The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E20

Episode Date: March 12, 2017

It's episode 20 of Season 8. On this week's show we have five tales about roads, rituals, and revenge."The Road to Hell is Paved in EnduroFlex Heavy Duty Asphalt"† written by Manen Lyset and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Atticus Jackson & Dan Zappulla. (Story starts around 00:03:30)"It Was Called The Hating Tree"† written by Dan Richardson and performed by Atticus Jackson & Kyle Akers & Elie Hirschman & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts around 00:20:30)"I Used to Work the Grill at Reservation Diner"† written by Samir Hamrouni and performed by Matthew Bradford & Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:35:00)"The Feind House"† written by Irene Stark and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Dan Zappulla & Alexis Bristowe & Patrick Cline & Erika Sanderson & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 01:00:45)"Cape Matador"‡ written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:23:30)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about the Sleepless Live 2017 Tour Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡Audio program ©2017 - 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 in to your fear because tonight there will be no sleep for the no sleep podcast. It's the no sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have five tales about roads, rituals, and revenge. It's the final weekend of the Sleepless Live 2017 tour. We're here in Portland, Oregon, getting ready for tonight's show. Tomorrow we're off to Seattle for the final performance.

It's been quite a ride. As you can probably tell, I'm outside at the moment, and since we're in the Pacific Northwest, it's raining out. But it's a beautiful rain. It's a peaceful rain. It adds the perfect touch of melancholy to our life. last few days together. It's early in the morning, so I'm letting the team sleep in. They need their beauty rest after all. I'll wait until after we get home to fully express my thoughts on the tour as a

whole. This week, I just want to express my deep appreciation to our home team who have worked tirelessly while we've been on the road. Producer Phil Mikulski has led the charge and done much of the episode coordination. Our two admins, Violet and Gabrielle, made sure stories were looked after. And of course, our wonderful usurper, I mean our guest host, Erica Sanderson, she's been invaluable in casting roles and hosting the show. We treasure everyone who has kept the show going during the tour. The tour itself has been an overwhelming success, and I'm immensely proud of that, but I think I'm prouder of the fact that we continued to release episodes while the tour was going on, and it's all thanks to everyone on the no-sleep team.

When it came to choosing this motley crew, I guess it can be said that I chose wisely. We love you all. And so, Erica, you're over in England. The sound of rain is nothing new to you. So I'll leave things in your capable hands as we kick off this week's show. Hello, everyone, and thank you for joining me again in the big chair. Normal service should resume next week, but before I'm led back, Back to the Dungeons, I'd quickly like to thank David for the opportunity of guest hosting

and to our producer Phil for all of his support over these last few weeks. Now, roadworks and construction are often seen as a living hell. And in our first story, author Manon Lissette takes this view quite literally. Performing this tale are Mike Del Gordio, Atticus Jackson and Dan Zepula. Put on your hard hat, because the road to hell is paved in Endual. Duroflex heavy-duty asphalt. And I knew something was off from the moment I got to work and saw some guy leaving my boss's office.

Sometimes you just get a feeling about certain people, you know? There wasn't anything that really stood out about him. He didn't wear a black cape or a hood to hide devil's horns. He didn't have soul-piercing eyes and a sinister smirk. He didn't rub his hands maliciously while cackling as he passed me or anything like that. He was just a normal guy and a normal business suit. But, man, when he walked by me, I got that feeling you get when you miss a step and you're about to fall on your face.

Before you realize you're in bed and it was just a dream, problem was. This guy, there wasn't that immediate relief afterwards. I was just left feeling cold in the pit of my stomach. My boss motioned for me to come in. Michael, can I have a word? I tucked my construction hat under my arm and stepped into his office. Who the hell was that?

He shrugged. New supplier. Have a seat. I sat down. Hmm. What's he a supplier of? He looked at the contract on his desk. Enduroflex heavy-duty asphalt. We should be getting our first shipment sometime this week. Never heard of Enduroflex.

Neither have I. It's new and dirt cheap. So we're going to give it. it a try, but that's not why I called you in here. It's not? You waved a dismissive hand. No, no. I wanted to talk about your schedule. You've had a rough winter. You know the ropes? The roads need fixing, and the city wants it done pronto. We're going to have to work around the clock to get this done or risk losing the contract to the competitors. I'm going to need you to work nights for the next month. You can't be serious. And I hated working nights. I'd done my time in my first couple of years working for the company.

A night here or a night there was fine. But a whole month? Man, talk about a punch to the balls. I tried not to show my anger as I gripped my hat tighter. I need someone with experience out there. Someone who can get the job done fast. You can go home today, Michael. Get some rest.

Come back tomorrow night. I'll have your assignments ready by then. You're the boss. I took the free time off and tried to adjust to my new schedule, but on such short notice, coffee was the only thing keeping me awake through the night. The first couple of shifts went by without incident. I wasn't sure when we'd start using the new asphalt, or if I'd even notice a difference when we finally did.

But if what happened a few nights ago was any indication, yes, there was a very noticeable difference. Chuck and I rolled up to our first assignment of the night, a main road going through the suburbs. The day and evening crews had already stripped the street and laid down fresh gravel. I could even see a short strip of fresh, still steaming asphalt on the other side of the median. If we'd missed the evening crew, we hadn't missed them by long. Still, it was weird for them not to be there for the handoff, but it was even we'd left the pavor at the site instead of bringing it back so we could fill it up before coming.

The boss had just assumed that they were still working. He told us to take the truck and join him there. Where's the crew? Must have clocked out already. Where's our crew? You know, I hadn't noticed the rest of my team hadn't shown up yet. Technically, we could do the work just the two of us, but it was unusual not to have a few extra pairs of hands and eyes.

Don't know. As dispatch, he let out a groan and grabbed his phone while I exited the truck and checked the road. The gravel was nice and even, ready for the asphalt to be laid over it. It wasn't going to take us very long to get the job done, I thought. Chuck popped his head out the window. They called in sick. I raised an eyebrow.

All of them? He gave me an exaggerated shrug. Yeah, all of them. I rolled my eyes inside loudly. All right, let's get this show on the road. Boss wants this street ready to drive on by morning. Parked the truck. I'll get the paver. I was already pretty irritated about having to drive the paver all the way back to fill it up again.

So when I approached and realized the evening crew had left it running, I nearly blew a gasket. Anyone could have wandered in and stolen it. Any kid could have slipped behind the wheel and gotten himself or someone else killed. If that wasn't bad enough, they'd left nearly a full load of asphalt in the back. I could already picture myself wasting half the night struggling to clear it out now that it had the chance to harden. I stumped the rest of the way back and climbed onto the back to get a better look inside. Well, to my relief, the asphalt was still steaming hot and didn't appear to have set yet. I grabbed the rake and ran it across the surface.

Yeah, it was still good. What a relief. I slipped behind the driver's seat, hit the gas, and turned her around. We did a U-turn to the other side of the media, and then. where I waited for the truck. It wasn't long before I saw the reflector strips of his construction vest. I rolled down the window in motion for him to go around back and help guide me. Nah, I could have managed without him and him without me, but protocol was protocol.

He gave me a thumbs up, and I started pouring the asphalt. The paver screamed in protest. Imagine the shriek of a cat put through the amplifier at a death metal concert. In my mirror, I could see. Chuck covering his ears and turning away. I stopped and jumped out of the paver. I was starting to understand why it hadn't been emptied. Is something caught in the conveyor?

Chuck shook his head. Not from what I can see. Asphalt came out just fine. Damn things just really loud. What about in the gears? Nope. I gave the paver a quick inspection, but everything looked normal to me.

You want some mirror protection? Please. We each put on a paver. air of noise suppression headphones and went back to our duties, this time relying solely on hand gestures. I could hear the mechanical shrieks even through the muffling headpieces, but I tried to work past it and just kept pouring, hoping whatever was causing the disturbance would eventually, you know, resolve itself. Hopefully, it would stop before waking up the whole neighborhood. We'd barely gotten halfway through the strip of road that needed to be paved before Chuck

motioned for me to stop. I stopped the process, but the The screams continued this time. Hmm. Maybe the issue was with the engine. I pulled the key from the ignition. The mechanical shrieks diminished, but I could still hear something. Before I could look back, Chuck was pounding at the window. He was yelling something and talking really fast, but I couldn't hear him over the headphones.

As soon as I pulled him off to listen to him, my ears were flooded with the unholy sound coming from behind the paver. The volume slowly lowered, but Chuck didn't bother repeating himself. He opened the door, grabbed me by the vest, and pulled me out of the vehicle. What the hell is going on? Chuck didn't answer. Just dragged me around back where, to my horror, I found a human-shaped bump in the asphalt. I didn't even think to question how it had happened. I hadn't even felt the pava run over anything.

Had I been that careless? The lump suddenly moved. Its chest sunk, and it let out an agonized scream. Oh, my God. He's still alive. We need to get him out. In a panic, I unhooked the rake from the back of the paver, and I used it to try to strip the asphalt away. I dug desperately, my trembling hands barely able to keep hold of the handle

as I imagined the burnt face I'd uncover beneath. Chuck just stood there. They were in shock, and I didn't have the mental fortitude to think to have him call an ambulance. I dug and dug and dug, and then I hit gravel. I wasn't able to register what was going on. I kept digging and dragging the rake around in every direction. All I ever reached was more gravel? There's no one there.

But I stared at the ground in disbelief. I'd dug every inch of where the silhouette had been. But Chuck was right. There was nothing underneath. He looked at me in confusion and fear. It was an air pocket. An air pocket shaped like a human? What about the scream?

He pointed to the paver. It was coming from that thing. Right? I nodded hesitantly. Right. We both heard the scream coming from the pavement itself. I was sure of it. We looked at each other for a moment as we tried to decide what to do. My heart was beating so hard I thought I was going to pass out. I went into autopilot. I don't even remember walking back to the paver,

and I can only vaguely recall telling Chuck we had to get the job done. I started up the paver again and ignored the inhuman screeches coming from it as the asphalt began pouring out. This time, I made it all the way down this trip before I stopped and realized Chuck wasn't following. I looked in the rearview mirror and found him still standing at the spot where the air bubble had been. He wasn't looking at the hole I'd duck in the pavement, though. He was looking at another lump. My eyes traveled up the road of smoking asphalt to the dozens of human-shaped bumps leading all the way to the back of my vehicle. You can only deal with so much fear before you start to go numb.

I parked and got out of the paver. I could hear the figures screaming. All of them were screaming so loud. It was sickening. They weren't forming sentences or even words just ungodly, agonized, inhuman moans of absolute torment. They were writhing, shuffling, shifting in every direction, like skiers, caught in an avalanche. Some appeared to be facing up, while others were on their knees and seemed to be trying to crawl away but could barely move from the weight of the molten rock covering them

like a blanket. I could hear the gravel underneath them crackling and the asphalt above them shifting and buckling as the figures reached out for freedom. It was horrible. I grabbed the Raken desperately ran it over the bumps, convinced I could somehow save and unearth the figures trapped inside. But, just like before, there was nothing but street underneath the asphalt. Couldn't understand what I was seeing. It was like a magic trick gone wrong. It was impossible. I thought I was losing my mind every time I turned the asphalt over. But thankfully, I wasn't the only one seeing this. Chuck could see them. I could see the terror in his eyes as he just stood there and watched me.

In a way, it was comforting not to go through this alone, even though he wasn't being much help. Black, rocky fingertips began stretching out from the flat surface next to me. That's when I dropped the rake and backed onto the median. More fingers, then hands, then faces emerged from everywhere, covering every inch of the asphalt.

There were hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, I'm not sure. I could see their features more clearly now, as though the surface had become a wax mask. I could see individual creases in their fingers. I could make out their noses, sunken lips, and wide open mouths as they continued to scream for help. I will never forget the sound of those cries.

And then I heard the compact roller starting up with Chuck. at its helm. He looked at me with the eyes of a shell-shocked soldier. We have to get the job done. I couldn't stop him. I just watched in shock as he began flattening the asphalt. I remember the crunching sound as he passed over the silhouettes trapped in the rocks. It reminded me of the sound my arm had made when I fell from the jungle gym in grade school and broke it in three places. The job. We have to get the job done, he mouthed.

As he rolled over the lumpy strip, the screams became morphed in a way I couldn't properly explain to you. It was the sound equivalent of trying to drink with a broken straw. The noise was still there, but couldn't quite make it out. Chuck ran over the pavement as many times as it took for it to become acceptably flat. I could see him repeating the same words over and over to himself. We have to get the job done. The compact roller came to a stop, and he sat there with his head in his hands.

I think he might have been crying. The nightmare was over. I swallowed hard as I looked at the street. You could still see the faces, now stretched out and flat as pancakes. They were still screaming, but the sound was muffled, like they were yelling into a pillow or something. I just stood there watching and listening to the chorus of pain for hours. It wasn't until the asphalt had completely dried and hardened that the screams finally stopped.

Or maybe they were just too low for me to hear them anymore. I'm not sure. The pavement took six whole hours to dry, six times as long as it normally would. And I stood there the whole time. I went home when the sun came out, still in shock from what I had seen. I called in sick for my next few shifts. Today I drove back to that street. Maybe it was just, I don't know, morbid curiosity.

Or maybe I needed closure. I don't know. Maybe I was hoping the pavement would look normal to me and I'd just move on. No, I should have left well enough alone. When I looked at the road, I could still just barely make out their twisted, grief-stricken faces on the porous surface. They're on that street, and on every other street we've paved since then. Wishing wells and wishing trees are harmless, gentle childhood games. But as author Dan Richardson shares, what if there was a tree that could grant you any vengeful wish,

as long as you were willing to make a sacrifice. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Kyle Acres, Ellie Hirschman, and Alexis Bristow. Be careful what you wish for, because it was called the hating tree. The tree was an old, twisted gray thing in the middle of the forest. Its leaves had left it for good many years ago, so the branches laid bare, reaching skywards like jagged hands.

The damn thing, honestly, probably wasn't even alive anymore. The bark of the tree fell off in pieces, and where it hadn't already come off, there were carvings. Countless carvings. Letters all over the trunk. H.R. K. P. N.M. D.R. The list goes on. There didn't seem barely a place for any more carvings. The tree was terrifying against the midday sun. The shadow had cast was long and dark.

I was only seven years old at the time, but I already knew this tree was a terrible thing. Derek told me the thing was called the hating tree as we sat on a nearby stump. The tree was about a mile into the forest that surrounded our suburban neighborhood in a clearing. There were four of us that summer day by the tree.

There was myself, our friend Derek, with messy sand blonde hair and a missing tooth. Victor with his stark black hair and sharp eyes. And Harry, bald and portly. Harry clutched to his chest a Power Rangers action figure, his favorite toy that he owned. Harry and Victor stood by the tree and muttered about something between each other. Occasionally Harry would get animated and Derek and I could hear Harry's protest to Victor's idea.

Derek leaned back and drink his warm soda. This is dumb. If we want to get Kyle back, just fight him. He's bigger than us because he's a fourth grader, but there's four of us. He excitedly held up four fingers. I shrugged. Jimmy said he saw Kyle throw around five kids like it was nothing. I don't think we stand a chance. I placed my backpack in front of me, reaching down to find the snacks I packed. By the time I pulled out a granola bar for me and Derek, Harry and Vic were approaching us at the stump. Harry was holding back tears.

All right, we put Harry's initials and Kyle's on the tree. Now, we just got to destroy the toy. Harry flinched at those words. Derek looked at Vic intently. Why? Vic scoffed. Because that's how the tree works, stupid. You do something to hurt yourself,

and then the tree makes sure something happens to hurt the other person too. I turned to Derek, remembering the plan. I finished up chewing my granola bar and elaborated. Yeah, and that's Harry's favorite toy. So if we break it, it's going to hurt Harry. But it's also going to hurt Kyle real bad. Derek looked at all three of us, had on a swivel. And this works?

Yep. And you guys think it's a good idea? Yeah, Gabby said she did it once. She cut her hair, and the next day Angie got gum stuck in her hair. We did all remember the day Angie got gum stuck in her hair by accident. Derek sighed and reached in my backpack and got out the hammer. Promise we never use the tree again or I won't give you the hammer. Derek rose to his feed and Vic surveyed him.

Vic knew Derek well. Derek was serious about this. But more importantly, Derek was the fastest one of us. If he ran, we couldn't catch him. Vic sighed. Fine. Cross my heart. We won't come back.

Harry straightened up and crossed his heart. Derek turned to me. Aaron? I crossed my heart too. Derek handed the hammer to Vic and sat back down. Vic handed the hammer to Harry. You gotta do it, dude. Harry was dumbfounded.

Vic nodded. Uh-huh. That way it all works. The two walked to the tree. I stayed with Derek sitting in silence. It took convincing, but Vic finally got Harry to destroy the toll. boy. He spent the afternoon crying. We did our best to comfort him. But when you're seven, your favorite toy means a lot to you. Sure enough, the next day Kyle came to school holding back tears.

His father had smashed his GameCube that morning. That day at lunch, Eric made us swear again never to do anything with the tree. And seeing Kyle so devastated by his father's outburst, we agreed. We didn't even need proof it was our fault. We felt back. enough. None of us thought about the tree again until high school. The four of us had grown apart. Me and Vic stayed close and Derek and Harry stayed close, but our group of four had turned into two groups of two. Harry lost Wade and became one of the more popular kids in school. Derek became the school quarterback. I felt bad about telling Derek that I couldn't make the football games because that was the same day as my Dungeons and Dragons session, but we had grown so far apart and

barely bothered him. Vic undoubtedly had it the best, though. He had found real, honest love. Angie, the poor gum hair girl, grew up from her brady elementary days into a kind, beautiful girl. She was well loved by the entire school. You would be hard pressed to find anyone who could say anything bad about the gentle, soft-spoken girl.

Her thin, blonde hair fell gracefully to her shoulders, and her gray eyes radiated and incredible warmth when she smiled. Vic and Angie as a couple was one of those things that shocked us that had happened. But in retrospect, it must have been faded. When Angie was younger, Vic was always the guy around for her. When she was disliked by her peers in elementary and middle school, Vic remained her stalwart friend. They had similar interests, a similar sense of humor,

and by middle school the two were inseparable. By then, Vic had fallen into the understanding. popular crowd with me, and Angie was fast on her way to popularity. At the start of high school, the whole school was stunned when Vic and Angie started dating. Well, almost everyone, I guess. I was still close to Vic and Angie by extension, so I saw it coming a mile away. In fact, Angie was one of the reasons our group fell apart. Not only did Vic love Angie madly, but so did Harry. Harry developed a deep love of the girl in middle school, but Angie was clearly interested in only being with Vic.

When Harry, in sophomore year, tried to convince Angie multiple times to leave Vic for him, Vic exploded at Harry. The friendship of years burned away in the flash of a moment. A bitter rivalry was born in the ashes between the two. Senior prom. Things fell apart when Harry was voted Prom King and Angie Queen.

The two got the prom royalty dance together as the school watched in awe. They seemed so happy in each other's arms as they dance. Graceful, they flew across the floor and for a moment, I even thought that maybe Harry and Angie were meant to be together. But during that dance, I caught Angie glance at Vic with a smile. And Vic smiled back. He was enamored with how beautiful she looked on the dance floor, and her glance showed that she wished it was very.

Vic in her arms. Unfortunately, Harry caught these glances too. After the dance, he gave the old Irish goodbye and left without a trace. Two days later, Vic called me in tears, saying he and Angie broke up. Angie didn't feel the same way about him anymore. I was stunned. Just two days ago, Angie was looking at Vic like he was the world while she danced. I got in my car and drove to Vic's place and asked

what happened. Vic told me the two had a fight and that Angie confessed she didn't love Vic anymore. Vic asked why and she said the feelings just faded away. This only caused more arguing. Eventually, Angie stormed off and left Vic alone. I hung out with Vic to comfort him the rest of the evening before getting in my car to call Angie. The voice on the other end of the line sounded weak and hoarse, but was undoubtedly Angie's. I heard what happened. Just talk to Vic. She burst into tears and described the fight to me.

It was just like Vic's story. When I asked why she didn't love Vic anymore, she told me that her and Vic snuck off to do the deed with one another in Vic's truck. As she laid next to him that night, she looked at him and just felt a sudden panic. Did she want to be with Vic? What did she see in Vic? It was as though all the feelings washed away in a moment. She put on her clothes, got Vic up, and demanded to be taken home.

It had been rough for the two ever since. It was a strange explanation, but it did make some sense. The next night, Vic sent me a text, and my heart sank. Fucker went to the tree. Now I'm going to. I knew in a moment what had really happened. now. Harry stormed out that night to go to the hating tree. I shot up and got dressed and sent a text to Vic as I was getting in the car. Vic, no, I'm on my way. Stop. I'm going to end him. When I arrived, it was too late. I emerged from my car and started running to the tree when I heard the crack of the

gunshot. I found Vic dead next to the tree when I got there. His father shot, gun lay still smoking next to his mangled corpse. His head had been blown off in a bloody mess. On the tree, painted in blood among the other initials, two stood out. H.C. slash VB. VB. H.C.

I stood in stunned silence. I knew I could try and warn Harry, but if the tree really worked, there was nothing I could do now. I called the police and sat on that old stump by the tree, looking at its malicious branches reaching up at the full moon. It cast a much longer shadow in that moonlight than it ever had before. Sure enough, the next morning on his way to school, Harry was teaboned at an intersection and was killed instantly.

The funeral for Vic was that weekend. The funeral for Harry was on that Monday. The turnout for both was massive. Students, teachers, family friends from all over came to see the two boys one last time. During Vick's wake, I ran into Derek, whom I hadn't spoken to for months. I asked if he knew anything about what Harry did on prom night, and Derek took a deep breath. He sat down and looked up at me. I got a call that night out of the blue.

He told me how much. much he hated me. I thought I didn't deserve anything that I had, that I was a shitty quarterback and a shitty person. If I didn't leave him alone, he would tell the whole school I was gay. He leaned back in his chair, tears ran down Derek's cheeks. I told him that in confidence. He swore to never tell anyone. He was even there helping me when I came out to my family. And I was there for him for all the stuff with Angie. He was my best friend. He broke, bawling into his hands. He looked up to me, desperate in his eyes for an answer.

Why would he do that? Why would he cut me off like that? I paused for a long moment. Because hatred is a double-edged sword. Any harm you want to inflict on another, you do it to yourself as well. I write this not only to get this terrible secret off my chest, but for a far worse reason as well. Two years ago, I made sure the hating tree was cut down.

No one could suffer like those two did now. I live in a new city now, several states away. Yesterday morning, my fiancé and I took a hike in the park an hour from our house. As we hiked, my fiancé decided to take a switch back to speed up our progress. This took us a bit off the beaten path, and we found ourselves in a clearing near an old, gray gnarled tree with an unnaturally long shadow, with countless initials on its crumbling, bloodstained trunk. Over on the No Sleep Facebook group page, a lot of listeners have been sharing their unnerving

experiences of staying late after work. In our next tale, author Samir Hamrauni tells us the very real danger of not following the boss's orders when locking up. Performing this story. are Matthew Bradford, Mike Delgado, and myself. Are you hungry for meat? As I used to work the grill at reservation diner. I used to work the grill at reservation diner.

Up until last week, I worked as a fry cook at a semi-decent diner, near the reservation I grew up on. February around here is still freezing wet, so we get a lot of business this time of year, usually from the locals and, well, not strictly law-abiding hunters. Ultimately, we were there to do two things, serve good, cheap food, and avoid asking questions. I started a few months ago. It wasn't my first cook job, so I picked things up pretty quickly.

Before you knew it, I was one of the gang, which meant before I knew it, I was just another punching bag for the biggest asshole I'd ever met in my life. The owner of Reservation Diner, Mr. Jones, five feet five inches tall, and weighing in at a fuckload of pounds. Mr. Jones' main interests included deep-fried anything, talking down to anyone he had to look up to, and hating anything or anyone that wasn't a good white Christian man. You'll know the type. Stereotypical woman-hating, survivalist, extreme right-wing nut job. Makes you wonder why everyone that worked for him was either native, black, or female. Didn't matter what you did.

If he knew he needed this job, he made your life as much of a living hell as he possibly could. or, being a little man, if you were a bigger guy, you did the second best thing and made sure his hunters lodge. In this case, meaning a bunch of animal poaching Nazi pricks with a hard on for Coors' light, did it for him. With him being the biggest asshole this side of the Canadian border, Mr. Jones thought himself an important guy. I had heard he was also in a drugs and prostitution from some of the other guys that worked at the diner, and I guess that'd explain the shady afterclose backroom meetings, but I never had ever. needed another reason to hate the guys, so I didn't think too much into it. You can imagine how the place was run then. We did our best with what we had, but it was obvious to everyone that the place

desperately needed cleaning. Since I'd started, the grill would shake like a panic raccoon. The smell coming from beneath it was even worse. One time, I dropped a box of salt, and as I bent over to pick it up, I got a glimpse under the poorly maintained steel legs. Rotten, grease and black dirt seeped out from underneath the grill. When the stench hit me, I scrambled out of the kitchen and made it outside, just in time to avoid cleaning up my vomit. If I'd been able to stay down there just a second longer, I'd have probably seen the dark soil and the dead insects too.

Considering his status as the worst human being in living memory, I have no idea why a couple weeks ago I had the stupid idea to talk to Jones about the state of the kitchen. I guess you would call it professional pride if I had me. I knocked on the door, but didn't wait for an answer as I pulled open the door and walked into the back room where Jones normally sat with his notebook and calculator. The ironically heavy-set office chair sat empty behind his desk. I peered into the room and briefly examined the rows of canned goods, diner supplies, and paper boxes that line the walls. Content that I'd done everything in my power to bring the grill situation to the owner's attention. I swiftly made my exit, turning to leave the room in a motion that came to a pretty swift conclusion

when I collided with Mr. Jones's not inconsiderable mess. Nothing here for you to steal, Buck. What hell do you want? Every time Jones spoke in that nasal tone of voice, you couldn't help it feel dirty for having listened. Nothing, sir, I just came to tell you, I dropped a box of salt and I... Of course you did, you clumsy fuck. I dropped a box of salt under the grill, and... And when I went to pick it up, I got a look under there. It's pretty fucking gross, sir.

And I was wondering if maybe we should clean it up if we're going to keep serving people food off it. He went that kind of red, only fat white people do. No one else spoke to Mr. Jones like that after all. But it's hard to be afraid of a guy when you can't even see his feet. And I was just about at the end of my tether with this guy. Now listen here, you gas huffing nobody. You fucking touch that girl. You so much as move or speak.

or word about this kitchen to anyone? I'll know. And I won't just fire your piece of shit ass. I'll take you down to the lodge and I'll break your fucking legs. You understand? Oh, maybe I'll take you out into the woods and we can get lost. If I ever told you about the time we got lost out there? His fist bawled dangerously as he carried on.

His face shaking as he struggled to hold in his anger. I suddenly felt a lot less confident with my face. covered in Spittle and decided this was more trouble than it was worth, so I interrupted the rant. Hey, it's your kitchen. Don't play me when you get shut down. I walked away as I said it. Not worth it at all. I know in hindsight his reaction seems strange and almost comically violent, but with Jones, nearly every conversation ended with a racial slur or threat, so nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Over the next few days, I went about my business. Nothing particularly notable happen, except now and then I would notice Jones watching me very carefully.

I figured he was just upset I wasn't afraid of him and made a mental note not to give him anything to fire me over. Two weeks later, I would no longer believe that lie. I'd had a long day. One of the other cooks had called in six, so I ended up covering their late shift till closing. The diner shuts down at 1 a.m. and doesn't reopen again until 6, so whoever is in charge on the night has to lock up. Of course, only the two managers and Mr. Jones have a set of keys. Jones's induction speech rang in my ear as I made to leave the diner with the rest of the staff that night. Anyone caught in the diner after closing time is fired. Understand, Buck? I was first out the door. It was a dangerously cold night and I was wrapped up so tight that I had

tunnel vision, which was probably why I didn't spot that my keys were still inside until I got to the car. Realizing my error, cursing my luck, I jogged back to the rear entrance and open the door. Will, the manager that night, must have been in the office because the door was still open. I rushed to the locker room to grab my keys. It probably took me about 30 seconds to find them before I was out of there again, practically sprinting towards the exit. I hit the doors at a jog, expecting them to swing open into the night as I continued towards my car. Instead, I slammed into a pair of very locked door's shoulder first, cracking the glass, my shoulder, and bending the once pristine metal frame of the door.

Oh, boy. After a long and colorful few seconds of cursing, I peered out of the door, banging on the frame with my fist, hoping to get someone's attention. Eventually, I saw Will, headphones firmly lodged in his ears as he was. walked to his car, then got to his car, then opened his door and drove down the highway with the future of my employment, still oblivious to the fact he was a complete fucking idiot. It took a moment, but I managed to compose myself and think about things. I realized I had no other choice. Without Will's number, I was going to have to call Jones as soon as I could.

Otherwise, he was going to find me sleeping on the chairs or something and fire me anyway. assuming he didn't use the excuse to shoot me. With the lights out, it took me a while to navigate the kitchen. I'd never seen the diner after the lights were out. The single streetlight in the parking lot outside was woefully inadequate this far back, and I was forced to grab the walls as I shuffled towards the light switch a few yards away. Eventually, I got there and the lights came back on. I'll admit being alone in that cold, silent kitchen did give me the chills.

so I made my way to the office a lot quicker than a normal person would have. When I found the book with Jones's number in it, I took a moment of silence. Eventually, I worked up the nerve and called him. The ringing on the line broke through the silence of the abandoned kitchen. I felt ice run along my spine and began to shiver violently, partly because of the falling temperature, but mostly due to the waves of fear flooding down my stomach. I guess Jones was a scary guy after all.

With every ring that shot down the speaker, I was becoming steadily more nervous. I began frantically turning my head, glancing into the corners of the room, and again at the door, in the room, like a deer with nowhere to run. The sound of knives clanging against each other like a brutal wind chime stopped me dead.

Before I could answer, my eyes raised to the office door and the source of the disturbance. The sound of laughter filtered in from beyond, deep and gravely, like rubbing rocks against a tree. I froze, quickly thinking of every scary story my granddad had ever told me while I waited for the laughter to come again, nervous enough to believe the devil was waiting for me on the other side of that door. The goddamn phone. It was someone in the background.

I'm an idiot, I thought, as Jones broke my strange trance. He wasn't pleased. He called me things so racist that I'm pretty sure he invented half of them himself. But it's strange. I didn't think he was angry. It sounded more like he was panicked. The dial tone rang, replacing the tirade of abuse that came before. I heard the knife clanging coming from the kitchen again,

followed shortly by the sound of moving metal. I figured either the doors had been more damaged than I thought and a bear had gotten in, Or maybe someone was robbing the place. Neither was good for me because at that moment in time, all I wanted to do was get in my car and drive as far away as possible. I burst into the kitchen and headed towards the back door, hoping to make the getaway before the bear noticed me. The noise in the kitchen grew more intense now.

Whatever was in there was banging against one of the metal surfaces, like a drowning man. It was still slightly broken, but more importantly, the thing was still locked tight, not good. Again, I heard the scraping stone laughter. This time I knew it wasn't coming over a phone because it was coming from behind me in the kitchen. I pressed myself against the wall

and continued past the locked doors at a snail's pace all the way around to the door curtains that blocked this hallway in the nearby staffed toilets from the restaurant floor. A quick pause helped me control my panic breathing. Before I look past the barrier, where my worst fears were confirmed. No smashed windows. No open front door.

Whatever was in the kitchen had been there all along. I muffled a scream with my hands, but the effort was wasted as a new cacophony erupted from the kitchen. Another bang on the metal, then another. then an unholy screech that seemed to last minutes. I hit under the bar that separated the restaurant floor from the open kitchen window. Then the lights went out. Even outside, the solitary street lamp fizzled away into nothing. I go camping so I'm not a stranger to total darkness, but even so, it took me a long time to adjust to the lack of light.

When my eyes started to work again, I looked frantically for an exit. but found none. I didn't know what was in the kitchen, but a sense of dreaded overtaken me, and I was desperate to stay hidden. So I stayed where I was, too afraid to move, too afraid to think, really.

It took a few moments to register the shining black orbs in the window opposite me. They seemed to radiate light, completely unmoved by what was happening in the diner beyond as they hovered outside the window, perfectly symmetrical.

completely still. I thought for a second that a sheen covered the strange spheres. It looked like what little moonlight made its way into the building was drawn to them, only to slide off their smooth, untouched surface. Like a mountain lion's eyes, the dark. It took a while for my brain to process what it was seeing, even after I made the connection between the mountain lion and the glowing orbs beyond the window. Then, the realization burst like a dam.

him. I wasn't staring at something beyond the window. I was staring at a reflection of something inside the building. I was staring at a pair of predator's eyes, and they were staring right back at me. In that fraction of a second, the whole terrible joke came into focus. I saw the outline of the head that contained the eyes first, comically round and twice the size of my own. Then, the long protruding neck and emaciated torso that was bending over something, the long thin outline of the arms that were reaching out in front of it and the, I couldn't see the legs. I began to make out the outline of the bar instead.

Another fraction of a second in the punchline hit me. I wasn't staring at the reflection of something in the kitchen beyond. I was staring at something that was standing behind the bar. The bar I was kneeling against. Then the lights came back on. I didn't need to look in the window to know the thing had been hovering above me, or to know why its back had hunched over, or its unnaturally long arms were reaching beyond the bar.

I didn't need to, but I did anyway. And I saw the thing that hides under the grill. White skin and black eyes, hunched over because it was tall, too tall to stand at full height in this building. I felt my tongue swell with fear. I was wrong about the torso too. It wasn't emaciated. The thing was lean, muscled, and was smiling with a disgusting mouth,

a mouth that went from ear to ear, filled with horrid yellow fangs, and dripping with black saliva. It was staring through the mirror and smiling at me as it hovered inches above my head, preparing to strike. I chose my moment well. The talons hovered closer and closer. I could see the reflection clear as daylight and waited like my dad taught me with the dogs

for it to lean back into the strike. Then I hit the deck as hard as I could. The claws missed their mark and flew harmlessly overhead, but by the time it had realized its failure, I was already gone, rushing through the beaded curtain and straight into the supply closet, which I slammed shut, holding on to the hand. for dear life. Why God did it have to be a pull door? If it is humanly possible to will yourself invisible, and I probably did it in that tiny supply room. I had expected the thing to catch

me as soon as I ran, so I never really planned what to do after I got past the curtain. So instead, I stood there behind the door, listening outside and praying for a way out of the building. The shuffle of disturbed beads was surprisingly quiet. But I knew it was out there now. It wasn't chasing me, I realized. Because it knew there was no way out for me. I could take its time. Animal sniffing soon followed the sound of the moving curtain.

Outside, the shadow of the creature made a silhouette against the opaque glass of the door, no less terrifying in obscurity. It carried on as the light patter of its naked feet rang against the tiled floor. I began to feel light-headed as the sound faded away down the hall. I hadn't taken a breath since I closed the door. A sudden urge to exhale overcame me before I had a chance to think.

Before I could stop it, the breath turned into a loud sigh. Too loud. The light patter turned into a monstrous thud as the huge form came crashing back through the hallway, cackling its grating laugh as it began clawing at the door handle. I'm not a small guy by any means, and I was holding on with everything I had, but it was strong, impossibly strong. The door rattled on its hinges, and more than once I almost lost my grip. Beyond the opaque glass, the cackling continued, accompanied now by the gnashing of those awful yellow teeth. I had my whole weight on the door now, and despite my mortal efforts I could see beyond the opaque window, it wasn't even using both hands, or straining at all.

It was toying with me. Then it seemed, the thing beneath the grill had had enough. The door swung open. I fought with every inch to close it again, but it just wasn't enough. Now all but open, the pale head slithered through the gap till once again it was inches above me, looking down with amusement as I fought for my life. I risked to look above and knew instantly I'd made a grave mistake.

The creature began to open its mouth. When I thought it would finish, I prepared. for a strike, but it didn't stop. Then, with a great pop, it opened its mouth a jar. Above me, it seemed to dislocate the jaw like a snake. It still had full use of the muscles. Again and again, the sharp fangs gnashed at my face just out of reach. Piss trickled down my leg as fast as the tears that rolled down my face.

I can't describe the smell of its breath or the slime of its saliva. I knew as the first black fleck hit my face that I'd never be clean Again. Satisfied with its torment, it ripped the door off its hinges. I sobbed, hugging the floor and dragging myself against the back wall. The thing hunched in the doorway, holding me in place as the jaw popped out of place and screamed one word, one horrible parody of English. This sound was so loud I felt it rattle my jaws. The hot, acidic twinge of vomit traveled up my throat, but I managed to swallow it down. A single malicious claw began to hover above my eyelid, and then the sound came again,

even louder than the first. Please! The crashing of glass and the familiar blessed sound of nasal fury shattered the moment. A sudden look of glee shone along the monster's black eyes, another horrid smile stretched across the pale flesh along its face that hung there for just a moment more than was comfortable. Then, it was gone, crashing down the hall towards the unsuspecting form of Mr. Jones, who, despite all his flaws, probably didn't deserve to be eaten alive by a monster. Run! Jones! There's something in here! Run!

I screamed with all I had, but my voice was lost under the sound that vibrated the walls. A single word, urgent and ravenous. I waited, captivated by my inability to do anything, for the sounds of scum. screaming that would surely follow. I laid there on that cold floor for a good five minutes. The shock gradually began to fade as I realized that no terrible screeching was coming. In fact, I didn't hear a thing. After another five minutes, I decided that I had to go see what the hell was happening, but walking wasn't a risk I was willing to take. I crawled out of the door, heading to my right down the hall and carefully sliding under the beaded curtain.

As the kitchen drew steadily closer, I was greeted by the wet slap of grinding teeth on raw flesh. The noise grew louder as I edged towards the source, every inch becoming a struggle against the nausea and the terror. The creature was devouring something near the grill just beyond, and images of poor fat Jones on his back and torn into a fleshy ruin began to fill my head. Then the sound stopped. I was sure I'd been discovered Embrace myself Intending to dash for the window And smash my way out of the restaurant

But nothing came Now there there buddy You've had quite a day Huh God, it's been years Since we got lost in the woods Hasn't it? I'm sorry we ran out of food

I'm sorry for what happened to you Not so much to Chris What an asshole he was Either way Sweet Jesus, you've been useful. No easier way to deal with a dead hooker, huh? The monster replied with its familiar stony cackle. Now, I know it's not my usual date of visit,

but something tells me you've been seen by our guest. Stupid fucking Indians. I guess you'll be getting seconds now, boy. A desperate glance over the bar confirmed by worst fears. There stood Jones in his stained shirt and strut. chritch jeans, happily chatting away with a long, lin, beast. I'd seen enough. Stealth wouldn't be any use against that thing now, so I went for speed instead. Turning back through the curtain, I sprinted with all my might, praying I was right. I came to the back

door, an awful screech followed me from the kitchen, but I was gone like a rabbit down a hole. I thank God every day Jones was enough of an idiot to smash the door glass on his way in. It sat there now, shattered glass littering the floor. and the doorway still locked, but I could see my car through a small gap in the glass, big enough to crawl through and blissfully clear of any more obstructions. My feet hit the concrete with a great thud as I jumped through the door, over the railing and down into the parking below. The sounds of struggle and nasal panic erupted behind me as the thing tried to fit between the broken doors,

but it was too late. I was at my car, keys in the door, keys in the ignition, clutch up, gone. I called the police as soon as I got home. I knew they wouldn't take me seriously if I told them the truth. So I made up a story about a homeless guy beating on Jones in the restaurant and let them figure it out for themselves. One of the officers lives on the reserve as well, so in no time at all, the story trickled down to the rest of the community.

When they got to the place, it was empty. Signs of our struggle were there, but Jones and the homeless guy were gone. They found a cellar door in the kitchen that led to a massive network of tunnels. Soon after they entered, they found the bones. They found a makeshift bed, a toilet, the whole thing just sitting there under the diner this whole time. Apparently, the tunnels went on for so long that they had to call in backup. They're still exploring them as far as I know.

As for me, I just kept driving until I got home. I'm leaving the reservation for the time being, at least until this thing blows over, or the cops finally work out what they're hiding in the woods. I think I'll head across the border Maybe see Hollywood Somewhere warm Where I don't see tall shadows around every corner

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