The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S6E16

Episode Date: January 17, 2016

It's episode 16 of Season 6. On this week's show we have five tales about terminal terminations and sinister searches. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales. "Is There Life After Death?" written by Michael Whitehouse and read by David Ault & James Cleveland. (Story starts at 00:04:20) "Close the Door and Have a Seat" written by M.J. Pack and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:22:00) "The Kids in Cold Creek" written by R. F. Krupa and read by Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:42:30) "Please Avoid Open Water" written by R. Brauer and read by Jesse Cornett. (Story starts at 01:13:50) "The Proselyte" written by Keith McDuffee and read by Mike DelGaudio & Jeff Clement & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:30:50) Click here for the Chilling Tales Podcast  Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse  Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack  Click here to learn more about R. Brauer  Click here to learn more about Keith McDuffee  Click here to learn more about David Ault  Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis  Click here to learn more about Jessica McEvoy  Click here to learn more about Nichole Goodnight  Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson  Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett  Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio  Click here to learn more about Jeff Clement  Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings. "Please Avoid Open Water" 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 five tales about Terminal Termination.

and sinister searches. I am very proud to welcome a new horror fiction podcast into the world. Our friends over at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights have branched out into the realm of podcasting by launching the Chilling Tales podcast on the Podcast One Network. On behalf of the No Sleep podcast, we send our congratulations to creator Craig Groshek and his team for the very successful launch. on January 12th.

When you're finished listening to this episode, you really do need to head over to chilling talespodcast.com to listen to their first episode. Their shows will usually run around an hour, maybe a little longer, and will always be free of charge. On the site, you'll find out more about the team behind the show. Of course, you'll recognize the two gentlemen

who are executive producers at Chilling Tales, Jeff Clement and Jesse Cornett. When they're not working hard at Chilling Tales, Jeff and Jesse lend their talents to our show, including this episode. You'll hear both of them on this and many other episodes for us. Hosting the Chilling Tales podcast is Steve Taylor, the man with the big voice.

Steve is a longtime veteran of radio, and he's a great person to anchor the show. The first episode features a great source, story and interview with our friend and regular contributing author William Delphin. What you'll like about the Chilling Tales podcast is not just the excellent storytelling productions they do and which you've come to know and love about them, but they also offer interviews with authors and others who are part of the horror fiction world. They have a fan feedback section and regular writing contests, including one they've announced on their first episode. It's an entirely

interactive approach to their show. Make sure you subscribe to the show on iTunes and in your favorite podcasting app. Follow them and like them on all the various social media outlets and leave them a positive review on iTunes. That kind of interaction is really important during the early stages of any podcast, so please share and support what they do. So, hazaar to the Chilling Tales podcast. Raise a glass, congratulations all around, and best wishes to many more chilling tales to come.

And speaking of tales which will chill your shivering spine, we have some ready to go. So let's start the show. In our first tale, we meet two friends in a bit of a quandary. As author Michael Whitehouse will explain, one of the friends is greatly interested in the paranormal and requires his friend's help when an investigation goes awry. The two of them quickly realize that paranormal research is something they actually want nothing to do with. Performing this tale are David Alt and James Cleveland. So let's get philosophical and ponder the question these two men asked that night.

Is there life after death? I've told this story many times, and without exception, it has provoked the same reaction. Disbelief. No matter how difficult it is for people to process, and no matter how many conventional explanations have been offered, this did happen. And it's an experience I will never forget. It started with a friend of mine, Stuart, who had always been interested in the supernatural. I, on the other hand, had no more interest in it than the next person. Of course, I'm curious about whether there is life after death, and for selfish reasons,

but I prefer to leave these things to themselves, as I find the entire subject morbid. I'm sure I'll learn the truth in the end, but until that day, I'd rather not ask the question for fear of the answer, either way. Stuart was captivated by the paranormal. He lived and breathed it, but our friendship had developed through another one of his passions, film. And although he often asked me to go on one of his investigations,

I always replied that I preferred such things to remain on the cinema screen and to stay there. We'd go for a few beers regularly at Farland's Bar on the main street or catch a film at the local cinema with some mutual friends. Then, suddenly, I didn't see or hear from him for a couple of weeks, which was peculiar, but I assumed he was simply busy and so I left it at that. It was 3.4 a.m. when he called. I was angry at first that he'd woken me, but when I heard the sound of his voice, anger quickly

bled into concern. Stuart was always such an upbeat guy, but that night his voice sounded distant, and there was a new uncertainty I had never sensed. before, which quivered underneath each word unsettling me. His breath became increasingly laboured and agitated as he spoke. Stuart, if you're in trouble, call the police. And with that, he hung up. Ten minutes later, I was in my car and driving to the edge of Wyndham Town. It was an autumn night, and as I passed landmarks which were usually familiar to me during the day, each twisted tree branch and leaf-covered garden took on a more threatening nature than I was.

was used to, the night revealing an unapparent side to the town I loved. It seemed strange to me that Stuart would be in the botanical gardens at night. He quite regularly went away on nocturnal investigations of abandoned hospitals and other supposedly haunted locations, but that place didn't seem like an obvious choice for such things. In the past, the gardens housed beautiful exotic trees, plants and wildlife under a massive greenhouse, which must have been over 200 feet in length, but it had been shut down for a few decades. I guess the townsfolk didn't frequent it often enough to keep it to float. Even when I was a kid, the place was just fodder for a rock or two,

shattering many of its countless panes of glass, each held in place by a rusted frame, although, admittedly, my throw fell short more often than not. I know my dad talked about going there when he was a kid, amazed by the place, a self-contained tropical landscape even during Wyndham's bleakest winters. I pulled up in front of a large metal fence. It had been erected years previously, encircling what was left of the botanical gardens and its grounds, no doubt to dissuade new generations of rock-throats. On its gate hung a mud-smeared sign displaying the words,

no trespassing in no uncertain terms. Stuart obviously had to be a mud-smeared sign displaying. Stuart obviously hadn't bothered with the warning, no doubt more interested in catching a glimpse of something otherworldly inside. I left the engine running as it was a little cold out, but just as I unlocked my phone, I received a text message. Kill your lights. And so I did. Then another message quickly followed. Don't call me whatever you do. I began to develop the distinct.

impression that Stuart and I were not the only ones present out there in the night. A nervousness crept into my breath and as I sat there looking into the darkness of the gardens, harshly obscured by a web of fencing, I felt as though something was staring back. For a moment, I was unsure how to proceed, but was then startled by another text message and frightened by the thought that Stuart was in there somewhere and about to be grabbed by a burly security guard, a local gang or worse, I adhered to his instructions. Follow my light and get me the hell out of here. And there it was.

Stuart's flashlight flickering for a brief moment before being engulfed by the darkness once more. I opened the car door, the night uncomfortably cold as it washed over me. Just 30 minutes earlier, I had been cozy, sleeping in my bed, and now this, climbing over a fence and walking into God knows what. The fence rattled as I pulled myself up, and as I reached the top, I looked across the pitch night and seriously reconsidered going any further. Then Stuart's flashlight flashed again,

and I knew I couldn't leave him, possibly injured or trapped, with the chill October air threatening worse. I jumped down from the fence as quietly as I could, my feet muffled by the whispering grass below. The ground was wet, and the unattended grass and bushes which surrounded the main building made progress difficult. The light flashed again, three times, in fact, before Stuart turned it off once more. I was sure now that he was growing more agitated, and so I continued in the direction of the once-glass building to reach my friend as quickly as possible.

But my footsteps were uncertain, and my eyes struggled to pierce the dark. I took out my phone and used the LED light on its back to see where I was going. As I walked towards the large, shadowed outline of the garden building, I grew increasingly apprehensive. There were only three possible reasons why Stuart turned on his flashlight intermittently. One was that it had broken somehow, perhaps he could only get it to flicker into life every few minutes. Another explanation would be that the battery was low. Perhaps he was lost and switched it off to conserve what he was. little juice it had left. The last explanation was a less appealing one. I switched off my light at the

thought of it. Perhaps he didn't want to draw too much attention to his location. Maybe he was frightened that someone else would find him first. The darkness stood before me, a wall of black which blanketed all. It was hopeless. I was going to have to switch the light on to see where I was going. I remembered when I was 14 and had nearly fallen down an old drainage shaft when I was camping at night with friends. I always shuddered thinking about that, about how bad that fall could have been. I needed to see where I was going. If a security guard came and found me, then that was a better outcome than falling into the darkness somewhere unseen. And yet, the thought of a night guard seemed far-fetched.

The old building had been derelict for years, and it seemed unlikely that the town would waste money on wages for someone to patrol the area at night. Finally, I reached the building, its base made of red brick which had held up surprisingly well for all its years of neglect. The same could not be said of the frame. Large metal struts reached up to the sky, forming a huge domed roof. I could see pieces of the frame lying on the floor, and in the dim light from my phone I thought I saw strands of it hanging from the roof, just waiting to break off and impale any unwelcome trespasses. I cringed at the thought of my friend lying somewhere inside, perhaps impaled or trapped by falling metal and masonry. Stuart's light flickered again and then disappeared. It was indeed coming from inside, and as I ducked, unlawed. and then through one of the countless empty metal frames,

I realized that he was somewhere in the middle of the building. Despite having no solid walls, there was an echo of sorts to the place, subtle, my footsteps ricocheting gently off the concrete floor, and then filtering out into the bleakness of the night. That was when I first noticed it. The cold. Sure, it was always cold in October, but as I slowly, slowly proceeded, shards of broken glass cracking occasionally under my weight. A chill in the air grew more pronounced.

It bit at my exposed face, and I was convinced that if I looked in a mirror, my nose would have been bright red. There, Stuart's light. It was closer now. And for the first time I saw the light reflect upwards for a moment and illuminate Stuart's outwine. As I drew nearer, the night closed in and the cold was now becoming almost unbearable. My hands ached from the bones outward, and the air froze my insides with each breath. I was now only a few metres away from the centre of that old glassless dome and my friend. The light flickered again, but it seemed obscured somehow, as if Stuart had turned his back on me. the light from his flashlight bathing him in illumination for only the briefest of seconds. Stuart, it's Mike.

Then a new noise joined us. Just as I opened my mouth to whisper across to Stuart and ask him if he was heard, the sound of broken glass breaking underweight echoed from behind. It came from somewhere behind us and was sickle at first, but there was no doubt. I could hear movement. Yes, footsteps, more pronounced. They were moving towards us.

Then they stopped. All I could hear was my heart thumping, the adrenaline of apprehension coursing through my veins. Quickly, I switched off the light from my phone, hoping to obscure our location. Someone else is here. Then the footsteps moved again, this time circling, prowling, prowling under cover of night.

I knew then why Stuart had called me. Someone was taunting him. They had been in that broken glass dome all along, terrifying my friend and me in the process. No doubt he had been terrified. But now there were two of us, and whoever was circling, they were surely but one. I decided we would act,

pick a direction and stick to it. I moved close to my friend and whispered. That word still haunts me. The light from Stuart's flashlight came on once more. But you see, it wasn't a flashlight. And whoever I was standing right in front of was not my friend Stuart. The strange light emanated from inside the throat of what I can only describe as the figure of a woman. The light bled out through translucent skin,

which seemed to take on the appearance. of night, and the light forced its way up and out of her gaping mouth. At that moment, Stuart appeared from the darkness, grabbed my arm, and before I knew it, we were running. Our feet scrambled over broken glass, pummeling it further into smaller shards. I looked over my shoulder and the horrid figure, light source and all was chasing us. The light from her throat and mouth seemed to pulse with intermittent fury, and as we reached the metal frame of the building, she screamed words of hate and anguish, and rasping anger filled with nothing but contempt for the living. Before I knew it, we had escaped the gardens, that screeching

creature seemingly constrained to the boundaries of that derelict building. We reached the fence, then the car, and then home, where I fixed both Stuart and myself a large whiskey as we tried to calm our nerves. As it turned out, Stuart had been on one of his invoices. Heardt had been on one of his invoicing, investigations, as I'd thought. He'd heard stories of strange lights coming from the old botanical gardens building at night, and thought he would check it out. He got more than he bargained for, that's for sure. And first the old building seemed empty, but as the night drew in, he felt as as though he was being watched. Suddenly the batteries from his flashlight drained. The spare batteries he always carried with him were equally unresponsive, and so he was left in darkness alone.

It was then that he heard the footsteps, and a woman's voice who simply kept saying, I know you're here, I know you're watching me. To Stuart, it sounded like she was pacing up and down, occasionally standing over him as he hid on the floor. God knows what would have happened if she'd found him. I'm sure you've realized by now, that Stuart claims he never called me on his phone or sent any text messages. Indeed, he dropped it in the darkness and still hasn't found it to this day. We talk about that night occasionally, and Stuart hasn't been on an investigation since. He lost the stomach for it, and who can blame him?

My unease with the memory of that night, however, doesn't revolve around the fear of meeting some spectral creature in the night. I intend to stay as far away from any... haunted place as much as I can. It's more a fear which grabs me occasionally when I really think about what that night meant. If that horrid apparition is in any way what happens to us all when we die, that we are filled with such hatred for the living, I prefer to believe that there is no life after death. For what we encountered that night was a twisted reflection of all that is good in each of us. And if no good can remain, I would rather not exist at all.

In the midst of these unstable economic times, there are few things more horrifying than the thought of losing one's job. As author M.J. Pack writes, the act of telling a person they've been fired is something only the most callous person could do without empathy. But when just such a man does his job, all too well, the repercussions are truly terrible. Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So let's hope you don't have to hear those horrible words when you're called to the boss's office and are told,

close the door and have a seat. Studies show that Friday is the best day of the week to fire someone. Sorry, let someone go. That's the politically-called. Correct, touchy-feely bullshit term, right? I guess it lets them down easier when they wake up with nowhere to be on a Saturday, rather than a Tuesday. Terminating employees isn't a job most people want, because it's dirty work.

Something that makes your average Joe feel slimy and mean, not me. Guys like me know sometimes you have to be mean to survive. I'm damn good at it too, though I suppose it's not something you'll ever hear me bragging about in a bar. So good, in fact, they called me the axe, as in getting the axe. cheesy, but most people are. That's something you learn in my line of work. Most people fall into neat little categories. It's just something that happens when the line into your office is just as long as the one coming in the front door.

Are cheesy, pretentious, useless. We like to think we're... special, but ultimately we're all the same. No one is an original. Not anymore. Anyway, the nickname, cheesy as it may be, was both feared and respected. A call to my office was basically a death knell.

Countless men and women left in tears to find a box on their desk waiting to be filled with whatever meaningless crap they'd accumulated in their time with the company. I don't know where the boxes came from. That wasn't part of my job. That Friday I got word there was an axe to drop. An older guy, Steve Woodruff, no one I knew off the top of my head. A quick glance at his file proved to this fact amusing.

He'd been with the company for almost 20 years. Salesman. Do you really want to know what he sold? No. Of course not. He's someone you'd brush off if he called you on the phone. A guy standing on your porch that you peer at behind the curtains and hope like hell that he'll leave. Don't care about him either.

Be honest with yourself. His productivity had fallen over time, slowly at first, then drastically in the past few months. He was barely making any sales. When he left for cold calls, there were doubts he was actually on the road, but perhaps hold up somewhere else. Drinking, maybe. Rumors in an office can get nasty. He was costing us, mom. That's the bottom line. Time to cut and run. No severance package, no pension, no skin off my ass.

I wish I could tell you I remembered it. I really do. But that afternoon I had a doctor's appointment and a lunch date with the guys in marketing and there may have been one too many martinis, yet in the end the reason I don't remember is because there had been so many like him before. Sure, he probably cried, or went pale and silent, or called me the devil, those were the top three typical reactions to the axe doing what he does best. I hate that nickname, I really do. So, Steve came into my office and left my office, regardless of my inability to remember it, I'm sure he found the box on his desk. Security escorted him out. But two hours later, Steve came back. The same security guard that walked him to his car got it first. The point-blank shotgun blasted.

blew most of his head off, splattering his brains across the hot-rod calendar behind his desk in the front lobby. It's a fairly small office building, so I'm sure some people heard it. But the first inclination humans have when they hear something so unexpected, so out of the ordinary,

is to assume it's something not. out of the ordinary at all. Without the security guard to hit the silent alarm, Steve walked right through the foyer and into the receptionist's office. Cheryl saw the gun, I think,

and began to scream. She only got one wavering note out before the crack boom of the bullets firing into her stomach cut her off. Steve moved from her office to the advertising department. Here he took out two of the guys in marketing,

then paused to reload the shotgun. The copywriter got brave and tried to bolt, but Steve was between him and the door, and apparently more quick-fingered than he looked, because the shells were in the gun, and he fired. One dead eye shot into his back, sending him flying across the hall. By this point, the sound of the shotgun was too real to be ignored, and people started to panic. The remaining employees, a motley mixture of HR and sails, bolted for the fire escape, only to find it locked.

Steve had, prior to his arrival in the lobby, chained the doors from the outside. They struggled against the crush of their own animal hysteria, unwilling to believe the door wouldn't open. He picked these people off easily. They were screaming. But then they weren't screaming anymore. I could hear it. from under my desk. Somehow, the silence was so much worse than the screaming.

In my haste to protect myself, I had completely forgotten to dial the police. But when I ducked my head out, I heard Steve coming back my way. The metallic clicking sounds of the shells being exited from the gun and the new ones reloaded. the slow methodical plotting of his shoes on the thin office carpet. The axe may be called many things, but that day I learned, brave, is not one of them. I dropped back under the desk and huddled there, trying to ignore the warm seep of my bladder letting go.

He entered my office and stood there. All I could hear was the strangely even sound of his breathing and the war drum beat of my heart pounding in my ears. Remember me, boss? For one wild moment, I actually didn't. I couldn't even recall my own name if you'd asked me. I was so terrified. To have to do these, Steve.

My mouth suddenly as dry as if you'd packed me full of hot desert sand. There's still time. Turn yourself in. There's no time. His voice was so calm, so pleasant. It was somehow far worse than if he'd been shrieking at me, Because instead, it was like we were chatting about the weather. With the latest baseball game and ignoring the fact that the rest of the office were laying in cooling puddles of their own blood.

Their way? Did you call them boss? No, no, you had your chance to talk. Now it's mine. There was a quiet, rolling sound as he pulled one of the office chairs up. to the front of my desk, just as he had done two hours ago, when I asked him to close the door and have a seat. A long, terrible moment passed. The smell of my own urine was sharp in my nostrils. I begged you not to fire me. Do you remember that? You smelled like booze, so maybe you don't. took in a deep breath, as though he could still smell the lunchtime martini's wafting off my skin. Productivity. That was it, wasn't it? Why I got the axe. My productivity had decreased.

When I didn't answer, Steve banged the top of my desk with the butt of his shotgun. Yes. Hard to be productive boss when your wife is dying. When the cancer has eaten so far through her brain that she doesn't even know who you are, even though you're at her bedside every day. When she's only able to speak in soft little screams because the pain's so bad.

He paused. What was the rumor? It fell off my tongue like a heavy stone. The rumor about me, where I was when I wasn't on sales calls. I didn't know what to say. I groped through my memory like a blind man in the gutter, but found nothing. This time Steve kicked the front of the desk. The sound was uncomfortably close.

Drinking? Yeah, drinking. Steve sighed. Oh, that's rich coming from you. No, I wasn't drinking. Visiting hours at the hospital are hard to accommodate with my schedule. There was another pause. And when he spoke again, I could somehow.

picture him smiling. Do you have any idea how expensive cancer medicine is, boss? No, no, of course you don't. I bet you know how much a country club membership costs or a Porsche or those smug fucking Dior suits you wear. Do you even know?

Notice the rest of us walking around in our second-hand clothes. Before I could respond, he banged the desk again. The noise above my head was like a crack of dynamite, and I felt my whole body jerk as if I'd been shocked. No, of course you don't. He breathed in deeply through his nose. You ruin people's lives. What people work at for years, their livelihoods, the thing that keeps them getting up in the morning.

You wipe it away with a few words and a box on their desk. And I bet you sleep like a goddamn baby. Sorry, wish I could tell you that was true that I truly felt the error of my ways and had learned lessons. I really do No, you're not There was a brief rolling sound As he stood up from the chair But you will be

The shotgun clicked as he cocked it My life began to flash before my eyes My whole stupid, materialistic life The cheap women and expensive car as every useless, meaningless second. And oh God, if only I could have more of it. Silent. And then it was just me, alone, in the office of the dead.

The only survivor of a madman's massacre. The lucky one. What it's like to listen to the stillness of a place that was once, full of life, to hear nothing but your own terrified heartbeat deep in your skull. And what must be the sound of blood and brains pooling on the carpet? When the soaked front of my pants began to grow cold and stiff, I got out from under my desk and dialed 911. There were ambulances.

as someone put a blanket around my shoulders. I watched as they carried out. Body after body, after body. They were dead. All dead. But I was alive. I'd been spared. Why?

Does the why even matter? Aren't we all beyond? why at this point. I went home and fell right to sleep. What else was there to do? You'd think I'd be wide awake, but no, oh no. The axe went home after the mass murder of his entire office building, changed his pants, had a beer, and went to sleep like a cotton. Like a cut. damn baby. It was only then that I understood. Every time I try to sleep, every time I close my eyes for more than a moment when I drift off to that place of not quite conscious and not quite unconscious, I'm back at work outside my own office. My suit is cheap and threadbare. My shoes don't fit quite right for the door and push it open.

Behind my desk sits Steve. The back of his head, a bloody mess. One giant exit wound from where he put the shotgun in his mouth. The mouth that smile. at me as he gestures a Dior suit-clad arm towards the chair in front of him. He tells me to close the door and have a seat. And every night, every fucking night for the past five years, I wake up screaming. Growing up in a close-knit community, composed largely of extended family members might seem idyllic.

Plenty of friends to play with and places to explore. But as we learn from author R.F. Krupa. A simple game out by the road one day leads to a terrifying adventure which leaves a lasting mark on the community. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Goodnight, and Erica Sanderson. So let's pay a visit and meet the kids of course. Playing in the hills around Cold Creek was a birthright.

As soon as we were old enough to walk, we'd go off in the woods like a pack of dogs. As a direct great-granddaughter, I'd had free run of the place since birth. The area was a silver mine in the 20s, and great-grandpa had been smart about investing his money. By the time the silver was gone, he had a nice little empire to leave to his daughters. Each of them married, built houses, and settled in Cold Creek. When their children got married and wanted families, they were given land to do the same. And when their grandchildren got married, you get the idea. This gives me three sets of grandparents, enough honorary slash actual aunts and uncles to fill a platoon,

and more cousins than I knew what to do with. The land was all family. safe, nearly. It happened one day in late September, the afternoon ambrosialed, but the heat refusing to stick. When the sun fell, the cold came up from the ground. I was six, my brother Eddie Nine, our cousin Natasha Ten, and Little Gabe had just started preschool. We went out after dinner to play ghosts in the graveyard, but with four people, it's didn't really work.

Gabe wasn't willing to go anywhere without hand-holding, and after a few hours of dragging him around, while Tasha and Eddie took turns reigning holy terror, we got bored and migrated to County Road H. It was the only publicly accessible road in Cold Creek. County H was something to do with that age. Run along the shoulder until you see headlights, then bolt into the trees to hide. When our parents had played it as kids, they called it escaping Berlin. It was like red light green light except, you know, someone could get hit by a car. Stupid is as stupid does.

I honestly couldn't imagine something bad happening. Gabe's little hands had clung to my shirt as we jogged. Gabe started breathing fast. Gonna leave. I tried to tell him. But he'd already gone sprinting after her as fast as his legs would carry him. She sang and disappeared around the curve. He panicked, and with all the grace of a four-year-old, snagged his foot and toppled.

He immediately started bawling. I was deeply unimpressed, but went to help. Eddie darted from the woods. June, he okay? It was already dark. But Gabe's face looked fine and his legs were the only thing bloody. Just skinned his knees. Tasha worked him up. Gabe was still crying, and I got my arms under his to lift him.

It's fine. Stop being such a baby. You're crying like one? That finally quieted him. Eddie ruffled his hair. It's okay, buddy. Gabe sniffled a little more. more. Eddie and I rolled our eyes at each other. We were big kids. Pain didn't scare us, none. Don't be such a kill joy. Jesus. Gabe inhaled sharply and completely forgot his hurt feelings.

Bang up job, Eddie. The wind came in low, and my jacket didn't stop it from knifing right through. I stuffed my hands under my arm. Suddenly, going home wasn't a bad idea. I glanced to Eddie, but he glared back. I didn't bother suggesting it. Where Eddie went, I went. I was a faithful little sister. The wind was coming strong at our backs,

which is probably why we didn't hear Tasha until she was right on top of us. Light haloed her from a car coming on too fast. and terror grabbed me by the throat. Eddie sprinted sideways and I was a step behind. Hand locked around Gabe's wrists to drag him into the woods. I barely had a foot in before the car blew past us. Rubber squealed and then we were in the woods with bellies to the ground. The car braked hard and screeched a U-turn in the road.

The headlights swung over us like a searchlight. What's it doing? The engine caught, rattled shud, and kicked a low hum. It started creeping back towards us, and Gabe made an awful noise. It kept on coming. Hair rose along the nape of my neck. They saw me. Then they sped up.

Who? I don't know. The misery poured out of her. Nose. Eddie hushed and pushed at me. He urged us farther, and then I was shuffling backward with Gabe, and then the car was on the shoulder. It was a rusted, rattling hunk of steel. The stink of rubber and burnt oil trickled in.

Scrub brush had us partly covered, and the undergrowth started fast in the woods. But right then we were too near the tree line. It left us exposed. The car rolled to a stop in the headlight. were blinding. A door swung and slammed shut. We froze. I saw him then, big, heavy shoulders. The man just stood there, blacked out by the headlights and facing the trees. My heart hammered my ribs. You know, I can see your eyes like fucking deer, shining. and all big.

He took a step. You're soft inside too? Gabe screamed. I reeled up to my knees, brush lashing across my face as I yanked him up. Tasha and Eddie followed our mad scramble. In seconds, we were sprinting into total darkness, the trees swallowing up the sky and ground behind us.

I could hear Tasha panting and Gabe crying. There was a shout. Ranches breaking, footfalls. I tripped, tripped again, then almost lost Gabe when he hit something in the dark and ripped from my hand. Get down! And he gasped, and we were scuttling into the brush. Someone yanked my hair, then my shoulder, and then dragged me under something that could have been a downed tree. Acid splashed up the back of my thund.

throat, and I wanted desperately to vomit. Purge. Get it out. Get it out. Get it out. Quiet. I curled over Gabe, and when he wouldn't shush, I gagged him with my sleeve. He bit into my arm, but adrenaline had me shaking so badly I couldn't feel it. Tasha wrapped around my side, and then Eddie crawled over us. Shear terror blotted out all higher brain function. One minute passed, two, a third, and I thought that just maybe. A dim light hit a tree fifty feet out. Someone in our pile made a gutted sound. The slurred voice came back.

It took you so long. A new voice said. It was higher, wet in the back of his throat. See him? The light bounced away until the time. dark swallowed it. We were blind again. The wind kicked up, shaking the branches like old bones.

Tasha pitched her voice under it. We gotta go. Eddie's breath washed against my neck. We can't see out here. We gotta get to a road. But we can't. Eddie pressed. We gotta.

I believed him. We army crawled from the light and angled for the nearest private road that came off County H. Gabe was dead weight. Come on! I choked down a sob. Gabe, please. He shuddered, and a low, warbling sound spilled from him when I unstuck my sleeve. He still didn't move.

Toshus lithered back to us and shook him. If you don't move... Right now, they'll find us and hurt you. Get up. The thought hadn't occurred to me. My hindbrained had ignited and not thought any further beyond running. Now it was there, clamoring inside me. They'll hurt you. They'll hurt you.

They'll hurt you. Gabe started crawling. Time hemorrhaged. I don't know how long it lasts. The creeping, the dirt, the briars snagging skin. Eventually, I started seeing branches. There was no moon and the starlight was dim, but it was enough to lead us on to a switchback lane. Which way?

Eddie swung left, then right, then left again. Her voice cracked. Which way? A low rumble came up the road. Rattles shake, shriek. Someone screamed and sent us bolting. Eddie hugged the tree line running to I don't know where. I followed. There had to be houses soon. Houses started less than a half mile from County H, so there had to be. Headlights burned in. We swerved into the woods. I got eight steps in when the ground went out.

I hit water, and it smashed through my nose and a flood down my throat. We'd run smack dab into a creek. The water was deep and so damn cold it felt like being skinned. My feet weren't touching ground, and I'd lost Gabe. The water was over my head. I breached the surface and weased. The water burned worse coming back out. I could barely mouth the word.

Something sloshed and the trees were getting brighter. For a moment, I didn't remember why that was a bad thing. A hand grabbed the back of my jacket and dragged. He sputtered and tried to say something, but started hacking too. Despite that, he kept pulling us backward until my feet hit silt. I saw two pale blobs, linked the water out of my eyes. eyes, then realized it was Tasha dragging Gabe to the far bank. She didn't get there. The first headlight gouged in and we dropped, sinking our heads behind the roots, spilled off

the bank. The car rolled by so close I could see the driver, his arm hanging loose and skinny out the window. They had a deer shiner on the side of the car lit like a flare. Just before it touched the water. I shut my eyes and went back under. My fingertips started going numb. My lungs burned and then heaved. I barely managed 20 seconds before I had to slam back up. When my throat cleared, the red haze of the taillights was fading. I tried to climb the bank. Hetty grabbed me. Why? Heath clattered. Why?

I know where we are. His breath spilled in a brittle white cloud. This road is dead in. We gotta wait, or they'll see us when they swing back. I'm cold. The muscles in my chest were constricting so tightly I thought my lungs would pop. I'm sorry.

He pulled me down. But once they go back past, Uncle Dan's house is at the end of that road, okay? Everything in my joints was starting to lock. I felt like if I moved, my bones would grind up like chalk. I heard Natasha whisper. Gabe's lips are turning blue. I moved.

We piled in close and wrapped around Gabe like animals. His eyes were fluttering, but his teeth weren't chattering. Something about that was very, very wrong. I heard the engine again. A moan worked between my teeth. One more time. Someone was whistling, and it wasn't us. The deer Shiner was on the opposite side now,

but I could see the big man in his arm slung out the window. Something sparked in his fist, and I saw a gutting, terror hit like lightning. It frothed, tighter. and tighter until it was a bolt tearing through me. Someone's hand hit the top of my head and pushed. I went under.

This time we didn't even last ten seconds before we breached. I saw the taillight casings as they crawled out of sight. Go back! My brother said, and I'm not sure where any of us found the strength to swim to the other bank, let alone climb it. But we did. Adrenaline's a hell of a thing. We left the woods to limp up the road.

My ears kept straining for the car to come back and smash on our backs. Only thing rattling out there were the trees. My skin needled and slowly went numb. My hair was spilling water down my back like the drag of a knife. It's been this cold. I nearly screamed when the road started getting bright again, and it took me a panicked few seconds to realize the light was coming from a house. Tasha sobbed and so did Eddie.

Gabe didn't make any noise at all. I found enough energy to run and started banging on the back door. It all got a little blurry after that. Marie, Dan's wife, came to the door. She took one look at us and screamed for him, then immediately rushed Gabe upstairs. Uncle Dan hauled us inside and started asking questions. And Tasha was saying, car, it was a car, they saw me, I'm sorry.

And Eddie was repeating, they chased us, they were going to hurt us, they chased us. And I was keening knife, knife, knife, until I was shouting everyone else down. Uncle Dan locked the doors and dropped the lights on the ground floor. He got on the phone and said something, Something sharp I couldn't hear over the sloshing in my skull. Time blinked. I was in a bathroom. I was naked in a bathroom.

I was naked in a bathroom being towel dried to within an inch of my life. Big hands buttoned me into a flannel, then swaddled me in blankets like a baby. Aunt Gemma showed up, I don't know when. and she stuck a hot water bottle in my cocoon and then put me in bed with Eddie. Tasha got tucked in on my other side and then Aunt Marie was reading to us and promising that everything would be okay. Somewhere downstairs, I heard a lot of angry voices. I drifted off. When I woke again, the room was very dark and I was sweating through the sheets.

Everything felt slippery, fever. flourish and churned to slurry, rattle, shake, shriek went the engine out the window. No, no, no, no. I jackknocked off the mattress and clodged to the glass. It was the car. I was going to scream, would have screamed, if my mouth wasn't a scane of dry wool. The engine cut and headlights went dark. A broad man stepped out and my head swam and nearly overflowed.

He kicked back on the hood, pulled off his gloves, then put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The glow washed across his face, and it was Luke. My cousin Luke, Luke, who didn't talk slurred or high wet in the back of his throat. I didn't understand, and that's what sent me downstairs. It seemed like anger at the time, but I'm pretty sure now it was the fever. I dragged a quilt with, and the bottom of the house was dark. The lock turned easily, and then I was outside. Luke's head swung.

Junebug? Darling, why are you out of bed? I hiccoughed. Why is it here? Why? He looked to the car. Oh, Junebug, come here. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and spread his arms. There was no hesitation.

I ran to him and he swept me up. He cradled me into his left arm and cupped my head. Another drag on the cigarette lit his face. He looked jagged. Sweat shined on his forehead and his hair was still a mess coming out of its buzz. cut. With my face crooked in his shoulder, all I could smell was ash and metal. Why is it here? The cutlass? His eyes flicked off my face. He got a hand up, took out his cigarette, and held it behind my head.

Listen, baby, what happened tonight was a mean prank. Some of the boys were messing with you. You weren't going to get hurt. The people in the car had been family? Something in me crumpled. Why'd they do that? He took another sharp drag, turned a little to let the smoke spill from his mouth. People are bastards sometimes.

Sorry, bad. People are bad sometimes. They don't think and, do something mean, all right? But you don't have to worry. It was scary. He dropped the cigarette, and there was no light in his eyes. I know.

Grandpa Jim is going to get here soon, and he'll make them real sorry. I nodded seriously. Grandpa Jim makes everyone sorry. That he does. He tucked me closer. Just forget about this. Everything's going to be right as rain come morning. Okay.

My eyelids were heavier. At that moment, I was warm and nowhere else was safer. Urah, baby. And then he gazed down at me with painful intensity. I'm never going to let me. anyone hurt you, understand? I slipped shut. A little while later, another engine sounded.

Luke shook me awake. Hey, that's Grandpa Jim. Go on, get back in. He'll be angry if he sees you. I'd lived in holy terror of Grandpa Jim and his severe looks for years. I didn't need telling. Luke put me down and I scurried back inside. I turned at the door just as the headlights of Grandpa Jim's truck washed on the cutlass.

On to Luke. On to his battered hands. Knuckles bruised to black. I shut the door. Sometime in the night, I heard that rattle shake, shriek start again and fade off into the night. The cutlass was gone. come daylight. No one ever talked about it again. The next morning, we had a burning day all over Cold Creek, a bit of a treat for all the fuss. I got to throw branches and leaves and old boots into the fire

while our parents doaded on me and Eddie. I saw Gabe bundled by one of the fires behind Grandma Lillian's place. He looked too pale, but he chattered up a storm before his mom whisked him inside for hot cider. Life went on. We got older and did crazier things to one another. We drank and set things on fire and ran through the woods at night. Gabe seemingly forgot it happened.

Every once in a while, Eddie or Tasha would bring it up just to point out, Hey, remember that time without hiding in a creek in 50-degree conditions was a good idea? Nothing of it ever sat right. And I started looking at my older cousins to try and find it in their eyes. Most of them were old enough to have kids the same age as us when it happened. I wondered if they regretted it now, looking in their children's faces.

I wondered if they even remembered it. The whole thing colored how I saw my family for years. Then came another day in September. I was off work and in my grandma's kitchen, warm and stuffed with breakfast crapes. Grandpa Frank handed me the newspaper. Have the prettiest voice of all my girls. Why don't you?

His eyes hadn't been up to the task in a long while. So I read. It was the nearest town's local gazette. The governor doing this, the sheriff doing that. A local apple race. New zoning ordinances. Look at this bear someone's shock. Oh my.

My grandma sighed. What's the world coming to? Ain't even building our own houses without someone button in. Grandpa patted her hand. While grandma insisted none of those awful ordinances would be coming to Cold Creek. No, sir, I didn't pay it much mind. My eyes had been drawn across the page to a picture. Two men, ages 20 and 22, best friends according to the caption.

Hellrazers here and there, but not a bad sort. It was the 15-year anniversary of their disappearance. It'd been a real bungle of a case. They'd been adults when they went missing, and the sheriff hadn't taken the family seriously until they'd been gone for two weeks. By the time people started looking, The boys were nowhere to be found. No leads had ever surfaced.

The family of the older boy were still pleading that if anyone knew anything, to please call this hotline number, we're still looking for him. We haven't given up. He's our boy. Local law enforcement was sure they were dead, or in Mexico, either or. I skimmed down and at the very high,

end it said, both were last seen in a 1967 cutlass supreme. The body of the car was noted to be heavily rusted. If you have any information on these persons or vehicle, please place a call to. Well, would you look at that? Something interesting, sweetheart? I dropped the paper and my entire world dropped with it. That night I'd been holding on to so long swelled with horror until it strangled me. It'd never been family. It'd never been a prank.

Black woods and black water and the hook of a wading knife. Jesus fucking Christ. I paused until my hands steadied. I picked up the paper and forced a smile. No, Grandpa. Nothing to at home about. It occurred to me that I needed to go be sweet on Grandpa Chim,

that I needed to hug Uncle Dan, that I needed to kiss Luke, hello. He brushed back my hair. You sure? I turned the page. Very. He didn't ask twice and I didn't breathe a word. I was cold creek born and raised. a direct great-granddaughter.

Someone had been watching my back since the moment I was born. As soon as we were old enough to understand, off we'd go in the woods like a pack of dogs. And after all these years, I finally understood. Playing in the hills around Cold Creek was a birthright, and so was burying our nightmares in them. 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. This audio program is Copyright, 2015 to 2016, Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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