Jack Aramon is probably sitting in a comfy prison cell right now. While the mob of people who are mad in him are at my door with their shotguns and baseball bats,

fucking Jack is probably laughing to himself. Thinking, well, things probably turned out the best way they could have. I got off pretty easy. Lucky me. Lucky me. Lucky me. The people outside are irate. I can hear them yelling from here.

Come out here, you coward. We know what you did. You asshole, you shit. Murderer. There's a prison cell with your name on it. They can yell all they were. I'm no murderer. A coward maybe, but not a murderer. The only murderer I know of is Jack Aramon, and he's already been convicted. You probably heard a thing or two about his case on the news.

Local man arrested and charged with murder of eight women. Has the Gilliman County Crusher finally been caught? Suspect found in serial murder case. I didn't choose to defend Jack. I'm an assistant public defender, or I was, anyway. I could easily see this case ruining my career. All of our cases are assigned to us by a judge. We don't get to pick and choose. When I first met Jack, it was 23 hours after his initial arrest. The cops had received an anonymous tip with a license plate number allegedly seen at the scene of the eighth murder. Those license plates led them to Jack's white Nissan Altima, and the Altima led them to Jack. Jack denied committing the murders.

He said that the anonymous tip must have come from someone who had a beef with him, someone who wanted him to suffer. Something you have to understand. Jack doesn't look like a murderer. He's a young, chunky white guy. He has one of those haircuts that's all the... rage these days, buzzed on the sides, long on top. He's got these stupid round glasses that make him look like Harry Potter crossed with Chris Farley. When he talks, he's eloquent, but extremely quiet. He smells like hand sanitizer and cheap cologne. He rings his hands a lot, and he's real

pale, like a sheet of paper. The first thing Jack told me was that he's, he's a little pale. He's a sheet of paper. The first thing Jack told me was that he had known two of victims. They went to his community college and he had gone on a date with one of them. Coincidentally, that girl was the first victim of the Gilliman County Crusher. The district attorney alleged during the trial that Jack killed his first girl because she rejected his sexual advances. The murder of that first girl, Abby Genders, was an important point for the prosecution. When Mr. Aramon killed Abbey Ginders, he got a taste for blood. He learned that his greatest release wasn't sexual in nature, but something more primal

than that. When Jack Aramon crushed Ms. Ginder's skull, he learned that he was a killer. That's what the DA, Gina Delano, said during her closing statement. At that point, I knew I had already lost the trouble. trial, but it sticks in my mind anyway. That's how we lawyers are. We remember the little details, the small inconsistencies. The other girl Jack knew was just a girl from his calculus class. He said he couldn't remember her name. The second thing Jack told me was that he was a virgin. He couldn't have committed the murders because he had never had sex in his life. The district

attorney had charged Jack Aramon with eight counts of first-degree murder and six counts of sexual assault. Autopsies determined that the first six victims had been raped prior to their murder, but the seventh and eighth had not. The DA would explain this inconsistency by saying Jack had stopped caring for the sexual thrills of his murders and had begun to savor only the taking of life itself. Jack's purported virginity was one of the reasons I believed he was innocent. I figured he wouldn't tell me something so personal if it wasn't true. Despite that, I didn't think we would win the case. The first thing I told Jack was that the cards were stacked against him.

There were witnesses that saw a car like his outside the homes of several of the victims. Skin cells from the six victim, the one in his calculus class. We're found on a notebook in his home. The media had already written Jack off as the Gillman County Crusher. So it would be incredibly hard to find a jury member that wasn't already biased. I'm not guilty, Mr. Wallace. I didn't kill those girls. Jack, the DA has a strong case against you.

Now, if you take a plea, it's likely you'll only get 20 to 30 years in prison. 20 to 30 years? Mr. Wallace, I didn't do anything. I'm not a murderer. Tears were dripping down Jack's face. Look, I can't tell you not to take this case to trial. But that can mean life in prison. Is that a risk you're willing to take, Jack?

Yes, please. So we took the case to trial. People in Gellman began treating me differently the closer we got to the trial. The whole community of Gilliman County had already written Jackoff as a murderer, and that made me the lawyer of a murderer. I wish I could be mad at the people of Gilman. I wish I could say I didn't understand why they would hate me so much. But I don't blame them for how they felt. They were scared.

Everyone was scared. The Gilliman County Crusher was the worst monster any of them had ever heard. heard of. The murders would make your skin crawl. Trust me, I've seen the bruises and broken bones on these girls. All of them young, all of them pretty, all of them smart, classy women with their whole future ahead of them. And he had defiled them, violated them and then taken their life without a second thought. He always ended their lives the same way. After he'd finished raping and abusing them, he would crush their skull with the business end of his sledgehammer, often leaving nothing but a few broken skull fragments and chunks of brain.

Sorry if that's too graphic for you. You work on a case for long enough, and you get desensitized to the details. The gore and pain don't get me anymore. The only thing that still gets me is the fear. I can't imagine how those girls felt. All of them had been safely asleep in their beds when he broke into their homes. The pure terror they must have felt when they saw him standing over their bed, sledgehammer in hand. They must have screamed.

Although I'm sure he put a stop to that. Quite. All of the girls had dirty blonde hair. The local news talked about that a lot. That was the killer's. type. Jack was fairly well known within the community before the trial. He was a hometown kid. He had been a high school debate champion. The first news story about him had actually been years earlier when he won the state title, the first person from Gilliman County High School to do so.

One of the character witnesses we called during the trial was his old debate coach, who would say that Jack wasn't violent and would never commit such heinous. crimes. The one thing that was consistent about the people in Gilliman County was that nobody thought Jack seemed like the violent hype. They thought he was a murderer, sure, but they were conflicted about it. No one quite knew what to think. I wasn't the only one Jack Duke. The trial started six months after Jack's initial arrest. It was raining. I had been preparing day and night for this trial. Reporters had been allowed into the courtroom, and it was packed so tight that people were practically standing on top of each other.

Between the humidity from the rain and all the heat coming off the people in the room, I was drenched in sweat. But Jack wasn't sweating. The entire trial, he looked calm, rational, and put together. I heard once that Ted Bundy was livid throughout his entire trial, yelling and swearing under his breath. Jack wasn't like that. He was quiet. He was cold. The state's case in chief was weaker than we had anticipated.

They had assumed this case was a slam dunk, but when it came time to testify, many of their witnesses didn't know what to say. They spit out inconsistent facts, irrelevant test. testimony and contradictory ramblings. You could tell the jury was confused. The DA's side of the case took five days, and by the end of it, the jury was clearly unconvinced. Not only that, you could feel something was wrong in the room. The jury was mad.

The jury didn't think they should be here, like someone had made a mistake, like the cops had booked the wrong guy. On the sixth day, I said to Jack, have a chance. You might win this thing. We'll see, Mr. Wallace. We'll see. I called five witnesses to the stand to defend Jack's character. His parents, a school teacher, his debate coach, and a friend of Jack's whom he had known since middle school. We never planned on Jack testifying.

The defendant doesn't have to in a criminal. trial. And it's even possible it may hurt their case. By the time Jack's friend had finished testifying, I felt like the trial was already over. The state hadn't presented sufficient evidence to convict Jack, and all our witnesses agreed. Jack didn't seem like the murdering type. My fifth witness stepped down. I began to say the words that would have ended the trial. With that, Your Honor, the defense rests its case in chief and is ready to move forward with closing stag... Wait! Jack was standing.

His sudden outburst had pulled the courtroom into complete silence. I'd like to testify first. I was taken aback. We had never planned on Jack testifying. People began to mutter in the crowd. The jury looked back and forth at one another. I asked the judge for a minute to confer with Jack. You could hear the crowd that was gathered in the courtroom whispering too.

They wondered what was going on. Trust me, when I say they weren't the only ones. Jack didn't lower his voice. He was talking quite loudly. Mr. Wallace, I want to test. testify. There's something else the jury needs to hear. Mr. Wallace, is your client testifying or not? The judge was impatient. We were sitting at the tail end of a two-week-long trial. I looked at Jack. He didn't look like the chubby kid I had met so many times in the state prison. His face was red, and his eyes carried a dangerous look that said.

Don't get this answer wrong, old man. The defense calls Jack Ehrman to the stand. Jack looked confident when he walked up to the stand. Later, a reporter would write that Jack walked with the conviction of a preacher about to deliver his gospel to awaiting congregation. I don't think I agree with that. I think he looked like an artist, waiting to unveil his latest controversial masterpiece to a group of fascinated onlookers. Could you please introduce yourself, spelling your last name for the court?

Jack Aramon. A-R-A-M-O-N. Mr. Aramon, why are you here today? because I raped eight women then I smashed their faces in there were gasps throughout the courtroom I have to admit one of them came from me you might have misspoken did you mean to say you didn't

no I raped and killed all eight of those women and my attorney Mr. Wallace helped me do it he's a murderer too the courtroom broke into chaos people began yelling the sound of the judge's gavel banging against his desk were quickly eclipsed by curses

and I knew it's flying from all sides of the courtroom people began pushing rushing towards the witness stand where Jack sat a group of police officers held them back in all the madness Jack and I locked eyes without saying a word. He was smiling. He had a real toothy grin on his face.

A smile which said jokes on you. For the first time, Jack looked like a murderer. After the chaos settled down, all of the spectators were removed from the courtroom, save for one reporter who videotaped Jack's. testimony. I quickly ended my examination of Jack, but the district attorney allowed him to continue on cross-examination. Mr. Aramon, you stated on direct examination that you killed all eight women. Could you elaborate? Sure. I didn't want to do it, but Mr. Wallace said I had to. He said that the

trial would make his career. He said he would kill me if I didn't do it. How did you kill these women, Mr. Airman? I hit him with a sledgehammer. It was Mr. Wallace's idea. Objection. The judge sustained my objection, but it was too late. The jury and, more importantly, the reporter with the camera, had already heard everything they need to. to hear. Jack was convicted of all the crimes he was charged with. He was sentenced to life in prison. When the judge delivered his sentence,

Jack clapped wildly and screamed for all to hear. Oh, Your Honor! Jack was a psychopath on the law. I got so caught up in the details of his case. I missed the monster looking out. from behind those goofy glasses. I never stopped to consider whether or not he was actually guilty. One thinks I'm a murderer.

I'm not sure if the DA will press charges against me. I didn't have anything to do with any of these murders, but it doesn't matter. I let Jack convince me he was innocent, and he used my naivety to ruin my life. The people outside my house are furious. They have guns on their hips and their trigger fingers are twitchy. They'd shoot me dead if they got the chance. There's nothing I can say to convince them. I'm not a murderer.

There's nothing I can do to salvage my reputation. Someone once told me that attorneys are extremely prone to alcoholism and suicide. I have to say that both those things sound pretty good right about now. The Gilliman County Crusher claimed another victim tonight and was a man in his 30s. He wasn't the usual type of victim the Crusher preferred. He wasn't female, wasn't young and didn't have dirty blonde hair. But he had one thing in common with all. the previous victims.

He had a future ahead of them. And Jack crushed it, and I might as well be. We thank you for being with us for our devilishly dark tales. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week, when the darkness pulls you away from sleep.

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