The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E03

Episode Date: May 21, 2017

It's episode 03 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about mystical muses, perplexing pictures, and childhood collapses. "Shadow Puppets"‡ written by Manen Lyset and performed by Jeff Clement & Matthew Bradford & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:03:00) "The Nightmarish Collapse of Alex Drew"† written by Jimmy Juliano and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Kyle Akers & Nichole Goodnight & Peter Lewis & Matthew Bradford. (Story starts around 00:16:45) "Why I Don’t Cry Anymore"† written by Alyssa Fussell and performed by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 01:07:30) "Word and Color"† written by Jörn Heidrath and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:29:30) "Garbage"† written by Lindsay Moore and performed by Alexis Bristowe & Atticus Jackson & Addison Peacock & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:53:20) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about Jimmy Juliano   Click here to learn more about Jörn Heidrath   Click here to learn more about Lindsay Moore   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "The Nightmarish Collapse of Alex Drew" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody 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 storytelling podcast. Our tales are dark and disturbing, intended to shake you up. Listen at your own risk. We are all around you. And tonight's there will be, brace yourself 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 Mistake. musical muses, perplexing pictures, and childhood collapses. Now that we're three episodes into season nine, it's a good time to remind everyone that once again we're offering our rent-to-own program for the season pass. Each full-length episode during the season is available individually for only $1.49. That means you don't have to spend $1999 all at once for the season pass. You can buy weekly episodes affordably, and when you purchase just 14 individual episodes from a season, you're eligible for a free upgrade to a full season pass. So don't miss out on all the great stories we produce for you each week. Rent a

season pass week to week and experience all our spine-tingling tales. I also want to welcome a new contributor to the podcast. Yerne Hydruth joins the show with his... Wait, Yerne Hydruth. It seems not Only is he a voice actor and illustrator, but he's now contributing a story. So congratulations, Jorn. You're the only person who joins me in the Triple Terror Club of being a voice actor, illustrator, and author on the podcast. We're glad you find new ways to share your talent with us. And speaking of talent, we have a lot of it for you this week. Great writers, actors, illustrators, musicians, and producers. So let's swirl it all together and and kick off this week's show.

In our first tale, we meet a family with young brothers, brothers who naturally like to pick on the youngest child. And as author Manon Lyset informs us, even the simple childhood game of using their hands to make shadow creatures on the walls at night can lead to torment. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, and Ellie Hirschman.

So turn on one light in the dark and see how good you are at making shadow puppets. When we were young, my brothers and I shared a room. Those two were great at making shadow puppets come to life. Tyler could make a soaring hawk and John, a fearsome wolf. Me, I was never able to make anything that looked remotely like something. Before you start harking on me and telling me how easy it is, and how I should have at least been able to make a bunny,

keep in mind that John can't snap his fingers, so I'm not the only failure in the family. My brothers never made me feel bad about my shortcomings, but I felt a little sad all the same. I'd watched as they'd tell stories with their shadow puppets and wait to join in on games of shadow tag we'd play until one of us fell asleep. Everything changed the day we moved to a bigger house.

We all got our own bedrooms, mine being the smallest since I was the youngest, and our nightly games came to an end. I'd practiced making shadow puppets on my own in the hopes that I would eventually learn and impress my brothers. But no matter how hard I tried, I never really got any better. One night, I'd stayed awake, practicing later than usual, knowing my brothers and I were going to have a weekend sleepover. I was exhausted, my head bobbing and my eyelids drooping, but something suddenly snapped me awake. A shadow crept into view from below. Much like my own shadow puppets, it wasn't a distinctive shape. It was an upright, large oval with eight little tentacles wiggling out from the top.

I managed to mimic it by bringing my hands together and criss-crossing my fingers. The shape bloomed like a flower, opening wide, and then snapping shut. It kind of reminded me of a Venus fly trap. Thinking it was one of my brothers hiding under my bed, I called out, Tyler? No reply. John? Still nothing.

Not funny, guys. The shape opened and closed. twice. I pulled my blanket up to my neck and slowly pushed myself to the edge of the bed. Even though I fully anticipated I'd find one of my brothers hiding under there waiting to jump out at me, even though I was ready for it, I was still nervous and tense. It was like watching the villain of a horror movie slowly creep towards its heroin, knowing full well what's going to happen, but being anxious all the same. The fear was palpable.

I could feel my heart thrashing and throbbing like a trout out of water. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and looked under the bed. There was nothing there. Just dust bunnies and the robot toy I'd lost earlier that week. I tilted my head back up and looked at the wall. The shadow puppet was still there, snapping its mawop open and shut. over and over again. Then, suddenly, it darted closer to my shadow, and I quickly pulled my torso back onto the mattress,

turned off the light, and hid under my blanket until I passed out. Come morning, I dismissed it as being a bad dream. That night I showed off the cool Venus flytrap shadow puppet I learned to make thanks to that nightmare. What the heck is that supposed to be? Lame. Ugh, the L word. They weren't pulling any punches.

I couldn't have felt any more uncool if I was forced to go to school with suspenders and braces. Still reeling from the soul-crushing roast I received at the sleepover. I spent the rest of the week trying to perfect my craft, but kept falling asleep before I had much time to practice. Then, one night, the buzz of my flashlight. woke me up. I opened my eyes and saw its flickering halo on the wall, but didn't find it on my bed. It had somehow fallen on the ground without waking me up. A weird shadow was slowly inching from one side of the illuminated circle to the other. It had long ears, a spindly body and a morphed tail

shaped like a question mark. I was petrified. And then it got small. as the thing casting the shadow moved farther away from the source of light and closer to the wall. My cat came into view and stared at me as though trying to say, What the heck's your problem, man? That would have been a good time to let out a string of expletives, but at that age, even in my most private of moments, I didn't dare utter those words. I was still at the age where I thought my mom literally had eyes in the back of her head. Hell, I'm an adult now, and I'm still not convinced she doesn't.

My cat disappeared from few, but I could tell where she was based on her shadow. She started darting back and forth and pouncing on nothing in that way cats tend to do for no good reason. Since she seemed to want to play, I stretched my hand out over the side of the bed and wiggled my fingers, unsure whether she'd go directly for them or further long shadow on the wall. She seemed torn between the two. I had times throwing herself at the wall like a bird at a newly cleaned patio door and at others nuzzling my fingertips. I stopped moving when I saw the Venus fly trap like shadow emerging.

At that point my cat was at a view again. Her shadow showed her standing sideways, looking at the new shadow curiously. I heard her hiss and saw the hairs on her body rise like a mohawk. In one fell swoop, the Venus flytrap opened, darted towards her shadow, and snapped shut halfway through. I jumped, let out a yelp, and looked over the side of the bed. I wish I hadn't. I could have spared myself a lot of hurt if I'd just closed my eyes right then and there and pretended I hadn't seen anything. Instead, I have a mental image of it now.

An image I'll never be able to wash away from my mind until the day I die. I should have known better when I saw only half of my cat's shadow being cast in the wall. But I looked anyways. I looked, and I saw her still twitching hind legs attached to the lower half of her body. Then I watched as the Venus flytrap bit down on what was left of her. her shadow and her body disappeared. Nothing was casting that shadow. I was looking at the floor the whole time. There was nothing there. I threw my blanket over the flashlight and cried myself to sleep. It took my parents about a week before they told us our cat had gone missing. I didn't tell

them the truth. I might have been a stupid kid who couldn't even make a proper shot. shadow puppet, but I knew better than to say something about it. They'd think I was nuts or tell me I was dreaming. We put up posters and went through the stages of grief. Tyler was angry at first. John refused to believe she was gone. As for me, I just felt numb. The secret weighed on me,

but the fear of telling and the fear of the shadow in my room weighed even heavier. I slept in complete darkness. No nightlights, no hallway lights, no half-open blinds. I was terrified of the shadows. The only place that was safe from the shadows was in darkness, because the only thing that can cast a shadow is light. This went on for about a month, before we had our next sleepover,

and by then pretty much everyone had accepted our cat wasn't coming back. It was late, but the three of the three of the three of the night, us were wide awake from the plethora of Halloween candy we'd snuck out of the kitchen when our parents weren't watching. I was afraid from the moment Tyler turned on the flashlight and proposed we make shadow puppets. No, I want to sleep. What are you, five? Come on, let's play. John kicked me in the shin. I don't want to. Lame. Leave him alone. His voice saw, softened as he addressed me. If you want to sleep, then sleep.

We're playing. I closed my eyes tight and turned away, trying to ignore them as Tyler's hawk and John's wolf flew around the room. They were laughing and making their shadow puppets play fight. Nice. They suddenly stopped. Don't do that. It's not me.

David stopped. It's not funny. What? I was confused. I could tell they were upset, but I didn't know why. At least, not until I saw the feline shadow casually trotting from one flashlight's halo to the other. It pounced at Tyler's hawk and pawed at John's wolf, just like our cat used to. I felt my stomach drop and bounce back, like my guts were made of bungee cord. I tried to tell them I wasn't projecting. I wasn't projecting it. I tried to remind them, I sucked at shadow puppets, but they kept shouting at me

to stop and getting more and more upset until they finally turned off their flashlights. Not funny. I'm going to sleep. I remember the way they looked at me the next morning. Their eyes were so full of animosity that I felt like a nerd trying to sit at the cool kids' table. I think my mom talked to them later, because they eventually stopped treating me. me like a leper and slowly started including me in their games again. They never played with shadow puppets again, though. At least not with me. We grew up, like people tend to do.

John moved away. Our parents sold their house to Tyler so they could move into a smaller place. Tyler got married and had kids, and I became that weird person with three cats and no social life. A few weeks ago, Tyler's wife called in a panic and asked if I'd seen him. Long story short, he'd gone missing without a trace. Sure, their marriage had been on the rocks for a few years,

but I knew Tyler well enough to know he wouldn't leave his family. I drove over to their house, to my old house, and tried to help as much as I could. I knew right from the moment I stepped through the door and saw his youngest daughter. I knew what happened. I recognized the numb look in her eyes as my sister-in-law grimly welcomed me in. I slept in my niece's room that night with a flashlight tucked under my armpit just to be sure, while the kiddo slept with their mother.

Once everyone was asleep and the house was quiet, I flicked the flashlight on and waited. I found the Venus flytrap in a corner. A hawk flew across the ceiling, and my cat came running after it in an eternal game of shadow tag. There are many tales about promising young athletes who fail to live up to their potential. But in this tale from author Jimmy Giuliano, we learned the story of a high school baseball pitcher who was destined to play in the big leagues, until a mysterious legend from his hometown brought about his downfall. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Kyle Acres, Nicole Goodnight, Peter Lewis, and Matthew Bradford. So listen to the facts and decide for yourself what caused the nightmarish collapse of Alex Drew.

I sat in a coffee shop in Paw Paw West Virginia staring at a faded Polaroid photograph. Two 10-year-old boys stared back from the picture. One had his arm around the other. They both wore baseball gloves and sported toothy grins, but I wasn't supposed to be looking at the young friends. I was supposed to be looking for the black smudge from a third floor window in a house in the distance. I didn't see it. Paul Miller sat to my left. He was one of the boys in the picture, or as Paul put it, that used to be me.

Miller was now in his 40s, had a bit of a paunch, and when he spoke about baseball, his words dripped with something of a wistful reverence. This conversation was a little darker. His finger touched upon that window in the picture. You don't see her? I still didn't. Miller sighed. He was frustrated, yet he was too kind to actually tell me that. He slipped the photograph back into a manila folder.

How about the Cubs? When talking with Paul Miller, the conversation always veered back towards baseball. It caught me off guard every time, but it shouldn't have. Baseball was Miller's first love, his true love. And even though baseball was tied directly into Miller's heartbreak and his friend's unimaginable horror, Miller always found his way back. Cubbies are looking good. Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have known what to say.

The nuances of baseball were lost on me. I never appreciated the beauty, the elation, or the anguish. But now, I felt confident, cool. Saying Cubbies made me feel like part of a special club. Alex liked the Cubs. He might have pitched for them. You never know. That's a damn shame.

That's travesty, really. Alex Drew was the other boy in the picture. Just a happy-go-lucky 10-year-old kid who eventually got wrapped up in that unimaginable horror. Miller had an interesting way of talking about Drew. It was always heavy, weighted down, perpetually past tense, like he was delivering a eulogy at Drew's funeral. But Drew wasn't dead. We were on our way to see him.

Miller drummed the manila folder with his fingers. He removed the photograph and he tapped the third floor window again. You don't see her? Two weeks before my coffee shop meeting with Paul Miller, I was sinking into an oversized leather chair in my history advisor's office. I was discussing ideas for my senior research paper, or, should I say, my lack of ideas. My professor, Dr. Kingsley, sat with his hand on his chin, politely listening as I rambled off some uninspired topics. When I finished, he paused for a moment.

Then he asked me a question. Have you ever heard of Alex Drew? I hadn't. Let me play you something. He stood, reached up to the fifth shelf of his bookcase, and he pulled down a portable cassette deck. It was vintage, about. About 12 inches long, gray with a black handle and a large red record button.

Dr. Kingsley placed it on the coffee table between us, and he pressed the play button. The tape inside the tape deck began to spin. A loud hiss rushed from the speakers like it had been pent up and trying to escape. I heard the faint sounds of clapping and cheering, and then a boy's voice. He couldn't have been older than 16. We heard the ching sound of a metal fence. groans from the crowd. Simmons advances to third and Thompson trots to first base.

That's Drew's fifth walk of the inning. More murmuring from the small crowd. The tape hissed and crackled. I looked up at Dr. Kingsley. Even though I was certain he'd heard this tape many times before, he still looked affected by it. Drew walks around the mound slowly. His head hung low.

It's like he can't look up. Something about his body language. Drew just looks... How do I say this? I'm scared. Dr. Kingsley pursed his lips. His fingers clenched the inside of his hand, moving in and out. Paul Miller heads out to the mound, and here comes Coach Turner.

This looks like that will be all for Alex Drew. Whitefielder Stephen Larson is coming into pitch, and Drew will be taking his place in the outfield. Polite clapping from the crowd, a few whistles. It's okay, Alex, someone shouts. That's the third disaster start in a row for Alex. Drew. Miller pads Drew on the back and the left-hander jogs out to right field. Drew lifts his head up as he's jogging, like he's looking for something off in the distance, then drops it again. I'm not quite sure what he's looking at, but something's caught Drew's eye. He positions himself

in right field, but he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else but this baseball diamond. Dr. Kingsley's gaze floated towards the bookshelf. He looked unnerved. It's, um, it's difficult to describe, but Drew looks like he's shrinking. He keeps looking off towards the distance with a face I can only describe as fear. I'm not sure what else to call it. I've never seen anything like this. It's unsettling. The tape hissed and cut off.

The cassette wheels continued to spin for a few seconds before Dr. Kingsley pressed down the stop button. I received that tape years ago. It made the rounds amongst baseball junkies. like myself. It's a copy, and it's not the whole thing. Just that one excerpt. Was it a radio broadcast? Dr. Kingsley shook his head. It was a kid making a demo announcing tape. He wanted to major in broadcasting. And so he recorded himself doing a couple of high school games back in the late 1980s. It's the only known existing audio of an Alex Drew game. Am I supposed to know who Alex Drew is?

Dr. Kingsley smiled. How much do you know about small town Minnesota baseball lore? Outside of the ability to hum take me out to the ball game, I didn't know anything about baseball. Professor Kingsley, I'm getting the impression you'd like me to do my research paper on Alex Drew, but I don't think I'm the right person for this. Baseball isn't really my thing. A sly smirk crossed Dr. King's. Mr. That's why I think you'd be perfect for this story.

After agreeing to write my research paper on Drew, I quickly ran into an issue. Alex Drew didn't seem real. He was more of a myth, a legend. The way Dr. Kingsley described Drew, it was almost as if some baseball fantasy conjured up to teach aspiring players a lesson in humility. Better appreciate what you have, kiddo, because the baseball gods will cruelly rip it away from you when you least expect it. But I couldn't really blame the professor for thinking this way. Outside of the demo tape and a few anecdotes, Dr. Kingsley didn't know much about Drew, just things he heard from his different baseball circles.

Stories shared over a round of cold beers in a smoky bar. According to Kingsley, Drew was a flame-throwing high school left-handed pitcher who had his ticket punched to the big leagues. then he seemingly fell off the face of the earth. I've always wondered, was it baseball that broke Drew, or was it something else? Baseball can break the best of us, but to this day, the real story of Alex Drew has never been told. And that's why you'd be perfect for this story. You'd bring a different perspective, a non-romanticide.

a non-romanticized baseball perspective. Maybe that's what this story needs. I asked Kingsley what he meant about baseball breaking you. I'm not sure that I can explain it. Baseball is so pure and beautiful, but it can destroy you. You play your whole life and then one day it's gone. The whole feel for the game just vanishes. That's what makes.

baseball, so beautiful. It's fleeting for all of us. He paused and smiled to himself. I wonder if Drew can still throw the heater. Internet searches turned up few scattered pieces of information about Alex Drew. My cursory research only confirmed what Professor Kingsley told me. Drew was a pitching phenom at Williams Harbor High School in northern Minnesota in 1988, and then he fell apart. A prep sports writer at the time called it a nightmarish collapse. He shouldn't have written that. I'm not sure how that made it past the editors.

We were kids, for God's sake. You don't write about kids like that. Nightmarish collapse is putting it mildly. What happened to Drew was something far worse. I don't think nightmare does it justice. Tracking down the Alex Drew story was a bit like stepping into the batters box against Drew in his high school prime. You can formulate a plan of attack, but in the end, you're bound to end up flailing wildly at whatever gets thrown your way. I began by searching

Drew on social media, and that went nowhere fast. I searched for an address or phone number, and any leads promptly dissipated. I quickly and correctly guessed that he didn't want to be found. I then performed what I thought was the next logical step, contacting Drew's old. old high school in Williams Harbor. The problem, Williams Harbor didn't exist. Well, not anymore anyway. The town sprang up overnight in the late 1950s. American companies were looking for new ways to make steel after World War II, and they found their answer on Minnesota's scenic north shore. Enter Williams Harbor, a shipping bay about 20 miles south of Lustin on Lake Superior, founded by the Robert Williams Mining Company. Tachanite, a low-grade iron

iron ore was mined and pelletized in Silver Bay, Minnesota, before being shipped to nearby Williams Harbor for distribution. The town was a private slice of paradise, if you were into the Northwoods lifestyle. Think sprawling Great Lakes coastlines, secluded hiking paths, and immense green forests as far as the eye could see, and you've got an idea of the Minnesota North Shore. It was a good place to make a living. At its peak, the harbor hands were. At its peak, the harbor handled 9 million tons of pellets annually and boasted 1,378 residents in 1980. 11 years later, it was completely abandoned. In 1991, Robert Williams went bankrupt, operations closed, and the workers and their families

moved on. Williams Harbor was a ghost town. I contacted a newspaper in Tofty, Minnesota, about 10 miles north of Williams Harbor, and a friendly reporter tracked down and emailed me a team photo and roster of the 1988 Williams Harbor Baseball team. I made inquiries to players and coaches. Few responded. But the trend developed immediately.

Everyone refused to talk about Drew. Everyone except Paul Miller. Alex and I grew up on the same streets. We're talking about right now. If I thought he'd be a big league prospect in high school, Alex was a special kid. Alex Drew, six foot two, 175 pounds, according to the 1988 Williams Harbor. roster. Throws left-handed, bats left-handed. He's standing in the back row of the team photo. Hat pulled down low, dark eyes, strong chin, lanky. You wouldn't guess his left arm was a cannon.

A South Paul with good velocity always has a chance to make it to the big leagues, but Drew had more than just good velocity. I asked Miller what type of big league career he imagined Drew having, if not for the breakdown. Miller didn't hesitate. Oh, he might still be throwing today, 45. Drew's pitching career didn't make it past 17. He hung up his cleats halfway through his junior year after a string of particularly disastrous starts, and then he transferred across the country. The way Miller freshly described Drew's infamous starts,

you'd have thought the games were played last week. It's wall up to the left center gap. Double four nothing. The lack of control crept out of nowhere, Miller insisted. But it wasn't the walks or the basis clearing double that concerned Miller. It was Drew's demeanor on the mound. I asked Miller if he knew what kept drawing Drew's gaze on the mound. Nurse Hazel was a bit easier to track down.

Well, the legend of Nurse Hazel, that is. She was one of the first wave of Williams Harbor residents in the late 1950s, and she worked at the local hospital. Soon after Hazel arrived, kids started dying at an inordinate rate. Healthy kids. kids coming in for routine procedures were falling ill and perishing on her watch. As the legend goes, Hazel was infatuated with pristine health and well-being, and even the most minor of illnesses were assigned from God that the children were not worthy of life.

So Hazel took the life from them. Sixteen children died before the authorities discovered Hazel's involvement. Mob justice prevailed and the town came for her. They stormed her home and Hazel threw herself from her. from her third floor window. They say, when her body hit the ground, her eyes were jarred loose and flipped all the way around. Only the whites of her eyeballs were exposed.

Her spirit lives on. Sick Minnesota kids are hesitant to open their eyes in bed, terrified of seeing Nurse Hazel standing vigil at their bedside. And sightings of Nurse Hazel roaming the third floor in her full nursing get-up with stark white eyes are reported at her former residence on the anniversary of the night she took her life. According to Miller, Drew's path collided with the nurse Hazel legend when the boys were 12 years old. Miller paused, and for a moment I thought the line went dead, but I heard him lightly breathing and waited. February 12, 1988, Alex Drew was in the high school weight room

maxing out on the bench press. He sweats and grunts his way through a 45-minute workout. He showers and then heads across town to meet pitching instructor Tom Wilson. The two break down video and work on mechanics. Drew gets home at 9 p.m., fuels up on dinner, and hits the books until midnight. He's up at 5, laps in the swimming pool beckon. I've never seen a more dedicated student-athlete, William says. Some say perfection is not attainable. To that person, I say, talk to Alex Drew. That was an article from the Tofty Gazette. Miller scanned it and sent me a copy. He saved all the press clippings from his baseball days in an album. I asked him if he had any more articles about Drew, and he said none worth sending.

There's only a few, he said, and it's more of the same. Honor student, hard worker, long hours. I was parked at a gas station with my digital recorder held up to the phone. Drew handled it pretty well his freshman and sophomore year. 19 wins, zero losses, four no hitters, and 12 strikeouts per game. His first three starts as junior year were more of the same. Three wins, zero losses, and 39 strikeouts in only 21 innings. But then, something happened.

Walks, wild pitches, extra bass hits, sightings of her. She was fuller audibly sighs. We have the then and now conversation, a classic sports discussion topic. We talk the late 80s versus today, how it was probably a bit easier for players mentally back then, before the onslaught of media coverage on student athletes, before the streaming of high school games. social media comments, entire websites devoted to prep sports. Back then, you had one sports guy on the local beat, and that was pretty much it. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that a spook story could ruin the mental makeup of a player.

It might have been more likely to happen 30 years ago, by reasoned. Take the Nurse Hazel legend. It's easily disproven today. She simply did not exist. I found no record of her and no record of 16 children dying at Williams Harbor Harbor. hospital en masse in the late 1950s and early 1960s, basic internet searches and scholarly articles dispelled that legend quickly. But in 1988, those ghost stories simply had the capacity to be more real. Maybe Nurse Hazel did get into Drew's head in some form. Where is Alex Drew? Alex Drew found me. I received an email from Drew's sister, Karen Fincher. I'd been posting about

Alex drew on any sports forum or Facebook page I could find, asking for leads if anyone knew Alex or knew somebody that knew somebody. A few days later, a message appeared in my inbox with the subject line, please leave it alone. Karen's message was short but respectful. She politely requested that I stopped spamming websites about Alex and potentially bringing his story to the limelight. Her family would greatly appreciate it. I emailed back, thank you for your message. I want to make sure we're on the same page. Here's the info I have on Alex's final starts for Williams Harbor, his junior year. April 13th, 88, 1 in a 3rd inning pitched, 7 earned runs, 3 hits, 6 bases on balls, 4 wild pitches.

April 19, 98, 2 3rds inning pitched, 5 earned runs, 2 hits, 4 bases on balls, 6 wild pitches. April 24th, 1988, 2 3rds innings pitched, 6 earned runs, 2 hits, 5 bases on balls, 4th 1⁄ 7 1⁄ 7 bases on balls, 4th 14th 14th 14th 14th 14th 14th 14th. six earned runs, two hits, five bases on balls, four wild pitches. Alex was an amazing pitcher, and from what I understand, an amazing kid. This sort of precipitous drop-off from such a promising talent is a human interest story. At the very least, I'm deeply interested. Alex's former teammate, Paul Miller, provided me with quotes and other information about Alex. I've attached quotes from Paul and additional information about a nurse Hazel legend to this email.

I had hoped to run this by Alex or a member of his face. family for confirmation. Frankly, it seems a little unbelievable to be true. I was hoping you could tell me what to believe. I spoke with Fincher on the phone later that evening. I furiously scribbled notes throughout the entire conversation. Karen Fincher's tone was friendly, yet irritated. For starters, he acts like this nurse Hazel legend is real. That my brother was haunted by an actual spirit. He wasn't. There are ghosts out there latching on to people. It's... It's irresponsible. According to Fincher, Drew's ongoing encounters with the Nurse Hazel legend were Drew's alone.

They were his creations. My brother pushed himself too hard at a young age. You've studied the Nurse Hazel legend, right? Her obsession with perfection? That was my brother. Exactly him. He didn't murder children, obviously, but it's not a coincidence that he started seeing that figure in his own head. It was a real popular legend in our town.

Every kid knew it. I understand why that's what Alex's head conjured up. He was obsessed with perfection. It overtook him. It became too much for him. She paused for a moment. We are our own demons. We chatted some more.

Fincher was affable. She told me about the Alex of today, a tale of two Alexes. There's the Alex who lives near the Appalachian Mountains, who trains service dogs, and who adores his family, who wears out his Major League Baseball, all season pass online.

Then there's the Alex who barely leaves the house. The Alex who wears a blindfold when he does, because he still sees her. She's on rooftop. Nurse Hazel standing on a hill or in a crowd of people. She was always on rooftops, and she always was dancing, just slowly dancing a waltz. I'll by herself, but it looked like she was cradling a child, but there's nothing in her arms. and that's where Alex sees her still. Funny, I never read any of that in the Nurse Hazel legend stuff online.

I know, shocking, the internet would get that wrong, right? She was right. None of the websites I visited mentioned anything about Nurse Hazel slowly dancing a waltz on a rooftop, holding an invisible child. It's all bullshit. It was probably made up by some parents back in the 70s. All of these legends have their reasons. Maybe Nurse Hazel was invented to scare kids from pretending to be sick. You know, fake an illness, stay home from school.

Ever do that? We never did that growing up. You'd be afraid Nurse Hazel would get you. You were a bad kid if you did that. Just asking for it. She paused and laughed. It's not true. I mean, of course it isn't.

We chatted some more. I asked Fincher if I could use her quotes for my project, and she hesitated. She needed to speak with Alex first. I had one last question for her before our phone call ended. a question I needed to ask for Dr. Kingsley. Can Alex still throw the heater? Fincher laughed. I pictured her smile. It was broad and knowing. I wound my rental car through narrow Appalachian Mountain Roads. Paul Miller was in the passenger seat and he couldn't sit still.

His left leg bobbed up and down, his eyes flickered back and forth. His left hand shook. It was four days after my phone conversation with Karen Fincher. Miller and I were on our way to the middle of nowhere to meet Alex Drew. For a man who spent the last 28 years not wanting to be found, was surprised at Drew's sudden change of heart. All it took on my end was a suggestion. It would be amazing if Drew could throw a few pitches to Miller again. It was actually Professor Kingsley's suggestion.

Wouldn't that be something exercising those baseball demons? God, it would be magical. Looking back on it, I'm not sure if Professor Kingsley actually thought it was an angle I should run with for my project. He was turning this into a baseball story, and to me, I wasn't convinced that this was a baseball story. I was investigating legends and lore and mental breakdowns. I had no intention of recreating a Field of Dreams moment. But I mentioned the idea to Miller, and he readily agreed. I emailed the suggestion to Karen Fincher,

and she responded with an email of her own. If Paul goes, Alex will go. We will choose the location. Something nearby Alex's place with no rooftops. I flew into Dallas International Airport on the school's dime. Professor Kingsley arranged everything. The history department has grants for stuff like this, the professor said.

I touched down in D.C. with a carry-on bag, a laptop, and a radar gun, courtesy of Dr. Kingsley. He said he'd had it since his own playing days back in college. I wrapped it in four layers of bubble wrap for the flight. I met Miller at a coffee shop in Paw Paw West Virginia. Actually, it was barely a coffee shop. More like a purveyor of kitsch gifts that poured coffee on request. Miller showed me the photograph with the black smudge I couldn't see.

He was certain it was Nurse Hazel watching him and Drew when they were 10-year-old boys. In a way, I think she's been with us since the beginning. That picture is from two years before I dared Alex to go into that damn house. She was watching us from the start. We hopped in my rental car. Miller tossed his cracked catchers mid into the backseat. Dust particles floated into the air. We drove for 20 miles and Miller's disposition grew increasingly grim.

Baseball talk sank into the abyss. Miller only wanted to talk about Nurse Hazel. The way she torments, her all. How you feel her behind you, but you'll snap your head around and there's nothing there. Her presence is always felt in empty doorways, just out of sight, always a few inches around the corner. She's there. She's always there.

It became increasingly clear, and I cursed myself for not seeing it earlier. Drew wasn't the only one haunted by Nurse Hazel. We were only a few miles away from Drew's location. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Fincher gave us the GPS coordinates. The road seemed to be shrinking, and we were at risk of being swallowed by a sea of evergreens. We hadn't seen another car in 15 minutes. I glanced at my phone. It blinked for service to no service, back to service.

I had a son. I haven't told you that. It wasn't part of your story, and you didn't ask, but yeah. I had a son. My fingers gripped the wheel. We were close. Miller cleared his throat. His voice grew ragged.

He was sick. For most of his life, he was sick. I took care of him, and he never wanted to be alone. He was terrified of being alone, and I barely ever left his side. One day, about six months ago. I left him for a moment to grab the mail from outside. It couldn't have been longer than a minute, maybe 45 seconds.

I heard this crash from the house and ran back inside. I found him crushed by the entertainment unit. He must have tried to climb it and the whole thing came down. I didn't even hear a scream. It was that fast. That quick was only four. I saw a break in the trees about 50 yards ahead and a car pulled off to the shoulder. Two people leaned against the side of the silver sedan.

I'll be goddamned. I parked behind the sedan and got my first look at the Minnesota baseball legend. Alex Drew looked young, boyish almost. When he smiled, the crow's feet emerged, but no one would focus on those when meeting Drew. His smile dominated his face. It was effervescent, welcoming. A baseball glove dangled at his right side. His left hand palmed a grass-stained baseball, and he stood next to his sister.

We exited the car and Drew tossed the baseball to Miller. You guys came all this way just to play some catch? Drew and Miller shook hands. They exchanged pleasantries and talked softly. I had aimed to capture this moment on my recorder, but I forgot to turn it on. To be honest, I was spooked. was spooked. Miller's revelation about his dead son had left me reeling. I was wondering if coming here was a mistake. I mindlessly small-talked with Karen Fincher, but I don't remember any of our

conversation. I had one eye on Miller and drew the whole time. Miller warmly chatted with Drew, but Miller's demeanor seemed fake, like he was wearing a mask. I tensed up just waiting for something to happen, but I didn't know what that thing would be. Do you want to do this? I'm loose. I retrieved the radar gun from the car. Miller grabbed his mid and crouched into the catcher's position on the side of the road. Drew paced out 60 feet, six inches without even trying. That distance was inside of him, like he was born with it. He could have probably paced it with his eyes closed. Drew towed an invisible rubber and went into his windup, arms above his head, right knee up to

his chest. It was graceful. A ballet performance in the middle. middle of the mountains. The baseball zipped out of Drew's hand and popped into Miller's glove. I looked down at the radar gun. Eighty-four miles per hour. The kid still had it. A satisfied, goofy grin appeared on Drew's face. He unleashed a few more fastballs. Pop, 83 miles per hour. Pop, 85 miles per hour. I wished Dr. Kingsley were here to see it. I imagined a look of wonder on his face, a tear forming in his eye. This was the beautiful baseball moment he craved, the fallen prospect giving it another go, redemption on a mountain road, the exorcism of sports demons nearly three

decades old. I could have stood there all day just watching these old friends play a simple game of pitch and catch. I finally understood why so many people romanticized baseball. Baseball was so simple, so innocent, so pure. It turned grown men into kids again. But then, something happened. Drew unleashed another pitch, and it sailed five feet over Miller's head. And Drew just stopped. The smile vanished.

His face flushed with white. We were about 20 yards from the edge of the forest, and Drew's gaze floated in that direction. The glove fell from Drew's right hand. He took a step back. His eyes stayed locked on the forest, like something was coming. Fincher launched into action. She pulled Drew by the arm and practically shoved her brother into the car.

Fincher slammed the door and hurried to the driver's side. We shouldn't have done this. Please, just leave us alone. Fincher hopped inside and she and Drew sped away. Gravel and dirt kicked up into the air. I looked back at the forest, waiting. for something to emerge. Nothing did. Paul Miller was still in his catcher's crouch. His head hung low. He fiddled with rocks on the ground with his mitt. He moved the rocks back and forth,

back and forth. I didn't say anything. I waited for Miller to say something. Anything at all, but he just crouched there, fiddling with some rocks. The death of Paul Miller's son had been ruled an accident. A newspaper blurb confirmed Miller's account of the story. The short article was more of a PSA about the dangers of not securing an entertainment center to the wall with small children around. Miller's son's death was a tragedy, but it could have been avoided. Miller was off searching for the baseball Drew had chucked down the road, and I had just enough service to do internet searches on my phone. When I found the article online, I felt a little better. I'm not sure what I was expecting to read, that a creepy nurse had been spotted dancing on the Miller rooftop

or that the kid had a needle plunged into his neck? I didn't want to admit it, but the Nurse Hazel's story was in my head. I didn't ask Miller about his son on the car ride back to Pawpaw. We sat in silence for nearly the whole way. The only time Miller spoke was when the AM station we were listening to crackled off some baseball scores. Can you turn that up? I dropped Miller off at his rental car outside the coffee.

shop. Before we parted, I asked him if he'd draw me a map to Nurse Hazel's house. I wanted to travel to William's Harbor to see if I could find it, to find her in a way. Despite his trepidations, Miller obliged. He scratched out a map of his hometown on a half sheet of paper. A few lines here, a few squares there. He drew a circle three times around a box at the intersection of two crooked lines. That's it. That's the best I can do. But I'm not sure what's left of William. William's harbor, there might not be anything left. I shook Miller's hand. It was cold and clammy. Miller got into his car and I turned to go, but he called back to me.

You've done a lot of research on this stuff. Do you think she's real? I paused. I don't know. Miller's eyes pinched and his voice was stern. You shouldn't go there, you know. Enough terrible things have happened because of her. She's done enough. I booked a flight to Duluth, Minnesota, rented a car, and drove nearly three hours north along a lake until I arrived at Williams Harbor. It was nearly dusk. The forsaken town was exactly what I'd expected, rumbling pavement, overgrown grass and weeds, derelict houses and buildings. Many of the lots were empty. A doghouse with faded red and black paint still stood in a long-forgotten backyard. A cool breeze blew in off Lake Superior. The old massive taconite dock loomed on the water. front. I walked past an old baseball field, knee high in weeds filling the entire diamond.

The metal backstop was rusted brown, but I could almost hear the laughter and cheers of boys sprinting down the base paths and making running catches in the outfield. Some of the street signs still stood. Taconite Avenue, Lakes Street. Others were missing completely. I followed Miller's directions as best I could, and I arrived at the alleged Nurse Hazel home. The house was three stories, white and dilapidated. Most of the siding had withered away. Windows were smashed, and the front door was slightly ajar. I went inside, and I carefully walked up the stairs. The wood was soft from decades of moisture, and I gripped the railing tight. I walked to the front bedroom on the third floor, and I found it a decaying mess. There was no old furniture,

only a few tattered pieces of wallpaper remained, and the flooring was battered. It smelled of rotten wood and dampness. I stared out the broken window into the ghost town. I imagined Miller daring Drew to enter the house as a 10-year-old, and I wondered if I was standing in the same spot as Drew all those years ago. I pictured the body of Nurse Hazel lying on the ground below, eyes rolled into the back of her head. You can only see the whites of her eyes. I stood for maybe five minutes. It might not have even been the right house. The breeze turned colder and my body shuddered. The sun dipped lower and I made my way downstairs.

I walked down the grassy street across the disintegrating pavement back to my car, and I took one last look at the Nurse Hazel House. A piece of the gutter had broken off and it hung off the side of the west end of the house. The wind picked up and the gutter swung, back and forth, back and forth. The squeak echoed through the abandoned town. I wondered if any old residents ever came back here, you know, just to see what happened to this place. Squeak, squeak, back and forth. It was three days later. I was back in Professor Kingsley's office, back where it all began.

I explained every step of my journey, the curious case of Paul Miller, the different versions of the Nurse Hazel legends, the reunion of Miller and Alex Drew. I described the scene of Drew's zipping baseballs into Miller's mitt and the popping of the glove in the mountain air. Dr. Kingsley's eyes twinkled with nostalgia. Oh, I'd have given anything to see that. I'd set out to answer the question, what exactly happened to baseball phenom Alex Drew? I expressed my disappointment to Dr. Kingsley

that I did not have a conclusive answer. I'd heard different accounts about the Nurse Hazel phenomenon, but never one from Drew himself. I'd even shot off a few more emails to Karen Fincher after the roadside incident, hoping for clarification. To the surprise of no one, she did not respond. The professor sank comfortably into his mahogany leather chair. I droned on about small-town legends and mysterious, murderous spirits, and I tried to read his face.

He looked disappointed in a way. I wanted you to bring a non-baseball perspective to this story, and you certainly did. I suppose I was still hoping you'd uncover a baseball. baseball reason for all of this, or maybe nothing at all. Part of the allure of baseball is that we might never know why a player falls apart. The professor told me about different players in the major leagues that had developed the yips or the sudden inability to throw the ball where you wanted it to go. Chuck Knoblock, a Yankee's second baseman, just one day couldn't throw the ball to first base anymore. Rick Ankeel, a Cardinals pitcher, lost command in the 2000 playoffs, and his pitching

career basically ended. Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Steve Blass inexplicably couldn't throw strikes after 10 solid years in the Biggs. What really happened to those guys is still unexplainable, but it certainly is fun to speculate, though. He stared up at the tape recorder on his bookshelf, the one with the Alex Drew tape from 1988. So, Alex Drew. Drew may have seen a ghost. I'm not sure anyone will believe this one. That old adage, that's just baseball, doesn't really apply here. He tapped the arm of his chair with his pen.

Now, go write that paper. I think you have something here. I still felt uneasy. The whole situation felt complicated. It felt wrong. Like I'd reopened wounds that were healing, that I was responsible. I thought about Drew unleashing another wild pitch and his sister whisking him away. I thought about Miller mourning the loss of his son, and if somehow dragging Miller back into Drew's

life just made it worse. And I thought about Nurse Hazel and that I was somehow inviting this horrible legend back into the world, that I was responsible for bringing a demon back to life, a demon that had affected the lives of so many. I had trouble sleeping. I wasn't eating as much. I daydreamed my way through classes, and I became easily startled. Regular sounds in the student commons made me jump. Walking down a slough path to the library in the evening made me uneasy.

I never felt alone. I felt like I was carrying a heavy burden, and I just couldn't shake it. I attempted to start my paper on Alex Drew, but I didn't know how to begin. I stared at a blank white screen. The cursor blinked. No words came. I needed more answers, some form of closure. I called Paul Miller, but the call went straight to voicemail.

I tried again, same. I emailed him, no response. On a hunch, I googled him and sorted by recent results, and my jaw just about hit the keyboard. Paul Miller was dead. He'd taken his own life a few days ago. He hadn't shown up to work and a neighbor forced his way into Miller's house to check on him. He found Miller dead with a needle sticking out of his

neck. Police ruled it as suicide. Miller was inside a locked bathroom, inside a locked bedroom, inside a locked house. He'd plunged the needle into his own neck, authority said. Poison. I shot off one last email to Karen Fincher. I let her know about Miller, and I asked her to relay the information to Drew for me. He'd probably want to know. I received an email from Drew himself a few hours later. Thank you for letting me know about Paul. I very much appreciate it. I hope your project goes well.

Best, Alex. I couldn't help myself. I emailed him right back. I bombarded Drew with questions. What do you think really happened to Paul Miller? Was it regret for feeling responsible for his son's death? Did you see Nurse Hazel on that mountain road? I hit send.

Drew replied a few minutes later. I understand your curiosity. I'm not sure what to tell you. Everything you've heard about Nurse Hazel is wrong. Just wrong. What I can tell you for certain is that Paul and I were good friends growing up. Best friends, actually. What happened to him is tragic.

Again, good luck with your project. Best, Alex. More vagueness, more mystery. I decided on a different approach. It was a long shot, but it was. was worth it. I replied to Drew. What does she look like? Drew responded, you don't want to know. I could have kept digging. I could have pestered Drew for more, but I was done. I was content to leave well enough alone. Drew had been tormented enough. I lay in bed for some time that night,

just staring at the ceiling. My questions were unanswered, but I'd come to terms with it. The nurse Hazel legend was always changing, always growing. There were so many pieces to it, and now I'd added my own chapter. But that's how these urban legends were supposed to work. They were never clean and easy. Maybe Nurse Hazel did go after sick kids, or maybe she went after kids that pretended to be sick. Perhaps she punished irresponsible parents with a needle to the neck. Depended on who you asked. It was a bit like the legend of Alex Drew. The kid had it all, and then it fell apart. There's a thousand possible reasons, and it depended on who was telling the story. I wondered what would the other members of that small town baseball team say about Nurse Hazel.

Why were they so reluctant to talk about Drew? What were their stories? A small fan next to my bad word. I focused on the good parts of the story. The boyish smile on Drew's face, the popping of Miller's glove, the reunion of old friends, the love for a child's game. Dr. Kingsley was right. Baseball was a beautiful thing.

It slowly began to rain. Drops of water peppered the roof. It almost sounded like music, rhythmic, like a waltz. I thought for a moment that Nurse Hazel was up above me, dancing on my rooftop, cradling an invisible child to her chest. Maybe she was holding Paul Miller's dead son.

But she couldn't be up. It's like Alex Drew said. Everything I heard about Nurse Hazel was wrong. Another episode has drawn to a close and our nightmares dissolve. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our dark tales will envelop you in a nightmarish, swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of creative Reason Media, Inc.