The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E07

Episode Date: June 18, 2017

It's episode 07 of Season 9. On this week's show we have four tales about nearby nightmares, dubious doubles, and woodland web sites. "Too Close to Home"‡ written by H.F. Fae and performed by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 00:03:40) "The Forest of a Thousand Legs"† written by Rex Lovezinski and performed by Jesse Cornett & Eden & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:22:00) "What I Saw on Granny's Farm"‡ written by Sam Raffield and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:12:20) "Carnival Cove"† written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson & Penny Scott-Andrews & Andy Cresswell. (Story starts around 01:30:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about "Booth Junkie" - Mike DelGaudio's voice acting YouTube channel   Click here to learn more about H.F. Fae   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Click here to learn more about Penny Scott-Andrews   Click here to learn more about Andy Cresswell   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "The Forest of a Thousand Legs" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath 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 four tales about nearby. nightmares, dubious doubles, and woodland websites. A lot of people are big fans of the voice actors on this show. We're fortunate to have some truly outstanding people sharing their talent with us. And I know there are people out there who are interested in getting into the voice acting field. But if you're new to it, you'll have plenty of questions. What kind of microphone should I get? What about software or headphones? How do I record myself to sound the best, etc., etc.? So with that in mind, I want to point you to an outstanding YouTube channel that is geared solely to voice actors. It's called Booth Junkie.

Booth, as in a recording booth where you record yourself, and Junkie, as in this guy is addicted to voiceovers and voice acting. And who is this Booth Junkie, you ask? Well, it's none other than our very own Mike Delgado. Mike is making an ever-expanding series of videos with great tips on how to record yourself. audio software tutorials, microphone reviews, and tips on how to soundproof and treat your space to sound the best. And not only is Mike a super sexy bearded stud who's easy on the eyes, wait a minute, who wrote this script, but Mike is also very personable and funny. He's not only our steadfast, rock-solid voice actor, but he also records audiobooks and does audio

transcriptions for this little small-town newspaper called, ah yes, here it is, the New York Times. So head over to boothjunky.com to check out all of Mike's work and subscribe to his channel. His passion for his craft and willingness to teach others is quite admirable, and he is a great teacher. That's booth j-un-k-I-E dot com for all the best advice on voice acting, gear, and looking hot with a beard. Okay, this script is too. Okay, well, beards or not, we have a whole group of voice actors ready to perform for you now, so let's listen in and kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a woman who enjoys most everything about living in her neighborhood, but as we learn from author H. F. F. F. F. When her neighbor isn't around for an extended

period of time, she starts to wonder if the neighborhood is as pleasant as she thinks. Performing this tale is Jessica McAvoy. So let's empathize with the woman because some things are too close to home. Every night at exactly 11.45 p.m., my dog barks at my neighbor. He gets home from work at the same time each night, and it's been this way for the year that I've lived in this neighborhood. It bothered me the first few weeks, but eventually I grew used to it. It's kind of comforting to know that the old man next door is home for the night. He was a nice man.

My parents quickly befriended him. They had helped me move in my meager possessions last year, and they ended up sparking a conversation with the neighbor while he checked his mail. His name was James Barton, and he'd lived in that house his entire life. He was the same age as my father, and apparently they had graduated. high school together. They hadn't been friends back then, but James said he thought he recognized my parents. My mother graduated two years later, so they would still have been attending at the same time.

My parents didn't recognize James, but he seemed like a great guy. My mother had planned to cook a nice family meal to celebrate my new home, and she invited James to join us for the housewarming. It was nice. There were laughs and pleasant conversations. James didn't speak a lot, but when he did, it never ceased to bring out at least one smile. Over the last year, James has attended a couple of our dinners, and we make pleasant small talk when we see each other outside. He's become great friends with my father, and often enough I think dad visits me just as an excuse to make plans with James.

It's nice, though. I feel safe when my neighbor is arrived. He's kept me informed about the neighborhood, about how to stay safe when I have to go to work or walk my dog. I didn't mention it to my parents, but often enough there was somewhere within 10 blocks featured on the nightly news. They already thought the place was dangerous, but I didn't need them to reel me back home after I'd only just decided to make it on my own. More than enough people survive bad neighborhoods. My dog, Jade, loves our neighbor. She's always excited when he's around,

and he always had treats because he had his own dog as well. His dog was a small lap dog, nothing like my larger Pit Bull Mastiff mix. His little smoky was cute at least, but definitely not my type of dog. Jade was not only strong and protective of me, but she seemed to just be the perfect dog. She kept me safe and in good company, an ideal pet for a woman in her early 20s. She knew the daily routine, and she was smart.

My dog was part of the reason that my parents agreed to let me use my savings to move into this one-bedroom bungalow. The rent was relatively cheap, and it was close to where I worked. But it was in the bad part of town. I think my parents were put slightly at ease about the neighborhood. Once they saw, it didn't look entirely destroyed. And having a friendly neighbor nearby in case of an emergency was a plus. I was happy, finally out on my own and working towards building my life. For the longest time, I felt entirely safe,

as though nothing could get to me through my neighbor and dog. Things in the neighborhood could be crazy. What with the news of a supposed serial killer roaming the city and the sheer amount of criminal activity that surrounded this area on a regular basis? It kept to myself for the most part, made friends with a few neighbors and James. Some of the people are odd, but James was never one of them.

The oddest thing about James was, something he often mumbled to himself. Sometimes, after we'd have a conversation, I'd hear Mr. Barton talking to himself quietly. Usually it was nonsense, some small tangent of a memory replaying in his head because of something we'd spoken about. I think that I must have reminded him of someone

because I heard one phrase quite often after we spoke. He sometimes seemed sad after we spoke to each other, and sometimes I felt bad that I may be triggering a painful memory from his past. He was my best friend in the neighborhood, though. Since so many of the other neighbors were creepy,

they all seemed to blend into the shady environment we lived in. My dog kept me safe from them, and so did Mr. Barton. One night, I stopped feeling so safe. I was dancing around my kitchen, music playing and water set to boil on the stove. It was dark, but my house seemed warm and cozy. The kitchen light was bright and made it hard to see out the windows,

but I knew Jade was somewhere sniffing around our small backyard. It was nearly midnight, and I'd been advised by multiple neighbors to avoid walking the streets alone around here. Sure, Jade is pretty tough, but a gun can always beat a dog. So Jade was confined to the yard until she commenced her nightly ritual of barking at Mr. Barton's car when he pulled in. Those were actually the only times I ever let her out in the small yard instead of going for a walk. The barking didn't happen, though. I put the pasta in the pot, skipped the next song in my playlist, and then noticed the time.

It was a few minutes after midnight, and Jade had to be. hadn't barked. I walked into the small living room to look out the window and see if Mr. Barton's car was there, but it wasn't. I figured he must be late and decided to leave Jade outside until I had eaten. I strained, served, and ate my midnight meal, but still hadn't heard any barking. When I went to the back door to let Jade in, I found her staring into Mr. Barton's yard, just standing still and looking at the lawn.

There was nothing there that I could see. It took a minute before she noticed me calling and came lumbering in the house, but she stopped and looked back at his yard as she got to the door. I stared into the yard, then picked up a stone and threw it at the chain fence. Several birds flew from the overgrown grass of my neighbor's yard,

and I was satisfied. with the result. Jade had been transfixed on them. There was no barking at all that night. Jade wasn't a loud, dog. She only barked when a stranger came near the doors of the house, or when Mr. Barton got home. Neither of those things happened. Over the next few days, I found myself bored. Mr. Barton wasn't around to talk to while I was outside. I tried to occupy the free time, but things were odd without the usual presence. We lived in a part of the country with fair weather pretty much year-round, and I tried to fix up my backyard to deal with the boredom.

I'd cleaned out the yard months ago. Like nearly every other yard in the neighborhood had been full of junk. I remember the days I spent cleaning out the yard fondly because occasionally Mr. Barton would see me and help. He was always good conversation, while we got rid of useless items left behind by old renters. Sometimes I'd see him planting things in his yard while I was busy, but it never ceased to look like a jungle.

His grass was tall and overgrown. Plants and flowers grew at random. It was pretty in a natural way, and that's exactly how James Barton wanted it. I asked him once if he wanted me to mow his lawn, but he declined the earth. offer. This space is the one place that holds true natural freedom. It belongs this way. He had spoken with a smile on his face, his eyes seeming lost in a memory. After two days of working

in my yard alone, I couldn't take it. I felt so alone and unsafe in the neighborhood. My dog was too quiet. My neighbor had disappeared, and I resorted to stoning birds. It was my only way to fight back against my growing paranoia about the dangerous location I resided in. Occasionally, I have enough spare change to have some recreational fun, and with my neighbor being gone, I found myself able to freely have such fun. I didn't want my smoking habit. I didn't want my smoking habit. to get back to my parents, so I usually kept it to my bedroom when I needed to. With my neighbor being gone, I was free to sit on the cracked concrete ledge that my landlord dared to call a patio. So that's what I did. I sat in my yard, a stoned girl throwing rocks at the

birds who landed in the yard next door. I'd stare at the yard and wonder if James Barton was dead, buried in a cemetery under flowers that were arranged neatly. I felt like he'd rather let his grave become overgrown, hidden among natural beauty. I didn't like thinking that way, though. He was the same age as my parents, only in his mid-50s. I didn't like knowing that someone that age could suddenly drop without a warning. Mr. Barton couldn't be dead. It was four days after my dog stopped barking, a warm morning. I got up, got dressed, poured a coffee, and put Jade on the leash for her morning walk. We walked to the mailbox where I stood and looked through my mail, and then Jade whimpered.

I looked to her, then to the driveway she was staring at. Mr. Barton's car was back. I was excited. I wanted to know the reason behind his sudden absence. I went and knocked on his door, Jade jumping around excitedly at my feet. No one answered, and I left to take Jade on her walk after several minutes of waiting.

Perhaps he was asleep. After work, I knocked again, only to find the same thing. I was disappointed. He had been gone for days, but it seemed that I would have to wait to figure out why. Before dinner, I sat in my yard and smoked. The sun was setting. All the lights in Mr. Barton's house were off, and it still felt empty to me. I threw stones at the birds and watched a cluster fly up and circle overhead.

I felt myself make a face of disgust. I hated birds flying over my head. I watched as they came back down, and for some reason it sent a chill through me. My friend and neighbor had been replaced by a flock of beady-eyed creatures. Maybe it was because I smoked too much, but the birds made me feel afraid. What if they were mad about the rocks? I shut myself into the house for the night, planning. on discussing the birds with Mr. Barton the next day. I didn't want them to hurt the garden he loved

so much. Unfortunately, the next morning was the same as the last, and I found myself spending another few days wondering why Mr. Barton was avoiding me. Sunday came along, and with it, brought my parents. They asked about Mr. Barton. Apparently my father had to be a lot of Mr. Barton. Apparently, my father had been trying to get in touch and make plans. I told them what I knew, and my mother took it upon herself to knock at his door. She received the same response I did, and we all questioned the strange behavior of James Barton over dinner. Another few days of smoke, stones, birds, and dogs that didn't bark. That's when the woman who lived on the other side of James Spartan called someone. She had noticed the car remains still and the mail overflow from its box.

She was concerned, worried that the old man might be trapped in his home and hurt. I hadn't thought of it that way. I had taken the first part of his absence heavily into consideration and assumed that it was all connected, which made it seem like he was avoiding everyone. They didn't, find and injured Mr. Barton, but they found many other things. They found smoky, Mr. Barton's small terrier mix. I was horrified when I heard the news. Someone had actually strangled the dog. I still can't understand how anyone could be so cruel. Someone at the scene noticed the curious amount of scavenger birds circling the backyard, and it wasn't long until they decided to look deeper. Deeper, as in, they dug up the overgrown yard. They destroyed the wild beauty and revealed,

organized decay. Neat rows of bodies were buried in the yard, most of which have been identified as people who were suspected victims of a local serial killer. One body in particular stood out, the body of James Barton. James Barton, who had lived in the house next to mine for his entire life, who had attended the same high school as my parents. James Barton, who still kept the yearbook from his senior year in his house the same year that my father graduated. James Barton, who should have looked familiar

to my parents because he was actually on the football team with my father. James Barton, who was murdered in his home and buried in his backyard. James Barton, who had his identity stolen. I've seen pictures of the real James Barton since then, and the imposter was quite accurate in his impersonation. The true James had been dead around three years, and the man I knew had kept his cover all that time. The person who had made me feel safe, in an unsafe place, happened to be the most dangerous person possible. They haven't found the imposter. He seems to have moved on to his next set of victims,

or maybe into permanent hiding. If you're a young woman in your early twenties, then you match the type of victim that he seems to favor. When I heard the description of his victims, It made my blood run cold and sent a wave of realization through me. I understood what he meant when he walked away from me, muttering under his breath. Too close, too close, too home. When a young man is preparing to go off to college,

he recounts the story of a childhood classmate who died many years ago and the mysterious forest in their town where the girl disappeared. As we hear from author Rex Lovesinsky, the woods are unique to perhaps anywhere in the world, known for its seemingly endless species of spiders. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Eden, and Erica Sanderson. So relax, there aren't any spiders on you unless you happen to be inside the forest of a thousand legs.

Forest of a thousand legs. That's a jump rope rhyme my classmates used to sing on the playground in elementary school. It's really fucked up that they sang that because Lucy Lockhart was a real person we attended school with. She vanished when we were in second grade, so we must have been around seven years old. The rhyme was loosely based in truth, in that the official story was that Lucy Lockhart did in fact vanish into the Lockhart Wood 50 yards from her father, Robert's house. When he wasn't chasing after a brandishing a frying pan the beater with, I was too young at the time to understand what was happening, and it wasn't until much later than my mom actually explained

it to me. It wasn't a particularly shocking story, just sad. I remember the day Lucy went missing, at least the first day she didn't come to school. It was Monday. She went missing the Friday before. My mother told me it was a few days before Lucy's seventh birthday and that Lucy had asked her father if she could have a birthday party at the house. I remember that.

Lucy and I had been in the same group of friends, and I remembered her telling us that she was going to ask her dad about having a birthday sleepover. I especially remember being annoyed that she wanted it to be a sleepover because I was the only boy in the group and was never allowed to sleep over with them. I was still excited at the prospect of a little. party, though, as we all were, because we knew her father Robert Lockhart Jr. was a retired entomologist. We just called him the bug man and had lots of pretty preserved specimens like butterflies and

beetles and cases that Lucy would sometimes bring in for show and tell. Anyway, according to my mother, Lucy asked her father if she could have a sleepover for her birthday, and he had said no because she was going to spend her birthday at her mother's house while their house was being fumigated. It was a normal enough reason for a six-year-old to cry and storm out of the house. But running into the Lockhart Wood was a bad idea for any person of any age without the proper equipment. Here's the thing about the Lockhart Wood.

Some people call it the forest of a thousand legs. Presumably, to make it sound creepier than it already is, and doesn't need help. There are roughly 4,000 species of spider in America, and the Lockhart Wood is a phenomenon on its own in that it's home to all of them. Not only that, but there are documented populations of some spiders previously thought endemic only to certain countries,

such as the Goliath Bird Eater, a couple of funnel web spiders, and some species of peacock spiders. There's that myth that says you're never more than three feet from a spider at any given moment. In this forest, it's not a myth. It's filled to the brim with spiders.

I think at this point it goes without saying that if you're arachnophobic, this story is not for you. The forest is naturally of great interest to biologists and arachnologists, but Lockhart Wood is private property, and restricted guided access to the forest was hard to come by even before Lucy Lockhart's disappearance. Afterwards, nobody could go in. Obviously, anyone could get into the forest if they wanted to.

It's not fenced off or anything, but there's a steep fine if you're caught trespassing, and nobody's exactly clamoring to delve into a forest full of venomous spiders anyway. You need the right kind of boots, clothes, gloves, first aid kits, and knowledge of the forest to step past the tree line. The most common spiders at the edges of the forest are jumping spiders, various wandering spiders and orb weavers. Most people who emerge from the forest have a number of banana spiders clinging to their hair and jackets, startled by the destruction of their webs. If visitors are allowed deeper into the forest, the spiders get bigger, and they lurk on the ground.

According to my mother, Robert Lockhart Jr. lived with his father in that house for a long time. They were a father-son duo of entomologists from Alabama. But Robert Lockhart, Sr. had a focus on arachnology. He had bought the house in the forest specifically for its spider population, which also made it super affordable. And he usually worked from home. Robert Lockhart Jr. did a lot of work at a university three towns over. He married a professor there who taught evolutionary biology, and the three of them lived in the elder Robert Lockhart's house until Robert Sr.'s sudden passing during a study on tarantial. a honks. Lucy Lockhart was born a year later, and Robert Jr. was able to retire from teaching

and live as a stay-at-home dad while Lucy's mother continued teaching at the university. He still weren't collecting and preserving specimens, mostly butterflies and moths, and had reports published in the entomology scene, and very, very rarely led guided tours around parts of Lockhart wood for a price. My mother only got to know Robert Jr. once Lucy and I became friends. She said he didn't talk about the forest very much. She got the feeling that he was afraid of it. When he and his wife divorced, my mom suspected part of their irreconcilable differences was Lockhart Wood.

She never really pried into it. After all, she and Robert Jr. only spent time together because Lucy and I spent time together. Although I remember hoping they would get married so that Lucy and I. I could be brother and sister. Robert Jr. hated the forest he owned and made sure that anybody who stepped foot in it was dressed and prepared for the occasion, which is part of the reason why my mother never believed he killed Lucy when he was the prime suspect in the investigation. When Lucy ran off into Lockhart Wood that evening, my mom said Robert Jr. gave chase without hesitation in socks, sweatpants, and a t-shirt. He must have received a dozen bites of varying severity

the second he went in. He was in there for four hours. My mom was working in a night shift at the hospital when he was brought in, delirious and swollen all over. There was no telling how many bites he'd received, and to this day my mother doesn't know how he survived. He needed antivenom that no hospitals in the United States could offer, and when he had dragged himself back home after desperately searching for Lucy in the forest, he can only self-administer so much. Maybe luck and a developed resistance was what saved him. He lost both legs below the knee, but he lived. From what my mom could gather in the weeks following Lucy's disappearance, the investigation was chaotic. Search teams entered the forest, but they never spanned at all.

two officers on the initial search team were bitten by what was most likely a Sydney Funnel Web Spider, and unfortunately, both died. After all, the Sydney Funnel Web Spider ends otherwise found only in Australia. We don't have that anti-venom and the ready here in the States. Anyway, the search of the forest lasted maybe a week before branching off elsewhere. My mom says they couldn't, maybe wouldn't, search the whole. forest. More than one officer who searched Lockhart Wood left the force and subsequently skipped town. Those who didn't leave might as well have. I don't get out much anymore. My mom doesn't

want to know what they saw in there. Lucy never turned up. It didn't take long for suspicion to fall on her father before he was even discharged from the hospital. My mom says there was a point where he was handcuffed to his hospital bed, even though both of his legs had been amputated. For a while, she couldn't tell if he was totally lucid because he would spend hours, sobbing. Chris got her. Those spiders got my baby girl. There was no evidence to convict him of kidnapping or murder. My mom and the parents of Lucy's other friends and mine were involved in the trial as witnesses, and they all insisted they

never had any reason to believe Robert Jr. was abusive towards Lucy. or that he would be driven to hurt her. I didn't know any of this at the time, as my mom responsibly sheltered me from the details of Lucy's disappearance. But obviously some other kids we went to school with got wind of some information. Hence the morbid jump rope rhyme. It upset me a lot when I heard kids chanting it during recess. I was young.

I missed Lucy very much. It's been 11 years since Lucy went me. missing. It doesn't really upset me anymore. It's just a sad mystery that I still think about sometimes. The group of friends that Lucy and I shared stayed close until middle school and then we all branched out a bit. I don't think any of us ever forgot about Lucy. I recently graduated from high school and the original group of us got together at a diner to discuss in amazement how we were all finally done with high school forever. At one point, I nudged my omelette around my plate absent. It's been years, but I still wish, man, I wish Lucy could have graduated with us, you know?

My friend Stella leaned her shoulder into mine and knocked our mortar boards together with an understanding smile. Same here, bud, but she'd be proud of us for doing it. The conversation drifted elsewhere, but that poignant thought of Lucy stuck with me for a long while after that evening. It wasn't until the day before I went off from my freshman year at college that I told my mom I wanted to stop by the Lockhart house and sort of saying goodbye to Lucy if Robert Jr. would let me. Well, I guess it couldn't hurt. You don't ever get over losing a child, but all things consider he seems to be okay. He might oblige you. So, later that afternoon, I drove across town towards that dark, looming forest that stretched

into the sky on the horizon. I hadn't been to the Lockhart house in over a decade, but the side of it instantly made me happy. I no longer mourned Lucy. I only cherish the brief time we knew each other as children and had lots of fond memories in that house. As I pulled into the gravel driveway, I saw the curtains in one of the front windows shift, so I knew someone was home. He might not want to let me in, but there was no harm in trying. I went up the front porch steps and found a wooden hanging of a loon of moth adorning the front door. It had no sign of grime or weathering, and the pale green paint still had its glossy finish. So I guessed it was fairly new.

I don't know what I expected from Robert Jr. Maybe that he was too far gone after the loss of Lucy that he wouldn't bother decorating anything. But it had been more than ten years. and recovery is possible. I knocked, and he answered a few moments later, frowning curiously at me from the gap in the door. Hey, Mr. Lockhart, uh. I floundered a little stupidly,

because I hadn't planned on how I was going to talk to him. I'm Aaron. Aaron Lovesinsky? You know, my mom, Jane, at the hospital. The door eased. open a bit more. His face relaxing with recognition. James Boy, yes. You were one of Lucy's little friends, weren't you? Come in, wipe your feet. I'm surprised you remember we were friends. I stepped inside and wiped my feet on the floor mat.

It looked like a monarch butterfly. I remember all you kids. Robert Jr. led me inside. His prosthetics clicked on the linoleum. It was Lucy, you, Stella. There were two little girls named Hannah, wasn't there? You were the one that cried a lot because you never got to stay for sleepovers. Yes, sir. That was me. You gay, son?

It was a startlingly straightforward question, tossed over his shoulder as I followed him into the house. There wasn't anything accusatory in his tone, though, so I said yes. I knew you'd be fine to sleep over with the girls. Could have spared you a lot of whining and crying. They took me past numerous framed bug specimens, and we made our way to his living room. It was a big room, cluttered it with bookshelves and worked benches with paper strewn about. Dozens of terrariums of various sizes dotted the room and lined the walls like trophy cabinets. The only gap where the den opened into a kitchen.

A bright desk lamp illuminated the whole room in the light, bounced off a magnifying visor headset and a laptop screen. It looked like he had been dissecting a large beetle before I knocked on the door. It was good to see that his passion for bugs hadn't been destroyed after losing his daughter to lock our wood. So what brings you here, Scooter? He went into the kitchen to retrieve something from the fridge. Well, uh, then we graduated in May and I'm leaving for school tomorrow, and I just kind of Kinda, I mean, I still think about Lucy a lot.

So I was wondering if you had kept any of her things over the years that I could see and sort of, you know, remember her by? If you're okay with that, sir. Robert Jr. came back over to me with a shrug and two beers. Ain't much a little girl has to her name, but hello kitty bed sheets and beanie babies. Man, peony babies? I couldn't help but grin at the memory. I was always my favorite go-to gift. I gave her a bunch of mine.

What? You want them back or something? Off my startled look of chagrin. He chuckled and handed me the second beer. I'm messing with you, boy. Her room's this way. He led me down a long familiar hallway. down which Lucy and our friends and I had sprinted recklessly over a decade ago. I recognized a few framed insect specimens that we had knocked from the walls in our rough-housing fits.

We went into Lucy's bedroom at the end of the hall, and it was virtually unchanged from how I remembered it. Walls were still pale pink and decorated with pastel-colored cross-stitch artwork made by Lucy's late grandmother. The canopy bed was neatly made, the hello kitty bedding crisp and unfated from years of disuse, the shelves upon shelves of stuffed animals, with an army of beanie babies gifted by me populating their own full shelf. And surprisingly, a long terrarium against the wall with an enormous black spider, sitting motionless underneath a black light. I recognize that spider.

No way, that's not. Robert Jr. flipped on the lights, which turned off the terrarium's black light, and the massive spider retreated into a hide with a twitch of its long, slender legs. That's her. Lady Legs was a type of huntsman that Robert Lockhart Sr. had discovered in the Lockhart Wood and camped for ten years before Lucy was born. There were plenty of live specimens. in the Lockhart house over the years, but Lady Legs was the only one that Lucy seemed to cherish

as a pet. Robert Jr. had said, in the past, that some tarantulas can live to be 25 years old, but Lady Legs wasn't a tarantula. And if this was the same lady legs from that time, that would make her over 30 years old? Do Huntsman Spiders live that long? I moved to the terrarium with a fascination I hadn't felt in years. Robert Jr. stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and an expression of distaste, decreasing his features, as he looked at Lady. None that we know of sides that one. She's even bigger than I remember.

My breath fogged up the glass as I tried to peer into the spider's hide at an angle, but I couldn't see her. Far as I can tell, her size depends on her enclosure. She won't get no bigger as long as she's in the, that tank. I saw Lady's leg move in the hide, then turned my head to look out Lucy's bedroom window. It faced the deep gray-green mass of Lockhart Wood. I stood absently tracing my fingers through the condensation on the bottle in my hand. Lady came from the forest, didn't she? How big do they get in there? Robert Jr. didn't respond. I looked over at him. He was downing nearly his entire beer,

He finished it with an angry sounding hiss. Godly beg. Anyway, you take your time in here, do what you want, look at what you want. I'll be down the hall. Okay, thanks. As he started to leave, I remembered the drink in my hand and held it out to him awkwardly. Oh, uh, hey, uh, I'm not 21. Ain't nobody going to snitch on you?

He left the room and I hissed open the beer. So how long I spent in there, meandering around fondly, maybe an hour. I took a spider bean baby off the shelf and held it as I looked around. I stood over the dresser looking at the frame pictures on top of it. Most were of Lucy and her parents, a few of Lucy from toddlerhood to age seven holding the gargantuan lady legs in her comparatively tiny hands. I was in a couple of pictures too. group pictures of us and our other friends at birthday parties.

Our messy little faces smeared with cake. I found an old elementary school binder from the first grade class Lucy and I had together, where the first activity of every day was to make an entry in our journals, following a simple prompt given by the teacher and then draw a picture to go with it. Naturally, lots of Lucy's entries were about Hello Kitty, play dates with me and our friends, and bugs. Some of them made me laugh, like her outrageously mangled spelling of the word centaur in several entries about herself and lady legs as spider lady centaurs. After a while, I just stood at Lucy's window, looking out at the Lockhart Wood as I finished my beer.

I'm a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, so that was pretty buzzed. The forest of a thousand legs had never looked at. so eerie. The angle of the late afternoon sun didn't penetrate the darkened woods, but it glistened on countless spider webs suspended along the tree line, emphasizing how dark the forest was beyond that. It was strangely inviting, in a predatory way, like the lure of an angler fish, how it had swallowed Lucy up. Movement outside the window caught my eye. I looked over and saw Robert Jr. standing under the carport facing the forest, drowning another beer, a backpack hanging from his shoulder. He was dressed in different clothes from the flannel shirt and cutoffs he'd been wearing

when he let me inside. He was wearing a heavy jacket and a hat with a different set of prosthetics that had shoes. He looked like he was dressed for going into the forest. I left Lucy's room, crossed to the other end of the house, and threw the screen door off the kitchen. Robert Jr. didn't respond to the wooden rattle of the door banging shut. You're going in. It wasn't a question. I was incredulous. Ain't been in there since I lost Lucy.

Think it's about time I go back in one last time before I torch it. The sun was hidden behind Lockhart Wood, but not quite set, casting the house and us in shadows. Can I go with you? To this day, I'm not sure why I wanted to go with him. Maybe for a sense of adventure, of danger that 18-year-olds are attracted to and think they can survive anything. Maybe I had some stupid notion that we'd find Lucy in there, dead or alive. Maybe I just didn't want a guy who had lost his daughter the last time he was in those woods to go in for the first time since then alone. It's dangerous in there.

It wasn't a no. I'd be with you. I sounded dumb and optimistic, but in my defense, he let me go with him. Neither of us mentioned it, but I know he didn't want to go into the woods alone either. You'll need to be dressed, right. The next thing I knew, he was jamming a hat on my head,

layering me in protective clothing a size too big, and cramming my hands and feet into gloves and boots. boots a size too small. Not a perfect fit, but close enough. He tucked my baggy pant legs into my boots. I had zipped the jacket most of the way, but he yanked the zipper all the way up to my chin. It was my gear back when I was a little older than you, when my daddy bought this place. He strapped a headlamp to my hat, did the same for himself, and shrugged on a backpack that he had filled with a first-aid kit and a cold pack for anti-venom.

I watched him put it all together, fascinated as I nursed another beer. I was hard to believe he hadn't ventured into the forest in more than ten years. The speed and certainty with which he prepared everything was like that of someone who explored Lockhart Wood daily. It gave me a set of strict, reasonable rules basically telling me not to leave his side and not to thrash around if I walked into a web and to always watch my step even though I was wearing boots. I could change my mind at any time in the forest, so if I wanted to leave, he would guide me out of the forest. I sent a quick lie of a text to my mom, telling her that Robert Jr. had invited me to stay for dinner and then zip my phone into a breast pocket. By now, twilight was fading. The purple sky soon to turn an inky blue, and we set off.

The trail leading into the forest was rough and overgrown from years of seeing no foot traffic, but not. completely hidden. The first thing I did when I entered the forest was walk right into a web that Robert Jr. had subtly avoided. I started to flail instinctively, but Robert Jr. caught me with an arm across my chest. Don't thrash, I said. After he assured me the web didn't belong to anything venomous, I carefully picked the web from my face and hair, following him deeper into the woods. It was darker than I anticipated beneath the trees. There were a few spots of visible death than the trees, suffocated and deprived of light

under the thick layers of web wrapped around them. But most of the forest looked healthy, supporting the spider population symbiotically. Robert Jr. and I switched on our headlamps pretty quickly when the scant moonlight didn't light our way sufficiently. I looked down at the ground, casting a wide circle of light at my feet. and immediately frozen place. My skin crawling horribly. Spiders, the size of half dollars, were scurrying away from my boots in droves.

Not quite a swarm, but enough to be uncountable. You're all right, son. Those ones ain't going to hurt you. Robert Jr. hadn't looked back at me, but he must have heard me freeze behind him. You want me to take you back? Pride swelled higher than the fear in my chest. No, I'm, I'm fine. I'm fine. One of the spiders crawled slowly over my boot, its long legs probing curiously at my laces.

I wrenched my eyes away from the ground, shook the spider off violently, and pushed forward. I've never been particularly arachnophobic, but it was impossible not to feel itchy all over, imagining hundreds upon hundreds of unseen spiders creeping into my protective clothing, slipping down the collar of my shirt and edging along my scalp into my hair. The tiny spiders became less of a presence, however, when we came to a fork in the trail, and Robert Jr. dropped to a sudden crouch, grabbing my sleeve and yanking me down with him. Look at this. His headlamp was fixed on a spider, not two feet away from us.

This here's a nasty one. A spider, the size of my hand, stood strangely before us with two sets of thick hairy legs thrown in the air. It might look silly if not for the vivid, violently red jaws on display pulsing angrily in our direction. Worse still, the spider continued to move, swaying gently with its rosy colicera, throbbing almost obscenely. inching infinitesimally closer with its side-to-side motions. Wide-eyed, I whispered back, infuriated at the sound of my voice, the spider lunged closer. This time I could see its fangs protruding from the red quivering with rage and glinting with wetness. Resilion wandering spider.

P. Faira, it looks like, but it can be hard to say without a closer look. Only live in South America, except for this place. zip two pockets and withdrew a large pair of gloves to slip over the ones he was already wearing. You know, they might be the deadliest in the world. Instinctively, I shrank back, but then took hold of Robert Jr.'s jacket sleeve with popping eyes when I saw him reach towards the spider. Don't! The spider struck at his two fingers with lightning speed and the force that made a sharp

snapping sound pierced the dark woods around us. In the blink of an eye, it struck twice. A red-brown blur. Horrified. I tugged frantically at Robert Jr.'s sleeve. Relax. Pauce can't quite bite through these. A spider darted out of our joint headlamp ebbs and off the trail.

Into the woods. Robert Jr. removed his bulky second pair of gloves and stowed them away. Can't do much delicate handling with gloves like that, but anything else in those fangs will go right through. He stood suddenly, leaving me crouched and trembling, clenching and unclinching my fists, unpleasantly aware of how thin my gloves were now.

I stood slowly. My headlamp slid up the trees in front of me where the bark seemed to shiver and shift with the traffic of smaller spiders oozing up and down the trunks. I turned my head to see where Robert Jr. was looking, and my light fell on his back several meters away as he moved down the left path the fork. Wait. I rushed after him.

I stumbled over tree roots and ran haltingly, skidding awkwardly to step around more than one fat lumbering tarantula as I made my way back to Robert Jr.'s elbow. Our headlamps bobbed in the darkness, and my gaze was drawn farther up where the lamps' beams lit up vast labyrinthian webs high overhead, where nothing on the ground could destroy them. Glinting white gold in our light. they shuddered in an imperceptible breeze. Those wed's way better high up there.

I tried to shake off the anxiety from the Brazilian wandering spider. We won't walk into any down here. Robert Jr. walked briskly, barely acknowledging me with a grunt, while I looked all around me, casting my headlamp's light to and fro. Robert Jr. hardly moved his head, focused steadily on the tweet. distinct path down which he led us. Occasionally he would stop so abruptly that I would collide with his back and he would gaze up into the ever-thickening treetops of the spider webs overhead, which were now so large

and thick that massive sections of leaves had suffocated and died. I could see clusters or spiders creeping every which way in the stuff, while more obscured movement shifted on the other side of the web, so thick that I couldn't see what it was. My depth perception was off in this environment, what with the distance between myself and the webs and the number of different sizes of spiders I could see. Everything looked bigger up there from where I was standing. Communal webs. Most spiders live alone, but some are social. A bunch of different spiders taking care of the same babies, sharing the same food. I must catch a lot of prey. It's huge

I moved my headlamp over the vast web Wouldn't be surprised if they make a regular meal of birds Squirrels too maybe if any wander in this far I looked at him bathing his stubble-shadowed face in yellow light That's kind of big for a spider isn't it Pea Blondie in South America has been known to eat birds It's the biggest spider in the world at least outside of this god-forsaken forest.

This place ain't like the rest of the world. He paused, muscle jumping in his jaw. But they don't make webs. They live in burrows. So watch your step. I resisted the urge to clamp onto his arm like a child as I swept my headlamp over the edges of our path. Spiders littered the forest floor, scurrying busily.

But the irregularly spaced holes along the path and nestled between tree roots were what made me nervous now. The biggest hole looked like it could swallow my leg. We continued to walk. Uninterrupted by webs for the most part, but there were a few low-built ones that I would walk into when I was staring off into the woods, and Robert Jr. wouldn't tell me to duck.

Unnerved as I was, I was starting to get used to the sensation, hardly jerking back when the sticky feather-light strings snuck up on me. My pulse would still spike when it happened, though, pounding loudly in my ears as I carefully brushed the webs from my face. But then, Robert Jr. took us down a second fork in the path. When I distractedly collided with two webs of surprising density in a row, I finally focused on Robert Jr. ahead of me to complain about not warning me. And a tangle of silk lit up in my headlamp centimeters away just in time for my face to

crash through it. Come on, Mr. Lockhart. At least give me a heads up. I dragged my gloved hands down my face, raking the web from my skin. Robert Jr. said nothing. I looked up, over his shoulder in front of me, and saw why.

The trail ahead was entirely choked in web, a glistening haze like morning fog stretching farther ahead. Shapes twitched within it, different from the shifting masses of hundreds of smaller spiders in the first communal webs we saw. These were heavy and singular, with sharp angles plucking at individual lines of silk. I couldn't quite make sense of what I was seeing. Something crunched under my boot. I looked down at the wispy, stringy, gray floor. Brittle old bones of some animal I couldn't identify lay there.

Among the bones lay the aged empty remains of a huge tarantula, skeleton and exoskeleton locked together in death. And they fought and died, tangled with one another. Jesus! He wasn't looking down. He was looking directly up. I looked up too and froze. Our headlamps joined.

and lit up the webs that swallowed the understory, washing over the enormous spiders that moved within them. Things, the size of fish bowls, with fat, round abdomens and twitching, creepy legs, thick as pole cues. Clusters of eyes reflected light back at us, and the movement of their heavy bodies made meaty, organic clicking sounds. These things weren't what Robert Jr. had commented on. The creature slowly descending from the web by a thread was.

At first I thought it was a spider with a squirrel or a rat or something in its jaws. But a small, logical corner of my mind reminded me that that's not how spiders eat. Not even tarantulas who don't wrap their prey in silk. The rodent appeared bisected as I couldn't see its back legs with ugly gray skin visible around its midsection

like it had mange its back half was impossibly the swollen bulb of a spider it looked like some gruesome mockery of a centaur the limp torso of some parasitic rodent bursting from

an unwitting host. There was no way that thing could be real. Or if it was, it couldn't be alive. But the thing spinnerets kept pumping a hearty silk line. Two spindly black legs touching at delicate tips as it worked its way down, and the rodents head twitched its furry front legs extending paws grasping. I saw its face with too many dingh up the front of its head, blinking guminly down at us.

I could see its long yellow teeth as its mouth lulled open. I was distantly aware of my body moving, weakly grasping Robert Jr.'s jacket sleeve and yanking on it. In the corner of my eye somehow managed to pull my attention from the abomination above us. My eyes were drawn down to the edge of the trail on which we stood, and for a moment, I thought the ground had dipped down an embankment, and we were simply elevated on the path. But I soon saw that it was a massive hole in the ground. A burrow.

You'd tug mechanically on Robert Jr.'s arm. What the fuck? A face, ghostly pale against the darkness within, and seemed to drift up and out closer to us. And too many eyes clustered across the bruce. bridge of its nose, glittering black and blinking slowly. It ducked its head, long, dark, hair hanging and length tangles as a woman's bare, moon-white torso emerged slowly from the hole in the ground. A hulking hairy mass of a spider's abdomen the size of a Volkswagen beetle followed her waist. Her eight branch thick legs crunched in the leaf litter, audibly thuncted.

with the weight. Robert Jr. and I staggered backwards, upsetting more spider webs in the underbrush. The creature's legs were striped with white at their joints, and I thought of lady legs, back at Robert Jr.'s house, and what he said about her species' size in the wild. Ungodly, Robert Jr.'s thoughts were also back in his daughter's room. Lucy. See, my eyes flew back to the creature's face. It's a natural addition of eyes surrounding the originals, and as it tilted its head, I recognized her, too, dropped open, lower lip dripping with something too viscous to be saliva,

and her real thin arms spasmed once before lifting up, sending a painful jolt of electric fear up my spine. Her white, long-fingered hands took hold of the squirrel spider dangling between the two of us and herself. The thing squeaked and convulsed, its legs thrashing horribly, and Lucy brought it. I thrashed my way blindly through web after web back the way we came. I heard Robert Jr. call my name, unexpectedly close behind me, and suddenly I felt him crash into my back. I hit the ground hard face first. I barely had time to register the bright starburst of pain as my nose broke and began to bleed. Or the scattering spiders millimeters in front of my eyes before Robert Jr. yanked me bodily back upward and whirled me around.

I thought he was slapping me but realized he was swiping away spiders that I'd picked up his passengers from the ground. Don't you run off in here, boy. Something else will kill you before you can hear. The enormous creature loomed behind him. creeping down the trail after us. I started to yell, but Robert Jr. clapped his handle in my mouth, spinning to face her. He forced us into a sort of half-crowch, his body weighing me down to keep me from running again. And I stared with bulging eyes, struggling to breathe through my bleeding nose, as Lucy bore down upon us. It's okay.

He wasn't talking to me. I could feel him shaking against my back. It's okay, Lucy, you're okay. She came closer. The precise movements of her vast spider body and stark contrast against the limp, feeble movements of her human torso. Her face seemed alert, even with the six bleary eyes that looked infected in their unnaturalness. But her arms hung listlessly at her sides. Her posture, hunched.

Venom. blood, saliva flowed slowly down her chin. All that remained of the squirrel spider, I could hear her breathing, see her pale throat throb as she swallowed. That's a good girl, baby.

Was low and soothing, despite his violent trembling. Daddy didn't know you lived here, Lucy. We didn't know we'd see you here. Oh, you did such a good job here all by yourself, didn't you, baby? Oh, Daddy's proud of you. He was slowly inching us back as he spoke nonsense to the thing in front of us. The spider shifted minutely, almost moving after us, but not quite.

Lucy's dark, wet mouth drooped open. Herbert Jr. laughed, wild and terrified in my ear. Pulling me another step back, the palm of his hand still crushing my lips against my chattering teeth. That's right, baby. Daddy's here. Daddy didn't think he'd see you all grown up in these woods, huh, baby? Oh, good girl, Lucy. She didn't move after us as we backed away, although her eyes followed us with laser focus.

That's right, baby. Daddy's going to take your friend back home, okay? You remember Aaron? I groaned behind his hand, sick with fear, and all eight of Lucy's eyes shifted on to me. She didn't say my name. wildly in the back of my head, I wondered if she recognized any of the things Robert Jr. was saying to her. Certain that she was all spider like this, that the two words she'd said were empty repetitions preceding her final attack. But still, she stood, motionless, watching our retreat. Daddy's going to take Aaron home.

Is that okay, baby? Will you let me do that, Lucy? She was silent for a long moment. Good girl, Lucy. We're going away, you good, good girl. Another long stretch of silence as we moved steadily away from her. She still didn't follow. Miley, watching us.

Her voice, unprompted this time, shook me to my core. when it next creaked through the night. The noise Robert Jr. made was something of a strangled sob and a laugh. Yeah, yeah, baby, I'll come see you. I'll come see you again. Just let me take Aaron home and Daddy will come see you again, baby girl. We were several meters away from her by now. I was sure we were nearing the bend,

and the fork in the trail we had taken. Slowly, Robert Jr. lowered his hand from my mouth, and I gulped a deep, shaking breath. Can't get us out of here backwards, but I need you watching behind us. You hang on to me, and I will walk you out. You tell me if she follows. Can you do that, son? Wide-eyed, and unable to look away from Lucy's figure down the trail. I nodded.

Yes, sir. Okay, careful now. His hand encircled my wrist tightly, and with a firm tug he took us around the bend. I struggled to walk and reverse my legs like rubber, and my pulse roaring in my ears. Lucy didn't follow us once. I lost sight of her. Robert Jr. navigated us back through the forest, avoiding all webs this time around. I don't know how long it took to get out of the woods, for all I knew. It took days, but eventually we broke through the tree line and the unobstructed moonlight was blinding. I felt separate from my own body as I brushed harmless jumping spiders and orb weavers for my hat and jacket.

Distantly, I heard Robert Jr. chuckling weakly, I turned around to look at Lockhart Wood. Almost casually, I leaned over and threw up on the grass. A few yards away, Robert Jr. did just the same. Coughing and laughing harder when he was done. Oh, fuck! I watched him stagger and fall heavily onto his ass, giggling maniacly. Dazed, I went over to him and sat beside him on the grass, staring at the forest. I spat remnants of bile on the ground between my knees.

I fumbled with my head laugh. I turned it off and threw my hat aside. I peered at Robert Jr's tear, streaked laughing face, vaguely concerned. I can't tell if that's good laughter or bad laughter. Oh, Christ, you and me both. Oh, fuck. He pressed two fingers to his neck, checking his own pulse. What are you doing now?

Oh, shit, Scooter, I don't know. I'll probably visit my daughter every now and then. He scrubbed his hands over his face, groaning deeply. My head swam. I flopped backwards staring at the night sky. The stars looked like little white spiderlings. I thought suddenly of my mother back at the house, and for whatever reason, I could only think of it.

one thing to say. Hey, so I was thinking, you should give my mom a call sometime. She's not seeing anyone. I don't remember getting home that night. I don't remember getting settled on to campus the next day. But I think I'm going to change my major to biology. I'd like to see Lucy again. And I think maybe a study in Aragnology might be a good.

place to start. And so another episode has drawn to a close and our nightmares dissolve into the ether. 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

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