The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S6E17

Episode Date: January 24, 2016

It's episode 17 of Season 6. On this week's show we have seven tales about terrifying traps, diabolical deals, and temporal transgressions.The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales."Char" written by C.K.Walker and read by Jesse Cornett & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts at 00:04:35)"The Thing in the Bathroom" written by Malcolm Teller and read by Jeff Clement & Kyle Akers. (Story starts at 00:20:30)"The Pit" written by E. L. Brym and read by Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:39:40)"My Friend from College" written by Lauren Munera and read by David Cummings & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 01:05:00)"No Photo to Sleep" written by A. Gin and read by James Cleveland & Nikolle Doolin & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts at 01:15:50)"The Crimson Dandelion" written by Nick Lardon and read by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson & Kyle Akers. (Story starts at 01:37:15)"The Journal of Soul Selling" written by Doug Hantke and read by David Ault & Alexis Bristowe & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:55:00)Click here for the NoSleep Portrait Click here for The Black Tapes Podcast Click here to learn more about Darkness Prevails Click here to learn more about Charlie Cody Art Click here to learn more about C.K.Walker Click here to learn more about Malcolm Teller Click here to learn more about Doug Hantke Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett Click here to learn more about Nichole Goodnight Click here to learn more about Jeff Clement Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Corinne Sanders Click here to learn more about James Cleveland Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson Click here to learn more about David Ault Click here to learn more about Alexis Bristowe Podcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings."The Pit" illustration courtesy of Charlie CodyAudio 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 seven tales about terrifying.

traps, diabolical deals, and temporal transgressions. I know that many of you wonderful listeners out there are voracious in your hunger for sources of great audio horror fiction, and I am more than happy to point your drooling mouths in the direction of places to feast your, well, at least your ears on shows to satiate you. First off, I hope you're all aware that the Black Taps podcast is back with the launch of their second season. Yes, Alex, Nick, and Dr. Strand are back with plenty to share about what took place between the first and second season. Head on over to the blacktapespodcast.com and jump into season two. And while podcasts are great sources for audio horror, don't forget the many great YouTube channels out there with top quality productions

of horror stories. One site I definitely recommend is produced by Brendan Dean. Brendan's Darkness Prevails Channel offers many excellent videos with a bit of a twist. Most of the stories he presents are of real events, real horror happenings, real cases of kidnappings and creepers, creature sightings, paranormal experiences, all in one location. So check the show notes for links to the Darkness Prevails channel and enjoy a unique style of horror during the dark hours. I want to welcome a new contributor joining the show. Illustrator Charlie Cody has provided this week's story illustration. Charlie crafts outstanding

art which has been used in various venues such as for other podcasts as well as book covers and horror movie posters. Check the show notes to see more from Charlie and discover his nightmarish creations. We welcome you to the show, Charlie. and thank you for sharing your talent with us. And just before we begin, I want to send a big thanks to our longtime artistic designer and illustrator, Unca Odia. Unca is the talent behind the podcast's logo and the look of our new website and t-shirts. If you didn't already see it on our Facebook page or Twitter feed,

Unka recently created an outstanding illustration featuring all of the regular podcast contributors in a very creepy, setting. Check the link in the show notes to see for yourself what all of us look like when we're not hard at work on the show. We like to, uh, experiment, so to speak. Thanks to Unka for creating it and for the maestro Brandon Boone for commissioning the devilish work. And speaking of our hard work, it's time to share the results from it right now as we start the show. In our first tale, we meet a man wracked with guilt from a terrible act committed in his teens. As we learn from author C.K. Walker, a fire he set should have resulted in a tragedy, but he was given a second chance from a

mysterious stranger. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett and Nicole Goodnight. So remember, playing with fire will usually get you burned. Sometimes it will char. I was the one who the fire. Everyone knew it. Even her. Especially her. When I heard the sirens I had run, I took a well-known shortcut through the woods to a carnival the next county over, but even miles away I couldn't escape the screaming. Not of the victims, but of their parents, whose anguished cries had followed me like footprint since I'd started the fire hours earlier. She found me in the fun house, huddled in the corner of a room fitted wall-to-wall with distorted mirrors. She was my age, 15 or so, with wild red hair and clothes that said she had a reputation.

She smiled at me and offered her hand. I wordlessly refused it and she joined me on the floor, crossing her legs in a way that suggested she'd forgotten she was wearing a skirt. I didn't reply. I was just comforted to not be alone anymore. Everyone knows. She shrugged her shoulders and inched her skirt up to scratch her knee. Even the police now. They're looking for you.

A loud, painful sob erupted from my chest. Away! But I didn't want her to. You killed a lot of people. today, Jack. Most of them were only kids. They're going to arrest you and put you on trial.

You'll have to face all those parents. You know, for what you've done. Just. They're going to execute you, Jackson. No, they won't. I'm 15. They wouldn't kill a 15-year-old. Get away from me.

She scooted close. her to me and nodded in excitement. Her pale skin glistened with sweat. Oh, they will. I promise you. They'll try you as an adult, but don't worry. I can help you. I can fix all of this, Jackson. I can make it all go away. Her tongue darted out to eagerly lick the pink gloss on her lips. I wanted to yell at her. I wanted to push her away from me. but I didn't want her to leave. I was afraid to be alone and she knew it. She clapped her hands and giggled,

then slapped her palm over her mouth as if she had just admitted a scandalous secret. Then she explained what she called a simple transaction, but it was far from simple. The girl promised that she would make the fire go away, as if it had never happened at all. And I would pay in the only currency I had, that of my soul. With nothing to lose, I agreed to her bargain. We shook on it.

She offered me her body, some release if I wanted it, but my stomach churned at the thought. The girl stood up then and again offered me her hand. I took it this time, and she told me it was time to go. searching the night for sounds of sirens and tortured whales. I heard none. My town was quiet when I reached it, and the elementary school was still standing.

I stumbled to my knees in the middle of the street and prayed feverishly to my guardian angel in thanks. All was as she'd promised. Over time, I slowly forgot about the fire. It had happened in another life, one that no longer existed. but it never fully left my subconscious. By the time I was 25, I had completed 640 hours of firefighter training

and was accepted to the department. By 35, I had married the chief's daughter and given her two beautiful children. But in the back of my mind, I never forgot that someday the bill for my blissful happiness would come do. But maybe not. I have saved so many people, created such a beautiful family, done so much with my life. Perhaps that is enough to nullify the deal. It was a beautiful Wednesday afternoon in November.

Nothing noteworthy or remarkable about it to suggest what it ultimately held for me. I had stopped at the mall on the way home from work to pick up a Christmas gift I had ordered the month before for my wife. As I stood at the counter signing for my purchase, I looked over to see a baby's stroller blocking the path out of the store. As the child shifted and the blanket fell from its misshapen head, I gasped and felt a shutter racked my suddenly chilled body. I could only call at a monster. The child's skin was yellowed and leaking pus. It only had one eye, which swung from its socket like a pendulum. when he turned his head.

I stared at it in horror as the angry mother gave me a murderous look and hurried the child out of the store. I took a moment to collect myself and then ran out after her. My desperate need to protect and atone driving my pursuit. I caught her in the food court and just as I reached out to grab her,

I felt a violent tug on my arm and I spun around. I was confronted with a vision of horror and impossibility. The man who looked back at me was hardly man at all. His body was a charred corpse from his feet to the top of his head, where blackened skull shud through gray flakes of scorched flesh. He emitted a loud and dry hiss and his mouth worked in what I assumed were words, as ash flaked off of his seared lips.

Then he pushed me hard on my chest and went to stand by the woman who was almost and tears. Could she see the nightmare too from the creature and his spawn and ran through the mall toward the parking lot? As the store slipped by my peripheral vision, I spotted four more charred corpses watching me, many holding the hands of tiny yellowed, bulbous monsters. I didn't stop running until I reached my car. I slammed the door and locked it, then sat crying in the front seat as the shadows around me grew longer and midday turned to afternoon. I was having a breakdown. The horrors of the fire that was erased from time had finally caught up to me.

I needed therapy. No, I needed more than therapy. I needed hard drugs. Hours ticked by, and I failed to compose myself to a useful degree. I realized there was only one place I could go to calm myself. I threw my car in gear and sped. across town to the only place that could assuage my guilt. The school was still there.

It had to be. But as I came upon it, all I found was a pile of rotting, burned out debris. Lines of young children were filing out of the wreckage and making for the nearby school buses. They laughed and pushed each other around as if they didn't realize they were surrounded by the detritus of my sins. And among them I saw lurking, the misshapen, nebulous, balls of pus and cartilage. The monsters were here, too.

The Globo's creatures ran to the cars of even more charred corpses, who hugged them and kissed them on what I assumed were their cheeks. Some of the burn-up people recognized me. Some of them waved, and pieces of charred flesh sloughed off their arms. I wretched, and I knew. Somehow I had crossed over to the other timeline. The one that wasn't supposed to exist. The one where I had killed so many children

burned them in their school in the middle of the day. And now, the dead had grown up and had children of their own. Children who were just a chaotic mass of cells and biologic matter because they were never meant to be. I know she's nearby. And I know she's listening. To be saved! It's the end of the day and I know it.

She is giving me a taste of hell before she claims me. I race home to see my family one more time. To hold them and tell them how much I love them. Moments to prepare me for an eternity in hell. I know my wife is okay. I know she wasn't born until years after the fire. And I need to see her beautiful face one last time. I throw open the door and see her sitting in a chair by the window.

She's reading her favorite book again. Her skin is weeping, and the thick, blood-stained liquid falls upon the pages. Gifts in her chair to look over at me. And the bubbles of thin, unformed skin that cover her begin to pop as they brush against the armchair. A putrid smell fills the room. I back away from her with a terrified cry. I'm in agony. My beloved wife is one of them.

It doesn't make sense. A car door slams outside, and I jerk toward the window to see a tall, blackened skeleton burned down to the scorched bone. It is coming up the driveway with two ghoulish creatures following behind. I know it is my wife's father and my children. I fall to my knees and let out an agonizing scream as the evening. equation solves itself. He had been there fighting the fire. He had burned and she was a creature who never should have existed and so neither should our daughters. I spare not

another look for my family because I can't bear it. I enter the spare bedroom of my house and I pull a nine millimeter out of the closet, a gift from my father-in-law. I slide down the wall to sit and I lean my head back against them. I load the gun and suddenly she's in front of me, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She wears the same slutty clothes as all those years ago and her hair still smells like sweat and cotton candy. I know she's come to collect. And I'm ready to leave this hell so that life on earth, life from my family can go back to the beautiful thing it was before. Albeit without me, I'm ready

to die. She giggles. Please me from this pain. She rolls her eyes and gestures to the gun in my hands. I nod in understanding and as tears roll down my face.

I place the 9mm in my mouth. I send up a silent prayer that my wife and children will live happy lives after I'm gone. I squeeze the trigger and a hole blows out the back of my head. The girl laughs. I hasten to put the gun under my chin before the pain hits and cripples me.

I pull the trigger again and part of my face hits the wall next to me. I look at her with the only eye I have left. She's giving me a dull disinterested smile. I unload the gun into my brain and she begins to look down right bored. And that's when I finally realized the truth. I'm not going anywhere. I had never gone home that night all those years ago. I had never even left the fun house.

She stands up without sparing me a look and walks out of the room, abandoning me to the hellish nightmare beyond the door. I can hear the guttural grunting and hissing of the monsters, And that's all they are now. Monsters! I don't have a wife and children. I never did. Payment was due.

It's never easy to see a lifelong friend struggle with the rigors of adult life. For instance, take the two young men in this tale from author Malcolm Teller. When one of the friends seems to be succumbing to a mental illness, the other has to determine if... his friend is sick or haunted by something more than his mind. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement and Kyle Acres. So remember, sometimes there is truth behind the madness concerning the thing in the bathroom. In William Wilson was my best friend since first grade. We did everything together. from Miss Alvers' first grade class to the months worth detention we got when we were 14 for lighting Roman candles in our school's first floor bathroom to looking suave at senior prom, we were always together.

A team, Ryan and me, me and Ryan. We ended up at the same university on Canada's west coast, right by the Pacific Ocean. He was studying political science. He wanted to be UN Secretary General someday, and I was studying history. He was way more excited about university than I was. He really felt that it would lead him to great things, that he was building his future here and now. It just filled him with energy. Mike, he'd say to me, this is the start of the rest of our lives.

I used to think he was overthinking it, but now, well, now I try not to remember him saying that stuff to me. It hurts too much. But what won't ever leave my mind, what can't leave my mind, is that we had so many good times, so many great memories. I remember the time he wanted to spray paint, Leroy ain't shit on Leroy. Roy Miller's brand new BMW that his parents had bought him in 11th grade because Leroy had thrown his textbooks into a trash can as a way to look good in front of his friends. Dude, just let it go. Your textbooks are fine. What, let that asshole mess with me? You know me better than that. Well, fuck it. You do this? Count me out. I'm not going to get myself expelled

and arrested. He just smirked, turned, and walked away. I swore to my myself I wouldn't give in, that I wouldn't let him win this one. But sure enough, like the good and loyal friend I was, the next night at roughly two in the morning, I was standing in my hoodie in the cold December weather, my hands tucked deep into my hoodie pockets, and looking back and forth to make sure no one saw us as Ryan spray painted those artful words onto the windshield of Leroy Miller's car. The next day, Leroy was few. Curseing and yelling up and down over how he was going to catch whoever did it and bash his fucking head in. I literally had to pull Ryan into the second floor bathroom where he could safely laugh his ass off without being seen or heard by Leroy.

So that was what we had. Everything was great. Everything had always been great. And everything was always going to be great. But then Ryan started getting scared by what was in his bathroom. Well, what he thought was in his bathroom. See, Ryan was living by himself in student housing, a studio apartment in one of the newer buildings.

His had opened about three years prior in the fall of 2010. I was living off campus with some roommates. Now, for the first couple of months, everything went fine. He was loving his first taste of independence. His parents were kind of controlling and strict when he was a teenager living with him, and he'd always be inviting me over. He liked to host. But then, he started telling me all freaked out

about strange things happening in his bathroom. At night, he'd hear sounds of metallic groaning and shuffling sounds as if someone was walking or moving around in there. This was even after he'd checked to make sure it was empty. Other times in day and at night, he'd hear whispering in the empty bathroom, sometimes in English, sometimes in other languages.

And then there were the times he'd feel really uncomfortable looking in the mirror, feeling like, so he said, it was only a matter of time before his reflection did say, something on its own. He'd tell me how he couldn't sleep, how every second in bed at night before he fell asleep, his heart would be pounding, and he'd be terrified that something was going to walk out of his bathroom and over to his bed. He even stopped using the bathroom entirely, choosing to use

the building's men's changing room on the second floor, even if it meant getting dressed and going down there after waking up in the middle of the night. And there was more. He started having horrifying nightmares. He'd see all these terrible things in them, people getting slaughtered, dead relatives with eye sockets full of maggots and living dolls with smiles full of teeth made of razor blades. And that wasn't the end of it, so he said. He'd be going about his day, going to and from class,

and he'd see these things, these things from his things from his. nightmares in the corner of his eye. And when he'd turned to look at them, they'd be there, clear in his vision for a split second, and then they'd disappear. All of this took a toll on him. I could see how it was affecting him, and honestly, that was what scared me. He'd visit me. He stopped inviting me over and kept turning me down when I asked to come over. And there'd just be these bags under his eyes, showing he'd barely slept. His voice would be shaky and he'd be completely wired. The slightest noise would cause him to jump, and he looked constantly uncomfortable and afraid. He looked as if he was about to break down crying any moment. Me? I thought it was

weird, but I didn't think it was an actual haunting. I mean, that was ridiculous. Ghosts weren't real. I started to worry about him, that he had some form of mental illness, maybe. What else could explain him seeing things when he was awake, hearing whispers when no one was there? Maybe the stress caused by his school workload was causing this, or maybe this had been with him since he was born and it was just now manifesting itself. I didn't know. I wasn't a doctor, but I told him that it was stupid, that ghosts weren't real. that sooner or later this stuff, this fear, would go away, but that he needed to be proactive about it.

He needed to get the right help and be bold and quit letting this stuff freak him out. This stuff that was bothering him, that was scaring him, it was all in his head. It wasn't real. But he needed to get help before it got worse. You're not there. You don't know what this is like. I know what's fake, and I know. what's real and this is real.

His hands trembled and his voice quavered when he said this. What do you want me to say? The ghosts are real, that some evil spirit is living in your bathroom? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is? You're smarter than that. Please, you need to see the right people about this. Phone your mom and dad. Go see a campus shrink. Get what whatever meds you need to and get this taken care of. I'm here for you, man. You know that. I was pleading. I really was scared for him.

That quieted him down, and he told me he'd consider it. Then he went home. Anyways, he listened to me. About a month later, he told me that he'd taken my advice. He had had a talk with his parents. He had seen a campus shrink. and got prescribed a bunch of meds. And everything quieted down.

Things couldn't be better, he said. No more nightmares, no more whispers, no more seeing things. He'd walk into the bathroom when he heard even the slightest noise, check it out and walk out. He even would get up in the middle of the night, walk into the bathroom with the lights off, and stare into the mirror for a few minutes at a time, just daring whatever was in there to come out and get him.

And, of course, nothing happened. He became more and more confident that nothing was there, that there was nothing to be afraid of. After all, ghosts aren't real. The last time I saw him, he looked so alive. He was gushing over how he was going to apply for a first-year internship to work at the United Nations headquarters for a semester. It's the opportunity of a lifetime. Or else can I really build the foundation of a career in diplomacy and international relations? I was happy for him.

Eventually, it got late and he said he had to be getting home, and that he'd Facebook me the next day to make plans for when we would next hang out. I saw him out the door, watched him walk down the street toward the bus stop, then went back inside. I never saw him again. I didn't hear from him the next day. I figured he got caught up in work. He always was super busy.

A week later, I still hadn't heard from him. Neither had anyone else. After some asking, I found out from his classmates and his professors that he hadn't been in class at all that week. More than that, no one he dealt with in his usual routine, classmates, professors, etc., had seen him during that week. not even once. Nor had they heard from him, including the professors who had emailed him asking why he wasn't in class and why he wasn't in contact with his classmates where group projects were concerned. So, knowing that he was struggling with mental illness, I got worried, real worried, scared even.

I went to his family and laid out what was wrong. Pretty quickly they filed a missing person's report, and within a day the police got the university housing people to open up his residence apartment as part of the search. He wasn't there, and there was no sign of a struggle or forced entry or anything like that, but they did find something. A large, dried blood streak on the floor of his bathroom. Right away, a criminal investigation was open to investigate. the possibility of foul play.

But after about two months, there were no leads and no real evidence that anything criminal had happened to him, so the police closed the case. Suicide was considered, but that was discounted quickly as that theory didn't make sense. If he killed himself, where was the body? And if he cut himself deep in the bathroom and moved out, why wasn't there a blood trail? and why wasn't the body anywhere nearby at all? The cops scoured the entire area of the campus where the residence building was. Every nook and cranny and every room in every building.

If it were there, they would have found it. They didn't. So eventually, they scaled back the investigation. They kept the posters and TV news spots up about him being missing, but aside from that, there wasn't much more that they'd. could do. Due to a bunch of campus housing regulations, his parents weren't able to keep his studio unit registered to Ryan.

Add to that, that Ryan was missing, and the semester was over and he hadn't registered for any more classes because he was missing, he couldn't be enrolled in the school anymore, and thus, legally speaking, he was no longer a student. So they had to move his stuff out of the unit. It was so tough on them. So I did everything I could to help out. I spent three days helping his parents move his stuff out of the apartment. It was on the last day of moving stuff out, when everything had been taken down to his

parents' SUV and I was alone in the apartment that I stepped into his bathroom. My heart was broken. This was my best friend. I loved him to death. And we were like brothers. What could have happened to him? What did he do to himself? Did he do something to himself?

I thought back to what he had said about his bathroom, this bathroom, about how silly it sounded. But it seemed so real to him. I could see that plainly from when I saw him those times and what he had told me, but I shook that out of my mind. That was his mental illness at work, I told myself. But that notion left me very quickly due to what happened next. I looked into the mirror at my reflection, trying to make sense of things. And then something happened, something I would never believe. As I was gazing into the mirror, my reflection all on its own, smiled and winked at me. I blinked. What the hell just happened?

What did I just see? Fully sane, fully cognizant, and fully sober, I watched my reflection, smile even wider, and step forward and reach out toward me. And then, then it spoke it fucking spoke and it spoke in Ryan's voice and as I looked into its eyes I don't know what I saw

I'd never seen that kind of presence before and I don't think I ever will again at that moment it kicked in this was real Ryan was right all along. It wasn't mental illness.

It was the real deal. My heart started pounding desperately as I froze. And then as its hand approached the mirror, it occurred to me that if I stuck around, it might actually reach out and grab me. Fight or flight kicked in, and I tore out of there in less than a few seconds. I practically pounded on the elevator button down the hallway,

and once it arrived, I repeatedly pounded the ground floor button with my index finger, slamming myself against the back wall of the elevator as the door started to close and the elevator started to move. Parents noticed my upset. They asked what was wrong. I couldn't tell them. How could I? Given what they were going through, what they thought was the reason for their son's disappearance. Not only would they not believe me, they think that I was joking about what happened,

ugliest and despicable way possible. So I said it was just stuff going on in my own life. Within days, I had applied to transfer to a school across the country. My parents hated the idea and didn't understand why I was doing it, but I didn't care. I didn't want to be anywhere near that thing, whatever it was. To this day, they say it was mental illness that made Ryan disappear. right now, he's either out there, scared and alone, or dead, probably by his own hand. I know whatever it was that lived in that bathroom, it targeted Ryan. It toyed with his mind

and life. And then when Ryan got on the meds, it pulled back as a way of playing with him. And then it took him. And I don't care what anyone says, or any of any of you. Or any, explanation anyone comes up with nothing will ever change that from our youngest days we're aware of that horrible space which exists beneath our beds and the creatures who surely live there but as we learn from author e. L. Brim when a young girl falls into a mysterious trap under her bed she realizes that there is more to consider than just childish fears. Performing this tale is Nicole Doolin. So take heed. There may be more than monsters down there in the pit. Before I begin, I want you to know that I fell down here a long time ago.

How long? I couldn't tell you. I can tell you that time passes by differently down here. It is not ruled by minutes or seconds. and is whimsical in choosing its pace. Sometimes it slows down to a painful crawl. While other times it goes by so quickly, my head fills up with static. I was nine when I fell, and it was a completely unexpected and terrifying experience.

It still is a terrifying experience, I suppose, but I've been down here so long I've become used to it. What I fell into goes by several different names, depending on where you're from. I've heard it called the well, the hole, the tall tomb, and so forth. It has many more names, and they're all from the children it's taken.

I call it the pit. I fell into the pit when I was playing hide-and-seek with my cousins. They had come over to celebrate my mother's birthday, and we decided to play before the adults called us for dinner. I had a blast. I always did when playing with my cousins. I rushed up to my room in record time and hid under my bed. I was just small enough to wriggle under there.

I shoved some long-forgotten toys in front of me to help hide me a little better, and I scooted back as far as I could. I waited in anticipation as my cousin finished counting. I heard my cousin moving around the house and squeals of the others as he found them one by one. My heart sped up as I heard footsteps moving close. closer to my room. I remember grinning and holding my breath as my door flung open,

and I saw my cousin's feet walk by my bed. Then I was falling. Have you seen that old Disney movie Alice in Wonderland? There's a scene of Alice falling down the rabbit hole. It was a bit like that. I fell for so long that after a while I felt like I was floating. The pit does have a bottom. as I soon learned, and it was not like the checkered floor Alice landed on.

The floor I landed on was soft and spongy. I was in a daze for a second before panic flooded my senses. Scrambling to my feet, I looked up and could see a faint outline of light from above. I heard my cousin calling, but his voice was muffled and unclear. It was as if he was miles away. I screamed as loud as I could. I scrambled up the walls, yelling all the while, but I kept falling down. I tried climbing for a long time.

Every time I fell, I got up and tried again. I could get back up there. I knew that for a fact. I climbed the trees around my house thousands of times with ease. Why should this be any different? The thing about the pit, though, is that it was not like my home and I learned that comparing them was useless.

Looking up again, I noticed something I had not before and it was here that I felt true despair for the first time. The light was slowly fading, complete darkness. The screaming and spectacle I made of myself after this event was truly horrific. I threw myself at the wall, surrounding me. I stomped on the floor and clawed at my hair. I couldn't breathe and I felt tears rolling down

my face. I threw up. I choked on my bile. It didn't take long for all my energy to die off, and I slid to the floor as a shaking, shuddering mess. I didn't want to accept my situation. It was too bizarre, too strange to try and figure out. I tucked my head into my knees and hugged myself, doing my best to block everything out. I've always been stubborn and have been told by my father more than once that I could ignore anything

if I felt it was an inconvenience to my life. When my little brother was born, it took me six months to acknowledge his existence, so this wasn't an exaggeration of my personality. I did my best to convince myself I had fallen asleep under my bed, and that this was just a weird dream. What other explanation was there? I've hit under my bed countless times, and this hole had never been there.

I may have been a child, but I knew that holes didn't magically appear underneath beds. No, this was a nightmare, and I would wake up soon. The air in the pit was humid and stunk of decay. It was unpleasantly hot and I was soon sweating through my shirt. The walls and the floor were warm and damp. I only noticed after I had calmed down that the walls would slowly expand and retract. The floor was bumpy and every now and then I could feel it twitching. Strangely, it felt like I was sitting in someone's throat.

It was completely dark inside the pit. Even after I lifted my head and allowed my eyes to adjust, there was nothing but darkness. My other senses went into overdrive to compensate. The awful smell that permeated in the pit was so strong I could taste it in my mouth. My ears picked up every little squishing sound from the walls and something else. Breathing. It was soft, but once I heard it, I could not stop here. hearing it. It sounded like it was coming from every direction. And hesitantly, I reached out into the

darkness. Almost immediately my hand touched two small lumps, and I froze. The lumps parted, and I felt hot air tickled my fingers before a dry tongue lapped at them. I wasn't alone in the pit. I shrieked and jerked my hand back. I tried my best to move away, but the pit isn't big. It's about the size of a shed and circular in shape. I moved using the wall as a guide and ended up walking back into the thing I was trying to get away from. I froze, waiting for it to move, scream, attack anything. But nothing happened.

I could still hear it breathing, but it was. wasn't moving. I waited for the thing to move, but it never did. I thought about calling out, to see if it was friendly, but I was afraid. Just because I couldn't see it didn't mean it couldn't see me, for all I knew it was staring right at me, licking its lips, waiting for me to sleep so it could kill me without a fuss. Did it fall down here like I did?

I couldn't feel any doors along the walls. As far as I could tell, the only way out was up and that opening was gone. I thought I was trapped in the pit with no escape. I thought I would be shut in the darkness until I wasted away or the thing became restless and killed me. Thankfully, I was wrong, and after some time had passed, the faint circle of light from above returned. My first thought was to start climbing again, but my curiosity was piqued, and as my eyes adjusted,

I took in my surroundings as best as I could. The floor was still too dark to see, but the walls looked like a red and pinkish white, like the color of muscles in the murky light. There were strange bulges sticking out of the walls, and I couldn't tell what they were. Some were hard, some were soft. The texture and the way the wall moved made me wonder if I was inside something alive. A flash of movement caught my eye, and I found myself looking at the thing. It was a girl about my age.

Maybe she used to be pretty, but she wasn't anymore. Her hair was black and was tied into two braids, each falling down on wood. one side of her neck. Her skin was a pale gray and rotting off in several places. Her lips were as blue as her eyes. She saw me looking at her and smiled, showing off her rotten teeth. She waved to me, and I saw her hand was missing two fingers at the knuckles. She was wearing a ragged nightgown. It looked old, like something my mother would have worn to bed as a child. I gulped and shuddered. She was repulsive looking, but she hadn't tried to attack me.

I didn't see anyone else in the pit, and even in her state, she made no move towards me. After a long staring contest, I decided to take a chance and see if she was friendly. I didn't have much of a choice. She was the only other person down here. I tried talking to her. I asked her what was going on, where we were and if there was a way out. She gave me a sad look and shook her head. At first, I thought she was implying she didn't know, but then she opened her mouth.

I could see her lips moving, and I knew she was talking, but no words came out of her mouth. Not even a whisper. There was just putrid air brushing across my face. This is how I learned about the first rule in the pit. Occupants cannot verbally talk to each other. I think the pit is alive, but I have no proof. Living or not, I know it has a mean streak. In my time here, I have discovered all sorts of strange laws that defy what I had been taught.

The passage of time and the inability to speak to others were just the beginning. In the pit, your body doesn't grow. My mind has progressed beyond nine years of age, but my body's stagnated. The only thing my body does is rot. It's a slow process, but it's painless. I didn't even realize it was happening until I ran my fingers through my hair and came back with a chunk of scalp. In the pit, there is no physical pain, no hunger nor thirst.

nothing but a numbness that sets in over time. Sometimes objects fall into the pit when the light comes. Toys, shoes, books, clothes, typical things you'd find under our bed, though I've noticed more electronics have been falling down. Every now and then something of worth falls down. Not long after I fell, another occupant came down and with her a journal. In the faint light, the three of us were able to have a small conversation by the grace of paper and pen.

The decaying girl I learned was named Abigail, and she had been in the pit since 1964. She had this strange habit of nudging my shoulder every now and then. I'm not sure why. Maybe she was just reminding herself she wasn't alone anymore. Abigail was the one who told me the many names the pit goes by. She wrote, as quickly as someone lacking several fingers could, about how she had crawled under her bed to grab a fallen doll when she had been swallowed up.

She was ten. The newest victim of the pit was a seven-year-old who went by Kayla. She wasn't as scared as I had been when I had fallen. She had crawled under her bed to hide from her dog. dad because he was on a drunken rampage. Anything was better than that home, she wrote to us in childish letters. She told us she had been praying to be taken away, and her prayers had been answered as far as she was concerned. The current date was 2002.

It felt like I had been here two days, but I had fallen down on a cold night in 1998. It was just the three of us, but that didn't. really mean much. Once the pit went dark, we had no way of communicating except her touch. Abigail would shake us once in a while, as if she was afraid we had fallen asleep. The next time the light came, Kayla was gray, and her journal was damp from the humidity. Despite the damage, we still wrote. I learned that Abigail had lived in Maryland. Kayla was from Texas. I had come from New England. The pit never stays in one place.

I noticed Abigail's head dipping slightly and asked her if she was tired. She became panicked at the question and told us that under no circumstances should we fall asleep down here. If you fall asleep, you lose, she wrote. I prodded her further, but she refused to say any more on the subject. And we spent the rest of the time trying to climb up before the light faded. climbing up the walls was not easy. The humidity made them wet and it was hard to keep a grip. Abigail had the most difficulties.

Her hands were in a bad state and her feet weren't much better. I gave her a boost on my shoulders more than once, but she never made it far even with the help. Yet for all her handicaps, she had the most drive to leave out of all of us. Kayla was in better condition than either of us. She was quick and could scale the walls like a squirrel. I think out of all of us she could have gotten out if she had really wanted to. Kayla is the only kid I've seen come close to liking the pit.

Her biggest fear wasn't being stuck in the pit. It was her father's anger. For most, the pit is a prison. For Kayla, it was an escape. When the dark came back, I would grab the girl's hands. It was a habit I picked up. A sad attempt to remind myself I wasn't alone. It was only after I calmed down and could hear them breathing that I let go.

I spent my time sitting and staring into nothing. Feeling Abigail nudged me every now and then. Sometimes I would sing or talk to myself to remind myself that I could. The most underestimating quality about the pit is the sheer boredom. To fight off the boredom, I often went deep into my thoughts. I replayed my favorite memories in my head and pretended I was back with my family. I became an expert at living in my dreams. I daydreamed so deeply I never noticed Abigail's breathing becoming fainter

or her nudges becoming weaker before her hand slipped away forever. The next time the light came, Abigail was gone. Kayla and I looked for her and found parts of her sticking out of the wall. The pit devours those that give up and become sleepy. This terrifying revelation sent me into overdrive, and the next time the dark came I remained vigilant. I tried to keep Kayla awake, but she was younger than me, and she had no desire to get out of the pit.

She went peacefully into the wall not long after Abigail, leaving her journal with me. Many children came after Kayla. Boys and girls all between the ages of four and twelve. I did my best to explain the pit, but the pages of Kayla's journal had become so wet that the ink was smeared beyond recognition. Other random objects fell through with some of the kids.

Most were useless, but a working flashlight that had fallen in was a blessing. It didn't last long. I was careful not to waste the batteries, but the strange passage of time in the pit corroded them. I never even felt the battery acid on my hands. Still, I took advantage of it while I had it. The bright light blinded me for some time, but when my eyes adjusted, I finally got a good look at my prison. A far better look than the faint light from above ever granted me. The walls in the floors were a fleshy red, with the limbs of tired children sticking out. The strange lumps in the

wall were objects and children that had been sucked in. Moving the light along the wall, I saw that an old occupant had placed several objects strategically on the wall to act as climbing holds. For the first time in ages, excitement gripped me and I felt hope. I stayed by that part of the wall, and the next time the light came, I climbed up the wall as fast as I could. It took ages. I slipped several times but caught myself with the holds. I knew the pit had slowly been zapping my energy over time. I never knew how much until that climb, but it didn't meant. It out because I did it. I reached the top. My hands went over the pit's rim, and I felt the coolness of a hardwood floor. My fingers may have been slowly rotting off and losing feeling, but I remember how

the wooden floors of my home felt under my feet. I could never mistake it. My heart was beating so fast, I thought it would fall out of my chest. I pulled myself up and I was halfway out. I struggled to get all the way out but stopped to gain some of my strength back. It was a long climb and the floor felt amazing against my chest. It took me a moment to focus on my surroundings. Wherever I was, it was a dark, cramped space. It took my hand brushing against some toys to realize where I was. I was under a bed.

I saw a nightlight out of the corner of my eye, and I admired the soothing light. The nightlight flickered, and the pit jerked me back. It felt like I was being dragged into a strong current, like someone was grabbing my ankles and pulling. It would let up every now and then and come back stronger whenever the light flickered.

I began to panic and tried to crawl out all the way, redoubling my efforts. The nightlight was, dying and I was being sucked back into the pit. Right before the light burned out, I spotted something, a hand dangling over the bed. I didn't stop to think. I grabbed the hand just as the light died. For a moment, I thought they'd help pull me up, but the hand jerked away violently at my touch. As the pit dragged me back down, I heard a scream over the rushing blood in my ears. I never made it that far out again.

As far as I know, no one has ever escaped the pit. The closest I've seen besides myself was an eight-year-old boy called Kai. He knew gymnastics and was extremely fast and flexible. His experience was almost the same as mine. He was halfway out before he was jerked back. Using the sketch pad he had always kept on him, he told me he had been under someone's bed. He saw a hand hanging on the side of the bed and grabbed it,

but the person shook him off. The only difference between our experiences was he didn't see a nightlight. The only light he saw was from the closet, but the bulb had burnt out and he had been dragged back down. It made me wonder if the light we see from the top of the pit and from nightlights and other low lights people keep on at night. I really did think Kai would make it out, but the pit seemed to have sucked up all his energy,

and he went the same way as Kayla did. I haven't given up yet, but I think I will also end up sleeping for an eternity in the pit. I'm getting tired, and after thinking it over, it is impossible to leave thanks to the pit's final and truest rule. You can't get out without help. I used to have silly fears, universal fears that everyone has,

like trying to outrun the dark after flipping off the light switch, hiding under the blanket to protect oneself from monsters, or making sure a hand or foot is, isn't hanging off the bed, so it can't be grabbed by something. I think we've all thought about that grimy, cold hand reaching out from beneath the bed. But I promise you, we're not trying to pull you down. We're trying to get out. We thank you for being with us for our devilishly dark tales.

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