The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E13

Episode Date: July 5, 2016

It's episode 13 of Season 7. On this week's show we have six tales about diabolical descendants, distressing diaries, and devilish deception. "Dead Milk"** written by Elias Witherow and performed by Dan Zappulla & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 00:05:20) "The Morozova Gift"** written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:26:30) "Family Tree"** written by Max Aaron and performed by Matt Bradford & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:48:55) "Molten" written by Kerry H. and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:07:40) "Honey in Your Tea" written by H. Fern and performed by Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:16:40) "The Devil’s Toy Box"* written by Joel Farrelly and performed by Atticus Jackson & Alexis Bristowe & Kyle Akers & Corinne Sanders & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:36:50) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here to learn more about Elias Witherow  Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth  Click here to learn more about Max Aaron  Click here to learn more about Kerry H.  Click here to learn more about Joel Farrelly  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski** "Molten" illustration courtesy of Unka Odya Audio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Be forewarned. This is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment, you do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Season 7, episode 13, Orzova gift, family tree, molten, honey in your tea, the devil, toy box. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales

about diabolical descendants, distressing diaries, and devilish deception. I want to extend my thanks for the many kind and supportive comments recently about our transition to offering the ads at the start of the free show. We're grateful that so many of you

are enjoying how we're presenting them, and even if you're not crazy about the idea of ads, most understand why we're including them and how they can help support the show. I also want to point out that part of this transition involves moving our audio files to a new hosting system, and of course there will be some wrinkles we need to iron out as we do so. We appreciate your patience,

and hopefully very few of you will notice any problems at all. This episode is coming out smack dab, in the middle of a holiday weekend for both our Canadian and American listeners. We hope you either did or are finding time to celebrate our two great nations and the close bond we share by enjoying some patriotic fireworks while savoring your apple pie with maple syrup and hot dogs while watching the red and white moose and red, white and blue bald eagles waving flags, while playing hockey or baseball or just relaxing while your national anthems. Some plays in the background and the sun sets on your now, almost empty case of beer,

and you slowly unwind as it gets darker and darker, and your mind drifts into a state of readiness, waiting to be entranced by tales of horror and nightmarish visions, which we will gladly inject deep into the fear center of your brain as we start this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a boy celebrating his 13th birthday. As author Elias Withero explains, it's a small family celebration in which the boy is gifted the odd present of a candle,

a family heirloom. But as with birthdays and candles, they must be lit, and the boy soon discovers the gifts deep and disturbing significance. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula and Mike Delgado. So watch the flickering flame as you listen, but beware if you experience the dead milk. Something horrible happened on my 13th birthday. That was 10 years ago now. It's funny how quickly time flies, but fearful memories remain frozen within us.

Memories that we'd rather not remember. This is one of those memories. Like I stated, it was my 13th birthday, and my father and grandfather had gathered to hold a small party for me. They were all I had. I never knew my mother, and I didn't have any siblings. It was just the three of us. We were close, and we spent a lot of time together,

a loving trio of support. The humble party consisted. of all the usual flair, cake, balloons, presents, and good cheer. My dad bought me a new bike and a video game. My grandfather, widowed for 15 years now, got me something a little different. He gave me a candle. Now, being a 13-year-old boy, I thought this was an extremely boring present. It was about a foot high and as thick as my forearm.

The waxed almost glowed it was so red, a shining bright shade of brilliance. I dutifully thanked my grandfather and put the candle aside, already forgotten. I spent the rest of my day tricking out my bike with playing cards. I taped them to the spokes so they'd sound like a motorcycle, and I play with my new video game. I didn't think about the candle until I didn't think about the candle until I was. went to bed that night. As I laid down, my dad came into my room and placed the candle by my bedside. He asked me if I wanted him to light it for a little while. I shrugged and said, why not? He came back into my room with a box of matches and lit one. As soon as the flame touched the wick,

the room became engulfed in a cool maroon glow. I looked at the flame dancing, silently in the air, and my mouth dropped open. The candle had turned the fire the same color as the wax. A grin split my face, and my dad smiled back. My dad laughed and told me I could leave it on for a little while before I fell asleep. I thanked him and watched as he closed my bedroom door for the night. I sat in the silence of my room, watching the red flame waver and twist on the wick, spilling its strange, beautiful red light across the shadowed walls. The longer I watched, the sleepier I became, and soon my eyelids became too heavy to hold open. Then I fell asleep, the candle still burning beside my bed, round 2 a.m.

I slowly opened my eyes, unsure why I was awake. I rubbed my eyes and realized the candle was still burning. Oddly, it hadn't melted down. It looked like I had just lit it mere seconds ago, a tiny pool of wax at the base of the wick, the only present residue. Too tired to think much of it, I leaned over to my nightstand and blew the flame out. But it didn't go out. Irritated, I'd licked my lips and I blew harder.

The flame shrugged a little, but remained lit, groaning, thinking maybe this was some sort of trick from my grandfather. I wet my fingers and pinched the flame out of existence. Except when I pulled my fingers away, wincing, the fire continued to burn. And that's when I heard it. It was the sound that had subconsciously woken me up. It was a grisly, slimy sound, like ooze bubbling from an infected boil. It was a slow, wet sound. A sloppy, thick parting of gelatinous goo.

My eyes roamed around the room searching for the source. My brow furrowed in confusion. My heart began to race as I spotted something growing over my door. It bubbled from the doorframe, a pulsing, growing mass of bright red. It looked sticky and hot, a waxy expansion of slimy substance that foamed. around the wood like bloody chicken pox. In horror, I watched as it slowly covered my door, layering it with coats of thick, dripping red. And in a matter of seconds, I couldn't see my door anymore.

The growth had completely overtaken it, a wall of moist, goo blocking my exit. I cried out for my dad a terrified shriek of baffled fear. And after a few empty seconds, my eyes trained on the red mass. And I cried out again. No response. Why wasn't he coming to see what was wrong? Why couldn't he hear me? And then, a sick, gurgling groan emitted out of the wall.

of contorted, waxy ooze. I sat up in bed my heart thundering as something began to emerge from it. A dripping red hand reached from the shifting mass and pulled itself forward, staining the floor as the thick substance pulled around it. A shoulder emerged next, the hand dragging its body forward into my room.

A scream crawling up my throat I watched as a moaning head materialized out of the vermilion sludge. The waxy muck dripped from its face like a bloody fondue fountain and its mouth filled with the goo. The thing pulled the rest of its body free with the wet sucking sound and remained on its knees, panting and vomiting red globop on the floor. Its human-shaped body oozed with the substance, completely coating it like cherry molasses. Oddly, it was odorless, the only smell in the room coming from the tiny puffs of smoke from the ever-burning candle. My eyes were bulging and my throat clamped shut in fear. My blankets were pulled up to my chin as I sat and watched the dripping creature, slowly stand.

It faced me, its features drowning in an ocean of slimy wax. It took a step towards me, and I finally screamed, clung myself away from its looming horror. I pulled myself over to the far side of the bed, desperately searching for escape. It reached the far side of the bed and outstretched a dribbling hand towards. me. Get away from me. I jumped from my bed and scrambled to the far corner of the room. I screamed from my dad again with panic throttling my young mind. And to my horror, I watched as a second monster began to pull itself from the wall of wax covering my door. I huddled in the corner, crying, howling for help, but none came. Free from the mass, the second monster roared

to its feet, joining the first. They advanced on me, leaving trails of hot, gooey wax in their wake. I covered my head screaming as they towered over me. I shut my eyes, my teeth clenched, tears running down my face, and prayed for this nightmare to end. Something wet and powerful grabbed me by the hair and yanked my. my head up. Gasping, I snapped my eyes open in pain and found myself held in powerless agony as one of the things ripped me in its dripping hand. Please. The monster held me still as the other one

leaned down towards me. Its face open to reveal a gaping red hole. I trembled, feeling hot wax drip onto my head and into my hair, my bladder releasing as fear consumed me. With a sickening sound, the creatures convulsed, and then began to vomit into my face. I gagged as hot red ooze dripped into my nostrils and down my face, completely coating it. I slammed my mouth shut as my vision blackened beneath the sickening. substance. I struggled to get away, but the creature holding me gripped me tighter, and I was helpless to its strength. The soupy discharge dripped into my ears, and soon all sound was muffled and muted. Blinded and deafened, I began to panic even more. My lungs began to burn, and I needed to breathe.

my nose now filling with this vomit. I felt another wave splash into my face, pouring from the creature's gaping mall like a heavy syrup, the pouring gush of unending suffocation. I needed to breathe. I fought off the urge as long as I could, frozen on my knees in helpless submission, feel my brain swimming,

and my heart thundered in my ears as I slowly drowned underneath the heavy coat of oozing slop. Unable to fight it off any longer, I gasped for air. Immediately my mouth filled with the wax, exploding down my throat like a burst dam. It was warm and tasteless like wet Vaseline. The creature vomiting into my mouth wretched. again, bringing with it another waterfall of slimy goo. I sputtered and spat, trying to fight for a breadth of air, but there was simply too much. I began to swallow it, drinking it down in a frantic attempt to find oxygen.

As I slurped it down my throat, feeling my stomach fill, the creature gagged up the biggest splash of wax yet. forcefully rocketing it down my throat so hard that my eyes watered and bulged, a scream washed out in wet pain. I felt myself begin to die. Consciousness blinked in and out, and my mind fuzzed over with darkness. The creature's grip on me never faltered, and the torrent of wax continued to rain down. into my mouth. My chest ached from the lack of oxygen and I suffered through agony like I have never felt. As the last flames of consciousness extinguished from my body, I felt the iron grip released me and my body slumped to the floor. All thought and awareness left me in a wisp of darkness.

I don't have any memory of what happened in that darkness. The only thing I can recall is red so much. I slowly opened my eyes and felt something stroking my face. As thought and growing alertness returned to me, I looked up and saw my father and grandfather standing over me. Both had smiles and relieved looks in their eyes. I sat up a little and I realized I was in bed. I forced consciousness and awareness back into my mind, the terrifying memory of what happened returning with the vengeance.

I quickly touched my face, panicked, and my hands came away clean. I shot a look at the door and saw no traces of the horrors I had witnessed. Sunlight trickled in through the window and I heard birds chirping outside. Had it just been a nightmare? I looked towards the nightstand and I swallowed hard. The candle still burned like it had just been lit. My father smiled at me. Feeling better?

I licked my lips. And to me, my father shared a look with my grandfather and then turned back to me. Thirteen is such an important age in our family. It's when boys become men. it's when we begin to return to the world we came from. It's when we're baptized with the dead milk. My grandfather nodded and then coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. And when he pulled it away, his fingers dripped with thick red liquid.

What is going on? My father placed a hand on my shoulder. Take it easy, son. You'll learn as you grow up. older. People don't like us much. They think we're strange, but we're not. We're just different, because, well, we're not from around here. I didn't understand. My mind was reeling. What do you mean? What's going to happen to me? My father smiled. One day, we will burn with the dead flame. One day, we will melt under its eternal warmth.

He leaned down, his eyes glowing. But until then, until then, we will spread the light of the flame to as many as we can. Fear boiled in my stomach. You mean the candle? He nodded. Yes, son, the candle. We are called to spread the light, to expose as many as we can to the candle, and the experience it births in us.

Take it with you wherever you go. Let them join us when we are all filled with the dead flames brilliance. Because it's coming. And when it arrives, it will melt us all in brilliant ecstasy. My father paused and saw the confused horror in my eyes. He smiled. Don't be afraid. I was as confused as you are when my father gave me a candle.

on my 13th birthday. My grandfather nodded beside him, wiping away a streak of red, staining his mouth. When the dead flame comes to our world, when we all melt in its glory, do you want to be the only one of its creations who hasn't shown its light to another?

Dad, what are you talking about? He sighed. Son, your great-great-grandfather was sent here by the flame to spread its light. We are the first bloodline selected for such an honor. You have been baptized in the dead milk, and now your journey begins.

You have been filled with the flame's warmth, and now are called to expose others to it. Burn the candle. Let the dead milk fill your friends, your enemies, your children. Let it fill the world. Silently, I nodded. Too afraid to do otherwise. Ten years since then.

After that day, I mentally excommunicated myself from my family. My father didn't mention the dead flame much after that terrifying talk. Occasionally, he questioned me about the candle. He would ask if I had been using it, giving me a knowing look. And I would just nod. lying and tell him I was. In truth, I had no idea what to make of my family's madness. And I still don't.

I threw away the candle years ago, as soon as I moved out of the house. I don't talk to my dad much, and it's been ages since I've seen my grandfather. I never recovered mentally from that night, from the insanity that I witnessed, and the crazy babbled my father stuffed my head with. I don't believe him. Of course I don't believe him. We're not the descendants of some weird wax creatures from another dimension. That's crazy.

Things like that don't exist. And yet, every once in a while, I think back on that night. I think back to the creatures crawling out of that ooze. And I wonder. Because, you see, I've noticed something. Whenever I'm exposed to an open flame, I get excited. I feel myself drawn to it. And lately it's become worse to touch it.

I want to rub my face in it. I want to let it consume me. I want to melt in it. Whether it exists online or in the schoolyard, the problem with bullying is a perennial one. But as we learn from author, M. Scandrith, one man admits being a bully in his younger days and explains the extraordinary circumstances which cured him of it and its lingering consequences. Performing this tale are David

Alt and Erica Sanderson. So if you're going to pick on someone, remember one thing. They may not be as meek as they seem. They may even have the Morozova gift. I never considered myself a bully. Actually, I don't think any bully considers themselves to be one. They're too tied up in the act of hurting other people to ever consider how other people might feel. I'm a prime example of that, since I was an inveterate bully of the worst order at school. But I certainly didn't see myself that way. In my mind, I was just having fun.

and when my victims cried and faked illness to get away from their schoolyard tormentor, I just saw them as too sensitive or having no sense of humour. On reflection, I'd say this was learned behaviour from my old man, who probably learnt the same from his father, who in turn learned it from his father. But that's still really no excuse for perpetuating it. Unfortunately for me, I was given a hand in, breaking that cycle. The Morozova family lived several blocks away, but I took much the same route to school as their daughter, Ava. They were your quintessentially weird immigrant family,

hailing from some barren, frozen corner of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and they had never completely integrated with the local Western population. Their house was a patty thing, with crumbling gutters and a huge, high, wooden fence that hid the yard and windows from the street. Flocks of birds roosted in the massive, overgrown birch trees, and local cats would perch atop the heavy fence posts, eyeing the avian population, but never braving the yard. The neighbours on either side of the house eventually moved out, putting their houses on the market, then, when they didn't sell, rented them out to poorer families.

But it wasn't just because the Morozovers were Russian and their house was in a state of ill repair that people didn't want to live near them. It was the actions of the family patriarch that truly drove them away. At night, Father Morozov, rumored to be a colossal bear of a man, would stalk the yard on massive, heavy feet, shouting and snarling in Russian. He would beat on the fence with his gargoling. Gantuan palms, slamming into the six-inch timbers until they shuddered and swayed under his weight. Some people said he was insane. Children whispered that at night he really did turn into a massive black-furred bear. Whatever the case, nobody ever voluntarily went near the Morrers Overhouse.

In that annoyingly predictable way, my school buddies and I decided to call them the Vladom's family. thinking ourselves amazingly clever. Ava hated it. She would stare at us with a withering intensity, but then simply correct us, saying with a hint of a Russian accent, It is not Wadoms, it is Morozova. On reflection, she was a tough little thing.

With bucked teeth, untamable orb and hair, and eyes so pale blue they were almost white. She bore the brunt of all the teasing regarding her physical appearance with an indomitable Russian stoicism. You could almost be fooled into thinking she wasn't human. However, teasing related to her family was different, I discovered. Children who propagated the rumors about her father were met with more than just set shoulders in a blank stare.

She would back such children into a corner, pinioned by the chilly intensity of those inhumanly pale eyes, whisper something to them until they started to cry. then eventually managed to run away. Being the little monster that I was, I resolved to break her. But she never cracked like the other kids did. No matter how hard I got on her case or how much I put the boot in about her father, she never skipped a day of school and always met my brown eyes with her unflinching Arctic blue and white stare. I saw your father.

I told her one lunch break, which was a lie because no one ever saw her father. Only the mother and the daughter left the house, but never at the same time. She ignored me, as was normal in our nearly ritualistic interactions, her legs swinging idly back and forth as she sat on the bars of the jungle gym, some unknowable Russian book in her lap. The men in the white coats were dragging him out of your house in one of those big coats with buckles all over it. I watched for any reaction.

She stiffened very slightly, and the rhythm of her swinging legs grew almost imperceptibly slower. I bet they're taking him to the funny farm. No reaction. Her pale fingers simply turned another page, carefully from the bottom. They said they were going to lobotomize him. Her legs stopped swinging.

Looking up from her book, she spat words at me thickly. I know you're lying. Blood rushed to my face and ears at that accusation. But having finally got a reaction, I wasn't going to let up now. Oh no, I saw. And so did Freddie Jameson and Kylie Smith. You can go ask them. I don't need to.

The certainty in her voice caused a curious chili frisson to run the length of my spine. But I was suddenly angry at myself for letting Ava Vladams get to me. I felt the rush of blood to my head. grow hotter, filling my skull with impulsive, aggressive thoughts. Before I could think about the consequences of my actions, I grabbed her dangling leg and yanked on it as hard as I could. The book went sideways, and with an indignant squeal, she went forward. Forward onto the steel bar in front of her. Her head hit it with a hollow bong, and I laughed as though a favorite cartoon character had run into a telegraph pole. But when she rolled to a stop, blood was streaming from

her broken nose. And where her buck teeth had been, there was only a dark, bloody void. As she lay bleeding silently in the patchy, dusty grass under the steel bars, I kicked her book once, vengefully, and walked away. She didn't come to school the next day. And though I had achieved my goal, I felt strangely hollow about it. I'd had to lie and tell everyone it was an accident, so it was her word against mine, the word of a freaky Russian immigrant against the good local boy from a well-to-do local family. Amongst my little group of ogres, though, I was a legend. As far as they were all concerned, I was the boy who had finally cracked Ava Morozova. It was on my way home from school, still lost in conflicted thoughts about my strangely Pyrrhic victory, that I met her mother.

I didn't even see her until she was already upon me. Thin, white hands grasped my scrawny biceps with a terrifying suddenness, and she started shaking me like a rag doll, her huge pale blue eyes burning into mine as she screamed at me in broken English. Leave talker alone. You live alone or bad thing happen. You hear? Let me go. I tried to squirm out of her grasp.

But she was monstrously strong. Her rage far greater than anything I had ever witnessed before. Do you hear? I squealed in terror, tears beginning to spill down my face. Finally, I managed to choke out an affirmative, nodding as she held me a foot off the ground. Good. Be good boy. Live alone. The instant that her hands left my arms, my skinny little legs were already moving, and I ran home so fast that anyone watching would have thought I was being chased by the hounds of hell themselves. My father wasn't having any of it. As soon as I told him

what had happened, he put on his jacket and dragged me down the street to the morrow's overhouse, ranting about filthy reds touching his son and threatening to shoot every last one of them. Their enormous gate had a simple brass bolt, which he pulled, then shouldered the huge, heavy, wooden portal open. Up close, the house really wasn't in a good state. The paint was peeling and sagging, some of the blisters filled with stagnant rainwater

and ringed with a rhyme of fungus. Two of the front windows were boarded over, over with soggy plywood, and the lawn had clearly not been moaned for many months, though great sods had been ripped up in places, showing bare, wet earth. I remember the primitive stirrings of a strange sympathy for Ava. None of us had actually known what the place looked like, as she didn't have any true friends, that her home was so neglected, touched an empathetic part of my spirit that was rarely engaged. As we walked down the slabby stone pathway to the listing house,

my father started shouting for the mother to show herself and explain her actions. A great bellowing answered us from within the house, as though some kind of enormous mammal had been roused from a deep slumber and was really angry about it. Even my father looked alarmed for a moment, and my bladder suddenly felt, Very full. A trickle of warm urine ran down my leg as the roaring intensified, followed by the crash of thrown furniture and female voices raised in agitation. I wanted to leave, but my father was too committed, already hammering on the swollen door with urgent fists, yelling for the mother to come out. Abruptly, there was silence.

The door opened, and Ava's mother stood in front of us, her wild, arborne hair neatly quaffed, hundreds of silver pins. Please. Her accent was so thick that the words were almost unintelligible. I'm not scared of your husband, and if he touches me, I'll get the corpse involved, and they'll deport your sorry Russian asses

back to the gulag you came from. I don't really remember the rest of the shouted conversation between the two adults. What is fixed in my mind is what I saw behind the mother inside that poorly lit house. As accusing fingers were jabbed about and English shouting merged with Russian swearing, I saw the massive, lumbering shape of a ferociously bearded man being led into another room

by Aval. Then for a single instant, her fingers slipped from his, and he bellowed like a wounded bear, slamming his head clean through the drywall of the corridor, before he was a little bit of the corridor, before she grabbed back his massive digits, and he again became docile. The mother had backed my father down the steps now where they stood almost nose to nose, still shouting imprecations at one another. So, you no leave house? No, I won't. Not until I get a damn apology.

Then I make me leave. From a pocket in her russet gown, she produced a strange object. a delicate snow globe not much larger than a golf ball. Remember it being utterly beautiful. Startlingly clear glass, housing some kind of tiny wooded hillock, upon which stood a church or an abbey. Precious gold inlay scrawled around the base,

incised with unfathomable Russian characters. As my father stared in confusion, she lifted the globe to his eye level. and gave it the tiniest shake. The flakes inside the glass swirled lazily around the spires of the tiny building. My father screamed, as though he'd been thrown headfirst into a cauldron of boiling oil. His fingers raked at the flesh of his face and chest, scratching great wheels in his skin. His eyes bulged grotesquely with the raw intensity of his screaming, and every,

Fane on his neck, forehead and arms stood out, starkly purple and distended. When the last flake of white dust settled inside the globe, my father fell forward, onto his knees, desperately gulping in great lungfuls of air. The Russian matriarch fixed me with a stare that didn't need any translation. Grabbing my father's hand, I helped a sobbing man to his feet, and we left the Morozov house. It was hard for a boy of that age from that time to process his father having his ass kicked by a freakish immigrant woman with a retarded husband. And first I remained terrified of them of Ava and her mother.

But every time I caught my father weeping with fear in his armchair, every time I woke up in the middle of the night to his whimpers of abject terror, I felt more and more disgusted with him. and my anger against the Morozov's grew ever greater. The impotent rage boiled and coiled inside me, forming a tight, irrational knot that blotted out all reasonable thought. How dare they do this to my old man, my hero? Heedless of everything I'd seen,

as only a stupid little boy full of vengeance can be, I found Ava when she eventually returned to school, and pushed her down into the dirt of the playground. I don't know what your freak mother did to my dad, but I'm going to make you pay. Licking the gap between her teeth, Ava rolled over and lisped at me. I don't think so. From her pocket came the exquisitely delicate snow globe, the scene within eerily still and serene, even though I'd just knocked her down seconds before.

I recall taking a single step forward to try and grab. grab it off her. In response, she swirled it gently in one hand. Words failed to do the pain justice, but it felt something like a million miniature razored snowflakes raking across my nerve ends. Each unique fractal of icy needles sliced into the delicate feathery fronds of my nervous system and sent raging flash floods of agony into my unres. unprepared brain, it seemed to go on and on and on. And when the cresting tide of diabolic frozen suffering finally ebbed into stinging aftershocks, I found myself lying in a muddy corner of the playground, blood in my mouth, and tears streaming down my face. I knew then that if I could

take the snow globe from her, I could have my revenge. I waited for my moment, watching when she She methodically packed her bag at the end of the day and stowed the little globe in the side pocket, wrapping it first in a silk handkerchief of blue and white. After the bell rang, I followed her, keeping my distance, head down like a beaten dog. When we were out of the schoolyard near the corner store, I ran up and yanked her schoolbag off her back in one clean movement. Give it back. It's your turn now. I unzipped the side pocket where the globe rested inside its nest of silk.

I think I vaguely recall Ava barking some word of warning, then desperately shouting for me to stop. But as the strangely cold glass fell into my hand, I felt nothing but the heady surge of power that comes from the anticipation of vengeance. With a triumphant grin, I held it up and shook it as hard as I could. But something was wrong. registered even as my hand moved. The scene inside the globe had changed. The abbey, the birch forest, all had disappeared. The building within was now small, prosaic, and familiar. My own house lost in the snow. Unlike last time, it wasn't just icy shards raking over my bare nerves. This time, it felt as though every nerve was being flayed open.

by a raging blizzard of frozen razor blades, each torn to shreds by a billion tiny signs, then obliterated in the never-ending storm. I didn't even make a sound. I couldn't, since my mind was nothing but a wall of agony. I just fell forward. My hand and the snow globe both shattering as they hit the ground. When my parents arrived at the hospital,

the endless Arctic plain of pain still stretched out endlessly in front of me. I simply lay there, my eyes fixed open, my mouth a rictus of silent screams. The doctors claimed it was a catatonic state brought on by stress. It lasted for three months before it even began to recede, and another six weeks before the right combination of painkillers began to work. Even 20 years on, I can still feel the ghostly remnants of it, tiny flurries of microscopic snow that randomly blow through an arm or leg and leave me gasping for hours in chronic and unrelenting pain.

I learned a valuable and perverse lesson from the Morozova family. When I was finally fit for school again two years later, I walked with a heavy limp and my speech was slurred almost beyond recognition. The other children made fun of me, called me retard, and mimicked my clumsy movements. And that taught me exactly how it felt to be on the other side of the bully dynamic. As for the hand that held the snow globe, I was never able to use it again. The doctors said that the tiny flinders of shattered glass did too much nerve damage,

but I can still feel the hand through the uselessness. Under the dead fingers heavy as burgs of brittle pack ice lurks a sluggish river of icy pain Just waiting for a chance movement to send it roaring and frothing through my flesh And each time it does It stirs up the quiescent drifts of water-bound snow And brings all of the original torment back to life As fresh as the day I smashed the globe

And absorbed its frigid madness through my naked flesh. But I suppose that is my burden, my penance, for being such a thoughtless, evil-minded child. So please, don't let your children follow in my footsteps. The ice around here is very thin. As we've already learned, some families feel it's important to pass down family traditions around birthdays. In this tale from author Max Aaron, We meet a boy turning 16, and it's time his grandfather imparts to him an understanding of the family heritage. And it all starts with a walk in the woods. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford and Nicole Doolin.

So be thankful for your family and the people you came from. It's always worth knowing more about your family tree. I was seven the first time Grandpa invited me into the basement to see his safe. It was massive. Apparently, the original owners told him the house had to be built around it, and there was no way it could have been brought in afterward. When I asked him what was inside, he spoke with a smile. Maybe I'll tell you when you're older.

I remember being frightened by that smile. Everything about my grandfather frightened me, to be honest. I was never able to put a finger on why, but the feeling was real. I dreaded whenever Mom said we were going to visit. Every time Mom and I were there, his housekeepers would wait on us hand and foot. Even at an early age, I noticed how they seemed intimidated by my grandfather and were quiet, timid, and unwilling to speak unless they were spoken to. It was almost like they'd been traumatized.

When I was 13, I learned an unsettling fact about the housekeepers. They were, in fact, his wives. The grandmother I'd known, who died when I was very young, was merely one of nine. Mom didn't want to explain the whole thing to me. I could tell she was afraid of him too. When I asked why she'd chosen to keep in touch with him after dad died, she told me I needed a male figure in my life. It sounded strange to me, but I never pressed the issue.

On the day before my 16th birthday, Mom said Grandpa wanted to take me hunting. I absolutely hated the idea. Being alone with my grandfather on his sprawling property, which comprised countless acres of deep, dark woods, was one thing. But the addition of guns to that already unpalatable scenario basically made it the last thing I'd ever want to do. I protested and argued and whined.

Mom wouldn't have any of it. He's done a lot for you over the years. You'll go and you'll be polite. And that was that. Mom woke me up before dawn on my birthday and drove me the two hours it took to reach Grandpa's house. She didn't get out of the car. I knocked on the door in one of his wives,

Gert, ushered me into the kitchen where there was a hearty breakfast waiting for me. Despite not being even remotely hungry, I gnawed on some bacon and shoveled some eggs into my mouth. I didn't want Grandpa to get angry at Gert for making food I didn't want to eat. As I was finishing up, my grandfather came down the stairs. Despite being in his 70s, he was strong and enormous. His 6-foot-6-inch frame dwarfed me, and at over 300 pounds, he was more than twice my weight, too. As usual, he grinned, and exposed teeth that were too straight and too perfect for a man his age.

I tried and failed to prevent goose flesh from rising along my spine. He greeted me with a cheery rendition of happy birthday, his deep voice resonating throughout the cavernous kitchen. I smiled at him and did my best to make it look like I was deeply appreciative. He asked if I was finished eating. I nodded. After instructing Gert to clean the place up, he put his massive right hand on my shoulder and told me to follow him. I trudged along as he walked across the house to the basement door. He flipped the light switch, and we walked down the thick wooden stairs.

He turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and I immediately knew what he was going to show me. We stopped in front of the colossal iron safe. I think you're ready to see what I've got in here. Excitement and fear churned in my breakfast stuffed stomach. I'd wondered what was in that safe for as long as I could. remember. Now that I was about to find out, I was borderline terrified. What did he have in there that he needed to stay secret? I'd learned he was a polygamist and probably an abusive one, but he and my mother acted like it was a normal fact of life. What was so bad that he had to keep actively

hidden from the world inside a safe the size of a small car? Granda turned the old chrome-plated combination lock a few times. I heard something unlatched from deep inside the iron bowels of the thing. With a grunt of effort, my grandfather pulled open the heavy door. I let out the breath I'd been unconsciously holding in one long sigh. Inside was an arsenal of firearms, rifles, shotguns, pistols, and countless boxes of ammunition. He stared intently at my face. John, some of these guns aren't legal anymore.

I'm showing them to you because you're family. I trust you, and these will be yours someday. I don't want you to tell anyone about what's in here because I could get in a lot of trouble. I nodded my understanding and promised him I wouldn't say anything to anyone. Good. Now, pick one out for yourself. We're going hunting. I didn't know anything about guns.

I thought back to the television shows I'd watched and tried to remember what hunters used in them. I selected a long, rifle-looking thing. M-1-Garand, excellent. He pulled a gun from the safe, loaded it with ammunition, and handed it to me with a warning. Keep it pointed at the ground and don't touch the trigger until you're ready to shoot something.

He pulled another similar-looking rifle from the safe, loaded it for himself, and picked out a small revolver, which he loaded and stuffed into his front pocket. Come on, let's go for a walk. The morning was cold, and the sun had barely started to rise. It was overcast, and every so often, a flake or two of snow would float to the ground in front of my face. I stared at the ground while my grandfather walked ahead of me. We walked at a brisk pace for what felt like an hour. The sun rose behind an overcast curtain, and its light barely penetrated the dense coniferous canopy above us. The longer we walked, the more unnerved I became.

It seemed like the day was getting darker, not brighter, as the density of the forest swallowed nearly everything the shrouded sky could produce. I noticed animals as we walked, but they were all ignored by Grandpa. I wondered what it was we were hunting. We passed deer, squirrels, rabbits, and raccoons. Eventually, growing tired of walking in silence and becoming increasingly aware we'd have to walk the whole way back too, I spoke up and asked where we were going, and what, we were hunting.

Without turning around, Grandpa replied. I'll be honest with you, John. We're not hunting anything. Bears like to roam around. these woods and I've seen a lot of them over the years. They never bothered me, but I wanted to be prepared in case today is any different. I just said, okay, but I wondered why the hell we were out there in the first place if we weren't actually going hunting. I didn't want to say it just like that to my grandfather, though, so I just asked, are we near where we're going? Grandpa stopped

walking and turned around. That same unnerving smile was plastered across his lined face. Just on the other side of that rock formation. Come on. Instead of going ahead, Grandpa slowed down and walked next to me. You're a man now, John. Your father should be the one walking with you, not me. The good Lord saw it fit to take him when you were a baby, though. And I knew I had to step up and show you what that means. We stopped at the rock formation. We'll have to climb over. Grandpa climbed next to me.

It wasn't steep and the footing was solid. We moved easily. He kept talking. Your mom told me a few years ago that you knew my housekeepers were actually my wives. And that's okay. I worried you might be confused, but you always surprised me by your maturity. That's what's important to me, not age. We reached the top of the rock formation.

I looked down at the forest below and started to climb down with him. It's your job as a man to claim as many women as you want. I thought about protesting, but I didn't dare interrupt. I let him continue. They're yours. It's their duty to be there for you, to bear your children, and to take care of your needs, whatever they may be. We climbed down in silence for a few minutes,

as if he wanted to make sure I had time to reflect on the importance of what he just said. A little while later, we reached the forest floor. As he continued, his voice started breaking with a motion, which he quickly swallowed. When your dad died, I was put in a difficult position. He was my son and might be. son embraced the tradition of all the men in our family, me, my father, his father, his father,

and so on. The trees seemed much taller than before. The forest on the other side of the rock formation was older than what we'd been walking through, and even darker. I had to squint to see, even though, when I snuck a look at my phone, it was almost 10 a.m. You have a unique family tree, John. Remember, your father respected the tradition of the family. That means your mother was not his only wife. This news made my head spin. I didn't remember much about Dad, but I always thought he was a decent, caring person. Hearing he was anything like my grandfather was a terrible revelation. Like I said, I was put in a difficult situation. Your father had 12. 12 wives. For whatever reason, despite him impregnating all of them, only one gave birth to a boy,

your mother. I felt mildly dizzy. You mean I have sisters? I hated that my voice cracked an octave higher on the last syllable of the sentence. Twelve of them. One of your father's wives had twin girls. Can I meet them? My voice was back to its normal pitch. I sounded calm and oddly hopeful, despite the intense discomfort I felt. A woman's duty is to serve the men in her life, John. Your mom had you, and it became her duty to serve you. When your father died, the other wives couldn't serve anymore. They no longer had any purpose.

It's not like the daughters could have carried the family name. I understand. But I actually didn't understand at all. So I'll never get to meet them? John, they lost their only purpose in life. The daughters couldn't carry the family name. What purpose could they have had? I stared into Grandpa's eyes.

Their intense blue was startlingly bright against the gloom of the forest. As we'd stood and talked, the clouds had given way to partial sunshine. It was still dark, but I can see more than ten feet in front of me. I asked you a question, John. What purpose could they have had? I shifted in place with acute awareness of how uneasy and timid I must have looked to the giant man in front of me. It was obvious I needed to tell him what he needed to hear. They didn't have any purpose at all, Grandpa.

The words felt disgusting as they came out of my mouth. The smile returned to his face. Good boy, John. He paused before he spoke again. Good boy. We stared out at the endless forest ahead of us. I got ready to ask if we could start heading back before Grandpa spoke again.

I had to make things right after your father died. He pointed up over his head. No waste. I started to. to shake as a feeling of dread suffused throughout my body. Grandpa kept his hand raised with his finger pointing up. Despite not wanting to look, I craned my neck and stared into the shadowy canopy. It didn't take long before I realized what he was pointing at.

I gasped with such force, I began to choke. Skeletal bodies in ragged clothing hung from the branches above. Some were big. Some were small. Some were tiny. All were dead. Long, long, dead. Meet your stepmothers and your step-sisters, John.

I know you don't remember them, but they all loved you and your father very much. Tears streamed down my face as rage began to replace my fear. Did you... I did. There was pride in his voice. He watched as I raised my rifle and pointed it at his barrel chest. You don't need to, John. I'll take care of it so you don't have to.

He produced the pistol from his jacket pocket and held it against his temple. I've done my part, John. I know you won't actually shoot me, but you'll report what happened here and I'll be arrested. I'm going to make it easy for you and take care of the ugly part myself. He tightened his grip on the pistol. Let what I told you sink in, John. Talk to your mother about it. She knows all about this.

She'll help you. It's her job to help you. You'll see it my way when you're a little older. A breeze whistled through the trees. Above us, I heard the rain. ragged dresses on the bodies rippling in the wind. My mind wandered to the poor women back at Grandpa's house, women who'd been abused for decades by a man who thought they were nothing but property.

The thought of how they'd been so conditioned over that time to buy into the hideous tradition of the awful man in their lives prompted a terrifying realization. Your wives, what will happen to them? That repulsive smile gashed my grandfather's face as he spoke. They knew why we were coming out here, John, and they knew I'm sure they did what they needed to while you've been away. A sob burst from my lips as I thought about Gert's sad smile while she watched me eat the birthday breakfast she'd made for me. The clicking of the gun's hammer being cocked caused me to look back at my grandfather.

He stared into my eyes with an intensity I'd only seen from animals about to maul their prey. Happy birthday, John. Don't ever forget the day you became a man. And don't forget what it means to be one. Tradition overall, John. Tradition over all. He took the gun from the side of his head and placed it in his mouth. He squeezed the trigger and dropped heavily to the soft blanket of pine needles on the forest floor.

blood gushed from his mouth and nose. I stood motionless, watching the blood drain out of his head. Sounds of the forest gradually replaced the ringing in my ears. Birds chirped, squirrels chittered, branches clattered, dresses fluttered. The clothes are nocturnal presentation. Now it's time to drift off into your... own nightmares. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program.

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