The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E15

Episode Date: August 13, 2017

It's episode 15 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about recorded relics, professorial prototypes, and the abandoned abyss. "Groundskeeper To A Ghost Town"‡ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Erin Lillis & Addison Peacock & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:05:30) "Play It Again"† written by Michael Whitehouse and performed by Peter Lewis & Dan Zappulla & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 00:23:30) "I Bought a Murder House"† written by Edwin Crowe and performed by David Ault & Brian Mansi & Andy Cresswell & James Cleveland & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:47:40) "My First Student"† written by Luke Hoehn and performed by Kyle Akers & Addison Peacock & Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 01:13:15) "To Secrets Forgotten"† written by Alex Baran and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Eden & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 01:40:40) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse   Click here to learn more about Edwin Crowe   Click here to learn more about Luke Hoehn   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "To Secrets Forgotten" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke 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

Make sure you listen to the top of the show for two very important announcements. 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 recorded relics, professorial prototypes, and the abandoned abyss. I have two important announcements to share with you this week. The first is about next weekend. You see, it's the middle of the summer. We've done 15 weekly episodes in a row, and the truth is, it's time for a break. So we're not putting out a new episode next weekend.

Instead, we'll feature a couple of stories from past seasons and return with season 9, episode 16, on August 27th. It's kind of our last fling of the summer before school starts again. So that's some classic stories next week, and episode 16 on the 27th of August. And the second announcement is very exciting. It's, well, how can I put this? You see, what's happening is, I mean, we're... going to be, um, we'll be, uh, how can I put this the right way? Oh, I know. Why not just listen to this? For the past six years, the No Sleep podcast has celebrated the night of horror known as

All Hallows Eve. Audio horror storytelling full of tricks and traits. But in 2017, the night of the dead will be alive. Sunday, October 29th, you are invited to join us as darkness falls across the land. Brace yourself for no sleep Halloween live.

Halloween stories told live by David Cummings, Jessica Maccaboy, David Alt, Nicole Goodnight, Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, and featuring a live musical score by Brandon Boo.

This one-night-only special live event will happen in the birthplace of the podcast, Toronto, Canada. That's No Sleep Halloween Live in Toronto, Sunday, October 29th at 6 p.m. in Toronto's historic event venue, the Great Hall. Get your ticket and come see No Sleep Halloween Live in Toronto. Yes, that's a much more effective way to let you know about Halloween live in Toronto. I hope all of you who live within a reasonable train, plane, or automobile distance of Toronto will join us that night. We'll be featuring a number of short Halloween stories along with a very special script by Michael Whitehouse. And here's the coolest part.

We'll be producing a studio version of that script for the Halloween episode coming out two days after on Halloween. So you'll get to hear that story done live ahead of time. We'll have special Halloween merchandise and T-shirts. We'll be giving away prizes. And, of course, all of us will hang out after the show to meet and greet everyone. Tickets will go on sale this Friday, August 18th. But there will be a special pre-sale of tickets on Thursday the 17th. We'll be announcing that pre-sale on all our social media sites,

so make sure you check those out to get a jump on tickets. This is a great venue, but we anticipate this show selling out quickly, so make plans to join us on Sunday, October 29th in Toronto. So now you know why we need a bit of a holiday after that exciting announcement. But we're always in the Halloween spirit here at the No Sleep podcast, so let's keep the horror going and kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet two sisters with an interesting hobby. They enjoy visiting and photographing ghost towns.

But as we learn from author S.H. Cooper, sometimes it's not just the state of being abandoned and decrepit, which qualifies a location as being a ghost town. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Addison Peacock, and Ellie Hirschman. So explore and enjoy, but pay heed to what you're told by the groundskeeper to a ghost town. Ghost towns aren't exactly uncommon out west. The massive population explosion of the gold rush era dotted the landscape with little pop-up mining camps that were abandoned when the riches ran out, leaving only the skeletons of their buildings behind. Sometimes if you're lucky, you'll find small tools or other everyday artifacts that the miners used, but mostly they sit empty and forgotten in the scrubland.

My sister and I made a hobby of finding these towns and photographing them. It was exactly like urban exploration just with scorpions instead of rats. Marissa got me started on it after we'd taken a short road trip through some desert backroads and came across a small settlement of aged buildings. They were worn by weather and near constant sun, but still sturdy. And my sister convinced me to go in some of them. It was a bit spooky, a bit exciting, and entirely fun. We were hooked after that first time.

Every few weekends became dedicated to finding ghost towns and driving out to them to spend a few hours going through whatever had been left behind. Marissa would do some research on them before we went and film me in on the history during the drive over, and I tried to find things to photograph that matched up with what she'd told me. We'd post a few pictures with the corresponding facts to an online blog, but mostly we just did it for our own entertainment. I found a new one.

Newtown? Yeah, about two hours drive out. Not much about it online. I guess it wasn't active for very long. Do you think it's worth checking out? My sister rolled her eyes with slow exaggeration at me. Uh, duh. You free Saturday?

Thought you'd never ask. And so our next adventure was born. We met at my apartment early Saturday morning and armed with only my camera, a GPS, and a cooler full of snacks and water we set out. There really isn't much to see out. out in the desert. It's a vast expanse of sand and scrubland topped off by an inescapable sun. The mountains off on the horizon can be pretty impressive, but even they start to lose their appeal after an hour of staring out the window. I knew we had to be getting close when Marissa pulled

off the highway onto a narrow two-lane road that wound us closer to those mountains. Is there some kind of sign or something I should be keeping an eye out for? No. From what I read, you just kind of have to know where you're going to find it. In typical Marissa fashion, she turned down the music and leaned forward with a deep frown of concentration. Apparently the quiet and narrowed eyes were essential to her being able to find where we were supposed to be. I think I see something.

Over there. She pointed off to our left, where I could just make out the dark silhouettes of buildings against the blue sky. The dirt path we had to take to get over to them was bumpy, and I clung to my door to keep from being jostled around too much. As we near the town, those outlines we'd seen from a distance solidified into old, faded wood. At least half a dozen buildings were scattered about, and surprisingly, each seemed to be in pretty fair condition. Jesus! Marissa cried suddenly, and she wrenched the wheel to one side while slamming on the brakes. My seatbelt caught me sharply across the front as I

was thrown forward, and I let out a surprised yell. As we skid to a stop, a black cat went slinking away from our car to vanish behind the nearest building. Sorry, you okay? Yeah, yeah, stupid cat. Stupid cat? After we'd taken a moment to settle ourselves, we shared a little giggle and grabbed the camera from the backseat to begin our exploration.

The saloon was first. Little more than a plywood bar stretched across the back wall with some tables and chairs spread around the room. I was busy taking pictures of some boots left in the corner when my sister called me over to the bar. Look at this. She gestured to the shelves beneath the countertop, where rows of beer bottles were lined up. Oh, cool.

I knelt to set up a shot, but Marissa jostled my shoulder. No, Celine, look. These are modern bottles. And they're clean, no dust. A quick inspection proved her right, and I lowered my camera. It occurred to me that the boots hadn't been particularly dirty either. In fact, a look around the room showed that it was all pretty clean. Usually there were layers of dust and sand and spider webs.

Not even the windows had the typical cracks in them. You think someone comes out here and uses this as a bar? I don't know. It's pretty far out in the middle of nowhere for a quick drink. Let's check out the others and see what they're like. We walked from building to building doing walkthroughs of each, and they were all in a similar cared-for condition. We had just finished going through the small upstairs of one of the, bunkhouses and were descending the stairs, when a voice from the front door almost had us tumbling over

one another. What are you doing here? An Asian man, just shy of being elderly, was standing in the entryway. He was glaring up at us from beneath the brim of a stained cap, one hand still on the doorknob and the other clutching a baseball bat. Just looking. I shyly held up my camera to help confirm her words. Although his dark eyes remained suspicious, he seemed to relax slightly.

You shouldn't be here. Sorry, we'll go. I grabbed Marissa's arm and we scurried down the steps and outpast the man. Being out in the open seemed to emboldened my sister. Wait. She turned back to him and put her hands on her hips, her favored pose for when she was about to offer some attitude. Why should we have to leave?

Who even are you? Henry Lee, the groundskeeper. For a ghost town? She ignored my pleading tugs towards the car and stood her ground. Yep. Even if that's true, we're not doing anything wrong. And we came a long way to get here, so we're not going to leave until we're ready. Marissa...

This isn't a playground, young lady. And we're not playing. We're just taking pictures. You shouldn't be doing that either. Marissa scoffed. Why not? They don't like it. My sister and I exchanged a glance, mine uncertain. Hers clearly asking if this guy was for real.

It wasn't lost on him and he shut the door firmly behind him with a sigh. You have no idea what this place is, do you? He spoke slowly as if addressing small children. Of course we do. We came here because of what it is. Then you'd know you're standing in a graveyard. A graveyard? I peeked over Marissa's shoulder at him.

Yeah, so show some respect and leave. He walked around the side of the building, and despite my whispered urges to go, Marissa followed him doggedly. We found him putting the bat back in his truck, which was parked behind the bunkhouses. And when he saw we hadn't been so easily shaken, he slammed his door and crossed his arm over his chest. There's nothing online that says that. Of course, my history nerd of a sister wouldn't be able to be able to. just go without demanding more answers.

There wouldn't be. It was just some dead chinks to them, after all. Nobody gave a shit then. Nobody gives a shit now. This was a Chinese mining camp? Marissa perked up slightly, and her genuine interest seemed to soften Henry just a bit. Back in the 1850s, yeah. They called it golden Beijing, after they actually managed to strike some gold.

But the tunnel collapse killed almost all of the men. The few women took their kids and ran. Good thing, too, because it was found out later that the collapse was intentionally set up by American miners who wanted their land. And I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have looked kindly upon a couple widows and daddyless babies hanging around. Even with proof of their involvement, the law favored the Americans and swept the murders under the rug. The Chinese families weren't allowed to try and dig out the bodies. And after the gold dried up, golden Beijing was scratched from the records. As he talked, he went back around the bunkhouse, and we followed him as he cleaned and swept down the line of buildings and set out beers and jerky along the bar top in the saloon.

We learned he was a descendant of one of the murdered miners, and he had taken up keeping the town clean and stocked after his mother, who had done the same, passed away. Those men never left. Without a proper burial, their spirits can rest. There are rituals that have to be performed so that they can cross over. Without bodies, however, it is impossible for that to happen. And so they exist in a tortured state. That's why I come here to try and offer some relief to them, with offerings of food and drinks and new clothing when I can. It's little comfort after what they've been forced to become, but it's something.

So you really believe that the ghost of your great-grandpa is wandering around? Please forgive my sister. She can be annoyingly blunt. Henry just nodded, his expression as grave as his voice. Oh, yes, I've seen them. They're visible to the living at night, but you had best pray they don't see you, too. You're messing with us.

Do you know what a hungry ghost is? When we shook our heads, he continued. They are driven by anger or want, and a constant unfillable ache in their bellies. These were poor men, so they are poor ghosts, too, unable to purchase any relief in the afternoon. the life. They are always looking for a way to ease their pain. They can take other forms like a beautiful woman or a cat, and they'll try to lure you outside, where some will hurt you if they can,

and others will try to possess you. The hair on the back of my neck rose slightly when he mentioned cats, and I was reminded of the one we'd almost hit on our way in. Marissa wasn't the least bit bothered and continued to pepper Henry with questions about the town, which he answered more off in the knot. He remained gruff and busy, but it was also fairly obvious that he enjoyed passing on his knowledge of what had happened there. By the time any of us realized how late it had gotten, the sun was starting to slip behind the mountains, leaving a bright red streak across the sky overhead. We should get going. Henry shook his head. His glance out the window beside us was an anxious one, and I followed his gaze to the black cat perched on the railing just outside.

It stared back, unblinking. No, if we leave now, they will come for us. We should have been gone already. I shouldn't have let you distract me so much. Come on, you don't really believe in all that stuff, do you? Marissa cocked her head to one side and snorted. They went back and forth, each insisting they were right, and all the while, darkness crept over the town.

Marissa was mid-sentence when the crying started. It was soft and sad and coming from just outside the door. My breath caught in my chest and I looked to Marissa whose face had lost all color. Henry motioned for us to be quiet and to follow him quickly behind the bar, where we all ducked down and huddled together. All of Marissa's bravado had vanished. The crying faded into a heavy silence until the only thing we could hear was our own breathing. Can they get in?

I squeaked the words out. There are seals on all of the buildings that should keep them out if the door is closed. But they are very old now. Something scratched the door lightly, as if testing it, and a cat meowed from the other side. When it remained unopened, the scratching became more fervent, more desperate, and the meows turned to a piercing, howling, screech that shook me dead. down to my bones. The crying began again, and then a chorus of voices joined in, all speaking rapidly and crawling

over one another in their effort to be heard, and it felt as if they were all pressing against the door. Marissa and I clung to one another, and Henry told us more than once to stay still and silent. When the noises faded again, he dared to lift himself just enough to peer over the top of the bar. A terrified curiosity took hold then. and Marissa and I couldn't help but look at whatever had caused him to swear. Faces were pressed against every window, held up on impossibly thin,

edel-like necks. Some had tiny mouths that opened and closed wildly, the swollen tongues within lapping at the air. Others had bright flames burning in the back of their throats. Their bellies were swollen and distended, and the flesh sloft away as they writhed and contorted. Their eyes bulging and burning with feverish want were all fixed on us. What do we do, Henry?

I was unable to look away from the swarm at the windows. We wait until dawn, and we hope the seals hold. We can't make a run for it? Our car isn't that far. It won't work. Lights, cars, phones. When they're gathered like this, none of it works. We can't just sit here all night.

Marissa sank back behind the bar. We can't leave. You step outside. That's it. The heavy groan of stressed wood accompanied his words. We all popped up again to see that the door started to bow inwards, pushed by the frenzied, clawing, hungry ghosts. Upstairs, there's another sealed door. Come on.

As we scurried beneath the windows, those outside wailed and pushed and thrashed. We had only just managed to kick the upstairs door shut behind us when the one below splintered and gave way. There were no footsteps on the stairs to tell us of the spirit's ascent. No tell-tale creaking of the floorboards. Only a cold, darkness that filled the entire space beneath the door. Hushed whispers filled the small room. room, and I could feel their despair and desperation twisting its way around us, clogging the air until it was almost hard to breathe. While Marissa and I embraced each other against the opposite wall, Henry sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, pressed his hands together, and began to murmur in what I assumed was prayer.

The whispers from the other side of the door continued, and they scratched and banged against the wood, still trying to get in. None of us slept at all that night. The ghosts wouldn't let us. At some points, we each had to take turns to keep one of us from giving into the cloud of hopelessness that the ghosts cast over the room and running out. Henry remained the most composed, and if it hadn't been for him, I wasn't sure my sister or I would have made it.

At the first light of dawn, all of their cries suddenly ceased, and we were immediately able to shake off that anguish that had plagued us for so many hours. We waited for a bit until the sun was streaming brightly through every window, and then we hurried down the steps and out of the saloon. Thank you for keeping us safe, even though it was rude to you. He just nodded. We wasted no time in leaving after that, and even though he was exhausted and eager to be on his own way, Henry remained in the middle of the street, watching us go.

We put that ghost town and its groundskeeper in our rearview mirror as fast as we could, and although we did not say it aloud, both of us instinctively knew that it would be the last one we'd ever visit. Being told a creepy tale often involves events from the distant past in the days of old, But as shared by author Michael Whitehouse, some tales are more modern day, involving things such as a rock band looking for its first big break. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Dan Zepula, and Jesse Cornett. So when you're trying to impress your potential employer, do what they say, even if they ask you to play it again. Throw another log on the fire. That'll keep us warm for a while. Keep the darkness at bay.

Perhaps we should pass the time with another story by the campfire. Just long enough to see us through past midnight. I could tell you stories of ancient evils lurking in the woods which surround us. A malevolence that reaches out from the distant past to touch us here in the present. But we needn't delve into an obscure history of this. vengeful spirits or aberrant monstrosities to find that these woods contain their fair share of secrets. A macabre fate may make itself known even in these technological modern times. Take, for example, what happened not far from here just three years ago.

Now, fame and fortune is something which fuels the creative. heart, and at no time in our lives is that desire for the crowd, for an audience, more potent than during the rocky road of our teenage years. Many take to the guitar, the drums, the bass, or keyboard, but whatever the chosen instrument, music provides an intoxicating creative outlet for the part of us which craves attention. The skills we learn, the skills we learn, the songs we sing, surely they will lead us to stardom and glory. In our naivety, we assume this as our right. It is only a matter of time before we succeed, before the world learns how special we are. But when those teenage years pass and fame and fortune have proven more elusive than once thought,

A quiet desperation slowly sets in. A fervent desire to hold on to youth, hoping that your band, your music, all your talent, will receive that magical piece of good fortune which will propel you towards your dreams. Your twenties roll by, but you still feel young enough to be snapped up by a record company, jobs, partners, hobbies, they're all just distractions from what you were put on earth to do.

Then your 30s come, an age begins to present a problem. For the music industry is littered with talented acts, but most of them come to fruition when they are teenagers, or in their 20s at best. Of course, there are exceptions to this rule, but they only prove that it exists. Sleepless nights and growing dread wash over you as a voice inside your mind, whispers, time is running out. A few towns over from where we are now, one such band was struggling with this fact of life, the unerring flow of time. Its lead singer and leader was a man called Matt. He had always talked big to the other three members of the group and had managed

to keep them hopeful of one day landing a big, fat record deal, complete with adoring groupies and mountains of cash. Tommy was on bass, Jackson on the drums, and Freddie on the guitar. Up until that time, it had all seemed so simple, so right. When they were teenagers, playing gigs, their friends and a small fan base would cheer them on to unavoidable greatness. Heady days indeed, but in the end the fruit of their efforts, withered. Replaced only by a malignant doubt and failure which clawed within. The good times were well and truly over. But Matt was not quite ready to let the dream die.

At 35, he still felt he had something. relevant to say to the world and believed with every inch of his being that he and his band would soon reach their goal, a goal which he had continuously pledged to the other members for 20 years, being just around the corner. Money was the real problem, to keep the band going until they made it big. For a long time, they'd had a decent local following, so could play gigs and make just enough to scrape by. But even those faithful followers had now moved on to other things, to other chapters of their lives, and the music the band played while enjoyable was mired in the fashions of two decades previous. The future was looking bleak. That was, until one day Matt received a letter.

It read as follows. Dear Matt, I've been a... fan of your band for some time and have been to several of your live shows. I'm sure you've noticed, however, that your fan base has dwindled recently. Luckily, I've found myself in a privileged situation. I have recently come into a large inheritance, and I'm wanting to set up my own record company. I'd very much, like for you and your band, to be our first signing. This would involve a record contract for three albums over the next three years and a small promotional tour. If this is something that you are interested in, please contact me at the following cell number.

Sincerely, a devoted fan. Well, Matt was delighted at this offer, and as quick as he had read the letter he had dialed the enclosed number and spoke with this devoted fan. His name was Harry Schofield, and he seemed to be the real deal. He was willing to invest over a million dollars in the band, with 500,000 of that being split. split between the four band members. You can imagine how happy this made Matt. Finally, after all those years of struggling, it was really happening. All those gigs, all those songs, all that heartbreak. Now he had finally shown the doubters that they were wrong. But as Harry Schofield

continued on the phone, it became apparent that there was one stumbling block. As it turned out, Harry was only a part owner in this new record company. His older brother, Tomas, had to sign off on the deal before it could go through. Harry referred to Tomas as unusually careful with his business, and that the only way he would allow Matt's band to be signed would be if they auditioned for him. If it went well, then they would receive a concrete record contract within days. And so an audition was set up for the band, but it was an unusual one. Matt, Tommy Jackson, and Freddie were to go to Tomas's house and audition personally for him.

When Matt learned that this house was in these very woods, which surround us deep in the southern portion, he began to grow a little uneasy. He and the band worried that it was some sort of. of joke. Auditions were usually held at a venue or a practice studio, but here the band was being asked to venture deep into an isolated area so that they could be evaluated by someone they had never met face to face, even spoken to, in fact. After several phone calls to Harry, these issues were reduced to a degree when, as a token of goodwill, he deposited $4,000 into their bank accounts, as an audition fee. At the site of this money, the band knew that Harry, Tomas, and this new record

company were the real deal. Who would pay that sort of money if they weren't taking the process seriously? And so, the day came for the audition, and Matt and the boys drove out through these very woods. And finally, after an hour or so of wrong turns and nervous glances at each other, they found the house. It was impressive. The band had expected nothing more than a log cabin, but there in front of them in a large clearing, the house sat. Two stories tall with a well-groomed lawn and clean, maintained gray stonework as well as a large wooden porch out front. It was Freddy, the guitar player who found the note, a piece of paper lodged in a plant pot at the front door, he opened it and read it aloud to his fellow band members.

Hey guys, unfortunately, Tomas is busy today, but we've organized a compromise. Please make yourselves at home. You'll notice we've set up a few cameras inside. Tomas has left strict instructions that you should switch all the cameras on and then play your best 30-minute set. Give it everything you've got, as Tomas is very particular about the act he wants to sign. He'll be washing remotely, and should he wish to contact you, he'll give you a ring. Please do follow all of his instructions,

as I dearly want to sign you guys to the new label, but I can't do it if Tomas doesn't agree. Thanks much, and good luck with the audition. Sincerely, Harry. P.S., the door is over.

Freddy thought this was a bizarre turn of affairs, and the others agreed. They had all thought they were there to play in front of Tomas, only now to find themselves performing for a camera. When they went inside, they found everything, just as Harry had described. There were three cameras on tripods, staring vacantly at an empty space against one of the walls in the living room. Other than that, the place looked like a holiday home, a corner couch, TV, and a large bookcase to the rear. The setup seemed a bit over the top, but Matt and the others were desperate

for the contract to go through, and so they agreed to give it their all. They also agreed outside that they would not say anything else about the strangeness of the situation near those cameras, as the feeling was that Tomas was watching, and they didn't want to offend him and risk scuppering the deal. And so, as per the instructions, Matt and his band set up their instruments and played. They played their hearts out as if performing for a crowd of 50,000. Finally, when the 30-minute set was over, they put their instruments down, packed everything up, and left the house. But as they walked towards their car, a ringing now came from inside the house. A phone. Matt turned to the group. It must be Thomas. Then he rushed inside to answer. Freddy, the guitar player, went with him,

and so they picked up the telephone inside the house, and they both listened over the receiver. After a crackle in the line, a voice soon came, thin and croaked. Matt thought that it reminded him of something, maybe from an old black and white film, as if speaking out of time. It was the cadence, the intonation, the music to the voice. It was somber, like a funeral march, yet it spoke very plainly. I am Tomas, play it. And Freddy didn't know what to make of it.

They asked which song Tomas would like to hear again, but the reply did not answer this, though it did come swiftly, went dead, as if Tomas had hung up. Freddy figured that Tomas meant the entire set, and Matt didn't want to miss the song Tomas liked the most, so it seemed sensible to play the entire 30 minutes through once more. And so, begrudgingly, the band set their equipment up in the empty space of the living room once more.

Then they performed. Matt sang his heart out. Freddy played note perfect, and the thumping bass of Tommy was driven forward, hopefully, by Jackson's perfect timing on the drums. At the end of the 30-minute set, they all stopped and looked at each other, wondering what? What would happen now if that was it and if they should now head home and wait for the outcome? The phone rang loudly. Once more, Freddy and Matt listened in. They asked the somber voice on the other end of the line what it thought, but it spoke only one line.

Confused and a little dejected that their efforts had not been good enough, the band nonetheless pushed onward and played again. They thrashed through the songs, music they'd all written over the course of two decades. Their best, their brightest, their catchiest, their big hits, as Matt referred to them. When they finished, they were covered in sweat and exhausted, for now they had played an hour and 30 minutes of music and were starting to feel the strain. Feeling now that they had surely done their best to win Tomas over, they were shocked when the phone rang, and that thin, croaked voice stated, plainly, play it again. This time, Freddy started talking, almost refusing, saying that he could not see what good it would do, that they'd put everything into it already. There was a

silence, the slightest crackle on the line, and then the voice spoke, play. Play. it again before hanging up. Freddy started questioning Matt about the entire thing, wondering if it was all some horrible practical joke, but Matt was as puzzled as he was, though not willing to give up just yet. Let's do it once more. This could be our last chance at the big time. There was a desperation creeping into his voice, a sound which spoke of fear, a creepy disappointment that their dreams were once more to be dashed, perhaps forever. Matt was a good leader, and he was always able to energize the band when they were feeling despondent. He had had two decades of practice at that.

All those conversations of quitting, of ending the band, only to pull it back from the brink each time with a smile and a resolute belief. He managed it. on that day, too. And so they played again. Again, with heart, again with everything they had, and again, by the end of the performance, they were utterly exhausted. They waited. The silence was overwhelming. The only sounds the distant call of some unseen bird deep within the woods outside. The atmosphere felt charged like the breath before an oncoming storm. Anticipation has its way of sucking the life from the moment. But the phone did not ring this time. It

sat there silent. The band members remained for a time too tired to talk. Finally, Freddie suggested that Perhaps Tomas and Harry were talking it over, and that was why no one had called to let them know yet. But after an hour passed, they had lost their patience. It would be dark soon, and none of them fancied staying the night in a remote house out in the woods. Even as they stood there, the sky was graying above, promising to snuff out the light sooner rather than later. And so, feeling dejected, they passed. their instruments up and decided to head home. But, just as they did so, Freddie had an inclination.

He picked up the phone to see if he could dial out and get the number of the last caller. If they were going to waste the band's time like that and get their hopes up, then he had a few choice words for them. But when he picked up the receiver and tried to dial out, he realized that there was no dial tone. It was as though the phone line had been disconnected. Silence met his ear. And then a sound.

The stillness was briefly, subtly broken. On the other end of the line, a mouth breathed shallowly. Yes, Freddy was certain of it. Thomas had never hung up. In fact, he was now... sitting with his mouth to the receiver for some reason. Close and present. The breaths moved in and out with a rhythm of their own,

but there was a quiver therein, a sort of nervousness, which sounded remarkably like twisted excitement. Matt spoke several times, but the breaths continued, and at no point did they break into voice. They stared at the cameras, which still pointed at them, and Jackson observed that perhaps Tomas was watching them on the cameras as they tried to engage with him over the phone. Somewhere out there, a wide open eye accompanied that stuttering breath. The band members became so unsettled by this that they quickly got into their cars and drove through the forest. The trees passed.

The dark pockets therein which have seen countless people come and go, come and go, come and go. Matt began to feel as though the forest had gobbled them up from the modern world, only finally to be greeted by the last wisps of sunlight as they broke through the forest's boundaries and then to a busy road and home. You will not be surprised to learn. that they never heard from Harry or Thomas ever again. No emails, no phone calls. And when Matt made some inquiries about the cell phone number Harry had given him, the police informed him that the phone had been stolen and that the real owner was a woman. Now, you'd be forgiven for simply thinking

this is a strange tale. Unusual, but nothing more. Alas, that is not the way of such things as these. One week after their bizarre audition, Matt organized a band meeting to discuss how they would move forward. Tommy arrived, as did Jackson, the drummer, and Freddie, but not Matt himself. No, Matt, he did not attend the meeting he had set, and he did not call or text as to why. He would not answer his phone nor messages on social media, and when the band drove down to his house and knocked on the front door, no one answered, for Matt lived alone. Eventually, Freddy and the rest worried that Matt had gotten drunk and fallen or hurt himself somehow in his home. After much persuasion, the police decided to act and broke into the house.

The other band members were there when they did so, and they feared what they would find. But there was no stench of death, as one might have feared, no sign of a struggle, no sign of anything untoward. That was, except for two things. The first was that Matt had vanished, taking with him only the guitar on which he had written many of the band's songs. leaving behind his dreams of being a famous musician with his band, abandoning such pursuits. And to my knowledge, no one has seen or heard from him again. The second troubling find was a small piece of paper left on the pillow of Matt's bed.

It read, I like this one best. He. It's a practice so common these days that there's TV shows about it. I'm speaking of the endeavor known as house flipping. Buying real estate cheap, fixing it up, and selling it again for a profit. But this tale by author Edwin Crow might make you reconsider. Don't overlook the reason why the house is being sold so quickly and at such a low price.

Performing this tale are David Alt, Brian Manzi, Andy Cresswell, James Cleveland, and Erica Sanderson. So let's face it, the man in this story makes his situation quite clear when he tells us, I bought a murder house. Buying a house at an extremely discounted rate because the previous occupants were murdered may not sound like a wise idea, especially if the house still looks like the crime scene that was inspected just months earlier. But prime real estate in the centre of London is worth its weight in gold.

I suspected if the estate agent had bothered to clean, then there would have been more buyers and the price would have risen through the roof. However, bloodstains and the smell of death put off even the most forgiving buyer. So, there I stood in my own murder house. It didn't look as bad as the brochure portrayed. and the living room was barely touched, except the single line of bloody footprints that ruined the carpet and ran from the stairs to the front door. All the furniture was unscathed, however. The kitchen sink was stained brown with dried blood as the killer had tried to wash their clothes, the garments long since gone into evidence.

The footprints carried on up the stairs. They appeared, hurried. Red handprints decorated the walls like an overactive child had run rampant finger. painting. I added this to my notepad for later. The box room was particularly tragic, and I think it's why the place didn't have more bidders. A single bed, soz mattress and sheets, stood testament to the memory of the family's only child, the nightstand left untouched. A single nightlight, a porcelain rendition of the crooked man's house sat in darkness, waiting to be lit by someone who was no longer here. I checked the, the cupboard and chest of drawers. These were filled with children's clothes. I made a note to give

those to charity. It's the least I could do for the family. The bathroom was a mess of white arrowed labels pointing to brown marks that speckled the tiled walls and shower curtain. Pulling it back, similar streaks converge on the plug hole, a reminder of the last time this bathtub was emptied. I saw the bloody footprints exit the master bedroom. This was what I've not been looking forward to. Just like the box room, the mattress was missing. Lots of stickers had been placed purposefully on the walls, but it doesn't take a detective to understand someone was struck in this room. The headboard and wall behind were covered in blood spatter. It looked like a peacock's plume in all its majesty. I envisioned the killer slamming a baseball bat onto the unsuspecting

head of his victim. The husband didn't sleep soundly that night, as it was him who was delivering the blows to his wife as she slept. I tried to picture the room clean and in daylight, but all I could see was the angry man taking advantage of his sleeping wife. I left the room, closing the door behind me. I made my way back downstairs and checked my notes. All in all, I would need to invest around six and a half thousand to get the place ready for selling, unfurnished. Furnished could be double that. I'd not see a profit in that, though, and an unfurnished house looks so much bigger to prospective buyers. I returned to the kitchen and took a glass out of the cabinet, pouring myself a glass of water. I felt uncomfortable doing this, using the murdered family's possessions.

As I downed it, I mentally apologised to the deceased, before placing the glass upside down on the draining wreck. On the floor, I noticed something I'd not before. A hatch, I assumed it led to a cellar or basement. I pulled on the concealed handle, but it wouldn't budge. It was as if it was nailed shut. Nonplussed, I made another note. No one really bothers with the cellar when you're selling a house unless it's very spacious, otherwise it can be off-putting. Getting rid of the damp odor that sometimes persists can be almost impossible, so when I can, I ignore it, advertise it in the brochure, but then selectively forget to include it in the tour. I left the house. A shiver tingled down my spine as I stepped over the threshold. I really didn't want to go back in there before it was ready.

This wasn't the first house I'd needed to renovate before selling, and not the first someone had died in, but it was the most gruesome. It's such a shame. I heard a voice that, but I unsuccessfully tried to pinpoint. Hello? I saw a small gentleman stand at the end of the front yard, his hands held into his pockets, trying to keep them warm. So, are you the new owner? Yeah, for the time being.

Any chance I can see inside. Who are you? Local paper. You'd be doing me a huge favour letting me have a nose around. No, thank you. I don't think that would be appropriate, do you? I close the gate behind me. Can't blame a man for trying.

can you? He raised his camera and reeled off a couple of shots. Do you mind? I pushed my way in front of him. He trotted off down the street, chuckling to himself. No matter. I'll see who's later? Cheerio. The next morning, I phoned a company that I'd used before, flipped many houses with them, but not one so gruesome. I told them what needed to be done, and they quoted me near double what I estimated. As a saying, if a job is worth doing, it's worth doing right. I have an addendum to that, as long as the price is right. This left me in a predicament. I had a house I was paying the mortgage for, and under no uncertain terms was I going to do the work. After a few hours going through the yellow pages, I found a company willing to do the work for less than my estimate.

I was skeptical at first, but after checking their website, they appeared the real deal. However, However, it's hard to tell just from that. After a long conversation with the owner and the fact he offered me 25% off if they didn't finish the work in a week, I almost bit off his hand. I spent the coming days in a hotel. Usually when I did this sort of thing, I'd stay in a room of the house until the workmen needed to go in there. But this place, I was not going to spend any longer than was needed in what was still technically a crime scene. Room service brought me a beer, the fifth of the night.

Bored and curious, I searched for news reports as to what had happened in the house. It was covered at a national level, but each story I read was the same as the last. An overview I was familiar with. Father with growing debts kills his family still on the run. A newspaper clipping reported the reaction to the crimes by the man's brother. I cannot believe Adam would do something like this. It's not like him at all. He provided for his family.

I knew he liked to gamble, but I didn't think it was a problem. I found some archive TV reports online. They had interviewed the neighbours, however their soundbites were a bit uninteresting for the larger papers. Like Mrs Hampton at No. 62. I would never have expected this. He was so quiet. They never argued. Not that we heard anyway.

Just the night before, he'd helped me start my car by running jump leads. He was a lifesaver. Oh, sorry, that was inappropriate. That was the neighbour on the other side, a Mr. Garrett. The articles didn't go into much detail of the event itself, other than Adam Crossman killed his wife of the baseball bat and his son via strangulation and a knife through the hut. I searched for his name via Google

and turned up more carbon copies of the articles I'd already read. I also found a page on Company's house, listing him as a director of a local IT firm. His company had seen year-on-year profits on the surface. It didn't appear as if he had money issues. I fell asleep that night thinking about the Crossman family. My dreams punctuated with the screams of a woman and a boy as their father rampaged through the house in his attempt to free them from the financial prison they were unaware of. I was awoken at 7.30 a.m. by a phone call from an unknown number. My head thumped as a hangover took residence.

I let it ring out before I made my way over to the house. The pleasant smell was surprising as I entered the building. I was very impressed by the white-clothed painters and decorators doing their work. Wow. Do you like what you see? The foreman came over, inquiring after my opinion on their work. I do. How did you get rid of that smell?

Oh, company's secret. The living room had been guise. The floor now naked, only the floorboards visible. A man plugged in a sander and got to work buffing the barely visible footprints from the wood. I had to shout to be hurt. How does the upstairs look? Good. The walls have been stripped.

We're going to paint them this afternoon. One other thing. A man came to visit said he tried to phone you that he'd be back later. Thank you. Did he get his name? Sorry, boss. No. He seemed in a hurry.

I asked if there was anything I could get the guys for lunch. The foreman passed me a scrap of paper that listed their orders. If you can get that, then I can get started in the kitchen. No problem. Keep up the good work. I returned with their food around 1.30pm. The reporter stood in the garden. Oh, it's you. The foreman smiled as I handed him the brown sacks with their lunch.

Beautiful. You didn't let this man in, did you? Was I not supposed to? He said he was a friend of yours. I shook my head. The reporter turned to leave. Don't let me cause a problem. I'll just get going.

I'm sorry, boss. At this point, I almost wished I spent the extra money and got the regular guys in. This would never have happened with them. Get your pictures, did you? Just a couple. People like you make me sick. People like me. Not people like you.

Who get a house at a knock-down rate because the whole family was murdered. Yeah. You guys are fine. Fuck off! What are you going to do with all those children's clothes? Use them to clean the walls. There's a shit hole in there. He picked up his camera and took a photo of me,

a large flash temporarily blinding me. He called back to me as he left the premises. Don't be a stranger. The foreman stared at me, like you'd just seen his parents arguing. It's my fault, isn't it? I don't worry about it. Just don't let that little shit in again.

Promise. Hand on heart. I returned to the house three days later. I was shocked. The whole place looked brand new. The foreman showed me round. The new bathroom was incredible. The bath was now replaced with a shower unit, which allowed for a larger toilet,

and that meant its occupant no longer had to sit with their leg against the radiator. I'm impressed. Wait until you see the master bedroom. We entered, and he nodded, knowingly. You can't tell someone was bludgeon today. death in here, can you? Can't knock you there? It was easy, really.

Just sand back the blood and paint over. Nothing more complicated. We returned to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and turned it on. What about the cellar? Damn thing won't open. Like someone nailed it shut. What do you want us to do?

We can run the flooring over it. No, buyers like to think there's a cellar even if they can't open it. You're the boss. We'll have a look in the morning and pry it up if we need to. I think I'm going to stay here tonight. I'd save a bit of money. That's fine. We should be finished by tomorrow, depending on how much work we have to do down there.

And about that, we didn't budget any money for down there. Your discount won't apply if we overrun because of that. Yeah, understood. Just don't do anything without consulting me first. Gotcha. See you later. I left with plans to check out at the hotel and buy a cheap air mattress for the night. I returned late.

The sun had already set. The air had turned cold and unforgiving. The house was freezing. The central heating was not running due to the fact the gas had been turned off for the renovation. The house took on a different atmosphere than in the daytime. The cold air gave it an almost haunted feel. I contemplated setting up camp in the living room, but just thinking about the bloody footprints put me off. I imagined the killer stomping through here on the way to the kitchen to get cleaned up. The thought chilled me. I walked up the stairs.

The new white paint was pristine and didn't give away the sinister markings that were there only days before. I approached the master bedroom, looking in, it could have been any two-bed London house. But knowing what went on in there, the space only lit from the small LED bulb hanging in the hallway, turned me away.

I decided to bed down in the box room. The furniture was now removed, which left only a beige carpet and lilac walls. It didn't look how I'd seen it before. The smaller space was much more inviting. I rolled out the inch-thick camping mat, annoyed that I couldn't get hold of an airbed earlier that evening. I tossed and turned, finding it very difficult to rest on the paper-thin mattress. Sleep did finally find me as the exhaustion from the week took over. I wake to the sound of whispering. I sit up, expecting to be in my hotel room. The icy air makes me shiver, and I watch my

breath billow out in front of me, lit by the moon through the uncurtained windows. Daddy, I can't sleep. I hear a boy's voice from down the hallway. I make my way over to the door, covering my near naked body in the duvet. I look down the empty hallway, finding it hard to focus in the dark. It's just your uncle. Go back to bed. A man's voice this time. I shuffle along the landing and peer into the master bedroom.

It's different. The bed is there. I could swear it was empty the night before. A night light gives off an orange glow. Under the sheets, it appears a woman sleeps. I hear quiet footsteps behind me. I look down the stairs. Go back to bed, son.

That man's voice again from the bottom of the stairs. I hear a creak as the front door opens. What are you doing here? No, I'm not going to give you any money. I creep down, carefully trying not to make any noise. No, you are not coming in. You've already woken Josh. Get out and don't come back.

The front door slams. Disorientated, I am back in my room. bed. The icy air made me shiver and I watched my breath billow out in front of me, lit by the moon through the uncurtained windows. My heart was racing. I checked my phone, 3.30 a.m. I lay back down the details of my dreams still vivid in my mind. I closed my eyes and tried to fall back to sleep, but there was a thumping. I wondered if it was people on their way back from a night on the town. I got up and opened the window. The still night air was vastly quiet, except for the sound of the nearest road. I heard it again. The vibrations through my feet. I closed the window

and approached the hallway, covering my near naked body in the duvet. In the dark, I squinted. I saw something on the carpet exit to the master bedroom and head for the stairs. The bloody footprint. I swore to myself. Annoyed, I used those cowboys. Just sanded them down and laid the carpet on top, they said. Yeah, if a job's worth doing, I thought to myself and then wished I spent the extra money. There it was again. The thunking sound. I followed the footprints down the stairs. Those bloody handprints on the walls were there too. They bled, as if they were fresh wounds in the walls themselves. In the living room, I saw a light coming from the kitchen. I searched quickly For anything, I picked up a poker from the wrought iron holder that sat next to the fireplace.

I tried to steady my breathing as I made my way to the kitchen. The sound was much more audible here. I stopped in front of the doorframe and slowly looked in. It was the reporter. He was on the floor in front of the cellar hatch trying to pry it up with a crowbar. I watched as he swore to himself, digging the tool into the hole he made. The hatch gave way and opened with force. He sat back, catching his breath, before retching.

As the stench hit me, I coughed. The reporter turned around, his face in shock. He studied my makeshift weapon. What are you doing here? What the fuck am I doing here? What the fuck are you doing here? He stood up, holding his hands over his head. I'm just trying to dig up a story.

What? No one's been down there, have they? No, it wouldn't open. So anything could be down there. I coughed again as the horrible smell became overpowering. He used this as an opportunity to run at me. It wasn't reflexes, I wish I could say it was, but it was just pure damn luck.

Before I knew what happened, the reporter was on the floor, the poker sticking out of his chest. I ran upstairs to get my phone, and when I returned, he was gone. Just another blood-soaked trail through, my living room and out the front door. When the police arrived, they recognised the smell, and within 45 minutes the forensic team were there as well. I waited outside in the garden. Even though it was almost freezing, I was not going to set a foot back inside that house.

Do you recognize this man? An officer held up a small passport-sized photo. Yeah, that's the reporter. He's the one I stabbed. It was a complete accident, I promise. He returned to the building without saying another word. I followed the officer back into the house. Excuse me, what's going on? The stench was now unbearable. I held my sleeve to my mouth. I moved out of the way as the forensic team carried out a body bag on a stretcher.

The officer again held up the photo. Are you sure that is the person you saw? The same. It was a week later when the police allowed me back in the house. I'd checked myself back into the hotel, not wanting to go back in. My phone rang. I saw it was the foreman. We can't find the blood you mentioned. I told you my guys do a good job. The stairs, the living room and the landing. It's fucking obvious.

Sir, there is nothing there. It looks just as we left it. Bullshit. I'll send you some photos. See for yourself. I hung up. A few minutes later, my phone vibrated. It was the images the foreman said he would send. Just as he said, the stairs and the carpets were fine. I held my hand to my face, confused. There was a knock at the door. I opened it.

The officer I saw before stood there. Would you come down to the station with us? We have some questions for you. I didn't stab him on purpose. Please, sir. I relented. In the station, I waited in an interview room for what seemed like hours. When the detective entered, I stood up.

Please, sit down. I did what I was told. The policeman. sat opposite and pushed a file in front of me. I opened it to see the reporter on a hospital bed. The poker had been removed and replaced with a large white patch. That's the man who was in your house? Yes, he was trying to pry up the cellar door. He produced another file. I opened it and gasped. It was the reporter again, but he was dead. Decomposition disfigured his face. I don't understand. The detective shook his head. The detective shook his head.

That's Adam. This is Lance, his brother. They're twins. I sat back in the chair, shocked. Unfortunately, Mr. Crossman wants to press charges. What do you mean? He broke into my house. His lawyers are saying it was undue force.

This is just crazy. A man breaks into my house, runs at me and gets stabbed, and I'm to blame? I'm sorry, sir. I suggest you get your own representation. Oh, Christ. I'd like to ask you some questions. about that evening. Go ahead. I sank down into my seat, still shocked to the detective's revelation. You say you came down in the middle of the night and found Mr. Crossman in the kitchen?

Yes, I woke abruptly from a dream and heard a banging sound from the ground floor. What did you do next? I went downstairs. When I got to the living room, I saw the light on in the kitchen. I saw the poker next to the fireplace, so I picked it up just in case. Is that the weapon you used to stab Mr. Crossman? I didn't stab him. The detective checked his notes. It says here you told an officer that you did. I shook my head. I entered the kitchen and saw Lance prying up the basement door.

I confronted him, he ran at me, and then he was on the ground. What did you do next? I ran upstairs, got my phone and called the police. Interesting. You do realize it's obvious why he was there, don't you? Enlighten me. He killed his brother, put his body in the basement. He expected to get the house in his brother's will,

and when he didn't get the house he had to dispose of the body. That's a little far-fetched, you think? It's all I can think of. What's his excuse for being there? I'm not at liberty to discuss that. Great. Can I go? We have a couple more questions, then yes, you can leave. That was six months ago now. The house sat on the market for all that time.

I got a call today from my real estate agent, saying I had an offer. It barely covered the costs I'd put into renovating the place, I accepted it anyway. The sooner I was rid of the place, the better. I was ready for bed when the phone rang. It was a private number. Hello? All I heard was heavy breathing.

Who's that? I can't even tell anything happened here. Who are you? Looks like they did leave me some money after all. Lance, is that you? Sleep well. Don't be a... 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 night. bearish, 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.