The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E02

Episode Date: April 17, 2016

It's episode 2 of Season 7. On this week's show we have six tales about sickening cyberspace, woeful waiting, and unsettling understanding. "The Pocket Watch" written by C.K.Walker and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:03:30) "I Have the Touch" written by Greg Cypress and performed by Dan Zappulla & Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:13:45) "Soundman" written by Zach Owen and performed by Jesse Cornett & Atticus Jackson & Carrsan Morrissey & Elie Hirschman & James Cleveland. (Story starts at 00:37:00) "An Internet Mystery" written by Kevin Sharp and performed by David Ault & Nikolle Doolin & Dan Zappulla & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts at 01:02:45) "Social Media" written by Matt Dymerski and performed by Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:25:45) "If You Want to Live, Look Down" written by Click here to learn more about Henry Galley and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jeff Clement & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:51:20) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here for The NoSleep Podcast Media Page  Click here to learn more about C.K.Walker  Click here to learn more about Kevin Sharp  Click here to learn more about Matt Dymerski  Click here to learn more about Henry Galley  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement "Social Media" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath Audio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Be forewarned, 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. 7. Episode 2. The Pocket Watch. I have the touch. Sound man.

An internet mystery, social media. If you want to live, look down. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about sickening cyberspace, woeful waiting, and unsettling understanding. I'm happy to announce a new member of the No Sleep family.

Well, he's not exactly new, he's been a regular contributor for quite a while now. But all the legal papers are complete, signed with blood and other bodily fluids, and we're proud to welcome Jeff Clement as a new No Sleep producer. You know Jeff's great work from his recent series about that darn Danny character, and we're glad that Jeff will be contributing regular story productions from now on, including this episode's Final Tale. Jeff hails from the greater Toronto area, as do I, so our Canadian content remains true north, strong and free.

So we welcome Jeff to his new official role and look forward to many more tales produced by his capable hands and ears. I also want to make sure everyone is aware of some of our most recent appearances in the media. There have been two articles featuring the No Sleep podcast, publishing. in the last few weeks. Lots of people are taking note of the rise of horror fiction in the podcast medium. I also had the pleasure of being interviewed on the Human Echoes podcast last week. Albert Berg and Tony Southcott hosts the show, and they had me on to talk about the podcast and how we bring our particular brand of horror to life.

And last but certainly not least, the excellent podcast Sampler featured the No Sleep podcast on their live. latest episode. Sampler is hosted by Brittany Luce, and it's a show which features samples of various podcasts. Episode 11 highlighted the scarier side of podcasting, and one of our season three stories was mentioned. If you want to learn more about all the places our show has been mentioned by others, check out our No Sleep Media page. Just head on over to media.com and check out the no sleeppodcast.com, and check out the articles and podcasts. And now let's give people more things to talk and write about by starting this week's show.

In our first tale, we meet a family struggling with the hardships of war and famine. As explained by author C.K. Walker, the family is destitute. Their struggle for survival forces them to consider parting with a precious family heirloom in order to survive. Performing this tale are David Alt and Erica Sanderson. So hold dear to those things precious to you. They may be worth more than the pocket watch. I was the eldest of five, and so it was my job to make sure that I always let my brothers and sisters eat before me. War was inching inward from the coast, and as it marched closer, our food grew scarcer. Animals fled the area or was slaughtered and consumed in panic by the other families in our village.

My father was a wise and cautious man, and so we waited to slaughter our two chickens until the fall, when grass and tree bark had become too hard to find or inedible. The other families knew we had chickens, and father stayed up all night every night to watch over them. He had to kill at least one boy from a neighboring town who had gone mad with hunger and tried to burn down our small home with a burning branch. When the chickens were not but bones, and the bones had grown brittle and porous from mother's many soups, my parents sent my two eldest siblings and I out to collect bugs and field mice for supper.

We were hungry, but not quite starving, until one morning we woke to the first frost, and there was nothing alive left to eat. My parents began to discuss the inevitable. Perhaps my father should go to the coast and sell his, his father's pocket watch to one of the drunken but well-paid soldiers. It was the only thing we had of value, and the only family heirloom my father had to pass down to me.

I didn't want him to go. I was afraid war would arrive while he was gone, and I was too young and too weak to protect my mother and younger siblings. I begged him to stay, but he insisted it would be all right and promised to be back within two weeks. I was so afraid, and when he and mother... were outside preparing his satchel. I smashed the pocket watch under my foot and placed it back in my

father's half-rotted desk. My mother cried for days. Father did as best to comfort her as I watched them peel the leather from my father's boots and boil the hide for dinner. The next night mother found a dead rat and boiled away the disease with the new fallen snow from outside. In the evening after that she filled our bellies with rat bones and more melted snow. My little brother Albert kept everyone awake that night, crying over his hunger. He begged for all the things we'd eaten when we had a garden and animals, beef stew, white rolls, succulent corn and spiced lamb. He made all of our stomachs moan and torture us, and I soon screamed at him to be quiet while my mother sobbed from her room. Father stroked Albert's hair for hours, and then went back into his and mother's bedroom, shutting the door behind.

him. Albert moaned until the thin light of dawn peeked through our threadbare curtains. I could hear father in his room tinkering with the watch. My hunger had long worn out my fierce soldiers and I silently prayed that he could repair it. Father worked on the pocket watch all through the day and into the night. Celia had found dead crickets in the walls of the abandoned bakery and as we ate them, father emerged from his bedroom with mother right behind. The smile on his face was one I had almost forgotten, as I'd not seen it since the day my youngest sister was born. He told us that he had repaired a grandfather's watch and that he'd heard of a soldier encampment nearby. Three days, three days and I'll return with carrots and lamb, oh, and roll so big they'll fill your bellies for a year.

Clapped our hands in delight and ran around our small dirt yard. with a delight and glee that seemed a foreign language to us. Father said that we were all to help Mother find beautiful things with which to dress the table. The next morning, he gave us all a piece of rubber from the soul of Mother's shoes to chew on, and he sent us out on our mission after kissing us goodbye and promising to be back before we'd remembered he'd left. We had such fun that day, gathering horseshoes and shards of broken glass. We threaded bits of twine through the horseshoes to have. hang above the table and tied the glass to the ends, hoping they would shimmer in the lamp light.

We returned home as the sunset, happy with our day's work and eager to return to it tomorrow. We weren't yet in sight of home when I first smelled it. Onions, chicken broth, spiced lamb, even sweets. I ran as fast as I could, dropping our table dressings carelessly along the way in my maddening pursuit for food. I burst through the door to find mother at the stove, preparing our meal in a quiet reverence. I threw my arms around her and asked if father was home already. Yes, my love. He had chance to meet a wealthy mercenary on the road, who was only too happy to buy your grandfather's watch. I hooked her even tighter and sat down at the table as my brothers and sisters came spilling through the doorway.

They found their places quickly, hungry, expectant looks upon their faces. Father came out of the bedroom and took his seat at the end of the table as mother brought over a steaming platter of spiced, boiled lamb. She nodded at us and we filled our hands with the rich meat, hardly bothering with our plates. After dinner, we were sent to bed with full tummies, barely a word having been said by anyone since our dinner had been set to table. We ate our fill the next night and the next and the next. But as our foodstock started to dwindle, so did mother's health. Each day bled more out of her until we were left fighting over scraps of raw meat,

while our mother lay weak and wilting nearby. The first night I went again without food was the night that the hazy, happy ether began to lift, and my memories of the past few days became confusing. I'd recalled that the spiced lamb I'd consumed with such ferocity, had actually been sickly sweet, and the accompaniments I'd first smelled from afar had never been brought to table. I couldn't remember mother eating anything in all the days since father had returned. Instead, she'd sat quietly next to us at the table, staring at the pile of grey meat we consumed with such fervour. And father, I couldn't recall hearing his voice since the morning

he'd left for the soldier encampment. His chair had sat empty night after night. And as the peripherals of my memory formed shape, I couldn't be entirely sure he'd ever been there at all. At least not since the morning he'd cut pieces of rubber from mother's shoes at the table. Frightened and starved, I didn't find sleep until the darkest hours of the night. The following morning, when mother emerged from her room, I asked where father had gone. She told me he'd left to become a soldier and sent us out to peel bark off of the bushes in the forest. father never returned perhaps the reason i didn't realize what happened back then was because it was too awful to consider and i was so very hungry

when mother died a few days ago and in death she thrust the truth upon me from her stock of mega possessions i was bequeathed a small box that contained nothing more than a shiny broken pocket watch perhaps she wanted me to remember it all the only hope of our survival that I'd smashed under my heel. My father's last loving hug before he sent us to collect dressings for the feast, the overly seasoned grey meat, and the rancid smell that it began wafting out from under mother's door, becoming more pungent each day. My father's sacrifice more for his family than most ever would.

I used to lament that I had nothing to remember him by, no family heirloom to pass down to my own children. but now I have his pocket watch, a thing I cannot give to my children. Not because the glass is shattered, not because the gears are cracked. I cannot part with the watch because it is a curse that I must bear. But the shiny contorted metal has never lost the sickening smell of that sweet, silvery meat. We all have our secrets, and we can be thankful that most of them can be kept hidden from others. But in this tale from author Greg Cyprus, we meet a man who has the ability

to see the inner secrets of anyone he comes in contact with. The things he learns proves that this ability is more curse than blessing. Performing this tale are Dan Zepula, Jessica McAvoy, and Nicole Doolin. So make sure you stay away from anyone who claims, I have the touch. Have you ever seen that movie The Dead Zone? It's based on a Stephen King novel. It's pretty good. If you've seen it, you know that it's about a guy named Johnny,

who finds himself with the incredible power to know things just by touching people or objects. He gets these visions of things he couldn't possibly know about the person or object he's touching. If he were to touch you, he could tell you if your surgery is going to go well, or if your children are safe, that sort of thing. I don't know where Stephen King got the idea, but this is a situation where truth mirrors fiction. Ever since I was a little kid, I've had almost the exact same psychic ability

as Johnny does in the dead zone. When I touch someone or something, I can see into their lives, learn things that they would never tell me voluntarily. You'd think this could be a pretty cool ability. It certainly made things excited, for Johnny, and I won't lie and say it hasn't made my life more interesting. Lately, though, I'd trade it away for one cornship if I had the chance.

Take, for example, the first memory I have of using my power. I was five, maybe six years old, and my dad had picked me up as he came in from work. Suddenly, I could see him, plain as day, standing in his office with his pants around his ankles. Someone, I assume a co-worker, was on their knees in front of him. I had no idea what was going on, and I didn't understand what I was seeing, but it didn't stop me from blurting out, Daddy, why was that man brushing his teeth with your pee at the dinner table that night? I remember the room going quiet then, and immediately feeling like I'd done something wrong. My mom sent me to my room, and for the rest of the night, I could hear my parents fighting through the walls of my bedroom.

my parents divorced shortly after that. I know a lot of kids with divorced parents blame themselves, and I know it's not my fault that my dad cheated on my mom with another guy, but I feel a little bit responsible. My dad hadn't exactly covered his tracks well, but my mom told me years later that she'd been willing to deal with it until the day I found out. She didn't want my dad's infidelity to taint my image of marriage or whatever.

Once the cat was out of the bag, like our suitcases were packed for a long vacation at grandmas. Maybe if I kept my mouth shut, we'd still be a family, if a dysfunctional one. Don't get me wrong, I'm not seeing what my dad did was right, but my dad isn't some kind of monster. Monsters are way worse. Maybe if my dad had been around, things would have been different. I might not have grown up to resent my mom for always talking shit about him and might have listened to her when she told me Kirsten was no good for me.

Kirsten was my first girlfriend. She was the quote-unquote badass chick at my high school. Leather jacket, fishnets, black lipstick. You know the type. She was a year older than me, but we were in the same grade after she was held back a year for delinquency and attendance problems. She was the one that put me on the career path I'm on today. We've been dating for a few months.

It was that awkward freshman sort of dating that involved going to the movies and holding hands and beating around the bush about going any further than that. Even at the time it was surprising given her reputation. The other girls talked about how many guys she'd had sex with and how she was constantly blowing dudes in the boys' locker room. And I didn't really care about all that when I asked her out, though I have to admit a part of me was hopeful that she would be my ticket to sex town.

As it turned out, she was really shy and reserved behind closed doors, despite her wardrobe and makeup. I kind of liked that about her. It was like there was a special Kirsten that nobody knew, all for me. I doubted even her parents knew about that side of her, considering we never spent any time at her house. Things changed on our official three-month anniversary, and it's silly, but we decided to make a thing out of it. We went to the movies and then to dinner, and then dancing at a shitty little nightclub in our town that catered to the underage crowd called Pearl. It was a really nice time, and come nine o'clock, my current was a good time.

at the time was 9.30, I really didn't want to go home. Kirsten walked me home, holding my hand and making me laugh the whole way. When we got to my house, we stopped, lingering in the warmth of each other's company. I looked into her eyes and decided it was time. I leaned in and kissed her, and she kissed me back. And I watched, as her dad, drunk out of his wits, laid into her mom with the belt. I watched her mom crying and scrambling to get away. I watched her pass out and everything went black for me then. I pulled away from Kirsten shocked. I had no idea what happened. And by this time, I'd forgotten about how I ever knew about my dad's affair. Kirsten smiled and laughed a little. She blushed and pulled me in to kiss me again. And again, I was in her parents' house. Her dad passed

out drunk on the bed. Her mom sat in a chair at the kitchen table, a gun in her hand. She put the gun in her mouth and I forced myself to pull away from Kirsten's lips. You have to get home. What's wrong? I don't have any time to explain. You just have to get home. You have to stop your mom.

I started to push her away from me. I wasn't violent about it, just insistent. She looked like she was about to cry and she ran off down the street. and in the meantime I ran into the house and scrambled for the phone. I dialed 911 and as I frantically put the receiver to my ear, my mom pressed her finger down on the cradle switch, hanging the phone up and ending the call. You're late.

She looked grim and disappointed. No, I'm not. My curfew's 9.30. There was no time for this. Well, now your curfew is 9. Go to your room and get ready for bed. I certainly hope you finished your homework if you have time to let that girl put her tongue in your mouth. I stared at my mother, dumbfounded. This was unlike her, even when it came to Kirsten.

I considered telling her that there was literally a life on the line, but she'd never have believed me. I barely believed it myself. She pointed hard at the stairs, giving me a stern look that said she meant business. And defeated, I hung up the phone, and went. into my room. 20 minutes later, I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Had I hallucinated? Was Kirsten's mom going to be okay? What was going to happen? This was all before I had my own cell phone, so it wasn't like I could call the police in private, and my mom had likely disabled the kitchen phone. The only other phone in the house was in her bedroom, and she was a notoriously

light sleeper. It was impossible. The next day, Kirsten wasn't at school. The rumor mill worked overtime that day. One rumor was that she was pregnant, another that she was dead, but I knew the truth. And I dreaded it, but I knew. By the time lunch period came, I was a wreck. I couldn't stand it any longer, and I took off. I'd never been inside Kirsten's house, but I knew where it was. I left school grounds and headed to my girlfriend's side, whatever the outcome.

By the time I arrived, the police had come and gone. gone. I could tell by the remnants of police tapes still hanging around the house. Kirsten was sat out on the front porch. I could tell she'd been crying, but what really caught my attention was the bruise on her face. It looked like she'd spent 14 seconds in the octagon with Rhonda Rousey. She looked up at me, and I knew. I knew I'd been right. I sat next to her in silence and took her hand. You knew. Yeah.

How did you know? Her eyes were fixed on her shoelaces. I honestly don't know. We kissed and... I paused. My mouth had suddenly gone dry. And I saw it. I saw it happen. I'm so sorry I couldn't stop it. Time I got home, she was already gone. There was nothing anyone could have done.

I'm so, so sorry. I put my arm around her and she just lay her head on my shoulder. She didn't cry. I couldn't tell if she was just past the point of crying or she didn't want to cry in front of me. And once again, I felt somehow responsible for a tragic event in which someone lost a parent. I was working up quite a track record. Still, that didn't matter. What mattered was that my girlfriend had just lost her mom.

Who cared if I had some free... freaky psychic power. But apparently, Kirsten cared. She cared quite a bit as I found out later that night. We were at the local diner picking at a plate of fries and trying to distract ourselves from what had happened. As I sucked down the last of my milkshake, she gave me the most intense look out of nowhere. Have you ever done it before?

Done... Done what? I choked on my milkshake. Was she really thinking about sex at a time? time like this? What you did last night, how you saw? Oh, uh, thinking about it, I'd done it a few times. I guess I hadn't realized it.

Yeah, once with my dad a couple times in elementary school. Why? Do you think you could control it? You know, do it at will? I guess so. I've never really tried. Is it just a people thing? Can you do it to objects?

These days, I suspect she'd seen the dead zone. Both, yeah. Here. She slid her fork my way. Try it. I picked the fork up and looked at it. Nothing happened. I raised an eyebrow at Kirsten, questioning what the point was.

I had some freaky power, but it's not like I was one of the X-Men or something. This diner was most certainly not the Xavier Institute for Gifted. children. She gave me a stern look that was unnervingly similar to my mother's. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the fork. Images flooded into my head and I was suddenly in the diner's kitchen. One of the cooks hadn't washed his hands after going to the bathroom. A busboy had been stealing waitress's tips for weeks. The veggie burgers weren't even vegetarian friendly. I shook my head, putting the fork down and pulling myself back into my own mind space. I was out of breath and sweating slightly. Kirsten smiled back at me for the first time all day.

It worked. It was all I could manage. What did you see? We should tip the waitress directly, and there's meat in the veggie burger. I chose to leave out the part about the cook. I'd spare her that one. I have an idea. She took me by the hand and dragged me out of the diner, paying the bill with tip directly to the waitress on the way out. She pulled me down the street. She pulled me down the street, towards her house holding my hand tightly. I struggled to keep up and nearly fell over a couple of times. She didn't seem to notice or care. When we arrived at her house, I pulled my hand away.

What are you doing? I hated to be confrontational all things considered, but I was getting frustrated. I have an idea. Wait here. She ran into the house. She came back out a few minutes later and handed me a small plastic card. There was a bank logo on the front, and her dad's name was on it. Is this your dad's ATM card? Yes.

See what you can get off of it. What? Use your thing, your powers. Maybe you can get his pin number. For a moment, I considered giving the card back to her and taking off. I considered running home to my mother and never looking back. But then I looked at Kirsten, and it was something behind her excitement. It looked like desperation.

I remembered how it felt when I couldn't see my dad anymore, and he was still alive. I thought about how awful my mother could be, how much she tried to stop me from being with Kirsten. I closed my eyes and focused on the car. I was in a strip club a few towns over. Kirsten's dad was trying to get a lap dance from a stripper. She had chlamydia. He went to the ATM for some cash. I saw him press four numbers.

9, 7, 8. You're sure. Positive. And that was how I got started in my life of crime. We went to the ATM that night and cleaned her dad out. Thankfully, he didn't have a daily limit on ATM withdrawals, so we walked away with almost 30 grand. We skipped town together a few days later,

running away from home and never looking back. We got by for years, pulling the same scheme over and over. She'd get me a card, I'd get the numbers, we'd withdraw as much as we could, and get the hell out of dodge. It wasn't an honest living, but we were happy. We were free. And besides, anyone with fraud insurance probably got reimbursed by the bank anyway. That was almost ten years ago, and until recently, everything's been going great. We had enough money to stay in nice places, eat good food, and wear nice clothes.

We kept our money in odd places, a coffee, can, a cigar box, places like that, because we knew we couldn't trust the banks. And besides, a bank account is a paper trail. And by this point, we'd definitely go to prison if we got caught. Unfortunately, some time last year, Kirsten got into drugs. We'd gone to one of those barnyard graves out in the boonies, and someone offered her a ton of ketamine. Her pockets were lined with money to burn, so she went for it. Look, I can't judge her. I've made my fair share of but decisions. Something about it, though, stuck with her. A few days later, she went back for more, and again later that week. I was getting concerned for her health, but just as worrisome was the

effect her altered state had on my ability. If I touched her when she was high, I'd end up right there in the high with her. And I don't mean sometimes, or if I try, I mean every single time. The first couple of times, it was kind of neat. I was getting all the benefit without any of the physical drawbacks. After the third or fourth time, however, I noticed that my power didn't work so well afterwards. A few days later, it happened again, and my power completely shut off for a full 24 hours afterwards. And on top of that, I started having these awful dreams. I would dream about my father pants down in his office.

I would dream about Kirsten's mother, gun barrel, in her house. mouth. I would dream about all of the worst visions I'd ever had, but each one of them was wrong. None of the people had any faces, and there were shadows looming on the sidelines. I felt like I was being watched. There were some presents that I couldn't see, but was there nonetheless. One morning, I woke up and she was gone. She'd taken her stuff in most of our money, leaving me with a small stack of wallets and debit cards. She'd left me a note. You have to keep going.

He's coming. You have to keep going. This was three weeks ago. I'd known the drugs were becoming a problem, but I hadn't expected her to just up and vanish and leave me a cryptic note. I tried to use my power on the note to see if I could get some sense of where she'd gone, but all I got was visions of her writing it and packing her things and leaving. Without any leads and having no idea where she got her drugs, I was at a loss.

I'd never been the one to go out and find people. She was the investigator. I was just the weirdo, psychic boyfriend. I spent a couple of days wandering the city looking for her, but I turned up exactly nothing. And the dreams didn't go away. I managed to get a fair bit of money off the card she left me, but I waited too long for most of them, and they've been closed out. I couldn't blame their owners. I mean, they'd made a smart call and good on them for noticing when their shit was missing.

Still, I've had to move into a cheaper hotel room, and I'm living on a diet of instant ramen in order to make this money last. I'm hoping she comes back. Or at least I was hoping she'd come back until last Tuesday. The concierge of the hotel called my room and said I had a package. I was surprised because nobody knew where I was. Part of me thought that Kirsten might have been keeping track of me, and it sent me some money or a few cards to scam. I ran to the front desk to claim the package and ran back to my room before opening it. I got a couple of weird looks from staff in the lobby, but I didn't care.

They don't know me. They can eat shit. I needed to know where my girlfriend was. When I opened the box, I was more than a little confused. Inside was one of those long jewelry boxes, the kind for necklaces or bracelets, and a note. I opened the jewelry box and immediately dropped it onto the bed. A finger. It was a fucking finger. I stepped back hyperventilating.

Why would someone send me a goddamn finger in a jewelry box? I took a step closer to the box that had come in and snatched the note. I read it and nearly passed the hell out. You have to keep going. He's coming. You have to keep going. It was Kirsten's finger. It had to be.

I used my power on the note, but all I got was the same thing as before. And looking again, it was even on the same paper. I searched my things looking for the first note, but I couldn't find it. It was impossible, but this was the same. same note as the day she left. If I wanted any idea of where Kirsten was, I was going to have to pick up that finger. Taking the finger in shaky hands, I fought back the urge to vomit as I closed my eyes and focused on the severed thing. At first, nothing. I took a deep breath and shook my head, redoubling my efforts. I had to find her. Her life may be in danger. And then I was back in the

dark space of a ketamine high, like the highs I had shared with her so many times before. I tried to be frightened, but my mind just couldn't manage it. The high was stronger than it had ever been. There was no fear, no pain. There was barely any thought. It was the closest approximation to being dead that I could imagine. I have no idea when I passed out, but I woke up several hours later on the floor. I was gripping Kirsten's finger so tight that I'd broken it. I vomited in the trash can. That night, my bad dreams were even worse. Many of the people in the dreams were replaced by vague shadows and the ominous presence felt even stronger. I went from feeling unsettled to feeling endangered. Whatever it was that I had been watching me was no longer

content with just watching me. It was pursuing me. I was being chased through my own dream space, and right as I became certain it was about to catch me, I woke up. It's been over a week since that night, and my power hasn't worked at all. Kirsten's finger went missing along with the note. I'm not eating as much. I know I'm never getting her back. Not alive, anyway. I want to wanted so badly to keep the hope alive, the hope that I would see her again, that I would kiss her again. But there's no denying it any longer, because I got another package today. And this one is much, much bigger. When a group of guys are bored enough with their lives in a small town, they look for

any source of excitement. As we learn from author Zach Owen, these friends decide to conjure up the source of an urban legend, an entity they hope to prove real. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Atticus Jackson, Carson, Carson Morrissey, Ellie Hirschman, and James Cleveland. So listen closely. You don't want to miss the arrival of Soundman. They wanted to conjure Soundman. They had done everything. Drag-raced, Huff chemicals slept with each other, though they never talked about it, jumped from borderline, dangerous heights, stolen from the downtown Minimart, burned down a derelict building. Life in suburban squalor was boring. It was time to chase a thrill which had previously eluded

them. Dealings with the supernatural. Ghosts world news. They couldn't take cult seriously, and Most urban legends were either so vague one couldn't be sure just where the characters of such a legend were supposed to be found. Or they were too specifically located to a faraway place, except for one. Sound man. It was rumored that Soundman, for some reason, stalked this particular suburban neighborhood. This particular blue collar, acid-drenched, cocaine, nosebleed, shithole of a town and suburb. Suburbia, USA. It was described as a tall, elusive figure

drawn to strange, repetitive noises, particularly white noise. It was said that he made noises of his own as a sort of announcement of his impending arrival, but nobody was certain what kind of noises those were. So, Billy, Jaliel, and Frankie set up shop in an alleged crack house, clearing away glass, drywall and other detritus,

then checking the building thoroughly for squatters. They posted Mack just inside the front door to keep a lookout for any passerby or police who might interrupt their little experiment. Jaliel and Frankie carried Billy up the stairs, wheelchair and all, and placed him carefully in the center of the top floor. One big empty room, if you didn't include all the junk that had been in the way, Billy watched as Jaliel tested out the equipment. Three ambient noise machines.

One posted in every window. Each had been given a new, fresh out of the package battery, and turned on and off several times, then left on for longer intervals. The settings toggled with until the boys thought the machines were loud and repetitive enough to draw in Soundvan. Sounds good. Where did you get these, Billy? Billy rested his hands on his wheels, his chest rising softly as he took in the atmosphere of the house.

He watched the empty street and his eyes trailed along its length, all the way to the corner where a dim street light did little to comfort anybody. I asked my dad. He basically gives me whatever I asked for, within reason. Your old man is all right. You think this shit is gonna work? I mean, do we even know anybody who's seeing the sound man? I never heard of him from no one until you guys mentioned him last week. It's not the sound man. It's just sound man.

And sure, it'll work. If he's real, what else will we got to do tonight? Smoke weed? Talk about pussy? He laughed. His laugh sounded like he was getting ready to hurl. He always doubled over and held his stomach. Billy thought he looked like an asshole when he laughed.

Man, we do that every weekend. At least this is something new. So what if no sound man exists? At least we can cross it off the bucket list. Yeah. He rolled himself forward, a little closer to the windows. The rhythm of the sound machines was monotonous, but soothing. You saying smoking weed isn't no fun? He puffed out his chest and beat it, howling at the ceiling. I like it fine, but it makes me time. I'd rather crack a beer. He turned his head and eyed the six-pack just in front of Jaliel, who had brought himself down to a crouch.

Do you think Mack mind being down there by himself? To tell you the truth, I think he prefers it. Keeps him a good distance away from Frankie. Hey, fuck you too. Give me a beer, Jalil. Jalil pulled a bottle out of the package and passed it to Frankie, who was pacing impatiently. Gee, thanks.

Give it to Billy. You'll have to get another one. This one is mine. Jaliel pulled another beer out and stood up. He shoved Frankie aside and set the beer on Billy's open palm. Thanks. Billy cracked it open and took a sip. This cheap shit again?

Who bought it? Who do you think? Frankie. Mack stood diligently in the doorframe. He nudged a pebble with his foot and put his cigarette back in his lips. and took a quick puff. He didn't particularly want to be here, but he figured there was nothing else to do

on a Saturday night in this dump. The white noise from above sort of creeped him out and he tried to ignore it. He thought instead about Ashley Gertz. Mack rehearsed giving her his number several times. His cheeks burned and he put the thought out of his head. He was no good with girls. Another quick puff and he was starting to feel a buzz from his cigarette.

He wasn't sure exactly what kept him hanging out with Billy, Frankie, and Jaliel, but he liked them well enough. They were immature, even for their age, but as tight-knit as brothers. A few more puffs than he was already thinking of something else. Mrs. Babcock had threatened to fail him again. That bitch. Despite being stuck in his own thoughts, Jack was vaguely aware of a dripping sound, like rainwater falling from a gutter.

When the fuck is this guy going to show? I'd like to see the fucker so I can get home and do something more interesting. Frankie had a beer in each hand, alternating his sips between the two bottles. Well, you aren't going to know he's coming if you don't shut up, Frankie. They say he sort of announces his presence. I'll keep talking. I like surprises, so I'd rather not hear him coming. Billy continued staring out the window, watching the streetlight, waiting for something to pass under it.

I wish I could remember where I heard of Soundman. It wasn't your brother? No, definitely not my brother. Sorry, Billy. I forgot. It's okay. Billy finished off his beer and tossed the empty bottle on the floor. The sound was jarring. It made a knot form in his stomach.

But it was a sound he made, not sound man. No reason to be nervous. Still, it unnerved him. Jalil went back down on his haunches. He examined the beer and determined he'd rather be sober. Nobody in the group liked to admit it, but it didn't take much for any of them to get drunk. A couple of beers and they were done. He listened carefully, trying to pick up any strange noises.

What kind of sound was he supposed to be listening for? He couldn't be sure, and that frustrated him. Whenever he struggled with something, when he didn't quite know what to expect, he felt a sense of anxiety that was more troubling as the years wore on. It was because of this that he'd finally broke down and got a tutor, much to Frankie's great amusement. Fucked hard,

he'd calm. Frankie spun around, foam leaping out of his beer bottles. Boring! Shut up. Boring! He finally sat down, finishing one of the beers and tossing the bottle at Billy's

clanking them into each other. Hey, don't do that. Why not? Billy didn't answer. Frankie lay on his back and stared at the ceiling which was cracked and rippled with age and decay. The lights from outside illuminated the inside of the house, though poorly, and he saw shadows creep across the ceiling. When he was a child, shadows like these had scared him greatly.

His inability to deal with him often led to his babysitter either sleeping on his floor or allowing him to sleep on the couch while she stayed up and watched TV. A slight creaking caused Frankie to stir from his memory and sit up. It reminded him of something. When is this guy going to show? If he's even real. He tried to disguise the hitch in his voice. Be quiet.

Jalil gave him a stern look. You can keep on telling him, but he'll never listen. A rebel till the end. Mack was thinking about Ashley Gertz again. When she let him get past the first word of his sentence, He wasn't sure. And thinking about it, he couldn't even remember his phone number. He fidgeted, moving a cigarette from one hand to the other.

There was that dripping noise again. He'd always hated the sound of water dripping. Leaky faucets kept him up at night. When a rainy night calmed into a drizzle, it often left him feeling slightly nauseous. He wasn't sure why, and he determined he had somehow. associated this sound with uneasiness. Frankie had begun pacing again. He didn't dare look at the shadows on the ceiling. Would you sit down? Pausing for a moment, Frankie's foot collided with a beer bottle and knocked it against the wall. Frankie looked genuinely upset.

Sorry. When is this guy gonna show? Stop saying that. And what's he gonna do anyway? Is he supposed to kill people? I mean... If we really believe in this thing, maybe we should... I don't think he kills people. I mean, I never... Billy stumbled. He backed his wheelchair away from the window and parked in a deeper part of the room. Jaliel strained his ears, listening for something he thought he'd heard earlier but couldn't be sure.

Mowing. A deep, tortured yowling that told him and was a starving feral cat. Desperate for food. He tugged it. his shirt collar. Do you guys hear that cat? No. I don't hear it.

The counterwalling continued, and Jaliel listened intently. You don't hear it? No, man, nothing. But maybe the noise machines are just too loud. Frankie went to the windows, one after the other, and turned the machines down. Billy winced at the sound. I didn't do anything, man. You know what?

Why don't you just turn those things off? Sure. Jaliel listened for the cat. After only a moment of silence, he heard it again. Its yowling sounded so painful. You guys really don't hear that cat? It's loud as hell. No, Jaliel, I don't...

Wait, do you think maybe it's him? Billy gripped his wheels. Jaliel shook his head. I don't know. Maybe? Guys, I'm going home, okay? I'm going. Frankie walked over to Jaliel and put a hand on his shoulder.

Stay. It's okay. We're here. But even as he said this, he felt ill at ease. He looked around the room. No, I really think I have to go, you two. I'll see you later. Oh, man, Jaliel, don't go. Just... Billy put up a silencing hand. No, let him go. Jalal offered a shrug and hurried out of the room.

Mack dropped his cigarette as Jaliel blew past him. Jesus, you just got me shitless, man. What's going on? I have to go. Okay. Mack thought about picking up his cigarette. It was his last one, but he decided he didn't need to be any more hopped up. He wasn't feeling it.

Anxiety seemed to be making a nest in his hands. hands and chest. He took a deep breath. There was that dripping noise again. It began to drive all recurring thoughts out of his head. Ashley Gertz, Mrs. Babcock, school, everything right out of his head, replaced by this maddening, persistent dripping noise. As the creaking noise continued, Frankie began to think about just why it bothered him. The source. Most people had no memories from when they were a baby, but he was different. There was one uncanny memory of his that wouldn't leave him no matter how many years passed. Sometimes he wondered if he'd made it up. He couldn't remember anything else about being a baby. Sure, his parents, when they were around,

told him a little bit about what he was like, things that happened, but he couldn't remember any of it. Except this one thing. He stared out of his crib, his eyes searching between the wooden slats for the cause of the sound. They settled finally on a shape on the far side of his crib, vague for a moment, but then steadily more clearer. A leering face watched him through the slats and ugly hands. gripped the bedposts. The fingers were hairy and large, wrapped tightly around the wood, shaking it steadily, causing a never-ending creaking noise. The face, as Frankie might describe it now, was ape-like. Two large bright eyes with an orange-yellow tinge staring intently at him.

The mouth of the thing opened slightly, lips parting to reveal. feel two rows of black teeth. God, I think to shake the bed, feeding the unending creaking sounds. Frankie stood next to Billy and found he couldn't control his breath. I think. Billy, I think.

Billy felt his teeth grinding, his neck tightening. He hated that sound, and it wouldn't go away. Billy, I think. Are you doing that? Are you making that noise just to fuck with me? No, Billy. Are you sure? Because I swear to God. Billy, he's here. Frankie's shaky hand found Billy's back and clutched it. The air grew warm.

He could feel the food at the bottom of his stomach sloshing in beer. The sweat on his brow beginning to trickle. Billy remained quiet. They both looked at the door and waited. There was nothing there, but they waited for the door to open and the space behind it to be filled. It came crashing off the hinges. Mack was flung through it as if he weighed nothing. His face beaten purple and black. He landed just beside Billy's wheelchair, blood drooling out of his misshapen skull.

He had no ears, only bloody holes. figure stood in the door. Gigantic. It stepped into the room and straightened its posture. Its head touching the ceiling. The thing, the man, was nearly featureless, a mere outline, semi-transparent, a pinkish blur. Something about it gave the impression of trapped, frenzied energy waiting to escape. Billy and Frankie were frozen, quiet.

The air was torrid, wanted to scream. Frankie tried to ignore the memory of that face from so long ago. He kept glancing at the lifeless Mac. Finally, he opened his mouth and spewed a soup of beer and deep-fried garbage. Frankie? There was more, but it never left his mouth. Soundman crossed the room in only a few strides. He reached for Frankie with an open hand so big

it would have seemed ridiculous in circumstances void of threat. But here it was a horrific mass of fingers coming to snuff Frankie out. The hand closed around his head and his ears filled with creaking. Then he felt a tremendous pressure and his skull came apart. Billy tried to back away but his wheels snagged on something. His eyes filled with tears. He screamed. The wheelchair would not cooperate.

He steered and fumbled, and it skidded a few inches and came to a dead hall. Soundman gripped Billy's neck and lifted him from the chair, bringing him to face level. The sound was so overpowering, Billy almost faded. A message was delivered to him. Soundman didn't speak

He didn't have a mouth to do so But Billy heard his message loud and clear He understood Soundman released Billy And he slapped uselessly against the floor Trapped between the corpses of two of his best friends Oh, that fucking noise Been and gunned the car down the street

Hooting and hollering Hand me another beer, bro Billy reached He reached back into the cooler and pulled out a wet, cold bottle of Greg's favorite cheap beer. He handed it to his brother and watched him twist the cap off and take a huge swig. Ah, that's the shit. Can I have one? Yeah, sure. It'll put hair on your balls. Billy got himself a beer and opened it up.

His knee bumped the glove box and he reached down under the seat and fiddled with the control lever. throne leather. The seat jumped back six inches and a pile of empty beer bottles rattled against each other. You want to see how fast this shit heap can go? Show me. Greg pushed the pill. His hands tied on the steering wheel. The arrow on the speedometer made its way from left to right, fluttering as it came to the end of its journey. Neither of them saw the car come around the corner. All of a sudden they were rolling. Billy was screaming and Greg was not. Glass pelted him in the face and he felt the wetness of blood in his hair on his hands, his legs. The empty beer bottles shot through the car. Can I see him? Billy's dad eyed Jalil suspiciously. Why? He's not going to tell you anything

important. He's not going to solve the mystery. He kept the door closed, peering through the screen between him and Jalil. He's my friend. Maybe the only one I have left. I want to see him. You're going to be disappointed. Jalil shook his head. No, because he's not dead. He's alive. How's that going to disappoint me, Mr. Dupree? You don't understand. Jalil. tell by the man's voice that he'd been drinking. He isn't the same. Just let me see him. Jalil opened the bedroom door and saw his friend Billy sitting in his wheelchair, facing the window.

The curtains were drawn. Billy. He didn't respond. Walking cautiously, Jalil straightened his arms, grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. He turned his friend around. Billy stared at him. Billy, can you hear me? What happened in that house?

His eyes red and teary, face trembling with stress. Billy looked at Joliel and did not hear his words, but he wasn't deaf. He put the noises in my head, Jalil. He put the noises in my head and they won't stop. He screamed, trying desperately to hear his own words, but they barely registered. He put the noises in my head, and they won't stop. They won't stop. They won't stop. They won't stop. Nocturnal presentation.

Now it's time to drift off into your own nightmares. 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 past 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. We'll have more stories for you and whatever that is standing right behind. you. This audio production is copyright 2016 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.