The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E04

Episode Date: May 1, 2016

It's episode 4 of Season 7. On this week's show we have six tales about motherly memories, miserable minors, and medical malfeasance. "Backwater Lullaby" written by Kerry H. and performed by Kyle Akers. (Story starts at 00:02:45) "A Series Of Strange Occurrences" written by Matt Dymerski and performed by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:09:30) "A Very Bad Place to Hide" written by Max Aaron and performed by Jesse Cornett. (Story starts at 00:27:15) "The Zoo for Bad People" written by Rona Vaselaar and performed by Dan Zappulla & Erika Sanderson & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:42:15) "The Lighthouse Boy"* written by Edwin Crowe and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:59:00) "The 1% - Pt. 1"** written by E.Z. Morgan and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Peter Lewis & Erika Sanderson & Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 01:26:25) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here to learn more about the dark fantasy novel "Forust: A Tale of Magic Gone Wrong"  Click here to learn more about Kerry H.  Click here to learn more about Matt Dymerski  Click here to learn more about Max Aaron  Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar  Click here to learn more about Edwin Crowe  Click here to learn more about E.Z. Morgan  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone. Additional music by Phil Michalski Audio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski** "The Lighthouse Boy" illustration courtesy of Luke Godlewski 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. Episode 4. Backwater Lullaby, a series of strange occurrences. A very bad place to hide. The zoo for bad people, the lighthouse boy, the 1%.

It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about motherly memories, miserable minors, and medical malfeasance. We're glad you're with us again. As most of you know, next weekend is Mother's Day. So we thought we'd feature some stories this week, which remind us that motherly love can be an effective part of horror. Make sure you let mom know that

you're thinking of her. For a present, would it be wrong to offer her the gift of some plastic surgery? Is that out of line? Well, maybe, but after this week's show, cosmetic surgery might not be a welcome idea. However, I do have a much better gift idea for mom or yourself. It's a new novel from author and frequent contributor to the audio horror scene, Dustin Kosky. Dustin, from Chilling Tales, brings us the dark fantasy novel, Forest, a tale of magic gone wrong. That's Forrest, spelled F-O-R-U-S-T, for reasons you'll have to read the book to understand. It's about two fairy sisters that have to save their village after everyone turns into. hideous, deranged monsters.

Check the show notes for a link to learn more about this engaging new novel. And so whether Mom wants to look better, feel better, or read great books, we have it all covered this week. So we'll wave to the camera, say, hi Mom, and start this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a man who is fondly recalling his younger days and the terrible nightmares he used to have. As author Carrie H. explains, he recalls the torment fondly because it was his mother who helped soothe him and protect him from his bad dreams. Years later, he gets a deeper understanding about how much she cared for him. Performing this tale

is Kyle Akers. So before you drift off to sleep tonight, see if you can hear the soft humming of a backwater lullaby. When I was little, I had awful night terrors. Not about ghosts or monsters, but everyday things. And somehow that was worse. A piece of rope suspended from the ceiling, advancing slowly toward me. A glass about to fall from a table. A light about to be turned on.

Meaningless things, taking on significance. I was a rubber band stretching to the bridge. breaking point. I woke up from these dreams hallucinating that the ceiling was coming down on me, crushing me, and every night, without fail, my mother would rush in to comfort me. I groped for the belt of her rope tied tightly around her middle, dividing her into halves. Clutching at her with drowning hands, I'd squeeze the familiar shape of her until I knew for certain I was awake, and that the hands on my back were really hers. We'd sit there, my sweats seeping into her pajamas, while she stroked my damp hair.

She'd sing a special song to me, one she never sang any other time. It didn't have words, but the tune was comforting, sweet and melancholy. A kind of backwater lullaby, her parents probably sang to her when she was little. She'd asked me what the dreams were about, and if I could remember, I'd tell her.

We'd try to figure out what they meant. It was kind of a game. She radiated warmth. We didn't talk about my night terrors in real life. They only existed in the dark. When I came home from school, she'd be waiting for me with a snack, and we'd talk about other things. The days were shorter back then.

Our lives intersected briefly in the daylight. She slept late, and I went to bed early. I never thanked her, even though I meant to. I wasn't sure what did thank her for. She died when I was in college. An aneurysm. My father heard her hit the kitchen floor, and by the time he got there she was gone. It was very quick, which was a small comfort, as we prepared for her burial.

The house was full of food, smells, and perfume that night. The neighbors had been there, all of them, judging by the state of the refrigerator. My father and I sat on the back porch together in the thinner air. He was smoking a cigar, a habit my mother always hated. The sun was going down with an awful knife twist I remembered those late nights. dreams, the piece of rope, the stove burner trying to light, the bottle of soda fizzing. Remember when I was a kid, those night terrors I used to have? He took the cigar out of his mouth and frowned.

Yeah, those ones when I was little. Remember, I'd wake up screaming? I always wanted to thank Mom for helping. I meant to thank her. I paused and rubbed my throat where the collar of my shirt was tightest. I wanted to ask what that song was from. Her absence was as real as her presence had been. He was looking at me with his eyebrows meeting in the middle. What song? The song she used to hum.

I wish I'd asked about it. My eyes were stinging. That sucks. I wish I'd remembered. You're talking about when you were little. You remember my screaming? Yeah, but I don't know about that other stuff. What?

Dr. Horowitz said not to wake you up when you had them. I was supposed to let you wake up yourself. You'd scream and scream, but you'd always go back to sleep after a little while. Yeah, because Mom was there. He settled back in his chair. Hmm. You were dreaming still. About what?

He stubbed the cigar out. Your mom worked nights. You don't remember, I guess. At the diner. But she came in. I remember. He shook his head. No, it was just you and me.

No, she sang that song. He shook his head again. She always had her robe on. She didn't have a robe. You were still dreaming. No, I. I remember it. He up and stretched.

It was just you and me, bud. She worked nights for years. You go get some sleep. He patted my shoulder on the way inside. I sat in the chair, holding my own hands, and I watched the sun go down. Upstairs, my father got into bed, and I heard from the open window the sound of his snoring. I sat in the chair, hands in my lap. I hummed into the dark until the sun came up.

It was time to go bury my mother. You're young, you're on your own, and you're looking for a place to live while you go to school. You don't expect to live in luxury, do you? Author Matt Dimerski knows you'll have to settle for a place which you might consider a fixer-upper. But when one man finds his building to be getting worse and worse, He's determined to find out why.

Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So keep in mind it might not be one major problem. It might just be a series of strange occurrences. When mysterious events happen for real, they often just cause anger and confusion rather than terror. I became obsessed with the events at my old apartment building for a while. as I tried to piece together some explanation. But as I reach a full year since my departure,

I have to accept that I will never get closure. Our nickname for the building in question was the old. It was a 1920s construct populated by a distinct mix of young college students and older couples who were mainly without children. There were five students other than myself on the top floor and about 30 adult residents on the lower floors. So we literally called the building the old as our way of recognizing that we felt out of place passing gray-haired working men in the stairwell. They didn't like us much either, so we tended to suffer the symptoms of the aging building without complaint. Early last December, the building's furnace broke down.

It stayed off for nearly a week as the temperatures in our room dropped to freezing levels. We couldn't fathom how the older residents simply ignored the problem. That week, I often walked by the massive metal door to the furnace room in the basement, reading the asbestos warning repeatedly and wondering if I should go in and try to fix it myself. I was returning from one of those moments when I came upstairs and found warm air. I checked. The furnace was still offline. At first, I said nothing, as I was just confused. The six of us spent most of our time alone in our rooms that week, studying for finals. I remember after several hours of late night solitude, the exact most of my room.

moment the oddities began. I heard the voice of Andrew, the guy across the hall, speak quite clearly. What do you mean? I jumped and scanned the room, but I was alone. I hadn't caught his words, but his voice came again. What do you mean? Perplexed, I crossed the hall and knocked on his door. He answered with a yawn, and he asked what the problem. He asked what the problem. He asked, what problem was, and I told him I'd heard him speak. He then said, What do you mean? His words carried the exact same tone and cadence I had heard moments earlier. I came up with an excuse and apologized for interrupting his studies. He shrugged and left,

and I decided to cut down on the caffeine. Next morning, I ran into him in the hall. He asked me if I talked in my sleep, and I laughed and asked why. He shook his head and looked confused but didn't explain. He returned to his room while I headed down the stairwell. The subsequent incident caused me to start keeping a journal of the strange events. As usual, I got stuck behind a slow walker in the stairwell. He wore a suit and was obviously some sort of corporate man, his gray hair belying many years of toil. I'd seen him before. As with most of the residents, he didn't like us very much.

I accidentally sighed at being stuck behind him and he turned, giving me a look of animosity and disbelief that was oddly directed at my arm. He turned back to him. He turned back to him. He turned back to around muttering something and resumed his descent at a slightly faster speed. I decided to apologize to him. Excuse me. The old man froze for a moment without looking back. I began to speak again, but he took off at a surprising speed and slammed out of the old's front door. By the time I got to its small window and looked out, he was no one.

in sight. As I thought back on my polite but distant interactions with the other older people in the building, I realized that a pallor of fear had been hanging over them for the last several days. They had all seemed afraid of us for some reason. Each day the old grew warmer. They had relished the ability to forego sweaters while studying, but by the weekend, I was down to undershirts and verging on very uncomfortable. And still, the furnace was silent. I began to hear snippets of conversation and music at random intervals. I'd never had a problem hearing other rooms before,

but now I was subject to bits of old-fashioned music, overly loud conversations, and on one particularly maddening occasion, somebody's snoring. All of this seemed to originate from somewhere inside my room, though I could never pinpoint where. For his part, Andrew seemed gaunt and tired. He chalked it up to studying too hard, but he seemed to be nervous about something. I hadn't seen the other four college students in days. At Sunday night, I cornered Andrew. I told him about what I was experiencing and asked me, him if he'd seen or heard anything. He mumbled a single phrase before retreating to his room.

It left me with a chill I couldn't quite explain. I tried to get down to it and focus on studying for the finals that were coming up over the coming week, but the buildings creaking seemed more pronounced. The old seemed to shift with the icy winter wind, which I took a advantage of through an open window. By that time, the hallways were practically a sauna. At some point, I'd had enough. I was more angry than afraid, and I decided to start asking some questions. I'd left more than a few notes under the maintenance man's door on the first floor. My plan was to knock on his door and finally get some answers. However, as my hand pressed against him, the door, it swung open, and there was nothing but a brick closet beyond. Confused, I touched the old

brick smearing soot on my fingers. I even rubbed some of it on my journal later to keep evidence that I wasn't imagining things. And, next to my feet, I found my last letter on a pile of paper remnants. I remember staring at the pile, realizing that the other letters had not been burned. They'd merely decomposed. I resolved to get the hell out of the old until I figured out what was going on, but the three feet of snow outside stopped me. I had no place to go, no real money. I could sit at a Starbucks all day, but I'd eventually have to sleep in my own bed, and I wanted to have all the evidence I could gather. I spent an hour or two knocking on the doors of the other residents, but I got nothing but confusion and anger. The older residents all refused to look at me directly in the same strange manner.

They seemed overly distressed every time I spoke. I gave up, more confused than ever, and knocked on the doors of the other students, but none of them answered. Andrew only shouted through his door, telling me to leave him alone. Would you leave me alone? Mift, I went to bed, sweating even with the window open. The final event, the one which compelled me to leave the old at any cost. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling in the heated darkness. The shadows seemed to swirl in an odd manner,

and I found myself focusing my sight to try to catch them. I played that strange game for a few moments until I heard a woman scream. It was a scream of pure terror, as if she was desperate to escape something that had cornered her. Worst of all, it seemed to come from inside my room. It sounded again, and then a third time, I immediately leapt up and circled the walls of my room, trying to avoid the continual terrified screaming that was loud enough to hurt my ears.

I couldn't understand what the hell was going on. The spot kept moving toward me, and I stumbled in my hasty. to avoid the slowly approaching source of the wailing screams. I heard doors slam in the hallway. Other people had to have heard. I ran for them. In the hall, I fell and scraped my hands in response to an overwhelming wave of heat. It felt like I'd stepped into a furnace, and the dark hallway seemed empty.

A god-forsaken screaming rang out from behind my hastily closed door. I could hear it getting closer to the other side of the wood, and I backed away in horror. My back touched Andrew's door. Another voice, this one male, began shouting from behind his door. I couldn't tell if it was him, but I could hear him scream. for God and salvation and cry as his door shuddered with several impacts, as if someone on the other side was desperate to escape. I was forced to cover my ears to stop the pain from those two voices screaming at the top

of their lungs. And another screaming voice joined them, this one from a distant room at the end of the hallway. A fourth, one long roar of agony and pain echoed from another floor. I ran, I vaulted down the stairwell, a smoky bitterness stinging my eyes and a furnace heat rushing around me. A choir of screaming voices, hundreds for all I knew, screamed and shouted and begged, with the utmost imaginable human terror and agony at the heavy front door, but it refused to budge. It's here, and I fell to the floor, nearly crying. I, then I looked up and saw the little square window set in the door.

I slowly stood, hands pressed to my ears in a futile attempt to block out the endless scream. Some wordless intuition warned me not to look through that window. A light sheared through it in a distinct glow that alternated green and blue, and up against the door, just as I was about to look, and stumbled out the front door into snow, directly into the arms of a police officer. Two police cars radiated red, and blue nearby in the silent chill.

I saw Andrew leaning against one of the cars, his arms curled against the cold. He seemed worn. I looked up at the old, expecting to see smoke or fire. I saw nothing. The officer I'd run into asked me several vague questions before explaining Andrew had called them over a noise disturbance. He asked if the kid was a druggie, but I shook my head. He looked me over, probably noting my sweat and confused look and asked me if I was one. I told him that, no, I was just studying and sick from too much caffeine and sleep deprivation.

He laughed and let me go. I figured I'd had a mental break. I was going to head straight for the school library, and I was determined to stay and make calls until I got things straightened out. The cop asked me one last question as I walked away. Hey, you see any of them? I turned back to him, folding my arms close against the cold. Uh, who?

The kids. I narrowed my eyes. What, kids? He gave me a strange look. The ones that did all that screaming. He shook my head, faking calm, and hurried away from the old without a single look back. Later conversations with the building's owner, I learned that he'd only rented it to college students. And only on the top floor.

The rest of the floors were unlivable. He didn't elaborate. I told him that we'd pass other residents every single day, but he insisted they must have been squatters. According to him, the only tenants were myself, Andrew, and two other students. It's likely that at some point in our childhood we played games of hide-and-seek. Finding that perfect hiding spot was always so satisfying, wasn't it?

Well, author Max Aaron might disagree with you. He recalls an event where a young boy's game plan ends up turning him off playing hide-and-seek forever. Performing this tale is Jesse Cornett. So if you fancy a game of hide-and-seek, please. try to avoid a very bad place to hide. I was always good at hide-and-seek. While being small for my age, sucked most of the time. It was one of the biggest assets when hiding.

Combined that with my flexibility I'd developed from being in gymnastics classes since I was four. Everyone wanted me on their team when we played. Keep in mind, this was before kids had video games and cell phones. If it sounds like we played a lot of hide-and-seek and that seems weird, Well, maybe now it is. Back then, though, we didn't have anything else to do. Maggie's family didn't have much money, and they lived a few blocks away from the junkyard.

When the wind blew in a certain direction, their house smelled pretty bad. We got used to it, though, and we still liked hanging out there. Her parents were nice and always gave us chips and soda. I think they were happy Maggie had friends and wanted to make sure we kept visiting her. That didn't cross my mind at the time, though. All I cared about were the chips and soda. I liked Maggie, don't get me wrong, but chips and soda were chips and soda. During the summer months, despite being told not to,

our small group would hop the fence of the junkyard and play hide and seek amidst the piles of old cars and dishwashers and microwave ovens. The one guy who worked there, Luis, didn't seem to care. Don't do anything stupid, he'd tell us, before retreating. back to the little shed that housed his television and beer. On Maggie's birthday in August, her parents threw a surprise party. All in all, about 20 kids showed up. She had a great time, and I was pleased that the wind wasn't blowing the smell of garbage into the party. A lot of the kids hadn't been there before, and I didn't want them to be mean to Maggie or her parents if the place stunk.

After cake and an impromptu water fight, a few kids left, but about 14 of us remain to play hide and seek. For such a big game, we split into two teams, creatively named the hiders and the seekers. I was a hider. The whole neighborhood was fair game. The only catch was we weren't allowed to hide in someone's house. The hiders would have 10 minutes to hide before the seekers would come out of Maggie's living room and go looking for them. The penalty for being found was a water balloon to the face. If the seekers couldn't find everyone from the other team in an hour, all the seekers would get water ballooned. I didn't want to be found. I really, really wanted to be the one to throw a water balloon in Javier's face. Javier was a dick. The moment our team was told

to go hide, I took off like a shot for the junkyard. The other day when we were hanging around in there, I saw the perfect hiding spot for the next time we were going to play. As I ran, as I ran, and we were I saw a few kids jumping in bushes or climbing way up into trees. I remember thinking how great the trees were for hiding. The leaves were so thick you couldn't even see the individual branches. I was really excited for my team to win, even if I ended up getting found. And once I hop the fence to the junkyard, I made a bee line for that perfect hiding spot. An old refrigerator.

I was moderately dismayed when I opened the door and there was some. still some gross, rotting food in there. I pulled it out as quick as I could, hid the stuff on the other side of a crumpled car, and jumped inside. Now, keep in mind, even though I was young, I wasn't completely stupid. The fridge had a couple holes in the sign that were probably from whatever piece of machinery had moved it. I knew I'd be able to breathe without a problem. So I situated myself at the bottom of the compartment, tucked my legs to my chest. and closed myself in using the shelf in the door. It was dark, smelly, and hot.

None of it mattered, though. I was giddy with the anticipation of potentially being the only one left unfound. The one who'd win the hiders, the opportunity to give the seekers a good soaking, especially hobby air. Time went by and I started getting a little sleepy. I might have dosed off for a minute or two, but I awoke. with a start to the sound of a loud clattering. Before I could register concern or fear,

someone smashed into the back of the refrigerator, pitching it down on its front side. I smacked my head hard as it fell and might have lost consciousness for a little while. When I came to my senses, I panicked. Whenever had fallen from the pile of junk to knock over my hiding spot, must have ended up partially resting on the fridge.

It wouldn't bud. I screamed and yelled for Luis, hoping he'd hear me. I thrashed around in the confined space, my limbs getting tangled in the wire racks of the remaining shells, which had been dislodged in the fall. I tried to straighten my legs, but they were too cramped against the sides and tangled in the racks to move for more than a few inches.

I was faced down against the immovable door of the refrigerator. I noticed an intensely putrid smell coming from the area of the freezer near the top of my head. Something wet was spreading around my head and neck. Whatever had been in the freezer must have gotten broken or unsealed by the impact. Then I felt something pinched my right earlobe, hard.

I yelped and tried to smack away whatever was biting me, but my arm was too tangled up. I pushed my shoulder up to my ear and heard a loud crunch as I killed it. Took me a second before I remembered what it was. I'd seen a couple of earwigs. in the ridge before I hit inside. I thought I'd gotten them out when I threw out the food, but apparently I kept yelling

and trying to get someone's attention. Another pinch, this time on the other side of my head. There was nothing I could do about it, not from the position I was in. I felt it again on the top of my head. I pushed my legs against the sides of the fridge hard and forced my head against the plastic in front of me. As I felt the bug crunch against my scound. A rush of the foul liquid escaped from the cracked freezer compartment.

I realized pushing my head against the freezer had only made the crack worse, and I gagged as the stuff touched my lips. The odor and nausea was forgotten quickly, though, as I felt pinches on my head, face, and neck. I felt the earwigs crawling on me, making their way down my shirt and toward my legs. I exploded with as much motion as I could muster cutting my arms and legs the wire racks that were trapping them, and doing anything I could to slap the biting, pinching things off me.

In the distance, I heard sirens. They were getting closer. Part of me was hoping they'd be coming to my rescue, but I knew there was no way they could have known I was trapped. If Luis hadn't noticed, no one would notice. As the insects crawled over my trapped, contorted body, and I struggled and screamed with no effect, I realized for the first time that I might die in there if no one found me. My hope was resting on Luis, hearing me scream into seekers, even stupid Javier, thinking I might

be hiding somewhere in the junkyard. The sirens kept getting closer. It almost sounded like they were right across the street. I screamed as loud as my already damaged vocal cords would allow. Then one of the insects crawled directly into my right ear. I made a a sound I never knew could come out of my mouth. I tried to jam my shoulder against my ear again, praying I could kill the thing before it went any deeper. I was unsuccessful. I heard, with terrifying volume, its hard body squeezing through the warm, tight canal.

The scratching sound was worse than the countless set of pincers, still sinking into me as I flailed. I heard and felt the thing going deeper. So deep it's mere presence. was causing pain deep in my head. And with a violent scratching sound so loud, it drowned out my scream up against my ear. The sirens had stopped, but my screaming had not.

More of the earwigs were seeking a warm, safe place where they could hide. As the one inside my head continued scratching at my eardrum. I felt at least two moving up the leg of my shorts. In any other situation, that would have been enough to get me to strip out of my clothes, no matter where I was or who was around. At that point, though, I was just grateful they weren't biting. I had been trapped for about a half hour. My voice was raspy, and my throat heard worse than it had when I can't strip in the winter.

The shriek of the siren started up again, and I jumped, sending the earwigs into attack mode again. I felt their pincers locked onto my scalp, back, neck, and paranoid. The one inside my ear pinched the wall of the canal. It sounded like the loudest click you can imagine, and stars exploded in my vision from the pain. More sounds of abject terror and misery escaped my mouth. More time went by. The fluid coating my body had begun to dry and turned tacky. Whenever I tried to lift my face from the surface, it was resting on.

My skin stuck to it. I had to jerk my head to free it, which only aggravated the earwigs. I wailed and sobbed for a while, knowing I'd be found dead in a month with my body as rotten, as the food I'd pulled out to fit myself in the fridge. An enormous crash made me jump and set off the bugs again. This time, I heard another person yelling. It was Luis. He was trying to get me to talk and say I was still okay.

He'd heard me. I screamed that I was trapped and stuck, and I needed help. Another crash. This time the world spun as the refrigerator was flipped onto its back, and the doors were flung open. The light of the late afternoon blinded me, and I felt strong hands pulling me up by my shirt. My eyes adjusted, and I saw the face of Louise studying me

before he started slapping me all over, crushing or pushing off the bugs covering me. I looked down at myself. There were hundreds of them coating my sticky clothes and skin. They covered me in a reddish-brown mosaic. All of them attacking me with their long pincers as they panicked at the violence and light they'd been introduced to. I pulled off my shirt and threw it on the ground

and joined Luis in brushing the remaining earwigs off me. In my head, the one by my eardrums squirmed and pinched over and over. I screamed and Luis, concerned for my safety, picked me up under his arm and ran toward Maggie's house. He'd seen me coming from there earlier before getting involved in whatever afternoon television he was watching. Apparently, after realizing he hadn't seen me leave, he decided to look around to make sure I was okay. And I wasn't. When we got to the house, Luis just said, call 911 to Maggie's parents and left to go back to work. I wondered where all the kids were, but only for about five seconds.

That was the amount of time the earwig gave me before it started moving and pinching inside my ear. Ten minutes and countless inner ear pinches later. A paramedic was using a pair of forcips to pull the thing out of my head. It showed it to me as it writhed the metal that was squeezing it smaller than it felt. Welts had started to rise from a few parts. of me that had been bitten multiple times. Mom arrived right around then, and at the request of the M.T. She was going to drive me to the hospital to get checked out.

While we were walking out to the car, Maggie told me Ron had fallen out of the tree where he was hiding and broke his leg really badly. Those were the sirens I'd heard, as I had gingerly eased my shirtless, sore and sticky body in the car. car, praying the earwig hadn't laid eggs inside my head. I was drenched by an explosion of water that soaked not only me but the inside of mom's car. One of the balloons. Havier yelled over his shoulder as he ran away with mom screaming at him. Is it just me or does almost every neighborhood have that one certain character? The person who stands out for being too, too odd, too angry, or too miserable for everyone else.

Author Rona Vassilar knows what I'm talking about. Her tale is about a young man who can't quite figure out the old woman who has seemingly been around forever on his street and why she has such a bad reputation. Performing this tale are Dan Zappula, Erica Sanderson, and Nicole Doolin. be wary of those odd people and stay out of their homes. You don't want to end up in a zoo for bad people. There are certain things in this world that are constant, unchanging, with no regards to the passage of time. No matter the era, there is war, there is money, there is greed. Each generation has its share of hatred and unjust death, and there will always be crimes.

and tragedy. These constants are things that are known and to some extent understood. But there is something else that I know to be true, something perfectly cemented in time and space that the world seems to have overlooked. Mrs. Baker owns the house at the end of Willow Street. I know that this must seem a little strange to you, but please give me just a few minutes to explain. You see, Mrs. Baker wasn't just any old woman in my old neighborhood. In fact, many of us didn't think of her as a woman at all. She was more of a landmark, someone who'd been there even before our parents and would continue to exist long after all of us little birdies had flown the nest. And for as long as she'd been alive, she'd owned a shabby little shack with peeling paint

and squeaky shutters at the tail end of Willow Street. For most of us still alive in the neighborhood, she'd existed for all of eternity. She wasn't born, and she wouldn't die. She just... Was. Of course, logic tells us that even Mrs. Baker came from somewhere. I was told that she immigrated to our little town from France.

Her first name was Camille, although no one could ever pronounce it, right. Her husband, an American whose first name has long been forgotten, brought her over after a whirlwind romance in Paris, and he died early, leaving her alone and childless, all by herself, in the house on Willow Street. By all accounts, Mrs. Baker was unremarkable. She was kind and friendly, in as much as social protocol demanded. She liked to sit on her front porch, surveying the unkempt grass as she embroidered yellowing hand towels. She had a cat that very well may have been as old as herself. He had gray fur and all the neighborhood kids called him fluffy, as we were fairly

unoriginal children. The only thing that set Mrs. Baker apart from the other residents was her apparent immunity to life and death. In all the time I lived there, I never saw her age. I never saw her change. But that's not why I remember Mrs. Baker now. Mrs. Baker didn't talk to the kids in our neighborhood very much, and I always had the feeling that she disliked children. I had spoken with her a few times because my mom had dragged me to her house. My mom had a fascination with embroidery

and spent a few afternoons sitting in Mrs. Baker's musty old living room, taking lessons from the old crone. I didn't mind Mrs. Baker because she always gave me chocolate chip cookies and let me play with Fluffy. And since she never really talked to me, however, I assume that she wasn't very fond of me. That assumption was challenged one foggy morning in early April. School was out for some kind of break, so I naturally had risen before the crack of dawn to get the most out of my few free days. I'd driven my mom insane in a matter of minutes, and she'd sent me to play outside before she was forced to slaughter me where I stood. Her words, not mine. I was playing with some action figures

when I saw Mrs. Baker standing outside her house, watching me. Of course, she lived all the way at the end of the street, a good four houses away from me, so I couldn't really tell if she was looking at me or not, except her eyes on me, like she was trying to call out to me with something other than her voice. And she succeeded because I was so intrigued that I found myself standing up from the damp grass and taking a tentative step down the street. As if sensing my confusion, Mrs. Baker lifted her arm and crooked a slender finger at me, beckoning me closer. I was either too young or too stupid to be cautious. Besides, I'd known her all my life, as had my mother and probably her mother before her.

I didn't think anything of it as I trotted down the street. If anything, I was thinking of those chocolate chip cookies she often made. I stopped a few feet from Mrs. Baker, and I chirped out some kind of greeting. She gave me a stiff sort of smile and bent down so that she was at high level with me. I remember thinking that I'd never seen an old person do that. It must have hurt her back. bending down like that. I suddenly felt very important.

Dominic, you're a good boy, aren't you? She asked the question fully expecting an answer, and there was nothing patronizing or teasing in her tone. I nodded solemnly as though this were the most important moment of my young life. Well, I guess in a way it probably was. She mirrored my nod, an aura of satisfaction radiation radiating off of her as she asked her next question. Would you like to see something?

Secret. My ears perked up at that. A secret? I loved secrets. I was going to be a spy when I grew up, so I understood that secrets were very, very important. I nodded at her, and she extended her hand to me. I took it without hesitation,

and she led me inside her house. We bypassed her living room completely, much to my dismay, as I'd rather hope that her secret involved cookies. She took me through the dining room and then the kitchen, all the way to the back of the house, where she opened the door to a set of stairs, leading down into the darkness. She turned on the light, but the basement was still quite dim, so she held my hand in her firm grip as we descended together. I gradually became aware that there were soft noises coming from the basement, sniffles and shuffles and sometimes strange choking and squealing noises.

It sounded as though she had animals, we're trying very, very hard to keep quiet. I wondered if Fluffy had gotten trapped down there. Maybe Mrs. Baker wanted me to save him. But I didn't see Fluffy when we got down to the basement. I saw a row of cages. lighting the walls in a mess of rusty iron. And it was hard to see, but there were animals crouched in them,

and sniffing and paring at the dirty floor beneath them. What is it? I was a little uncertain what to make of what I saw. It's a zoo. My eyes lit up in wonder. I loved the zoo. My mother used to take my little brother in me, if we'd been very good. And I realized why it was a zoo.

secret now. Having a zoo in your basement was a genius idea. Although she wouldn't be able to keep very big animals. I was a little disappointed at that because giraffes were my favorite. Still, I was very excited to see her zoo. She must have been able to sense my anticipation because she let go of my hand and gestured forward. Go on. I didn't need a second invitation. I practically skipped forward, starting with the cage closest to me. Because the light was so dim, I had to bend down and press my face up against the bars to make out what was inside. My little heart froze in my chest when I finally saw what was in the cage. It was a little girl, a few years younger than me. She couldn't have been more than five. She was crouched down, her hands tremble, and I could see that something

was dripping from her fingers. I thought about trying to speak to her, but then I saw her lips. They'd been sewn shut. I gasped and stumbled backwards right into Mrs. Baker's arms. All too late, I began to feel that something was very, very wrong. I looked back at Mrs. Baker, white-faced and shaking. I couldn't make out her face in the dark basement. And for that, I was almost glad.

What is she doing in there? I tried to sound like I wasn't scared. I failed miserably. She was bad. Bad? Mrs. Baker nodded, but didn't give any more explanation. This is a zoo for bad people. She gestured again for me to continue looking.

I walked on on step. steady legs and looked into the next cage. This one was a boy, and he was moaning a little, obviously trying to keep quiet and pressing his hands to his chest, except then I realized he didn't have hands. He had dark, oozing, stumps where his hands should have been. I looked back at Mrs. Baker suddenly wanting very much to go back home. She sensed my intentions and shook her head. I couldn't leave until I looked in every cage.

There were about 12 cages in all, I think, although I can't say for certain. My memory gets a little fuzzy at this point. I know I saw many children, scared and sick and frightened, but they all began to blend together in my mind. Rather than seeing a whole person, I see bits and pieces. I see missing fingers, eyes sewn shut, teeth wrenched out. Everything is a mass of mutilation.

I don't even really remember making it to the last cage, nor do I remember walking up the stairs. The next image in my mind is of Mrs. Baker's living room, sitting in her overstuffed armchair, drinking a cup of tea. eating some warm cookies just out of the oven. Do you know why I have a zoo for bad people, Dominic? Mrs. Baker's voice is so clear to me, even all these years later. I shook my head feeling numb and confused inside. Bad people don't deserve to live in this world. Her voice took on a strength, a conviction that it had never possessed before.

They need to be locked up for everyone's sake. Do you understand? I nodded. I didn't know what else to do. She seemed satisfied with that. And once I'd finished my cookies, she patted me on the head and led me to the front door. I had just stepped out of that suffocating house. The skies cleared of fog and the sun beginning to warm the tips of the grass.

when I felt her bony hand squeezing into my shoulder again. My heart skipped the beat. I turned back to look at her. In all my life, no matter how many times I'm reincarnated, I am sure I will never forget that look of pure menace on her face, as she said. Good boys don't tell secrets. You're still a good boy, aren't you, Dominic? My head bobbed violently, and her grip loosened just a little, and I bounded away, racing on live feet back to the comfort of my own home.

I never told anybody what I saw in Mrs. Baker's house. Now that I'm older, I often ask myself why I didn't tell my mother. And sometimes I think it's that I didn't know what to do, didn't believe what I'd seen, had no way of experience. explaining the horrors inside that basement. And other times I tell myself that I dreamed it all up. There was no way that Mrs. Baker could have, would have done something like that. These are lies.

And there's only one truth. I was too scared of Mrs. Baker finding out that I was a bad boy. I was afraid of the zoo. All these years I've remained silent. choosing to forget the one dark moment of my childhood. And I thought it would be enough until my mother called me yesterday and told me. Mrs. Baker just passed away. Everything seemed to freeze in time as the memory of that day rushed upon me full force.

And I waited for my mother to tell me they'd found the secret waiting in the basement, but she didn't. Instead... She didn't have much money. left, but it's the funniest thing. She left it all to you and her will. Do you have any idea why? No, I didn't. But that didn't stop my stomach from roiling and heaving its contents all over my kitchen floor. To this day, I don't know what Mrs. Baker saw on me or why she called out to me and told me her secret. I don't know why she gave me the money. And worst of her, of all, I don't know what happened to those children, where she hid their bodies, or if any of them

survived. There is one more constant now in my life. Every night, until I die, I will dream of the house at the end of Willow Street and its zoo for bad people. Only this time I'll dream from inside the cages. It includes our 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

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