The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E17

Episode Date: July 31, 2016

It's episode 17 of Season 7. On this week's show we have five tales about creepy kids, creatures, and carnivores. "Rain Berserker"** written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:03:30) "I Don’t Know What It Is, but It Keeps Screaming"** written by Yuki Iwama and performed by Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts around 00:25:30) "There's Something Wrong with My Daughter"* written by Jade Merchant and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 00:41:30) "Crinklebottom"** written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson & Addison Peacock & Corinne Sanders & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:09:50) "Why I Refuse to Work Night Shift"** written by S.P. Daily and performed by Dan Zappulla & Jeff Clement & Aiko van Wingerden & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:30:40) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here for our Listener Survey  Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth  Click here to learn more about Yuki Iwama  Click here to learn more about Jade Merchant  Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski** "There's Something Wrong with My Daughter" illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy 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 17, Ray the Merzherker, I don't know what it is, but it keeps screaming. There's something wrong with my dog. Water, Crinkle Water, why I refuse to work night shift.

It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have five tales about creepy kids, creatures, and carnivores. You fine, friendly folks deserve a big round of applause, and thanks for filling out the listener survey I mentioned last week. I wasn't sure what kind of response we'd get, but. the sheer number of you who completed it is very encouraging. So thanks for your input and suggestions.

And it's not too late. We're going to keep the survey open until this Wednesday, August 3rd, so there's still time to complete the survey and be entered to win the $100 Amazon gift card. Just go to survey.com. The nosleeppodcast.com. We'll strive to use the results of the survey to bring you the kinds of products and merch you're interested in. And just wanted to make a quick mention concerning our ads. Some listeners have wondered if our various sponsors are available in their geographic region, especially folks not based in America. With our system of dynamic ads, you can be assured that if you hear a certain ad on the show,

it's been matched to where you're listening from, and therefore the product is available in your area. It's that simple. If you hear it, you can take advantage of the good, great offer. And you know, I always love being able to recommend things like other podcasts, do you? Plugs like those aren't paid ads or anything. I just love sharing shows that I think you might enjoy. And as such, I want to add my voice to the growing crowd of people who are loving the fantastic show on Netflix called Stranger Things. If you like horror, and I'm guessing you do, you've probably

heard about or bingeed on this show. But if you haven't, you really should check it out. Maybe it's because I was in high school at the exact same time the show is set in 1983. Yes, yes, I'm old, but everything about the show resonates with me. Lots of references to classic horror movies and filmmakers, great writing and acting. So check it out, won't you? Stranger Things on Netflix. Let's support quality shows with horror themes. But before you do, we've got some stranger things for you now, so let's kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we venture to the picturesque Orkney Islands off the Scottish coast, where we meet a woman with a strange family curse. As author C. M. Scandrith explains, the woman flees from her family after a traumatic event in her

youth, but soon discovers that the curse isn't something she can hide from for long. Performing this tale is Erica Sanderson. So watch for the dark storm clouds, and beware if you're near, a rain berserker. The rain has begun to fall outside, the gentle patter loud on the slate-tiled roof of the kitchen. I've often been told by other people that the sound of falling rain relaxes them, that there is little in this world that is more satisfying than lying in bed, blankets wound tight around your body, while heavy droplets pound the roof above and trickle down misted window panes. Personally, I've never understood that phenomena. Instead, here I sit with my hands in a bowl of hot water, the scars on my fingers pulsing in pain, the drop in barometric pressure.

My dentures sit beside me in a glass, as my gums ache fiercely with the onset of bad weather. When storms roll in, and barrages of icy sleep blast the house, the pain is at its worst. Migraines radiate up from my jaw and jab cold needles of agony into my brain. Every roll of thunder and every bright flash of lightning sears my tender, battered senses, and even the strongest opiates aren't enough to block out the pain. So I guess you'll understand why I don't share other people's fascination with the rain, which is a disposition that I share with a handful of my other relatives. And it took me a very, very long time to discover the truth about this particular affliction

and why it plagues my family in particular. Growing up as an Orkidian, a resident of the Orkney Islands, was unusual enough. Whenever I see other people talking about the rich history of their country and speaking grandly about the ancient law of their nations, I have to bite my tongue and suppress a smile. For the Orkneys hold some of the most ancient secrets of the world, places that predate stonehenge, and things that are even older than the great pyramids of Giza.

Neolithic ruins and monuments scarred the landscape of rolling green fields. the stone stacks of the primitive houses of Scarabray and the primeval mystery of the Ring of Broja, just two such sites where my distant ancestors lived, and where they performed strange rituals that are now lost from living memory. I suppose it should not have surprised me that something equally strange and ancient still thrummed sluggishly through the blood of original inhabitants of the Orkneys,

something that had scarred my family for countless generations. My grandmother was the only person I'd seen in the flesh who suffered from the family curse. As a child, I'd squealed with horrified delight when she'd popped out her dents at me, then sucks them back in. Despite being missing the last joint of every finger, she didn't seem overly compromised by her birth defects. She could still grasp objects with her narl, shortened digits. She could use a knife and fork with ease,

and she could tie her bootlaces with the minimum of trouble. But when the rain came, as it did so often in the Orkneys, she would retire to her room at the top of our three-story sandstone house, and she wouldn't speak to anyone until it had passed. I recall studying the tips of her deformed hands, wondering to myself what kind of birth defect left scars on the tips of your fingers. But when she caught me staring, she busied herself with the dishes in a sink of hot water,

staring out over one of the twin harbours of Kirkwall and muttering to herself about the weather. My parents never talked much about my aunt Morven. I knew that she also suffered from the familial affliction. She too had been born without her distal flanges and that she'd never grown teeth. It seemed to hit one woman in every generation. My grandmother's aunt had carried the defective gene

and in the one greeny black and white picture of her that still existed, she held her hands tightly bunched, thumbs tucked inside her fists, while her mouth was firmly pressed into a dowed twist, hiding her lack of teeth. Aunt Morven had left the Orkneys long before I was born, apparently living somewhere in the Northern UK under a different surname. What the contention between her and my mother was,

I didn't know, but it was borderline forbidding. to speak of her. And if some houseguess sitting in our red sandstone kitchen ever mentioned her, my mother would eject them smartly from our residence, no matter what, the weather outside. Then she would sit weeping and rocking in front of our old iron fireplace, whispering her sister's name. Children are largely immune to such adult dramas, though, and quickly shrug them off. My brother and I would go back to playing or fighting, the shrill rhythm of our predictable squabbles, eventually soothing her mother back to normalcy,

and she would eventually get up from her fireside chair and put the kettle on, the pain of her loss or guilt, whichever it was, feeding. Ironically, it was just such one innocent fight with my brother that brought to life the dark family secret. I don't even recall which game it was, but back before the internet and affordable gaming consoles, board games were the mainstay of board's children when the weather turned ordinary

Monopoly had been banned long ago and sat dusty on a high shelf in the hot water cupboard so it was probably Ludo or snakes and ladders that we've been playing before the fight broke out one of those games children don't realise involves no skill whatsoever and which is completely governed by the role of the dice and the vagaries of fate What I do remember is the driving rain outside, the growing ache in my jaw and a curious tingling in my fingertips. Combined with the misery of my third menstrual cycle,

I wasn't in the mood for my little brother whining about fairness. Will you shut it? I remember yelling at him as his whinging turned tearful. Going till ma'n ye! He got up and turned for the car. kitchen. As the storm broke against the house and the increased frequency of the rain on the tiles wore at my already freed patience, the burgeoning headache I had been nursing turned to hot rage and I lashed out with an arm to stop him. And he stopped alright. With a scream that

pierced my already sensitive brain, he fell to the floor with a spray of bread. Everything happened with a surreal slowness from there, each detail etching itself indelibly in my memory. My mother rushed in, then roared for my father and grandmother to come. Her eyes were enormous and round, fixed on me. Pale and wordless, my father grabbed me by the wrists,

then marched me to the kitchen when my grandmother adroitly tied my ankles and forearms to the polished oak dining table. The rage washed through me And I shouted at them to stop None of this made any sense My mother, clutching a curving knife And weeping uncontrollably

Began to saw off the last joint of each of my fingers While my father and grandmother held me down And the flood of rage Mixed with searing pain and abject terror Turning into something bigger More horrifying, more potent something utterly beyond my understanding. Thankfully, the memory's in there.

My consciousness faded well before they took the iron pliers to my slack mouth and pulled out every one of my perfect teeth. So, that's the tale of how I came to understand the nature of the family deformity. I could see exactly why my mutilated aunt had chosen not to remain in Kirkwall and why she decided to leave the Orkneys for good, As soon as I was conscious and able to pull myself out of bed I painfully pulled on my boots with my shortened, bleeding digits,

wrapped myself in my great coat and hat, then clambered out the window of our seaside house. The rain sent blinding jabs of migraine agony through my freezing skull, but I could see just well enough to make it to the docks and clamber onto one of the ships from the mainland, with juddering gums and blood running. down my chin and managed to brokenly mumble enough of my story to the sailors for them to bandage my hands and take me aboard their ship. As the vessel pulled out of the harbour, I cried with

relief. I was sailing away from the insane family that had mutilated me to a place where I would be safe from them forever. But I was also sailing away from the aisle that had called home for the entirety of my short life. I was never told directly what happened to my parents, but I gathered that they were prosecuted and that my father was imprisoned, likely taking the blame for what had happened to me. I was placed with a foster family, but I didn't have to stay with them for long. Six weeks into my stay, a battered old Morris Minor pulled up outside, driven by a woman with a strangely familiar face, wearing tailored black gloves that hid the same mutilation that I'd suffered. My aunt Morven. To say we bonded immediately as an understatement. She held me as I wept

and wept, letting out all my terror, my heartache and my confusion. This was the one woman in the whole world who knew what I had been through, who understood implicitly the damage that had been done to my young body and soul. Her flat was tiny, but comfortable. Everything had extra hooks and holes so that her foreshortened fingers could more easily grasp things. She taught me how to deal with the aches

when the rain made my scars throb, and she took me to the dentist for my first set of dentures. Without her guidance, I think I would have been lost. She became my second mother, my best friend. and the one person with whom I could commiserate over my main room.

She passed away just after my 21st birthday, plagued by ill health. I don't know if word ever got back to Kirkwall about her death, but my parents did not come to her small funeral service. As I sat in the church, puffy-eyed and hollow-hearted in the late bottom sunlight shining through the chapel window, I recalled her final letter to me.

In it, she urged me to find someone to spend my life with, to raise children, and to break the cycle of pain that the women of our family had endured for countless generations. I vowed then and there that I would fulfil her final wishes, no matter what. I'd be lying if I said that motherhood didn't fill a gaping void in my heart. When my daughter was born, her father carefully chosen from an extensive catalogue of donors, Some convoluted, critical and self-doubting part of me withered away, and I began to feel worthwhile again. Every time I saw my Sorcia's cherubic face, my existence brightened.

It didn't matter if she had vomited milky frothal down my neck, or if she woke me screaming at three o'clock in the morning. I felt blessed to have this tiny person in my life, this seed of a new generation that would be full. freed from the madness of her ancestors. I resolved to give her the life I never had, to raise her without the falsehood of the family curse, and to tell her the absolute truth

that her mother, a great aunt and a great grandmother had all been brutally and viciously violated against their will. But my family, it seemed, had other plans for me. The first letter from my mother I threw into the fireplace. When envelopes from the Orkneys began to arrive every week, they finally relented, thinking that perhaps they wished to beg for forgiveness, that they truly regretted what they had done. Instead, the letter spoke of my parents finding out that I'd had a daughter

and urged me to let them back into my life in case my daughter bore the family a curse. Disgusted, I threw their handwritten pleas into the rubbish. that would never be a part of my precious child's life. When an email arrived from my brother, I almost deleted it without reading it, but we hadn't spoken for so long that curiosity got the better of me,

and I opened it, despite my better judgment. There wasn't much, just an attached video clip and a brief message asking me to watch it and judge for myself. It was a grainy piece of life, film work, probably taken with an 8mm camera. In it, my much younger grandmother and my presumed

grandfather wrestled with a small child who could only have been my aunt. Rain lashed against the windows and the child screamed soundlessly in the silent clip thrashing against her captors. Another child, my mother, stood off to one side, watching with a thumb in her mouth and a knitted rabbit clutched to her cheek. As the older child was wrestled onto the kitchen table and her rests were tied to the sturdy legs tears began to slide down my cheeks and I slammed the lid of the laptop shut with enough violence to crack the plastic casing.

When I had finally calmed down enough to think semi-rationally again I opened up the email from my brother and typed one line. Why did you send this to me? Five minutes later, a reply appeared. which just read, Did you watch until they end? Tired, angry, and overcome with a toxic mixture of emotions. I woke my precious daughter and held her while I cried myself raw,

telling her over and over to never have anything to do with my family. The next email from my brother contained no video, just a series of black and white still frames, obviously from the same clip. Something in the images was terribly, terribly wrong. There was something on my aunt's hands and face. In the next frame, my grandfather lay against the kitchen counter, a black line across his throat and a black pool staining his white shirt.

The video was still on my deleted items, waiting malevolently for me. My deformed fingers trembling. I opened it and skipped forward to where I'd stopped watching. It happened so quickly that I had to watch it several times. One moment, my aunt was a thrashing child, struggling with the two adults, and something sprouted from her fingers and mouth before she slashed her hand across my grandfather's throat,

opening it up to the bone. In the instant after he fell against the counter, my grandmother entered the frame and bashed the transformed child across the temple with a fire iron. The rest of the video showed the grizzly dissection of my unconscious aunt's fingers, then the brutal dentistry with a pair of blackened iron pliers. I had to be fake, doctored somehow. Determined now to confront my family,

I left saucer in the care of my best friend, then I boarded a ship to the Orkneys. The house was exactly as I remembered it. Stone and water, heavy yellowed glass windows, and storm shutters with a foul winter weather. I didn't even need to knock. Word travels quickly in such small island communities, and my grey mother and even grey a grandmother

were already waiting for me. Come inside, sit. Tight-lipped, my jaw faintly aching from the impending onset of rain. I entered my tumour. childhood home and sat at the very table upon which they had mutilated me almost 20 years ago. My grandmother's ancient scarred fingertips were splayed on the table in front of her. We were protectors once. What did I see in that video? The truth, love. Nothing but the truth.

Her voice querulous and afraid with age. She continued as I sat disbelieving. In the old days, before. iron and steel, there were many terrors from which humanity had no protection. Things darkly fell and fey. They would arrive with the mists and rain, then wreak havoc on our people. But there were those amongst us who were born with a gift, born with the ability to harm that which threatened us. And the knights who in the rain lashed the hills and harbours,

they would grow fangs and claws of iron and drive the fay away. I remembered what I had seen in the video. The grainy grey gleam of my aunt's claws right before they had torn through the flesh of my grandfather's throat. With the coming of iron, our gift was no longer needed. The fay retreated to their hills, never to bother humanity again.

A chilly thrill of understanding passed through me. but it never left our family, did it? My mother shook her greyhead. No, into every generation is born a child with the gift, even though it is no longer needed. And without anything to hunt, the gift turns in on itself and drives us mad with rage. I stayed the night in my childhood bedroom,

then return to the mainland on the next ship. Whether or not I believed the tales told by my grandmother, I had yet to decide. But when Sorsher, fast descending into puberty, complained to me that the rain gave her terrible headaches and made her jaw and fingers ache, I felt fear like I had never felt it before, even when I was tied to that old oak table back in the Orkneys. And so I have a choice to make. The hacksaw and scalpel sit beside the kitchen table, along with sterile wipes, iodine, and a pair of heavy steel pliers.

The storm is growing overhead. I just hope that my aching, maimed hands have the strength to pull out her teeth. Healing with the sudden loss of a loved one is painful enough. But in this tale from author Yuki Iwama, we meet a woman who realizes the thing which calls, her lover's death might still pose a danger to her. Performing this tale is Alexis Briscoe. So let's listen as the woman explains, I don't know what it is, but it keeps screaming. I found my girlfriend in the bathtub. She was dead. There was a severely deep cut in one arm,

and a serrated bread knife loosely held in her other hand. It looked as the she had tried to saw through her own limb. It wasn't until I had called for an ambulance and was attempting to revive her when I saw it. In the deep wound, I saw something odd. At first, I thought it was bone. But when I looked closer, I realized it was something soft. Before I could investigate further, the paramedics crashed through the door and pushed me aside to work on my girlfriend. Despite our collective best efforts, though, it was obvious she was gone.

I was living with my girlfriend and studying literature at university when she passed away. To my dismay, the authorities ruled her death as suicide and didn't even bother to do an autopsy. Before we could bury her, however, her body disappeared from the morgue. The authorities told us that someone probably stole her body, or that, There was a mix up with the documents. They sentenced some people to investigate, and the hospital offered their sincerest apologies and probably some under-the-table bribes

to shut my girlfriend's parents up. In any case, I didn't really make a big fuss. The love of my life was dead. Nothing would bring her back. So we buried an empty casket. My parents offered to let me stay with them until I got back on my feet, but I refused. Just wanted to be alone.

Her name was Suyan, and I was going to propose to her. I had it all planned. I had booked the best table at our favorite Italian restaurant, and I was going to ask her to marry me before bringing out her favorite dessert. I was so certain she would say yes that I had already bought two plane tickets to New Zealand where gay marriage was legal. We would have gone the very next morning to get hitched. But those plans went down the shitter when Suyan died.

After the funeral, I came back to an empty apartment. For a while, I avoided the bathroom. I watched TV, nibbled at mom's casserole, stared at the window, and smoked. But eventually, nature called and I had to face my demons. The blood had been cleaned up. I didn't know who. Perhaps mom. Everything was as it should be, except for one thing.

In the bathtub, there was a tiny egg. At first I thought it was lint, but when I reached in to pick it up, I saw that it was a tiny, hard, white ball. I assumed it was an egg. I didn't know how I knew that. I just did. Almost as soon as the egg came in contact with my flesh, it started vibrating under my fingertips. I started, surprised, and peered at it closer.

Something was coming out of the egg. A white maggot-like worm. With a cry, I dropped the egg, but the worm had already latched itself onto my fingertip. It was biting into me with microscopic teeth. It wasn't painful. It just felt like a mosquito bite. But from my eyes, the worm bit harder,

opening up a small wound and blood starting rolling down my hand. Before I could swipe it off, it burrowed into my flesh and disappeared. I could feel it squirming under my skin for a few seconds as it traveled down my finger. But when it reached my knuckle, I couldn't feel it any longer. It was gone, deep inside me. I lost my shit. The worm was the catalyst of my breakdown. I started digging my nails into my hand and arm,

trying to scratch the tiny invader out. I scratched and scratched until I was covered in blood. I think I passed out because I woke up the next day in the ER. Apparently, my parents had come over to check up on me and found me in the bathroom with deep cuts all up my arm. And the psychiatrist came to see me before my discharge. She asked me if I was suicidal. I told her no.

For some reason, I couldn't tell her about the worm. I tried to a few times during our conversation, but the words wouldn't come out. Eventually, she seemed satisfied that I wouldn't try to kill myself. And she discharged me into my parents' care. A few months went by uneventfully. I stayed with my parents for about a month, after being done. discharged from the hospital. When I stabilized, I was allowed to come back home to that apartment. I spent my days in a drunken, stoned haze. I slept for 15 hours every night and spent the other

nine hours getting high, drinking, and eating my weight and food. I attributed my incredible increase in appetite to the pot or depression, or both. I couldn't have been more wrong. The first signs were barely noticeable. It was the occasional numb spots in my skin. Then it was an increase in sleep paralysis. And then it was the various pains and aches in my torso. It felt like something was pressing into my organs. It wasn't until I came to standing in the middle of the highway,

half-dressed, that I realized something was very fucking wrong. The internet told me I was suffering from something called fugue states. I would be doing something normal like brushing my teeth or eating some chips, and I would suddenly find myself in random places, like the park or the corner store or even on the train, heading to places I've never heard before. It was fucking up my already fucked up life, and I was getting scared, really scared.

I started going to a psychologist who suspected disassociative identity disorder. I told him to fuck off and went to see another. This time it was a psychiatrist, and he gave me a referral to run some tests, just to make sure it wasn't anything medical. After the appointment, I was feeling pretty bummed out, so I bought some beer on the way home and spent the rest of the day hold up like always, sitting on my couch, drinking, watching some stupid cartoon. I was about to take another swig of beer when I heard a noise.

No, that's not right. It wasn't just a noise. It was a hollow scream. But what terrified me wasn't the scream itself. It was the fact that that scream seemed to be coming from inside me. I froze when I heard it, beer halfway to my lips. My heart started pumping hard, but then I realized it wasn't just my heart. There was something else.

Something like an echo of my heartbeat. I sat upright and put my beer down. There it was again. This time it was more noticeable. It sounded muffled and unearthly, like someone trying to suffocate a baby. and I felt something in my chest, almost like a vibration and a stretch in my skin. I jumped up, panting an utter terror and shock.

A grotesque thought struck me. Something, someone, was inside of me. I bolted for the bathroom and grasped the sides of the basin, shaking as I stared into the mirror. I searched my face. What was I? looking for. It happened. One second, I was in the bathroom. The next, I was standing outside my apartment. The front door, ajar behind me. I felt sick to my stomach. I hurriedly went back inside and shut the

door. I decided to just get really fucking high and pass out, hoping that when I woke up, I would realize that it was all just a psycho delusion. It was late afternoon the next day when I finally woke up. But I realized with a wave of dread that it wasn't a delusion. The reason I woke up was because I was walking to my fridge, but I wasn't moving my legs. I couldn't move at all. Something else was controlling me. I was simply the puppet. Screaming internally, I felt my hand reach out to the fridge and open it. I watched on in terror as my hand grabbed a loaf of bread and started shoving each slice down my throat. I wasn't gagging or suffocating, though. Each slice went down easily, even after consuming the whole loaf, whatever it was that was

controlling me wasn't satisfied. It wanted more. It made me shoveled down raw eggs, shell and all, whole bottles of vinegar and mustard and tomato sauce, a whole jar of mayonnaise, a pound owned of raw beef, a tub of butter, five apples, two tomatoes, and a bag of raw potatoes. I thought I was going to die. By the end of the feeding frenzy, I was losing consciousness from the overwhelming fear. But before I could, it let me go. I collapsed to the ground, vomit already surging up my throat. I gagged and spat up bile, but none of the immense amount of food I had just consumed.

came up. It was like my stomach was empty. I started sobbing, desperately keening. I was losing control of my life, my body, my mind. I was spiraling, and whether or not it was real, I had to do something. And I knew what I had to do. I staggered to the drawer and grabbed a serrated bread knife. The knife hovered over my wrist as I hesitated. But then a muffled scream broke out from inside me and I pushed the knife down into my skin. To this day, I have never felt pain so intensely. The first few strokes were the hardest and the most painful.

And then when adrenaline and shock kicked in, it was like sawing through a piece of wood. I was too numb to feel anymore. I kept sawing and sawing. Blood spraying everywhere. My fingers and the knife digging into tissue, fat and flesh, and then when I thought I was going to pass out, I saw it. I saw what I saw in Suyan's gaping moon that horrible day. Something white that wasn't bone. Something soft.

White flesh. Not my own. A hollow scream escaped through my clenched teeth. as I cut into the white flesh. Vibrant orange blood started oozing from the foreign flesh, and another muffled scream came thundering out from my chest. I thumped my chest hard, and the scream turned into frenzied noise. Like in between barking and crying,

I was suddenly outside, walking towards the highway in my bare feet, blood orange and red, steadily pumping from the grotesque wound in my arm. I had lost control. once again. Please, please let me go. Please let me go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I said silently. My feet faltered and they came to a stop. I was on the edge of the path, toes hovering over the gutter and traffic roared past. After what seemed like hours, it let me go. I fell to the ground, tears staining my cheeks as I heaved in relief. I thought that it was trying to kill me in retaliation.

Looking back now, though, it wasn't trying to kill me. It was giving me a warning. A passerby found me on the sidewalk like that, covered in blood and tears. And he called for an ambulance. I was lucky not to lose my hand. That was weeks ago. I am on the mend, as is the thing inside of me. We have this strange mutual.

agreement. I would stop trying to kill it, and it will let me take control of my own body most of the time. When it eats, though, it takes control whether I wanted to or not. So, although I had wanted to be alone, I found myself stuck with another, literally. I will never be alone, not until the day I die. But that won't be for a while. Because lately, My stomach has been growing bigger. Or should I say, its stomach has been growing bigger. As parents watch their children grow, there are always little signs they look for as they develop.

But as we learn from author Jade Merchant, one woman notices changes in her young daughter, which make her start to suspect there is something terribly insidious going on with her child. Performing this tale, Nicole Doolin and Jessica McAvoy. So parents, trust your instincts

if you find yourself saying there's something wrong with my daughter. I've noticed recently some strange behavior from my three-year-old. Up until now she was a normal child, very verbal and happy. But recently something

changed. It started with nightmares. They were a bit stranger than the ones I remember from my childhood, but then again, I don't remember being that young, so I can't say for certain that I never had a dream like those she was having. She'd come into my room in the middle of the night crying, begging me to protect her. Of course, the first few times it happened, I was panicked, thinking something was seriously wrong. But when she explained, I knew there was no way it could be real.

She said there was another little girl in her room, and she said that the other girl wanted to wear her skin. I'll admit it was creepy, even though I knew it was just a dream. But I pretended I wasn't bothered by my toddler's overactive imagination, and I let her sleep in my room the first few times the nightmares happened. But eventually I had to wean her off that, of course. So one night, instead of grumbling and patting the sheets when she ran into my bedroom in tears, I climbed onto my feet and took her back to her own room. I checked all the corners, under her bed, and in her closet, assuring her there was no one in the room besides the two of us, and I tucked her back into bed. She has a lamp beside her bed, one of those table lamps, and at her request, I let her

keep it on. I kissed her forehead before I went back to bed. The next day her behavior began to change. She spoke very little that morning. I thought perhaps she was angry at me for making her sleep alone after her most recent nightmare. I asked as much, but she just shook her head. Around noon that day, her daycare called. She refused to take her nap, apparently, and when one of the women running the place tried to put her on the mat, she bit the poor woman. My child had never bitten anyone before that day. I took off work early, telling my boss I had a family emergency and picked my daughter up from the daycare, taking her straight home. She was silent the entire ride, but I was lecturing her, so I didn't think it that unusual. When we got

home, I sent her straight to her room for a time out. She wasn't to come out until supper. I sat down on the couch just to rest for a moment, but I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes, it was nighttime, and my daughter was standing in front of me. Just watching. Just watching, silent. I jolted up, startled, and she stepped back. A glance at the clock told me it was nearly eight, her bath time, and I cussed to myself for sleeping so long. It's important for young children to have a steady schedule, I think, and I'd gone and fucked that up. I made her a quick dinner, some of those frozen chicken nuggets that kids like so much, but she didn't seem as excited as she usually got over them. She ate in complete silence. After a dinner and a bath, I tucked

her into bed. She didn't ask for the lamplight that night, so I turned it off before kissing her forehead. It was cold, almost clammy, and I had to repress the urge to wipe my lips off on my hand. Kissing my child good night felt like what I imagined kissing a corpse would be like. I made a mental note to set up a doctor's appointment as soon as possible. Told her I loved her and left her room. She didn't say it back. That night she came into my room again. Instead of the usual frightened tone she often had when she gave me these late-night visits,

she was oddly calm. Mommy, can I sleep with you tonight? I asked sleepily if she had another nightmare. She said nothing. She just watched me. I was tired, and after such an awful day, I had a shorter temper than I ought to have. I grabbed her by her wrist and walked her back to her room, where I picked her up and put her into bed. Stay here. Go to sleep. Do not get back up.

She blinked up at me, unresponsive, and I went back to bed. She didn't bother me again that night. Her behavior wasn't bad apart from the incident with the daycare woman, but I was notified that she no longer played with other children. children. She sat alone when I dropped her off and didn't say a word. The daycare workers told me that they didn't think she was actually sleeping during nap time, though she no longer put up a fight when they lay her down. One day I walked into the living room to find her sitting on the floor, staring at the TV. It was turned off. One night I waited for her to fall asleep. Then with a blanket and a pillow,

I went into her room. She was seen. She was seen. sitting up in bed wide awake, staring at her closet. She didn't even flinch when I opened the door. I'm not even sure she noticed me until I spoke. Sweetie? Her head snapped towards me so fast that I nearly stepped back. Did you have a bad dream? She was silent, simply blinking at me.

I took in her appearance then, worse than it had been when I put her to bed somehow. She has dark circles. under her eyes now, and the skin there seems loose. She looked tired when I put her to bed that night, but now she almost looks ill. She seems thinner, too, like she's somehow very quickly starving, even though I made certain to feed her a bigger supper than usual to try and make up for her lack of appetite. I sat down on the floor beside her bed, reaching a hand up to check her temperature. She watched my hand approach but didn't make any move to resist, so I pressed the back of my hand to her forehead.

She was colder than before, the skin having an almost papery, unreal feel to it, like a costume. Do you want mummy to sleep in here tonight? She didn't speak, but she gave a slow nod, and I let out a breath, situating my pillow on the ground. I'm sorry for being snippy with you lately. You know I love you very much, right?

More than anything else. For the first time since the night I stopped letting her sleep with me, my daughter smiled, but it wasn't right. My daughter has a dimple in her right cheek, just like I did at her age. It's very cute, and it makes her smile absolutely adorable. Her grin is a little crooked, too, like her father's was. And her teeth are nice and straight, all well kept.

I make sure she brushes them every morning and evening. All of that was different. It was subtle, the differences, not something someone who hadn't spent every single day with her since she was born would notice. The dimple, for instance, was not gone completely, but had relocated to the left side of her face. I checked her baby album this morning

while she nibbled at her breakfast to make sure I hadn't lost it. my mind. All the baby photos show her with a dimple on her right cheek. Her grin also was no longer right. It was still slightly crooked, but it seemed almost cruel now. Nothing like my daughter's sweet smile. It was twisted, but not blatantly so. The most obvious change was her teeth. They were dirtier and almost sharper, but not so sharp as to be startling. and they were slightly crooked in some places. Nothing too foul, just not the neatly aligned teeth my daughter had. I feel awful now, having been so negligent as to not notice all the differences in her appearance.

Once I saw the teeth, I began picking up on many other differences. For example, this morning I noticed that her hair was straighter than before and drier. She had split ends, and when I brushed it, a good deal came free, though not enough to make her look any different. Her fingernails are sharper too, and her fingers themselves seem a bit longer. I think she's even grown a few inches within the past day. Last night in the dark of her bedroom,

she smiled at me and spoke in a soft, slightly hoarse voice. I love you too, mommy. Even though I knew at this point that this girl was different from the one I gave birth to, I leaned up to press a kiss to her disgustingly cold forehead, and I tucked her in. I couldn't do anything right then, and I couldn't leave after saying I'd stay. I couldn't make her suspicious. So I laid down and I tried to sleep. Now and then I'd glance up to see her eyes closed.

A few times I thought I felt her watching me, or glanced up to see her quickly shut her eyes, which were focused on her closet door. Eventually, though, I ended up falling asleep. I woke up to her sitting on my stomach, little nails biting into my shoulders. Mommy, I'm so sleepy, mommy. She won't let me sleep. For a moment, I doubted myself.

This was the sort of thing I'd think my daughter might say in regards to the girl haunting her dreams. But the child on top of me said it wrong. There was no fear in her voice. The only emotion I could hear was some form of almost delight, as if she was enjoying herself, and perhaps anger at whatever was keeping her from sleep. Take me back to your room, Mommy, where she can't see. I'm unsure why, but the notion of letting this child into my room terrified me.

I felt like if we left my daughter's... room than whatever this creature was would be able to act on the barely concealed emotions in her eyes. When I looked into her eyes, now more gray than the sweet blue of my child's, I saw hatred, hatred and hunger. Sweetie, we have to sleep in here tonight. If you still feel like this tomorrow, we'll see about letting you sleep in mummy's room, okay? Can you try for mummy? I'm proud of myself for lying so cleanly

For keeping my voice steady Instead of letting it tremor with the bone-deep fear I felt She pouted but after a bit the girl who was pretending to be my daughter nodded and climbed back into bed I didn't get any more sleep that night When my daughter's breathing finally slowed I thought I heard scuffling coming from the closet I opened the door nothing was there The next day I fed the girl pretending to be my daughter breakfast and let her watch cartoons. Then I took her for ice cream after lunch.

She didn't seem to care. She licked at the ice cream for a while, but soon she began to just let it melt, and I had to make her throw it away. She didn't smile at me again, but honestly I'm thankful for that. I tried to take her by a local Christian church, not telling her where we were going, but she threw up on the way to the car and I had to bring her home.

She's been laying on the couch since then, with me keeping a close eye on her. I think whatever she is, she likes the TV, off or on. She doesn't show any outward's joy, but she watches attentively. My real daughter would watch,

but she was always so active. She'd always be doing something while she watched her favorite show. This one just sat as close as I'd allow and stared. I know, no. I know this isn't my daughter. I didn't want to believe it, but I do. When she ate the ice cream, she made a mess of herself,

and I had to give her an early bath. Some of her skin came off in the tub. It was a thin strip like a bad peel after a sunburn, and it just came free from her back as I washed it for her. I stared in horror before quickly snatching it from the water. She couldn't know I'd seen. Under that thin layer of papery, oddly stretched-looking skin, her skin was gray and vaguely slimy looking like a corpse left a soak.

It was not human skin. You may have noticed I called the skin oddly stretched. Well, it was a thin strip, two fingers wide maybe, but it was as long as my hand. To give you an idea of how it stretched, it looks like something took a small amount of skin and somehow elongated it enough to cover more than it should. I went into the living room to make sure

that thing was still focused on the TV. It was. It didn't even look my way. I watched it for a moment, and it reached up to scratch the side of its neck. A small chunk of paper-thin skin fell to the floor. I walked past it casually, picking up my purse off the coffee table. Mommy's going to get a bath, sweetie. Stay here until I'm done.

The little monster didn't say a word, didn't even seem to hear me. Its eyes, which seemed to grow less blue by the hour, were glued to the screen. A little bit of drool was visible in the corner of its mouth. I went into the bathroom running the tub full of water and turned the radio on. I opened the small window above the toilet just wide enough for me to fit through, and then I peeked down the hall into the living room. That thing hadn't moved an inch. I crept down the hall to my daughter's room and slipped in, locking the door. The closet was shut.

I glanced at the bed. There was more of that thin, papery skin there and a slight smell like mildew. I ignored that, opening the closet and pulling the string to turn. turn on the simple overhead bulb. Just like yesterday, there was nothing odd in there, but I could hear scuffling from inside the wall. I pressed my hand against the back of my daughter's closet and felt the wallpaper there give. It was a pretty simple thing tearing through that thin spot. It was tall enough to let a child through, so I had to stoop down to get in.

I dug my phone from my purse and used it to light my way. It was pretty claustrophobic at first, scooting along the wall. Then I found a sort of tunnel. It stooped downwards to where I suppose a basement would be if we had one. There was a sort of room there. No walls or floors, but a hallowed out place in the earth with several connecting tunnels. I could stand up straight here, but there was only a foot of walking space in front and to either side of me. Then I'd have to pick a tunnel. It took me a moment to notice all of this due to the smell that nearly knocked me on my ass when I entered the room. You know the smell of rotting meat? That's what it was. Rodding meat, but stronger, like there was a lot

and it had been rotting for a while. It permeated the air radiating from the tunnels. It was strongest from the tunnel directly ahead of me. I'll admit it now, standing in that small, room, gagging at the stench of death and rod, I was terrified. If not for my daughter, I would have turned back right then. There were tears in my eyes, one hand covering my mouth and nose to keep some of the wreak at bay. I didn't want to go into any of those tunnels. God only knows how deep they went. Perhaps they lead to other houses. Maybe that thing moved around from home to home. I have to wonder how old it was, really, under the skin. I thank everything that I didn't have to explore those tunnels.

I only had until the final episode of those cartoons to get back, if even that. Right when I was about to just march into the tunnel ahead, a whimper came from my left and some scuffling. I spun pointing my phone light at the source of the noise. It was my little girl, her wrists bound behind her. There were bites on her arms and legs, places missing chunks of skin. It looked like a couple were still. starting to fester, but the infection hadn't set in yet.

She was alive, tired, hungry, and frightened, but alive. I nearly dropped my only source of light. A weak sob breaking free as I rushed to her. I untied her careful of her injuries, and she threw her arms around me. When she pulled back, I peppered her little cheeks with kisses. She was crying. I think I was, too. She had a dimple in her right cheek.

Her teeth were straight, though they hadn't been brushed since last time I saw her. Her hair was dirty and it had been cut. She'd lost weight. She was covered in various forms of filth and I'm sure she smelled awful, but it didn't matter. She was alive. I lifted her. She was too weak to walk and carried her back up through the tunnel into her closet. I went faster this.

time. I didn't like turning my back on that room. It made me nervous. Back in her room, I whispered to her that she needed to be very quiet, that we had to be careful or the other girl would know. She nodded sniffling, past tears running down her face, and a little snot. I peeked down the hall again, but nothing had changed. That monster was still watching the TV. It was easy to duck into the bathroom and set my daughter down. I locked the bathroom door, bandaged her wounds as best I could, and gave her my purse. Mommy needs you to go out the window, okay? Use the keys in my purse.

Get in the car and lock the doors until I come. You have to make sure it's me, okay? The password is... I thought for a minute looking around. Curtains. Yeah, okay. I have to say curtains. She nodded

I love you sweetie I love you too mommy I almost cried I hadn't heard her voice in so long her real voice I gave her a boost and she climbed through the window dropping out the other side

and running straight for the car I stepped out of the bathroom locking and shutting the door behind me I walked past that little monster and into my kitchen it didn't speak A chunk of dead hair had fallen to the carpet. The first thing I did was set two pots out.

One under the curtains. One on the stove. I dug around for a bit before unearthing a jug of lighter fluid my dad had given me a while back when he bought me a nice fire pit for backyard camping and such. I'd only used the pit a few times so the lighter fluid was almost completely full. I emptied it into the pot by the curtains. Then I pulled the cloth off of the kitchen table. It was a fairly long one my daughter liked to play under it sometimes,

or take it and use it for a pillow for it. I put one end in the lighter fluid and set the other end under the pot on the stove. This didn't take too long. I glanced between the stove and the curtains once, taking a deep breath. My house was nice, and I'd always thought I was lucky to have it, especially being a single mother. I had to work hard to give my child a good life. I turned the stove on high and waited until the cloth started smoking.

Then I left the kitchen. I had to walk through the living room to reach an exit. The creature was no longer in front of the TV. I glanced down the hall and there it was, standing right in front of me, watching me. A piece of skin peeled away from its cheek fluttering to the grind. I broke into a run straight to the door. The second my hand touched the knob, that thing was on me hissing and snarling.

Its nails dragged down my side, slicing the skin. I flailed, hitting it, digging my own nails into its forehead and shoving back. It stumbled away and glared at me, bearing its teeth. My nails had managed to tear a good bit of the skin on its face off, and a good deal peeled away on its own, hanging limply from its jaws, its face. It's almost hard to remember, but at the same time, I can't forget. It was the same puffy, slimy gray as the rest of it. It had no eyelids, no lips. Its cheek things were visible where the skin clung tightly to the skull. I get the feeling that if I peeled my daughter's hair

back from its skull, it would have been bald. It attacked again, tackling me at the legs. My back at the floor, skull bouncing off the carpet. I was disoriented for a bit. I could smell smoke now. And when I dizzily glanced towards the kitchen, I saw the flames spreading, crawling at the walls of the living room.

There was a burning pain in my leg, and I shouted out, my thoughts clearing. That thing had bitten a chunk from my calf. Blood and gristle coated its chin as it looked up at me. I did the first. thing I could think of. I reared my injured leg back and kicked it in the face as hard as I could. There was a crunching noise, something in its face breaking and it flew back. It slumped on the ground

and I slowly struggled to my feet. The living room was on fire now. I opened the door, the burst of air causing the fire to leap forwards a foot or so. The creature was getting up. I pulled the door shut right as it and the flames leaped for. boards again. I felt the dull thought of it throwing itself against the door several times. Then it started screaming. The doorknob was too hot. I had to let go. It didn't try to open the door. The screaming continued for a bit, but I knew I had to leave right then. I ran to the car. My little girl was staring at me from inside. It took me a second to remember, and I shouted curtains at her several times before she unlocked the door and gave me the keys. She was still crying,

but she'd managed to buckle her seat belt in her child's seat. My purse was on the floor in front of her. I drove away from that place then and kept driving until I was far enough away to feel safe. Then I pulled over to the side of the road and sobbed. We've been driving for 12 hours now. I bought some first aid supplies at a truck stop and after using the bathroom sink to clean. clean myself and my child as best I could. I treated our injuries to the best of my ability. I fed her as well. She was starving, but she had to take it slow.

I didn't want her to make herself sick. Once she'd eaten and drank a bottle of water, I asked her if she could tell me what that thing did. She says it took her the night I sent her back for the first time. She fell asleep and woke inside that room. Her wrists tied. It bit her, she said, took a chunk right out of her thigh. She said it grew her skin on it after eating that piece.

It took her hair too, but she didn't know if it ate that. I asked about the other bites. She told me it had to replace its skin every few days or it would get old and fall off. She said it wanted me, that it told her it was going to take me tonight. It liked to make her cry with her. words or with pain. It gave her some water each night to keep her alive until it could take me instead. I guess I would be the better choice.

I'm bigger. I would have lasted longer. It could have taken more. I think that's why it was so hungry. It could only take a bit at a time from my daughter. My daughter is sleeping now, one of her hands on my arm. I can't help but look at her every few minutes. memorizing her face, her dimple on the right side of her face, her curls much shorter now.

I wasn't sure I'd ever see her again. I don't know if that creature is still alive, if it made it back to its tunnels it might be. The most important lesson I've learned from this ordeal is this. Trust your children before their nightmare becomes yours. 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 pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast. We thank you for listening. Join us again next week.

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