The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E21

Episode Date: March 19, 2017

It's episode 21 of Season 8. On this week's show we have five tales about aggressive art, chilling children, and terrifying travels."My Last Prank"† written by F.F. and performed by Matthew Bradford & Kyle Akers & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts around 00:04:45)"Mr. Cracks"† written by J.J. Cheesman and performed by Jesse Cornett & Mike DelGaudio & Dan Zappulla & Nikolle Doolin & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts around 00:22:20)"Chuck Came Back Wrong"‡ written by Marshall Bannana and performed by Atticus Jackson & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:45:45)"The Open Place in Cambodia"‡ written by Kevin Thomas and performed by Andy Cresswell & David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:00:20)"Double Bass Kick"† written by Elias Witherow and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Atticus Jackson & Dan Zappulla & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:17:00)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about Kevin Thomas Click here to learn more about Elias Witherow Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone. Additional music by Phil Michalski.Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡"Double Bass Kick" illustration courtesy of Jörn HeidrathAudio 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. It's the no sleep podcast. I'm Erica Sanderson. Thanks for joining us. David's decided to take a little break after the tour. What?

No, wait, no, what are you doing? Get away from that microphone. My microphone. No! No, no, stop it, no, stop, no! Incidence. Now, I am back. It's the No Sleep Podcast.

I am indeed, David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have Five Tales about aggressive art, chilling children, and terrifying travels. As things start to return to normal at No Sleep headquarters, I'm happy to announce that everyone on the two, finally arrived home safe and sound. It was quite an adventure. And at the risk of self-aggrandizing, I believe we accomplished something never before done in the history of the podcasting medium.

We gathered a cast from three countries, flew to America, and embarked on a 16-city 23-day tour. We drove over 6,000 miles in total and performed in front of almost 3,000 fans. There have been live podcasts before, but I think our combination of the size of the cast, the distance traveled, the number of dates, and the sheer scope of the overall tour, makes it the most ambitious tour of any single podcast. And when all is said and done, the tour was a resounding success. We were thrilled to meet so many wonderful fans. We heard such incredible stories about what this show means to people, the way it has entertained and helped our listeners. For the first time in its almost six-year history, we were able to speak with fans face to face

and learn what all our hard work is accomplished. It was overwhelming and heartwarming. I know I speak for the entire cast when I say that it was a life-changing experience for us. For those who attended the shows, we cannot thank you enough for your love and support. You gave us infinitely more than we could have possibly given you. And now that we've learned how to tour, we just might do it again at some point. We have lots of new places to visit. Yes, Atlanta, we see you and your brethren in the Southeast U.S.

Maybe some shows in Canada. God knows a show in my hometown of Toronto might happen sooner than later. And who knows? We have enough people in England to do some shows there, although Miss Sanderson's recent naughtiness might make her inclusion somewhat tenuous. and perhaps Europe, Asia, Antarctic... Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. Wherever we end up, I look forward to new shows

and meeting both new and familiar faces alike. All our fans are so incredibly supportive and will never be able to adequately express what you mean to us. So, life returns to normal, and part of the normal process is another weekly episode. Again, thanks mostly to our home team, we have a new one ready to start. So, it's time to kick off this week's show.

In our first tale, we meet a man who recounts an event from his youth. As explained by author F.F., it was during a tumultuous time with his parents, and his attempt to get some attention led to a most mysterious and unsettling turn of events. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Kyle Lakers, and Corinne Sanders. So let's listen as the man explains why this was my last prank. I was 11 years old when it happened.

As a kid, I knew that something wasn't quite right with the events that unfolded at the time. Even though it was never brought up again under any circumstances by either of my parents, it's something that always stuck with me. I can't say it's a memory that I tried to suppress, seeing as it was always there at the back of my mind, and bothering me like an itch that wouldn't go away unless properly scratched. It's only when I reached adulthood that I started to realize the serious implications of what had happened and found the same vivid memories creeping back in.

A lot of times through the years I'd find myself looking up our old house on the web, only to realize that it was still there. It looked the same as it did back then. Still does. And from the look of it, no one else was allowed inside after we were. abruptly forced to leave. I remember everything, but my curiosity has been squashed for the most part thanks to a very real and terrifying sense of dread. My parents are gone, and I can't get answers from them anymore. But that is probably for the best considering everything they both went

through, especially my mother. It's just me now. Well, maybe the inspector is still alive today, but I sure as hell don't want to go back there, and I'm certain the last thing he'd want would be to see me again. So, like I said, that leaves me. You. Deep down, I think I've already come to terms with the fact that I'll never get closure on this, but I'm still throwing it out here

in case someone could help me figure things out. Even if you can't, at least you'll know about my story, and why I never prank my parents again after the whole ordeal. My parents were going through a rough patch, having heated discussions almost every other day. It didn't help that my father had recently lost his job, and then one day my mother told me we were moving to Romania. I didn't even know what that was, but I really didn't want to move out to anywhere else.

I didn't want to leave my friends behind and have to start it all over again from scratch. The thought of it alone got me extremely anxious and stressed. She explained that she had some sort of research to do there. for a movie production or something. I asked her how long we were going to stay, but she couldn't, or wouldn't, say. I think my father also resented her for it, though he was probably just salty

for having to rely on my mother for everything, mostly his own expenses. So we all moved to a small village in Romania. At the time, I could only think how shitty it all was, seeing as I was accustomed to the big and resourceful cities. Yes, I was a shitty bridge. rat, but the whole situation didn't really help me in any way, especially at home. Things hadn't really improved between my parents, and I had nothing to do with my spare time. School time was

atrocious, considering that most kids couldn't speak proper English. The teachers didn't care much either, probably thinking I'd be gone in no time, back to where I belonged. In what ended up being the typical call for help, I thought that the only natural thing for me to do would be to run away. It would be my way of getting back at my parents. I figured, hey, maybe they'll understand how I feel and we can move back to our country. I spent a couple of days thinking about the logistics and how much of a genius I was. Of course, I didn't want to go through all the trouble of actually running away, so if I could just make it seem like I had, the end result would be the same.

There was this old attic, crowded with stuff that the previous owners had left behind for some. reason. I guess they just had a lot of crap and couldn't afford to take it all back with them, wherever they moved to. My mother didn't want me up there because it was so damp and dusty, and likely filled with rats and all sorts of bugs bigger than my own wee hands. To give her credit, it really did seem like the attic hadn't been cleaned in ages. During one of my stealthy attic explorations, I came across a small, black closet, or maybe it was a chest of some sort. I can't recall exactly. All I know is that I had found the perfect hiding spot. During the next couple of days, I brought some treats and chips that I stored in my backpack, along with a couple of sodas. The rest of

my so-called plan hinged on whether my parents would take the bait or not. My bedroom was located on the first floor. I left the window open and threw down a poorly assembled rope I made out of my bed sheets. After looking around, my parents would find my backpack, boots, and warmest clothes. And warm as clow was missing, giving the idea that I really went out, when in fact, I'd be hiding just above them. I can't say I thought extensively about every single aspect, but I had a couple of important things covered. If I found myself in an urge to go to the bathroom, I figured I could always do it in a corner of the attic. Due to that old and weird smell, you just wouldn't be able to tell it apart from the rest. Naturally, at that age, I was relying

mostly on stuff that I learned from crime shows, so of course the idea of dogs being used to track down my scent also crossed my mind. Fortunately for me, a week or so before my escapade, there was a job presentation of sorts at the school, and a woman from the local police station explained that due to some cuts in their budget and other problems, there weren't any police dogs available to them, at least in the immediate area. I got up in the middle of the night and set everything in motion. As soon as I was done with my bedroom, I took my time in making my way upstairs and hiding. Now that everything was in place, it became nothing more but a waiting game for me,

even though I had no idea how long I would manage to stay put. Maybe I'd get bored pretty quickly, and my childish amount of supplies would only last a few days at most. And besides, I kind of expected to be found out right from the start. I fell asleep shortly after and woke up early in the morning to the sound of my parents' voices. They were yelling my name as they looked for me in and outside the house. It wasn't that bad at first, but then their voices grew louder, angrier, and finally desperate in tone. I felt terrible when I heard my mom's voice starting to crack, and that's when I realized I would be in big trouble when they would eventually find me,

which is why at the time I decided to stay put and not give my presence away right then and there. After all that back and forth, they finally left in a hurry. I think they asked the neighbors around, but they quickly realized that the best thing to do would be to go straight to the police station. I took this opportunity to relieve myself and fill up my stomach without having to worry about making loud noises.

I also peeked out of the attic window and saw some older women outside chit-chatting and pointing to our house. As more and more people started poking their heads out of their homes as well, what the fuck had I just done? I had made a terrible miscalculation, and every passing moment I could only feel my shame growing, as well as dreading the unavoidable scolding and punishment that awaited me. As soon as I heard the sirens in the distance,

I went back to my hiding spot. I thought maybe I could pretend to have fallen asleep in there, or just make up a story of how someone tried to do. to kidnap me, but then left me in the attic for whatever reason. I thought about dozens of scenarios, all ridiculous in hindsight, as I waited for the cops to come up to the attic and find me. But they never did. They did come to the attic at some point, but they quickly left.

There was a big commotion going on, and I could tell that there were people in every single section of the house. I heard a loud noise coming from outside and deduced that someone was talking on a speaker phone. I got out of my spot once again and stealthily looked through the window. Besides a couple of squad cars, there were also a couple dozen or so men and women gathering outside, not all of them policemen. I didn't understand what the man with the speakerphone was saying, but when I saw them all walking side by side at the same pace, I realized they were going to comb through the woods not too far from our home. I had never thought things would

escalate like that, that's for sure, but it made sense. I could even see the edge of the woods from the window as the search party moved towards it. I know my parents stayed home because I could hear my father trying to calm my mother down. I know I've already said it a couple of times, but I felt terrible. I wanted to go down and hug them and apologize to them, but I was so fucking scared of the repercussions. I couldn't deal with the thought that I might have gotten myself and my parents into some serious trouble because the police ended up getting involved. At this point, I was mostly glued to the window, having, at the very least, decided that I wouldn't hide anymore. I just wanted someone to come and get me, since I was too much of a baby to own up

to my mistakes. I know I was only 11 at the time, but I knew what I did was wrong. I just didn't have the courage to do a thing about it. A few hours later, come nighttime, an ambulance slowly pulled over next to our place. I didn't really understand right away why someone had called an ambulance since I wasn't hurt, but then I saw three men coming out of it with a gurney and rushing into the woods.

And sure enough, not too long after that, a whole bunch of flashlights could be seen emerging from the edge of the woods, indicating that the search had come to a close. I immediately realized that someone might have gotten hurt during the search, and I started panicking again. How serious was.

What was it? What if someone died because of me? My ears were ringing and my heart was beating so fast that I thought I was going to pass out. The wait for everyone to come back was atrocious, but it seemed like they were taking their time, as if they dreaded the moment they would face my parents again, which I assumed was understandable considering that they hadn't found me yet. But that wasn't the case. The paramedics were the first to come back. And when I saw the gurney, I almost lost my footing. There was someone on the gurney, but he or she was covered all the way up. I realized that it was a dead person, likely dead because of my stupid prank.

I started to cry. I heard the front door open and saw my mother rushing out to them. My father quickly following in her steps as he tried to grab her. The inspector, the man who earlier on had briefed the remaining persons with a speaker, got to her right before she reached the paramedics. Some words were briefly exchanged. It turned to the paramedics, and one of them lifted the cover on the body. I couldn't see anything from where I was, but it didn't matter.

Since at that very instant, I felt like my whole consciousness had been slingshot out of reality. It was the first, and thankfully, only time I had heard that painful scream. I felt like something had torn apart inside me. to know that whatever I might have done or whatever might have happened had caused that indescribable pain to my mother. I can't recall what was going through my mind at that point. All I knew was that this was something my mother, or any mother, would never recover from. And to know that I was the cause of it all made me terribly sad. Even to this day, I can't forgive myself.

She was screaming and wailing as my father and the inspector dragged her back. into the house. That's when I decided that I had had enough. I wanted her to see and know that I was okay. I wanted to apologize to her and have her stop crying immediately. If it was too much for me to bear, I couldn't even begin to imagine what she was going through. I ran down the stairs, everything feeling almost like an out-of-body experience, and eventually met them in the hallway just as the three of them got inside. I remember yelling, Mom! And for a brief moment, it's as if everything came to a standstill. My mother then rushed towards me and collapsed to the ground

as she hugged and held me against her. She was still crying, but it sounded different this time. For a moment, I really thought she would never let go of me, and frankly I was okay with that, if it meant I would never hear or see her in that same state ever again. At first, I resisted looking at my father and the inspector, but I realized that my mother's embrace would provide sufficient protection against any immediate repercussion, so I did, and was surprised to see that neither of them was angry,

or even relieved for that matter. If anything, they both looked astonished and scared. My father had also fallen to the ground on his ass, his hands covering his mouth, while the inspector felt the need to hold on to a desk near the entrance, as if he had momentarily lost his balance. Why didn't you say you had twins? My father had his eyes still fixated on me and didn't answer him right away. Uh, we don't.

The inspector, who was also eyeing me in a cautious manner, instinctively turned to face him. What? We don't have twins. It's just him. That's our kid. That's him. But outside, you saw... I know.

Even the clothes are exactly... I know, but... I don't fucking know! No. no, this is our baby. This is our son. He's okay. He's okay. There was a brief pause as everyone tried to regain their composure. If you're lying, do you really think this is a joke? My father was on the verge of tears as he pointed towards my mother and I. The inspector looked over to us once again, and this time I saw sorrow and compassion in his eyes.

I'm guessing he had already seen his fair share of cases along the years, and he had done. He had just learned to distinguish what was real and what was merely an act. The inspector recited something in his native language and wiped the sweat off his brow as he did a religious gesture. Tomorrow morning, you go. I will drive you myself to the airport. I think my father was about to say something, but my mother immediately agreed to the inspector's request. Not that it sounded like we had a choice to begin with. What about, what are you going to do about this? My father choked on his words as the memory of it made him visibly sick. I will take care of it, but you, you don't come back and you don't tell anyone ever.

And we did exactly as he told us. He picked us up in the early morning with a large van with tinted windows, and not a word was exchanged during the whole trip to the airport. Upon arrival, my mother thanked him, but he quickly turned around without a word and went back to his village. and then we went on to board our flight and get back to our home city. It's true that this whole thing brought us closer together again. My father got a new job shortly after we got back, and my parents ended up making amends and everything.

It was a crazy year, but if given the choice, I don't think I'd make the same mistakes. Yes, we got back our happiness, but the cost of it is something that I will never forget, nor comprehend. And I know deep down, that it was the same for my parents. Someone died on that day, and he looked exactly like me. It's not uncommon for a neighborhood to have that one house all the kids want to avoid, the yard you

simply must stay out of. But as we learn from author J.J. Cheeseman, the reason to avoid the house in this story isn't just based on wild childhood imagination. Performing this tale, are Jesse Cornats, Mike Delgado, Dan Zepula, Nicole Doolin, and Alexis Bristow. So pay attention when you're told to avoid the property of Mr. Cracks. My first big move into a new house happened when I was 12 years old. It was still in Illinois and it was still in Danville, so I didn't have to change schools. But man, that didn't stop me from hating it at first. The idea of moving out of my childhood home seemed wrong.

to me. 129 Elm Street was the home where I'd spent 12 Christmases and 12 birthdays, and I was training it in for 44 High Street, a home in which I held no emotional connection. The house on Elm Street was an old home with a lot of what I would describe now as character. As an only child, I spent a lot of time in that big old house playing pretend in the attic and basement, where I was free to do as I'd pleased, without much adult supervision. I suppose. that was another reason I initially hated the move. Our new home on High Street was exactly that. New.

It was a recently established neighborhood on the north side, what a lot of people referred to as the rich part of town. Maybe I should have been excited that we were getting an upgrade. Dad got a promotion to line manager at the factory he worked at. So, after a bit of saving, we were able to sell the house and move into a better part of town. I didn't care about any of that. though. As far as I was concerned, it most certainly wasn't a better house. The house had more rooms, sure. With our small family, my 12-year-old self didn't see the point in a bigger home.

I had no idea at the time my parents were planning on having another baby. More rooms didn't mean more fun. It was a one-story home. It had no real attic and no basement. Only crawl spaces to access the air ducts as well as the lines that provided electricity throughout the rooms. To me, the house was dull and boring. The week after unpacking, I sat in the living room, absent-mindedly flipping through channels on the television. My dad was walking through the living room on his way into the kitchen when he stopped to look at me. Justin, you just can't sit in here all day. It's beautiful outside. Why don't you go out and play? I simply shrugged.

He walked over and took the remote from my hand. Look, you've done nothing but watch TV and play video games since we got here, and I don't like it. There are some kids playing ball outside. Why don't you go see if you can play with them? I sighed obnoxiously in protest. The last thing I wanted to do was go hang out with a bunch of snobby rich kids. But I don't. He cut me off.

No buts. You aren't going to waste all summer. inside. Now, go. Like Dad had said, it was a beautiful summer day. The sky was clear and the sun shone brightly. It was hot and it may have been unbearably so if it weren't for the cooling breeze. Somewhere, I could hear the sounds of kids laughing and shouting.

It took me a moment to gather the courage to go searching. Most of my childhood had been spent playing inside. There weren't any kids I knew from school that lived near my old home. Finally, I walked out and stood on the front lawn, looking to my left, toward the end of the street, and the sound of the kids. High Street was a cul-de-sac, connected to several others, that all ended in a circle. When I stared down the street, I saw a group of kids gathered around a basketball hoop that someone had wheeled out into the middle of the circle. I immediately considered turning back around and going into the house. There wasn't anyone in the crowd I recognized, and I'd lost all the nerve I'd gathered before I walked onto the yard.

Before I could turn around, a voice called after me. Justin! A boy in the group of kids was waving me over. It was Taylor Redmond, a boy who I often sat with at lunch and school along with a few other kids, though I'd never been to his house. He broke off from the other kids and jogged over to me. Hey man, you live here now? Uh, yeah, just moved. He nodded.

I knew you were moving. I just didn't know it was here. I live in the house across the street. He gestured to the blue two-story home behind me. I looked up to one of the windows on the second floor. I was green with envy. Hey, why don't you come play with us? If we have you, we can do six on six. I looked over to the four boys down the road while they stared back at me,

patiently waiting for Taylor to return. Yeah, I'll play. I'm not very good, though. Neither are they, trust me. We made our way to the end of the circled street, and Taylor introduced me to the kids. In near unison, they all gave their names back, none of which I really understood or remembered, and in moments we were playing. Taylor called out that I would be on his team along with a tall, lanky kid with red hair and freckles.

We played three games, two of which we won before the group started thinning out. First the red-haired kid left, saying that he had to go help his dad with something. Then a pudgy boy with glasses said he'd promised his mom he'd be home before four. Until finally, it was just me and Taylor. With just the two of us, we'd settled on playing a game of horse. I don't remember which one of us it was that overshot the hoop and landed the ball in the yard at the end of the street. But what I do remember is the look on Taylor's face when it happened. He stood still as a stone, while the ball rolled through the grass.

I stared at him with a puzzled look. What's wrong with you? I took a step toward the house. Justin, don't. Taylor spoke softly, as if he didn't want someone to hear him. Don't what? Get the ball? Yeah, just leave it. I'll have my dad buy me another.

one. I would have ignored him, just kept walking and retrieve the ball, but the look on Taylor's solemn face gave me pause. There was a stillness in the air, a stifling quiet that had fallen over High Street in that moment. Despite the warm summer air, I shivered. I turned my gaze from Taylor to the house. It was a nice house, the nicest on the street, but it was also old. It was set a bit further back than the rest of the homes, so I hadn't really noticed before, but seeing it then made me realize how much it contrasted to the other houses on the street. The style was similar to an American colonial house. It had whitewashed wooden siding, a large wraparound porch complete with a bench swing, and a tall stone chimney that smoke was steadily pouring out of. The basketball

must have been thrown pretty hard because it rested against the gate of the wooden privacy. fence that prevented any clear view of the yard. The fence had been painted to match the house and covered a large area as far as I could tell. If I had to guess, the backyard was about 200 feet across before ending in a small thicket of woods whose trees I could see stretching out over the other side of the fence. When I turned my attention back to the ball, I could see movement through the gaps in the fence. Why don't we just go get it? That's Mr. Crack's house. I turned to look at him. Who's Mr. Cracks?

Taylor simply shook his head, and in a low voice, he asked me to follow him. He turned around and began walking down the street. Reluctantly, I followed, turning back to steal another glance at the fence. I thought I could see someone standing still beyond it. But I couldn't be sure. The two of us made our way down the sidewalk until we were in front of my house. Once there, Taylor looked up and down the street until he was sure no one was around. Then he spoke.

No one ever goes into Mr. Crack's Yard. Why? Because if you do, you disappear and you're never found again. I laughed. It's not a joke. You remember Jimmy Edelton, right? The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place where I'd heard it, so I shook my head. Taylor rolled his eyes.

Come on, Jimmy Edelton. He disappeared three years ago. That certainly rang a bell. I thought for a moment and then it clicked. I never knew Jimmy. We weren't in the same grade. I did remember the assembly we had after he disappeared, though. Everyone thought he was kidnapped,

so the whole school got one big lecture about how we should be on the lookout for strangers. And if anyone we didn't know tried talking to us, we should find an adult. Okay, yeah, I sort of remember. He was younger than us, right? Taylor nodded. By two years.

Okay, so what does that have to do with anything? And why do you keep calling him Mr. Cracks? That can't be his real name. He shrugged. His real name is Harold Martin. He lives all alone in the big old house, and he hardly ever comes out. But we call him Mr. Cracks.

Taylor said, stooping down to sit in the grass. I followed suit and sat beside him. Because that's how he watches us. Before Jimmy disappeared, kids were walking to his yard all the time. It was no big deal. Everyone on this street knows each other, so all the kids used the yards as sort of a big playground. My mom said everyone likes it that way.

It makes everyone feel a little bit safer. I'm sure you noticed. Kids just kind of go wherever. I hadn't noticed, but I nodded right of. away. Well, Mr. Cracks' yard wasn't any different, except for one thing. We'd only go if we lost something over there like we did with my basketball. Frisbees or baseballs or whatever accidentally got thrown on to his lawn, we'd go get. I went over there myself a couple times, but I hated it every time. I sat in rapt attention waiting for Taylor to continue. If any of us kids

went into that yard and got anywhere near that fence, he was always there. He would wait behind the fence and watch us through the cracks. That's why we called him that. Taylor waited a moment and got a far-off look in his eyes as he spoke. The last time I was ever over there, I went to get my soccer ball. I kicked it a little too hard and it landed right up against the side of his house. So I jogged over as quick as I could, not really planning to look up, you know? I didn't want to see that old man watching me.

As soon as I grabbed the ball, though, I heard breathing. It was really raspy and loud like he was trying to catch his breath. I didn't want to look, but I did. And I looked right up at that fence and I saw his eyes, the meanest, ugliest eyes I'd ever seen. Taylor closed his eyes and shook his head, like he was trying to wipe the memory from his mind. I was a bit unnerved, sure, but I've heard about peeping old men before. So he's a creepy dude. It doesn't mean he did anything to Jimmy.

Taylor turned and looked at me as if I was the biggest idiot in the world. He took a deep breath and went on speaking. Jimmy's big sister, Lily, was watching him the day he disappeared. Jimmy's family lived in the gray house that's closest to the fence. Taylor nodded over to the ranch-style home that, as he said, stood about 50 feet from Mr. Crack's fence. Lily said she was talking on the phone while Jimmy was running around that day, chasing bubbles that he was blowing around. One minute, she turned her back, and the next, he was gone. She ran around the yard calling his name and searching like crazy.

And when she noticed the bubble wam was in Mr. Crack's yard, she called the police. The cops showed up, and they asked Lily a few questions before going over to talk to Mr. Cracks. At this point, everyone on the street knew what was going on. All the adults, including my parents, were standing on the street waiting to see what would happen, but nothing. They questioned Mr. Cracks, who let them search the house, but they didn't find anything. At that moment, a woman's voice called from the direction of Taylor's home. Time for dinner. Taylor jerked his head up. Be right there, Mom.

Taylor's mom was standing on the front stoop of her home. She waved once before heading back inside. Taylor stood and brushed dirt and grass off the butt of his jeans. I did the same and was about to say my goodbyes when he looked at me with a serious expression. My dad said Mr. Martin is too old and frail anyway, that there's no way he could have any part in taking Jimmy, but I know better. All the grownups think we made that up. None of them ever say they've seen him waiting on the other side of that fence. I think he's too chicken.

He knows that if they catch him staring, he'll be in trouble. All they would have to do is see those eyes, and they'd know he's a bad man. With that, Taylor turned and strode off toward his home, leaving me to stand there and think about his story. Harold Martin, a man that the adults on High Street thought was old and frail, a man that also seemed to watch the children wherever they went, granting him a nickname. Was Mr. Cracks really the cause of Jimmy Edelton's disappearance? It was a question I pondered as I stared at the old colonial-style house. Dusk had fallen over High Street, casting a purplish hue over the house as the sun began to fall over the horizon. In that light, the house seemed more menacing, and before I even realized it,

I was standing in the yard of the man the kids called Mr. Cracks. I don't know why I did it. Some part of me imagined the look on Taylor's face when I showed up at his door with the basketball in hand. Then there was the part of me that wanted to see those eyes that Taylor mentioned. Eyes that were so ugly and full of anger that it had left no doubt in his mind that the old man was responsible for a missing boy. Slowly, step by step, I made my mind. way toward the basketball that still rested against the gate of the privacy fence.

I kept looking back at the front of the house and then to the fence for any sign of movement, but I saw none. I couldn't help but pretend I was some sort of spy on a secret mission. I was a little scared, but I felt more excited than anything. Soon I was right in front of the gate. I didn't pick up the ball at first. I waited for any sound that would indicate someone was waiting to to jump out and attack me. Then, when I was sure I was still alone, I stooped down to grab the ball. Before my hands touched it, however, I heard the sound of something tapping rapidly on glass. Startled, I jerked up and looked in the direction of the noise. Standing at a window on the side of the house placed near the fence was an old man.

It wouldn't have surprised me one bit if someone told me the man was 100. His face was gaunt and covered in liver spots. He was bald, with only a few white wisps of hair left on his shiny head. His eyes were sunken in and tired, yellowed with age, not at all like Taylor had said. He looked panicked and was waving his hands frantically at me. He tried to yell, but his call was meek and feeble. I raised up my own hands. I'm leaving.

I'm just grabbing my ball. That's when I heard it. It was heavy, raspy breathing. And it was coming from the other side of the fence. My head turned back to the fence, and I knew I had made an awful mistake. There, in the gaps of the fence, I saw eyes. The outer white of them were red and bloodshot, but both the iris and pupil were black as coal.

They were angry eyes, full of malice. These were the eyes Taylor had described. What he didn't say, or more likely didn't notice, was whoever these eyes belonged to could not have been an adult. The eyeline was too low, just a bit shorter than I was. He got the breathing wrong, too. It wasn't the sound of someone trying to catch their breath. It was the sound of someone that didn't even know what breathing was. It was broken up and intermittent.

It was like whoever was doing it kept from. forgetting they were supposed to be breathing. I was rooted to the spot, mystified by what I was seeing and hearing. My breath seemed to stop completely. My gaze was transfixed with the eyes of the person on the other side of the fence. The person who'd watched the kids of High Street for so long. The person who couldn't possibly be Mr. Martin. There was movement in my peripheral vision,

and I slowly turned my head to see what was causing them. disturbance. My mind screamed at what I saw. There were more eyes. Dozens of pairs of angry eyes stared out at me from behind the fence. In horror, I watched as several pallid gray hands began to rise above the fence and grasped the top of it, as if whoever the hands belonged to, planned to climb over. That nightmarish sight finally allowed me to find the will to move. I turned and sprinted home without even looking back. When I burst into the front door, my parents were both sitting at the kitchen table. They saw the look on my face and rushed over, asking me what was wrong. I broke down and began crying, spouting nonsense about Mr. Cracks and eyes behind a fence. I didn't know it at the time,

but my dad was already all too familiar with the nickname the kids gave to Mr. Martin. So while my mother stayed by my side and tried to console me. My father called the police. I don't know what he said to the cops. I heard him scream something like, something better be done about this. But I can't be too sure. I was in complete hysterics. I was in the living room wrapped in a blanket when the police came. But I was told what happened later. My father waited outside as a squad car pulled up to our house and the police spoke to him before moving to Mr. Cracks. The two officers knocked on the front door a few times, and when no one answered, they checked around the house.

After seeing Mr. Martin laying on the floor unconscious through the same window I had seen him at, they forced their way inside. Moments later, they came back outside and waited for an ambulance to arrive. My dad's brother, Jeff, works as a paramedic for Danville, and he happened to be on call that night. He talked to my dad before they took the body away, letting him know that Mr. Martin had passed away due to cardiac arrest. He was old.

I heard my dad talking to my mom the next morning over breakfast in the kitchen. I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV. After bearing witness to what my parents assumed was a man kneeling over dead from a heart attack, my dad didn't bother me about going outside for a while. Poor guy. He was such a freaking reckless. No one on the street even realized he was famous. Man, what happens to someone to make them live their lives like that when they're sitting on so much money? My dad went on rambling to my mom who was clearly uninterested. Her monotone voice didn't even attempt to hide her lack of enthusiasm. I, however, was listening intently. Not only was the man known as Mr. Cracks completely innocent and undeserved.

of the nickname the kids gave him as far as I was concerned, but he was also famous? Whether mom was listening or not, Dad seemed to be wondering out loud to himself more than speaking directly to her. No one's even seen his art in years. People just assumed he got tired of it. If what Jeff said is true, there's at least a hundred of those things in his backyard. It's insane. But I bet they're worth a lot of money. Man, I wish I had known. I would have grabbed one before they carted that crazy bastard away. My dad laughed, and I heard him take a loud sip of coffee before he went on. The hell would want one, though.

I guess it shows how much I know about art. It's what made him famous, I guess. Dad went on with his tirade for a while, but I didn't hear anything beyond his very next words. Even wrapped in that blanket, my body became cold as ice. He never did anything different. He only sculpted women with their heads carved into the center of their stomachs. When old buildings are condemned and signs posted to keep out,

it's almost certain that young people will be drawn to that spot. In this tale from author Marshall Bannana, a mishap at an abandoned building ends up having tragic consequences for a group of friends. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson and Ellie Hurra. Hirschman. So heed the warnings and learn the lesson from Chuck. You see, Chuck came back wrong. I pushed Chuck Parker into a well and stayed there watching him until he went down and didn't come up again. When I told his mother, she thanked me and gave me a hug. Did I know Chuck before this? Kind of, sort of. He was just part of the flock of neighborhood kids that hung out to

We weren't old enough to self-segregate, so everybody was sort of a friend to everybody. If I think real hard, I think maybe I can pick his face out of certain memories here or there. I don't know if he's the one who yelled run that day. It could have been anyone. My mind didn't bother to note the voice. I thought it was all part of some new game at Jungle City. At that age, we had already decided that new buildings were a boy. When they rotted or got torn down, there was only a jumble of paper-thin drywall.

When old buildings went, they created ruins. The Henley Gas Works left a crumbling brick foundation overgrown with pokeberries and weed becones. It was our jungle city. There we played updated games of tag and hide-and-seek, ducking jungle beasts and witch doctors. We had just come off a game of magic tag when the scream came. Did we all recognize the urgency in the voice, or did we write it off as another facet of the great game? The voice told us to run. Don't ask, just go now. We went. Skipping and laughing, we ran from the building.

No one noticed Chuck was left behind until we hit Graham Street in the beginnings of civilization again. Hadn't he been the one who yelled? But then, why hadn't he been first out of the building? Michelle had seen him sitting on the edge of the hole rotted through to the water-filled basement, but got distracted by the tag game long before the screen. When we got to the war monument that guarded the entrance to our street, Chuck was already there.

None of us were alarmed. It was only natural that Chuck had gotten there first. Perhaps he had ducked out before us without being seen. But gradually, as we talked to him, It began to dawn on us that something was wrong. The smell hit you first. The whole time Chuck was around, he would always smell this meaty, fruity odor rolling off him in waves.

Our teacher had to open the windows of the classroom on the days he actually bothered to show up. And it only got worse the longer he was around. Like whatever it was started putrifying. Chuck was all dead. He lounged in the lap of the monument like a king on a throne, smiling with confidence beyond his years. We greeted him, laughing about how he had beat us there. Chuck didn't say anything to us that first afternoon, which would have probably tipped us off earlier on that something wasn't right.

He just slid off the monument like he was rainwater and walked behind the group. We plugged our noses and joked about him falling in sewer water. When we went our separate ways, Chuck tried to follow Kelly, until we reminded him that he didn't live close to her. Ben volunteered to get him home. I think he was a little concerned about the way Chuck didn't appear to have a sense of direction. The next morning, my mom spent 20 minutes on the phone, and when she hung up, she told me we weren't allowed to go back to the Gas Works building.

Chuck had fallen into something bad, and it made him sick. I couldn't ever go back. Was that clear? I whined at first, but after the weird shit started happening, I was only too glad to stay away from that place. Maybe Chuck had fallen into something bad. But Chuck wasn't sick. Chuck wasn't Chuck.

And we realized this over the course of the next few days. Phil was jumping off this ledge at the quarry with a few of the guys, and called it the death cliff, but it couldn't have been more than seven feet off the ground. Phil said Chuck was quiet, like he'd been since the gas works, until it came his turn to jump. Chuck walked to the edge and just looked down like he didn't know what to do. Phil yelled go. The others yelled go.

Chuck stepped off the edge. Phil was a solid kid, always had your back in a fight. So when he said Chuck's knees went backwards when he landed, I believed him. Phil said it wasn't a regular hyper extension either. Chuck nearly bent in half the wrong way. Then slowly he stood up straight with a little smile on his face. The others climbed off the rock asking if he needed to go to the hospital. No.

They realized why he hadn't said anything before. His voice, when he spoke, sounded too thick and deep, like something trying to imitate a kid with adult vocal cords. Anne was kind of the class blabbermouth, so when she said she saw Chuck take a bite out of a dead kitten, I was less inclined to believe her. She said that she'd been walking home on a street near our neighborhood, and she saw Chuck crouching down by a little furry shape.

She watched him poke it curiously. Then his head went down and she heard the crunch. Chuck came up. mouth slick with red, chewing like an iguana chomping on lettuce. She was too scared to cry. She said she couldn't tell if the body was just wiggling under the force of his assault, or if the kitten was still alive when he started. When I met Chuck later that day, his breath smelled like death.

I was a little kinder to Anne after that. I wasn't in the lunchroom when he spat in Kevin's milk, but plenty of other people were. They told me of how he waited till Kevin's back was turned and put his mouth over the carton. They said it wasn't just a little stream of spit. An endless yellow drool fell from his mouth into the milk. He ended it just before Kevin turned around. He smiled and pushed Kevin stray forward.

Kevin took it and got away quickly from Chuck's smell. Someone accidentally on purpose ran into Kevin, splattering the suddenly thick milk everywhere. In addition to these events, there were all the little things we noticed day by day. How Chuck was always a little damp. How the smell evolved over time. How the whites of his eyes had a bluish tint.

How his chin started sprouting these long, pale hairs. He was a brunette. How he moved strangely, nodding his head when no one had said anything. Reggie nudged me one day, pointing in silent terror to the back of Chuck's head. Chuck was talking to Ben, his back to us. As he spoke, I watched the back of his head flex and bulge, like the jaw bones extended behind his skull. It was almost two weeks after Chuck came back wrong that I ran into his mother.

I was walking to the school bus and I saw her car parked at the end of the alley. She was a mess. She looked like she hadn't showered or slapped since Chuck got back. She motioned for me to come over, so I got in the car. When she spoke, her voice was just dead. I had never before seen someone so deeply in despair they couldn't show emotion. Chuck's mom asked how I was. I said fine.

She asked how well I knew Chuck. I said, well enough. Chuck's mom said that Chuck wasn't her son anymore. She just knew, and I probably knew too. Chuck didn't know things he should have known. He didn't ever eat what she cooked for him. I didn't tell her about the kitten. And he wouldn't bathe.

She tried to put him in the shower and he bit her. He'd left teeth in her skin when he did that. She found loose teeth all over the house, more than should have been in his mouth. She said she didn't know what to do. She wanted to know what had made him this way. I told her my best guess. I know what it sounds like now, a childhood flight of fancy.

But she didn't laugh or berate me for making up stories. She gave me a limp hug and thanked me and told me to stay away from him until we could figure out what to do. She dropped me off at school because we'd been talking too long and I'd miss the bus. I didn't make it to class that morning either. As she drove away, I saw something at the far end of the baseball diamond. It looked like Chuck, and he had someone small by the hand. I thought a lot about what I did that day. Why didn't run and grab a teacher, call the cops, tell someone.

It's because I knew, even then, that it would be too slow, and I knew whatever he was up to had to be stopped quick. I caught up with him outside the school because I didn't want to attract too much attention Michelle's little sister Tammy was holding Chuck's hand She was clearly revolted by his smell But he was promising her a lot of things as he led her away His thick voice like wasp honey

I called for him to stop Chuck turned around weird Parts of his body moved that shouldn't have That yellow drool was leaking from his mouth and eyes. I have to wonder what he'd promised her to make her overlook his appearance. I asked what he was doing. Chuck laughed.

Tammy was starting to breathe fast. I think it only hit her that something was wrong when someone else showed up. She started twisting her hand, but Chuck wouldn't let go. I asked if he was showing her something, because I wanted to see it. Chuck blinked. That goop in his eyes pulled into little things. threads. I told him to let go of Tammy and show me. He did. Tammy ran, sobbing. I told him to lead on. I knew he was leading us to the gas works long before we turned onto the factory district.

I don't know what made me think of the well. Maybe it was Chuck's mom mentioning he didn't like water. I told him we needed to stop at this cracked concrete circle. I had something I wanted to show him too. He stopped, looking at me oddly. The concrete had broken away, not big enough to call for expensive repairs, but big enough to fall in. I called him closer, closer. The real Chuck would have known what the hole was. This chuck bent down, and I pushed him in. He didn't fall right in. He was too big, caught on the edge. I had to stomp. I had to stomp. on his back to get him in there. He made too big of a splash. I watched through the crack. Chuck was screaming at me in a voice that didn't sound human anymore. He kept trying to climb up the

sides and falling back down like an ant in a picture clip. He took forever to go under. I walked home after I was sure he was dead. I went to Chuck's house first. His mom gave me a hug, told me what to say when they questioned me. Chuck had tried to run away. I followed him to keep him safe. I lost him. Everyone accepted it. Chuck had been acting strangely.

It wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Tammy never spoke up either. I think she realized how close she came to danger. Either that or she blocked it out. I wish I could block it out. The side of Chuck clawing at the side. sides of the well, arms and legs rotating as if every joint was a ball and socket. Not once have I ever regretted doing it, though.

I still have to wonder whether Chuck is really dead in there, whether something had changed him or just replaced him. And it haunts me to wonder what the hell he told us to run from that first day at the gas works. Your time in our nether world 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 be. drag you down into our dark storyland. This audio production is copyright, 2016, 2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. The name The No Sleep Podcast is a trademark of Creative Reason Media, Inc. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent

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