The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E16

Episode Date: July 24, 2016

It's episode 16 of Season 7. On this week's show we have five tales about pernicious pen pals, terrifying trespassers, and excruciating expeditions."Miss Marni’s Teahouse"** written by Rona Vaselaar and performed by Erika Sanderson & David Ault. (Story starts at 00:03:05)"Aren't You a Sweetheart?"* written by Marcus Damanda & Manen Lyset and performed by Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 00:20:30)"He Howls at the Moon"** written by Manen Lyset and performed by James Cleveland & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:14:00)"Saw an Old Friend"** written by Ariana Brickhouse and performed by Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 01:27:10)"What I Saw Beneath the Riptide"** written by Elias Witherow and performed by Mike DelGaudio & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:41:00)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here for our Listener Survey Click here for The Founder's Report podcast (iTunes & Google Play) Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset Click here to learn more about Elias Witherow Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"What I Saw Beneath the Riptide" illustration courtesy of Jörn HeidrathAudio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Be forewarned, this is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories, you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment, you do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. 2007, episode 16, Miss Barney's Tea House, aren't you a sweetheart? He howls at the moon. saw an old friend, what I saw beneath the riptide. It's the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have five tales about pernicious pen pals, terrifying trespassers, and excruciating expeditions. For those of you who have been purchasing individual episodes this season, it's time to remind you that our season pass rent-to-own program, is still available. Once you have purchased 14 individual episodes during season 7, just send me an email, David at the no sleeppodcast.com, and I'll upgrade you to a full season past 7.

I had the pleasure of being on an excellent business-themed podcast this week, the Founders Report. They focus on businesses and startups, so host Dan Miklos had me on to talk about how the podcast started and our new approach to advertisement and plans for future projects. Be sure to check it out by following the links in our show notes. And speaking of things like ads and future projects, it would be a huge help to us if you could take about one minute of your time to fill out a short listener survey for us. Just 20 questions, most of them quick-click multiple choice answers,

and you'll help us best determine the interest in not just future sponsors. but also potential projects, like, well, a No Sleep-themed art book, or how about a collection of the best No Sleep productions on vinyl? We'd certainly value your input. And if you include your email address at the end of the survey, don't worry, we'll never share or spam it. You'll be entered to win a $100 Amazon gift card. All you have to do is go to survey.

dot the no sleeppodcast.com and fill out the form. And we thank you for that. But before you do that, how about we send some shivers into your soul with some stories by starting this week's show? In our first tale, we take a break with a relaxing cup of tea. You see, author Rona Vassilar shares a tale about a woman with a family tradition of running a shop

where only the best teas are sold. But when faced with a persistent problem from a troublesome neighbor, she has to decide the best way to smooth over the problem. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and David Alt. So the next time you want to savour a delightful cup of Darjeeling, why not head over to Miss Marnie's Tea House? You're going to hell, child of soul. Satan you'll burn in agony just like the Jews and the towelheads. God will cast thee down,

down into Gehenner. Burn witch. That's how I used to begin my morning. Every morning. I live in the same little townhouse that my mother lived in and her mother before her. And for as long as I can remember, we've lived next to Mrs. Thompson, who is perhaps the nastiest person I've ever met. Her voice has assaulted my ears since childhood. Either she was yelling at my mother or antagonizing me while I played outside. I don't know how she came to the conclusion that we're witches, but no matter how kind we were to her, her words were always the same. Die. Burn in hell. Satan's spawn. Witches. Bitches. Bitches.

So every morning I'd walked to my car amid her screeching and try and cheat. tune it out as I prepared for the day. After all, it's no good coming into work at a tea house when you're stressed. Your foul mood will poison the tea. At least, that's what my mother always told me. Just like our home, the tea house has been in my family for generations. It is always owned and managed by a woman, and we never take employees. They just aren't needed. Besides, it's hard to teach a newcomer the finer points of tea making. Me? Me? I've been studying tea since I was a child, as my mother passed down her secrets to me. It's a wonderful job, a wonderful life, and I quite enjoy it.

All except for Mrs. Thompson, of course. Every morning at the tea house was the same. I began by rinsing out the cast-iron teapot and teacups. You can't use soap on them, you know, and you can't wash the outside. You can only rinse them, and over time they'll take on the flavor of the teas you brew in them. which is why I have a separate tea set for each kind of tea, green, black, yellow, Oolong, white, and herbal infusions. I'd set the metal teapots to brew hot water on the stove.

I can't put cast iron on the stove either. While prepping the water, I'd select the teas I would feature that day. Of course, a customer can come in and request any kind of tea they like, but I always like to give my own recommendations. I would open the store at about 9 o'clock in the morning, and I'd spend the day serving tea. I had quite a few regular customers that enjoyed the healing properties of tea. People with stomach problems who liked the Jade Mint Ulong. People with anxiety who preferred the chamomile blossom.

People who simply enjoyed the traditional taste and brewing process of matcha. Well, one morning, someone new came into the tea house, someone I never expected to see. Jamie Thompson. Mrs. Thompson's grandson, who spent most of his time caring for the aging crony, was standing at the front of my tea house, watching me serve mango black tea

to a few elderly tourists looking for something sweet and strong. Miss Marnie, I see your tea house is doing well. I noticed the elderly women staring at him in open appreciation. He was quite handsome. Even I must admit, but I ignored him and went back to the tea preparation. Tea takes all of your attention, all of your heart.

If you don't give it everything you've got, it will fail you, because you've already failed yourself. Once the tea was prepared and the women were enjoying it iced, I stood up and approached the conspicuous newcomer. Mr. Thompson, I take it. What can I do for you today? Most of the time, I'd start by asking what a customer likes, what a customer needs, what ailments.

are troubling them. I like to help people, but I was wary of Jamie. Nothing good comes from a poisoned plant after all. Well, I'm actually here to get something for my grandmother. You see, her mind is going. I read that tea is good for dementia, and I was wondering if you had any recommendations. It's true. Studies have shown that certain kinds of tea are good at preserving brain mass, but as of yet, nothing in modern medicine is miraculous enough to reverse dementia. Still, nature works in funny ways. I went behind the front counter to examine my selection of green teas. You know, my grandmother, she probably wouldn't drink this if she knew you had prepared it.

I grunted in a cent, none too keen on continuing our conversation. Jamie didn't seem to notice my reticence, or perhaps he didn't care. But, you know, I'm hoping that maybe... Maybe this will help patch things up between you. I think she'd really like you if she got to know you. I've always found you fascinating. I selected some Giyokoro Imperial and turned to face him, appraising his expression. The light in his eyes told me that he was using his grandmother as a pretence to come and see me.

Oh. Oh! Ignoring his obvious interest, I prepared the tea leaves and rang up his purchase, explaining how they were best brood and when to drink it for the best results. To his credit, he was very attentive, although he seemed more interested in my lips than the words coming out of them. Well, thank you for this. I'll give it to my grandmother and come back to tell you the results.

You needn't bother. I was anxious to get him out of my store, but he smiled in return, not a bit perturbed by my attitude. Oh, you can't get rid of me that easily, Miss Marnie. I'll be back. With that, he turned and strode out of the store, the tourist still gawking at his tall, muscular frame. That was the start of all the trouble.

Since that day, Jamie started coming in regularly, always asking for my recommendations, always claiming that my tea helped his grandmother heal. I sincerely doubted that, but I didn't bother correcting his ignorance. After all, it was just a facade. At the close of each purchase He would ask me the exact same question

So, do you have any plans for the night? Most of the time I declined to answer I had to admit he was patient And persistent He never missed a day He was all so sweet in his own way He handed out compliments like candy But only ever to me

Sometimes he brought him flowers Although I couldn't keep them in the store The scent would taint the tea He brought me sweets on occasion. It was really getting on my nerves. Finally, one day he didn't immediately ask me out. Instead, he presented me with an opportunity, one that was too good to pass up.

Honestly, Marnie, I'll do anything you want to just have one date. What do I have to do? You can't afford a date with me, although the wheels in my head were already turning. Money isn't an object. Living next to my grandma all these years, you have to know my family is loaded. He flashed me his patented, arrogant grin

that somehow managed to hold a certain magnetic charm. Name it and I'll do it. I'll make you understand how serious I am. He seemed serious. And I thought maybe, just maybe, he could be the one I'd been searching for. And if he was, oh, I'd never dare dream. I grabbed out a post-it note and began scribbling the details on it

as I told him what I wanted more than anything in the world. There is a tea grown in the Fujan province of China called Dahong Pao, or big red robe. It grows so high on the mountains that only a few select tea masters are able to pick it. However, what many people don't know is that there are two strains of Dahong Pao, the kind that is sold to the public and the rarer kinds that is used in medicine and religious rituals. I glanced into his eyes, but they remained impassive. I dared to finish. I want you to get it for me.

He smirked as though he was amused by my reticence. No problem. Is it expensive? I paused to consider that question. The tea itself? No. If you tell them you need it, if you tell them I need it, they'll give it to you. Only?

Only? Only you have to fly to China and get it yourself. They won't send it to you. You won't be able to find a trace of them outside their own little province. They're cut off from the world and that's what makes their tea so special. Jamie paused as if to consider this, making a very serious face and stroking his chin. Finally, he winked at me. Consider it done.

My heart skipped a beat. All this time, searching for the right person and he'd been right next to me, waiting for me to notice him. Life seemed to move at a glacial pace after that. Jamie bought the tickets and set the date for six months after I gave him my request. During that half year, he studied Mandarin with a passion that I'd never seen in anyone else before. He also managed to track down a Fujanese native and began studying the dialect. He took very careful instruction from me as to how he could find these master tea pickers.

The day before he left, he came to see. me, glowing with confidence as though he had already succeeded in his quest. I knew that the worst was yet to come for him, but he didn't seem concerned. Before he walked out of my store, he stood in front of me and requested, no, demanded a kiss for good luck. I was so excited and flustered that I leaned forward and pecked him on the lips without stopping to think. He laughed at the blush suffusing my skin and walked out, anticipating grand. adventure. Weeks past. Several of them, in fact. And yet not a word from Jamie. I try to remind myself to be patient. After all, he had to arrive in China, hiked to the mountains, and navigate

his way to the secret property of the master pickers. Reaching them would take time, and that's not to mention gaining their trust. I could only hope that they would be a little more compliant when he mentions my name. And then a few more weeks. I noticed that Mrs. Thompson was too preoccupied to harass me. She seemed shaken by Jamie's absence. Not that it surprised me. It was, after all, her primary caretaker.

And though she could still manage on her own at this point, she liked the company. I was beginning to think that I would never hear back from Jamie when one morning I arrived at the tea house to find a man sitting. in front of the shop. He was an elderly Chinese man wearing traditional garb. In his arm he held a black lacquered chest. My heart stopped in my chest. When he saw me approach, he knelt him in front of me and kowt three times. I inclined my head as a gesture of appreciation. Then I opened the tea house and let him inside. We didn't exchange any words, though I am fluent in both Mandarin and Fusinese. Instead, I brewed him a cup of golden monkey black tea, which he drank for rituals sake.

Once he finished his tea, he walked out of the door and out of my life. But he left behind the chest. My hands shook as I lifted it, feeling its severe heft and carried it to the back room. Locking the door and closing the blinds, I opened the chest. The first thing I saw were the bones. Each and every bone in Jamie's body sat in the chest, neatly packed into a solid mass. I took them out one at a time, spreading them over my work table, admiring their pristine white colour. I'd never seen something so beautiful.

Beneath the bones, separated by a wooden slot, was the tea. The small, dark green leaves with a distinct golden flecks. That was how I knew they'd given me the right product. the flashes of gold with a ticket. Yes, Jamie was the one that I'd been waiting for, the one I needed, the bargaining chip that got me my most precious treasure. He was a perfect sacrifice.

Mrs. Thompson changed after Jamie was officially declared missing. It was assumed that he had died hiking in China. An inexperienced hiker can easily go missing without the proper guide. And just like that, she found herself alone in the world. Her other children and grandchildren would have nothing to do with her. She stopped screaming at me in the mornings. She stopped coming outside at all.

But I couldn't just leave her alone like that. One morning I brought a special tea brew over just for her. When I knocked on the door, I half expected her to curse me out, shouting obscenities and misquoted Bible verses. Instead, she led me into her kitchen. and I brewed her tea. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to.

After a few minutes, she spoke on her own, about how Jamie had been so taken with me, sung my praises until she herself had begun to come around, about how much she had always loved him, how her whole life had revolved around him ever since he'd been born. She began crying at one point. In fact, she kept crying until I set her tea in front of her, almost absent-mindedly she sipped the brew and gave me a surprised look

this is good i smiled at her it is isn't it it only took a few days to get mrs thompson to agree that i should be her new primary caretaker of course she didn't need much care anymore not after she began drinking my tea after a few weeks her forgetfulness the signs of her dementia it began to fade. She was as sharp as she'd always been. Of course that was intentional. I do, after all, want her to live a nice, long life, full of memories of Jamie and the agony of never knowing what happened to him. It's amazing what a little tea and bone marrow can do to a person. As for me, well, I got what I wanted. I got the rare formula I need to give my tea. I need to give my healing powers. I got the sacrifice for those bruise that require something darker. And without Mrs.

Thompson's ranting and screaming, my mornings became much more peaceful, which, my dear, that doesn't even begin to cover what I'm capable of. When a troubled teenage girl struggles with loneliness, she reaches out to a friend her late father made in prison. But in this tale, co-written by authors Marcus Demanda and Manon Lyset, her prison pen pal soon makes it clear that their correspondence means far more to him than it does to her. I join Jessica McAvoy in performing this tale, so be careful who you choose to share letters with,

even if their letters begin with, aren't you a sweetheart? It's my fault. I want that clear from the top. When I tell you that I was lonely, that I needed a friend, I know that doesn't excuse anything. When I tell you this all started when I was 16 years old,

it's just background information. When I explained to you that I was brought up by a single mom and that my dad had been in prison since I was five, I'm not calling out for your tears. These are just things it's necessary for you to know. If you don't, none of this will make sense. I need to make sense. I need to keep a clear head.

But I'm scared. No, I'm fucking terrified. It's just. me and the wide open world now. Trevor Walker, the friend I had needed so badly. My dad sent me a photograph with the only letter I ever received from him while he was in prison. In it, they were standing together, smiling, regular jailhouse buddies. That is, until another prisoner shoved pieces of a broken cafe.

materia tray into my father's femoral artery and neck. Then Trevor became my friend, and he kept being my friend even after I didn't want him anymore, even after I stopped writing to him. But it seems I grew a brain just a little too late. I took a selfie, printed it off at the library at school, and wrote a letter of my own. This is what it said. December 23rd, 2012.

Dear Mr. Walker, my English teacher says the art of letter writing is dead. I want to say she'd be happy with me for doing this, for proving her wrong, but I don't think she'd approve. Neither would mom. But I don't care. My name is Mercy Evans.

That's me in the picture. You knew my dad. Did he ever tell you about me? Mom wouldn't let me visit him. I didn't even know he was in jail until I was 10. I might have never found out if dad hadn't finally written to me. Lucky thing, I was the one who got the mail that day. I can't say I miss him.

I hardly remember him But it's right around Christmas When I miss having a dad Someone to drive home the tree strapped to the roof of the car Someone to call me his little girl And threaten my boyfriends If I had a boyfriend

Which I don't But I'm all over the place now I'm sure you must get lonely there On the inside Is that really what they call it? I know a thing or two about you. I know you've always said you were innocent of those terrible things everyone says you did.

My dad must have believed you, even if no one else does. I'm ready to believe you too. It's hard to make friends when no one understands who you really are, which is something I can totally relate to. Everyone at Marshall is like on a whole different planet from me. Knowing my luck, you probably won't write back.

I just figured, you know, what the hell? Show my mom and Mrs. Madsen a thing or two. If you write back, maybe the art of letter writing is still alive, if only in us. sincerely your old friend's little girl mercy i made a copy of that letter by hand and kept it i copied them all every single letter i ever wrote to him i've always been more than a little oCD i told myself that first time that if mr walker should ever write back If he referenced anything I had written to him, I'd want to be able to look back on it. I stole a stamp from my mother's purse. Over the years, this was the least of the things I had stolen from her.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, though, just as I was doing it, and could not help but feel the inevitable self-loathing that brushed across my face, like a soft hand that had been dunked in liquid guilt. OCD, bipolar. Black clothes and pink hair and too much eyeliner and eye shadow and way too much death metal. Not enough sun, not enough talking with normal people, except for the shrink.

And I still think that she never gave a shit. This was me at 16. This was the girl that Trevor Walker answered. And this is what he said. December 31st, 2012. Dear Mercy, aren't you a sweetheart? It's not often that I get mail, and your letter arrived just before the new year.

It's almost as though fate wanted me to know this is a new beginning for us. Is that creepy? I'm sorry, it's not meant to be. Call me sentimental, but I get lonely this time of year. My family disowned me ages ago, so having someone to talk to makes me very happy. So you're Evans' daughter, huh? Well, I'll be. your dad talked about you all the time said you were the sweetest little thing every week i catch him writing to you

from the sound of it you never got his letters huh your mom must have thrown them out i'm real sorry you never got them there's nothing worse than hoping to hear from a loved one and getting nothing i know that from experience I know it ain't much, but I'm here for you. I'm sure your pops would have wanted you to have someone to talk to. You have no idea how much it warms my heart to know you believe I'm innocent. I know we don't know each other much, but when the entire world looks at you like a monster, it feels real good to know there are still kind-hearted people out there who believe in me. Thanks for the photo. I'll hang it on my wall.

Man, you look so much like your father. Got his eyes for sure. I'm sorry about what happened to him. If you ever need to talk about anything, I'm here for you, okay? Your friend, Trevor Walker. P.S. Please forgive my awful handwriting. I'm afraid it's been a while since I've done.

taken pen to paper. I'm a little rusty. And that was how it all started. Innocent enough, right? Just a fatherless teenage girl trying to connect with, as far as I knew, the only friend that my father ever had, at least while he was in jail. My father had talked about getting to know wonderful people like Trevor Walker in his letter, and I told myself that this Mr. Walker must be a good man if my father kept his confidence. When I read about Trevor in some old text-only newspaper stories archived on the internet,

I noted how he'd always maintained that he wasn't guilty of anything. I convinced myself that you couldn't judge a person by what other people said he did. My own memories of Dad didn't include things like armed robbery and pistol whipping a convenience store clerk. What little I remembered was him holding me, high over his head and laughing, or just looking at me with wide, adoring blue eyes. not like mother by the time I was 16 she'd pretty much given up on me and was just waiting out time

so she could kick me out of the apartment if she were here right now reading this I'm sure she'd back me up she was sick of me and I was done with her so the man who claimed that he did not kill those women. Well, he was a victim, too. That's how I saw it. He was the fourth person ruined by whoever

had committed those terrible crimes. I was so glad he had answered me. I wrote him back right away. January 3rd, 2013. Dear Mr. Walker, Happy New Year! I hope that it's okay to see. that considering, well, you know. Don't worry about your handwriting. I've seen worse. I noticed you put your full name at the bottom of your letter, but I'm still saying, Mr. until you give me permission to do otherwise.

Hint, hint. Your letter was right on time. I'd just blown my chemistry midterm, and mom took that as her opportunity to confiscate my phone and my iPad and yell at me all afternoon. Sometimes I feel like there's no one left for me in the entire world, that I'm shut away in this box with just enough of a window to see how everyone else has a life.

It's like you timed your letter to rescue me or something. Such drama, I know. Sorry, can't help it. I'm so pissed at my mom right now. I wish I could call her out on keeping Dad's letters from me. Think I'll play sick tomorrow and try to find them if she didn't throw them away. They're mine. That's all there is to it.

I'm trying to work out how the Dad I remember could have done the things he was locked up for. I just can't make it stick, even though Mom tells me all the time how guilty he was. I wonder what was going on that he was. He thought he needed the money so badly. And of course, she won't tell me anything about that. Kids at school bring my dad up all the time. Counselors and teachers pry into my personal shit every other day, even though I'm already seeing a therapist.

One who checks her watch every ten minutes and labels me a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nice, huh? People. I'm sorry for being so mad in this letter. I don't want to scare you off. I'm not always like this. I wish I could meet you in person. Maybe when I'm 18.

Please don't be freaked out by that. It's just good to have a friend. Mercy. So, yeah, I really wrote that. Don't worry, though. I won't bother you with every single. single letter I ever wrote to him. We'll keep it to the essentials beyond this point.

I can't do this all night. Time is a factor for me now. Still, the second letter I got from Trevor Walker is noteworthy. The thing is, no, fuck it. I'll let him speak for himself. January 15th, 2013. Dear Mercy Aren't you a sweetheart to write to me again?

When I saw the mail clerk stop at my cell, I nearly jumped for joy. I don't have much in ways of entertainment here. I'll take anything to take my thoughts off the cement walls of my tiny prison cell. I guess in that way, we're pretty similar, aren't we? I'm sure of it now. I'm sure fate brought us together. We're both trapped, both sequestered from the outside world.

But, just like I have these letters to remind me that I'm not alone, I hope you know that you're not alone either. You have me. I'm sorry about your mom. Some people have sticks so far up their asses, I swear. You deserve better. than her bullshit. If I was her, I'd dote on you day and night. Don't you listen to a word

she says about your pops either. You got that? He was a good man, a real good man. Always told me he wanted a better life for you. Buy you nice things and move into a big city. If he hadn't passed, I'm sure he would have gotten out of here someday and followed through on those dreams of his. Shit, I don't doubt it for a second. Now, don't you worry about scaring me off, okay? I'm touched you're sharing all this with me. I just wish there was more I could do, you know?

But I'll always be here to listen, or rather to read. But if you come visit me, and I would really love that. I haven't had a visitor in years. I'll get to actually listen to your voice. Wouldn't that be great? Mercy, we're friends, you and I. You don't have to call me Mr. or Walker. You can go ahead and call me Trevor.

Here's hoping you've got a great year ahead of you. Your friend, Trevor. And so began two years of me referring to this man. as Trevor. And that's in spite of the vague, creeping unease I felt that the way he used words like joy and fate, worse still, when my common sense tried to reassert itself, was his promise that he would have doted on me. I'd invited all of that, of course.

Sure I did. I know that now. Hell, I knew it then. I remember how foolish I'd felt, having all but promised to visit him after my 18th birthday. I remember the calendar advancing toward that date like floodwater under a door, slow but inexorable, and knowing that I would have to keep that promise or somehow back out of it. Nearing the end of my senior year, we had correspond to. did 31 times.

And it wasn't so weird most of the time. Our letters became conversational and familiar. I trusted him with small secrets. For me, Trevor was a source of positive attention, an uncritical adult who told me so many things I really did want to hear, things I needed to hear. About my problems, my life, my dead and half-forgotten dad. Speaking to him through the mail was safe,

and I adopted mail-gathering as one of my daily chores. Mom didn't seem to mind. Why should she? It wasn't like Dad was going to send me another letter. Incidentally, I never did find the old letters Dad had supposedly, sent. I was sure that mom must have gotten rid of them, but there wasn't any point in asking. She would deny they had ever existed, and I'd never know if she was lying or not. Anyway, letter writing always provided that perfect cushion of space. I realized I wanted that

cushion. I began to suspect somehow that I needed it. But by the week before my 18th birthday, Trevor had reminded me of this so-called promise I had allegedly made in all three of his most recent letters. And in the last one, he announced that I was officially on his approved visitor list. Staring at that letter, I knew I could not put it off any longer. Decision time, I thought, do you really want to see this man in person, Mercy? Thinking clearly for the first time about anything as it related to Trevor Walker, I really did do my best to fix the problem. May 29th, 2015 Hi Trevor

I hope everything is cool with you I'm sitting by this creek bank in the woods outside the new Glasgow strip mall using my English binder as a sort of portable desktop while I try to write this I'm crying and my hands are shaking so now I guess it'll be you who might complain about the whole

handwriting issue. Daddy took me here once, just before it all went to hell. There's crawfish in the water, but other than that, I'm all alone. This is a good place to come when you want to be all alone. I had another fight with Mom today, and it was really, really bad. I told her about us. Don't say it, I know it was dumb. I guess I just wanted to open up a little, try to make things right with her in an honest way before going out on my own. Mom said she would help pay my college tuition, so I thought that meant maybe she wanted to make things better too,

before I was gone for good. But when I told her about the letters, about me wanting to visit you, Trevor, now she says she'll cut me off and just throw me out right away if I do that. And I know she means it. I know I've messed everything up. I hope you'll forgive me, but I just can't come and see you.

Not until I'm done with college. Please, please understand. I hope this somehow all makes sense to you. I've explained it the best I can. I'm sorry. Mercy. My best, however, was a lie.

Mom wasn't going to pay for my college, although it was true that I might be allowed to hang around the house if I stayed serious about it. You see, I'd actually turned things around in 11th grade. I had decided that the only person who was going to make my life right was me, and I found that, with a bit of effort and a more positive outlook,

it wasn't actually that difficult. By 12th grade, I was in the running for a hardship scholarship, and I had qualified to enroll at the local community college. Part-time work at the student deli would supplement my loans and Pell Grants. I was an honors student. I had even made a few friends. The truth was that I didn't need Trevor anymore. Oh, and I didn't cry while writing that letter either.

I did write it by the Creek Bank, though, just like I said. I was honest about that much. Trevor didn't waste much time in answering. June 8, 2015. Dear Mercy, your mother is a damn dirty bitch, and I hope she gets what's coming to her one day. day. It ain't right to treat such a sweetheart like you that way. It ain't right to make you a liar. Your father always kept his promises, you know, always. I believe you will too. I can wait a few

more years. I mean, it's not your fault. Hell, I'm not going anywhere. But in the meantime, would you send me a few more pictures? It brings me so much joy to see. It brings me so much joy to see how you've flourished these past couple of years. I keep them on my wall. Look at them every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed. You look so much like your father, got his eyes. If I ever get out of here, maybe you and I can sit by the water and look at the crawfish together. Would you like that? I would. The only thing that keeps me sane in this God-forsaken person, place is knowing you're out there thinking about me. I need you, mercy. I need you as much as you need me. Remember that, all right? I don't know what I'd do without you. Your friend, Trevor.

I sat on my bed and stared at the letter. By the time I realized what was happening, it was almost too late. I ran out of my bedroom, clutching the letter in the sweaty ball of my clenched right hand, and found I could not let it go until I was leaning safely over the open toilet. I don't think I've ever thrown up so violently in my life. If I had, prior to that moment, still felt that Trevor Walker was innocent of the crimes he was accused of committing, that letter sent me good and straight. For two years, I had been corresponding with a killer. My father had been friends with a killer. And now my entire college experience would be tainted with a mistake I had begun making when I was 16 years old. I would be on the clock again.

It would be ticking down the days until Trevor would be expecting me to visit him. To fuel whatever desperate, despairing, perverted fantasies he used as masturbation fuel on his prison caught at night. He wanted more pictures. He wanted the up-to-date version of what I looked like. He wanted to track my progress. toward becoming a woman. I threw up again, noticed my mother at the doorway,

watching me, saying nothing. I screamed at her to leave me alone. She did, swearing under her breath, something about me being a neurotic little bitch. Later, it would occur to me that the trait was inherited.

You know how you always, think of that perfect comeback when the moment's long gone. Anyway, I was making too much of this. He was locked up after all. I spit, flushed the toilet, steadied my breathing. What could he really do? The days of me writing letters to Trevor Walker were fucking finished. But Trevor, it's...

turned out, was not finished with me. September 15th, 2015. Dear Mercy, haven't heard from you in a while. The fucking mail clerk must have lost your letter. Don't you just hate when that happens?

Or maybe my letter's the ones that got lost. Maybe you didn't get my last reply and you're waiting for me. If so, I'm sorry. I wouldn't leave you waiting like that. I'd never do that to you. I could never be that cruel. I know you wouldn't be that cruel either. I'm all you've got. You're all I've got. Can't wait to hear from you again, sweetheart. Your friend, Trevor. I wasn't too surprised to find this particular.

letter in the mailbox. Actually, if I was surprised by anything, it was that he took three months to send it. I could see that he suspected the truth. It was all in the way he used the word cruel. He knew what I was doing. Deep down he knew it, even if he was in denial about it,

and he was trying in that slimy way of his to guilt me into writing back. Not going to happen, Trevor, I thought, sliding this letter into my desk drawer at home. I stared at the pile. I should throw them all away. I didn't. Nor did I take them to the police and file for a restraining order.

The thoughts of my correspondence with Trevor becoming public was unbearable. The news would have a field day with it. I'd be like those crazy women who wrote letters to Manson or Bundy wanting to marry them. That wasn't going to be me. I was finally getting my shit together. I was in my first week of college, and mom didn't even talk about throwing me out anymore. Maybe actually seeing me try to make something of myself had something to do with it. Perhaps she was contemplating the empty nest and putting it off as long as she could.

I don't know. We still didn't always get along, but somehow, now that either one of us could legally separate herself from the other at a moment's notice, we had found a way to respect each other's boundaries. And I was reluctant to leave. Most of my reasons were financial, but there was this other reason too. She couldn't know about Trevor. Sooner or later, his letters would stop coming. Until they did, I had no choice but to stay.

Two months later, he wrote me this. November 20th, 2015. Dear Mercy, You're not ignoring me, are you? I'm starting to think you've forgotten about me, about our bond. But there's no way. We've got too much in common. We're friends.

Friends don't leave friends waiting this long. It's getting cold here. The leaves outside have turned red and brown. I wonder what it must look like to you. I only get to see the same trees over and over again, year after year. I know them by heart. The ones that turn yellow, those that go brown, the crimson ones. They're my favorite.

Red is such a soothing color. It's the color of life. It's the color of death. It's beautiful. How have you been? How's college life? Is that why you haven't answered my mail? It hadn't occurred to me that maybe you moved away to attend class. Maybe your skank of a mother found my letters and threw them out. Burn them, maybe. Wouldn't put it past her. She won't stop us, though. I'll just keep writing and writing until one of my letters gets through to you. I won't abandon you.

We're connected. Your friend. A message on my phone from one of my co-workers at the deli through my hair. Then gripped it in a fist. That was a two-day festival, up where she lived in Fremont, 20 miles away. She'd expect me to spend the night. I'd miss the mail for a day. I texted her back.

Can't. Sorry. We'll explain tomorrow. I'd think of something by then. I held up Trevor's letter, brushing away tears. Stop it. Please stop it. And that wasn't the last one either.

Far from it, for the next couple of weeks, I heard from him practically every other day. I told myself that this was his final frenzy, that this must all end, and soon. The words on the page kept whispering to me, taunting me, painting my vision red, the color of life and death. We are connected, he said, over and over again. And soon it would be our special day. Trevor was conscientious enough to remember it. December 23rd, 2015.

Dear Mercy Do you know what today is? It's our anniversary. The anniversary of the first letter you sent me. It's faded now. I've looked at it so many times, handled it so much that the ink is smeared and faded. But I still have your picture.

I'm very careful with your picture. I don't let anything bad happen to it. But back to the topic at hand. Our anniversary. I haven't heard from you in months, but I know you're thinking of me today. I just know it. I can feel you in my bones.

It's electric. The bonds that bind us together. You feel it too. right? Our special connection. Tell me you're thinking of me. Happy New Year. Hope to hear from you soon. Trevor. I put out the cigarette. I was tempted to burn myself with it. Wouldn't have been the first time. No, I said to myself, you're done with that shit. All of it. You haven't done stupid shit like that since you were a kid. But then, I hadn't smoked cigarettes in more than a year either.

And here I was smoking. I hoped Mom wouldn't smell it. That was the last thing I needed. This is it, I thought, and repeated it to myself several times with my eyes shut tight. When I don't answer him on our anniversary, he'll get it. He'll take the point. This is it. This is it.

For two months, I dared to hope that it was. February 27, 2016. Dear Mercy, Have I done something to offend you, sweetheart? Why would you treat me this way? By now I'm sure at least one of my letters has reached you. I've sent dozens, maybe more. Your whore of a mom couldn't have caught all of them.

So why aren't you answering? I miss you. Your friend, Trevor. Into the drawer the letter went. Out came the textbooks. On came the computer. I breathed a sigh of relief as the machine booted up. Finally, he gets it.

It was the best thing that could have happened, better even than never hearing from him again. This time, for once, he acknowledged that I had deliberately cut him off. Took him long enough? As I commenced hacking my way through pages and pages, of research on evolving theory on abnormal psychology, I felt an unexpected twinge of guilt.

Trevor Walker was a criminal, a killer, but it had originally been me, not him, who had reached out for a friend. I hadn't even had the guts to tell him I was done. This could have been over long ago. And through it all, he'd cared enough about me to keep our letters secret. If he had told anyone I knew, then sooner or later everyone would have found out. I felt bad for him, but not bad enough to write back.

I figured he had one more letter left in him, Tops. But I was wrong. He had two. 19th, 2016. Dear Mercy In all the time we've been corresponding, you never once asked me what happened that night. I'm sure you must want to know.

I can't blame you. I understand. Sweetheart, I think you deserve to know the true story. I owe you that much. It was 1986, and I was taking a stroll. after dark. As I walked by the woods, I saw something strange, something I can't properly describe to this day. In the darkness, I saw something even darker, something that seemed to absorb even the dimest of light, a kind of shadow in the darkness. I could only make out its presence from the absence

of things around it. This strange move. shadow shifted towards me as though liquid and solid all at once. I was frozen in fear. I couldn't move, couldn't run, couldn't scream. The shadow slithered into me and suddenly I felt a rush of adrenaline. My body started moving on its own. You know, after all these years, I've always maintained my Innocence, and this is why. I wasn't in control that night. I was just a puppet. That thing, that shadow.

It pulled me by unseen strings, forced me to do those heinous things. I couldn't stop myself. There was no way to resist him. He made me steal that truck, made me throw those women into the back, made me force my, myself on them, made me watch as my hands squeezed the life out of them. I had to watch.

How God, I had to watch as the light faded from their eyes and felt their bodies turned cold. I had to throw them into the ditch and hunt for the next. After the third woman, I managed to restrain him. I sat on the hoax. I sat on the hoax. of that truck and waited for the police to find and arrest me. That was my choice. What I did to those women wasn't. Now that you know the truth, will you respond to me? I miss you.

Your friend, Trevor. This, I said aloud, looking the letter over again for a third time, is out of control. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, this would be the moment when a normal person would say to herself, Hey, you know what? Your pen pal is a fucking lunatic who blames his psychosis on demonic possession and believes he just used you as his confessor.

A normal person, an adult, would have understood that there was information in that letter that the police might want. And you'd be right to think that. Even if all of the other letters leading up to this one could have been filed in a drawer labeled my own personal bullshit, I could not do that with this one, not with a clean conscience. If I didn't turn that letter in,

I might even be guilty of withholding or something. But Trevor Walker was still in. jail. He'd been sentenced to life without the possibility of parole, and in this state, that actually means something. He was surrounded by brick and bars and razor wire and shotguns. If he tried anything, there wasn't a cop anywhere on earth that would hesitate. They'd blow his fucking brains out. And I was in too deep. I had collect. I had collect. I'd be impacted over 50 letters from this monster and done nothing with them. I'd be hounded everywhere I went.

I'd have to move, change my identity, hit the reset button on my life yet again. I had friends. I was normal. Things weren't even that bad with Mom anymore. So go ahead and say it. I won't argue. I was an idiot.

I let the sleeping dog lie. It wasn't long, of course, before the sleeping dog woke up. July 2nd, 2016. Dear Mercy, I gave you a chance, Mercy. I gave you all the time in the world to reply to me. Why didn't you reply to me? Are you afraid of me? Don't you believe my story?

Have you lost faith in me? In us? What they say in the news ain't right, you know. I grew up normal. A normal boy in a normal god-fearing household in the outskirts of Montana. They tell my story the way they want to tell my story. Make things up to make me sound like some kind of blood. bloodthirsty animal, capable of nothing but inflicting pain.

They never understood me. They changed my story to fit their agendas, to come up with a fake little explanation as to why I was the way I was, because the lie made more sense than the truth I told. Made more sense than knowing that demons are out there, that the devil is real, that I was just. A puppet. They say I tortured my pets as a kid.

What a fucking crock. I never heard a damn animal in my life. Said I was a loner. Not true. I had plenty of friends. Not that any of them would admit to that now. But you would. You know how good of a friend I can be, Mercy.

They made me out to be everything I wasn't. They spun their web of lies, made me out to be a monster. The jokes on them, though. I ain't no monster. I'm a savior. I'm rotting in this jail by choice. It's by my will and my will alone that this creature doesn't get back out into the world. I make sure that I stay in this cell right here where it can't escape.

Don't you see? I let myself get caught on purpose. I wanted to protect the world, not from me, but from it. I keep the world safe. I key wants out. I'm not sure I can hold it back anymore. You see, you and I are strings have become intertwined. We're its puppets. entangled by fate. It wants to play with you, and I don't think I can fend it off any longer. I've protected you this long, but it wants out now, mercy. It wants out. It wants you.

I've read and re-read your letters over and over again. You were very careful to leave your address out of the course, Or maybe that was the jail. I don't know. All I know is that your letters always came in blank envelopes. But even though I received many blank envelopes, I always knew which were yours. I could smell yours, mercy. They smelled like you. Sweet.

Like lavender. sniff them over and over until the scent dried out and was replaced by the stench of my jail cell. I think I looked forward to that the most. Funny how much you underestimate scent until you wind up somewhere where everything smells the same. But yeah, you were careful, or you tried to be. but you or they forgot one major detail. All the little things that you've told me over the years that helped me track you down, the time you told me about the creek, the way you described your town, the train.

Aren't you a sweetheart for giving me the name of your high school? so I could track you down. We know exactly where you see you soon. That was it. His last letter. He must have written it during the day before mail call or whatever you call it on the inside because that was also the night that he broke out.

He'd been in maximum security naturally. A thousand brick and mortar layers of your fucked separating him from the rest of society. But he got out anyway. Alone. No tunnels. No bodies. Nothing. By the time the letter arrived, I'd already been here for two days, along with Mom.

She's still trying to process all this. How could I have kept it a secret from her? her for so long. It's no secret she doesn't think I'm all that clever, no more than you do, and I won't judge you for that. One of the hardest things for me to get my head around is the realization that Trevor Walker was not my father's friend. The man in the picture with dad was not the Trevor Walker I just saw on television. They're nothing alike. I suppose I should not be too surprised. Turns out the man in the photograph is some guy named Pete Dugger,

and he'd been busted with my dad after the convenience store robbery. I now realize that when my father had written, getting to know wonderful people like Trevor Walker, he was being sarcastic. I mean, if they had been so wonderful together, why would Trevor have killed him in the cafeteria that day? I suppose I should be grateful. I'm surrounded by more than half the cops in town

and most of the other half are out looking for him. I am as safe as I can be. But Trevor is out there looking too, looking for me. And I am certain he was truthful about that much. and that's not even the worst thing. That's not why I'm so scared. I know my mother and I will remain in protective custody for a good, long time.

No, the thing that bothers me is the possibility that everything Trevor Walker said about his original crimes was actually the truth. I mean, impossible as that is. It sure would explain the jailbreak, and no one else seems to be able to do that. If people are so willing to believe in God without evidence, based only on faith, then how hard is it to imagine that the devil or his agents walk among us as well? If they do, you won't be able to save me. No one will. he'll probably kill my mother as well

and it will be my fault because I didn't help Trevor keep the devil at bay concludes our nocturnal presentation now it's time to drift off into your own nightmares if you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program

please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week.

We'll have more stories for you and whatever that is standing right behind you. This audio production is copyrighted, 2016 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.