The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E10

Episode Date: June 12, 2016

It's episode 10 of Season 7 - Our 5th Anniversary Celebration. On the show we have six tales about devilish desires, sinister sights, and agonizing anniversaries."The Black Paths of Sheol" written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson & David Ault. (Story starts at 00:07:15)"Bennington Snodgrass Goes Courting" written by D.G. Collins and performed by David Cummings & Jesse Cornett & Mike DelGaudio & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts at 00:27:00)"Is Anyone Else Feeling Thirsty?"* written by Henry Galley and performed by Brian Mansi & David Ault. (Story starts at 00:50:00)"Memories in the Mirror" written by Rona Vaselaar and performed by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:13:50)"The Last Letter of Marcus Finch"** written by Michael Marks and performed by Mike DelGaudio & James Cleveland. (Story starts at 01:34:45)"Anniversary" written by Kerry H. and performed by Matthew Bradford & James Cleveland & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 02:03:20)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about The Black Tapes Podcast Click here to learn more about Small Town Horror Podcast Click here to learn more about Pseudopod Click here to learn more about the Lore Podcast Click here to learn more about TANIS Click here to learn more about The District of Wonders Click here to learn more about Uncanny County Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about D.G. Collins Click here to learn more about Henry Galley Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar Click here to learn more about Michael Marks Click here to learn more about Kerry H. Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone Additional music by Phil MichalskiAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**5th Anniversary illustration courtesy of SabuAudio 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

For the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. Through the murky darkness of the night when fear banishes sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. The No Sleep Podcast. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Please yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Episode 10. The Black Paths of Shield. Bennington's snowed grass goes courting. Is anyone else feeling thirsty? Memories in the mirror. The last letter of Marcus Finch anniversary. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us for our fifth anniversary episode.

On this week's show, we have six tales about devilish desires, sinister sights, and agonizing anniversaries. Five years, and we're still here. June 13th, 2011, the day all this started. When we consider the great events which happened on June 13th, of course, there's what happened in 313, when Constantine the Great and co-emperor Valerius Licinius granted religious freedom throughout the Roman Empire by posting the Edict of Milan in Nicomedia. We all know that. But in more recent history, I fondly recall five years ago when I clicked a button signaling the launch of our very first episode. They say time flies when you're having fun, but it really does seem like a lifetime ago that our premiere episode launched.

Counting bonus shows, we've released almost 190 episodes, totaling over 250 hours worth of horror storytelling. Our episodes have been downloaded over 15 million times. We've worked with hundreds of authors and adapted over 750 stories for our brand of audio presentations. And we're still going strong, thanks to you wonderful people, stronger than ever. So I thought it might be fun to open the doors to the conference room at the No Sleep Podcast campus, located through a rusty secret door in a dark forest somewhere near Canada's 50th parallel north and invite some of our fellow podcasters in for drinks, finger foods, made from real fingers, and give them a chance to share their greetings. And so with no further delay, let's have them

step up to the mic. This is Alex Regan from the Black Tapes podcast. Congratulations to the team at the No Sleep Podcast on their fifth anniversary. You've provided five years of terrifying entertainment, and we're all very grateful for that. And you've been so amazing in your support at the Black Tapes. So from everyone here at Pacific Northwest Stories, thank you. This is Ryan Jennings from Smalltown Horror. I just wanted to say congrats to the No Sleep podcast on your fifth anniversary. Of all the voices I hear, I can honestly say yours are the only ones I look forward to.

Now, could you do something about making the laughter stop? Hello, everyone, this is Alastair from Sudapod, the weekly horror podcast. I'm coming to you live from the bells of Sudapod towers, because one of our many, many ravens has passed on some remarkably good news. The No Sleep podcast is about to celebrate its fifth anniversary. This is brilliant, and I just want to wish everybody at No Sleep, immense congratulations on that achievement from everyone here at Escape Artists. Hey there, this is Aaron Manky from the lore podcast.

And I just wanted to congratulate David and the entire No Sleep crew on managing to scare the pants off of us for five straight years. May the next five be filled with even more scares, even less pants, and lots more of that well-deserved success. Hey, everyone, this is Nick Silver from Tannis, the Black Tapes, and Pacific Northwest Stories. Just wanted to say congratulations to the No Sleep podcast on your fifth. anniversary. This is Tony C. Smith from Starships Over and District of Wonders

Network. I just want to say a big, huge congratulations to David with his Nostly podcast, five years. Well, well done, David. Listen, I honestly know what it's like five years, man, what? So, you mean, all the blood, sweat and tears you put into these, what we call hobbies there. Do you know what I mean? No one knows probably the amount of work David's putting in there. We're just keeping it going, keeping the movement going, David. Thank you so much. Listen, another five, another ten years

we need from you. Easy with this podcast. Fantastic podcast. Thank you for being part of, you know, the community of podcasters that are putting out quality entertainment. David, thank you so much. We celebrate the important milestones. The birth of your first alien hybrid

baby? That special time when a boy becomes a werewolf. And of course, the fifth anniversary of of the standard bearer of horror podcasts. Congratulations, no sleep on five terrifically terrifying years. Your anniversary gift is in the mail. Don't open it around any pets or children weighing less than 50 pounds. A big thanks to our friends for stopping by.

And a big thanks to you for listening. To all the great voice actors, musicians, producers, illustrators, and janitors who have made the show what it is today. Do we have five more years in us? Maybe. But rather than look that far ahead, I'd rather think about the near future. Perhaps this calendar year, when you just might be able to see no sleep in a town near you. Is that possible?

Well, anything's possible. And so let's continue the celebrations and kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a woman who is getting her life back on track after some unfortunate setbacks. As we learn from author C. M. Scandrith, the woman's new job grants her access to a series of strange tunnels beneath the buildings where she works, and what she finds down there proves that some temptations should be avoided at all costs. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and David Alt. So stay out of dark unknown places. You don't want to get caught on the black paths of Shiol.

There are those of us who, no matter how much we succeed in life, will always feel as though we somehow fluked our way into that position. Regardless of how competent you are, how demonstrably knowledgeable you are, and how good you are at your job, this self-doubt naws and nags, slowly destroying any confidence you do possess. I learned too late that this phenomenon is colloquially known as imposter syndrome. According to various studies and papers, it can be a good thing if it's kept under control.

Unlike its opposite disorder, Dunning Kruger syndrome, it provides a sort of self-checking mechanism to stop you becoming overconfident. But when it is not kept in check, it can create problems, as well as exacerbating existing ones. As a high-flying woman working in an industry dominated by men, it ended up destroying me. Imposter syndrome led to self-doubt, which led to insomnia. Insomnia heightened the self-doubt, which sowed the seeds of depression.

Paranoia and isolation at work, combined with constantly bathing in an oppressive low-grade sea of sexism and boys' clubbism, watered the depression until it germinated into full-blown psychosis. In the end, I had a very public and very embarrassing mental breakdown at work. When I was given my marching orders from the firm, I went home and took all the pills in my medicine cabinet, until I felt nauseous from the weight of them in my gut. Ironically, a Jehovah's Witness saw me through the front window,

lying in a pool of frothy vomit and called an ambulance. After my stomach was pumped and I was released from hospital, my relatives had put me in psychiatric care, where I spent the next 18 months fighting my inner demons with the help of very, various medications. Eventually, they couldn't hold me any longer, so released me. I had no home, no money, and certainly no job. The stigma of being a mental health patient seemed to be as bad, if not worse, than having been in prison. At least with prisoners, I heard a man say outside a cafe, you know they've served their time and probably learnt their lesson. With crazy people,

you never know when it's all going to flare up again, but you know that it will. Eventually I got a job as a cleaner on the night shift, and my fractured life began to gain some semblance of normality again. It wasn't all drudge and boredom. Once I could afford the cheapest smartphone on the market, I stole some noise-canceling headphones. Those, coupled with several gigs of pirated music, made my job a little more bearable.

The other thing that kept my mind occupied was the buildings themselves. Our crew did a lot of old government and ex-government buildings, which were built on top of much older buildings still. I'd finish up as quickly as I could, then use my remaining 40 minutes to explore the basements of these ancient places. Even though I often didn't have swipe card access to those areas, I'd worked in an office for most of my adult life. Finding the IT area, then finding a contractor's access card, was easy enough.

And that gave me virtually free reign to explore. There are some pretty odd and creepy things under those buildings. in those basements built on top of basements. I'm no urban explorer, but I found some stuff that any horror seeker would practically orgasm over. Still medicated for depression and anxiety, my dull emotional responses only allowed me to distantly register how scary these places should probably be.

I only dimly processed that poking around in dusty governmental sepulchres in the dead of night would usually provoke fear and incontinence, not mild interest. My first find was the mirror room. Three levels below ground and accessed via a twisting narrow corridor of pipes and concrete. It took me by surprise when my torch beam split and reflected upon contact with the walls. The floor was old, polished wood, and one whole wall was floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

A piano filled with mice sat in one corner. An eerie, plinking and scratching filled the air as the rodents fled from my torch, and a pile of ancient and bloody children's ballet shoes sat in one corner. I guess at some point this has been some sort of secret subterranean practice room, perhaps for the children of government workers. There were other places that were equally as strange, some more or less sinister. There was the boilerplate room, the dwarf shaft, the broken church and the string hallway. But none of those compared to the black paths.

My torch battery had been running low And I was about to return to the surface When I spotted the tinderbox It was an old tin thing Round and with a lid upon which was fixed a candle holder Containing a single yellowed candle I'd seen a picture of such thing when I was a kid In some old storybook about miners

Curious I opened it up to inspect the interior Inside was several twists of hemp Some foul-smelling paper two sulphur-tipped matches, a flint and a D-shaped piece of iron, the striker. Of course I did what anyone would do. I tried to light the candle. When I initially failed, I turned to my phone for help,

but this deep under the layers of concrete and pipes, there was no signal penetration at all. The paper ended up being the key. It must have been soaked in something flammable, as the sparks struck from the iron and flint made it smoulder. Touching a match to it, I blew it until the heat made the wood catch, then transferred the sputtering sulphur blue flame to the wick of the candle.

Holding my new light aloft, I nearly dropped it immediately as the fat, faintly bluish flame illuminated the huge black door right beside me. There had been no such door there when I entered. It was wood. That much was certain. But the only wood I'd ever seen with such a dark luster was ebony. And that was far too rare and expensive to be found in crumbling basement. A touch of my hand sent it gliding smoothly open, whispering over polished concrete on the other side,

where a plain and unmarked corridor ran off into the darkness, straight as a laser. Curiosity got the better of me, and before I could second-guess my decision, I began to walk the first of the black paths. The corridor ran for perhaps a kilometre, then ended in another black door, the same as the first. A gentle push opened it, and with a curious feeling, of elation, I realized I was standing in a darkened boiler room. It was the one under my cheap and decrepit apartment block. That was impossible since my apartment was a 90-minute train ride from where I worked. When I turned on the lights of the boiler room, the candle flame snapped out of existence,

and so did the door. What on earth had I found? It didn't take me very long to figure out how it worked. With the aid of the tinderbox and candle, I could illuminate the door into existence. And then, Instead of losing three hours a day to travel, I could be at work within 10 minutes. Inter, that meant I could sleep in, piss around on the internet, have breakfast at a cheap cafe, or just sit somewhere and read. For the first time since my infamous psychotic break and subsequent institutionalisation, I felt like my life was changing for the better. My colleagues and boss noticed the difference in my mood, and I was given a little more responsibility. But while things were good on that front, I'd made another important discovery. The Tinderbox worked in more than one place.

There were doors under other buildings too, and those also led back to my apartment. No matter where I went, I had a short walk home through those eerie, empty corridors, and I started using them during my breaks to go home and masturbate. Why masturbation, you might ask? Well, with the growth in confidence had come a drop in my medication. and without so many drugs in my system, my libido began to return with a vengeance. I also noticed that the lifeless concrete corridors had changed slightly. No longer still an empty, a faint breeze gusted through them, seemingly speeding my race home to my laptop and my vibrator.

I think, for the first time in years, I was actually enjoying my life, and it was only going to get better from there. My promotion to shift manager meant more money, which I use primarily to experience a vice that had lain dormant for a long time. Food. Being dirt poor doesn't give you many culinary options. Rice had been a staple for so long now that I reflexively ignored most aisles of the supermarket. Then on one walk home through the chilly darkness of the Tinderbox tunnel, thinking about groceries and edible luxuries,

I emerged somewhere new, the ancient and mouldering basement of a supermarket warehouse. cold from my jaunt through the tunnel which had taken longer than usual I stared at the massive crates and pallets of food stuff surrounding me washed by the flickering flame of the never diminishing candle it didn't take a genius to figure out what I did next I loaded up on as many luxuries as I could carry and over the next few days I made more and more return trips until my cupboards were overflowing with all the nice things I've been missing

for the past few years I didn't even mind the extra distance of those tunnels not having to pay for food anymore was worth any minor inconvenience. Off my medication completely now. I started at the gym and worked on shedding the flab that had settled on my body through the years of my drug-induced half-life. My old clarity of mind began to return, along with my ambition. I felt that the tinderbox had been given to me as a gift by some otherworldly power, a kind of recompense for the suffering I'd endured.

figuring out how to manipulate the darkened pathways came easily and naturally now. I could simply fix clearly in my mind what I wanted, and the black paths would take me there. With the return of my old sharpness and wit came a need to have my old lifestyle back. I knew I would never be a high flyer earning six figures again, but I could at least live like one. Through the faintly sparkling concrete and curiously warm walls of the tunnels, I found dingy warehouse basements full of clothes, makeup, jewelry, shoes and expensive beauty products. I felt like a human version of fantastic Mr. Fox, using my clever tunnels to deprive gluttons and greedy executives of their undeserved goods. But one night I saw a light coming down the tunnel in the other direction, and everything changed.

I ran from the light, thinking it was a security guard who'd found my door, who'd figured out how the thief kept getting in. When I reached my side, I pushed the ebony door shut and pinched out the wick. I heard a distant curse just before the door vanished. I didn't use the tunnels again for almost a month. However, the allure of my new lifestyle was just too heady to resist. I opened the tinderbox and studded the interior, where the same sight always greeted me.

A few twists of hemp, some touch paper, two sulphur matches, and a flint and steel. grimly I lit the candle, closed the box, then pushed open the black door and started off down the tunnel. The light bobbing in the distance sparked immediate fear. But then I noticed a singular detail I'd missed before. It was the same faintly bluish light as that from my own candle. Incredulous, I walked towards the source, the thrill creeping up my spine as each step brought our weaving, flickering flames closer together. It was a man. dressed just as smartly as myself.

His eyes were hollow and bleary with fatigue. Oh, God, can't find the door. The tunnels just go on and on, please get me out of here. In his shaking hand, he clutched a tinderbox, the twin of mine, but his candle had burned low, so low that it was nearly out. Mine was still almost as fresh as the day I found it. With a snarl like a desperate animal, he lunged for my own light, snagging it from my surprised fingers.

Then he ran, dropping his own tinderbox at my feet. I laughed then because there was nowhere to go. It was a straight corridor, and in his tired state he had no chance of outrunning me. But when the flame on his dropped tinderbox winked out, I knew fear like I'd never felt before. Dull, golden orange light began to leak through the hot walls. I could feel them growing thin,

as though the stone was becoming insubstantial, and something was trying to break through. Distant howls of abject agony echoed through the changing corridor, and with a dreadful certainty that something terribly wrong was happening, I ran for my life. When I caught up with the man, and my tinderbox, he was stumbling and weeping. I snatched the light from his hand and pushed him to the ground. But once you go deep enough, you can't make your way back out,

and you'll be damned to shield forever. He was on his knees, weeping and shaking his head. head. A pool of golden light had appeared around him on the hot stone floor, the syllables trembling off my tongue. The inevitable. Then hands of molten gold reared up in the circle and pulled him through the floor with a terrible hissing of superheated metal meeting mortal flesh. With a final wail of wordless pain, the man was gone. I've really tried to stop using the tinderbox. Cut off from my primary sources of pleasure, my mood began to suffer, and the depression surfaced again. I promised myself I'd used the tinderbox sparingly, that I'd spend as little time on the black

piles as possible. But even with the gold-drowned, agonized face of the man etched into my mind, I couldn't stop myself. I began to grow angry at my own weakness, frustrated and irrational. My candle was still intact and barely spent, for all I knew it would last a lifetime. Maybe when the man found his it was already nearly gone, and he just wasted it exploring lengthy pathways to improbable places. It was then that I began to notice the words scratched into the tunnel walls. They were not in English, and technology seemed to freeze and die on the black paths, so I had to copy them by hand and attempt to translate them on the surface. They were written in Hebrew, I quickly discovered, and when I took a Hebrew dictionary down with me to try and figure them out, They chilled me far worse than any threat of re-institutionalization or public meltdown.

According to the story carved along the walls, I was damned. Cannot stop using it past the fourth circle, the words told me. It is worse than addiction, worse than any vice ever created. The tinderbox can give you anything you want except escape from the black paths of shield. The writing rambled on about immortal soul. and damnation for some time, before it gained clarity again. And so eventually the doors will cease to appear, and the flame will burn out, and the black path will fade, and you will be dragged through to your final resting place in the appropriate circle of hell.

Once you are gone, the tinderbox will slowly work its way back to the surface again, where it will find another to corrupt and begin its journey anew. I remember sitting in shock, reading the final words. But I have learned, through another I met on the Pards, that if you take the tinderbox down as far as possible to the final circle, it will be trapped there forever. And so I, Rabbi Lemuel, will take this accursed tinderbox into the bowels of hell

unto the throne of Satan himself. In doing so, I know I will do that. damn my immortal soul for all eternity, but it must be done. May the Lord accept this paltry sacrifice to save the legions who would have followed me. I pray with everything I have left that you do the same. The tinderbox sits on the bedside table, battered, old, and seemingly so innocent. I haven't used it for two weeks, but it gnaws at my mind, filling my head with thoughts of boundless luxury. justifiable revenge, sweet perversions and luscious treachery. It tells me I could have my old life back.

It tells me I can avoid the fate of both the gold-drawn man and the rabbi, because I am different, because I am so much better than anyone else. So I sit here now, holding the striker in my hand, a sulphur match at the ready. I just hope that I can make it to the final circle of hell, before the flame burns out. In days gone by, people didn't use apps and social media to find that special someone. No, as author D.G. Collins explains, if a young man wanted to find a wife, he had to woo her and court her.

Consider this tale of a bachelor whose desires to get hitched to get him into a heap of trouble. Performing this tale with me are Jesse Cornett, Mike Delgadoo and Ellie Hirschman. So please don't make fun of the man's name. Rather, let's listen to how Bennington Snodgrass goes courting. What an odd sight was Bennington Snodgrass on that hot August evening. Of course, I reckon he'd always been an odd fellow, which I imagine is what happens when you grow up with two last names.

but that night he struck us as particularly odd. It wasn't the way his hair was slick back and shiny, like he'd emptied a whole tin of pomade on it. That wasn't what was odd. And it wasn't the way he was dressed in his Sunday finest. That was unusual, but not too far out of the ordinary for a young man on Friday night, with all the barn dances and movie shows attracting young folks like moths to electric bulbs. No, no, I'll tell you what was odd.

My old friend Jack and I were sitting on his porch, waiting for the breeze, Jack said, was due to blow our way around 10 o'clock. He had a way of knowing these things. I never understood how. when Bennington's snodgrass came strolling down the dirt road, fine and dandy and straight-backed and proud, looking for all the world as if he'd made up his mind about something, like a boy off to join the army.

Jack called out to him as he passed the low fence. What hole, really? Benny didn't bother to turn or wave. He just kept marching right by with his, eyes pinned on the early moon. Tonight's the night, Jack. I made a decision. I'm tired of minting my own shirts,

cooking my own dinners, sleeping in a lonely bed. Yes, sir, I'm going courting. It came to me that I need to find my better half. No gallon these parts ever wanted nothing to do with me, but hell or high water, I'll get me a wife. You mark my word. So mark them we did as he disappeared down the road behind the trees.

Jack and I watched him go. Then Jack looked over at me. Ain't often you see a fella go courting with a shovel. I had to agree with the man. That was the odd thing about Bennington snodgrass on that hot August evening, you see. The shovel he was carrying. A boy with two last names is apt to grow up behaving peculiar, but who knew what to make of it yet? We carried on waiting for the breeze, listening to the crickets and frogs, and watching the moon rise while the sun sets.

Of course, some smarter folks may have had a disturbing premonition of just what Benny was up to, but I've always figured it doesn't pay to think ill of a man's character ahead of time. He always shows you how ill it is soon enough without you going and looking too hard for it. You may see things differently, but I always think the best of people till they show me otherwise. Or it could be I'm just lazy these days. Jack's the same way. The only premonitions he ever has are about the weather, not people. And his premonition was right again that night.

The breeze he was expected arrived as he said it would, around ten o'clock. I would have never called it a breeze, though. It was a wind for sure, and a cold one, colder than any wind had a right to be in August. It came up the road from the same direction Benny had gone, a big blustery blast of air that carried with it an odd whiff of death and decay. Almost yanked the wind chime down, and Jack was searching the sky for stray tornadoes when it huffed itself out just as quickly as it had come. Ho-wee! I had to agree. Still, the wind had licked the sweat off my face and swept the dust off me, so I wasn't going to complain, and I'd smelled worse things in my time, too.

It was getting on towards midnight, or a bit after, when we saw Bennington's snodgrass returning up the road. We didn't see all of him at first, just a big toothy grin, like Alice's cat. as he came closer, we saw that the grin belonged to his dirt-covered face. His fancy Sunday duds were in need of a washing, being well and truly grimed. He had his coat over one shoulder, his shovel over the other, and his tie was simply gone. His sweaty shirt was lopsided, I noticed, as if he'd buttoned the wrong holes. Jack called. Jack called, out to him. That grin never faded. Well enough. Liza Beth Wilcox, what an angel. Always thought she was too stuck up for me, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong. I tell you, I do like Courtney, now that I put

my back into it. And off he went home, into the trees up the other side of the road. Once Benny had disappeared into the shadows, Jack turned to me again. Liza Beth caught the flu real bad last winter. I nodded. We both knew it, and we both knew the rumors, how she'd been found naked in the woods one night, shaken and shivering near a goat, or what was left of a goat.

We don't talk much about rumors, Jack and I, because there's not a rumor that ever passed two lips that didn't have a bit of lie in it. But we both knew one thing. Liza Beth Wilcox was seven months dead and gone. Well, don't that beat all. I had to agree. The very next night, a Saturday,

was almost an exact repeat of Friday. Jack and I were sitting on the porch, waiting for another of Jack's breezes, but drinking lemonade, when along came Bennington's snodgrass. He'd washed his clothes, as well as a young bachelor knew how anyway, and this time he didn't so much march past us as swagger.

See it lies, Beth? Benny's answer came from a mouth belonging to a head that was traipsing through the clouds. I do believe I am, Jack. Why, she was so taken with me, I feel it would be ungentlemanly not to give her another taste. And off he went, shovel and all. Jack let out a grunt, and I had to agree. Later on, when the breeze that was really a wind came. ripping up the valley, we knew what to expect. We caught our breath at the scent of rot,

and I held on to the wind chime while Jack barely managed to catch his lemonade glass before it tumbled off the porch railing. When Benny passed by again, he'd replaced his swagger with, I swear, a saunter, almost as if he were drunk. He was just as dirty as he'd been on Friday night, and his hair stuck out in all directions, like he'd gotten into a scuffle with an eagle. Eliza treats you well. I changed my mind. I figured I'm too young to get tied down so easy.

Heck, this courting business ain't as hard as I thought. Patricia O'Dell used to spit in my face when we was kids, but I'll be hanged if she ain't a wildcat for me now. With the saunter he was using, it took him a little longer to get up the road, but eventually he made it. Once Benny had gone, Jack spoke up. He means Patricia May O'Dell, I take it. Liza Beth's best friend, till she passed two. I nodded. Another flu victim, though Patricia had lasted a week longer than Liza Beth.

Those two girls had always been inseparable, and they even shared the same rumors after they were gone. That Patricia had been found the same night they'd found Elizabet, and she'd been just as naked, spattered with blood, and wandering in the same neck of the woods, glass-eyed and mumbling. You can't trust a person who tell you such rumors, though. Now, on Sunday, we reckoned we'd see Bennington's snodgrass again, and we were right. Like a deer drawn to a salt lick, Benny came walking by, looking just as high and mighty and proud of himself as any ten-point buck. Who's for the night? Benny never did look at us, but I could see a twinkle in his eye and a smug smirk on his face.

You know, I ain't decided yet. Maybe I should settle down after all. I don't want to push my luck. Got a get while the getting's good. If you had been there, you would have seen that twinkle in his eye double right there before he went on. But then again, I figure, since I can't decide,

maybe I'll just have both. Wouldn't that make everyone talk? It surely would. everyone but me and Jack we just nodded our agreement and watched him go later on when the breeze came it was a double dose more than what we'd had on the two previous nights and it was as cold and smelly as a wide-open grave

it didn't catch Jack off guard of course but not too far up the valley the wind must have surprised some coyotes because we heard them barking and yippin like they'd all got their tails sniffed. And it did finally manage to snap the wind chime, which went spinning and clattering to the ground. Then the wind was gone, and it was just jacking me, and the crickets, frogs, and moon. We waited, and then we waited some more. and then some more. But Bennington's snodgrass never did pass by that night, nor any other.

On Monday evening, we had a different visitor. Jack and I were fanning ourselves on the porch once again. Jack hadn't had any premonitions about breezes, but the porch was better than nothing. When Dwight Hammond came amblin up from the gate, Tugging open his collar while he leaned against the porch railing and waved his hat in his red face. After a bare minimum of pleasantries, he posed a question. Y'all seen any strange going ons lately? I can't say that I have, Sheriff.

I heard some coyotes sound off like they was on fire last night. He was staring at my lemonade, but I didn't make an offer to share. Hammond's not a bad sort, but he can be a bit too nosy for my tastes, even if it is his job. Not coyotes, but people, doing strange things. Well, you know as well as I do. Every soul in this county has a bit of strangeness about him, Dwight. And why? Something happened. Hammond licked his lips, still staring at my drink. I shouldn't tell you, but since we ain't exactly.

got a victim? Well, I know you're not the rumor spreading kind of folk. Nope. More of a watcher. I can respect that. That's why I'll tell you. Calvin Lawson was heading back from church last night. You mean the rusty bucket, of course. Yeah, that church, which ain't supposed to be holding services on a Sunday. In any case, Calvin says he was walking past the graveyard when he heard a scream, Like to boil his blood, he said. Claimed he never heard nothing like it before. Not from man or beast. Says it knocked him flat on his ass.

Well, he picked himself up and hightailed it out of there. Now, Calvin's not the bravest man around, so he went and beat on the station house. Then he came and found me at home. I didn't put much stock in his store when he breathed it all over me. But I went and had a look. man. Now sure. I was humoring Cal I was, but I saw something. I can't explain. His red face grew paler despite the thick curtain of sweat rolling down it. You know those two girls that got sick

this winter, Patricia and Liza Beth? They buried them side by side, seeing as how they'd always been such good friends. Right there between their graves was a patch of grass so thick with blood. it looked like someone had slaughtered a pig. My, my. Well, that ain't all. Hammond shook his head in disbelief at what he was about to say. Even with all that blood, there was no sign of a body, set for one thing. A long strand of entrails coming from one grave and going to the other,

just lying there in the middle like leftover spaghetti. Now, if I had a sick mind, I'd say, it reminded me of when kids make a phone out of tin cans and string. You know, the way it was stretched between those girls. What's more? The graves look fresh, like they'd just been dug. Strange goings on, indeed. What do you think it means?

No idea just yet. Not much to go on, but fresh dirt, a bit of meat that may or may not be human, and a shovel. A shovel? Yep, so you understand. why I'm asking if you seen anything unusual hereabouts. Hammond lowered his voice as if he thought he might be overheard.

Especially with all the rumors about them, girls. I don't want people getting disturbed again. I can see that. He chewed on his tongue for a bit, then reached out and took a long swig of his lemonade, which I saw Hammond watch with obvious longing. Jack had an impish streak in him too. Then Jack's eyes found mine, and he raised his eyebrows.

I shrugged and gave him a nod. Tell you what, Sheriff. Jack rested his glass on his belly as he sat back. You might want to go take a look-see up at Benny's place and find out if he's there. Don't think he will be. Benny? Oh, Benny Snoggrass? What's he been up to?

He went walking by, carrying a shovel last few nights. Hammond frowned. Do you say why? He said he was courting. I didn't quite know what to make of that. It ain't often you see a fella go courting with a shovel. Hammond's forehead creased in confusion. Then it went slack.

He looked even paler now and sick. He mumbled his. thanks to Jack and made to leave, but when he reached the bottom of the porch steps, he turned back around. Oh, uh, can you tell me something else? Well, sure, Dwight. Hammond flicked a finger towards my lemonade. Why two glasses?

Jack gave him a grin. Well, now that's cause it's hot as two hells around here, ain't it? Yeah, shown up here. Hammond laughed, and Jack and I watched him go. Heading up the road in the direction Bennington Snodgrass had been coming for the last three nights. We knew he wouldn't find anyone home. Much later, once the sun had finally gone down completely, I stood up. Always nice to visit you, Jack.

You're a man who knows how to enjoy. Enjoy the peace and quiet, and I do like some peace and quiet now and again. The less a man speaks, the less trouble he gets. That's why you're a tough nut, Jack. Maybe I'll crack you someday. You're welcome to try. I ain't going nowhere. It's hot enough right where I am.

And I expect it'll be a might cooler round here once you've gone. I liked Jack. He never said much, but what he did say I usually had to agree with, and he was always good at predicting the weather. Well, except for his opinions about what constituted heat. He didn't know heat the way I know heat. On my way out of town, I figured I'd stop at the graveyard to see how Lysabeth and Patricia were getting along. When they had summoned me that winter, we'd made a bargain. They made me promise to get them a husband, and that's just what I did. A few whispered suggestions in Bennington's ear while the heat was boiling his brain during the daylight hours, and I fulfilled our pact.

Like I told you, it doesn't pay to put too much effort into it when a man will show you his true character. all on his own. Oh, it may not have worked out like the girls had imagined, but they hadn't been too specific with the details or the timing of their request, not even the quantity. You've got to be abundant with the specifics when you're cooking up deals with me. I thought I'd been rather charitable, actually. The man I found for them did.

have two last names after all. One for each girl. As for Benny, I wasn't sure which parts of him went where, or who got the better half, or even if he had a better half. But I suppose he's got two of those now. When you talk into a microphone for a living, you learn the importance of staying hydrated and keeping some fresh water nearby. I know author Henry Galley agrees, because in his tale we meet a man with a friend who just can't seem to slake his thirst, and the lengths he goes to are rather extreme. Performing this tale are Brian Manzi and David Alt. So if you're feeling parched, you might want to ask, is anyone else feeling thirsty? When was the last time you felt first? Don't just dismiss it outright. Think about the question for a second.

When did you last feel really, truly thirsty? I'm talking throat like an abandoned salt mine thirsty. Lips shrink-wrapped and glistening dead skin thirsty. The kind of thirsty sand-covered lizards and beetles in the Nevada desert can only aspire to. Think you can recall? No? I didn't think so. About a week back, this prospect was as alien to me as it is to you. People with decent paying jobs in Western countries don't worry about dehydration.

They worry about paying taxes, they worry about how many inches their TV has, and whatever the hell the Kardashians are up to at any given time of the day. Meanwhile, the world keeps turning and the force it keeps running. These things are just background noise lost in the steady hum of modern existence. It all started with Ed. Ed Kowalski. I'd known the guy for as long as I could remember. He was the kind of friend you've kept around so long that the warranty went void and you felt obligated to keep him.

His comings and goings were just another part of life, like blinking and breathing. Ed was one of those smart guys, cursed with a lack of drive and ambition. A burnout, you might say. He had the brains to go into something well-paying and dull, like that he was one of those smart guys, and dull, like I did with accounting, but instead he went into something that paid chicken shit money and was almost as dull. Some gig in a grossy factory where they packaged the microwave dinners that get bulk bought by supermarkets across the state. What he had in book smarts, he lacked in my pragmatic brand of common sense. But in spite of our differences, Ed and I still had our little

friendship traditions. After a tough week of packaging things that barely qualified as chicken, and handling the money of upper-middle-class yuppies, we'd meet up at one of our places on Friday for a few beers in a movie. I'd have gone postal long before now without them, and with the long hours at my firm, it had gotten to a point where these Friday night get-togethers were the only chance I had to blow off steam. When Ed arrived at my place last Friday,

the second he stooped out of his car and came sloping down the garden path, I knew something was off. Ed normally walked with a spring in his step, But then he was walking like his spine had turned to rubber. I opened the door ready for him, fearing he'd collapse from overexertion if he tried to knock, and let him scramble over the threshold. He slapped one of his hands feebly against the wall,

frantically clasping at nothing, as though trying to steady himself. You're okay, man? My light-hearted tone belied my concern, and I gave him a light pat on the back. Did you get some pre-drinks in before you drove over? All right, I'm just saying. you look a little tipsy.

Ed was silent for a moment. He leaned over, his face hidden by his dangling black hair, and breathed heavily. Each breath was bizarrely mechanical, like a car engine stalling on a cold morning. Can I get you anything, dude? He straightened his back with a pained groan. A drink.

Just a drink, please. From this distance, it was a cold. clear that Ed looked utterly terrible. His skin seemed doury and pallid, like it had melt off his face on a sunny day. Purple bruises rose faintly under both of his exhausted eyes, and skin dangled off his thin lips like a snake halfway through shedding. His breath was the worst, though, rancid and stinking of rot. It took a second for me to snap out of the shock of seeing him and the light to realize he'd asked me for a drink. Sure, buddy. You want call? Budweiser?

Ed hissed at me, stinking air whistling through his teeth. None of that. Just water. Plain, bottled water. I nodded. Too confused to really form any coherent sentences and walked to the kitchen.

The sound of Ed's thick-souled boots thumping down the hallway echoed behind me. Are you sure you're okay, Ed? You're not looking too good. And you're acting as weird as hell. Sorry. I think I had something funny at breakfast. My stomach's hurting.

Food poisoning, you think? Maybe. I sat him down at the kitchen table, hoping he'd look a little less like a member of the living dead when he was off his feet. Ed just slumped forward onto the table, laying his head onto his crossed arms. While I couldn't bet any money on the nature of the problem, I knew, above all else, that Ed was in real trouble.

Call me selfish, but my main worry at the time was whether or not not he'd puke on my dinner table. While Ed forced out labored breaths, I opened the fridge and grabbed him a bottle of Evian. Not wanting to waste any time, I gently placed the bottle down onto the table next to him. Jesus, it was like watching a crocodile attack a buffalo on a nature documentary. Ed's hands shot out and snatched the bottle, feverishly unscrewing the lid with a frightening intensity in his bloodshot eyes. Once the cap was off, his dry lips were wrapped around the neck.

of the bottle, sucking for dear life as it emptied in his clenching fist. I'd never seen anyone drink something so ferociously. Do you have more? I nodded silently, chucking him a second bottle. No more than ten seconds later, another crumpled plastic husk landed next to the first. Sorry, dude, that's all I've got. I only had two. Ed's breath seemed to catch in his throat, and his eyes took on a furious glimpse.

Will tap water be okay? My composure was becoming much harder to maintain. What I need it now. I grabbed a tall glass from one of the cabinets and filled it with cold water from the faucet. Ed's eyes were tracing me the entire time, moving as I moved. I handed him the glass.

Here you go, man. Can you take it easy now? Without a word, Ed grabbed it from me and started guzzling. The glass was half empty, when Ed's eyes started bulging in distress, and he launched the glass across the room when it shattered against the far wall. Dude, what the fuck! I found myself shouting at him,

forgetting the sense of menace he seemed to be carrying around. Oh, you fucking poison that! Ed screamed at me, grabbing for his throat and wretch him. Boy, you give me, you bastard! Tap water, you crazy fuck! What's gotten into you? Mercury. iron sulfur. Can't you taste it? You can't expect me to drink this shit? Ed started squaring up,

his hands bawled into shaking fists. I found my resolve fading. I shrank back into myself as he advanced, realizing that he seemed far more prepared to hurt me than I was prepared to hurt him. Ed's voice was little more than a growl now. You little pig fuck, I ought to cave your head in. I ought to... Before he could sling another threat, he just gave his head a dismissive shake, as if to say, you're not worth the energy, and shambled back down the hallway, disappearing from sight. Just beyond my field of vision,

I heard the door open and slam, and Ed's car kick into ignition about a minute later. Once Ed's strangely corrupted presence was gone, I became conscious of the thin layer of cold sweat coating my body. It wasn't the happy-go-lucky slacker I'd known my whole life. It wasn't even a shadow of him. Beyond his looks and his voice, I could hardly even be sure they were the same person.

As I became aware of my own heavy breathing, my eyes shifted over to the glass that Ed had shattered against the wall. Light reflected and refracted through the pile of jagged crystals at the bottom of the wall, while droplets of water made their slow descent down the wallpaper. I gave the situation a few days to cool off after that. My encounter with Ed and whatever the hell had gotten into him had left me more rattled than anything in recent memory. He was sick, clearly, and he wasn't up to being social,

not even for me. But, be that as it may, we were still friends, and I didn't plan on abandoning him in his time of need. No, I took a sick day of my own on Monday. and after spending the morning psyching myself up for it, I took the short drive from my house to Ed's. When I got there, the lawn was looking as messy as he did. The grass was overgrown and had spilled out onto the sidewalk,

giving the appearance of a tiny jungle, and smatterings of dandelions were littered throughout. I made a mental note to ask him if you wanted me to mow it for him and made my way to his front door. I called out while knocking on the glass. Ed? Were you in there? I'm sorry about the other night.

I just came to check on you. No response. Not wanting to be turned away after taking the day off to do this, I tried the handle. I found myself more concerned than relieved when Ed's door just swung open with no resistance.

Stepping inside, without bothering to kick off my shoes, I shut the door behind me and realized how strange the house seemed. Ed had closed the drapes on every one, window and there wasn't a light on in the house. That cramped entrance hallway seemed impossibly desolate in the darkness of the day. I edged my way forward slightly, trying to see everything at once. The house was silent, save for a weird sloshing in the distance, which seemed like

my best bet at getting some answers. I ducked my head into the living room as I passed it and saw a mountain of crumpled plastic bottles sitting there on the center of the rug, easily half my height. Jesus Christ, I spoke without even realizing it. There was no way a man could drink all that in two days and not be dead or pissing like a racehorse. The logical part of me wanted to cut my losses and bolt at this point. But I cared about Ed. It clouded my reasoning.

If anyone needed a helping hand right now, it was him. I pressed on, stepping silently down the hallway. I stole a glance into the kitchen, and saw the fridge open and the icebox emptied. The faucet had been torn from the kitchen room and left sitting on the table. I'd seen too many horror movies to call out again, but the relative silence in the rest of the building made it clear that the sound, now a kind of choked, frantic gurgling,

was coming from behind the door at the end of the hallway, Ed's bathroom. With my hand shaking to the point of near uselessness, I reached out to the bathroom door handle. Not wanting to give myself the chance to wuss out, I yanked the handle downwards and pushed the door open in a single fluid movement. And then I suppressed my urge to vomit. Ed, or rather, that emaciated freak I'd once called Ed,

was completely naked and hunched over the edge of the toilet bowl like a man in prayer. His skin was mottled and grey like expired meat, and his hair had become thin and wispy. His face was submerged, taking long, satisfied slurps of the toilet water. The hand-soaked dispenser laid empty on the floor next to him. It was clear that in the last few days, Ed had become significantly less picky.

He seemed to register the door opening behind him and looked up, only for a brief instant before he went back to guzzling toilet water. He seemed like a shell, a vessel, His eyes betrayed fear and embarrassment. I had no way of knowing whether or not he actually wanted to do what he was doing, but it was clear that either way, he couldn't stop himself. Not that I cared at the time.

I turned tail without a second thought and bolted down the hallway, all the way back to my car. I drove home like a maniac, not caring if I crashed into a goddamn wall on the way home. I'd have given anything to forget what I'd just seen. When I got home, I locked myself in, slamming and bolting every door and window. The world just wasn't making sense anymore. The final incident happened a few days later. I was at home, watching some of the most mind-numbing television I could possibly find, trying to dull my thoughts of Ed.

Don't think of me as a monster for ignoring him, but if you'd seen the eyes I saw when he looked at me, you'd have wondered whether or not he was a lost cause too. And, just as I was wondering, he happened to provide the answer himself. My phone started ringing and I sprang for it. Ed Kowalski was the name flashing across the screen. There was a pause. Just a moment of hesitation before I answered it and pressed the phone to my ear.

Ed cut in before I could say anything. His voice twisted by what must have been agony. For the way I treated you and for what you saw. I can't apologize enough for that. Ed, where are you? My animosity suddenly melted into sympathy. This wasn't a monster. This was a sick, sick friend.

If you know what's good for you, you won't come to stop me. Forrest, I can't even stop. Hold on, Ed, don't you do a goddamn thing until I get there? Don't you dare? Ed sobbed weakly on the other end. Ed, I'm already fucking dead. You can't save me. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.

I hung up on Ed and shoved the phone into my pocket, not even grabbing a coat as I sped to my car. There were a number of bridges in town, but I knew exactly which one Ed was talking about. We'd spent whole days there in high school, burning the time away when we were too young to realize how valuable it was. If this Ed was anything like the Ed I knew, he'd want to let go somewhere that would give him comfort in his last month. moments. The drive from my place to the bridge just felt like a fog in my mind. The sounds, the smells, the traffic. They all just felt incidental in relation to the goal I had in mind. I just tuned it all out, my mental vision, my op-up. Sure enough, I was right. When I pulled up across from the bridge, I saw what was unmistakably ed, huddled up in a raincoat that looked

too big for him, standing near the handrail. His body seemed to jerk and jerk. shudder periodically, even though the weather was warmer. Slamming the car door behind me, I found myself running at him, calling his name. I screamed at the top of my lungs. Ed! Don't do it, Ed! Ed turned his face towards me. His pale blue eyes seemed full of horror and fury. Are you dumb stupid? I told you not to come. He screamed and doubled over in pain. His eyes shut tight. His skin looked dry to the point of almost breaking out in scales and seemed

to hang loosely off of his bones. It! We can talk about this. You thick-headed bastard? It wanted me to call. It wanted you to take the bait and you did it,

you gullible fuckwit. Why couldn't you have listened to me and left me the fuck alone? Ed, I don't understand what's going on. Of course you don't. Nobody could. Why do you think I haven't told? It'd only get worse.

It'll make me... Ed was interrupted by his own hacking car, spluttering globules of red phlegm on the sidewalk. Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck. Get out of here. Get out of here now. Ed started to shake and convulse,

a quivering hand, tearing. open the zip on his coat. It didn't take long for me to realize that Ed was naked underneath. His skin dry and cracked. His genitals are bruised purple black and grotesquely bloated. His stomach seemed to protrude to the limits of his worn skin. He barked as he disrobed, throwing the jacket onto the road. Fucking leave. Fucking leave now. I'm warning you. It's taking all of my strength to hold it. back leave my fucking now! My cheeks were streaked with tears.

Random bystanders were stopping and staring in horror, but making no attempt to help or intervene. Jesus, how could I blame them for that? I edged closer to my naked, psychotic friend. Look, Ed, I know it seems like the world is bad right now, but I'm not going to leave you. You're my friend and I care about you. Ed broke into another coughing fit and found,

spouther his knees, itching at his dehydrated skin. Choice! Before I could play Samaritan some more, Ed lunged for me at unnatural speeds, grabbing me by my shoulders. Bad fucking choice! Bad! Bad! Bad! Ed forced his thumb into my shoulder.

I don't know how he did it, but it tore through the thin cloth of my t-shirt and borrowed its way into my skin. The flesh of my shoulder felt like it was on fire, and I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs. Ed maintained eye contact with me the entire time as he buried that thumb deeper and deeper into my body. I expected a member of the crowd to tackle him off of me, but they all scattered, screaming and running off in every direction. In the end, it was Ed and I alone on the bridge. He spoke one last time through gritted teeth. I'm sorry, but I fucking warned you.

Then I felt this terrible pulsing where his thumb had penetrated my flesh. It was almost unthinkably painful Like something alive and kicking Was crawling out from under his thumbnail And into my veins It was akin to a car Being pumped full of thick, high-pressured gasoline Something was invading me

When the worst of the pain subsided Ed pulled his thumb out of the room With a sickeningly wet plop He backed away from me Still not breaking eye contact As I rose slowly to my feet It wants the water and I can't deny its urges anymore.

With that, Ed hiked one leg over the handrail and pitched himself carelessly into the water. Ed! I ran to the edge of the bridge just in time to see him hit the water. He just floated for a few seconds, seeming unnaturally dull-like in his frailty. With a body looking as ravaged as Ed's, there'd be no surprise for him to die of shock upon hitting the icy water.

But, as it transpired, that wasn't what happened. Ed started to jerk violently, his body seizing and convulsing in the water. The moves were frantic, but not intentional, just vicious reflexive spasming that seemed to spread out through his entire body. I stared down at it all, utterly horrified, but still, blissfully unaware of the fact that I was about to witness the unraveling of Ed Kowalski, the final humiliating end of my best friend. A ragged tear began to appear in the mottled skin of his back, where wriggling was becoming visible just underneath. Something slender as a hosepipe and white as dry bones began slithering out of the room, spooling and roiling, forming great twisted shapes under the surface of the water. This hissing, knotting worm, this water-hungry Gordian nightmare spilled out of Ed Kowalski

as what was left of him span and flapped in the ripples. His engorged belly deflated, the definition of bones sank away from the surface of skin, and the abdomen flattened out and tiling as the writhing, twisting worm creature left his body and tore off into the water in its monstrous entirety, looking like it must have been 40 feet long, all in all. What was left of Ed Kowalski, now little more than a ragged sack of bones, sank into the murky deep. The police asked questions, sure, but what could I tell them? I was distraught, barely coherent through all my sobbing and screaming, and all I managed to tell them in the end was that Ed Randall Kowalski had jumped to his death

after a brief struggle with an undiagnosed but fatal illness. In a manner of speaking, I wasn't even wrong. I guess I'll end my story here. This is as good a point as any. I need to get myself a goddamn drink. Baby Blue. If you know those names, you know they involve urban legends about chanting in front of Mears. But author Rona Vassilar doesn't play such games.

No, her problems with Mears are far more real than those scary games and much more disturbing. Performing this tale is Jessica McAvoy. So be thankful you can use Mears in a normal manner, rather than dealing with. with memories in the mirror. The first thing I want you to do is to stop listening to this story. That seems like an odd request, but there's something that needs to be done before this goes any further. I need you to seek out the closest mirror.

Stand in front of it and just observe. Tell me, what do you see? Do you see yourself? I bet you do. That seems to be the trend among most people. I am not most people. I am, for the most part, ordinary. I do all the things you would expect a 20-year-old girl to do.

I drink a lot of Starbucks. I spend way too much money at Sephora. I sleep until noon when ever possible. There is just one aspect of my existence that is somewhat perturbing. I don't see what everyone else sees in the mirror. Well, even that's not entirely accurate. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I see myself staring back with my ghost white skin and my large cream.

eyes. And then, sometimes, I see something else. It's hard to explain, but I'll try. See, think about your average mirror. Let's say the mirror in the hotel room. How many people do you think have looked into just one hotel room's mirror? How many lives has that mirror witnessed passing through its glass. If a mirror had a memory, would it remember all those lives? Well, how about I let you in on a little secret? Mirrors do have memories. And I can see them.

It's not as spectacular as it sounds, really. Some days, instead of seeing my own face staring back at me, I see someone else's. For example, when I was growing up in a rickety old farmhouse in rural Minnesota, sometimes I would look in the mirror and see my mother's face staring back at me. I'd recognize the twist and glint of her eyes, although she was clearly several years younger in the mirror. Sometimes I'd see her standing there with a large swell of belly that told me she was pregnant.

Sometimes I saw her standing there in her wedding dress. Okay, it really is kind of spectacular. Over the years, I've grown to enjoy this particular gift. If I'm in a new building and I have time, I like to search out the girl's bathroom and see what other kind of faces have passed through the building before me. Sometimes I'll see something interesting, like an elderly woman pulling faces at herself.

Most of the time, they're just normal people. And as I watch them in the mirror, I construct for them little life stories. I don't just see people. I see possibilities. I've always thought that my ability was a gift. Until now. The first thing I did after graduating college and landing a job in a nearby city was get a cheap apartment downtown. Anything to ensure that I didn't have to live with my parents

any longer than necessary. Sorry, Mom and Dad. I considered myself lucky that I had found such a nice apartment at such a low price. It had two bedrooms and each bedroom had its own bathroom. Crazy, huh? It was well within my budget, which probably meant. that the neighborhood was too loud or too dangerous or something, I was pleasantly surprised to find that everything seemed pretty normal. The first thing I did after getting moved into my new place was check the mirror in my bedroom's bathroom. I walked in and out of the frame until someone other than myself appeared.

I almost didn't notice it was another woman at first glance. We looked so much alike She could have been my long-lost sister She looked to be a few years older than me And she smiled back at me With a radiant happiness that was absolutely breathtaking I paced a few more times Before I saw a man

He was ruggedly handsome With a very appealing 5 o'clock shadow I wondered if they were connected or if they'd been separate tenants and separate times. A few more paces showed them standing together at the sink, brushing their teeth and jostling each other, laughing. They looked so sweet. It didn't take a genius to realize that they were in love.

I was pleased with my discovery, happy to share my apartment with their memories. With a smile, I returned to my room to unpack my things. I got settled into my apartment pretty quickly, and life went on as usual. A lot of people, when they found out what happened, asked how it was that I didn't notice something was wrong, especially the people who know about my ability. What people don't understand is that as humans, we so often see what we want to see, what we expect to see.

Everything that is incongruous with our desired reality is rationalized away until it becomes too big to ignore. That's why I wasn't overly concerned with the oddities of the apartment. To begin with, I would notice an odd smell that seemed to waft in from the walls themselves. It was a strange smell, a little sharp and unpleasant, but so faint I could barely tell it was there most of the time. I asked my building manager, and she told me it had been a problem after the last tenants moved out. The apartment had been scrubbed and scrubbed, but nothing would get rid of the smell. Eventually, it faded on its own, and they were able to rent it out again.

She sort of shrugged her shoulders at the whole ordeal, and I responded in kind, thinking that it wasn't anything to worry about. Just one of those things, you know? How many sinister things lurk inside? Just one of those things. I began having strange dreams as well. They weren't bad dreams, exactly. It always featured a woman with a hunched over body and a face hidden by shadows. She'd walk through my apartment, crooning a lily.

She'd walk into my bedroom, peek under the bed, and then I'd wake up. Like I said, not a bad dream. But there was something about it that made me feel uncomfortable, something that nagged at the back of my brain. Oh well, nothing that I couldn't ignore. No, it wasn't until I saw the difference in the mirror that I began to understand that something was deeply wrong. I gave nicknames to the people in the mirror, the woman I named Justine and the man I named Antoine. For the first few weeks in the apartment, I casually observed the vestiges of their lives through my bathroom mirror. They seemed normal enough.

Gradually, as the memories in the mirror progressed, I saw their lives change. Namely, Justine became pregnant. As time went on, I saw her standing in front of the mirror, rubbing her belly, a glowing smile plastered all over her face. I saw Antoine staring at her stomach with fascination during their morning rituals. I even saw them engaged in intimate activities, at which point I ran out of the bathroom, my cheeks vaguely resembling a tomato in color. Their lives were wonderful, warm and loving. And then the memories began to change. It was subtle at first, almost to be expected, really.

She had to be, what, six months pregnant when I looked into the mirror now? And it was obvious that they were getting stressed. Antoine began to lose weight, his skin taking on a deathly pale cast as he adjusted to live with his pregnant wife. Justine looked constantly exhausted. I stopped seeing them in the mirror together, which led me to believe they weren't spending as much time together. Sometimes Justine would stand in front of the mirror and cry,

staring at the swell of her belly like it was at fault. Sometimes Antoine would just stare into the mirror for hours, his eyes unblinking, his mouth slack and breathing heavy. All the while, the smell grew stronger, and the dreams became more frequent. Then, for a few days, everything stopped. My reflection was the only thing that greeted me each time I stepped in front of the mirror. I had normal dreams. The apartment smelled like the lavender air fresheners I buy almost compulsively. But I couldn't relax.

I was jittery and nervous, feeling as though I was constantly on the edge of a panic attack. Somehow, I intuitively understood that this was the calm before the storm. And what a storm it was. I woke up one night, the strange lullaby dream returning for the first time in a week. I jolted awake in my bed, my heart pounding as though in the throes of a nightmare. My throat was tight and my breathing heavy. I shook my head, trying to clear away the trappings of sleep as I rose to my feet and headed towards the door to the bathroom. I flicked on the light and blanched at what I saw.

in the mirror. At first, I thought that something awful must have happened in my bathroom. The walls in the mirror were smeared with red, adorned here and there with suspicious-looking chunks. My head whipped around on instinct, but I found the same whitewashed walls that I'd been accustomed to seeing, and I relaxed only just. Something awful had happened. in this room. That much was true, but it wasn't happening right now. Well, except in the mirror.

Antoine stood in the mirror, staring at himself. Much as I'd seen him do before the memories had stopped showing themselves. Tear tracks stood stark against his otherwise bloody face. He looked as though he'd been bathed in red. I didn't want to think about the implications of that. His arms looked a little strange. It was almost as though he was carrying something, but whatever it might have been was cut off by the bottom of the mirror. He stared into the mirror for a while,

before turning around and walking out of the bathroom. Against all instinct and better judgment, I followed him. As I re-entered my bedroom, that awful sour smell grew stronger. My eyes were drawn immediately to the bed as I remembered the woman in my dream, the way she crooned her song to something underneath the bed. Something had to be under there. I yanked and pulled the bed away from the wall, revealing the slightly cleaner carpet underneath.

Following my gut, I pulled a knife from my bedside table and began to cut away at the carpet. There were hardwood floors underneath, nice ones too. Isn't that a little strange, I thought? But it soon became obvious as to why they'd been covered. Dark stains appeared as I cut out a large swath of carpet. Blood. My eyes raked over the hardwood floor. I wasn't sure what I was looking for until I saw it, the slight gap in the floorboards.

That little incongruity told me that it had, at one point, swallowing hard, I slid the tip of the knife under the board and pried it open. The smell assaulted me full force as I leaned over and looked inside. After that, my memory is mostly blank. All I remember is the sound of screams, and slowly realizing that they were coming from me. The police were there within the hour. Apparently, I'd been shrieking loud enough to wake my next door neighbors, and no matter how hard they banged on my front door,

I simply wouldn't open it. I thought they were going to arrest me for sure, once they saw what was underneath the floorboards. Not that I much cared at that moment. I was too busy trying to scrub the memory from my brain, knowing for certain that I'd never succeed. To my immense surprise, one of the cops on the scene pulled me away from the apartment

and sat with me outside, his eyes dripping with sympathy. I expected them to ask questions. I was, once again, surprised when they told me a story instead. A story about a young couple who had lived in the apartment before me. About how their lives had seemed perfect to anyone who knew them. About how the husband had slowly gone insane and murdered his wife in a nighttime rampage just a few years ago.

About how her body had to be recovered. from all different parts of the state. They told me that they hadn't found everything, that some pieces of her were missing. Pieces they'd assumed would never be recovered. They hadn't expected that something could still be inside that very apartment. And they certainly hadn't expected that something to be the mangled remains of Justine's fetus.

The story got some attention, as morbid stories do. The police department came under heavy fire for failing to uncover the body in my apartment. That's what they called it, a body. That word can never describe the twisted ball of flesh that greeted me when I pried up that floorboard, barely recognizable but for a smattering of tiny fingers

and feet and limbs the building manager didn't fare much better than the police people wanted to know why she hadn't reported the smell she chose not to comment obviously I don't live in that apartment anymore I moved to a new city entirely

my employer taking pity on me and giving me a transfer. In fact, the company I work for helped me finance a nice new place, one that, to the best of their knowledge, hadn't been the sight of any unspeakable murders. Even so, do you know what I did first and foremost when I moved into my new apartment?

I smashed every single mirror in the apartment and bought new ones of my own. We've learned in the past few months that the outdoors, especially the forests, can be both places of calm and relaxation, as well as unlimited horror. But in this tale from author Michael Marks, a strange transcript from a missing man

sheds light on the time he spent in an isolated cabin in the woods and what may have happened to him out there. Performing this tale, are Mike Delgado and James Cleveland. So you can look in the woods all you want, you likely won't learn any more about the last letter of Marcus Finch. I received an attachment from an unknown address the other day. It claimed to know the whereabouts of one Marcus Finch.

It also claimed that this was the last thing that was written by him while he was on vacation at a remote cabin. The cabin was found burned to ashes, but Marcus's body was never recovered. I have been looking into Marcus's disappearance with my paranormal investigations group for some time, but we had recently decided that the case wasn't going to bear fruit. After reading this, we have changed our minds.

The letter also included coordinates that are within the same forest where the cabin was located. With our group being located in the United Kingdom, investigating it further seems unlikely. Regardless, this transcript is either a hoax in very poor taste or very dangerous. Here is the letter in its entirety. Doing my best to remember everything as it was before. I suppose that's part of the reason I'm writing this down.

My mind feels as if it's fractured. My thoughts seem to fall apart like dead rotting leaves every time I attempt to collect them. It's bad tonight. The rain is making me feel anxious because the clouds block the moon. My vision is obscured. I know it's still out there watching, even if I'm not sure what it is. It likes the water. I think it needs to stay wet, actually.

Whenever it rains like this, it seems to get closer to the house. I don't see it. In fact, I've only ever seen it once. But I hear it. It's the sound of a thousand. and snakes sliding through the mud. Jesus, the sound is maddening. I need to focus.

I've already gotten way ahead of myself and likely left any reader of this confused and understandably questioning my mental state. My name is Marcus, and I'm writing this while held up in a cabin. I wouldn't dare leave, and I don't know how long I have to wait for rescue as I was expected to be gone for at least a month.

I come here to get away from, everything, typically. It's isolated from the world, and the nearest neighbor or town is over 15 miles away from me. No cell phone service, no internet, no distractions. A place where I can reboot my brain and get far away from the bullshit that seems to pile up in city life. It's normally serene, surrounded by forest on all sides with only a dirt road leading in, and behind it is a man-made pond, a fantastic spot to think. Once a year I take all my vacation time from work and rent this isolated cabin for a month. I stock up on food and supplies and I come up here alone to meditate on my life and find some clarity. It's an extremely relaxing practice and I've been doing it for the last

five years with no problems. I have a radio for emergencies and always inform people of where I'm going. I even let the local ranger station know that I'll be up here. Prior to five days ago, I never had any issue. And aside from the occasional hunter or deep woods hiker, I've been alone during my month. I like to watch the squirrels play when the storm's clear. Yeah, that was a thing I liked to do. Oh God, what happened to them, though? Like something out of a nightmare? Yes, focus. Yes. Five days ago. Five days ago, the ripples began in the pond.

I've wondered before what started them, and I can vaguely remember the sound of a splash the night prior to them beginning. But it's hazy, and I can't be sure if it happened. I suppose it doesn't matter how it started, though. The point is that it started. I remember sitting on the back porch and playing my guitar. the overhang protecting me from the drizzles of rain that had been falling since early that morning. As I played, I spotted the first ripples.

At first I thought maybe they were happening because of the rain or wind. They were too frequent, though, too well-spaced. I sat down my guitar. The beautiful tunes I used to pluck on that thing. It'll be missed. I stepped down into the rain to get a closer look. I could make out something in the... the pond, threatening to break the surface, but never actually doing so. It simply moved around

just below the murky water, with falling leaves floating in its wake. The pond had no fish, so my first thought was that an animal who'd come to water itself had fallen in. But that seemed unlikely. Whatever it was seemed quite content below the water, and it swum with a great deal of speed. Its movement was native to the water, or the very least it was something quite comfortable with it. Curiosity inched me closer to the edge of the pond. I could feel icy rain dotting my face and running down my nose and chin and drips. The sound of it pelting my jacket filled my ears as the light drizzle became more regular-sized droplets. I used to love the rain. Now it brings that sound. That maddening,

fucking sound. The waterline came into closer view and I noticed something else. Some kind of algae I'd never seen before coated the surface right before the water met the mud. It grew thick and almost seemed to glow a faint red in the dim daylight. I bent to study it closer and I could smell something sickly sweet like rotting fruit. I reached out slowly to touch it, but thought better. drew my hand to my pocket. I raised my head to fix my eyes once again on the swimming thing,

but it had disappeared into the pond, ducking too far below the surface of the muddy brown water for me to see. The rain started coming down harder at that point, and I retreated back to the cabin. I have a vague recollection of sipping scotch and staring at my radio, wondering if I should call someone about the thing in my pond. I knew, even at that point,

that something seemed very wrong, but what would I say that didn't make me sound like a crazy person? No, I didn't call them. Well, not then. I just stared out the window warming my chest with booze and watching the rain come down in sheets. I could have sworn I saw the forest moving, pulsating, like it was breathing steadily.

I told myself it was a trick of the rain that my eyes couldn't be trusted. Oh, God, can my eyes... ever not be trusted anymore? Worse than that, though, I'm not sure if my mind can be trusted. The sound outside is making it so hard to focus, but I need to stay with my memories. I can trust those, can't I? Next, I read, then made my dinner, then slept. All the while, listening to the rain and hearing the occasional splashes from the pond, I would walk by the door to the back patio and glance at it on occasion, but never saw anything but ripples moving across its rain-dotted surface.

My sleep that night was uneasy, to say the least. The sound hadn't started at that point, but my mind was plagued with nightmares that left me tossing and turning. I dreamt that my mouth was filled with worms, and every time I would spit a clump to the floor, more would berth themselves from the back of my throat. I woke up before the sunrise, choking, and, and... and sputtering and desperate for water, still able to feel them writhe and taste the earth of their segmented bodies on my tongue. Awful nightmares. I feel like I've had them before all this,

though, before the pond. But for the life of me, I can't remember. As the sun crept to life behind the clouds, it was greeted with silence. No birds chirping and no animals scurrying about their morning business. None of the typical sounds I had grown used to during mornings at the cabin. I stood on the back porch and drank my coffee, trying desperately to forget the taste of the worms. And aside from the drips of rainwater off the roof, the day was horribly quiet, at least until the splashing began again. I watched it, break the surface just barely, smooth skin that appeared to be the same color as the murky water, bulged from below only briefly before vanishing. It seemed as if the red algae had expanded its influence as well, spreading to the

grass around the pond. I once again pondered calling the ranger station and telling them what was happening in my pond, how it seemed wrong. Yet I couldn't come up with the right words to convey the sense of unease I felt at the whole situation. That coffee, that may have been the last time I felt warm, the heat in my throat and stomach emanating out through the rest of my body. You take those kind of feelings for granted until they're gone, or they seem like they're gone. Have I even tried? Yes, there is a fire going. I had nearly forgotten. I'm still cold. Oh, The topic at hand, though, yes, the call to the Ranger station. I walked back inside and must have stood staring at my radio,

trying to figure out what to say for a solid 20 to 30 minutes. I finally came to the conclusion that I should just spell things out as best I could and hope that my tone conveyed my feeling of concern. I picked up the handset, clicked the radio on, and was greeted by the familiar tone of static. I set the frequency to contact the Rangers and help. down the button to talk. Ranger Station, this is the cabin off Hia Hocet Trail.

Come back? There was a dread-filled moment of silence in which I heard my heart thump in my ears. Then a voice crackled from out of the receiver. Oh, Yaho Trail, this is Ranger Station 221. What can I do for you? I wonder now if that is the right number. It seemed right at the time. Hey, you'd 221.

I've got something weird happening up here at my cabin. I'm not sure how to describe it. Weird, you say? Yeah, there's something swimming around in my pond outback, and there's never been fish in there before. Also, it's growing some kind of funky algae. There was a dead silence for at least a minute, and I re-examined my words a dozen times

before the ranger came back online. Now it was my turn to be dumbstruck. I expected him to give me some kind of explanation or offer to come check it out, but he simply stopped talking. Are you sure you can't just come up here and check it out? I know I probably sound paranoid, but for some reason I'm feeling really uncomfortable. Another minute of dead silence that set my teeth on edge.

Exact same tone, exact same inflection, exactly the same words. I felt a sudden nausea in the pit of my stomach and was reminded of the earthy taste of the worms. The static resumed and I couldn't help but feel like I just got to be. the brush off. I sat there, calling the station back over and over again and getting no response. In frustration, I threw the handset down and stood up to pace the room. I could hear the rain starting up again. Its stick drops pelting the roof and sending the sweet smell of petracher into the air. It wasn't them, was it? The sound pretended to be the Ranger Station, I think. It's a clever noise, isn't it? I just want to be.

I want it to stop. I can't fucking think anymore. The sound. When did it start? The goddamn horrible noise. Was it before the Ranger? Or was it the Ranger? No. The sound was after. I tried to ignore the splashing and read a book by the fireplace. I love to read and always helped me relax.

I was still angry about getting brushed off by the Rangers. but it felt likely that I was just being paranoid and they were right. Nothing to worry about. I didn't know what it was, but it was the forest. Plants grow, animals swim. I think that night was when the sound started. I remember lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling. The rain had started to pour down once again or had it never stopped.

And the sound was relaxing to me. The pitter-patter of water drops on the roof lulled me into a relaxed and almost meditative state. I was just drifting off to sleep when the sound began. At first I thought it was something conjured up by my subconscious, a trick of my mind bringing forth my anxieties about what was happening, no matter how much I consciously attempted to deny it. It was low at first, like a tickle at the base of my skull. slithering, formless white noise digging its way into my mind.

I sat up out of bed and attempted to listen closer. The sound was coming from the direction of the pond, and even the downpour was not masking it. It was a wet and slimy noise, like a live octopus wriggling across the ground, except loud enough to hear from behind my walls. It was moving closer and closer to the cabin, and it made my... heart thud in my chest. Plants grow and animals swim. It's the forest.

It's just a forest. The forest that was breathing. I was ignoring that all day, but I knew even then. This fucking place was changing. Even now I try to deny it, even after seeing that deer and those poor squirrels, I've been trying to deny it. I'm focusing now though, collecting my thoughts, and I won't let myself not see. I could hear it breathing behind the slithering snakes in the mud.

I could hear it coming to life and hating me. There was a wet slap against the glass on the back patio door. Not now, but then I really need to stay on topic. Tell the story as best you can and get your mind together. You are still sane. The sound on the back door shook me from the trance I'd fallen into listening to the horrid noise that was now drowning out the rain. I stood up and walked on shaking legs to examine the patio where it came from. I'd shut the generator off for the night and felt no desire to go out and turn it on.

So instead I wandered the dark house and peered out into the backyard from a safe distance. I could see a thick trail of mud and sludge streaked across my back door, but beyond that it was far too dark to see if anything was out there. I shook from the cold and moved closer to the dying embers of my earlier fire. The sound was drawing away from the house once again, but slowly, as if it were attempting to torture me by drawing its movement out for hours. huddled near my armchair and staring out into the night, I waited and waited for it to end. And eventually it did, with a splash in the pond. I didn't move again till the sun rose. The next morning I forced myself to eat a breakfast and drank my coffee.

I stayed inside despite the fact that the rain had stopped and I could see sun peeking through the clouds. The disgusting streak of sludge stood out more on the gloat. glass to the patio doors, and I could see a similar trail of filth across the patio itself. Around noon when the clouds were fully dissipated and the forest was awash with midday light, I gathered the courage to go outside. I had heard no sloshing around from the pond, and the trees seemed still, yet everything felt wrong. The greens were too green, and the sun was too dim. The earth smelled too rich, and the air felt too thick. Every breath I took felt like it was going to make me cough and seemed to coat my throat and tongue. I made the choice to leave

right then. I knew I needed to get away from this place. No matter what the false ranger told me, no matter how insane it seemed, something was happening to the world around me, and it had to do with whatever was making its home in my pond. I packed whatever I was unwilling to leave behind and rushed to my car, which was parked a bit down the dirt road before you hiked into the cabin. The mud from the nightly rain squished beneath my hiking boots as I walked with my suitcase in one hand, and my travel bag slung over my shoulder. It couldn't have been more than 3 p.m. by the time I left, yet it seemed the sun was

already setting, and the clouds were once again starting to overtake the sky and choke out what light remained. The trees around me heaved and pulsed with every step that I took, and at times it felt like there was something wrong with my eyes. The sight of it all made my head hurt. I started walking faster and faster until I broke into a run. I could see the squirrels I'd been so fond of watching in more normal times lined up at the edge of the road. They seemed larger somehow, and their bodies were subtly twisted. Their legs just slightly in the wrong places, their eyes bulging from the sockets, their tails longer than they should be.

I could see their bones peeking out from beneath their skin, and they clicked and chirped at me with strange noises as I rushed past them. They were wrong, just like everything was. just like I was starting to feel. Just like I feel now. I can't even bring myself to look in the mirror. I don't want to see that I've changed subtly or clearly. I don't want to see myself at all.

God damn, this fucking noise! The car. Yes. I made it to the car. It had been ravaged. Its windows were smashed and its tires were flat. The hood was open and pieces of the engine were scattered in front of it. My only way out was destroyed, and as I stood helplessly staring at it,

wondering how it could have happened, my knees grew weak and I fell to the mud. I could hear the off-key chirps of birds I knew were mangled and the chattering of the squirrels that still watched me. It sounded like laughter in my ears. The rain had started just as I returned to the outside of the sun. the cabin. The sun was completely gone now, and I was walking in nearly pitch black. Only the flashlight on my keys illuminating what was in front of me. The wet slithering begun again. I could hear it from behind the house as I stood on the front porch. It had once again crawled from the pond and

made its way towards the house. I stood with the rain pelting down on me, both attempting to pretend I didn't hear the thing, yet knowing I did. Overtaken with a terror. curiosity and a need to understand the horrors I was dealing with, I flicked off my flashlight and stepped slowly around the outside of the house. As I crept to the corner, it would allow me to peer into the backyard. I took a second to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The rain dripped down my face and neck, and I tried to focus on the way it felt, rather than the terrible horror building in the pit of my stomach. The sound was so loud, it felt like it was burrowing into my brain.

I steeled myself to look around the corner and see what was beyond. But nothing could have prepared me. I'm fairly certain this is the moment. My mind fractured, and I've worked ever since to put it together again. At first there was darkness and nothing but, though slowly it seemed to be created. from the darkness itself by my eyes. I could see the great mass of shadow

that was moving from the pond towards my cabin, tendrils flailing from its pulsing body as it moved, and that terrible sound emanating from somewhere deep within it. My mind could barely comprehend the silhouette that it was seeing, but my madness came when the lightning flashed and illuminated it the rest of the way. I remember seeing so many. different things that I'm not sure which of them were actually real. There seems like no way it could have been all of them. Or maybe it was. Maybe it doesn't exist within our rules. Nothing makes sense

anymore to me. Maybe it's everything. I saw a leathery-skinned, wet mass with tentacles reaching towards me. Its bulbous body lined with bulging black insect eyes. I saw a leathery-skinned, I saw a deer with twisted legs growing from its midsection and mangled joints. Its bleeding eyes focused on me as it twisted its lips back to reveal a set of teeth and reseated gums. I saw a nude old woman whose body had been cut all over and was leaking blood from fresh wounds as she cackled. Myself, retching worms and stumbling through the mud with a smile on my face as if I

were enjoying the whole thing. I didn't see each of these things in turn like they're written. I saw them all at once. Each a single memory of the same moment, each like a fracture down the soft part of my brain. And each memory bleeding into the other, creating a mess in my mind's eyes. I remember screaming and running back towards the front of the house. The world around me pulsing with short, shallow breaths as I reached the door. I could feel something leaking from my eyes.

and down my cheeks, as well as something coming out of my ears. I didn't need to check. I knew it was blood. I shouldered the cabin door open and flung myself inside, slamming it behind me and clicking each lock closed. I made it three steps before I collapsed in front of the cold fireplace and blacked out with that horrible fucking sound in my ears. I woke with one of the most terrible headaches,

one that still hasn't gone away. The horrid, slithering sound was still working its way into my brain, while it mixed with the sound of the rain pattering the roof and the radio emitting static. I turned to the windows and saw that the sun had come up while I was blacked out. I must have been out for a while, but time seems to have lost all meaning to me at this point. I got to my feet and looked out onto the back porch. It had been slathered with mud and slime that seemed to undulate with each. breath of the forest. The guitar I had left out there had been smashed to pieces and scattered among the filth. Just hang tight, Hoytman for you soon. The voice on the radio came through clear.

The false ranger spoke to me with no prompting. I couldn't even remember turning the radio on. In fact, I've attempted to turn it off several times since the false ranger keeps talking to me, but it won't shut off. I'm sure it's nothing for you to be so concerned about... It only ever says those two phrases, but it won't stop talking. It won't shut up. The noise won't stop. My headache won't go away.

I can't get warm and I can't leave. The forest is alive out there, alive and moving by the will of whatever is in the pond. It comes with the dark in the rain. It's coming back for me. And it's going to change me. It already has, I think. This hasn't worked. My head still swims, and I can't make that fucking noise go away.

I want it to end. It's dark now, and I know it's coming back for me. I can taste the earth on my tongue and feel the worms in my stomach. Maybe I should just go with it. I don't know anymore. I don't know who I am. If you read this, get out of here, as fast as you can. There is something wrong here.

I used to be Marcus Finch. I used to love to watch the squirrels play when the rain would stop. I used to be Marcus Finch, and everything is not going to be okay. In our final tale, we learn. of the tragic story which shares a very significant date with our podcast. You see, on the very day the No Sleep podcast launched, a series of tragic events took place in a camping area at a national park. As explained by author Carrie H., a group of Boy Scouts went missing and were never seen again. That is, until that date rolled around again. Performing this tale, our Matthew

Bradford, James Cleveland, and Nicole Doolin. So take heed of the events of five years ago this very day. Sometimes it's not quite as fun to commemorate an anniversary. We know their names and their birthdays. We know who was missing teeth, who was afraid of the dark, who had bruises. We know who had a hair-lip scar, who had a brother that died while being born. We know what they wanted to be when they grew up. We know everything that mattered to them,

but what we don't know are the only things that matter to us. We've retraced our steps and gone over every piece that we have, but in the end it doesn't add up to anything. So all we can do is pour over it, and try again and again to make it all go somewhere, lead to something, because nothing else is important anymore. All that matters,

matters is what we don't have. Here is what we know. On June 12th, 2011, the local Cub Scout troop met at the south entrance of the National Park, which is located approximately 20 miles from town. They were led by two scoutmasters, Huxley and Anders. There were 18 boys in attendance, ranging from ages 7 to 10. For many of them, it was their first real camping trip. The town is small, so most, if not all of them, knew each other at least by name. Everyone had been given permission by their parents to go. Their uniforms would have been freshly cleaned. Their packs new and still stiff on their shoulders.

We can only imagine the cacophony of all those young boys running around in the picnic area. We bring this up because they were real. People forget that. They were real. They were alive and you could touch them. They ran around and they had nightmares and they enjoyed ice cream. They were real children with lives. The scoutmasters got everyone together and took attendance.

One witness vacationing in the States remember seeing them before they left on their own hike. I was glad when they went the other way. I don't feel that way now, though. But they seemed like they knew what they were doing. The group entered the forest around 8 in the morning, as best we can figure. There aren't any cameras out there, of course,

but based on their schedule, we feel confident that it's an accurate figure. They took a trail that leads into the mountains about 40 miles before looping back around and ending about five miles from the entrance. The group intended to go about five miles where they would camp at the base of the mountains at an established site.

Along the way, they passed a group of tourists who reported nothing unusual. The boys were in good spirits, following along and chattering noisely. One of them, a boy we later determined to be an eight-year-old named Peter Connolly, waved hello as he passed. The tourists waved back. As the group made their way up the trail,

they stopped frequently to identify plants and trees. During one of these stops, the boys began a pine cone war, which a passing hiker became involved in. The game ended when a younger boy, we aren't sure which, suddenly began to cry, and a ceasefire was called. The hiker said the boy didn't appear to be injured. Rather, he seemed to be frightened of something up in the trees, something he kept pointing at.

The hiker didn't see anything, and he moved on. The group stayed for a little longer before moving on themselves. Further up the trail, a candy bar wrapper was discovered, impaled on a branch. We aren't sure who put it there, but... But one of the boy's mothers told us that it was her son's favorite brand. He really likes them. I keep them in a drawer. So he can have one after school.

You can't find them here. You have to go to Denali's up in Bridgeport. They have them. They know he likes them. We kept the rapper initially, as evidence, but it has since been given back to the boy's mother. When we interviewed her, it was being kept on the fridge held up by a magnet with the boy's picture on it. She didn't allow us to photograph it for this report.

The boys reached the campsite around one. One of their family was present, but did not intend to stay the night. They had been there for a few days and were packing up as the scouts were settling in. The family, a father and his two daughters, made small talk with the boys and the scoutmasters. Oh, it was fun. They were running around. I had the girls help them set up the tents. He looked out back. Before the interview, he had sent his two young daughters outside. I mean, it was fine. They were fine. We've been up there a million times. They got set up, and I was talking with Howard, what, Howard? What is it, Huxton? Huxley.

Huxley, yeah, yeah, Huxley. We were talking, and he said something about, did I know any good swimming places? But, you know, that time of year it's so cold, so I told him that. And he said, that's fine, and, you know, we just sort of talked for a little longer, and then me and the girls headed out.

Nothing bad or anything. they just wanted to go swimming and have fun. From this point, we don't have any official record of what the group did. We know, based on what was left behind, that the tents were put up and a fire started. Sticks were found with blackened tips, so at least a few of the boys roasted things in the fire. Logs were set up and there were scuff marks in the dirt where the boys rested their feet. Someone tossed their cap up in a tree, and it was a little. was still there when the search party arrived.

They probably intended to retrieve it on the way out. The boys sat around the fire and told stories. They roasted things and the scoutmasters smoked cigarettes and drank at least four beers. The cans were found outside the camp. Again, we believe they intended to retrieve them later. A trail through the brush led us to believe that at least some of the boys went to a clearing and looked at the stars. They are remarkably clear out there.

The boys went to bed. The scoutmaster stayed up for a while longer to make sure everyone was asleep. At some point, they too went to bed, and the camp was quiet. There is, again, no official account of what happened next. All we know for sure is that at some point the camp was packed up and the group moved on. Nothing, save for the articles mentioned, were left behind. The group moved west, further up a trail. and it is believed that they were headed for the swimming area.

All of the boys' mothers confirmed that their children took swimming equipment. All of them knew how to swim. Whether they actually went, of course, we aren't sure. But we can imagine the group winding up the trail. The boys in a line, talking to each other and singing songs. The boys would be looking forward to swimming, to spending another night out in the woods. Their spirits would have been high.

They would have eaten a good breakfast of eggs and hot dogs, which makes it all the more heartbreaking that at some point along the trail on June 13th, all 20 people in the group vanished. Parents began arriving around three, and when the group still hadn't shown up by five, a few of them decided to hike a ways up the trail to see what had delayed them. After hiking almost three miles and having seen no sign of them, they realized that something was wrong,

and they hurried back to the entrance. The call came in at approximately six, and by seven the park was swarming with police and rescue. Those of us in town were quick to learn about it. Word traveled fast, and the hysteria that came along with it was almost intoxicating. Within minutes, it seemed, the town was full of police, park rangers from neighboring counties, search teams, large German shepherds on leashes being led to the entrance, their noses to the ground. The search itself was massive, and in a search. encompass tens of miles of park, much farther than anyone was realistically expected to have

traveled. Dogs were taken out, given multiple sense to work with in all directions. There was, certainly, no lack of effort that could explain why nothing, and no one, has ever been found. In an almost grotesque move, all 18 sets of parents were brought before the cameras in a huge, miserable group. They were given turns to give their children messages. to plead with their imagined captors, to offer rewards, to offer forgiveness. For weeks, the population in town was almost doubled. Many families, including ours, offered room and board to the volunteers flooding in at an incredible rate.

Eventually, it made national news. Every tree in town wore a yellow ribbon. But as time went on and the search turned up nothing, people began to leave. They went back home to their real lives, and as incredible as it seems, the boys were largely forgotten. A quiet rumor began to spread that the group had drowned in the lake, although no one had been found in it. For a long time, people talked about the pit at the bottom of that lake, which went deep, deep into the earth, and contained more than those 20 bodies. The rumor persisted and was used to justify the removal of the yellow ribbons, and the signs on the telephone pole. screaming, Bring our babies home.

On August 15th, the chief of police gave a televised speech, insisting that the case was still open in being investigated. Despite the severity of the crime, the nation moved on. Donations dried up, searches could not be afforded. The lake was closed, and the yellow ribbons vanished. On June 13th, on the anniversary of the disappearance of those 20 souls, local local emergency services received a call from a terrified woman who claimed that something was in her backyard. No transcript exists of any calls made that evening, but through many interviews we have been able to piece most of them together. The first call from the terrified woman was placed at approximately eight in the evening. According to the officer who took the call, the woman claimed that someone

had to face one of the trees in her backyard. She could not explain how they had done it, or who it might have been, but as she described it, one of the trees in her backyard now had a face. The face, she said, was screaming loudly and begging her to come outside and help it. She wanted the awful thing removed immediately. An officer was dispatched and went to the scene, but discovered nothing. The woman could not explain where the face had gone. Two hours later, calls began to pour in from all over town. As we later discovered, all of the calls were placed from homes that bordered or were located in the woods.

An elderly man called to complain about two boys who were playing some sort of game at the edge of his property. The boys, he explained, had crammed themselves into one shirt and were playing at being conjoined in some awful fashion. Their screaming woke his wife, who was gravely ill, and he wanted to press charges. Two blocks down, a young single mother reported seeing a very young boy running at the edge of the trees, but that he never seemed to move. He simply ran in place, his arms pumping, his face wet with tears. She looked him in the eye and, as if by magic, he disappeared. One mile away, on a property located within the forest, a hunter reported seeing a boy walking upside down through the air,

almost 20 feet off the ground, carrying his own spine in his arms like a baby. All across town, strange noises were heard, muffled conversation, screaming, crying. A name was heard which was later connected to one of the missing boys. A woman reported hearing a strange repetitive sound that she likened to the sound a chainsaw makes when it strikes rock. It woke her two children and frightened them badly and not. enough that she bundled them up in her car and drove to her mother's house a county away. And still, the calls poured in. Well into the small hours of the night, people reported seeing horrible things.

One man, a notorious drunk, called in stone sober to report having seen the head of a young boy emerging from the ground, the mouth that distorted a longated scream of terror. As the head rose from the ground, the jaw did not end, but so. stretched like Taffy, until the whole affair was more than double his height. He shut all the blinds tightly and drank himself into a coma. He has since died, and we cannot confirm his story. All over town, on the anniversary of the disappearance of those 20 souls, the strange apparitions were seen, heard, and in some cases, felt.

A teenage girl walking in the woods with her boyfriend on a late-night date, stumbled over something. Upon closer inspection, she determined that what she had tripped over was not, in fact, a bush, but was the top of someone's head. When it moved under her fingers, she and the young man fled into the night,

terrified beyond reason. As the sun began to rise, the calls dwindled and then stopped. Despite the entire town having heard and seen the strange apparitions, the incident was not discussed in any media, or even between the people. themselves. However, an exodus of the town soon followed. Many of the 18 families moved away,

never to be seen again. They left quickly and with no fuss. They simply packed their things, took their remaining children, and fled into the night, leaving behind empty houses and rooms painted blue or yellow or green. We did not pursue them. The town, desperate to move on, willfully forgot those yellow ribbons, those painted rooms. While the houses still stand, they remain empty. Squatters do not live there. The rooms remain empty, and the houses stand like physical memories. There is constant talk of demolition, but nothing ever comes of it.

The 20 people lost on June 13, 2011, have never been found. It includes our nocturnal presentation. Now it's time to drift off into your own nightmare. 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 reproduction of this. This audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.