The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E06

Episode Date: May 15, 2016

It's episode 6 of Season 7. On this week's show we have five tales about household horrors, terrifying transmissions, and dastardly doctors."I Love my Grandparents' Fireplace"* written by Rona Vaselaar and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:04:15)"Ten-Twenty" written by Keith McDuffee and performed by Dan Zappulla & Matthew Bradford & Alexis Bristowe & Atticus Jackson & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:30:10)"I'm Having Some Problems with My Mirror" written by M.P. Hill and performed by Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 01:10:00)"The Proposition"** written by Michael Waldrep and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:19:30)"The 1% - Pt. 3"** written by E.Z. Morgan and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Peter Lewis & Erika Sanderson & Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts at 01:45:00)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about Matthew Bradford Click here to learn more about Small Town Horror Click here to learn more about Uncanny County Click here to learn more about The Night Time Podcast Click here to learn more about Archive 81 Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar Click here to learn more about Keith McDuffee Click here to learn more about Michael Waldrep Click here to learn more about E.Z. Morgan Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone. Additional music by Phil MichalskiAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"I Love my Grandparents' Fireplace" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio 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 6. I love my grandparents, fireless. 10.20. I'm having some problems with you.

my mirror the proposition the one percent part three it's the no sleep podcast i'm david cummings thanks for joining us on this week's show we have five tales about household horrors terrifying transmissions and dastardly doctors it's a pleasure to introduce a new voice actor on the show his name matthew bradford matthew is a voice actor and podcaster from Barry, Ontario, Canada. And that's only a stone's throw, well, a rather long throw, but a short distance from where I live. Matt is a trained voice actor with eight plus years working with radio stations across Canada, along with experience writing and performing on stages in Alberta and Ontario. In addition, he co-hosts two weekly podcasts, zombie cast, and video game outsiders.

So we welcome you to the show, Matt. I know you'll do Ontario proud. I also want to take a moment to let you folks know about some of the great new podcasts out there. The ones which fit into the genre of horror and fictional storytelling, along with ones which examine the real events and mysteries which can haunt us. Our style of podcasting is booming these days with some really top-not show starting out. So here are some I highly recommend. Do you want a serialized story about a man returning to his hometown to find out the truth about what happened to him when he was a teen?

Sort of Twin Peaks meets the black tapes. Then you'll want to listen to Smalltown Horror at smalltownhorror.com. You may even recognize some of the voices in this one. Maybe you'd like a quirky, darkly comic, southwestern-flavored anthems. bringing you a new paranormal audio play every month. Then you'll want to hear Uncanny County over at Uncanny County.com. It's worth the trip. Want to hear a podcast which shares real-life tales of mystery from the beautiful Atlantic coast of my beloved Canada?

Well, you're in luck. The nighttime podcast introduces you to the weird and wonderful people, places and events from the mysterious realms of Canada's east coast. No fiction here, just factual fear. And finally, how about an ongoing story about a missing man who has sent out mysterious audio tapes needing to be deciphered? Found footage, unnerving sound design, and a captivating mystery makes Archive81, the podcast for you. Head over to Archive81.com and help solve the mystery. All of these shows are relatively new with most having less than five episodes so far, so you can jump right in, get caught up, and enter new realms of horror and frightening infotainment.

But before you head over to these great new shows, don't forget your old pal, no sleep. We've got new stories just aching to get out, so settle in as we start the show. In our first tale, we meet a woman who is recovering from a terror. ordeal. As author Rona Vassilar explains, she survived a fatal car accident and is recuperating at her grandparents, but the isolation in the old house may be doing her more harm than good. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy and Nicole Doolin. So let's find out why this woman is drawn to one specific spot in the house and why she proclaims, I love my grandparents' In the summer of my 15th year, after the accident, my parents sent me to stay with my

grandparents. I had always liked their house. They were well off, so the house was huge, complete with three stories and a winding staircase. I always slept on the west end of the second floor, with its window overlooking the surrounding grove and Grandma's garden. I was actually looking forward to spending my summer there, if I'm honest. I wanted to get away from my parents, the pitying stares they gave me, the probing questions. My grandparents never pitied me because they knew that it wouldn't help.

I'm simply not that kind of girl. They gave me my space, gave me time to collect myself. Plus, my grandma let me garden with her, which I always enjoyed, so it was perfect for me. I still remember that hot day in June when I moved my things into the spare bedroom. It had a four-poster bed, complete with a pink canopy and pink quilt, a holdover from when I was a child. A few of my childhood toys had ended up in that room over the years, and I found. that I liked them there as fond memories of a time when things weren't so messed up. The room was huge, with a bay window and a gaping fireplace that I loved to explore when I was little.

I remember looking at that fireplace then, wondering how long it had been since it had seen a flame. If it weren't so hot, I wouldn't have minded starting a fire myself. It might give me something to do. But as it was, I found myself sitting on the fluffy pink bed, staring out the window at an endless blue sky, promising happier days. I felt very alone, and that was okay. I spent a lot of time in that room. It's not that I didn't like being outside. It's just that I'd float off sometimes, sitting in my bed and staring out the window.

my mind somewhere in the clouds, thinking of things I can't even remember now. It would feel like just a few moments, but in reality, I'd sit for hours like that. The doctors said that was normal. I didn't really mind. It was on one such day, my fingers absent-mindedly picking out the purple embroidery and the quilt on my bed, that I began to hear it. It was something of a deep, thrumming sound, trembling in the air around me. It was low at first, almost unnoticeable, except in that secret place in the back of my mind that knows things I prefer to ignore.

However, the sound became more intense, shaking around me with a ferocity that I couldn't keep at bay, and I found my eyes scanning the room for the source of the sound. As soon as my eyes fell on the chimney, the sound went away. I can't say it stopped exactly. It didn't feel like the noise could just stop existing. No, it was resting, waiting for something perhaps. With that in mind, I rose to my scarred feet and walked over to the fireplace, feeling drawn to it like a hapless moth to a flame. It was darkened black with age, a thick layer of soot carved into the stone. I knelt down by it and let my fingers drift over the grime, watching it coat my skin. It felt nice there.

Even after all this time, the fireplace radiated warmth. My eyes slipped shut and I let myself fall asleep, curled up in the memory of cinders like some fucked up version of Cinderella. After that, I took a liking to the fireplace. Whenever I was in my room, which just so happened to be most of the time, I would sit in. in front of it, feeling rather more tranquil staring into its darkness than staring out at the sky. Ever since that day, I didn't really like the sky. No, the stone and the black and the quiet heat was much better for someone like me. Sometimes, I would find myself mumbling to the fireplace, as though it had gained sentience and waited patiently for me to share the secrets of my life with it.

Most of the time, I just drifted around, engulfed by its remaining heat. Sometimes, when the nightmares kept me awake, I would sleep in front of it, too. I liked to pull my comforter and all the pillows on the bed to make a nest for myself on the floor. One night, as I gasped myself awake from loud and vivid dreams, I heard a voice. It was a low voice, vibrating with intensity, shaking and piercing me. It almost seemed as though I heard it not from my ears, but somewhere deep inside of me. Why do you not sleep? It was a nice voice, I decided.

very soothing and with an air of kindness about it. I answered it immediately. I have nightmares, bad ones, every night. The room was silent for just a moment. I nodded a little hesitantly. I didn't know what it meant by C, but I didn't question it. Rather, I found myself wondering if the voice was. would go away after it saw what went on inside my head.

As soon as I gave my consent, I felt something stirring around inside my brain. It was like long fingers were snaking their way into my ears, probing around and tasting the contours of my brain. I closed my eyes as a vision sparked behind my eyelids. I saw the car that we'd ridden in that day. It's dark, tinted windows and the dent on the left side. I saw my boyfriend sitting in the driver's seat and my best friend sitting in the back.

I must have been in the passenger seat. I saw a blur of loud color as the car rolled. I smelled gasoline pouring around me as I looked first from him, then to her, then back again. I reached for my boyfriend. I shook him. Nothing. My fingers fumbled around his neck.

No pulse. Dead. I tried not to think as I dragged myself to the back seat, my hands grasping at my best friend. Her body was bent and broken at all the wrong angles, but my hand ghosted across her mouth, and I felt her hot breath on my skin. still alive.

The rear window was shattered. I pulled her out of the seatbelt and crawled out of the car. I tried to stand, but the glass around us cut my feet, and I fell to my knees. Pieces of glass were embedded in my skin, but I was too focused to worry. I dragged us through the grass away from the car, expecting it to explode at any second, except was one the real nightmare. began. The fingers in my brain massaged out my memories as I gasped and shuddered. I didn't like thinking about that day. No, I'd prefer to think of anything else. The voice understood. I'm afraid.

I believed it. As though on an instinctual level, I knew it to be telling the truth. I laid down in my little nest of blankets and pillows and felt the fingers searching around my mind as my eyes slipped shut once again. This time, I didn't dream of the accident. I didn't dream of anything exactly. All I saw in my mind were colors, the dark gray with swirls of black from the fireplace to be exact. I liked it. It was soothing. It felt right. I slept very well that night.

From then on, I kept up a constant conversation with the voice in the fireplace. It only responded on occasion, but I didn't mind that at all. I found that there was no lack of things to discuss, even when it remained silent for hours at a time. I told the voice about my family, and my house. I talked about school and the way the other kids avoided me

after the accident. I talked about things that used to make me happy, but didn't anymore. Occasionally, the voice would ask me a question. Are you afraid of death? No.

I used to be, but I'm not anymore. Sometimes, I wish it would come faster. Yes, they were very important to me. Why do you regret what you did? I wouldn't answer that one. No longer had nightmares.

Each night, the voice would send its invisible fingers to squeeze into the cracks of my brain, lulling me to a dark, pleasant sleep. It was very kind to me. We were fast friends, that voice and I. My grandparents began to worry about me. Other than coming downstairs for my meals, I would stay in my room,

staring at the fireplace and muttering to myself. I imagine they thought I was getting worse, not better. That was simply untrue. The voice, was healing me. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night, the voice retreating back into the fireplace as my grandparents came into my room to check on me.

They'd whisper and argue. They'd talk about doctors. The voice would become tense. It didn't like when they came to my room. One day, the voice told me it was hungry. Why don't you eat? For what? Then it told me that it didn't eat very often.

Once every few years. I was fascinated. I asked if I could find it some food, but it didn't seem interested in anything that I ate. In time, I eat. My grandparents wanted to take me to the hospital. You aren't getting better, Kelly. My grandmother had already brought up my shoes and sat them down in front of me.

Apparently, they wanted me to go right then and there. You've been here for months, and all you do is sit in front of that fireplace. My grandfather was a gruff man, usually very stoic, but even I could hear the concern in his voice. My eyes drifted out the window for the first time in, well, in forever. The sky was decaying with its vestiges of fall, and I wondered exactly how long I had been in that house. We'll get you help. My grandmother reached out to comfort me. I didn't mean to recoil.

It's just that I didn't want to think about leaving the voice. I think it was rather lonely, stuck in that fireplace for so long. It needed me, and I needed it. Apparently, the voice thought so too. A strange rumbling came from the chimney, and a haze of soots and dust showered down into the maw of the fireplace. My grandma and grandpa stood very still, looking at the fireplace in fear, and confusion. I looked too, only it was awe that I felt. We watched together as it began to come out. First came its hands as it crawled its way down the chimney. They were really more like claws,

so white and thin that I thought they must be bone. As it came closer, I realized it was skin, leathery and stretched tot against its spindly appendages. The arms were long and lean, trembling a little with the weight of its body. Its head poked out next, but it was folded down near its body, so I couldn't see its face. Its torso came into view, and then its feet. It was almost human in its presentation, but for the fact that it was simply too long, its torso stretched out and ribless, its legs crouched under it like a beast. Its feet were long, each toe ending in a sharp point.

The claws on its hands tapped against the dust. of the fireplace. It lifted its smooth white head. It was awfully white for something that lived in the grime. My grandparents screamed when they saw its face, but I couldn't breathe enough to make a sound. It had sunken holes where it should have had eyes, but I could sense that it was somehow able to see.

It didn't appear to have a mouth, But there was a ragged black mark stretching across its jaw, like some kind of strange rash. It inclined its head at me, staring. My grandma grabbed my arm to pull me from the room. That made the beast angry. It scuttled towards us. Yes, scuttled. That's the word for how it moved.

And reached for my grandma. She shrieked as my grandfather reached out to fight it off. It was a very quick fight. The thing's long arm lashed out, and suddenly deep grooves appeared in my grandpa's chest. He fell to the ground as the blood poured out of his body, leaving him dead on the floor. My grandma didn't even have a chance to move before the thing's hind legs. kicked towards her, stabbing straight through her stomach and out the other side. She died quickly as well.

I sank to the floor as the thing rumbled, a sound of deep hunger in its body. The black skin of its jaw began to pull apart, revealing an even deeper darkness within. It began to lap at the blood and flesh of the bodies at its feet. using its claws to tear the skin and meat. It didn't take long at all to consume the bodies of my grandparents. In less than an hour, they were picked clean, their skulls and broken bones left in a bloody pile on the spare room floor. Once its feeding was complete, it turned towards me,

sitting back on its haunches and staring at me. Its body was stronger now, and it no longer struggled to hold itself up. It had been satisfied. We held each other's gaze for a few long moments. It had things to say. I did, too. Why not me? It inclined its head again, and I thought for a moment of a puppy I'd had when I was a child,

one that had been run over by a car. I do not feed on those that have killed. I must feed. An image flashed to my mind, one that I'd been trying to forget for months. The police officer had the scene as he bent down to examine my best friend's body. It had ruined my life,

the moment he said that she had broken her neck, and she may not have died if I hadn't moved her from the car. The car that didn't burn, didn't explode. No, it sat there like a blight in my eyes, forever peaceful in the twisted grass of that low ditch. They say it wasn't my fault, you know. It must have known that I never believed them. There is nothing less important than that.

It was right. Are you going to leave me now? It nodded, and I could sense a deep sorrow from inside it. I have never had a choice. Can I come with you? Maybe someday. It could sense my disappointment. Perhaps in an attempt to make peace, it had just slaughtered my grandparents after all. all. It scuttled back to the fireplace and reached up into the chimney. It took something down

in its long claws and crawled towards me. As it approached me, I felt a deep heat radiating from inside it, as though it was made of fire itself. It placed something in my hand, a few small bones, so tiny and light that they must have come from a bird. Even now, I have those bones. They let me keep them. Will I see you again? It nodded. It reached out and patted me on the head, carefully, gently.

Then it turned and crawled back up the chimney. And I was alone. Again. The doctors, the police, my parents, none of them know what happened. The police found me the next day. Apparently my grandparents had been giving my parents daily updates on my condition, and they became nervous when my grandparents didn't call. The cops found me sitting in the spare bedroom, staring at the remains of my family. I told my story from start to finish. I knew the beast wouldn't mind, but nobody believed me. Nobody believed that I killed them either. It was simply impossible. After all, how could I have made such work of their bodies in such a short amount

of time. There was no evidence to say that I had a hand in their deaths. Everyone was at a loss. The only thing they all agreed on is that I'm crazy. My parents sent me to a mental institute. The cops didn't have the heart to insist I reside with the criminally insane. They understood that I hadn't committed murder. At least not that day. So I went to a nice little hospital just a few towns away with glaring white rooms and a little garden out back I like the garden the best It reminds me of my grandmother

The doctors ask a lot about the beast They call it a monster I don't think that's quite right But then again I'm no expert in monsters They ask me to describe it over and over. They've had me draw it a million times. They look for inconsistencies.

I don't mind my piece. Some days, when the sky is gray like soot, I like to look into the clouds and wonder if it is out there somewhere. Thinking of me, waiting for the day it can come back to me. One day, I will see it again. Until then, I bide my time. If you're an old-timer like me, you'll remember the CB radio craze of the late 70s. Before the internet, turning on the CB radio and talking with people from around your town was a fun pastime.

But as author Keith McDuffie remembers, connecting with strangers was just as risky back then as it is today. You never know who you're really talking to. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Matthew Bradford, Alexis Bristow, Atticus Jackson, and Nicole Doolin. So set up the antenna, grab the mic and say, Breaker, breaker, where are you at? What's your 10-20? Nothing.

Glenn took a swipe at my hand as I attempted to key up the base station radio mic once more. Give it up. You lost another one, man. He crumbled his empty can of MGD onto the table and left it to sit with the growing mountain of other fallen soldiers. This was our Saturday night. And this was just about every Saturday night for the entirety of our latter teen years.

Nowhere to go, nothing to do. No one else to talk to, really. Unless you counted Glenn's smart-ass twin sister Marie, which I did not. And of course, anyone listening on the CB area, waves. Glenn and I were the epitome of introversion. As much as we belly ached about wishing we knew of a party to crash every weekend,

we'd inevitably find some excuse for why a night in Glenn's basement with a lukewarm case of beer was a much more preferable plan. Of course, a pair of pubescent boys with nothing but a CB radio and a pre-internet computer at hand are going to use MacGyver-like ingenuity to turn that seemingly harmless circuitry to entertaining use. and for a couple of dumbass troublemakers like us, I'm not talking about pulling another jobs and woes. Now, believe it or not, it was indeed possible to meet girls with the CB.

Well, meat is not quite accurate. Can't say what any of them looked like, mind you, but remember, we were horny teenagers with an absurd level of imagination when it came to visualizing women, and we weren't alone. Any rare time a girl's voice sounded in-channel? You had five, ten guys keying over each other to talk like unruly kids in a classroom. The key was finding the right time and place, then hope you had something cool enough to say to keep the conversation your own,

usually taking it to a more private channel, where the talk is likely to get hijacked. What did we talk about? The usual bullshit, I guess. It never got to sex talk if that's what you're thinking. I'm sure we wished it had. Mostly we described what we looked like, each time with a growing amount of embellishment on both sides, I'm sure.

What were our likes or dislikes, where we went to school, what we were up to at that moment, usually with lies, like working out on our side. Eventually, good nights would be said, and radios would be silenced. It wasn't often we'd hear from the same girl again. Likely, they were bored one night and hopped on their dad's radio for a laugh. And for them, the airwaves were not a place to hang out, not with the likes of losers like us. We didn't always troll the airwaves for girls.

Sometimes we just wanted to shoot the shit with anyone. More times than I could count, we'd pull pranks. It was virtually anonymous, after all. Glenn not only had the massive base station radio in his basement, he had one wired up in the family van. The antenna he had installed was so goddamn tall we'd find ourselves removing it any time we entered a parking garage. Channel 19, or as CBers call it, 1-9, was at least known in the day as the highway channel.

For the most part, it was the go-to channel for truckers and the like, though people looking for road assistance would hop on there as well. It made sense. Their best chance for help might be a passing truck hearing their call. Channel 9 was the one meant for emergencies, though it wasn't quite teeming with emergency crews at the ready. This was before the abundance of cell phones, mind you. But every now and then, one of us commoners would hop on One-9 and at least initiate a conversation with someone, then carry it onto a different channel, else hear the onslaught of angry, tired trucker curses.

One-nine was where I'd first heard Jojo Baby. That was her handle. I never got her real name. Probably Jody or something. She only knew me by mine, Blue Thunder. Glenn and I, well, mostly I, talked with her well into the previous Saturday night. It was going well, or so I thought. We'd move the talk over to Channel 7.

Tonight, she wasn't there. And after a good couple of hours calling out on 1-9, it was clear she wasn't there either. I pushed the mic aside and drained the last dregs from my beer. Glenn, ever ready with the reload, handed me another. All right, so what now? I don't know, maybe we should head out for once. Can't. Fucking Marie's got the van tonight.

As though to add insult to injury, the basement door flew open, and there she stood. Fork over the keys, Dumbo. Are you... Oh, my God. Dad is going to kill you if he knows you guys are down here drinking. Uh, nope. Who do you think bought it for us? Glenn pulled the van key from his pocket.

pocket and tossed it to his sister. Look at you two. Is that all you're going to do all night? Sit there and talk to weirdos on the radio. Not like we can go anywhere? The van? Like that would matter? Glenn shrugged. Fine. I'll tell you what.

I can bring you and Sean to Sully's party. I just need to pick up Jill. Ah, Sully? He patted the half-empty case of beer. He's a dick. We've got a better party here. Thanks. I gave him an incredulous look.

Dude, we... Marie snickered. Yeah, okay. Party hearty-tarties. Glenn threw an empty can in her direction. It clanged against the door as she left. Wench! He rolled his chair closer to the CB, and pulled the mic close.

Hey, Sledge, Dumbo, I copy. Let's take it to 1-5. Can't you please turn that damn base station shit up? off, say over like the rest of us. Man, all right, catch you on one five. Sledgehammer was one of a few other guys we knew at the radio, better known to us off the air as Walt Bowden. He and Glenn were known for monopolizing a channel for hours, ranting together about anything from girls uninterested in them to which was the superior antenna.

Sometimes I'd chime in, but not this time. This time, I'd rather be at Sully's party. I'd rather be talking to Jojo. Instead, I half listened to Glenn and Walt, as I proceeded to polish off the better half of that case. Between about my seventh and eighth beer, and in the middle of my friend's mind-numbing argument concerning radios using court symbols versus I-C's. Sledgehammer only wishes he had beer at all. Who's this?

For about ten seconds, there was no response. It's even made blues zonk out on your floor. I quickly shut my eyes and hung my tongue. out of my mouth before Glenn turned around a look. An empty can bounced close to my face. Whoa, hey. Hey, Dumbel. The music from an unidentifiable boy band poisoned the background as she spoke. Who the hell's Sassy Kitten? Glenn shook his head with the shrug as if to say,

Who gives a shit? It's a girl, dumbass. Hey there, Sassy. Where do I know you from? I laughed. She's got to be talking about the cartoonist. elephant. Oh, you. Fuck off. Blue Thunder are, you know, lifting, uh, working out, got us some beers, you know, working out and lifting, you know? Girl, you don't stand a chance. Those two geeks are a match made in heaven. Nothing comes between those lovers. You want to hook up? Talk to the sledgehammer. That's me. Fucking Walt. So are you guys up for partying? You know,

you can hook up with my girlfriend and I can hug up with Lucender. Hell yes. Tell her yes. Uh, no car? Who gives a shit? We'll figure something out. Just go.

Tell her yes. Uh, yeah, we're up for partying. What's your 1020? Proceeding a barrage of humiliating, seemingly incessant, girly laughter was the reply, now from a more familiar voice. For several seconds, the channel was silent. Walt broke in laughing mid-roar. Marie mocked him, all the while more boy band music played in the background, intermixed with another girl's guffaws.

You and Blue Balls go have fun working out. I fell back onto my ass, dropping my chin to my chest, not so much feeling defeated as I was humiliated. It served to remind me that, more likely than not, people using CBs to meet people are impostors. Glenn Walt and I were no different. Marie just chose to be a lot more upfront about it. None of that seemed to stop me from clinging on to hope that they were genuinely honest people out there to talk to and perhaps even meet someday. I managed to get over myself and left the room to hit the head. When I got back, Glenn was no longer talking with Walt.

Instead, he was slowly turning through the CB's 40 channels coming up with not much more than static. Come on, dude, can we go do something else? TV, anything? Glenn's response was interrupted by a sound from the CB once its dial hit upon Channel 15. The signal was choppy, likely somewhat distant, and the voice sounded abused, deep, and tired, hoarse likely from too many cigarettes or too much booze or both.

No response. A sinister smile then grew on Glenn's face before he cleared his throat and keyed the mic. Oh, come on, man. Don't do it. not this guy. I knew what he intended to do. Sorry, but you know, Marie sets me off, dude.

And maybe I just want to balance the scales with this poor slob since she's not around. This time he did his best to sound like a woman. And damn it all, if he wasn't convincing. I'd heard him do this before. Only it had been to prank lonely teenage boys and not some gruff trucker who'd sooner plug a steel toe in your ass. then sulked the whole thing off. What's your handle, cutie?

Glenn let out a cackle and took a pull on his beer. I only shook my head and smirked. That was Glenn being Glenn, or rather, Glenn not being Glenn. Tell him Jojo Baby. What the hell, right? This is Jojo Baby. Static.

Glenn and I exchanged looks. Who there, big guy? You know, I could really use a good fuck tonight. Think you could help? Again, for a good long minute, there was nothing. Glenn shrugged. You're not. Glenn slid back over to the mic.

Well, that's what they call me, big guy. No, if I'm ready for that, big guy, we just barely met. How about I come to you, big guy, or I'll have to leave. And you wouldn't want me to leave already now, would you? The voice from the man known as Big Guy grew, then from mild irritation to full-on, absolute, and honest rage. I reached over and quickly turned the CB's dial to a random channel, filling the room again with the sound of static.

Jesus. What the hell was that? My stomach churned. You never know who you're going to meet on there, huh? Hey, you okay? Yeah, don't let big guy get to you, man. It was just some creep. Or not, I mean, we'll never know.

right? He was right. We were all untraceable. Only found and seen if we wanted to be. If you don't want to hear from someone, you change the channel. Or maybe you never turn the CB on again. Either way, you move on.

Like I guess the real Jojo had done. Big guy. Probably more like tiny dick. Turn on the TV. Guess what's see what's on. Best idea all night. My eyes creaked open under eyelids like sandpaper. I pulled my arm out from under my cheek and checked my watch.

About 2.30. I had no idea how long I'd been out. Judging by the hangover already setting in, it'd been a while. I sat up. Glem was splayed out on the floor, his hands embracing the empty case like a bedtime snuggy. He was always a lightweight. In front of me a large, digital number 18 glowed from the face of the CB. Shit. I fumbled for the mic. Someone calling for help? This was rare.

You'd occasionally catch a stranded motorist calling out for a tow truck on Channel 9, but this... This sounded dire. If I need help, no one's answering. Why were there no authorities monitoring Channel 9? Saturday night. Most likely they had DUIs to hand out in a multitude of parties to break up. Are you there?

Glam, wake up. You gotta hear this. Out cold. I swung the chair around and gave him a kick. A low, loud, irritated groan followed. Dude, listen, there's some chick on here looking for help. This is nuts. Listen, what's your handle?

My watch? Help me, please. Glenn, kicked at my chair. Oh, come on. Bullshit. She's on Channel 18. It's got to be Marie. Fucking with us again, dude. Does that sound like Marie or Jill? She says she came up empty on nine. What the hell, right? Let's see how it plays out. Glenn shrugged and sat up. What's your 20, Christine? I mean, you're 1020. Your location?

I am broken down off, I think, exit 17 somewhere. Off Route 2A and Eastboro, I'm stopped near a sign for St. Ambrose something. Eastboro, shit. She's probably stuck out in the middle of the state forest. I mean, that's a cemetery. Do you need us to call you a tow truck? No, no, please. I don't have any money, and I just need somebody to come pick me up and take me home.

Please, I'll do anything. I'm so scared. Glenn and I exchanged looks with our eyebrows peaked. Hold on, Christine. What do you think? Maybe it's legit, maybe it's not, but it doesn't matter, right? Because we don't have wheels. He was right about that.

There wasn't really anything we could do. Call the cops? I don't think that ever occurred to us. Where was the heroism in that, after all? Even if we had the van, neither one of us was in any condition to drive. We didn't have many options. Oh, I know. Glenn was now on his feet.

He gave me a shot in the arm. Sledge, Walt, we can have him pick us up, and we can all go check it out. It's almost three in the morning, is he still on? Worth a try. Hey, Christine, hold on, okay? We'll be right back. Okay, please, hurry. Glenn took control of the radio, switching the channel to 19.

Breaker 1-9. Sledgehammer, you copy? We need to go check something out. Just come pick us up. Says we're checking out. Glenn looked at me, defeated. Go to 1-8. Turning the radio back to 18, we caught Christine mid-sentence, sounding frantic. Sledge, you hear?

Someone to come help me. I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, and I'm scared. Ask Sledge. She doesn't want cops or anything like that. She just wants someone to come pick her up. She's over in Eastboro. I threw my head up and cursed at the ceiling. Glenn slammed his hand onto the mic's transmit button.

Sledge, take it back to the last channel. Back on 19, Glenn's tone grew more clearly annoyed. Sledge, you there? Sledge. Yeah, I'm here. What the hell's wrong with you? You're like miles out of the way. Walt laughed.

The channel grew silent for a moment while we stude on Walt's words. I'm going to go help her. I'm heading back to 1-8. Of course, we followed. You there? Not coming? St. Ambrose. The following ten minutes felt more like 20. Glenn and I spending most of it within the white noise of CB radio static.

I heard Wildflower made me move to California. Jade was just, I don't know. Anyway, I barely talked to her. Walt's voice broke in. I'm here. For the next minute, there was nothing. Glenn and I looked at each other, brows furrowed and jaws slack. Glenn keyed the mic.

Sledgehammer, you copy, what's going on? Yeah. Again, silence. Sledge, what's going on? A truck out here. Five minutes passed. Then 10. 20.

Static. Only static. You copy? Nothing. 30 minutes. The door to the room. room crashed open, I almost pissed myself. Into the room pour Glenn's sister, stinking of spent cigarettes and fruity liquor.

Strawberry, maybe. Oh my God, you two are still trying to get late on that thing? Fuck off, Marie. Whatever. Fine. I'm snacking and crashing. Wait, give me the van key. What?

The hell do you want the keys for now? Party's way over. Come on, just give them. After several failed jabs at her coat for a pocket, she managed to slip her hand in and pull the key out. It clattered to the floor at her feet. She stumbled up the stairs and sniggered like a snuffed up wino. Glenn got to his feet and snatched up the keys. Well, let's go.

The ride to Eastboro was a decent 30 minutes from Glenn's house. Walt was right and not going out of his way to get us if this girl Christine was really desperate for help. Throughout the entire ride, I took to using the van CB to reach out for Walt, Christine, or anyone on Channel 18. No response, not a soul. Even our old haunt, Channel 19, had no one. Glenn slammed his hand onto the steering wheel. Fucking Walt, the asshole probably turned his radio off. Why would he do that?

Who knows, it's Walt, selfish fucking Walt. Nothing was going on. I knew that. At least I knew nothing was happening in the way Glenn thought. If I'm being completely honest with myself, I knew nothing ever could or would happen between a closed-up loser like me and another stranger of the opposite sex,

meeting anonymously on a CB radio on a weekend night, or any night. But it made me feel good, even if just for an hour or two, or maybe over a couple of nights. And so what if they essentially disappeared after that? We both had our fun, or at least I did, both pretending to be someone were not, someone we want to be or appear to be, at least when only a voice is to be heard and a story with a questionable degree of truth is to be

told. And all of us were the same sort of loser. Glenn, Walt, me, all those girls we talked to, we were all the same. In the days before the internet, it wasn't silent words upon a screen that gave you anonymity. For us, it was the airwaves with only a voice to identify you by. That anonymity was at least something you could count on. What came from that voice was as believable as you wanted it to be. At that hour on a Sunday morning, the roads were clear.

An occasional delivery truck blew past, heading the other direction. Glenn turned the van onto the exit 17 off-ram, passing by only a few houses before plunging into the darkened state. State Forest Road. The cemetery I knew was under a mile ahead. I called into the mic. Sledgehammer, you copy? Glenn slowed the van as it passed by the closed gate of St. Ambrose. Walt's car was nowhere. No sign of his car nor a truck. Beyond the ornate walls was complete blackness, but for the light from the windows of the chapel and a mausoleum. A late night for visiting dead loved ones, I thought. Probably a priest preparing for visitors and mass later that morning.

Drive a little further. That's the parking lot. Sean, he's not going to be there. They took off. No, look. Stopped in the middle of the parking lot, was Walt's beat up Monty. Exhausts still sputtered from its undercarriage as it idled, alone in the dark. Its driver's side door stood ajar, though the car's interior light was off. Beyond it were empty parking spaces in the bordering woods. No sign of other vehicles. No sign of anyone. No sign of Walt.

Glenn stopped the van 20 yards from Walt's car. Give him a shout. See if he's still in there. Sledge? Walt? You copy? This is blue and Dumbo. We're behind you.

Outside I could hear my own voice echo back. me in the distance. Walt's radio was still on with the volume turned up. Glenn rolled his window down and called out. Walt, stop fucking around, man. Where's the girl? Christine? Christine, do you copy?

What's your 20? Over. Glenn stepped outside the van and slammed the door shut behind him with pissed off force. As Glenn stormed away toward the idling car, Christine's voice came over the. the CB. She giggled. It was a feminine, girlish laugh, one of mischief and sex, and felt as though to go on for minutes. As she continued to transmit, her voice gradually deepened, as the giggle transformed to that of a laugh, much more sinister and masculine, from the van C.B. From waltz. It was everywhere.

Who the hell is that? Glenn called back to the van C.B. as he continued to make his way to Walt's car. I threw my hands up and shrugged. The man on the CB continued transmitting, never stopping for our response. It was clear now who both voices belonged to. The man from Channel 15 from earlier that night. The enraged lunatic who went by the handle of Big Guy.

Glenn, it's that crazy nutball from earlier. Who? That crazy dude, big guy. He's fucking with us, man. He sent us out here for nothing. Glenn spun around. Did you just say something about J? He turned back to Walt's car, picking up his pace.

Walt, come on, Boden. This is bullshit. Another story. I tried transmitting or apply. Who is this? You're one sick fuck, you know that? It was no use. He wasn't going to hear me, and his transmission was overpowering anything mobile.

unusual even for a trucker's radio this was base station level big guy had the calm and he wasn't letting up I watched as Glenn reached Walt's open door then as he stumbled backwards onto the pavement Glenn was on his feet now sprinting back to the van he held a hand to his mouth though all it did was delay what came forth onto the ground

as he slammed against the driver's side door it's it's Walt he's fucking strangled by his own mic cord in there man, his face is fucking blue and his tongue. Holy shit. He's dead, man. What? Are you sure?

You one thing about you, Brian to nail down, just where in the hell you two pencil necks were? Sledgehammer, is it? He was kind enough to take the throat for a bit, so to speak. So I helped get it out of him. Glenn reached through the window and snatched the mic from my hand. Fuck you. You sick? Fuck, you killed him. Why would you do that? You killed Walt. He's just a fucking kid.

Glenn, he's still transmitting. He can't hear you. He ignored me. Is there anyone there? Breaker 1-8. Breaker 1-8. Glenn let go of the mic, and big guy picked up mid-sentence. Bring to Channel 9. We need to call the cops or something. No, no, wait. Sassy Kitten. Is that... Is he... is he talking about... But he's... that he's not.

I do want to thank you. you boys for reminding me that it's time for me to relocate. I don't need your gut. 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.

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