The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E19

Episode Date: August 14, 2016

It's episode 19 of Season 7. On this week's show we have five tales about fire and ice both outside and inside the human soul."The Saskatoon Freezing Deaths"* written by Manen Lyset and performed by Jeff Clement & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts at 00:03:35)"The Graveyard Lottery"** written by G. Preeb and performed by David Cummings & Peter Lewis & Addison Peacock. (Story starts at 00:28:20)"The Banishment of Jeremiah Hart"** written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson & David Ault. (Story starts at 01:09:40)"A Hoarder’s House"** written by Eric Dodd and performed by Peter Lewis & Kyle Akers. (Story starts at 01:28:05)"Stolen Tongues - Pt. 2"** written by Felix Blackwell and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jessica McEvoy & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:52:35)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about "The Lift" podcast. Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset Click here to learn more about G. Preeb Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about Eric Dodd Click here to learn more about Felix Blackwell Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"A Hoarder’s House" illustration courtesy of Charlie CodyAudio 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 19, the Saskatoon freezing deaths, the graveyard lottery, the banishment of Jeremiah. Heart, a hoarder's house, Stolen Tongues, Part 2. It's the No Slate Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us.

On this week's show, we have five tales about fire and ice, both outside and inside the human soul. It's always fun to be able to send congratulations to deserving people, so let's start by congratulating No Sleep listener, Judith Marshall for being the winner of the $100 Amazon gift card for our recent No Sleep Survey. We're grateful for Judith and all of you who took the time to share your input with us. Happy shopping, Judith. And I'm thrilled to be able to congratulate an excellent podcast on completing their first season. It's called The Lift, and since you enjoy horror anthology podcasts, this is one you'll definitely want to check out. The lift takes place in an old decrepit building. Within its dilapidated walls,

sits the lift. Step inside and ride it to the floor chosen for your transformation. And along the way you'll meet Victoria, the mysterious girl who operates the lift and guides you to your floor. Gripping writing, excellent production and a creepy little girl in an abandoned building. who wouldn't want to experience their chilling audio nightmares. Their first season has 20 episodes just waiting for you, so head over to victoriaslift.com and learn all about this great show from 9th Story Studios. And to complete this week's round of congratulations,

we have many of our podcasting friends to congratulate for becoming finalists for this year's Parsec Awards. Not only is the aforementioned the lift of Parsec finalist, but so too our Uncanny County, wooden overcoats, ours paradoxica, tales to terrify the moonlit road, and liberty critical research. Oh, and even our production of The Whistlers made it as a finalist. So kudos and applause to everyone on the short list. We look forward to September 4th when the winners are.

are announced. And there you go. Congratulations all around. And to you, dear listener, we congratulate you on making the excellent choice of listening to us right now as we start this week's show. In our first tale, we take a break from the sweltering summer heat to hear a tale which provides some frigid frights. You see, author Manon Lyset shares a tale about a terrible form of punishment which is meet it out during the bone-chilling winters in Canada. But when one man fears his relative has fallen victim to it, what is revealed is more chilling than the most bitter winter wind. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement and Jesse Cornett. So don't sweat the heat. It's far better than the Saskatoon freezing deaths. Have you ever had the displeasure of experiencing minus 40-degree weather?

That's Celsius and Fahrenheit, because minus 40 degrees is the point where the two converge. It's a temperature so cold that it's impossible for snow to fall. If you've never felt it, allow me to explain what it feels like. Your eyelashes turn white with frost. They'll start collecting humidity from your breath, forming icicles that make each lash stick to the other. Every time you blink, it's a struggle to reopen your eyes. Even if you try not to blink, the air is so dry that you have to, otherwise your eyeballs start to hurt.

With each inhale, your nose hairs freeze and shoot needles of pain up your nasal canal. Your coat, no matter how thick or expensive, stiffens like a pair of jeans forgotten to dry at the bottom of the washer. You'll hear your clothes crackle like a down comforter with every move you make. Any exposed skin starts to burn. Your extremities freeze, and no matter how much you rub your hands, your fingers go none. You feel compelled to move around and try to warm up, but moving lets more cold air in through the openings in your clothes. If you're lucky, moving will warm you up a bit. If you're not, you'll start feeling very hot.

Too hot. A burning sensation will run up your spine and you'll start to sweat. This means you've reached the danger zone. The point where coal no longer feels cold and where you start shedding your clothes to avoid overheating. That is how you wind up dead. No matter how thin your gloves, how little your coat seems to help, in minus 40 degree weather, they're essential.

They're a barrier. between you and the biting chill. They're the only things that can help keep you alive. So why am I saying this? Well, I want to tell you about something that's been going on for decades in Saskatoon. Grusome cases of human rights violations come to be known as the Saskatoon freezing deaths. Before I started my story, I wanted you to understand how truly horrid. it must be for its victims.

You see, officers in Saskatoon have a very original way of dealing with drunken First Nations folks. We don't call them Indians or natives around here. In the middle of winter, they've been known to arrest drunkards, drive them outside of town, strip them to their underwear, and tell them to walk it off. The police called this the Midnight Blue Tour. As you might expect, the victims die of hypothermia long before they can make it back home. It's not known how many have died this way. A quick search of missing sisters, an unrelated issue where Aboriginal women have gone missing, assumed dead,

will show you just how little the police and authorities care about the plight of the First Nations. Participants of the Midnight Blue Tour have allegedly been found frozen, on the side of the road, and their deaths swept under the rug. However, from time to time, victims' bodies won't be found at all. Their footprints turned to drag marks, leading to the forest, but no blood or animal tracks are ever left to explain what was doing the dragging. The officers never investigate these cases further. You might be wondering where I fit into all this,

See, my friend's uncle went missing this winter. A few people came forward saying they'd seen a cop throwing him in his squad car and driving off, but there are no records of him getting booked. Here in Saskatoon, we'd all heard the rumors of the Midnight Blue Tour. But it was one of those things we never talked about. No one wanted to blab about the abuse of power because, well, they didn't want to be the next victims of it. you know? In any case, let me take you back to when Paul first knocked on my door with the news. That morning, I was getting ready to go to work when my friend Paul knocked on my door.

As soon as I opened it, a wave of cold air came rushing in over my bare feet. I was quick to let Paul in and close the door. My friend shuffled from foot to foot, rubbing his arms furiously to try to warm himself up. I shuddered. colder than my ex-wife's heart out there. What's up, man? Paul pointed to the kitchen. The coffee?

I nodded. Yeah. Hold on. I'll get a pot started. Paul kicked off his boots and shuffled to the living room. As I started the coffee machine, I could still feel the chill lingering in the air. The kitchen window was caked with so much frost I couldn't even see outside. It was going to be one of those. days. I hoped I'd managed to get my truck started. A few minutes later, I found Paul

covered all the way up to his nose and Nana's knitted blanket, eagerly waiting for me to deliver the coffee. As much as he seemed to thirst for it, he barely let his hand escape the cover of the blanket to take the cup when I offered it. He pulled it under the blanket up to his mouth and drank a large sip. Jesus, Paul, you can't be that cold. Paul shivered. A car broke down a mile and a half back. Had to walk. I looked out of the window to my truck sitting alone in the parking lot. What the hell were you doing driving in this part of town at five in the morning anyways?

He sipped his coffee. Looking for my uncle. I got a call last night. He got picked up by the cops. I felt an instant sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The way he said it made it sound so much worse than what it should have been. So you were going to bail him out? Paul looked at me straight in the eyes.

I knew what he was going to say. I knew what had happened to his uncle. He never made it to jail. Even though we were alone, even though we were in my house, I still found myself looking over my shoulder and lowering my voice to a whisper. These were the kinds of things we never discussed. Ever.

You see? I think he took the midnight blue tour? Paul nodded. Yeah. He finished his coffee and held the mug out to me. I filled it, handed it back, and left the pot on the living room table. I had a feeling he'd eventually want a third serving. He continued.

Got a call half an hour after they took him. I thought maybe I could save him, but too many roads in and out of town. I scratched my stubbly chin. My eyes wandered to the clock. Paul's gaze followed. We both knew it'd be too late now. Will you help me find his body? I don't want to drag you into this, but like I said, my car.

Yeah, yeah, of course. You warm up. I'll start the truck and call off work, okay? He nodded, but said nothing more. Soon after we were on the road with a thermos full of coffee and another full of warm soup, I was bundled up tighter than a toddler going on his first snow-loos ride, and Paul had borrowed an extra scarf and hat. It was even worse outside than I thought.

Even with the heat at maximum, I could still feel the cold emanating from the windshield. I had to point the heating ducts right at the steering wheel to keep my fingers from freezing. Meanwhile, Paul held the thermos and stared off in the distance. He defeated look in his eyes. I couldn't blame him. We were on a mission to find the frozen remains of the man who'd practically raised him. All because a cop had a bit of a power trip and a burning hatred for First Nations. You know which bar he was at?

Yard and flagging. Why? He'll probably be on that side of town. He shook his hen. I already checked all the roads around there. I think he was dropped off farther away. I stopped the car and reached into my glove compartment for a math. I had Paul mark off all the roads he checked already,

and then we headed for the next one. We went up and down, road after road, not finding a trace of his uncle. That is until a few hours later, when we finally spotted a subtle breach in the wall of six, snow on a road on the opposite side of town. I slowed the truck to a stop, unbuckled, and jumped out to examine it. Paul followed behind. The cold January air sent an instant shiver down my spine. I suddenly understood why Paul had practically chugged the coffee earlier. The cold wasn't

just a little nippy. It was downright assaulting. Even when you've grown up with the cold, there's really no way to prepare for negative 40 degrees. I hugged myself as I inspected the three-foot-tall snowbank. There was an imprint the size of a human body. If that wasn't enough proof of his uncle's presence, then the bare footprints leading up to the incident sealed his fate. We'd found the right spot. Where'd he go?

Maybe someone picked him up already? Paul climbed the mound of snow and looked out towards the fore. forest. No. Look! I followed him up the snowbank. It emitted crunching sounds beneath my feet but didn't break. The cold had turned the usually soft and sticky snow into the consistency of styrofoam.

I followed Paul's gaze and saw a path of fissured snow leading to the forest. This, I realized, meant Paul's uncle had been dragged into the woods, a prospect. that pleased neither of us. Bear? Paul shook his head. I could tell he'd already gone through all the scenarios in his head. Bear, wolf, serial killer on a snowmobile. He squinted.

There's only one set of tracks. Maybe he dragged himself to shelter. Maybe he saw a cabin. He looked at me with big, brown, hopeful eyes. I didn't want to tell him it was impossible. I didn't want to point out that even if he was right and his uncle had gone into the woods, he had surely died of exposure long before finding a cabin. That's not what friends do.

Friends help friends. Even when it's minus 40 out, all you want to do is curl up in front of a fireplace and hibernate until winter's over. Paul still had hope, so we'd press on. Let's check it out. The snow on the other side of the embankment was about two feet high, but thankfully it had been so condensed and hardened by the frigid air that I could easily walk over it without breaking through.

Paul and I kept a few meters distance from one another to even out the distribution of weight over the terrain. We hurriedly approached the edge of the woods, where his uncle's tracks came to an abrupt stop, exactly on the limit between the small field of snow and the first row of trees. By all logic, if the tracks stopped, then we should have found his uncle.

But his uncle was nowhere to be seen. He should be here. Where'd he go? Paul stepped into the woods. Snow's probably too hard for tracks. Come on. He can't be far. While it was true that the snow cracked less inside the wood than out, I still saw it fissuring every few steps.

There was no way Paul's uncle, a man twice my weight and two feet taller than me, could have managed to walk over it without breaking it. Paul, however, didn't seem to notice. He continued on distancing himself from me to cover more ground. He called out his uncle's name over and over, even as his voice became raspier and weaker. By now I was all. already regretting having left the thermos in the truck. Even with my winter gear, I could feel

cold snaps nipping at the skin around my eyes and easily infiltrating my clothes. My lashes, now bright white, were winning a battle to permanently glue my eyes shut. I tried hard to breathe through my nose to avoid dampening my scarf, but found myself panting to try to keep up with Paul, and inevitably a blanket of moist frost settled over the portion of fabric covering my mouth. It melted whenever I exhaled, but froze again when I inhaled. The sometimes soggy, sometimes frosty material rubbed against my lips, irritating my skin. Oh, shit! An ear-piercing shriek that cut through the cold, dry air like a blade.

His scream was dizzy. nauseating even. It caught me so off guard that I momentarily froze. Still, I was able to look up just quickly enough to catch a silhouette running away before I heard the sound of snow breaking under the pressure of Paul's fall, a short distance from the figure. I ran over to him and helped him back up. There's someone in the woods with us, yeah. Paul shook his head. That wasn't a person.

Those words would have sent a chill down my spine if I wasn't already so cold. What are you talking about? Man, it... It wasn't human, man! I turned towards where I'd seen the silhouette. You've had too much coffee. Paul turned wider than rice in a snowstorm. I know what I saw.

We need to go back. right fucking now. I'm telling you, man, we need to go back to the truck. He grabbed my arm and yanked me so hard I thought I was about to lose a limb. Paul had this look

of deep, primal fear in his eyes. I followed him out of the woods, partially because I couldn't break out of his vice-like grip, partially because he genuinely seemed terrified. And that, in turn,

freaked me out. He didn't speak, Not until we were safely in the truck, with the doors locked and the engine on. Drive! I started down the road not too fast, thinking he'd come to his senses and asked me to turn back for his uncle. What the fuck is wrong with you? Paul shivered, and I had a feeling it wasn't from the cold. It looked like my uncle.

It? The thing we saw! I don't know what you saw, but I just saw some guy. It wasn't a man. Paul, what the fuck are you talking about? He didn't answer. No matter how much I pushed him, he wouldn't tell me what he saw. So I drove us back to my place and escorted him inside.

It was only when he removed his hat and scarf that I noticed a stream of blood had poured out of his ears. Jesus Christ, Paul, what the hell happened to you? Paul sat on the couch and pulled Nana's blanket up to his chin. He rocked back and forth, though I'm not sure if it was from the trauma or the cold. It looked like my uncle. You said that already. I turned up the heat. Paul's teeth clattered together.

Again, it was a coin. tossed to know whether it was from fear or cold. It came up to me, man. This thing. It was floating. Hovering over the ground. Didn't you see it?

I shook my head. I just saw a silhouette. That's all. It wasn't a person. I saw it out close. It had this weird cloak on, man. It kind of... I could see it moving.

Not the fabric. but the pattern on it. Like a night's guy with clouds and stuff. It wasn't normal. Its face, it looked just like my uncle. But it wasn't him. He... Paul looked over his shoulder and then back at me.

Tempty sockets. It's like some kind of monster and his skin. Oh, shit. It was all black. Like rotten skin black. like some intense fucking frostbite shit and his mouth mother of fuck his lips were purple

and his teeth they were sharp all of them when he screamed at me I saw all the way down his throat they were pointy and sharp it just stood there in stunned silence trying to make sense of what he was saying wait he it screamed

I thought it was you. I remembered the disorientation I felt when I heard the shriek. There was something off about it, but it hadn't even occurred to me that the sound hadn't come from Paul. The scream felt like I was being stabbed right in the ears with ice. It was like a brain freeze, but a full body brain freeze. I was paralyzed, man. fucking paralyzed.

But then he looked me in the eyes and just kind of shot away. And I fell. I took a seat, unscrewing the lid off a thermos. I wasn't sure which one it was until I took a gulp, but I didn't care. Coffee or soup, the warmth was what I wanted. But it seemed like no matter how much I drank, I couldn't cast away the chill. It felt like the cold was coming from inside of me. Fear was what I was feeling, not the biting minus 40-degree weather,

because somehow deep inside of me, I knew Paul was right. I hadn't seen the silhouette clearly. But when I thought about it, when I replayed the moment in my head, I didn't see any legs touched the ground. Paul's uncle's body was never found. I don't think either of us expected it to turn up.

And, as expected, the disappearance was swept under the road. So why am I only talking about this now? Why am I, in the middle of a hot summer day, sharing a story about the dead of the dead of of winter? It's because something happened this morning, something that left me sweating, and not from the heat. This morning, exactly six months to the day that Paul's uncle went on a midnight blue tour, Officer McKay was reported missing. Drag marks were found next to his bed, broken fingernails were dug deep into his wooden floorboards, and ten bloody, scratchy streaks, one for each finger, were found leading all the way down the stairs and out the door.

They continued down his gravel parking lot, forming rake-like grooves, led through the grass, and made it all the way up to the edge of the forest. That's where Officer McKay's true. tracks and animal tracks left to explain what was doing the dragging. McKay is one of the five cops to have inexplicably gone missing in the past 40 years. A lot of people know about the horrible things that happened here in Saskatoon, but no one ever talks about them. Those police disappearances are just another thing we sweep on.

under the rug, just like the midnight blue tours. There are few places more sacred and hallowed than a town's cemetery. To disturb the final resting place of the town's folks' loved ones would be a heinous act indeed. But in this tale from author G. Preeb, we discover that the graves are being unearthed for a very unsettling reason, one made more contentious by the fact that the surviving family members are agreeing to it. Performing this tale with me are Peter Lewis and Addison Peacock. So behold, the vile game which could make you rich, but only if you're willing to enter the graveyard lottery. I saw that the Waller family dug up another grave today. Yet again, they've sunk thousands of

dollars into the hope that they'll find their son Alex. Hope has proven to be a costly endeavor for them. As I've been told, they've spent well over a hundred thousand dollars on digging services alone. The story is nothing new. It keeps repeating itself like a broken record. It's such an odd sight, to say the least. Every once in a blue moon, Nicholas and Judy Waller returned to our town with a team of highly paid professionals. A backhoe is unloaded from the back of a truck. It creeps across the hallowed ground to the area where a concrete statue of St. Lawrence stands before 36 graves like a lonely sentinel.

Through the wind and rain, his facial expression never changes. With a crucifix in the crook of one arm and the other raised to the heavens, he stares solemnly upwards as if to offer the souls below him to the Lord. St. Lawrence shouldn't be there. Those 36 graves shouldn't be there. That theater fire should have never happened. The beastly machine revs up its most. motor and fills the air with a cloud of diesel exhaust that's as dark as cold.

Scoop by scoop, the machine slowly claws away at the earth like a tired animal desperately trying to escape the trap. First the sod is ripped from the ground and tossed to the side. Soon after, a few buckets full of top soil is piled up alongside the grave, before a number of Another pile is made for the caramel brown clay. While the digging happens, Nick and Judy stand close to each other while quietly praying and singing hallelujah in hopes that this hole will be the last they will ever have to excavate. Suddenly, the machine pulls up a unique mixture of earth, one that is composed of clay and soil that is black as pitch and rich. with decay. The hired men now know that their work with the machine is done for the time being as they send it crawling away from the grave. From there, the men put on pairs of rubber overalls

and gloves and respirators on their faces. They then descend into the hole with their shovels. Like a volcanic eruption, scoops of soil spew from the hole until the dull, yet loud sound of metal-sticking wood is heard. At a slower pace, dirt continues to fling from the open grave. In time, one of the men climbs out of the hole and retrieves a bundle of rope from the truck. He tosses the rope down, and within minutes, the backhoe roars back to life.

The rope is then attached to the machine's arm, With the utmost care and skill by the operator, the old rotting casket is hoisted out of the ground. The old wooden box is placed off to the side of the hole and is quickly covered by a sheet of tarpaulin to conceal it from curious eyes. Once more, the men descend back down into the hole and continue to carefully dig for several hours. Just like all the other times, the men run out of black soil and find only clay the deeper they go, indicating that what they're looking for isn't there. Judy, in a desperate plea, yells to them. Please keep digging!

I know my baby is in there. You just have to go a little deeper. Just to satisfy her, the men keep on with their work. until the sun begins to descend. But as the sun fades away, so too does the spark of hope in both Judy and Nicholas. When the hole has been dug far below a reasonable depth, it's deemed as a failed venture.

The men climb out of the grave and replace the casket and soil in the same order they removed it. The backhoe is loaded onto the truck, The men hand the wallers a business card, say their condolences, and then drive away. Yet Nicholas and Judy remain at the graveyard until it's too dark for comfort. They do not gaze upon the grave they have dug that day. Rather, they stare with a strange mixture of sorrow and hope at the grave that lies next to it,

just waiting to be exhumed. They walk away from the matter for now, while St. Lawrence remains just as still as before. The grave that was dug up today was that of Jack Davidson. As I've been told, his mother and father finally gave in when the Wallers offered them $400,000. Now that I think about it, were actually going to settle for $350,000, but that changed.

Just before Paul Davidson was about to sign the papers, Judy made the comment that there was a silver lining to the loss of his son. When Paul asked her to explain, she said that Paul and the others were lucky that she and her husband had to pay to search the graves of their loved ones. she went on to say that it was better than winning the lottery. The price immediately jumped to $400,000. I'm actually surprised that the Davidson's gave in. They always said that they weren't going to play the Waller's little game.

They said that the way the Wallers had it set up was so callous and disgraceful that it bordered on insults. You see, the Davidson's may have been offered $400,000, but that doesn't mean they would actually receive $400,000. The Wallers have their contract set up in a way where they would only have to pay if their son is found in the questioned grave. Now that I think about it,

Judy's comparison to a lottery is actually quite fitting. The only gambit that the unwilling players had to wager was a son, brother, father, mother, or daughter. I've paid close attention to this game over the last two decades. The first family that played the game were the Jackson's. Ever since Harold Jackson died, the family struggled to make ends meet. They sold out for $2,000. if I remember correctly. I don't think they would have done it

if they weren't so desperate for money at the time. Of course, Alex wasn't found in Harold's grave, and the Jackson's never received any sort of prize. As the laws of probability dictated, the original odds were one in 36, but after Harold was exhumed, then it became one in 35. Henceforth, the cash prize went up slightly when the people around here realized that the graves of their respective loved ones could be the lucky one.

As the years went by and the odds increased, so too did the price. Around these parts, the excavation and the desecration of the grave is viewed as one and the same, despite the good intentions behind it. But that's not to say the people around here won't go against their morals when a big wad of cash is waved under their noses. I think it's a dirty, rotten shame that the Davidson sold out. Their son Jack was far more deserving of a peaceful slumber than having his corpse pulled out of the ground. He was a fine young man. As a matter of fact, there was once a time when I looked forward. forward to calling him my son-in-law. But that fire burned away the pages of the story that had yet

to be written. I can still recall that fire now as I saw it over 20 years ago. It was an average night, and I was just about to fall asleep when I heard the sirens wailing past my house. Out of panic and curiosity, I went to the kitchen window and saw that the theater down the street was engulfed in flames. I quickly put on my shoes and sprinted towards the blaze. All I could do was watch helplessly as the flames climbed higher into the night. The firemen wasted no time in connecting their hoses to the hydrants. Despite their loud shouts, I could hear the sound of screaming coming from inside the theater. As the water began to spray onto the fire,

a team of firemen sprinted into the building with their axes in hand. After a few minutes, they pulled the first person out of the building. His name was Derek's Venold. He was caked in soot, and Burns covered a large portion of his body. He looked lifeless as they laid him down on the grass across the street.

All I could do was watch with shock. Until then, I'd never seen a dead body, but the horror of it all only became worse as the firemen laid more people next to him. The others had not fared so well. Unlike Derek, their bodies were charred black and were unidentifiable in the darkness. The smell

was the worst. Never before had I smelled burnt flesh. The smell in and of itself wasn't what bothered me. It was the idea that my nose was inhaling the essence of a dead body. I held my nightshirt over my nose to block it out while the people around me fled away from the scene, feeling too sick to take much more. Before the ambulance arrived, they had 25 bodies laid out on the grass. It was then that I saw something that I can only describe as a miracle. Derek, the man that I assumed was dead, suddenly sat up in a fit of violent coughing. His eyes first locked onto the fire across the street.

I saw the way they became wider and wider as the reflection of the fire glinted off them. He put his hands on his face, then his chest, and finally his legs. Without words, I knew he was in disbelief as to how he got away from the fire and how he could be alive. He then turned his head and looked down at one of the charred corpses next to him. He touched the flaky skin, pressed his fingers into it. Hey, you all right? When his question went unanswered, he began to gently shake the body. Wake up.

I could see the realization starting to sink in just as the ambulance arrived. The paramedics quickly noticed him and helped him to his feelings. beat, Derek fought against them. He screamed while pointing his fingers at the corpses. What about them? What about my friends? What about my sister? As they put Derek in the back of the vehicle, the fireman carried even more bodies out. All 36 of them. The sights and sounds of that night severely damaged Derek. Not only were parts of his skin disfigured, so too was his soul. He was prescribed pain killers for his recovery and quickly became addicted to them.

I suppose the chemicals helped to fill a void that was burned away, if only temporary. I wanted to help Derek anyway. I could in the months that followed. I'm not a specialist in mental health, but I know that lending in here can make a world of difference. With a great deal of compassion and respect, I asked him what it was like. I asked him how he felt about it all.

Oddly enough, he told me a story that seemingly had nothing to do with the fire at all, but after telling me I realized it had everything to do with it. When he was only a child, one of his chores was to empty the mouse trap in his father's garage. It was one of those live traps, the kind that's made from galvanized steel and has little air holes punched into it. The idea behind these traps is to catch multiple mice without having to constantly reset it. Eventually, the mice could be taken out into the wild and humanely let go. At least that's what the advertisers sell it as. Instead, most people, like Derek's father, have a rope tied to the trap

so that it can be easily recovered from a body of water. That was Derek's duty. Once a week, he would take the trap down to the river and toss it into the water. He said that he remembered the way the mice would squeal and thrash around as the trap sank into the river. Their little claws would scratch against the metal as every single one of them fought to keep their mouths in the disappearing air pocket. He said it would take about ten minutes before the air bubbles would stop coming up. When the job was done, he'd pulled the trap out of the water, dump the dead mice. and put it back in the garage.

That's what it was like to be stuck in that fire. Everyone in there was trying to claw their way out. People were being stepped over. Bodies were washed in flames. All I could do was watch as the people around dropped one by one. trying to be helpful. I told him, There's a reason why you survive, Derek.

He then gave me a look that bordered on annoyance and anger. That's what everyone tells. I don't know why in hell I should have lived while the others died. I have talked to therapists, preachers. old folks and people like you. You all tell me that there's a reason I lived, but none of you can tell me why. I'm surrounded by blind people.

They tell me that I need to find the light switch, but the damn light switch isn't even there. Maybe I've been given. Even the gift of life. If I had it my way, I'd give it to someone else. I sure as hell don't know what to do with it. It was only a couple of months after our conversation that Derek overdosed on pain meds. Unlike the others that died in the fire, Derek's passing went quietly.

The last victim of a disaster is rarely mentioned after all. I don't think that he would have wanted any recognition either. I remember how much it tore him up to see the aftermath of the fire being played over and over again on the news. Indeed, our little town had its 15 minutes of fame, albeit the notoriety was neither asked for nor desire. especially when our 15 minutes turned to an hour, a day, a week, a month, and finally a year. It wasn't the fire that gripped the attention of the newsmen. Oh, no, they focused on the one person that didn't die in the fire,

and that person certainly wasn't Derek. I suppose it's noteworthy when the son of a wealthy family goes missing without a trace. That son was Alex, son of Nicholas and Judy Waller. And a son of a bitch, if you listen closely to the hushed whispers around town. There really isn't much to say about Alex. He was a college kid that took up residence in a house. our town for two summers. It seemed like his favorite pastime was to indulge in the fiery burn of whiskey, as his favorite haunt was the local bar. As sure as the dew-covered flower finds the morning

sun, nighttime would find Alex wasting away in a corner booth. You could almost set your watch by his routine. At around 8 o'clock every night, he'd leave his apartment above Nick's garage. He'd venture past the old Catholic church, the graveyard, at two blocks of homes, the theater, and would finally end up at the bar. When last call came at two in the morning, he'd make the same journey back, only in reverse, while stumbling and staggering the entire way. This fact was well known and was quietly talked of as gossip amongst ourselves when he was out of earshot. Normally, this type of behavior is overlooked by us townsfolk. After all, we already have our fair share of bottle-dwelling persons.

Like the Bremer brothers, the proud veterans that proudly show their battle scars from the war, even if the wounds are in places where no one wants to look. Even our mayor keeps himself in good spirits. An outsider might see this as a problem, but we actually get a sense of safety from it. I mean the man can hardly find the wallet in his own pocket, let alone someone else's. The complaints made about Alex's drinking habits were not the main issue.

It was just another thing to talk about with the spicy indulgence of gossip. There were other things about Alex we did not take kindly to. For the sake of politeness, I will not say where Alex hailed from, but I will say that his upbringing did not correlate with our own. As I remember Alex, all I can recall is a snide young man that refused to adapt to the long-standing traditions of our own. little social order. These arbitrary social laws have never been formally written bear no legal standing, but are heavily instilled by the wrath of a father's belt. I'm led to believe that the Waller's idea of normalcy finds ours backwards and barbaric. These are the three basic laws

of our little culture. Never touch another man's money. Never touch another man's tools. And never touch another man's woman, whether it be his wife or his daughter. Alex was the worst offender of the third. As the way it's seen around here, the best way to deal with a feral dog like Alex

is to drag it into the back alley and thrash, it around until it scurries away with its tail between its legs. The method behind the madness usually works. I say usually because it certainly had no effect on Alex. As I recall, there was more than a few times that Alex made a lewd pass towards one of the local girls, only to have it met with the fury of the lady's brother, father, or the like. For those two summers he was with us, this behavior did not change, but it went away immediately after he vanished without a trace. I don't think the general public really noticed his absence at first. That theater fire clouded every mind like a morning mist looming over the harbor before the storm.

I don't think anyone can be blamed for not noticing. It's especially sobering to see 36 graves being dug in advance for the ones you knew. 36 may seem like a small number in and of itself, but when it comes to the matter of death, it's a lot. I remember watching all 36 of those graves being dug. The first two or three didn't seem like a big deal. They were just holes. But to see so many blurred the lines of reality. There was so much dirt scattered around that each individual hole seemed to blend in with the other.

In a way, it reminded me of a mass grave that was dug in the heat of war. The only things missing were the multitude of tangled, bloated corpses and a dusting of lie. Through all the blinding chaos the fire brought, there were still two people that noticed Alex's disappearance, even though they were a long plane ride away. Those people were his parents, Nicholas and Judy. As mothers and fathers usually do, they called and sent Alex letters on a weekly basis. When Alex failed to return either of these things for two weeks, they became. suspicious. Then, after a month, they dreaded the reasons why. The Wallers sent our sheriff to check on Alex at his apartment. After several knocks on the door at several

different times during the day without a reply, the sheriff had the landlord open the door. What they found, of course, was nothing out of the ordinary. There were no signs of Alex or any sinister hints. to his whereabouts. It simply looked like Alex stepped away from his home for a while and could return at any moment, but he never came back. Of course, this was all newsworthy material, and it didn't take long for a flood of volunteers to come search for him.

For weeks, they walked in a line through the fields and woods with no results. Those searches soon stopped when Jeanette Thomas revealed what she allegedly saw that night. What Jeanette had to say about the matter completely trumped all the theories to Alex's whereabouts. The story itself is shaky at best, but it's the one the Wallers believe beyond a shadow of a doubt to be true. She supposedly saw Alex being murdered with her own eyes. According to her, it happened two days after the theater fire. She, like many others, took to the bar after the horrible disaster. Many sorrows were drowned that night, including her own.

You see, she lost a nephew in the fire and the presence of alcohol and good, company helped heal the wound. She remembered going outside to have a cigarette when she saw Alex strolling along the sidewalk. He was clearly intoxicated like usual. The sight would have been brushed off had it not been for a particularly haunting detail. She saw a figure behind Alex as he walked. Alex was completely unaware of it too. While Alex sang a happy song off-key, the person sculpted ever so carefully behind him, occasionally ducking into the alleyways when the opportunity presented itself. The person followed Alex for several minutes until they passed by the graveyard.

The mysterious figure then veered into the darkness of the yard, where the 36 graves were dug in preparation for the next. next day's massive burial. Just when it was thought that the person had long since left Alex alone, the figure suddenly burst from the shadows of the graveyard. He or she was brandishing a shovel. There was not a word spoken between the two, save for the brief scream made by Alex before being struck across the head with the shovel. The blow knocked the young man over and he was motionless, but it didn't end there. The assailant continued to mercilessly beat Alex with the shovel over and over again. When at last the killer seemed exhausted, Jeanette quite

clearly saw Alex being dragged into the darkness of the graveyard. Beyond that, no one is sure what happened. This all led to a very thrilling theory. made by Jeanette. She assumed that Alex was buried in one of the already open graves. It made perfect sense, too. All the killer would have to do was dig one of the holes a little deeper, throw the body in and cover it up with just a little bit of dirt. Then the next day, a casket would have been laid over the body,

buried, and no one would ever be the wiser. It was a good theory. It was a perfect theory. Unfortunately, Jeanette's credibility was quickly called into question. You see, Jeanette is one of our more colorful residents. Oh, the poor woman just hasn't been the same ever since her husband got hit by that train back in 73. Ever since then, she's been spinning these wild yarns about the most ridiculous things. She's gone on record that she's been abducted and probed by aliens. She claims to have a time machine in her basement,

but refuses to show anyone because she's afraid the military industrial complex of the Antarctic Elephant Corps will have her eliminated. And to top it all off, she didn't bother to tell anyone about what she saw that night until three months after it happened. The lawmen may not have given her account much credence, but the Wallers sure did. They believed every word Jeanette told them, even if the story varied slightly with every retelling. Henceforth the Wallers became absolutely convinced that their son was buried beneath one of the caskets where St. Lawrence stands guard. It did make perfect sense, after all. There was just one problem.

Neither the Wallers nor Jeanette knew which grave it was. Thus, as things go, the graveyard. lottery was born. The Jackson family was the first to give in at $2,000. The casket was dug up and nothing was found. They then moved on to the plot of Jeff Thomas, and his surviving family didn't budge until they were offered $30,000. The price just kept going up from there on out.

I would have never imagined that the Wallers would have ever offered. a family like the Davidson's $500,000. There's been whispers going around the town as to how much the Wallers will offer to dig up that one last grave, the one that has been left untouched for the past 20 years. Some say they'll offer a million

before a deal is made, and others argue that they will never make an offer. considering that their finances have since gone to hell. But that's been said before, and it's been proven to be false. I think it's just so strange how people are willing to donate so freely to such silly causes. Then again, Nicholas Waller is a salesman by trade, and selling such a thing just comes natural. I remember when he was interviewed on the news.

He talked about how his son made the dean's list for three straight years. They showed a lot of pictures of Alex when he was just a little boy, still wet behind the ears and shitting in diapers. You know, the usual bullshit. It makes me wonder if the wallers would have stopped looking for their son if they knew what John Leroy knows. I'll go out on a limb to say that they'd be ashamed of Alex if they knew his dirty little secret.

John has only told this little tidbit of information to a select few people, and when I say a select few, I mean a very select few. As far as I know, maybe four people know, about this, myself included. The night the theater burned down. John came home from work at nine like he usually does, and like usual he gave himself a quick shower and went to bed.

Sometime during the night he got out of bed to use the toilet. As he walked past the kitchen window, he saw Alex strolling along with a cigarette in his mouth and a drink. drunken sway in his step. When Alex passed by the theater, he tossed his cigarette butt into the dumpster next to the theater. John didn't think much of it at that point in time. When he finished relieving himself, he walked back to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he looked out of the window, he saw that not only was the dumpster on fire, but so, too, was the theater.

Swaller was responsible for the death of 36 people. The little shit would have gotten away with it too, but luckily someone had the good sense to smack the little bastard across the head with a shovel. If you ask me, justice was served. Come to think of it, I've probably said a little too much. You can blame it on all the booze. I've been soaking in it ever since the fire.

I tell you what, you don't know shit until you've inhaled the charred flesh of the ones you loved. You don't know how those screams still ring in my ears. You don't know a damn thing. Am I a little upset? No, what he did. I could see it on his face. I could see it in his eyes. He looked like a pathetic little child fearing the belt.

I know what I've seen it in my own child's face for God's sick. I saw it on her beautiful face. I saw it in her beautiful. Those damned wallers had the nerve to tell us that there was a silver lining to our loss. They told us that we were lucky. We were lucky that they had to pay to dig up our own. They told us that it was better than winning the lottery. I don't care how much money they offer.

I'm not going to play their little game. And to hell with those degenerates that sold the caskets of their family. Is there no decency left in this world? I've seen the way the town is looking at me. Every eye is looking at me. They whisper to themselves. They want to know what the final jackpot will be. Filthy rats.

Those filthy traitors! I'll show them. I'll show them all. I'll show them like I showed Alex. I'll show them what it's like to have something forever taken from them. It'll be so satisfying to see the look. look on their faces when I turn them down. Why should their child have gotten to live when my own died? Maybe then they'll know what it's like to be living in this nightmare. Maybe then they'll know what it's like to be living in this

nightmare. Maybe then they'll know what it's like to have a granite slab and a story that was never written. It doesn't matter if they have all the money in the world. I will not let them disturb my daughter's rest. The winner already lost it all. This 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 copyright 2016 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

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