The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E10

Episode Date: December 11, 2016

It's episode 10 of Season 8. On this week's show we have five tales about birds, buddies, and burials."Happy Turkey Day"‡ written by J.J. Cheesman and performed by Dan Zappulla. (Story starts around 00:04:45)"The Murder in my Backyard"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 00:21:30)"Magic Marty"† written by M.J. Pack and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Eden & Alexis Bristowe & Danielle C. Callier. (Story starts around 00:38:15)"Pyramid of the Dead"‡ written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson & David Ault. (Story starts around 00:58:00)"The Things We See in the Woods"† written by C.K. Walker and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Peter Lewis & Mike DelGaudio & Jeff Clement & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 01:18:00)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about the Sleepless Live 2017 Tour Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about C.K. Walker Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡"The Murder in my Backyard" 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

This is a horror fiction podcast. We're here to frighten you and mess with your head because that's what you want. So give into your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. It's the no sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have five tales about birds, buddies, and burials. As the calendar year draws to a close, I want to make everyone aware of our schedule for the next month.

We'll be taking some time off over the holiday season, so here's what we're going to do. Next week, December 18th, is our annual Christmas episode. We'll be returning to our cozy Christmas cottage and sharing some Christmas-inspired tales from around the hearth. We hope you'll join us for some festive frights. The following Sunday lands smack dab on Christmas Day, and as such, we'll be doing something we haven't done for a long, long time. We're not releasing any episode at all. That's right, you can let Santa's impending visit be the thing keeping you from sleep that weekend,

as we'll be snug in our beds resting. The following two weeks, January 1st and January 8th, We'll be featuring two of our holiday hiatus episodes, where we'll release stories from previous season past episodes so you can start the new year with some cheer and chills. And that means we'll be back with season 8, episode 12, and our regular weekly schedule on January 15th. I know I can speak for all of us on the no-sleep team

when I say it's been quite a busy few months, so the chance for some rest and relaxation will be the best gift of all this time of year. And with only the Christmas episode coming out before the calendar turns, I wanted to take this opportunity to express a few things about this past year. I know many people consider 2016 to be one of the worst years in recent memory. It's been a tough 12 months, and it's easy to feel isolated and depressed, lost amidst a society which seems to be more hateful, divided, and fractious than ever. And that's just on the comment section of the No Sleep website.

But in the midst of all the turmoil, I can't help but realize that 2016 has been a genuinely amazing year for us here at the No Sleep podcast. Our team has grown to include two incredibly gifted producers in Phil Mikulski and Jeff Clement. We've got the hardest working administrative assistant in the world, Violet Rodriguez. is. And of course, we've been joined by some great new voice actors and illustrators. We took a risk and started including ads at the start of our free episodes, and I couldn't be more thrilled at all the positive comments from people who enjoy the ads. They don't just tolerate them. They enjoy listening, and that means so much to us. But above all that, there is

this simple truth. From the start of 2016 to this date, the size of our listening audience has more than tripled in size. That is truly humbling. We're delighted that so many people are choosing to listen each week to our brand of audio horror storytelling. We can't thank you enough for being a part of that. But what we can do is send more stories your way. So let's do that now and start this week's show.

In our first tale, we meet a man with a story to share about the recent U.S. Thanksgiving holiday. As told by author J.J. Cheeseman, the man's regular trip to a friend's cabin to hunt for their Thanksgiving meal gets altered, and that means he'll be alone in the woods hunting for his prey, or so he thinks. Performing this tale is Dan Zapula, so unlike this man, we can only hope all of you enjoyed a happy turkey day. This year was the first Thanksgiving that I didn't have a turkey that I personally shot myself. You see, that's usually my tradition. For about eight years now, my buddy Peter and I will go out to his dad's cabin a few weeks before Thanksgiving. We'd bag us a couple of birds before the holiday.

His dad's property was deep in the back woods outside of our little rural town. And to get to that cabin, you had to drive down a dirt road with thick brush on either side. The road's only wide enough for a single vehicle, and the woods made it impossible to turn around or let someone pass until you were at the very end. So if two cars met out there, somebody was having a bad day. I became acquainted with Peter when I first started working at the Department of Transportation. He and I shared an office together. And even though I was the new guy, Peter had no quarrels with immediately striking up a conversation, and we made fast friends. And it wasn't long before he asked me if I hunted.

I told him I didn't, but I'd always wanted to. And that's when he told me about his dad's cabin. So I got acquainted with using a bow. I took a hunter's safety course, and soon enough I was out there in those woods while Peter explained all the hunting basics and showed me all the signs to look for when hunting turkey. I bought my own ground blind,

which is basically just a camouflaged tent with flaps for shooting out of, and Peter showed me exactly where to put it for the best results. It was the second day of hunting that I bagged my very first bird, and I've made time for every turkey season ever since. Last week on Monday, I called up Peter, and I asked him when he wanted to meet at the cabin. We'll be able to make it this time, friend.

The wife wants to go to Tennessee to spend time with her folks. A pretty big place, so we'll be staying. Peter sounded disappointed, and I could tell he was, wasn't enthused about going out of state. But don't worry about me being there, brother. You can still use the property. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll just let Dad know you're coming.

You might meet him out there, too. He was saying he might be out there this weekend. Fast forward to Friday morning, and I was bumbling down the old dirt road that led to the cabin in my pickup. The first snow of the year had fallen the night before, and a light powder covered every single branch and bush on the way.

Once I reached the end of the road, I looked around for any sign of Peter's dad, but his truck wasn't anywhere around, so I figured he decided he wasn't coming. The cabin's electricity ran off of a generator, placed in a shed built behind the cabin, so that's where I headed when I first stepped out into the crisp bottom air. I checked to see if the generator had plenty of gas, it turned the choke valve and hit the ignition switch. With an initial bang, the generator rumbled to light. and I headed back to the truck to start bringing my things into the cabin.

And once I got everything moved in, I wasted no time in going back out into the cold and heading out into the woods to place my ground blind. The woods on the land that Peter's father owned extended for, gosh, nearly 60 acres. But, you know, to be fair, I've only seen as far as about 15 or so. Now, if you were to walk about five minutes into the woods from the back of the cabin, You'd find yourself at the very bottom of a valley, ripe with fallen trees whose roots couldn't withstand their weight on the incline of the slope,

and foliage that had grown plentiful where the break in the tree line allowed for plenty of sunlight. Now it was there within the valley that the turkeys would nest in the fall, and it was a couple hundred feet away from there that I set out my blind. And once I made sure it was secured to the ground, I walked back the way that I came, dropping food pellets as I went, in the hope that if the birds made their rounds, they'd find them. I made it back and entered in through the back door of the cabin. Now, once inside, I spent some time lighting the fireplace and unpacking my gear.

I made sure all of my arrows were sharp and double-checked the sight on my bow. The fire cracked and grew hot as I worked, making the cabin cozy and inviting. When I was done, I packed up my bow and arrows in their case, and made sure I had my beef jerky in the latest novel. I'd been reading. I'd likely be spending a long time out in that blind waiting for a turkey to walk by. So a snack and some light reading material were essential. Once I had put everything together and slung over my back, I grabbed a stool and headed out the back door and into the cold air once again. The roughly beaten path to my blind had changed slightly, and it wasn't until I was halfway there,

but I realized what exactly was different. The food pellets that I laid down were gone. My heart began to race, and I surveyed my surroundings. The turkeys taking food so soon after it was dropped was, it was frankly unheard of. I thought for sure there still had to be one pecking around near my location. For a moment, I was very quiet, but I didn't hear or see any movement. And once I was sure my prey was nowhere to be seen, I walked on towards my blind again, but I moved cautiously.

My senses were now heightened. The discovery of the missing food had made me excited, and now my ears were sharp, listening for any sounds other than my own. Once inside the blind, I sat the stool down and opened up the window flaps. I sat down on the stool, but made no move to pull out my bow just yet. I just sat, listening, waiting. Without the sound of my own footsteps polluting my ears, the only thing I could hear was my own breathing.

There was no wind or animals moving in the brush. It was perfectly still air. Finally, I put down my bow case and unzipped it. I pulled out the first two arrow shafts first, fitting them with brand new golden-colored, expandable broad heads that I'd bought just the day before. Once the arrows were finished, I pulled out my compound bow next and knocked one of the arrows, letting it sit on the arrow rest.

I waited and waited. And after a while of no movement, I sat my bow next to me and pulled out my novel. But to be honest, I was so anxious I kept looking up from it through the window of the blind, half expecting to see a bird trotting in my direction. But one never came. Minutes passed, and minutes turned to hours.

Soon it was dark, and I had to pack up and head back to the cabin for the day. Now, that night I laid in bed. Every time I was about to fall asleep, I thought I heard the warble of a turkey from just outside. My eyes would flick open. I'd wait and listen. Once I decided I was hearing things, I'd finally start to doze off, but then I'd hear it again,

and I'd be wide awake. At some point, I finally did fall asleep for good, and I woke up in the early hours of the morning. I got out of bed and made a pot of coffee, the only thing that Peters' dad kept stocked in the cabin besides cans of beans. Snow had begun to fall outside, and I watched it absent-mindedly as I waited for the coffee to brew. Once it was finished, I filled up my thermos and headed back out to the blind. This time, I was more sure of myself, more relaxed. With my bow once again knocked and ready, I pulled my book out and began reading,

and only took breaks in between pages to take a sip of coffee. And to be honest with you, I was so enthralled with my book that I almost didn't notice a low sound that was coming from the direction of the valley. It was a warble. I dropped my book and readied my bow at the window. The snowfall had gotten just a bit heavier, and every time I thought my prey was walking out of the corner of my vision, it was just the snow playing tricks with my eyes.

The warbling call that rang out into the forest was low, but it was consistent, and one would come right after another, with an interval of, say, about eight seconds in between. It wasn't right. It was somehow artificial, mechanical, unnatural. An uncontrollable shiver ran down my spine, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. All of a sudden, I didn't want to be there in that blind anymore. I wanted to be in the safety of the cabin, covered in the warm glow of the fire. And then, the warbling stopped. Everything was quiet once more. I'd realized I'd been breathing very hard, and my heart was beating rapidly.

I let out a nervous laugh, and felt my heartbeat began to slow. You're being silly, I told myself. You were spooked by Thanksgiving dinner. I lowered my bow and I decided that I'd creep into the valley to see if I'd get lucky and get a good shot there without disturbing my prey. And once that day ended, I'd be heading back home, so I had nothing to lose. I stepped out of my blind, one arrow knocked and ready, and crept slowly towards the valley.

Before I even made it 60 feet farther into the woods, I noticed movement not far ahead through the falling snow. No, I knelt down real low and slowly inched forward to see what it was. That uncontrollable shiver returned to my spine once more. There was a clicking noise mixed in with a wet, smacking sound. And as I grew closer, I recognized the movement to head was what appeared to be a naked man hunched over. His skin was marble white, and his body was completely devoid of hair. I wanted to call out to him, ask him if he was okay, but my instinct told me to keep quiet. I didn't know it was causing that clicking sound that I was hearing,

but I recognized those wet smacks well enough. He was eating. The man stopped all at once with his meal, and he lifted up his head. Then he let out a sound that made my blood run cold. The warbling from before, well, it was coming from him. That's when a wind blew sending an odor into my nostrils that smelled of death and decay. I was so focused on the strange man, I simply hadn't noticed what lay on the ground all around it. Dozens of torn apart and ravaged turkey carcasses.

A shocking truth became strikingly apparent to me in that moment that this is. This thing was not something that can be called human by any stretch of the imagination. It was somehow able to mimic the sound of the turkeys and use their calls to lure them to his location and eat them alive. I decided then that my best course of action was to back away slowly and leave. Once I was home, I would call Peter and notify the police. I took a step backward and my foot touched down on a branch, sending a cracking sound echoing out. into the air. The creature stopped its call

and snapped its head back towards my direction. I saw its face in clear and broad daylight. My God, I wish I hadn't. Its mouth was a terrifying mesh of several pincers that clicked together. Two horn-like protrusions

sprouted out from its forehead. But worst of all was its eyes. Its eyes were wide, unwavering. The outer parts of the eyes were white, and they had a brown iris and black pupils. Jesus, they were human. The creature stood and readied itself.

My reflexes caused my body to move of its own accord. I lifted my bow and drew back the arrow. Stay back! The creature stopped for only a moment at my words, that he charged right at me. I loosed the arrow, and the tip of the expandable broad-head. found its mark in the creature's shoulder. It reeled back and screamed an agonizing wail, and even its scream was human. The scream was somehow familiar.

It was hoarse and cranky, like the shout of someone who smoked far too much. I wasted little time in turning around and bolting towards the direction of the cabin. And as I ran, I prayed under my breath, please don't let it. Catch me. Please. All while my feet thudded against the powdered floor of the forest, I could hear my own voice shouting from somewhere behind me. Stay back.

Stay back. Stay back. Stay back. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It copied my voice perfectly. Stay back. Stay back. Stay back.

At the sound of its mockery, I was filled with a primal fear that sent adrenaline rushing through my veins. My feet pounded the ground faster and faster, and when I broke through that tree line, I didn't stop until I made it to my truck. I jumped into the cab and threw my keys into the ignition and floored the pedal in panic. My pickup barely budged in the rising snow. I hit the switch that activated the four-wheel drive and hit the gas. again. And this time my truck began to move. I drove the whole way off that property checking the rearview mirror, expecting that thing to be behind me. But I never saw it again. Once home, I couldn't stop shaking. My first thought was to call Peter, but I remembered he was in Tennessee, and

frankly, it wouldn't help anything to worry the man. I went into the kitchen, and I poured myself a stiff whiskey. I took a long gulp and let the amber fluid burn my throat. The warm sensation helped calm me a little, and the thought occurred to me to get a hold of Peter's dad. Peter had said he was thinking about heading out there, and my God, it would be bad if he ran into that thing. And that's when a memory came flooding into my mind. And I knew it was too late for Peter's dad. A memory where Peter, his dad, and I all sat around the fire at the cabin. Peter's dad stood from his chair and he walked into the kitchen.

He stubbed his toe on a leg of one of the chairs placed around the table and he cried out. Peter's dad lived a hard life and his scream was hoarse and croaky. Like the sound of someone who smoked far too much. Moving into a new house can be stressful and exciting at the same time. But as we learn from author S.H. Cooper, when a woman realizes her yard seems to be a favorite roosting spot for some crows, she finds that's not the most mysterious aspect of her new home. Performing this tale is Addison Peacock.

So watch for the crows, or like this woman, you may be able to see The Murder. in my backyard. There was no love at first sight. No stomach-fluttering feeling of, this is the one, just the realization that this was the best my budget could get me. My realtor, already frustrated with how many times I'd said no to other places, watched anxiously over my shoulder as I signed the papers,

as if she was afraid I'd back out at the last minute. And just like that, I was the less than proud owner of a decade's old house and all the issues that came with it. Still, I told myself as I was handed the keys, it was better than continuing to live with my all-too-recent ex-husband. It took a few coats of paint, some new flooring, and a lot of personal touches, but after a while, my new home started to grow on me,

despite the never-ending list of things that needed to be fixed. The projects kept me occupied, which allowed the raw wound of my divorce to slowly scab over, and without me really realizing it, I was moving forward. It wasn't until I'd been there for about a month that I started to notice the crow. I was sitting at my kitchen table, staring aimlessly out the window over a cup of coffee, when I noticed a small crow perched on the back porch railing. It was hopping up and down the length of it, beady eyes fixed on the door.

Amused, I watched it for a while before continuing on with my day. The next morning, around the same time, the bird was a little bit of it. back, and again the following day. Every day that week, I'd look out, and there it was, hopping along the railing, looking expectantly at the door. Finally, when my curiosity got the best of me, I wrapped myself in my robe, grabbed the neglected heel from my loaf of bread, and stepped out to grate it. I stood still beside the door while it regarded me warily, its little head turning this way and that. It moved away to the far end of the railing where it fluffed up, smoothed itself, and fluffed again. Go on. The crow clicked its beak and indecision. It's the good stuff,

not even store brand. After a few moments of nervous rustling, it took off and flew quickly back toward the woods that bordered my backyard. I sighed, rolled my eyes and went back in, figuring I'd not see my little feathery visitor anymore. Even with such doubt, I replaced the heel in the bread bag instead of throwing it out. But the next day, it was back, Once again, bouncing along the railing. This time, I just opened the door wide enough to toss the heel out while I stayed inside and watched from the window. The crow looked from the bread to the door and back a few times before it decided the risk

was worth it and dove down to enjoy its breakfast tree. Feeding the crow became part of my morning routine. When it became clear it wasn't just going to be a one-time event, I did some research and bought some actual bird seed and treats for it to enjoy. For time, I was able to go from tossing things out the door to standing on one far side of the porch while it ate on the other, to leaning on the rail right next to it while it pecked away to its heart's content. You need a name, huh? It continued eating without pause, and I smiled. What about Po? Nice and cliche, huh? Granted, that was a raven, but I won't let that bother me if you don't. So named, I lifted my coffee mug towards Poe and took a sip. And for the first time, in a long,

time. I was content. Poe, as it turned out, was a generous little companion, and a few months after I'd started feeding him, he began to return the favor. He'd fly up to the porch, drop his gift beside me, wait for me to pick it up, and then begin eating when he was satisfied that I'd accepted his gift. At first, it was just twigs, small rocks, things he'd find on the ground. Then one day he brought me a button. It was dirty, but obviously white, save for. a rusty red spot and had bits of thread and cloth still hanging from it. Don't tell me you attached someone to get this. I added the button to my collection of Poe's gifts and forgot about it.

Eventually, Poe started to bring friends to my porch, and it wasn't unusual for me to have half a dozen crows lined up waiting for breakfast. It got to the point that I almost didn't need an alarm anymore. The cawing of hungry crows was more than enough to wake me. People are going to start thinking I'm a crazy bird lady, because of you guys. I spread a line of seat along the railing. They scrambled to be the first to get it.

If you were robins or sparrows, I'd be a Disney princess. But a murder of crows, I'm the witch in the woods. That day, Poe left me a little plastic bead, the kind that kids use on friendship bracelets. On both sides, although chipped and faded, the letter K was still visible.

That afternoon, while I was sitting in my office, working on a client's website, my doorbell rang. An elderly man greeted me cheerfully when I answered the door. He held up a plate of cookies. Hello, I'm Stan. I live across the road. Hi, Beth. Sorry, it's taken me so long to welcome you to the neighborhood.

I've been visiting my children. They're all scattered about, and it takes a few months to make the rounds. Oh, well, thank you. I appreciate it. I'm sorry. I'm in the middle of work. Oh, of course, of course, of course. Here, these are for you. Home-made, you know, my wife's recipe. They're not as good as when she used to make them, I'm sure.

But I hope they're still good. I accepted the cookies with another smile. I'm sure they're going to be great. Thanks again, that's really nice. If you ever need anything, I'm right across the way in the Brown House. You just stop by whenever. All right. I'm usually there. Okay, I will.

I took a step back in order to close the door. How are you finding the place? He was either oblivious to or outright ignoring my obvious desire to get back to work, and I sighed inwardly. Nice and quiet, just the way I like it. Hint, hint. Lovely. Oh, it's been a while since we've had anyone living here. Is it just you? Just me and the crows.

Uh, the crows? He furrowed his brow and then understanding widened his eyes. Oh, the crows. Isn't that funny? They must still remember. Remember? Yeah, the little girl who lived here before you used to feed them. Oh, it was the cutest thing. They started bringing her things. Oh, and it just made her so. happy. He looked over my shoulder into the house, his expression tinged by a wistful sadness. They kept coming even after she disappeared. Oh, I guess you being here brought them back.

Oh. Oh, she was a sweet kid. Just about destroyed her parents when she... Stan trailed off and shook his head. Well, I'm just glad someone's living here again. After Stan had gone and I was back on my computer, I found myself unable to concentrate on my work. I was distracted by what he told me about the little girl and the crows. I pulled up a browser and typed in my town name and the name of the couple I'd bought the house from.

Fifth grader kidnapped from her yard. Parents of missing girl plead for answers. Police call off active search after no new leads. I skimmed the articles quickly. Ten-year-old Caitlin Graham had vanished while playing in her backyard. Her parents, who'd been inside, hadn't seen or heard anything, only discovered she was gone when she didn't come in for dinner. The search was extensive, but hindered by heavy ice and snowstorms,

and after months with no new leads or information, police were forced to stop. The case remained open, but inactive. A sight maintained by her family begged for anyone with any knowledge to come forward. On the About-Katlin page, they described her as bright, energetic, and an animal lover who wanted to be a vet when she grew up. One of the pictures they had posted showed a girl, small for her age, with short hair and glasses smiling brightly at the camera. She was standing on what I recognized to be the back porch, and beside her, perched on the railing, were a pair of crows.

I closed the browser and sat back with a heavy sigh. That explained why Poe had started showing up. He had probably been looking for that girl, Caitlin. Caitlin. Kay. I frowned and reached into my pocket where I had absently shoved Poe's gift from that morning. My fingers closed around the bead and I pulled it out. It lay flat in my palm, the letter K, staring up at me.

When the crows showed up the next morning, I fed them as usual and took my seat to wait. Po didn't bring me anything that day, nor the next. I was getting frustrated with him, which I realized was silly, but I kept hoping that whatever he brought next, it would be definitive proof that the bead and maybe even the button he'd given me were Caitlin's. The next gift was a grimy nickel, and the one after that another bead, this one bright red. Nothing that tied Poe to the girl. I was starting to feel silly, like maybe I'd spent too much time by myself and it was letting the tragedy that had occurred in my house get under my skin. What were the odds that Poe had even known the girl? It had all happened,

over a year ago. And then, on one particularly chilly morning, he laid a small, white bone on the railing in front of me. I swallowed a gag and crouched in front of it, wanting to get a better look, but unwilling to touch it. To my untrained eye, it looked to be a finger bone. A size seemed right for a child. Where'd you get this?

Poe ignored me. in favor of his seed. A smarter person would have called the cops then and there, or at least gotten dressed in warmer clothes. Instead, I ran inside, grabbed my phone, tugged my coat on over my pajamas, shoved my feet in my boots, and darted back outside, hoping the crows were still there.

It was just my luck that they were in no rush. When Poe took off in the direction of the woods, I hurried after him on foot, one hand raised to shield my eyes. It was difficult to keep up. up with him from the ground. I tripped more than I ran and was forever snagging myself on low-hanging branches and underbrush. I thought for sure I'd lose sight of Poe with all my stumbling, but every time I looked up, he was still overhead. I almost felt like he was waiting for me.

Deeper and deeper into the woods on and on until my feet ached and early December's cold had seeped through my thin pajama bottoms. I hugged myself and stamped my feet, trying to return some warmth to my fast, chilling limbs, but I kept going. I heard the murder of crows before I saw them, a chorus of harsh calls from the treetops. It sounded like there must have been hundreds all around me, crowding the branches. Poe came to settle on a bare branch of a tall tree and turned to look at me, his head cocked to one side. Around us, the other crows gradually quieted until there was only the whistling of the wind. Poe caught once.

I took a step forward, towards his tree, and he caught again. It felt almost like we were playing a game of warm or colder and let out a short, nervous laugh. The tree's base was nodded and gnarled, its roots, a dangerously tangled mess. I stepped through them as carefully as I could, but still managed to lose my footing more than once. Poe paced along the length of the bush.

branch, his feathers ruffled anxiously. The other crows were similarly unsettled, but all remained silent. I rounded the tree's wide trunk, my heart beating so fast and hard I was half afraid I might be having a heart attack. Overhead, Po let out a soft squawk. I narrowed my eyes and scanned the ground carefully. At some point in the tree's long history, some animal had dug its way down through ground and root to make a den at its foot. I would have missed it entirely beneath the forest debris, except for the flash of white that showed itself when I disturbed the leaves as my foot brushed over them.

I screeched and fell backwards. A four-fingered skeletal hand was reaching up out of the hole. Around its wrist, the remnants of a beaded bracelet had caught on the cuff of its pink jacket. As I scrambled to find my phone, the crows began to caw and fly off until only Poe remained. He didn't leave until the police and ambulance arrived, and Caitlin's body was carefully removed from the base of the tree. As an officer was questioning me, I watched Poe hopped to the end of his branch, ruffle himself a final time, and take off after the other crows.

Caitlin Graham had been raped, beaten, strangled, and finally killed by a blow that almost crushed half her skull. I turned over the button, beads, and bone that Poe had brought to me and offered up what little help I could. The red spot on the button, which hadn't come off any of Caitlin's clothing, tested positive as blood, and hair fibers were found in the torn cloth. Skin and hair were also retrieved from under the girl's fingernails. When it was revealed that the police were confident they were about to finally catch her killer,

Stan, my cookie-baking neighbor, committed suicide. His note only said, may God forgive me. The crows only showed up one more time after Caitlin was found. It was the night they came to retrieve Stan's body. The birds were on every power line, the roof of his house, crowded in his trees. When the stretcher containing Stan already zipped in a black bag was wheeled out, they screeched long and loud, only stopping once he was out of sight.

Once he was gone, they rose like a dark cloud and departed. As often happens, when a child learns a new baby is soon to join the family, there can be a sense of isolation and resentment. Just ask author MJ Pack. She knows of a young girl who turned to her imaginary friend to deal with the news of a sibling, it's a good thing her new friend turned out to be so friendly and supportive. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Eden, Alexis Bristow, and Danielle C. Collier. So if you need a friend to turn to, why not consider Magic Marty? When you're a little kid, you do some strange stuff to get attention,

especially when you're an only child and then poof you're not you're getting the little brother or sister pep talk from mom and dad and everything changes you're used to being the center of their world being told you're the most special little girl that his mom's belly gets bigger and bigger and dad's patience with you get smaller and smaller you realize it's not going to go back the way it was Not ever That's what happened to me when I was seven anyway I was the kind of kid that needs a lot of attention I hadn't had to try hard for seven years I'd been coasting on my parents' single-minded doting

But pretty soon I noticed some small differences They were less interested in what I'd done in school that day More interested in getting ready for my new little brother or sister I was like an alcoholic without a bottle You feel fine at first, but soon the tremor set in and you realize you just need it, you know? You need their eyes on you, loving you, reminding you that you are the most special little girl in the whole wide world, maybe the only special little girl. So in the last month or so before the baby came, I got creative. I told them one night at dinner.

I made a new friend. At school, sweetheart? No. I was fidgety, excited, twitching in my seat when they both looked at me with rapt attention from across the table. Time to launch my plan into action. He lived in the air vents. His name is Marty and he's Magic. My dad smiled a little. Oh, that's fun. Eat your peas, Rosie.

And that was it. That was it. I just told them that Magic Marty lived in our air vents and all I... got was that's fun? And what's worse, they went back to talking about the baby. I always heard that word with an ominous sort of importance, and whether they thought the nursery could be painted over the weekend or not. I stewed and pushed peas around my plate. I knew I was going to think of something better, something to make them ask me questions about Marty, about me, like they used to. Stupid baby. I didn't care if it was a broad. rather or a sister. It was a pain before it even got here. Over time, I came up with new tidbits

about Magic Marty and how amazing he was. He only ate jelly beans. He could move things with his mind. He had a cat named baseball, and he was my very best friend. Mom and Dad didn't care all that much. I mean, sure, they smiled and nodded and gave me the barest hint of recognition. They had their minds on other things. I upped the ante and started talking to the air vents in rooms all over the house, loud enough so that my parents could hear me in the den. Marty, you moved my coloring buck when I was at school. Did you do that with your mind?

Marty, I wish I could eat jelly beans for dinner. Marty, have you left baseball out? Kitty cats need exercise. Nothing. The dumb old baby got everything. I started wondering, if I was really so special after all. After one particularly hard day

when I'd brought home a gold star paper and mom left it on the counter, didn't even bother to put it up on the fridge with one of my favorite fruit-shaped magnets, I crawled under my bed. I'd hidden under there before during games of hide-and-seek with my best friend Brittany,

and that day I didn't even want attention anymore. I just wanted to hide away from the world and think about how things used to be. I lay there glumly on my stomach with the dust bunnies, chin on my hands, trying to decide whether or not I had it in me to even cry when I noticed it. The air vent. A slotted metal rectangle set in the carpet hidden by my bed. Mom sometimes yelled at Dad for rearranging the furniture. He covered the vents up, and then they had an argument about whether the air conditioning could even cool the room properly with some huge couch covering it.

I guess she'd never notice the vent under my bed because there'd never been a fight about that one. I don't know why, but I started talking to it. For real. Up until then, it had all been stories and playing for show. But that day, I decided if I wasn't going to be the most special little girl anymore, I may as well have a friend, even if he was a made-up one. I told Magic Marty I thought baseball was a very good name for a cat.

I said moving stuff with his mind must be hard, but it was a neat trick to have. I confess that it was really cool he only ate jelly beans. I like the red ones best. Which color was his favorite? Oh, the pink ones! A pause, and then... They taste like cotton candy. I stared at the vent.

I had a hell of an imagination, sure, but even at sense. I knew that voices weren't really supposed to come out of the air vents. Oh. I lifted my chin from my hands. I didn't really know what to say, you know? You're a very nice little girl, Rosie. The voice was a man's voice, pleasant and lilting, almost like a song. It was, if I'm being honest, exactly as I thought Magic Marty should sound.

You're a very nice little girl for talking to me, telling such wonderful stories about my life to your parents. You're a very special little girl. Wow, thanks. It felt like the first nice thing someone had said to me in a long time. And I mean, if someone as great as Magic Marty thought I was special, maybe it was. Maybe it was true. Wait. But I made you up, Marty.

There was a long pause, then in a tone that almost held a chuckle in it. Are you sure, Rosie? Suddenly no. I wasn't sure at all. Rosie, my special little girl, how could you make up all of my magical adventures? You're special, yes, but you're not magic? Now Marty did laugh. A wonderful musical sound that made me giggle a little too.

How could you make up good old baseball here? A pleasant meow floated through the metal slots of the air vent. Marty had a point. I mean, all those crazy things that he could do, and a cat? a real-life cat that meowed and everything? I couldn't have made it up, not on my own. It only made sense that I'd been talking to him all this time for real and just been so distracted by the baby.

A little brother or sister. I miss when mom and dad like just me. Baseball meowed again, and this time it sounded sad. Of course you don't. Of course not. What good are bad. Anyways anyway. Garbage, noisy little stinkers. They can't even do a cartwheel. He looked this sink in before prodding slyly.

I bet you can do a cartwheel? I can't, I can. I was eager to scramble out from under the bed to show him, but he shushed me right away. Quiet now, Rosie. If your parents find out we're friends, well, they may not like that I live in the air vent so much. They may decide to make me go. The idea struck me with such cold horror that I scooched even closer to the vent, nearly pressing my face against its smooth metal. No, Marty, no.

I'd only just found my new friend. How could my parents make him go so soon? They're going to have their stupid baby. Why can I have you for my friend? There was a small, hard lump in my throat that I couldn't swallow down for some reason. I was on the verge of tears. Don't. His voice was as sweet and smooth as honey.

I will think of something. For the next month, Marty and I talked about everything. Every day after school I would crawl under my bed, push my face close to the air vent, and tell him all about my day. I told him when Arthur traded me his plastic snake for my slide whistle. I told him how we only needed three more gold stars to get a class pizza party. I told him that Marissa S was the best hopscotch player I'd ever seen. Marty oohed and odd and asked me questions, asked for more. He also asked when he thought I'd be getting a new brother or sister.

I told him I didn't know. One day I came home in Teresa, my teenage neighbor one house over, was sitting on the couch instead of my heavily pregnant mother. I walked in and dropped my backpack. Hey, Rosie Girl. Your mom and dad are at the hospital. You're going to have a new little brother or sister soon. Neat. I didn't think it was neat at all.

I'm going to my room. Under my bed, I moped and played with my plastic snake. When you held it by its tail, the segmented pieces slithered back and forth like a real snake. My plastic snake was neat. The baby was garbage, like Marty said. It's coming. Isn't it's Rosie? Yeah. I wiggled the snake back and forth, back and forth. Maybe tomorrow or a few days. I don't know. I don't care.

Do you think it will be back? when it gets here? For the first time there was something else in Marty's voice, not laughter, not honey, something else. Do you think it will be very bad for you, Rosie? Do you think your parents will even look at you ever again? Once that stinky little thing is here, do you think it will be even worse?

I hadn't even considered it. I knew the new normal, sure, but it never crossed my mind that things could get worse. Baseball led out a plaintive mule. What do you think, Marty? I think that I promised you I would think of something. and I am so very pleased to tell you that I have. A glimmer of hope.

I glanced left, making sure Teresa couldn't hear us, then looked back at the vent. Really? You can fix everything? You can make it so the baby doesn't ruin it? Oh, Rosie girl. Marty let the words draw out like stretching a wad of chewing gum. I'm magic. I can do anything. Magic Marty told me to wait. He told me he would fix everything.

He was my friend, so I believed him. Mom, dad, and stupid baby Sophie came home a few days later. She was a pink bundle of squished up skin and soft little tufts of hair. I had to admit she was sort of pretty. and it was kind of neat how small she was. I didn't like how she sounded when she cried, though, and that first night she was screaming loud. So loud I got under my bed and put a pillow over my head,

hoping that if I couldn't block out her cries long enough to sleep, that maybe Marty would be around and we could talk about his secret plan. Marty? Baseball? Nothing. After a while, the muffled sounds of Sophie's shirt, Shreaks finally stopped and I fell asleep under the bed, hoping that mom and dad hadn't found out about Marty before he could fix everything. When I woke up, my room was full of light but dark at the same time. Strobes of red and blue streaked the walls like fireworks on the 4th of July. I was

waking up because someone was pulling at me, trying to get me out from under the bed. For half a sleepy second, I was sure it was Marty. He was pulling me out because he was pulling me out because he was pulling out. didn't have to live in the vents anymore. He'd talked to mom and dad and they'd decided he could live with us in the house. But then I saw a police officer with a serious stern face and I knew something was wrong. Police officers were only around when there was something bad. They were around when people needed to be saved. Did I need to be saved? Turns out I did. A neighbor, Teresa's Mom, I think, had heard screaming and called the police, but it was too late. My parents were found in their bed, shredded into bloody meat.

Stab wounds, a lot of them, the autopsy report said, More than likely a robbery gone wrong, or more accurately an abduction gone wrong. Because little Sophie was gone. Her brand-new crib empty. The police told me I was lucky. Whatever monster had hurt me. My family probably hadn't found me because I'd been hiding under the bed.

Pretty lucky, right? I made it out okay. I stayed with relatives in foster homes, got lots of therapy. I was treated all right. None of the horror stories most unfortunate orphans have to survive. In therapy, I realized that I had made up Magic Marty as a coping mechanism. He'd become more real to me than my parents had because I so desperately need to needed to think that someone found me special.

I'd never really heard anything, and my coping mechanism, as it turns out, probably saved my life. Against the odds, I grew up well-adjusted. Well, well-adjusted enough. Did all those things you're supposed to do, graduate high school, meet a guy, get married, and eight months ago got pregnant? I've been so excited. So long without a real family of my own, and now all that was going to be. to change. But yesterday I was setting up my daughter's nursery and I dropped one of her little

blankets on the ground. My husband wasn't home, so after a few clumsy attempts, I managed to get down to a knee and pick it up. It was covering an air vent. I felt a cold chill slither through me for no reason at all, but I told myself the same old mantra, Magic Marty wasn't real. Magic Marty was a coping mechanism. Magic Marty was something I made up. And then a voice as syrupy sweet as dripping honey said, It's coming, isn't it, Rosie? It was like all the strength had gone out of my legs. I wobbled backwards and landed on my ass. Not real. I made him up. Is it a little girl, Rosie? There was no one else that voice belonged to.

No one else it could belong to. I hope it is. Oh, I so hope it's a little girl. Do you know why, Rosie, girl? You're not real. But I didn't believe it. And I suddenly realized I never believed it. Because I fixed it.

I started laughing then. Somewhere in the laughter, I thought I could hear the yell of a feral cat. Fixed it just like you asked. And you don't even know the best part. I just wanted to feel special. The best part was. how she tasted. The last thing I heard before I scrambled to my feet and fled screaming from the house was this.

The big ones taste like cotton candy. Your time in our netherworld back into your own reality. 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. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our unseen hands will drag you down into our dark storyland. This audio production is copyright, 2016, 2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc.

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