The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E12

Episode Date: July 23, 2017

It's episode 12 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about vile visage, lost laments, and subterranean submission. "A Faint Pink Scar"‡ written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Jesse Cornett & Alexis Bristowe & Atticus Jackson & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 00:03:00) "The Gargoyle Song"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Elie Hirschman & Matthew Bradford & Erika Sanderson & Dan Zappulla & Nikolle Doolin & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:23:45) "I Listen to the Ground Scream"† written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Peter Lewis & Eden & Dan Zappulla & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:39:45) "There’s Something Underneath Southern Utah"‡ written by T. Takeda Wise and performed by Erin Lillis & Jeff Clement & Jesse Cornett & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 01:13:00) "Graphic Design"† written by Max Evry and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:37:05) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here for the NoSleep Podcast Facebook page   Click here for the NoSleep Podcast Facebook Fan Group   Click here for the NoSleep Podcast Twitter page   Click here for the NoSleep Podcast Instagram page   Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Click here to learn more about T. Takeda Wise   Click here to learn more about Max Evry   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "There’s Something Underneath Southern Utah" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody Audio program ©2017 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This is a horror storytelling podcast. Our tales are dark and disturbing, intended to shake you up. Listen at your own risk. We are all around you. And tonight's there will be, brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us.

On this week's show, we have five tales about Viable, visage, lost laments, and subterranean submission. It's hard to believe we're almost halfway through season nine already. We have lots of great things in store for you in the coming months. And it's a good time to do something I should do more often, but better late than never. And that's remind everyone of how they can follow us and interact with us on social media. The No Sleep podcast is on Facebook.com, Twitter.com, and Instagram. com slash no sleep podcast for all three sites.

And we have a great Facebook fan group with almost 5,000 members. Join in the lively discussion and talk about all things no sleep and interact with many of us involved with the show. And of course, most of our team have their own following on social media sites, so check out their pages and follow them. Trust me, for some people on the team, it's good to keep an eye on them, so they don't get up to no good. And if you haven't already, it can be very helpful if you leave a friendly review on iTunes for our show. It helps others discover us and our creepy tales. Check the show

notes for links to all the aforementioned sites and come be social with us. We promise we won't bite. And now that we've trapped you, I mean invited you to join us online, it's time to share some stories with you. So let's get to it and kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a man having some problems with his co-workers. Common problem, right? Well, according to author V.R. Greg, this situation is a little different than most, and it all starts when his co-workers start acting like they're not themselves. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Alexis Bristow, Atticus Jackson, and Peter Lewis.

So if someone you know is acting strangely, you should check, for a faint pink scar. Did you know that a Russian scientist once kept a dog's head alive, separate from its body, for several hours? My buddy Ryan told me that in high school. He laughed and wondered how that dog must have felt about the whole thing. Like, oh, I want to chase my tail. Wait a minute.

Then he laughed again. I didn't think it was that funny, but then again, Ryan and I never really, had the same sense of humor. I also once read about this scientist who put an implant or something into a bull's brain. Well, they got the bull all riled up to charge of Matador, and this scientist pushed a button on a remote control, and the thing just stopped mid-run. He turned off the bull's anger with a single flip of a switch. It's crazy stuff, Matt. You get to the point where you think the brain's just about capable of anything, and so science for that matter. If a dog can live without a body and a bull can de-anger with a flip of a switch, nothing is really impossible.

Everything has a rational explanation if you just look hard enough for it. I think that's why I just assumed it was a weird quirk of the brain when Amanda came into work the day before yesterday and claimed, matter-of-factly, that only a few of us were ourselves, that the rest were impostors. She caught me by the copy machine, leaned in, and whispered her theory to me. What do you mean we're impostors? She dropped her whisper, looking around before continuing in a normal tone of voice. Well, not you, Jason, but Devin, Brian, Lisa, and Shelley, they're all impostors. Well, you seem pretty relaxed about it.

Amanda shrugged. I've thought about it a lot and it comes down to this. I don't think anything can be done about it. They're already here. She gathered her papers from the machine and walked away, leaving me standing there with a puzzled look on my face. I was concerned that Amanda seemed to think our co-workers were imposters, but I knew that the brain could do weird things in times of stress.

Amanda was going through a divorce and that can be hard on a person. Whatever the cause, Devin ended up sending her home for the day. Problem solved, I thought. Amanda would be able to rest up and would come in the next day feeling foolish. Instead of working, I spent a good chunk of the afternoon looking up possible explanations and arrived at the one that made the most sense given the context. There's this disorder called Capgras delusion. It's a legitimate condition where a person thinks the people closest to them are identical impostors. It mostly affects people with schizophrenia or dementia. I didn't think Amanda

had either of those things, but I also read that it can rarely occur alongside migraines. I thought that made a lot of sense. Surely Amanda was having a migraine severe enough to make her delusional. I didn't know if Amanda got migraines, but I knew a lot of people did. See, rational explanation. I ran all of this by my buddy Nate during lunch. Nate worked in the cubicle next to mine, and I could always count on his advice. Well, I don't know, man. Capgrall delusion isn't very common. Yeah, but it seems more likely than some sort of weird pod person scenario, doesn't it? I guess. Maybe Amanda's just trying to get off work, faking a breakdown or something.

That seemed possible. maybe even more possible than my theory. Nate was good with stuff like that, and I felt better after talking it through with him. I had all but forgotten about Amanda and her delusions by the next day. We had a deadline to meet, and I couldn't waste time thinking about a co-worker's mental health. And really, it was none of my business. It was Nate who brought it up again. I was walking from the conference room back to my cubicle,

when a hand reached out from the men's bathroom and pulled me in. What the fuck, dude? Nate put a finger to his mouth to quiet me and turned on the faucet. When he was satisfied that he wouldn't be heard, he started talking. Amanda was right. What? Jason, Amanda was right. I don't understand what you're talking about.

She's having some sort of breakdown. What could she be right about? Nate sighed loudly and shook his head. Listen, man, they aren't who they look like. It's Devon mostly, but also Lisa, Brian, and Shelly. Maybe he's more. Shelly just led our morning meeting. I saw her. She looked like Shelly. She sounded like Shelly. She even knew all that statistics junk that Shelley knows. There's no way that wasn't Shelly. I'm telling you, they're impostors. Nate, are you okay?

I mean, have you been sleeping and stuff? With that question, Nate slammed the faucet off. You believe whatever you want, Jason. I'm telling you what I know. If you don't believe in, fine. Whatever, just someone has to do something, you know. I stood in silence, trying desperately to think of something to say. I could believe that Amanda was crazy, but Nate was the most level-headed guy I knew.

Before I could even open my mouth, Nate had stormed out of the bathroom. I didn't see him again for the rest of the day, which was strange. Normally, Nate checked in often. I figured he was mad at me, and I didn't blame him. I was mad at myself for not knowing how to help him. I ran into Devon near the end of the day. Hey, Devin, have you seen Nate around? I think he's mad at me about something.

Oh, Nate, he went home sick. I think there must be something going around. Devin clapped me on the back. You stay healthy. I'd hate to lose you to this bug, too. Devin walked away, whistling to himself as he went. That really was odd, I thought. Nate was never sick, and he seemed fine earlier.

I walked over to his cubicle not knowing what I hoped to find. I was leafing through some of his papers idly thinking about what might have happened when an envelope fell out. On the front was written to J, just in case. Inside was a page from one of Nate's novelty holiday of the day desk calendars. I noticed that it was Panic Day, which I had never. heard of. I was beginning to think it was all in the elaborate joke when I noticed the writing on the back. It was scrawled and barely legible. I could only just make it out. It read. Jason, I swear, I'm telling the truth. Look for the pink scar around their faces.

It's a scene. I think they know I'm onto them. If I don't see you again, let's not think about that. I'm not crazy, Jason. You'll see. I was stunned. I hastily shoved the note into my pocket and bolted for the door. I had to leave, had to process all of this away from the office. That night, I couldn't sleep. Everything about this was so odd, so out of character. After hours of tossing and turning, I realized that I had to investigate further, had to know, What the hell was going on? I finally pushed myself out of bed at 4 a.m., determined to get to the bottom of all this. I drove back to the office and was relieved to see that all the lights were off.

I checked my watch, quarter to five. No one should be in there for another few hours. That would give me plenty of time to root around through the offices. I started with Devons, since he was our manager. His office occupied a whole corner of the main floor, and there were enough file cabinets and bookshelves to keep me occupied for a while. I had to be smart about what I was looking for. But what was I looking for? I had no clue what kind of evidence I could even find.

I mean, it's not like these impostors, if that's what they even were, would keep a detailed journal of how exactly they had accomplished their impostoring. there wouldn't be an imposter mission statement scrawled across Devon's desk. I stopped to Devon's door, unsure of what to do. I was prepared to break it open, but to my surprise, it was unlocked. So much for the idea that he had something to hide. Still, I'd come this far. I breathed deeply and opened the door. Devon's office looked as it always had.

neat and orderly, with stacks of papers and precise piles in his outbox and a patchwork of post-it notes on his desk. The soft blue light from his monitor gave the room an unreal quality as I started to sort through his things. The papers were unremarkable. Projects and figures and budget spreadsheets. The post-its were likewise boring, due dates and reminders. None of them said, remember, kill all employees and impersonate them for unknown gains. Stupid. What was I doing in my boss's office at 5.30 in the morning? That's something crazy people do.

Surely, whatever insanity that got into Amanda and Nate had spread to me, and the lack of sleep was making it worse. I just needed some time off or something. I was about to leave, to go back home and call. and sick when I noticed one of Devon's desk drawers a jar. I pulled it open and shied my cell phone's flashlight inside. It took me a minute to realize what I was seeing. There in Devon's desk drawer were faces. Human faces. I don't mean that they were masks. They weren't made of rubber or silicon or paper mache. No. Actual skin. I picked the top face up and immediately dropped it again.

The backside of it was the tacky consistency of drying paint and left rust-colored streaks on my fingers. I could feel the bile rising up in my throat, threatening to spill out of my mouth. I recognized it. That was Lisa's face, complete with her bleached blonde hair and ruddy skin. I frantically started leafing through the faces as if they were records in a music store. Lises was on top.

Then Brian's, Amanda's, and Shelly's. At the bottom of the stack, I recognized Nate's face. Nate! As I began to panic, the overhead light flickered on above me. I looked up to see Devon standing in the open doorway, arms folded across his chest. That's no cause for concern. No cause for concern? I fell faces.

Nate's face in your desk drawer. I stared at him, bewildered. He smiled a warm, reassuring smile at me. It's no cause for concern. Why are you getting so worked up about it, huh? Those are faces, Devin! Human faces! What have you done with them? Devon began walking toward me, face shifting from patience to irritation.

I grasped blindly at the desk behind me until my fingers curled around a letter opener. I could see the faint line of pink that circled from his ear underneath his chin. Nate was right. How had I not noticed it before? It seemed so obvious now. I didn't have time to consider this. Devin, or whatever was wearing Devin's face, began to advance on me. As Devin neared, I pulled the letter opener from behind my back

and pointed it toward him. And just, what do you think you're going to do with that? I didn't know. But it was all I had. I backed away until I felt the bookcase in my back. As Devin got closer and closer, moving at what felt like a crawl, I thought about my life.

I thought about an imposter going through my things, having dinner and other things with my girlfriend, calling my parents at Christmas, all while wearing my face. No, I couldn't let that happen. When Devin got within a foot of me, I swung my letter opener at his head. It caught him just behind the ear.

Using all of my force, I drove it in. until I felt resistance and then wrenched it forward. Devon's face dislodged and slowly slid down the imposter's body, trailing red slickness as it went. I barely had time to register what was underneath before my body commanded me to run. As I darted around the imposter, I saw that its face was cold black and featureless. Two shiny black eyes filled most of the space. It blinked at me, its eyelids moving vertically across those empty eyes.

I ran. I ran as hard as I could. As I hit the front glass door, I found it locked. Panic set in, and I headed instead for the men's room. I locked the door behind me and sat down behind it, my body slumping in fear and exhaustion. When I had caught my breath, I called 911. I told the operator that I was trapped in the building with a murderer that I had seen body parts. She was calm and reassuring and told me not to worry.

The officers were on their way. I stayed on the line with her until she told me they were there. I could hear the sirens outside and the fall of footsteps in the hallway, but I stayed where I was. Finally, after what felt like hours, there was a hard knock on the bathroom door. Police, you can come out. It's all clear. I hesitantly opened the door. A uniformed police officer was standing outside. I immediately looked at his face, but saw no pink scar.

I sighed in relief. He wasn't one of them. Everything's okay, Mr. Evans. Jason Evans. Okay, Mr. Evans. You'll be fine. We talk things through with your manager here. and he's not going to file charges for breaking and entering.

I looked up, stunned, as Devin walked down the hallway toward me. His face was back in its previous position, wearing a concerned expression. He had evidently changed his shirt because I could see no hint of the blood that had been left there by the falling face. Your manager has explained about the stress you've been under. I know how that can be with a limited staff and all. No, no. He stole their faces. They're in his desk drawer.

You have to go look! The officer exchanged a glance with Devin, who just shook his head sadly. Come on, Mr. Evans. Come with me. You can come down to the station and file a report. The officer grabbed my elbow and escorted me out of the building. He didn't believe me. Why would he?

I knew it sounded crazy. knew I sounded crazy. He didn't speak to me again as he put me in the back of the patrol car. Instead of being allowed to file a report, I was taken into an interrogation room to meet with a psychiatrist. A heavily bearded man with bushy hair introduced himself as Dr. Gregory. Dr. Gregory asked me a number of questions. I didn't answer them.

He whispered something to the officer who took me back. to his car. I'll escort you back to your home. Please take an hour to collect your things, anything you need for a hospital stay. Dr. Gregory thinks it's best for you to have more intensive care than what outpatient therapy can provide. Of course, this is optional, but your manager has expressed concern for his safety should you not comply.

For you, that means his decision to press charges is conditional. Understand? I nodded. What else could I do? The officer dropped me at my house with strict instructions not to leave. He said he'd return in an hour. I'm trying to create a record of what I saw before he comes back. I have to leave.

I have to run. I don't know where I'll go, but I know I can't undergo treatment with Dr. Gregory. I'll die if I do. You see, I wasn't paying attention to the questions he was asking me. I was focused on his beard, his beard, and the pink scar showing through. Given their expensive upkeep, it's not uncommon for older churches to be abandoned for more modern and efficient buildings. But in this tale from author S. H. Cooper, we learn about a mysterious sound coming from an old church and the connection it might have,

to a missing teen. Performing this tale are Ellie Hirschman, Matthew Bradford, Erica Sanderson, Dan Zapula, Nicole Doolin, and Jeff Clement. So listen closely in case you hear

The Gargoyle song. I should have been more worried about Mike. I should have listened more. I should have paid more attention. I should have just been there. But I was 17 and selfish. and so absorbed in my own little world, that I couldn't be bothered to actually hear what he was trying to tell me.

At the same time, I was only 17, sheltered, didn't know what to do with the information he was trying to give me. That doesn't excuse me or dismiss the guilt. While we drifted a bit apart recently, we'd been best friends since second grade. I should have at least tried to do something, but by the time I realized how bad things had gotten, it was too late.

Mike disappeared two days before his 18th birthday, halfway through our senior year of high school. Two days later, on his birthday, the Gargoyle song started. They were first heard by a small search party that was combing the woods for any sign of Mike. They said it sounded distant and came from the direction of the old Catholic church, long abandoned after the town moved a few miles down the road. But they didn't know exactly what it was. Given the seriousness of their task, they didn't go to the time. to investigate, instead continuing on with their hunt for clues. Across town from where the group was, I was sitting in my guidance counselor's office,

while she and a police officer asked me questions about my friend. Did he seem upset to you at all recently? Mrs. Gerald was studying me with a calm intensity that made me fidget uncomfortably in my chair. The cop was seated beside her, but he seemed less intimidating somehow. I don't know. Mike was always kind of I don't know, not really sad, just kind of quiet. Was he quieter than usual? I thought hard.

I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, that I'd certainly not been involved with Mike going missing. But I still felt accused like I should know something because he'd been so close. I could only shrug. He'd had a fight with his dad, I guess. I think that kind of had him down. Do you know what the fight was about?

They just didn't really get along. That was an understatement, and I knew it. How many times had Mike told me they'd gotten into it over stupid stuff? His grades, which never fell below a seat. His lack of girlfriend, his weight, his hobbies. His dad was constantly picking on him. His dad's Jim Macy, right? The fire chief? I nodded to the cop, and he jotted something down in his notebook.

They asked a few more questions, like if I knew any particular places Mike liked to hang out, and if he'd said anything unusual the last time I'd seen him. But I didn't have any answers for them. Not really. After I was allowed to leave, I decided to skip my next period and walked right out the school building, across the courtyard, and over to the football field, where Mike and I would hang out under the bleachers when we didn't feel like going to class. I half expected him to already be there, waiting for me.

But there was no Mike. I plopped down with a heavy sigh and laid back, down with my head on my backpack. The last time I'd seen him, he hadn't seemed particularly upset, but something had been off, I suppose. Mike was always rather serious, but that day he seemed dulled. What's up? I think we both knew I wasn't asking for the soul-bearing deep and dirty details, so he told me he'd had another fight with his dad. That sucks. Yeah, he doesn't want me going out of state for college. Why not?

He's afraid he won't be able to make sure I don't get into a faggy major. But you want to be a teacher. He was absently scratching something into the underside of a bleacher behind me. He wants me to be an engineer. You hate math. Art is for fags. Could always go for history. Mike was quiet for a moment.

I wish I'd said something then. Apologized for not understanding, told him it was okay to do whatever he wanted, and his father could fuck off. but I didn't say anything. I was too busy flipping through a comic I'd brought with me. I guess. And then we just sat there, him scratching at the bleacher, me reading, until the bell rang and it was time to go. Mike didn't say anything else to me as we walked out and parted ways,

and I didn't even really notice. I sat up and looked at the place where Mike had been stretched out the last time I'd seen him. What exactly had he been scratching into the underside of the bleacher anyway? I wondered. Curious, I crawled over to his spot and craned my neck to see. A crude, deeply gouged outline of a bird with outstretched wings was carved deep into the pale wood. I frowned, I'm a bit disappointed that it was just a simple doodle of sorts, and ran a finger over it. I hadn't realized how badly I had wanted it to be a clue, something that would have told me where he was. Out in the woods across town, unbeknownst to me, the girl. The girl, the

Gargoyle song was becoming louder and more fervent. By the time I got home, though, it was all anyone on the local news could talk about. Citizens have been calling in reports of unusual sounds from out on the western side of town since early this morning. Some are saying the source of the noise, which is said to be a loud, harsh bellow, is coming from St. Anthony's Catholic Church, which hasn't been in use since 1967. Because of the stone gargoyles that decorate the suspected location, people have dubbed the noise the gargoyle song. A brief clip of the sound, which was a short series of low, rumbling calls captured from a distance, was played.

Police say an investigation is underway, but they won't be able to get inside until they determine whether the building is safe to enter. In the meantime, officials urge people to stay away from the church, as these could be the sounds of the structure beginning to fail. I flipped the TV off when the reporter switched to its story about local missing teen Mike Macy, and my friend's picture flashed across the screen. Seeing him on there was like a punch to the gut, one that almost had me throwing up. I went up to my room to get some homework done in the hopes it would help take my mind off of Mike.

After dinner that night, while I was watching a show with my parents, the house phone rang. Mom went to pick it up, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries, told me it was for me. Hello? Anthony? Yeah. I had already known from his voice alone. Few people could manage to sound so displeased with you, using so few words.

Yes, sir? You haven't seen my boy, have you? There was no distress in his voice, no concern. Only a note of suspicion, maybe even contempt. Not since Monday. You sure? Yes, sir. You wouldn't be lying for him, would you, Anthony?

Because right now he's... the only one in trouble. But if I find out your help in and pull off this nonsense, I'll have words for you too. No, sir. It was hard to keep my voice from trembling with anger. Claim not to know anything? I don't. You sure? Yes. See, he told his mother on Monday night that he was going to your house. I just mumbled some kind of half-assed apology about not knowing anything about that. So when he said he was going to that easy was lying, huh? I guess.

His mom didn't want us bothering you because she thinks you're upset. But you understand that we need to follow up. Yeah. Call if you hear anything. We hung up and I almost spit at the phone. Did you really wonder why Mike might have run away? My parents asked if everything was okay and if I needed to talk about what was going on. But I insisted I was fine and said I was going to bed.

I lay awake long after I'd shut myself in my room, staring at my room. staring at my ceiling and wondering where Mike had gone. Of course he'd have told them he was coming here. It was the most logical place for him to run to when he was upset. But I was still annoyed with him. He could have at least left a clue. I let my eyes drift shut, trying to shut off my brain and tune out any thoughts of my friend,

and I just focused on the little black hole of sleep that was starting to spread through my body. I'm going to Anthony's. But you didn't, I sleepily accused him. You didn't come here. Where did you go? I'm sorry I couldn't be who you wanted me to be. Where are you?

I heard a distant call, deep and rumbling and repeated. The gargoyle song. It sounded again, closer this time, right beside my head. I sat up sharply and looked grogly around my room, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. That's another recording. That time from Anna Gragova. Wow, she must have been close, huh?

The early morning announcer from the radio show that my clock alarm played every day at 5.30 said, after the Gargoyle song ended. It had been my alarm going off, I realized. I must have fallen asleep, dreamed of Mike, and the alarm went off while the show was doing a segment on the Gargoyle song. I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand agitatedly through my hair. And that's all the time we have for the Gargoyle song this morning, folks.

If you find yourself out St. Anthony's way and get a good recording, remember to send it in and you might just hear it on the air. St. Anthony's, I thought slowly. I'm going to Anthony's. Mike said in the back of my mind, he'd never been coming to my house at all. It was still dark when I ran out of my house and climbed into my car. It occurred to me dimly and easily pushed aside

that I should call the main thing. or the cops, but I didn't. I was 17, I was selfish, and all I was thinking about was finding Mike. I could hear the gargoyle song before the old church came into view. It was a strange series of dull humming sounds and low, pitchy cries. I followed it all the way up the long drive to the church's entrance. It loomed tall and imposing over me, a leftover relic of stone and stained glass from an earlier time. I was surprised there were no cops stationed outside to keep curious people from getting inside,

but I figured our small force didn't have that kind of manpower to allow for someone to hang around all the time. No doubt there'd be a patrol at some point, though, so I knew I had to hurry. The song was much louder now, the same steady hum accompanied by what now sounded like screeches that rose and fell like waves. Yellow police tape stuck out against the large doors, still dark in the pre-dawn,

and I was careful to avoid it as I pushed my way in. If there had been locks on the door at some point, they'd rusted beyond use now, for which I was grateful. The smell that hit me the moment I was filling inside was almost enough to knock me from my feet. There was mildew and the stench of old shit, of animal and rot. They heaved and had to clamp a hand over my feet. my mouth and nose to keep from hurling. The sound was so loud now that I could feel it vibrating in my back teeth, a terrible shrieking that filled the air above my head. It was no longer low and rumbling, but high and piercing, and the humming had turned into a frenzied hammering. My head throbbed

painfully, and I looked up desperately trying to locate the source of the noise, but my eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the gloom of the church's interior. Suddenly, something small and dark whizzed by my face, a small, screeching shadow that had me reeling backwards with a frightened yelp. Another followed suit, and then another, so close that I could reach out and touch them, and sheer terror almost made me turn and flee without looking for Mike. And then one of the things ran full tilt into my side and careened to the floor, where it lay for a moment, stunned.

It was just long enough for me to make me to make. out what it was in the creeping gray light of early morning, one of hundreds, maybe thousands, that had made a home in the abandoned church's rafters. It was the beating of their wings that hummed and hammered. It was their frantic calls distorted and muted by the stone walls that had been the gargoyle song. And soon enough, once I was able to bring myself to move forward through the bat droppings and other blown in debris that covered the floor, I figured out why they had become so riled. I found Mike sitting behind the pulpit.

It was still too dark to make out his features, but I knew it was him all the same. A few empty pill bottles were scattered around his body. I sank to the floor beside him, suddenly unaware of the smell and the noise and my horror, and I stared at his bowed head. The logical part of me, the part that was trying to stay in control,

to keep me from having a breakdown, assumed this scent of death and the presence of his body so unfamiliar and a possible threat, had driven the bats from their roost and sent them into a flurry. As the sun continued to rise, casting streaks of colored light through the windows, I noticed Mike had a piece of paper on his lap. It only had a single sentence written on it. I'm sorry I couldn't be who you wanted me to be. I read it over and over again.

even as the tears streamed down my cheeks, and I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt in my fist. I'm sorry I couldn't be who you needed me to be. I sat there with him for hours until a cop pulled up and saw my car outside and came in to investigate. The entire time the bats continued to swirl overhead, screeching their gargoyle song, letting the entire town know that Mike Macy had been found.

When some people enter their golden years and confront the inevitable end of their lives, it often brings up the need to make amends for past wrongs. But as we learn from author Marcus Demanda, one elderly man admits to some shocking behavior in a letter to an old friend. The only thing missing is the slightest trace of contrition. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Eden, Dan Zapula, and Atticus Jackson. So let's try to understand what motivates this man and figure out what he means when he proclaims, I listen to the ground scream.

An open letter to Dr. Archibald Myers. Dear doctor, I am writing to express my gratitude for the attention and care you have spent upon me. of late. It was a comfort in trouble, finding a physician my own age, not to mention one as knowledgeable and as skilled as you are, but I won't be coming in tomorrow. I won't be coming back at all. You'll want an explanation, I expect. Every time I look in the mirror, I'm older than I have ever been. And every day I live, there are fewer people older than me left alive upon this earth. The same applies to everyone, but the stark truth of it struck home to me when Alan died last week. We graduated high school together in 1937. Like me, Alan stayed local, his whole life

minus the war. I knew him well enough to observe that he never came to accept the fact that he'd grown old. And like you, Dr. Myers, he never retired. Also, he didn't believe in using elevators. He had one installed in his house, you know, at the insistence of his children. It was a nice, big house, perfect for a nice, big family. Five kids, nine grandkids, and pets, too. He had generations of dogs going back as long as I'd known him, up until some sneaky, anonymous asshole with an axe to grind poisoned the last one a few years back. Cats as well, while his wife was still alive. He was all alone when it happened, though.

Can you imagine? Three floors not counting the basement and half. and there he remained until the very end, just watching his family and his pets exit his life over time. All that money and no in-house living assistance or serving staff. Hell, he never even called in a maid service so far as I ever knew. He wanted to stay fit. He wanted to remain just like that. He was dead.

It shouldn't have surprised anyone. It's not safe being alone at such an advanced age. Don't I know it? Down his own stairs, he tumbled, tripped over his own feet, by all accounts, breaking his neck somewhere on his way between the second and first floor. Brittle bones. Such a tragedy. I don't think his death would have been instantaneous.

His skull was not fractured. He didn't have a heart attack. How long must he have lain there? Awake and paralyzed, waiting for help until life failed him. Hours, perhaps. Maybe a day. We'll never know exactly. It was never longer than that before one of his brood came to check on him.

They were eager for him to die. It must be presumed. there was quite a large inheritance to be had, although none of them had the guts to do more than wait. When his eldest came to visit him that final day, did he find that his father had shit himself, were his pants still stewing in his filth? I contemplate these things when I'm bored.

Strange that I should have been on hand when the ambulance arrived. I don't often venture very far from my apartment, which is on the other side of town. But it was Saturday, so I was coming out of the diner that morning when the ambulance shot past, and I followed it straight to his house. By the time I got there, one of his sons was waiting outside. Not for me, though. Much of the rest of the family came shortly after, incrementally over the next 15. minutes or so. Neighbors were standing out on their porches watching with unabashed curiosity and waiting

for the paramedics to come back out. I watched, too. Why not? Alan and I had been friends once, but I stayed in the car. When they brought out the body, face already covered, the family walked with him, a few on either side of the stretcher like he was already in a casket. One of his feet still had a shoe on. Everyone was so upset. I don't think they ever noticed I was there. I attended the funeral. I remained anonymous and no one approached me. I heard a man say, 80 years and he never needed another soul to care for him. Did it his own way until the end. It was a good run.

That was Michael, one of the grandkids, I believe. I do like to keep track of my old friends. Not that Alan and I always got along. There was a time long past when we competed for the love of a girl. Bear with me, doctor. will all make sense soon enough. Sarah Grace Henderson was the sweetest little thing you ever did see. Alan was quite forward in his efforts to win her attention.

As for me, I was scared half to death, partly about speaking to her and partly because I was afraid Alan would be mad at me if I tried. But I think most every young lad in our year of school had eyes. for her with those big innocent eyes, her hair so black that it shimmered blue under the moonlight. That's how I remember her. It was 1935. We were setting up for the castle under the clouds dance. I was on stage construction and she was helping with the string lights. It had gone dark early and the clouds were out, no stars. Only the moon and her shining under it, shimmering,

like she didn't even belong in this world. Maybe she didn't. I hadn't planned on speaking to her. I hadn't planned on anything. But when the pop and swing band arrived and started rehearsing, I found myself with just enough courage to approach her. For the first time, It was just us, and we weren't both surrounded by a gaggle of chattering friends.

I discovered that I could talk to her one-on-one, while the band played according to the moonlight or a beautiful lady in blue. I don't remember which. Either one would have been perfect. Maybe they played them both. Memory is a funny thing, but I remember our conversation perfectly. Word for bloody word. Sarah. Just that. Just her name.

Douglas! She jogged over, beaming at me, taking both of my hands. So good to see you. I didn't know you were coming. I shrug, smiled shyly at her with upturned eyes. I prayed I wouldn't stammer. Wasn't going to, but Alan said they needed some more hands and... Well, you're here? Was that a blush rising in her cheeks? My God, was this working?

So sweet. Have you asked someone? Because... No, not yet. She rolled her eyes at me. Because... And don't you dare tell her I told you this, but Madison would say yes if you asked her.

She's been waiting for you to do it all week. Madison was pretty. She was nice. I liked. Madison didn't have anything against her anyway. Oh, I wanted to say, well, that's good to know. The thing is, I came to ask you, Sarah, but my voice was gone again. She's over at the punch table.

She'll be so happy. And while you're at it, you might whisper in Alan's ear that I don't have all my life to wait either. I don't think Alan ever knew that she favored him. over me. She died that very night, packing up the lights when the rain started, swift and sudden. Freak electrical accident, they called it. Didn't seem like such a freak thing to me. I saw it before they cleaned up. Some of the wiring hadn't been insulated. Some of it looked like it had been stripped. As for Sarah, she looked. Perfect in death.

Couldn't hardly see the burn marks at all. In the fresh, unbroken black of the night, you almost couldn't make out the smoke coming from underneath her eyelids. She was my first funeral. I was 15 years old. Alan cried like a baby all through it. I'll...

I'll never forget. As for me, I didn't cry, but I lingered near her grave long after the others had gone, even her family. I watched the ancient groundskeeper, Mr. Glebe, lowered the coffin. We shared a look, and in that moment seemed also to share an unspoken understanding. He smiled and winked at me, shoveling dirt. When it's dark, you can still hear them. The bad ones, I mean, the crooks and the hooligans and the hussies. You press your ear to the ground, boy, and you listen real close,

and you can hear them call up to you from hell. That's not a very nice thing to say. I'm not a nice man, but I tell the truth. Try it. You're crazy. Maybe, but I ain't deaf. He winked at me again. And then he almost seemed to purr at me.

You can hear them scream in the fire. Like most kids of 15, I thought I knew every goddamn thing there was to know. And so I was sure that was just old Mr. Glebe's way of telling me to fuck off and go home. Which I did. I left him with not another word, counting tombstones one. two, three, until they ended at twelve. Then, heading on toward the street, I counted the rows until they ended at ten. Sarah is ten rows in and twelve across, I thought.

I didn't have a ride back. It was a long walk. I had time to think. I was tired by the time I got home. But later that night, don't you know, I sneaked back out of the time. my house and returned to the cemetery. It was a compulsion, you might say, a true one, not to be confused with the way most people use that word. It was something that had to be done for no good reason. There wasn't a gate back then. I went right on in, and no one was ever any

the wiser. I lay flat on my belly in the dirt six feet above the buried princess of my dreams. I pressed my right ear flat to the ground. I have excellent hearing. And even if by some act of divine intervention, I live another generation or two, I can still hear what I heard that night, that first time. Like our conversation at the dance set up, I can replay it with absolute clarity. My ear drums shake. with memory. Sarah was new to hell. She was surprisingly easy to hear. The new ones scream the loudest as a general rule. I couldn't make out the words, though. I tried to talk to her. Why wouldn't you dance with me? And just like that, the tears came. Why did you pawn me off on me? Madison. Why didn't you even let me get the question out? Answer me, fucking bitch. Fucking dead bitch. She never stopped screaming. Either she couldn't hear me or she was a poor

listener. I suspect both of these things were true of Sarah Grace Henderson and I don't miss her one bit. Life, as they say, goes on. Were caught Alan and most of my other friends as they were finishing college. Not me, though. I'd taken on an apprenticeship with Mr. Glebe by then, and never gave college much thought. Still, we all had to go fight. Colin and Horace never came back, not even for burial. Poor old Pete came back in a weas. wheelchair. In 1952, Mr. Glebe kicked it from an ordinary heart attack, and the maintenance of that old cemetery passed to me. As for Alan, he went on to much greater success in real estate and the stock market. I'm sure he forgot all about me, but I doubt that he ever wholly forgot

about Sarah. Not even after he married Dorothy and set forth doing his bit to repoppery. a war-ravaged world. Pete hanged himself in 1958. There were plenty of folks who wondered how he managed it, wheelchair-bound as he was. I didn't fret over such things. I buried him, remembering how I was never good enough, never rich enough to run with his crowd back when he was whole and happy. He was a serious baseball prospect back in his prime. Might have made the big leagues if it hadn't been for the war. It was a smaller group, the ones who came to pay old Pete, their final respects. They didn't stay long.

He'd just about run himself out of friends before the suicide. The wheelchair had ground him down over the years, whittled his old self away, leaving only a needy, a cantankerous bastard in his place, hardly to be recognized from who he had once been. Nearly everyone had written him off. But Alan was there at the funeral. He nodded to me, and I nodded back. We didn't speak. I waited for him and the others to leave. Most people don't exactly enjoy hanging out when the upturned dirt goes back. in. That's the easy part, of course. All the hard work had been done the night before.

Returning the dirt is actually quite satisfying, like strolling back down a hill that had been just short of murder to climb. Like Crucifix Hill, near the village of Harin, Germany, in October of 44. Everybody remembers Captain Bobby E. Brown from that fight the way he charged the hill, dropped the detonators in the enemy pillboxes, all while bullets ripped past him and around him and three times into him. But he never stopped charging. Got the Medal of Honor, the former boxer Captain Bobby E. Brown did. Got famous, too. Pete, not so much. There we were, the two of us, watching the captain do what none of the rest of us had the sack to do. Pete was a real admirer of Captain Brown already, a fellow athlete and all that, and before I knew it, he was shouting at me over the gunfire.

We have to go, Dougie! For God's sakes, man! We can't let him do this alone! Yeah, fuck all that. I didn't even answer him, but I watched him follow our leader. Poor old Pete. He was cut down in... no time, and the captain, well, he just kept on going, didn't he? To be fair, I don't think he ever knew, at least not until it was all over, how Pete had tried to lend a hand, and paid instead with his legs. We buried the purple heart with him. He'd have wanted it that way, doubtless, but he wanted the Medal of Honor, too. Never got one. I wondered. pounding down dirt with the flat end of the shovel if Pete could feel the purple heart on his chest,

down there in the nether world. I wondered if he could hear it beat. I leaned down when I was done. I could already feel the vibrations rippling up through my boots. You can't hear just anyone screaming from six feet under, you know. It was just as my old boss had told me. But I could hear Pete calling out not only in agony, but in sadness, in regret. I heard him.

And before I left that night, I went three tombstones across and four rows up to listen again to Mr. Glebe. Always and forever pissed off, even in death. It lasted most of them. There's only a couple of us left. had one thing in common, Alan and I, keeping fit. I tended those grounds for 50 years, and for most of them, grave-digging was part of the job. Management didn't lease out the earth-movers until the 1980s. For decades, it was just me and my shovel. I was a strong man, Dr. Myers, though you may laugh to hear it, though you may

choose not to believe me, I was a very strong man, much stronger than you would have remembered me from school. If you remember me at all, it was only in my childhood, and now, at the very end of life, that I find myself so weak. You shouldn't have stayed away so long. You might have stayed away so long. You might have recalled me had you never left. You might have had the good fortune of turning me away, or at least being more careful. But I never forgot you. When you got the deferment and moved away to medical school, I promised myself I would remember you. When you stayed away low these many years to raise your family and assert you,

yourself in a world that would rather pretend that people like me don't exist. I remembered. I was the one you beat up for looking at your sister through the window. She could have drawn the curtains. Anyone could have looked. She was pretty, your sister, with her big and innocent eyes and that wavy blonde hair, like a sunburst frozen in time. Pretty. than Madison, I think, although perhaps not so pretty as Sarah. And she was only getting ready for school. It wasn't like she was completely naked. I wouldn't have looked at her naked, not even then, when we were 18 years old.

And you know how worked up boys that age can get. You could have let me run when she saw me. You could have warned me if you were so goddamn unhappy about it. I wouldn't have come back. But no. No, not you. Not with that whole big brother bravado bullshit clouding your senses. You had so much to prove even then.

I wasn't hurting anyone. And you attacked me for no good reason. How can you have forgotten that? How can you have forgotten me? Piece of shit. You screamed at me, pummeling my face with your hands, knees over my arms. Fucking peeping Tom, pervert! You hit me and hit me over and over again.

I never replaced the two teeth you knocked out. My family didn't have money. Like yours. I might have thought you'd have recognized me by the missing teeth. if nothing else. So, why now, you may be wondering? Why bring this up after so much time has gone by? But the answer is simple.

I'm still at it, Dr. Myers. I'm almost done, but not quite. I can still hear them, all of them calling to me up through the two. Turned and disturbed earth, their cries and lamentations are like whiskey for my soul. I bought a stethoscope a few days ago, don't you know? I was thinking of you, Dr. Myers. It was an inspiration, not a compulsion. I had very good reasons for purchasing it.

It seemed silly at first, I admit. There's no way this way. will work, I told myself, but it did. I still have the key to the gate, although my days as a working man are long done. I go there all the time, always at night, always alone. There are several graves I like to visit. I know the entire roll call of the damned, at least as far as this Cemetery goes by heart. I keep a map of the tombstones in my pocket. I update it as necessary. On the map, half of the tombstones are white, almost. Just slightly more than half of them are black. I'm always very careful, but I was especially cautious that first night I brought my new stethoscope with me.

I went first to my very favorite tombstones. I knelt by them one by one, first Sarah. Then Alan and finally peeped. I looked about, confirmed my solitude. I got down on my belly, put the ear plugs in. I pressed the chest piece down to the ground. I alternated between the bell side, used for low-pitch sound. and the diaphragm for the higher pitch.

The diaphragm got me nothing extra, but the bell sighed. Oh, that was wondrous. It was as though I had hauled up the garage door of hell itself. Everything is so much clearer with the stethoscope, so different than it used to be. There is so much more to appreciate and enjoy. Thank you, Doctor, for the inspiration. Now, intermingled in that heady chorus of torment and misery,

I can sometimes hear the scorching fire. Sometimes I can make out words. It's like they know I'm there. They ask me questions. I do my best to satisfy their curiosity, although I do not know if they hear me. in return. Why did you do it?

What did I ever do to you? It was an impulse, Sarah, a crime of opportunity. No one had expected it to rain, certainly not as hard as it did. And I was very angry, very sore about it, as we'd have said at the time. Madison wasn't much fun at all. Your turn is coming murderer. You can't put it off much longer. I know, Alan.

I know. Death calls on us all, and I feel it. I go to church when I can. I stay awake through services as much as possible. I pray now and again. I don't even know what for anymore. There is a place reserved for me in hell. I'm sure of it.

Perhaps it'll be by you. Perhaps we'll burn side by side for all eternity, just as we suffered in adjacent seats through Mrs. Bernard's history class in 1936. It was you, wasn't it? When we had the enemy right in front of us, you shot me in the back and ruined me forever. Cogsucker.

I know you did it. Yes, Pete. Guilty as charged. Does knowing make you feel any better? Oh, these people, they really do make me laugh. And that is not an easy thing to do. But back to you, Dr. Myers. You'll think me insane.

You'll call it madness. dismiss it from your mind if you can. When you can't, something that feels like rational thought, will insist that these people don't deserve hell. What did they do that was so bad, huh? You'll try to put it all on me, on my flawed and damaged perception of things.

This might even make you feel better for a time. Or it would, but... But by now, Archie, I expect you're starting to feel rather ill. By now, in fact... I'm sure you are. You didn't remember me. I was an easy boy to forget. You'd have been far more likely to remember Alan and Pete.

Sarah, too. They were all more popular than me, more memorable. The days we shared in school together are now more than 60 years in the past. But did you remember? After all, was it the benevolence of age that impressed upon you the need to look past old grievances and help out a poor sorry sap like me in his sickness and difficulties? If so, you may be the better man. We'll see.

I'll know when I've laid myself down one last time, under the half-light of the stars, and listened to the ground over your corpse. You're a good doctor. You'll have friends who are good doctors. Have they diagnosed you already? Have they found the point? Poison. Have they told you, Archie? By the time you first felt it, it was already too late.

I did my homework, made sure of myself. It's in your bloodstream. You'll be in the ground by this Saturday. But don't worry, I'll follow you down that dark and eternal road soon and not. Enough. I'm tired of chemotherapy. Tired of this weakness creeping over my bones. I don't think I have long. I'm ready to die. First, though, I intend to pay you my last respects and to listen to you all night long. 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 enfel up you in a nightmarish, swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of creative Reason Media, Inc.