The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E09

Episode Date: June 5, 2016

It's episode 9 of Season 7. On this week's show we have six tales about broken brains, menacing messages, and wretched rebirth."The Slog" written by Alex Beyman and performed by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:03:20)"Purity Falls" written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by David Ault & Matthew Bradford & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:16:30)"The Fake Cemetery on Richmond Road" written by Manen Lyset & Brandon Boone and performed by Dan Zappulla & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 00:37:25)"Late Night" written by Kerry H. and performed by Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 01:06:40)"Meltdown"** written by M.J. Pack and performed by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:16:20)"Feed the Pig"** written by Elias Witherow and performed by Jesse Cornett & Peter Lewis & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:43:40)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about Alex Beyman Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset Click here to learn more about Kerry H. Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack Click here to learn more about Elias Witherow Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"The Fake Cemetery on Richmond Road" illustration courtesy of Jörn HeidrathAudio 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. Season 7, episode 9, the slog, purity falls, the fake cemetery on Richmond Road. Late night, meltdown, feed the pig. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings.

Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about broken brains, menacing messages, and wretched rebirth. I want to make sure everyone knows about our big show coming up next week. That's June 12th. It'll be the celebration of our fifth anniversary. Yes, indeed, June 12th marks the end of five full years of no sleep podcasting. We have a big show planned for you with great stories and some friends stopping by to join in the fun. It'll be a full-length show, well over two hours long and free for one and all.

It's our way of saying thanks to all of you for keeping us going for five years. Plus, for those of you foolish enough, I mean frugal enough, to not yet have joined us with a season past seven, you'll want to hold off a little while longer. We just might have a fifth anniversary promo to help you save a few shekels on the cost of the season pass. So make sure you join us for the fun. We'll have cake, orange soda, and of course plenty of colorful, menacing, dead. downright horrifying clowns to haunt your darkest nightmen and make balloon animals for the kitties.

You know, I don't know if I'll have time to reflect on those five years next week. It's still hard to believe it's been that long. I have to tell you, doing the podcast for five years has been an amazing experience. But like anything with a regular schedule, there's a sense of. routine that gets established. I have tasks and schedules and it can at times feel like an almost endless cycle. The days and weeks and months roll by and I'm so immersed in the moment that I don't always know what grounds me, where I am on the journey. It's like driving my car on a long road in an unfamiliar location. It's hot, the traffic is heavy, and I have no

idea how long the drive will take. A thick sweat droplet rolls down my face, tracing the outline of my nose before falling to the seat cushions between my thighs. As I glance down reflexively to see where it lands, I spot the fossilized remnant of a French fry from a half-remembered meal. I know what fast food is, but just cannot visualize it. I don't remember the last. I don't remember the last time I stopped anywhere. The jackass in front of me can't decide which lane he belongs in. A blast of boiling black fumes issues forth from his tailpipe, and a second later I smell traces of it brought in by the air conditioning. Yeah, so much for conditioning the air. Doesn't seem to cool it either, just circulates it around the cramped, sweltering interior of this

little steel box. The humidity consists of mostly other people's sweat. I glisten with it. The windows could be rolled down, if not for the black smoke belched in great puffs from the tailpipes of the other cars surrounding us. My wife struggles to move a food tray mounted to the cup holder so she can shift her legs a bit. I've settled in.

My body flushed with the vinyl seat. conforming so closely to the contours of my back that were I shirtless, the heat might have fused me to it. A mixture of dust, crumbs, and cigarette ashes coats the dash. I remember wiping it away recently, but it just keeps settling. Up ahead, I see what looks like an exit. But upon taking it, it's just another overpass. What are we passing over? All around me are more overpasses, elevated highways on thick concrete pylons, so numerous and densely packed as to obscure my view, even of the sky.

Likewise, when I try to peer over the edge, I see only a nest of tangled highway below me. The only buildings I occasionally see are parking structures, more concrete, hard-edged, edges, rectilinear forms baking helplessly in the summer sun. At least I think it's summer. I don't recall when I began driving, and there's nothing in the car to indicate what day or month it is. Even my watch seems to have stopped. I sigh and honk in exasperation.

I don't have time for this. Need to get where I'm going, wherever that is. Seems like I should know that, but my attempts to pin it down are fruitless. Begins to materialize in my mind only to fall apart moments before I see what it is. Everyone in the other cars looks the same. Tense, cramped, and impatient. Eyes locked forward, none returning my glances. Another exit, another overpass, with nothing under it.

but more overpasses, same as what's above it. Miserable as it is in this stinking wheeled oven, I can't imagine it would be any better out there on the side of the road. Meat boiling against the asphalt and concrete, lungs filled with black exhaust. The elevated highways around me shift when I don't look. It took me a while to notice, more and more as of late. like serpents, undulating so slowly that at first I mistook them for stationary, branching out all around me into fractal infinity, a kaleidoscopic expanse of asphalt,

concrete and cars, bumper to bumper with no way out that doesn't simply lead to more of it. A food truck pulls up alongside me. Now I remember where the fry came from. Convenient as hell, delivered right to you in traffic. No need to stop. Whatever stop means. I know the words traffic lights, but can't picture it. I feel like I should have at least seen a couple by now.

My wife picks now to tell me she's pregnant. Spit out my soda all over the dash. immediately more of the dust and crumb mixture begins to adhere to it. I don't know if I'm ready to be a dad. I think I will be once I get where we're going. I just want the drive to be over with. She says she started thinking about it when we met. Do I remember?

Of course I do. We met in this car. She climbed through the open window from the next one over. I hand her the other soda, then receive the bag of burgers from the man at the window. The bread is like foam, the meat like spiced rubber. That keeps me going, though. That's the important thing. I'll never get to where I'm headed otherwise.

I hope we're making good time, then puzzle over what that could have meant. Underpass now I like tunnels They're relaxing Just a means to an end though Then another overpass Underpass Overpass Overpass

Underpass Overpass I can't wait to get where I'm headed Finally get out Stretch my legs Take a bathroom break But where How could I do all of that outside the car. Would it all be on the road or in another car?

Shifting slightly, I felt the toilet seat beneath me and remembered there's no need to stop for such a thing. All the seats work this way. Every driver, every passenger, like the car they travel in, taking fuel in one end, then releasing exhaust from the other. All to keep going towards their various destinations and a constantly surging flow of steel on or if they know where they're going when i next look over she's bloated almost beyond recognition weekly she tells me her waters broke how long were we in that tunnel i pull up next to a medical vehicle someone at the window helps deliver the baby haven't even thought of a name yet. Herald, I guess. If it doesn't fit, we can pick another when we get where we're going.

Then I can raise him. I most look forward to being able to sit down and enjoy a full meal. None of this fast food shit. Means to an end, just to tide me over until I get there. I don't want to raise a boy on that. It is a boy, it turns out. Going to make a better life. life for him than I had once we get there. Once this ceaseless grind is over, it's going to be fantastic. Winter comes. Exhaust, soaks into the snow, tarnishing it to a sickly gray. The air is dry and cold, the heater long since broken. The boy standing up now in his mother's lap. The occasional blast of heat through the cabin is from the exhaust of the car in front of us, sucking in their leavings to redigest before passing them onto the poor fellow behind us. I don't want little Harold breathing that.

It won't be like this when we get there. It'll be blue skies, grassy fields, and various other worlds I don't recall learning and can't pin to any concrete notion. I'll figure it out when we arrive. Harold hates the tunnels. They scare him. I sing songs to calm him down. The ride will be over soon, I assure him. Helps to point out the light coming from the other end as we enter.

The relentless, are we there yet? Begin almost as soon as he can speak. Then gradually peter out and stop as he reaches adolescence. Often he'll want to talk about this or that's. I tell him it can wait until we get there. I feebly shift gears and overtake the truck ahead of us to avoid some of that exhaust it's blasting us with. He looks ready.

I begin teaching him how to shift gears at first, just so he can do it for me. Freeze up my hand. Then how to take the wheel. That way I can eat with both hands. It really creeps up on you. One day he's in diapers, the next he's driving the car with you in the backseat. Suites me fine. More time with the wife.

She's not doing too hot. I don't know what I can do, but try to get there quicker. Everything will be fine when we get there. No more of this cheap food. No more of these fumes. everything will be how it ought to be. Her eyes light up when I tell her how it's going to be. At some time while I was doing that, Harold met Susan. Sweet, respectable-looking girl in the car next over. It was hard to see him go, but those two are a matched set. It was like that for me, too, back to the front seat.

Really didn't feel the same without Harold. Now and again I spot his car ahead or behind us in traffic, but he's busy talking with Susan and doesn't wave back. Ah, no matter, plenty of time to catch up with him when I get there. Underpass, overpass, another exit. The car is thin out. Everyone in them has gray hair like mine. Hey, here comes something different.

At last, I'm getting somewhere. Looks like a tunnel ahead. Can't make anything out inside. No light that I can see. Wonder how long it is. Hope when I come. out the other end, I'll finally be there, and this long, agonizing drive will have been worth it. Ah, it'll be nice to get out.

Lay down on the grass. Eat some real food. More than anything to see again. Sorry about that little tangent. I guess all I really wanted to say is that, yeah, five years of podcasting. Hell of a thing, eh? I guess it's normal to look back when you're celebrating an anniversary. I learned that from author Alex Bayman.

He knows what I'm talking about. Now, let's stop looking back and look ahead as we start this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a man who exists. experienced more than just culture shock when his mother remarried and moved across the Atlantic to America. In this tale from author C. M. Scandrith, the boy's burgeoning sexual identity doesn't sit well with his fundamentalist stepfather, so steps are taken to try to change the boy at a camp with a rather insidious form of treatment. Performing this tale are David Alt, Matthew,

Bradford and Erica Sanderson. So don't let its name fool you. There's nothing pure about purity falls. I don't think many of you appreciate just how strange America is to foreigners. Your culture has been spoon-fed to us via sitcoms and Hollywood blockbusters, giving us an apple pie, wholesome, saccharine-soaked picture of what life in your country is like. Heroic cups with hearts of old, harmlessly neurotic couples, friends living in central city apartments while somehow working minimum wage jobs. It's all a comforting fiction that couldn't possibly exist in the real world. Whereas my first real taste of America was when my mother brought me here in 1996. Within a day, I witnessed a brutal mugging outside a mall, followed by a cop pulling out a pistol

and shooting the pup three times in the chest. As someone born, and raised in Europe, and especially after that day, I would have told you that the biggest culture shock was your nonchalance towards weapons and violence. But as I scratched away at the gun-oiled, blue, white and red surface of the United States, I learned that the true culture shock was to be found elsewhere. Specifically, in your attitudes on religion. My stepfather had always been a very dominating presence in our lives. Hence why my mother gave into his constant badgering to move back home with him to Texas where everything was better. They'd originally met when he was working in Spain on the 1992 Olympics, and he'd flown to London for a conference

that my mother was also attending. He was loud, confident and interesting, a far cry from the quiet, frail man who had fathered me, even quieter and frailer at the end of the end of the of his life as he succumbed to cancer. Perhaps it was that particular robustness of character and the seemingly indomitable physical presence of this American man that initially attracted my mother. Whatever the case, their romance was as short, explosive and colorful as the 4th of July, and they married within two months of meeting each other. But while my mother saw a bombastic giant with a big heart, a bigger smile, and a laugh that could fill an empty order to What I saw was an overweight bully with too many teeth and a voice that made my ears ring.

That wasn't the only reason why I had very little time for the man. The other reason for my animosity toward him was that his proud evangelical Christian roots were in direct conflict with my burgeoning homosexuality. Oh, how he tried to crush that out of me. I grew to loathe the hunting trips, gifts of knives, gun-magicals, magazines and soft porn automotive calendars he buried me in, all to try and make me man up. The near constant drone of his superifically stereotyped, artificially macho drivel became an ugly white noise in the background of my teens.

But when my mother was killed in an interstate pile-up, everything took a distinct turn, from just plain awful to absolutely fucked. Having legally adopted me, and with my having no biological parents, my stepfather had full custody. He refused to let me go back to the UK and instead plunged our dwindling family unit into the heady haze of Southern religious doctrine. Perhaps he saw it as a means to either expunge the guilt he felt at my mother's death or as a way to come to terms with her loss. Maybe it was just a habitual reflex ingrained in him since he was old enough to be dragged along to church. In any case, it was a miserable time for me. Unable to deny my sexuality any longer, I tearfully told my father at age 14 that I wasn't attracted to girls, but I only had feelings for boys.

I'm sure you can imagine just how well that went down. First, there was the therapist in his tobacco-stinking office, sitting in a leather armchair under the accusing gaze of a gruesomely crucified Jesus. He strongly advised me to ask God to take these evil impulses from me, lest I burn in the flames of hell for all eternity. Then it was the intense-eyed, nearly psychotic inter-church faith healers who would lay on hands to pray away the gay until I wept and cried out as their hard, urgent fingers gouged bruises in my pale flesh. When I confess to my therapist that none of it had worked. He sent me home with an envelope for my stepfather that contained a multi-page, colourful camp brochure. Three weeks later, I was shoved into the back of the

family sedan, along with a hastily packed suitcase and driven halfway across unfamiliar country to a place for boys like me, a place where I would be turned from being a sensitive, effeminate, cock-sucking little faggot, and instead made into a strong, god-fearing, heterosexual and with a healthy American lust for tits and ass. The place was known as purity falls. I can't begin to describe how beautifully ugly the place was. Set in a wooded reserve backing onto rocky hills, the camp buildings were a jarring mix. The shining veneer of sturdy polished doors fitted to rough-hewn log cabins was as wrong as the equally polished smiles from the camp-stand. and their outdoorsy yet disarmingly clean Boy Scoutish uniforms.

The flag of the United States of America flew proudly from the shiny brass pole outside the main lodge, and I wouldn't have been surprised if Apple Pie was literally being baked somewhere in that postcard setting. But from the moment I clapped eyes on the batons carried by the councillors, and the gun at the director's hip, I knew it was a conversion camp. Welcome to Purity Falls. He pumped my stepfather's hand with a finger-breaking handshake. Your boy is in good hands here. We have a 100% success rate.

While my stepfather seemed reassured by the steel in the man's voice, something about it set my teeth on edge. Then with a perfunctory side hug and an insincere farewell, Well, my father left me in the hands of my new family. So began my stay at purity falls. Our day predictably started with enforced prayer, then cold communal showers. I don't think there's anything more confused and miserable on this earth than a bunch of freezing, naked, pubescent boys battling their newly awakened sexuality, shivering under ice water showers while mad-eyed, uniformed adults scream-threatening biblical verses at them.

Then it was physical training, mostly running around the wooded hills of Purity Falls, followed by another frigid shower and a massively manly breakfast of steak, bacon and eggs. Afternoons were spent mostly doing physical labour and camp chores, interspersed with more enforced prayer. evenings were filled with purity training, which largely consisted of watching badly made VCR tapes designed to brainwash fatigue minds into believing the doctrine of Christian rebirth. And when someone was deemed purified enough by the staff and the director, they would be taken away by the camp councillors to the cradle of rebirth in the woods near the falls. When the boy came back, he would be docile, compliant, and, exactly as the director claimed,

100% cured of all homosexual urges. And I believed him. I'd seen one of the boys who came back from the cradle and the blank intensity of his gaze confirmed that the last vestiges of individuality had finally been strangled from his broken mind. After that, I vowed to avoid the cradle at all costs. During one of our few breaks under the wasp-filled apple trees

in the camp orchard, I noticed one of the younger counsellors. as David, staring off into the distance and mumbling to himself. The other boys took advantage of his inattention to goof off or to try and relax, but my curiosity got the better of me. Creeping closer, I heard the faint words of a song dribble from his lips. I don't know why I responded, but the words of the song were so familiar that they came unbidden.

But with what shall I sharpen it, dear Liza, dear Liza, but with what shall I sharpened? it, dear Liza, with what? David turned to me, his usually blank face a white mask of knowing terror. Keep singing. When you sing, it can't focus, and I'm free of it. Don't stop.

As I rushed off the next few stanzas, he babbled at me urgently. You have to get out. He took a step forward and grabbed my shoulders painfully, his nails cutting through the thin fabric of my shirt. If you don't go to the... the cradle, you'll end up here forever, like me. What?

As I stopped singing, his eyes dulled and went curiously soft and empty, before the color returned to his face. Back to work, fags. After that strained, eerie interlude with David, I learned that not everyone who was deemed pure came back from the cradle and was released. Those who weren't chosen at the cradle, whatever that meant, would stay at the camp until either they eventually did become pure enough, or they became camp staff and stayed on permanently,

like David and the other younger counsellors. Suffering through yet another degrading, freezing ablution session and another day of back-breaking labour, my resolve began to crumble. Spending the rest of my life in this place was a prospect that chilled me to my soul, far more than any cold shower. So I started working hard,

I sang loudly and fervently at the services in the chapel, and I memorized my Bible with suitable religiousness. I piled on weight and muscle over the next eight weeks, and eventually during an evening prayer session where the male councillors bear hugged us and made us sing psalms until our lungs hurt, I was eventually deemed purified by the camp director. With a gut-roiling mix of terror and abject relief, myself and two other boys, were dressed in white linen ropes, then led from the lodge down the cut stone path to the cradle. The falls themselves were beautiful, cascading vertically from the cliff 40 feet above us and churning the dark plunge pool below. The path, slick with spray, took us around the lip of the pool, then behind the waterfall,

where a cavern had formed from erosion long ago. White and green limestone was speckled with quartz and agate. The torches held by the attending staff creating prismatic highlights that scattered through the vaulted cavern. The reflected light transformed it from a dark, fearful hole into something desperately and wonderfully glorious. David's awe-filled voice came from behind me. In the center of the cathedral-like cavern rose a crown of stalactites, glistening with faint moisture from their dripping counterparts high above us, and from a depression in the middle of that curious structure,

a white glow began to emanate. Two of the star flanked the phenomenon, wildly and ecstatically chanting in something that sounded like, but wasn't quite flat in. The light brightened until my eyes began to burn, and spidery tingles spread across my body, lifting all the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. Then a singing angel rose from the pit, and I fell to my knees unbidden in an uncontrollable act of mindless worship.

The being that stood in the centre of the cradle seemed to be made almost entirely of actinic light, with massive silver, pale gold and rose wings rippling behind it. Rainbows fired and flared around the crystalline structure of its cathedral, forming a web of shifting, disorienting, kaleidoscopic colours. Two shining white arms were held up in front as though it were praying devoutly, and somewhere within the dazzling radiance where its head was, I could faintly make out huge luminous eyes. Overcome with genuine religious ecstasy,

one of the other boys ran toward the shining angel, screaming above the ethereal singing. What happened next? is something I still have difficulty processing. There was a flash of the angel's huge white arms, and the boy was enveloped in the aching glare. The crystalline singing from the being intensified, rhythmically pulsing as though to a great slow heartbeat.

There followed a curiously incongruous sound, like a deflating balloon that tore through the cavern. It was the director screaming with Spittle flowing freely down his, chin. The boy tottered forward from the light of the angel. His now naked body streaked with milky, pink, white fluid, and his expression beatifically blank. As the next boy hurried forward and was enveloped by the angel, David began to sing behind me. Then wed it, dear Henry, dear Henry. With a thrill of awakening, I responded, singing strongly in sudden panic. With what shall I wet it, dear Lyser, dear Lyser, with what shall I wet it dear Liza with what and then suddenly David darted

forward swinging one of the extendable batons the councillors used to keep us compliant when it struck the angel the singing stopped and with a shriek of alien rage the illusion shattered the thing reared hugely and obscenely above us a segmented and ridged exoskeleton of a cruelly and cutting her perched upon four barbed and multi-jointed legs. A pointed, triangular face held, cissoring mouthpart, still fresh with the blood of the purified boy, and through the pulsing, translucent flesh of its soft underbody,

I could see the partly devoured remains of a human being. But worse than that was the questing, undulating ovipositor. The tube was pushing a newly formed clone of the most recently devoured boy out of the body of the horrifying insectoid female in front of us. I started screaming, and then the cavern erupted into shouting as the angel speared David through the chest with its barbed forms. Blood rained down on us as the gigantic winged mantis tore his rib cage apart. The director and the other staff lay on the floor now, screaming and clutching their heads, shrieking in concert with the creature as it tried to pull out the baton

jutted from one of its soft eyes. In a moment of desperate calm and clarity, I walked over to the writhing form of the director and clipped the pistol from his hip holster, and I began to sing. There's a hole in my bucket, dear Lyser, dear Lyser, there's a hole in my bucket, dear Lizer, a hole.

Then I began firing at the head and torso of the giant winged insectoid until the clip was empty. Pink, white, Ica covered everything, and the screaming had stopped. My stepfather didn't speak to me much after he picked me up from the county police station. I think uncharacteristically keeping quiet and for once not berating me for being a pussy or a faggot was his own strange way of apologising. If I were to simply say that the whole purity falls incident was just swept under the carpet, I would be doing you a gross literary injustice.

The cover-up was so incredibly thorough and well-coordinated that it took my breath away, from the memorized stories agreed upon by the other parents to the falsified statements and false evidence planted by backwater Christian cops. I think in a way it was an even more terrifying display of the toxic power of evangelical religion that through their twisted belief system they actually thought it was more important to ensure that the locals protected one another than it was to tell the truth. In any case, I was banned from ever speaking the name purity falls again on pain of prosecution. Not that I care anymore.

Because I just can't get one thing out of my head. What happened to the boys who were birthed by that thing in the cave? What were they? I think they're still out there, walking amongst us, perfectly kind of. calm, perfectly compliant, ticking time bombs, just waiting to pupate into so many grotesque angels, just like the one at purity falls. In most towns, the cemetery is a peaceful, well-tended memorial to those no longer with us. But as explained in this tale written by Manon Lysetz and our very own Brandon Boone, a man notices an odd cemetery.

in his town, which seems to be rather mysterious, abandoned with strange gravestones. His curiosity earns him the real story about why it's there, and it's a tale he regrets ever hearing. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula and Corinne Sanders. So if you're ever in this particular town, make sure you keep on driving when you pass the fake cemetery on Richmond Road. Every day on my way to work, I passed the cemetery on Richmond Road. I always thought there was something off about it, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Maybe it was the overgrown grass, the washed out tombstones, the fact that it was always empty, or the lack of flowers on any of the graves. I don't know exactly what it was, but whenever the buster, drove by, I was left with a strange feeling in my gut. It wasn't until my mother's funeral a few months ago that I became compelled to look into it. See, the cemetery where she was buried, across town so she could be with her parents,

had an entirely different atmosphere. It had a sort of weight to it, a weight that the cemetery on Richmond Road just lacked. It was the difference between being alone in a crowd and being alone. own in a house. Even when I returned to the gravesite on my own, the cemetery still had a presence of sorts, almost as though it was buzzing with life, whereas the one on Richmond Road felt stale, clinical, and sterile. I started asking around at work, my curiosity only grew when I realized nobody knew anyone who'd been buried there, not even distant relatives. The mystery quickly became an obsession of mine, a burning curiosity that couldn't be quelled unless I knew the

truth. I would have to dig deeper to find it. My first step was to consult the records at City Hall. Now, according to official documents, the cemetery land was in an industrial zone, unlike the community cemeteries, which were marked as urban services zones. My next step was to find out who owned the land, and unfortunately I couldn't gather any information on its current owners. I tried researching who originally bought it, but the graveyard's inception predated the available records. My final step was sorting through decades of city maps,

hoping to come up with a timeline for the graveyard's construction. If I could narrow down when it was established, I could focus my research. Pre-60s-era maps identified it as a forested area, while post-60s era maps had blocked it off entirely. So, for all intents and purposes, the graveyard shouldn't have existed. One evening, when my curiosity finally boiled over, I wandered into the graveyard. You could say that I broke in,

but the gate wasn't locked and I didn't see a keep-out sign. As I strolled through the unkempt road, of tombstones, I realized something. They were identical, safe for the names on the front. Same size, same rate of decay, same type of marble. They were spaced out in identical, perfectly aligned rows, all factors that contributed to the graveyard lacking that touch of human warmth. The most chilling detail, however, had to be the year etched on their polished surfaces.

Every single one was marked 1965, leading me to wonder if I was standing in some sort of war monument, but the arrow was wrong. What did this mass grave signify? Now, I can't quite explain why, but as I stood in the graveyard with only the sound of the frigid wind to keep me company, I couldn't help but think the graves I was standing on were empty. In my mind, I could picture hundreds of caskets, their silk lining still in pristine condition,

and their pillows plump and untouched. A strange thought, perhaps, but one I couldn't shake. It was then that I saw a spade resting against a nearby tree, and rust circled up the shaft, like climbing vines, eating away at the metallic green paint on its surface. The spade had been left out in the elements for far, too long, I figured, and I eyed it for a long moment, unable to make up my mind. I was alone. I had the opportunity to prove my theory. All these months, no, years of unanswered questions, and I finally had a chance to get to the bottom of them. My fingers wrapped around the handle, I pulled the spade over my head and glared at the foot of the nearest grave. My body tensed, my heart raced.

Could I really do it? I was trembling, it shaking, in my boots, and I hadn't even done anything yet, but I was already drowning with guilt and regret. What was I doing? What was I expecting to find buried beneath the ground? I was sickened by my own morbid thoughts and actions. This obsession had to end.

How could I have let it get this far? I lowered my arms, took a step back, and I hung my head in shame. I didn't have time to dwell on the shame for too long. Footsteps broke through the silence of the night. I could feel blood draining from my face as I froze where I stood. Had the cops come to arrest me for trespassing? I wanted to run, but I was afraid I'd get into even more trouble if I did. I knew someone was bound to get curious eventually.

I reflexively clutched the spade tightly and held it against my chest as I turned around to face the speaker. There was an old man peering at me. He was wearing a knitted sweater, brown pants, and tattered black shoes. The crow's feet around his eyes stretched as he smiled softly. You're curious about the grave, right? He motioned to him. towards the plot. I stared at him, speechless. I'd been caught with my hand in the cookie jar and didn't quite know how to explain myself. There was no lie in the world that could properly

justify my actions. My face twisted as I racked my brain trying to come up with the response, but my thoughts fluttered away in every direction like dandelion fuzz in the breeze. Well, don't just stand there? He motioned for me to come closer. Shivering, I blindly obeyed and bridged the distance between us. He smiled and looked me in the eyes. Come, let's get you warmed up with some coffee. I'm sure you must have questions. My fingers squeezed the spade protectively.

I shyly averted my gaze from the stranger and lowered my head closer to my shoulders, trying to make myself smaller. Not much of a talker, are you? He extended his arm towards the back of the property, where I could just barely make out the outline of a building. Come on now. Don't be shy. Still looking away, I loosened my grip, an inch towards the tree. I placed the spade right back where I'd found it, and as soon as I let it go, it toppled over. I reached down to grab it, but felt a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

It's fine. Just leave it. Come on. I promise I won't. He didn't sound sinister. His voice was calm, warm, and welcoming. He was the embodiment of a grandfather, but still, something put me ill at ease. Was it him or the shame and disgust I was feeling at myself? His hand moved from my shoulder to my back. I felt him push against it very lightly, like a parent guiding their child. I found myself walking along, unable to speak or look anything but my own two feet. I'll explain everything once we get inside. He led me to a concrete building at the very outskirts of the cemetery.

Though the outside was cold and unwelcoming, the inside had a homey feel to it. There were couches and old television and a bed in the corner. It almost looked like a hunter's cabin, minus the shotguns and the anole hides. On the bookshelf in the corner was a large framed photo of half a day. dozen people wearing lab coats.

It had to have been quite old, judging by its grainy texture and lack of color and the outdated hairstyles of the men and women photographed therein. Have a seat. I'll be right back. He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me to meander around the living room. I could have run away at that point, but I was paralyzed, mortified by what I'd done. I could hear the sounds of a coffee maker gurgling from the other room. and ceramic cups clanging against one another.

Do you take anything with your coffee? Sugar, milk, cream? Sh... The words wouldn't come out. I swallowed and cleared my throat. Uh, uh, sugar, please. He clapped his hands together and chuckled. Oh, so he speaks.

My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. He handed me the cup of coffee. coffee. Name? Isaiah. Odd name for someone so young. My mother was religious. You? No. Tell me, do you believe in the soul? No. He smiled a knowing smile. So tell me, Isaiah, what were you doing digging up the grave? My heart, Stopped. It was the question I was dreading. I should have spent time coming up with an answer, but I didn't. My mind had gone blank from the moment I'd seen him to the moment he placed the cup of coffee in my hands.

Well? I tried to take a sip of coffee to buy some time, but it was still scalding hot. I had a hunch. A hunch? That it'd be empty. He took a seat opposite from me. me and smiled again, nodding his head as though he'd anticipated the answer. What if I told you that you were right?

Am I? He nodded. Are they all empty? The graves, I mean? I figured he knew. He lived on the property after all. He nodded. Every last coffin, do you want to know why?

I hesitated. Did I? Was this one of those things like in the movies where he'd tell me he was going to have to kill me if he told me the truth? I tensed fingers digging into my kneecaps nervously. He laughed lightheartedly. You shouldn't be so afraid of me, you know? I'm not the one digging up graves in the middle of the night. Tusha. Please, tell me. He leaned back against the chair, settling in like a story. Teller, preparing to weave a fantastic tale for his children. It all started back in the 60s when I was, hmm, I'd say about your age.

I was working with a team of medical researchers on improving organ transplantation. You see, back then, transplants were still fairly new. We weren't sure which organs could and couldn't be successfully transplanted. I took a sip of coffee, listening to him attentively. I wondered where he was going with this. Was he a mad scientist who disemboweled his victims just to see if he could? Would I be next? He looked longingly towards the photo on the shelf.

It was while researching the brain that we realized something that brought our research to a complete standstill, something that shook us to the very core of the world. our foundation. We discovered the brain lives on, even after death. I snorted, but quickly slapped my hand over my mouth. I'm so sorry that's just not what I was expecting to hear. I pressed my lips together. I'm sorry, but what you're saying is impossible. He shook his head. Ah, it's all right. I understand. Your skepticism, I was skeptical too back then, but it's true. We discovered life after death, so to speak, in the form of electrical impulses.

Barely noticeable, really. Even days after a body has died, the brain still sends out just the faintest of signals. You almost have to be looking for it to know it's still there. but it is. His smile faded into a solemn frown. And the brain continues to do so until it putrophies completely. I became overwhelmed with apprehension.

I didn't quite understand what he was trying to say, but the mere thought of it made me uncomfortable. The hairs on my forearm stood at attention, A bead of sweat rolled down my temple and landed on my lap. I swallowed a knot in my throat. Like a chicken running around with its head cut off. Right? He shook his head.

No, no, that's completely different. Those are just the nerves still firing at random. What we found was organized, deliberate messages sent through the brain. signals that are much slower than with a living specimen and much less active but still present. When you die, your brain is still aware of what's going on. His faded blue eyes looked into mine. Despite his age, I could see vitality behind that cloudy facade. I looked away unable to maintain eye contact.

My gaze fell on the brown liquid in the cup between my fingers. The brain is aware of everything. Do you understand what that means? I thought of the caskets in the graveyard. I was starting to understand why they were empty. Even autopsies? He brought his hands together and nodded. We cut them open like it's nothing

without realizing what we're doing. But if that wasn't bad enough, we extend their suffering. The brain, under normal circumstances, should decay within a few days, but we chill our corpses. We embalm them so we can put them on display. We lock them up in caskets and bury them deeper in the ground. Nowadays, brains can survive weeks, sometimes even a month, longer than they should. It goes against the natural order of things.

I felt ill. If he was right, if he wasn't just some crazy old coot, then I could only imagine the kind of horrors people had endured. Could they feel their bodies being cut open, embalming fluid, flushing their system, and their skin being sewn and prepped for viewing? How long did they feel the four walls of their caskets closed down around them before they finally found rest? He had to be wrong. He just had to be. There's no way. Yes, yes, I know it's hard to believe, but it's the truth.

We were all shocked. We didn't want to believe it. We performed countless tests, but we all came to the same conclusion. We couldn't do much, though. Only destroy the bodies sent to us. Make sure none of them... suffered. What about all the graves?

He smiled. Those are symbolic. The families know no one's buried there. We were working with bodies donated to science. The graveyard was just to give families a place to mourn and collect themselves. But since most of our specimens came from out of town, well, no one ever really bothered coming to the graveyard. After the funerals, the plots were empty, after all, who I made the trip.

What about everyone else? The ones who weren't sent to you, everyone who's been buried since then? My leg began to tremble from nervous agitation, as I worried about my mother, who'd been buried recently. If you're right, then that's all well and good, but what about the millions of people who still get buried every year? His gaze softened. Omitting a few details, of course. Wouldn't want to cause a panic, or worse, have our funding cut. But we did help initiate long-term results.

It's no coincidence that fewer and fewer people get buried nowadays, you know? Cremation is becoming common practice. But you know how bureaucracy goes, like most things, Change takes time. I sat there, head in my hands staring at the floor, while the cup of coffee cooled on the table next to me. Why tell me this? I didn't want to know. Why would anyone want to know?

I could hear him shuffling in his seat. He got up, walked to the bookshelf in the corner, and grabbed the photograph. I told you out of selfie. You see, my fellow researchers died one after the other, leaving me as the only man alive who... He knelt down in front of me so our eyes could meet. I'm getting along in years now. It won't be long before I'm dead and gone. Don't want to suffer.

I need someone to take care of me when the time comes. I need you to destroy. my brain. I stood up, shaken. What? No, no, no, I'm not, I'm not a killer. He laughed nervously and shook his head. Not right now.

When I die, I put it in my last will in testaments, but I know how those things go. They won't destroy the brain. They'll cremate me eventually, but not quickly enough. He grabbed my legs tightly and looked up at me. His calm and controlled behavior suddenly desperate and panicked. Please, I'm begging you. I don't have any living relatives.

Let me mark you as next of kin. They'll let you in. Then you can do it. Oh, please. I don't want to suffer while I wait to be cremated. I don't want to feel the fires melt you. my skin? I didn't know

what to say or do. What he was asking for was inhuman, but I had a feeling he wouldn't let go unless I agreed. So I nodded hesitantly. All right. His grip loosened instantly. He let out a sigh of relief

and pushed himself to his feet. I could see him wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Had he actually started crying? Stay down your information. He wobbled to the kitchen for a pen and paper pad. I know what you must be thinking. Why didn't I just give him fake info?

Truth is, I was so frazzled that I reacted automatically. I gave him my address, phone number, and name. Everything. When I was done, I left. I wandered out of the graveyard, feeling shaken to the core. I hoped what he'd told me was a delusion. I hoped he'd fade away to the back of my mind. and I'd never get a call about him.

I went to bed that night and stared at the ceiling for hours, imagining decaying bodies trapped in their dark tombs, able to hear and feel, but unable to see anything or call for help, a fate worse than being buried alive. No one knew the pain they were in. They couldn't scream or scratch at the surface. They'd just lay there and feel themselves withering away.

The chilling imagery kept me up well. into the morning hours, and even after convincing myself that the old man was crazy, the anxiety persisted. The fear was electric, tingling at the back of my neck like someone blowing on my skin. I couldn't get the morbid thoughts out of my mind. They ate away at me like acid rain on an old swing set. And then the phone rang. I picked it up and brought it to my ear. Hello? Is this Isaiah Brown? Yes.

Had the old man reported me to the police for grave robbery? Were they going to arrest me? This is the Richmond Hospital. You were marked as an emergency contact for your great-uncle. He was taken to the hospital early this morning. We're going to need you to come in. My stomach dropped. As far as I knew, I didn't have a great-uncle.

It had to have been the man from the night before. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be notified of his death, especially not so soon. I should have refused to go, but something in me compelled me to comply. Less than a half an hour later, I arrived at the hospital. A nurse informed me that my great uncle had passed away. She led me to his bedside and left me there, closing the door behind her. judging by the cleanliness of the room, it seemed as though his stay at the hospital hadn't been too chaotic, at least. There was only a crash cart in the corner and a few discarded tools as proof that he'd received treatment.

I unhooked the chart hanging over the foot of his bed. His name was Herbert Leclair. He died at the age of 81 from heart failure. A sinking feeling in my gut told me it wasn't coincidental. Herbert had been waiting for someone like me to come along. Had he offed himself once he passed on his final request? I stood in front of him and stared at his lifeless body, wondering if there was any truth to what he'd told me the night before.

He lay there dead as a doorknob, eyes foggy, blank stare locked on the ceiling. But as I leaned closer and really looked into his hazy eyes, I saw something, a light, a faint sparkle of life beyond his faded irises. It was like looking into a frost-covered window on a cold winter's night and just barely seeing the outline of a family around the fireplace, something you'd never see unless you knew to look. Was this why people usually closed the eyes of the departed? I staggered back a chill spreading from my extremities to my heart,

clutching it in a vice-like grip. I understood what I'd seen, what Herbert had been talking about, the conclusion he'd tried to lead me to. I had seen his soul. Herbert was right. He was dead, but his soul hadn't left his body. It was trapped inside of him, waiting to be freed, and waiting for me to free it.

Hesitantly, I reached for a scalpel left behind on the trainette. to his bed. I reared my arm back and stared at his head, my target. I was shaking like a leaf. Destroy the brain. I whispered to myself in shock. The words were horrifying, the kind of words reserved for zombie movies. The instrument felt heavy in my hand, or perhaps it was the weight of responsibility that weighed it down. I wish I could say that I expected Herbert's final wishes, but I'd be lying if I did. I was too afraid of the consequences. What if a nurse walked in and caught me? What if I missed? What if the sound of his brain sloshing against the walls of his cranium haunted me for the rest of my life?

I dropped the scalpel and ran out of the room. My stomach a mess of knots. My heart, a caged lion, roaring to escape. Herbert put his faith in me, and I loved Let him down. I let the hospital perform their autopsy, and God knows what else. I just pray they cremated him. It's 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 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.