The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E10

Episode Date: July 9, 2017

It's episode 10 of Season 9. On this week's show we have six tales about intense infernos, fearsome frauds, and youthful yearning. "Burn"‡ written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:03:16) "An Unusual Collection"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:22:45) "There’s Nothing in Forest Glen National Park"† written by J.J. Cheesman & Marcus Damanda and performed by Jeff Clement & Peter Lewis & Nichole Goodnight & Eden. (Story starts around 00:46:50) "Thank You for Calling"† written by D. Fredricks and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Addison Peacock & Jesse Cornett & Eden & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:15:30) "Little White Lies in a Little Black Dress"† written by Manen Lyset and performed by Erin Lillis & Eden & Dan Zappulla & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 01:32:30) "Trying to Remember a Pop Song"† written by Thaddeus James and performed by Atticus Jackson & Kyle Akers & Matthew Bradford. (Story starts around 01:56:30) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here for Part 1 of the "Forest Glen National Park" story   Click here to learn more about "Standard Deviations" by Marcus Damanda   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about Thaddeus James   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "Burn" 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 six tales about Intense. Hence infernoes, fearsome frauds, and youthful yearning. Longtime listeners will no doubt be familiar with one of our regular authors, Marcus Demanda. His confessor to the dead story was heard a couple of weeks ago on this season's episode 8, and he's co-written one of this week's stories. Marcus has recently released a new book called Standard Deviations, A Collection. It contains 16 stories in total, nine of them are stories, you've heard on the podcast. Two of them co-written with author Manon Lyset, and the cover art was

created by Yerin Hydreth. So there are lots of connections to our show. Plus, there's a bonus story note section with behind-the-curtain stuff for even more in-depth info. It's available in print and for Kindle, so check the show notes for a link to where you can check out this excellent collection of delicacies of transcendent terror, certain to satisfy the hungriest corner of your own hidden, dark heart. That's standard deviations, a collection by Marcus Demanda. And on this week's third story, we're featuring part two of a tale heard in season eight, called There's Something in Forest Glen National Park. So if you didn't hear that tale or don't remember all the details, you may want to grab that episode and go about 10 minutes in when

the story starts. Once you're caught up, part two will continue the creepy tale to its conclusion. There's a link in the show notes, or just go to Season 8, Episode 8 on our website. So you have a great new book to check out and a bit of a bonus story to get caught up on this week. Are you ready? Good. Now we can start this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a man who experiences a horrible ordeal, but because of it, he finds the woman of his dreams. But as we learn from author C.M. Scan, The man soon realizes there may be more than mere happenstance to their meeting. Performing this tale are David Alt and Erica Sanderson.

So as much as love can be torrid and hot, it was never meant to burn. I'm not an interesting man. Or at least, I wasn't before the accident. Utterly average only begins to scrape. the tip of the iceberg that is my mediocrity, barely encapsulating the mind-numbing boringness of my existence. At school, I flew under the radar, never quite failing, but never exceptional. My hobbies were mundane, a bit of football, and a lot of computer gaming. I excelled at nothing but wasting time. I was uninterested in the interesting and enamored of the banal.

Well, the Warcraft sucked away the last chances I had of bettering myself, leaving me an inadequately skilled and poorly prepared adult who couldn't hack it at college. So I did what a lot of losers like me did. I got a job at a gas station and flatted with a bunch of other borderline drifters with no future. This left me with the same conundrum as my peers. I had nothing. to offer to women. Losing my virginity to an older lady at a backyard party wet my appetite for relationships, but I lacked even the most basic spark of individuality. At most, I could last a handful of dates before potential partners saw through my carefully constructed facade and perceived the garbage can empty of personality beneath. Hitting the gym, extended the length of my dates from a few days to a few weeks, but even good grooming and a nice body couldn't mask my stupendous mundanity.

Depression followed, crushing down the last vestiges of hope, and so I basically gave up and started drinking. How I managed to get home that night, I don't rightly know. I was so drunk I could barely get the keys in the ignition, so it was nothing short of a miracle that I finally fell out of my car in the driveway and staggered up to the front door. My flatmates were still out partying or working, so I had the place to myself. The mountain of unwashed dishes yielded up a pan, and a cursory wipe made it ready for a drunken fry-up, eggs and ancient bacon. I think I must have gone to my room to get something and passed out when I sat down on the bed, because when I woke up, that's where I was. There were sirens blaring, people shouting out.

side, flames roaring and smoke in my lungs. I panicked. I was still drunk as hell, but managed to stumble upright, which was a mistake as I sucked in a lot of smoke. Dizzy and confused, I pushed open my door, where I was greeted with a wall of orange and yellow heat, crowned by a blanket of black smoke. With flames licking up the ratty old curtains in my room, an old band posters combusting instantly, I knew that I was basically fucked. Then with a cacophony of shattering glass, a firefighter demolished my window and clambered through, right as the smoke overpowered me and my legs gave out. I faintly recall strong hands and strong arms lifting me up and carrying me through the flames. Pain flared somewhere and I dimly remembered my car alarm going off.

When an oxygen mask was pressed to my face and I started to come back around, I saw my rescuer for the first time. She was beautiful. In hospital, I managed to find out her name was Sautia and I treasured that information just as dearly as I treasured the memory of her face. Actually, she wasn't traditionally beautiful. Her jaw was too wide and her cheeks too far. full and florid, but there was a strength that radiated from that face. Her eyes were so hazel, they were almost golden, and her short, white, blonde hair gave her a curious impishness that was at odds with a body that could heft any grown man. She was the angel who had saved me from the fire,

and I was a little bit smitten. After being treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation, I called the fire department. I explained that I wanted to send a thank you note to my rescuer, and they dutifully passed along some contact information. What possessed me to send a box of expensive chocolates, a gushing handwritten note, and a huge bunch of yellow, white, and red flowers, I'm not sure.

She'd had an effect on me, and I felt strangely alive, more alive than I'd felt in God knows how long. After I'd sent the gifts, I felt like a massive idiot and regret set in instantly. She probably got this kind of treatment from guys all the time. She was probably sick of it and would see me for the desperate creep I was. But she didn't. It turned out that there weren't many men around who wanted a day to six foot two firefighter

who was strong enough to snap them in half, or at least not many men brave enough. This kind of romantic attention was rare. She was used to being treated as one of the boys or pegged as a lesbian. Our first date was at a fancy French restaurant, where she complained she felt like a bull in a china shop. But I lavished her with attention. And in her presence, I felt personable and interesting, as though she'd lit some kind of fire inside my soul. The more time we spent together, the more I wanted to see her, and to my time. My eternal surprise, she reciprocated.

Even though my flat had burned down and I was sleeping on a friend's couch, I felt like my life had turned a corner. I was in love. The first time we kissed, her broad lips practically singed me with the heat of her passion. It was after a gym session and we sat in my new flat, sweaty and full of post-workout endorphins. I'm sure it would have gone on longer, but my car alarm rudely interrupted us, going off as the neighbour's kid kicked a ball into my parking space. I didn't care. The memory lingered on my lips as though they had actually been burned. The fire still inside them. Even my boss noticed how happy I was and gave me more responsibility, along with a small raise. I don't know why or how, but this striking, larger than life.

angel of a woman had changed my life for the better. I felt confident trying new things. I stopped drinking and I started reading, earning all kinds of new words that I never knew existed. Even video games lost their hold on me fading into the background noise of my past. I just wanted to be with her. But of course, you already know that this isn't going to be a nice story. and unfortunately I didn't know that until it was far, far too late. The first letter had no return address. It simply said in frantic, blocky handwriting, Leave her alone.

I ignored it. The second and third letters were much the same, but the fourth letter had an addendum to it, saying childishly or else. Not knowing what else to do, I showed them to Sausia and explained that they'd been left in the letterbox addressed to me. Bowing her head, she placed one broad hand on my thigh and side. I'd hoped this wouldn't happen. It was her ex-boyfriend, she explained.

They'd broken up over differences in how they perceived their roles in the relationship. He wanted her to quit the fire service and become his stay-at-home girlfriend to give up on the gym. and take on a more traditionally feminine role. Sautia was not having any of that. When she dumped him, he grew angry and aggressive. I almost laughed at the idea of anyone threatening my Sautia. She was a force of nature, a powerhouse of a human being, indomitable and most certainly impervious to the threats of some little man. but he didn't harass her.

Instead, he chose to threaten and intimidate any man who went near her. I haven't dated for a couple of years now, so I figured he would have given up that he had forgotten about me. I'm not afraid of this guy, and I'm not letting anything or anyone get in between us. And I meant it too. I'd fight for her, I'd die for her. A man like me only got this.

this lucky once in a lifetime, if ever. I woke up to my car alarm going off again, but this time it wasn't a stray football. My tires have been slashed and spray painted across the windshield with the words, leave her in red, dripping morbidly in the early morning sunlight. This guy was persistent, I'll give him that. A phone call to the police brought around an officer to investigate but nothing ever eventuated. Sautier's ex had a rock-solid alibi and there was no evidence to link him to doing it. Frustrated, we got used to tossing the letters

without return addresses, but a camera installed on the front of the house at least saw an end to the vandalism. Eventually, he seemed to give up. I proposed, not long after that, with a rose-gold ring of ruby, citrine and topaz jewels. When she said yes, the fire in my heart roared so hot and so powerfully, I felt as though it was going to burn a hole in my flesh.

We made frantic love that night, her pink skin searing my body, her touch blistering my senses. Everything felt molten, painful and overwhelmingly intense, but I actually had wheels and welts on my skin the next day, but I wore them proudly. the pain reminding me of just how lucky I was. I was awash with nerves on our wedding day, but I did my best to shave without cutting myself and dress myself without shaking too much. I'd celebrated the night before with some old school friends, but I wasn't hung over.

I'd stopped drinking not long after I'd met Sorsha. The drive to the venue, an old church near the sea, was calming, relaxing. The twists and turns of the coastal road lulled me and soothed my soul, reminding me that I was about to wed the love of my life, and that this was nothing to be nervous about. So when the car in the other lane swerved into my path and smashed into me head on, I was completely unprepared. My last memories were of the car alarm blaring, flames engulfing the seats and the bloody head of Sausius X hanging through

the windshield of the other car. The pain. Everything. Everything. roused tongues of fire on my skin from the hospital sheets to the touch of the nurse's hands. They told me that 30% of my body had been burned in the car crash, and I'd lost the sight in my left eye permanently. And as well as the pain of the burns, there was the terrible pulling of the scarred flesh, the tug of the grafts, and the sting of the stitches. But I didn't care. I knew that with Sautia by my side, I could cope with any pain.

I asked my nurse about her. Who? Sorsha, my fiancé, I was driving to our wedding when I crashed. With a strange look, the nurse coolly informed me that I had not been on my way to a wedding. But instead, I'd been driving drunk at 4 a.m. and had smashed into a concrete fence. I didn't believe her. I demanded to see my Sosha. I raged so much that they had to sedate me.

When I came round, a psychologist came and spoke to me, explaining that I'd been in a coma for several weeks after the crash, and that it wasn't unusual for people to vividly dream while in that state. It sounds like your subconscious constructed a world to deal with the pain of your burns, to try and turn it into something tolerable. I resisted believing him for the longest time. With my good eye, I scoured phone books and social media, searching for anything that could prove that Sausia was real. There was nothing. All the evidence shamefully pointed to me driving home drunk, crashing my car, and being trapped inside while it burned,

the car alarm blaring. Firefighters had indeed rescued me, but not my blonde angel, just a bunch of burly guys in a red truck. But what finally made me believe wasn't any of the physical evidence. It was a memory. In my mind's eye, when I pictured Sautia's ex driving the car at me, his face was the mirror image of my own.

The drinking came back to me easily. In truth, I'd only been sober for the length of my stay in hospital. Everything else, the nine months with Sautia, had been a fantasy. My body felt flabby and weak, no longer strong from the intense but imagined gym sessions with my lover. And on top of it all, my burn scars troubled me. I might have only had limited success with women before the accident, but now? Now my puckered and half-melted face actively scared women.

I took to wandering the coastline near where I was supposed to have been married. There was no church. That was just another part of the delusion. The beach nearby was real, though, and on Guy Fawkesnight a huge bonfire. had been lit by partygoers on the golden sand. I sat and watched from a distance, jealous. I'd taken to wearing a hoodie to hide my scarred and webbed skin, so as not to frighten people quite so much. They ignored me, thinking I was just some random drunk.

The flames terrified me, reminding me of the pain. Even from a distance, they made the scars itch and sting. But they also reminded me of her. And as I thought of her, she appeared, coalescing in the dancing fire, her pink skin and white gold hair as perfect as ever. The witnesses say I ran into the blaze, then fell over into the hot coals. They dragged me out and rolled me into the sea, extinguishing the flames. My experience was different. In the fire, I was whole again.

Gone was the puckered skin, gone with a hideous deformity. I saw Sautia with both eyes and she embraced me her naked skin burning comfortably against mine. And then I found myself coughing and in pain at the edge of the tide, surrounded by anxious and confused Guy Fawkes revels. I bandaged my fingers and toes myself, not wanting to go back to the hospital to the burn ward. And while I wrapped my blistered and scarred flesh, the hot pain bringing back all the memories, I came to realize the truth. My Sosha does exist, but only in the flames.

Whenever I look into them, I can see her silhouette in those orange tongues, her golden eyes imploring me to return to her. So that's what I must do. There is nothing here for me anymore. The life I thought I had only exists on the other side of the wall of fire. In there, I am whole and in love.

Out here I am broken and utterly alone. The stink of petrol surrounds me, but it smells not so much of death, more of rebirth. Soon I will be with her again. Soon I will be alive, and we will walk down the aisle of that sunset church where we will pledge our lives to each other. Oh, I have to burn.

Before I go, Sautia has a message for all you disaffected, lonely bachelors out there. She has many beautiful, lively sisters, and they are waiting. It's not uncommon for families to have that one odd character, perhaps an uncle with just a little too much money. and imagination. As described by author S.H. Cooper, a woman recalls a very dark and disturbing experience while visiting her uncle, a man known for gathering the strangest artifacts from around the world. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy and Erica Sanderson. So listen as we learn that this isn't about art or antiques. This is about an unusual collection. Never have, never have. the phrase, you can't be crazy when you're rich, only eccentric, been more accurate than when

applied to my uncle. He'd made a fortune developing some kind of military-grade software that I won't even pretend to understand and, after retiring at the ripe old age of 42, had decided to spend his days traveling to every corner of the globe. He owned houses all over the world, hopped from place to place in a private jet, and had a full-time staff of highly educated, multilingual people answering his every beck and call. Whenever it came to hire someone new, he'd like to say, if they don't have at least one PhD, they're not the one for me. I always thought it was a bit strange that such credentialed individuals would want to work for him,

but apparently Uncle Spencer was a very generous employer. I digress, though. None of that is really what made him eccentric. No, that came from his obsession with the afterlife. He had authorities on every religion working for him, physicians and psychologists on speed dial, and no less than five psychics or mediums or whatever they're called, on the payroll.

He collected artifacts associated with death from every culture and had a room dedicated entirely to a pair of mummies he'd somehow gotten his hands on. He called them Harriet and Harrison. My father said his brother had always had a keen interest in death and what comes after, probably stemming from the early loss of their mother. but that it ramped way up after he started to make his money.

Even with such a macabre interest at the forefront of his life, we loved Uncle Spence. He was witty and fun, and he would take us to any place we wanted to go whenever we wanted to go. His gifts were lavish and frequent, his laughter, loud and infectious. And there was nothing he wouldn't do for his family, or friends. So when he asked if myself and my siblings wanted to stay at his summer house with him while he was in the States, we readily agreed. He'd never married or had kids of his own, so he spoiled us nieces and nephews rotten. We certainly didn't complain. After flying in on his jet, we were met at the airport by limo, which whisked us away to Uncle Spence's mansion.

in the woods. He was waiting for us at the front door, balloons and gift baskets in tow, and he gathered both of us into a tight hug the moment we stepped out. So glad you guys could come. You hungry? Let's get a snack. My brother, an eight-year-old walking stomach, raced around him before he'd even finished the suggestion. I stayed with Spencer, though, making him.

small talk while we crossed through his cavernous foyer to the hallway leading to the kitchen. As we passed by the windows looking into his side yard, I noticed a number of people scurrying around a trio of large crates. New furniture? New collection. What this time? Ghosts. Spencer was one of the few people who could make it sound so casual, so normal. It actually took me a minute to to register what exactly he'd said, and when I did, I paused and looked at him. Ghosts? Well, sort of. There are some rituals to perform, some steps to take, but soon enough, yes.

Wait, you're serious? Even for Uncle Spencer, this seemed a bit far-fetched. Completely. I've imported them all the way from China, along with some spiritualists and monks. Uh, are you sure you're not just paying for some empty boxes and an expensive vacation for those guys? Spence shook his head quite seriously. Oh, no, no, I've had this plan for months. It's part of the reason I asked you two to come. Children, even older ones like you and your brother, are far more in tune with the spirit realm than adults.

You guys don't have to do anything directly. Just let me know if you see or hear anything unusual. Right. At 16, I hardly considered myself a kid, and I certainly didn't believe in ghosts. But I could easily play along if it meant being able to spend the summer with my uncle. We agreed not to tell Pat about the whole ghost thing, as he was still young enough to believe just about anything Uncle Spence said. If he even heard the word ghost, he'd be unable to sleep in his own bed for the rest. of the visit. Just keep an ear out and let me know if they mention anything strange.

Spence made me promise before we joined Pat for lunch. Got it. But I was sure we were all in for a quiet, ghost-free stay. After the crates and the crew disappeared into some far corner of the house, Uncle Spence didn't talk about them again, and I didn't ask. I figured it was just like the time that he'd gotten Harriet and Harrison. He'd been convinced some expert on ancient Egyptian culture could reanimate them and spent weeks trying various Frankenstein-inspired techniques,

only to end up with two, still very much dead and dried-out bodies. He'd fired the Egyptologist, but kept the mummies, lifeless as they were. We were only three days into our two-month stay the first time Pat came running to my bedroom. It was late, far past his bedtime, and I'd just been getting ready to go to sleep myself when I heard him on the other side of my closed door. Cindy? I groaned and rolled out of bed to let him in. Why aren't you in bed?

I can't sleep. How come? Because of the girl. What girl? The crying one. I tried to keep my expression neutral while I tucked him into my bed. But the first place my mind jumped was to Uncle Spence and his newest collection. That was silly, though.

Ghosts weren't real. It was just a little kid in a strange place. I'm sure it was just a bad dream. I don't think so. I could hear her pretty good even though she sounded far away. Maybe you heard one of Uncle Spence's employees. You know he has a lot of people living here. They don't usually come to our hallway when they know we're in bed.

But sound carries, so you'll hear them sometimes anyway. Maybe. Can I stay with you tonight anyway? Just for tonight. You're too old to be running to other people's rooms at night. You know that, right? I know. Okay.

Love you, Booger. Love you. Pat fell asleep easily enough once we finished our good nights, and the next morning, he didn't seem at all bothered by what he'd heard. I chalked it up to being his overactive imagination, and didn't mention it again. Not even to Spencer. I didn't want to encourage him. I put Pat to bed myself the next night, and reminded him that he didn't have to worry about

anything he might hear. After a kiss on the forehead and double-checking his nightlight, I left him in his room and walked the long hallway towards mine to surf the net and chat with friends before I went to bed. After turning the corner, movement at the end of the hall caught my eye and, for just a split second, I could have sworn I saw a young woman with long dark hair, dressed all. All in white, flit past the dark entryway. With a short yelp, I dove into my room and slammed the door behind me. My heart beat against my ribcage, loud and painful in my ears, and I just stared at the floor, trying to make sense of what I'd seen. A maid?

One of Spence's assistants? A ghost? Whoever it had been, I slept with my bedside lamp on that night. I was hesitant to bring it up to Uncle Spence, especially since I really did not believe in ghosts. But between the somewhat creepy atmosphere in certain parts of the house, pat hearing things, my seeing someone, and knowing that Spence was trying to start some kind of ghost collection,

It was hard to remain a complete skeptic. I confessed when Spence and I were alone. I might have seen something last night. He looked up, surprised, but I also thought I saw something else in his eyes. Concern? What? I'm not sure.

A girl, maybe? Young, Asian, I think. I'm not really sure. Thanks for telling me. I had thought he'd be excited or want more details, but he seemed disinterested, as if I hadn't just told him his crazy, sorry, eccentric, plan might actually be working.

It was odd, especially for Spence, who never lacked for enthusiasm where his projects and schemes were concerned. He vanished for the rest of the day after that. I didn't know what to make of my uncle's behavior, but I tried not to let it get to me too much. Dad always said Spencer could be prone to moods over the most insignificant things. I was probably just witnessing it for the first time.

I put Spence and his odd response out of my mind and went to find Pat so I could take him out for a walk. The clock showed one of the first time. The clock showed 1.03 a.m. when Pat came knocking on my door. I'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. Exhausted after a day of chasing Pat around forest trails. And I was instantly irritable upon being woken. Cindy, can I come in? Reluctantly, I kicked off the covers and tugged open the door. What? I hear her again. The girl! I told you.

Pat? She's saying stuff in a weird language. I can't understand her, but she sounds really scared. I thought again of the shipment of Chinese ghosts that Spence had received the day we'd arrived, and of the girl I'd seen in the hall, and I swallowed hard. Fine, let's go listen. Hand in hand, we tiptoed back towards Pat's room and stood outside his door. The air was tense and nervous between us, and I had to tell myself to stop fidgeting. I didn't want to scare my little brother by letting him know I was starting to get a bit spooked myself. Pat put a finger to his lips, motioning for me to be quiet, despite my silence. And we listen. It was faint.

So much so that I couldn't hear it over the sound of my own breathing. and I had to hold my breath after telling Pat to do the same. But it was there, the sound of a woman crying. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. But how could I not? After what I'd seen and now heard, was it possible that Spence truly did somehow transport ghosts all the way from China?

I hastily instructed Pat. Go back to your room. I'll be back soon, okay? I returned to my own room long enough to grab my phone and hurried in the direction of the sound. I was going to try and get proof so that Spence would definitely believe me when I told him about this in the morning.

I also needed to get the proof so I could believe myself. I was terrified and exhilarate. and goose bumps ran across every inch of my skin. The crying was getting louder, more intense, and every so often there would be words mixed in, but I couldn't understand them. I got turned around a few times,

becoming momentarily lost in the seemingly endless maze that was my uncle's house, and every piece of furniture rose up in the dark, looming shadows. I almost gave up a few times, but the sadness and desperation in the girl's voice drove me onward. I was starting to think if I could just get the proof Spence needed to see that ghosts were real.

He'd let this particular one go, or exercise her, or whatever he'd have to do to set her free. It sounded like she was being tortured. Eventually, I ended up outside of Harriet and Harrison's room, and for a moment, I thought maybe the ghost had sought refuge with the mummies. It made sense that the dead would seek out the dead. But then I heard the voices, hushed and deep, and footsteps, and the sounds of papers shuffling. I pause, browning, and I thought of turning back. Clearly, there were people in there.

Didn't they hear the girl? Children, even older ones like you and your brother, are far more in tune with the spirit realm than adults. Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I pushed the door open just wide enough to peek in. I didn't want to start all the people inside, who I assumed were the caretakers responsible for the mummies, nor did I want to have to explain that I was ghost hunting.

It would never come to that, though, because there was no ghost. There was only a girl, strung up by her wrists, and covered in bleeding cuts and bruises. The flowing white robe she was wearing had been stained in, deep, wet, red, and her hair hung loose around her broken face. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and when she spoke, I could see gaps where teeth should have been. She looked like she was barely older than I was. Her body heaved with sobs, and she was speaking rapidly, desperately, in what I assumed to be a dialect of Chinese, to a handful of people in the room,

who all ignored her and continued writing things, tapping away on computers, or, in the case of someone I recognized as one of Spence's preferred mediums, chanting. An empty tub had been placed between Henrietta and Harrison's sarcophagi. And in the farthest corner of the room, I caught sight of a pale Chinese man, stretched out on a table, in some kind of ceremonial or official clothing. He was eerily still. His dark eyes fixed sightlessly on the ceiling overhead, and a slow, creeping panic started to slither up my belly.

He's dead. I stumbled backwards. Away from the door, and I ran as fast as I could back down the hall. I didn't even check over my shoulder to see if anyone had heard me. I threw myself back into my room and locked myself in, where I dry heaved over the attached bathroom sink. The police arrived only minutes after I called 911. The girl, a 15-year-old orphan from rural China,

was the only one of the three people brought over in crates to survive my uncle's attempt at starting a collection of ghosts. After a trip around the country, Spencer had developed a morbid fascination with Chinese folklore and the spirits that inhabited. That fascination turned to obsession, and after consulting some of his, paranormal experts. He was convinced these ghosts were real, and that he could capture them,

collect them, make them another part of the monument to death that was his home. What I had assumed were crates of long-dead mummies, or items that would allow him to commune with the dead, were actually holding the three people Spencer had paid to have drugged and flown over to the states. One was a middle-aged woman. She'd been poor and led to believe that she was being brought to America for a work opportunity. She'd been the first to die. She'd been drowned in the empty tub I'd seen,

an attempt to create some sort of water-dwelling ghost. The second was a young man, who had agreed to come to. America in order to make money for his aging parents back in a small village in China. Spencer had wanted to turn him into a Jiangxi, a hopping vampire or zombie-type creature, according to myth. They had strangled him, and mystics had attempted to force his spirit to remain in his body to animate it. The third, the young girl. They were trying to try and force to commit suicide. Spencer had heard tales of vengeful female ghosts who killed themselves after being wronged in life and came back to exact their revenge. After being assured his mystics

could contain her spirit, he had the girl beaten and tortured and told repeatedly to kill herself. Spencer hadn't anticipated that it would take so long, or that she would be loud enough for Pat and me to hear. He also hadn't expected her to escape while his team murdered the young man. The night I'd seen her, she'd managed to get away briefly and was trying to find a way out. They recaptured her shortly after I'd run, frightened into my room. He'd been so odd when I mentioned it the next day, because he had come close to being found out. Looking back, I can't believe how foolish and naive I was,

to believe for even a second that ghosts might actually have existed. If I hadn't been so stupid, I might have actually saved the man and put a much earlier stop to the girl's suffering. Because of my inaction, her life is irreparably damaged. I will forever be sorry for that. I will also forever be sorry for the fact that his wealth allowed him to go to such extremes. That the people who worked for and with him just accepted his plans as part of his eccentricity. and looked the other way because he stuffed their pockets.

No amount of money could ever be worth even one life, much less three. My uncle was rich, yes, but he wasn't eccentric. He was bat-shit insane. As mentioned in the intro, this story continues the tale called There's Something in Forest Glen National Park from Season 8, Episode 8, when we met a man who experienced a nightmarish encounter in that forest. Co-written by authors J.J. Cheesman and Marcus Demanda, we find James still being tormented by what he believes is a strange entity inhabiting the body of his best friend Robert. The only solution

is to contact the real Robert so they can fight off whatever this creature is. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Peter Lewis, Nicole Goodnight, and Eden. So is there something in that park, or are we meant to believe there's nothing in Forest Glen National Park? Where to begin? Here are the facts. I have a friend named James, and he's a true friend, although we've yet to meet in person. He lives in Illinois, and I hail from him.

the scenic and relatively toothless state of Virginia. We know each other via Facebook and by mutual interest. We share our work, vent our shared frustrations, help each other out as we can. Not long ago, he got in touch with me, emailed me a detailed account of his encounter with something that he claimed took on the shape of another friend of his. some guy by the name of Robert. He said it came from a park called Forest Glen and that it hounded him at all hours of the night. Then, about a week later, he followed up the first email with another.

Marcus, I'm sending this to you in sections from a password-protected email. That way, it can't be edited. It cannot be changed. only the facts will remain. The police have been no help, as I've explained. No one believes me, but I know the truth. There's something out there. As he promised, James sent three others day by day

so that his personal thoughts could not be tampered with. I thought he had lost it, truth be told, and I was worried about him. That being said, coward that I am, I remained silent about it. James had been my friend for a long time. I wasn't about to tell him that his paranoid delusions had gotten out of control. With every email James sent, however, my opinion of his mental state began to shift. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to dismiss his rantings as mere fabrications.

from a broken mind. To make it more coherent, I've consolidated every email James sent to me into one transcript. The following is his complete account of everything that happened to him on the days after his first encounter with that terrible monster. Take heed and fair warning. I expect you won't like what you find within his words. I certainly didn't. Today was bad. It was worse than bad. It was a nightmare. I'd expected him to be there last night, you know?

Like he'd been for the past two weeks, I was ready. Every time I called someone, every time I tried to get help, he would disappear. But he would always return. I was scared, Marcus. I'm so goddamn scared. I knew it couldn't last though. Day in and day out, I was forced to barricade myself in my house, listening to that thing begged for me to let him in.

Please, I just want to be friends, I promise. I hadn't even been to work in two weeks. In fact, I hadn't had any human contact in that time. Robert, the real Robert, had called me several times. I'm sure he was worried about me, but I didn't answer. What could I say? How could I explain what was going on? Thanks to the month of vacation time I'd saved, I wasn't worried about leaving my home.

I just called my boss and told him I had an emergency with family from out of town. He told me to take as much time as I needed. Last night, I finally got the courage to face him. I decided I would not be a victim. Instead of hiding inside with a knife clutched my chest, I waited on my front porch. A stiff drink in my hand, I sat in a lawn chair on the deck. My other hand was placed above the blade that sat in my lap.

I waited and I drank. The scotch went down more smoothly as the hour. ticked past, as I'm sure you can imagine. It's funny, I'm not a straight liquor sort of person, not under regular circumstances, but I'm getting way off topic. So I was waiting, right? Drunk is all hell by the end of it. My street is not a busy street. There's no outlet at the end, and I'm the very last house on the left, so there's no reason for cars to come all the way down to my home. That being said, nothing came by to keep my inebriated selves. I'm not going to be occupied. It wasn't long before I just simply fell asleep. I awoke with a start and stood quickly.

Both the knife in my lap and the glass tumbler that was in my hand fell to the wood of the deck. I looked around my front yard and all around the deck, but there was no sign of the robbered imposter. Call me crazy, but I walked all around my house and then went inside to search every room. My head was splitting from a hangover, but I pressed on, searching every corner of the house. He wasn't there. To my surprise, he hadn't come to terrorize me the night before. But why? I sat in my living room considering that very thing.

Was it because I stood my ground? Because I simply got fed up and decided I wouldn't be afraid anymore? That was the only conclusion I could come to. My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of my phone elsewhere in the house, and I realized I left it in the kitchen. When I found it, I already knew whose name would be on the screen. Robert. I had to go see Robert.

I had to explain to him everything that had happened. He was going to think I was crazy, but he and his family wouldn't be safe unless they knew. That's something that happened. I've been calling. Robert, listen. Something's happened, and I need to talk in person. Can I come over?

Robert waited a moment before replying. What's going on, man? I'll explain when I get there. I'll be out your house in ten. I quickly hung up without another word. Robert's two girls, who are seven and nine, were playing out in the front lawn when I pulled up to the house. They both waved at me and ran over to give me a hug when I got out of my car.

Uncle James is here, Daddy. Robert stepped out of the front door and waved, and I nodded back. All right, girls, I have to go talk to your father. You play safe, okay? Katie and Alexa bounded back to the trampoline they'd been jumping on. When I approached the front stoop of the house where Robert stood, the first thing he did was embrace me. I didn't want to let go.

It was the first time I'd spoken. to another living human being in weeks. It was a good, warm feeling. Christ, I wanted to cry. Robert stepped away and looked me over. God damn, man, you look like hell. I couldn't help but smile at that. Come inside.

We made our way into the kitchen where the smell of fresh coffee hung in the air. Where's Cherie? Cherie is Robert's wife. Ah, she left for the store. Should be back any moment now. At the table, I sat down while Robert stayed standing. So, what's been going on?

I've been trying to get a hold of you forever. He crossed his arms. I took a deep breath and I began to explain. Okay. This is going to sound completely nuts. You know how you told me they shut down Forest Glen because of the bodies they found? Robert raised an eyebrow. Yeah?

I know. What did it? Robert unfolded his arms and placed his hands on the table. What do you mean, what did it? That's when I went into my story. I told him everything I've told you. How I went out into the woods, following someone who couldn't be him,

someone who was watching us in the forest ever since we were younger. Then I described how I ran and made it home how the police were no help in keeping that thing away. Finally, I ended with how I decided to stand up to the creature, but he was nowhere to be found the night before. I expected Robert to stop me during my tale, to call me insane and tell me I needed to get out before I scared the kids. But he didn't. Instead, he simply nodded as I spoke, listening to every word. word of my story. His face never changed, his expression never wavered. Never once did he give me an indication that he didn't believe what I was saying. The same concerned expression he wore

at the beginning of the story he had by the end. He was a good friend. Holy shit, James. What are you going to do? I was a bit taken aback by that question. I hadn't expected that sort of reaction. I don't know exactly. I just knew I had to come here and warn you before anything happened. These few weeks have been a nightmare. Honestly, it just feels good to be with someone and tell them, you know? Robert nodded solemnly. I bet.

I really wouldn't want to be in your shoes, but I'll do whatever I can. The girls love you. Wouldn't want anything to happen to their uncle. I smiled. I wasn't their real uncle, of course. Robert and I had been friends for so long. That's just what they knew me as. In that moment, I turned to look out in the backyard,

where I expected the drive to be empty. But it wasn't. Nothing will happen to my brother, I promise. Shivers like spiders crawled frantically up and down my back as I stared out at Sherry's car. Well, listen, man. Come out to the garage with me. We'll crack a couple of beers and put together a plan.

I stood from my seat at the table and turned to look him dead in the eye. For the second time, I found myself in that terrifying situation. Only this time, I didn't run and panic. And instead, took a moment to examine the beast wearing my friend's skin. studying Robert's expression, the way he held himself, the way he spoke. Holy shit. You really couldn't tell he was a monster. No, I think I better head out.

It just occurred to me that I might be putting you in danger by being here. His face became hard, and I kept my eyes locked onto his. For the briefest of seconds, I saw him. a hot flash of anger in those eyes. It knew. I. Then his expression softened. Well, if you feel the need, don't hesitate to come back and let me know.

He smiled, a devious smile. No judgment here, brother. I promise. I nodded and backed slowly out of the kitchen. Once I was out, I strode out the front door and made my way to my car. Uncle James. Are you leaving? Alexa's bright blonde curls bounced as she ran to me.

I looked down at her and stared at her bright blue eyes. Right then and there I wanted to take her and her sister, stole them in my car and simply drive away. But I didn't. Looking up at the door of the house, I saw Robert standing there as I knew he would be. His arms were crossed and his eyes were narrowed. watching me closely. Instead, I knelt and embraced her tightly. When Katie ran over, I pulled her close as well. Then I leaned back and looked sincerely at the both of them. I love you girls very much.

I held them by the shoulders. I'm coming back to see you very soon, okay? They both said goodbye and bounded back to their play. I am ashamed to say. I did nothing. Of course, I worried about them. I worried about Sheree, too. My heart ached at the thought of what has or might happen to her. Not to mention, I had no idea what happened to Robert. I was so, so scared, Marcus.

What could I do? What would you have done? I slid into my car, and I cried the whole. whole way home as I drove. I feel so alone. What is that thing's plan? Why is it doing this? I've resolved to go back there to that place.

I believe that's where I'll find my answers. I need to move quickly. I don't know what will happen to Alexa and Katie if I don't. Maybe I can find proof. Maybe I can find something the police haven't. Marcus, I've been such a fool. Everything has come crashing down on me. I've failed Katie.

I've failed Alexa. I've failed Cherie. And I failed Robert. I was such a fucking coward before. I should have done something much. Much sooner. I made it out to Forrest Glen about a quarter after four. I parked on the side of the road about a mile from the park and hit the hazard lights.

That way, if anyone drove by, I would just say the car had broken down and I'd been looking for help. I'd expected to run into some resistance. Police tape or maybe a patrol or something. All I knew is that I didn't want to get caught before I'd made it to the trail. The trail I'd told you about before, the one that thing tried to lead me down. I jogged from the road to the park entrance. Before I'd left the house, I made sure to bring a good-sized pocket knife, and as I jogged, I kept touching my back-right-jean pocket where I could feel its shape.

It made me feel a little more secure about going into those woods. Surprisingly, I saw no police tape when I'd made it to the park entrance. There was no patrolman posted either, at least none that I could see. From then on, I walked slowly toward the trail. I stayed close to the tree line, ready to duck into the woods if anyone drove by, and if need be, I could run out into the road if anything came out of the woods. I felt like I was walking for hours, stopping often to listen for anything that might indicate someone's approach. I heard nothing at all.

and I mean nothing. I remember distinctly the sounds of wildlife the last time I had visited the park. Now as I crept along the road, all was silent. Not even the buzzing of insects could be heard as I went. At last, I reached the entrance of the trail that had been the cause of my nightmares for the past several days. I pulled the knife from my pocket and flicked it open. Holding it low, I walked throughout the trail as slowly as I had when I walked the road. The fear I felt was great, but the urgency I felt was greater, so I pressed on.

At any moment I was ready to lash out with my weapon, and holding it tightly gave me the strength to keep going. Even that far into the wooded area of the park, I heard no sounds. Robert had told me they closed Forest Glen, but I saw no sign of that. Other than the absolute quiet, there was nothing to indicate the park had been closed. No keep-out signs, no police tape, nothing. Soon I reached the stream and I still pressed on. As I reached the point of the trail where I'd first realized something was wrong and ran from Robert, I wavered. When we were out there, the Robert imposter told me that he had wanted to show me a bridge that I'd remembered from when we were kids.

Below, the water was crystal clear. I remembered that. But that wasn't what frightened me. When we were on the phone, the real Robert told me that people had died from drowning. My suspicion was that they had found the bodies under the very... bridge the Robert imposter had wanted to show me so badly. I shivered for the first time on that trail. I tightened the grip on my knife and pressed on.

Finally, the rotted wood of the bridge was in sight, and I froze. My eyes narrowed, and I strained them hard as I scanned the woods around me, looking for Robert to be waiting behind one of the trees, ready to pounce at any moment. after a couple of minutes of waiting and seeing nothing I took a deep breath and walked toward the sound of running water the smell hit me hard I reached the high bank of the stream down below and before I could even look over it

I gagged and vomited as the rotten stench of decaying flesh hit my nostrils I wiped my face with my sleeve and covered my mouth and no nose as I looked over the side, placing one foot on the bridge for balance. The wood was wet. My foot slipped, and I fell to the grass on my hands and knees. My knife fell over the side, and I watched as it tumbled down and landed on a corpse. Robert told me there had been four hikers found dead out there in those woods by drowning.

It's so strange how in moments of absolute shock a person can do irrational things. When I looked down into that water, the shock I felt, along with the memory of Robert's claim, made me laugh. And I laughed loudly. The stream was deep for a stream, but for a person it was shallow, and a body could not easily. be carried by its water, but alone dozens. In absolute horror, I looked up and down the stream as my mind tried to process exactly how many there were. I couldn't even venture, I guess, but there were too many to count.

In a throng of bloated and decaying corpses, there were many I could make out and recognize. There was the guy who owned the laundromat in town, and a woman that I knew was a cashier at the gas station. And there were so many more that I knew. I had been cooped up in the house for days for sure, but I hadn't seen any of these people go missing on the news, and Robert made no mention of any of them. These bodies had been there for weeks, judging by the state of their corpses. It didn't make sense. Then I saw the two bodies that made me finally understand.

They were lying on top of a few other bodies, almost directly next to the corpse that my knife had landed on. Their hands were joined together, as if they had been put on display for me to see. They stared back up at my red and crying face through milky white eyes. but they had not died recently. The pale white shroud of death had been long set on their cheeks. Even if they had begun to decay, they were sisters.

There was no way I could mistake that curly blonde air. No. I fell to my knees, and I screamed down at them in anguish. I cried and bawled and begged for it to not be real. I screamed their names to the sky, and I howled for their forgiveness. But I knew forgiveness would not come. I knew this was real. Alexa and Katie were not there when I promised them both

that I would be back to see them. They looked like them, sure. But it wasn't them. Defeated. I walked all the way out of the park into my car. I was slow and deliberate. Nothing was coming for me. I knew that too.

They wanted me to see it. What they had done. The state of the girl's bodies. The way they were presented, it sent a clear message. It was truly... I drove all the way back here. And I'm telling you all this now, Marcus, because you have to know.

Do not come to Illinois. Stay away and stay safe. When I first began, I told you there was something in Forest. Glenn. But Marcus, I was dead wrong. There wasn't just something. No, not at all. It should have been the end of it, the final part of James's story. And that would have been bad enough. For three days, I've been trying to reach him. For three days, I've been paralyzed. by indecision, crippled by dread and doubt, what would a normal person do? What would a friend do? Call the cops, get my friend incarcerated while people who won't understand the background,

try to dig up the truth, whatever that is, what drive out there? If it's true, and the more I think about it, the more that possibility. grows in my mind, then how the hell does the whole world not already know about this? And then my rational half reasserts itself, and I think, has my friend lost his goddamn mind? That's got to be it. By now, someone's clued in on his issues, and he's already getting help. It seems reasonable, right? And then this, another email. God help me.

I don't know what to think anymore. I sure as hell don't know what to do. Dear Marcus, please disregard my previous correspondence. I was simply out of my mind. I hadn't been taking any of my medication, and I concocted a story to gain attention. As I said, I was wrong when I said there was something in that place. There's nothing in Forest Glen.

I promise. 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.

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