The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E16

Episode Date: August 27, 2017

It's episode 16 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about curses, creatures, and continuous carnage. "Moomaw's Curses"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Matthew Bradford & Erika Sanderson & Dan Zappulla. (Story starts around 00:06:50) "I First Met the Devil When I was Eight Years Old"† written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Addison Peacock & David Ault & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:20:15) "I am an Exterminator in a College Town"† written by Luke Hoehn and performed by Jesse Cornett & Elie Hirschman & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:43:00) "The Orangutans Are Skeptical of Changes in Their Cages"† written by Zachary Adams and performed by Peter Lewis & Mike DelGaudio & Dan Zappulla & Jesse Cornett & Elie Hirschman & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:08:10) "The Feast of St. Christopher's"‡ written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Dan Zappulla & Matthew Bradford & Elie Hirschman & Eden & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:39:45) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about PodCon   Click here to enter the PodCon contest   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg   Click here to learn more about Luke Hoehn   Click here to learn more about Zachary Adams   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "I First Met the Devil When I was Eight Years Old" illustration courtesy of Alexis Bristowe 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

Atticus, listen, you have to understand. There are only so many roles to go around. I can't cast you in every episode of the podcast. I understand, David. And I'm trying to be patient, but I really need to be on the show more often. I need it. I get it. It's fun to be on the show.

What have you got there? Well, these are Saracha roasted cashews from Nature Box. Try some. Mmm, delicious. But hear me out. You can't talk about... Don't talk. Up your snack game with Nature.

Nature Box. You know, their snacks are better for you than all those high-calorie low-nutrition treats out there. NatureBox is delicious and nutritious. Here, try some cherry-berry bonanza. Mmm, my favorite. I've definitely found my new snack obsession at NatureBox, but let's talk about the show and casting you in rolls. Oh, now you want to talk. Wait until you try some new snacks. You know, NatureBox adds new ones every month. They listen to their customers' feedback in the latest food trends. Like with the these Kung-Pow pretzels. It's all so good, but you can't keep stuffing food

in my mouth. In your mouth. That's funny. I use my mouth for voice acting, even though you hardly ever use me. I guess all your mouth is good for is eating delicious Naturebox snacks. Not true! But it's so simple. All anyone has to do is go to naturebox.com

slash no sleep. Choose the snacks they want, and NatureBox will deliver them right to their door. and as you're starting to discover, there's far less risk with Naturebox because if you're not happy with a snack, they'll replace it for free. Well, what can I do when I'm not happy with you, Cummings? Untie me, and we can talk about this.

Untie you! Oh, no, Cummings! I'm going to show you how creative I am. Here, eat this amazing sweet and simpleberry nut mix. Mom, I can't eat anymore. You've filled me with so many delicious nature box. snacks, I'm going to explode. That's the idea, boss.

You won't let me use my voice for acting on the show, so I'm not going to let you use your mouth for anything but eating and eating and eating and eating. You wouldn't. NatureBox has over a hundred snacks that taste good and are actually better for you. If you feed me all of them, I'll never make it. Even though

all their snacks are made from high quality simple ingredients, they're not meant to be eaten all at once. How about just one more of these? Dark Cocoa Nom Noms. No! No! Aw!

Guess he didn't brace himself. Ah, well. Now I'm free to record my lines. Like this one. NatureBox is offering No Sleep fans three free snacks with your first order when you go to naturebox.com slash no sleep. This is a horror storytelling podcast.

Our tales are dark and disturbing, intended to shake you up. Listen that you're a own risk. We are all around. 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 curses, creatures, and continuous carnage. We're back after our vacation and travels. And speaking of traveling, we're having a short, sudden contest for everyone in the U.S. Pacific Northwest. For this week only, the week of August 27 to September 1st, you can enter to win a special prize pack to PodCon in Seattle on December 9th and 10th. Podcon is the first con for fans of podcasts, not just those who create them.

Join thousands of podcast fanatics and meet some of the biggest podcasters on the planet, including Aaron Mankey from lore. Paul Bay, co-creator of the Black Tapes, the Welcome to Night Vale Gang, including Cecil Baldwin and Joseph Fink. Lauren Shippin from The Bright Sessions, Jessica and Nicole from Alice Isn't Dead, Roman Mars from 99% Invisible, and the McElroy brothers from My Brother, My Brother, and Me, plus many, many more. The special prize pass will include an admission ticket for the full two-day event, The magical thumb drive. This drive will be loaded with podcasts and podcast outtakes from many of the con's guests that you can't get elsewhere. It will also have a curated collection with some commentary of some of the guest's absolute favorite podcasts of all time.

Plus, there's digital conference audio and a swag bag with lots of secret treats. The admission pass alone is worth $100. Now, the only thing I will ask of you is to only enter the contest if you know for sure you can be in Seattle on December 9 and 10 to attend the conference. I'd hate to see this prize go to waste by the winner not attending. So if you can provide your own transportation and accommodation in Seattle, you'll be able to attend this fantastic first-ever podcon. Oh, and if you're wondering if the No Sleep Gang will be in Seattle at PodCon, sadly we will not. We will be back in Seattle at some point, though. Trust me, he said in a foreshadowing manner.

We know we have lots of great fans in Seattle and Portland and the Pacific Northwest in general. So if you want to enter for your chance to win, just go to contests. Dot the no-sleeppodcast.com to find out how to enter. So now that we're back, we shan't wait any longer. It's time to kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a young man who is experiencing an all-too-common problem. He's being bullied at school. But as author S. H. Cooper explains, it's not just his fellow students bullying him.

Even a teacher is getting involved. And that fact is making his grandmother very, very angry. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Erica Sanderson, and Dan Zabula. So let's listen as Grandma calls down Moomah's curses. When you're a scrawny, awkward kid from a poor family, you're going to be teased. A lot. It's just one of those inescapable universal truths that nobody questions. Still, you expected to remain almost exclusively a pure thing,

something that your classmates do when there aren't any adults looking. Even if the teachers happen to agree with what the others are saying about you, They're not supposed to join in or encourage it. Not everyone gets that memo, though. Ninth grade was a particularly rough year for me. At 14, I was still one of the shortest guys in my class. I wore thick glasses that gave me an owlish appearance, and the only clothes I owned were hand-me-downs for my much larger brother

that made me look even smaller than I actually was. Saying I made an easy target was like saying Michael Jordan was kind of okay at basketball. I wanted to complain to my grandmother, Mumma, about how embarrassed I was just to be me, but I knew she was doing the best she could with what little she had. After my parents divorced and both skipped town, she'd been saddled with two teenage boys that required her to go back to work as a cleaning lady after five years spent in retirement and had never griped about it. So what right did I have?

I like to think that I held up pretty well in the beginning. I didn't want to bother Mumma with my problems, and I knew my brother, Devin, wouldn't care one way or another about them, so I kept them bottled up. When Kelsey spent a few days convincing me, she liked me, and then laughed in front of all her friends when I finally asked her out, I stayed quiet. When Glenn shoved me in his gym locker with his unwashed Ki-E outfit

and held it shut until I started to gag, I stayed quiet. When my lunch was stolen, When I was forced to give over my homework to be copied, when my art project was torn up, I stayed quiet. I thought if I didn't react and just kept my head down, it'd get bored and move on. And then Mr. Farkel started.

He was a young teacher, fresh out of college and all too eager to be liked by the popular kids. When he noticed that I was a favorite target for teasing, he joined right in. It started out subtly enough with him. him asking me to go to the board and solve a problem he'd written high up where I couldn't reach. Once could have been a fluke, but after the third time, I had to struggle in front of the class's barely concealed laughter. I knew it was intentional. He would ignore me when I had my hand raised to answer a question, but call on me when he knew I didn't know what he was asking. He would kick my bag whenever he walked by, no matter how far I tried to tuck it under my desk, and tell

me off for being careless with my things. He was open and generous with his praise, but only had disparaging remarks for me. I still didn't say anything. I just tried to do better, tried to show him that I was just as good as any other student. No matter how hard I worked, though, nothing changed. My grades, which had always been exceptional, started to drop. Food lost its appeal, as did simply getting out of bed. My stomach ached constantly. My head throbbed, and I was always on the brink of breaking down into tears. It didn't take long for Mumma to notice. What's wrong, bread? She had come to wake me for school, but when I just rolled over, she came to sit next to me and rub my back. Her voice and touch were so gentle and warm,

something I'd been lacking from anyone else in a long time that I couldn't stop the tears from falling. Through messy sobs, I told her about Mr. Farkel and what he'd been doing. Storm clouds gathered in Mumma's eyes, and when I was done, she mimics spitting at my floor. It was what she always did before she recited one of her curses. That man, may he find a fly in every one of his meals. Uma didn't believe in wishing ill on others, so when she was upset, she'd think of something benign, but annoying, instead. Usually they made me laugh, but that morning I wanted far worse to happen to Mr. Farkel.

Don't you worry, Brett. I'm going to take care of this for you. Before I could beg her not to get involved, she had stomped out of the room. Mr. Farkel's behavior did change a bit after that. He now ignored me completely except to grade my work with almost painful pettiness. Take any excuse to mark me off. must have told some of the other kids who he was friendly with that I'd gotten him in trouble, because suddenly I was being pelted with spitballs and crumpled paper throughout class. I just bit my lip, clenched my fists, and tried to endure it as best I could.

I even managed a small, almost smile when I saw him waving irritably at a fly that was buzzing around his open soda bottle a few days after Mumma's curse. Any enjoyment I got out of it was quickly squashed, though, when a wet, sticky. keywad of paper hit me in the back of my head. There was a brief respite from the abuse. When Mr. Farkel was out sick for almost a week, and we had a no-nonsense substitute, being able to complete my math work in peace was almost magical.

It didn't last, though. And when Mr. Farkel returned, he was in a worse mood than I'd ever seen him. He'd lost a lot of weight while he'd been out, and his skin was pale and drawn. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. Severe food poisoning, we learned. I overheard him talking to his little groupies.

It's bugs all over everything in this damn school. It's no wonder I got sick with how often I've been having to brush them off anything I eat. Again, I thought of Mumma's curse and quietly delighted in the coincidence. He must have sensed that I wasn't exactly upset that he'd been out, because it wasn't long before I was on his radar again. The brunt of his foul temper was unleashed in a rant over how I needed to pay attention in class after I couldn't figure out a problem quickly enough. He screamed until my face was burning with shame and tears had built up in my eyes.

I tried to discreetly wipe them away, but he saw and sighed with disgust. Go to the girl's room if you're going to cry, Piero. The class giggled and whispered behind me as I hurried out. Mumma was livid when she found out. She was shaking with anger. That man, may his shoes fit poorly and pinch his toes. You sit tight. I'm going to call the school.

She bustled me into the kitchen, and I heard her speaking in a sharp whisper to whoever was unfortunate enough to answer. If I had thought of it at the time, I might have told Mumma about the amusing timing of her fly curse and his food poisoning, but my mind was too filled with self-pity and sad. to focus on anything else. She came to talk to me after she hung up. We have a meeting with Mr. Farkel and the principal tomorrow.

But the meeting didn't occur as scheduled. Mr. Farkel had been walking down the stairs to reach the principal's office when he tripped on his untied shoelace and stumbled down the last few steps, twisting his ankle and hurting his foot. The next time I saw him, he was on crutches, and his foot was in a black medical boot. When he propped it up on the stool to teach, the ends of his bruised toads, too swollen to fit comfortably into a shoe, were just visible. I told myself to remember to mention it to Mumma that afternoon when she came down to the school for the meeting, figuring she'd get a kick out of the timing of the accident after her curse.

But the seriousness with which she carried herself when she arrived told me it would be better to just stay quiet. Our conference with the principal did not exactly go well. Muma and Mr. Farkel are almost shouting over each other about what was going on in his classroom. He's a lazy troublemaker. You're a horrible teacher. They went back and forth until Miss Hagerty, the principal, had to step in. The conversation didn't become any more productive than that, and when it ended, exactly nothing had been accomplished. Miss Hagerty did agree that she would see what other math.

classes might be open to me, but she could make any promises. In the meantime, Mr. Farkel and I would have to try and maintain a professional relationship. Outside, Mumma mimes spitting on the ground before slamming her car door. That man, may his car stall at an inconvenient time. It's okay, Mooma. No, it's not. Don't worry. We'll figure something out. The drive home was quiet. Mumma fumed the whole way, and I just did what I did best. Kept my head down. I didn't sleep at all that night. I was too afraid of what the following day would bring.

No doubt Mr. Farkel would take out his anger on me and try even harder to ensure I was miserable. I appreciated Muma sticking up for me, but the cost was going to be way too high. I was already up and dressed when Mumma knocked on my door at 5.30 the next morning. I'm up. I tried not to sound too upset about it. Mumma spoke through the door.

Can I come in? Yeah. Her expression was grim, as she let herself in and came to sit beside me on the edge of my bed. I have some unfortunate news, bread. I nodded for her to continue. I just saw on the news that your teacher, Mr. Farkel, was involved in an accident. Okay.

He was driving home last night and got a flat tire. It was dark and he was standing next to his car when a truck came down the road. It didn't see him in time and, well, Mr. Farkel didn't make it. I gazed at Mumma, my mouth hanging open and my eyes wide, and I struggled to find the words for all the thoughts racing in my head. They kept circling back to one thing, though. The last thing Mooma had said about my teeth. the night before. I stammered in anger. Your curse! You wanted his car to stall and his shoe not to fit,

and the flies. What? She looked baffled, so I reminded her of her curses and told her about everything that had happened to Mr. Farkel after each one. You wanted this to happen, didn't you? Muma tatted her tongue and smoothed my hair away from my face. Of course not, Brad. You know I don't wish ill on any Anyone. But... You know me better than that, young man. Now, finish getting dressed and come downstairs for breakfast. I spoke earnestly as she got up.

Everything you said happened, Mumma. How? You think an old woman's silly words could kill a man? I don't know. Maybe. I know it sounded dumb. She paused in the doorway and half turned to me. No, dear, that's ridiculous. It wasn't what I said that hurt me. Mr. Farco, it was what was listening that did.

What? She just smiled and walked out. I called after her, but she did not respond. She just left me sitting in my room, staring at where she'd been long after she'd gone, very confused and more than a little afraid. We've all heard about how the devil likes to make deals, but he usually does so with adults at their low.

lowest point. But in this tale from author V.R. Gregg, we find that it's a young girl who encounters the devil. Not as easy to deal with children, right? Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, David Alt, and Nicole Goodnight. So let's hear it from the woman herself who tells us, I first met the devil when I was eight years old. I try to keep my anger in check. I really do, but I'm tired of being poor and powerless, overlooked, and ignored. I am not small. I am not insignificant. I am a person, just as deserving of life and happiness as anyone else. Maybe more so since I've never done anything to actively hurt anyone, even though I've had the chance. It's the slow leak of dignity, day in and day out, that gets

to me. It's petty to think this way. I know. I've got a chip on my shoulder, and it colors my perception of social interactions. My therapist and I have worked that out. I see slights that aren't there, she says. But what does she know? She comes from money. She has a fancy degree that separates her from the people below her. She's so used to the deference that she doesn't even notice it anymore. How does she talk to the receptionist, huh? I can tell you it's not with the same respect she gives her peers. Sorry, I'm just venting. It's just that the workers have been drilling holes into the walls of my office all day. I can't think straight, and maybe that's why I'm irritated. I've asked them to stop, but the orders came from above, but orders always come from above.

Orders can come from below, too, but those are dressed up differently. Maybe you think this This is a story about how I snapped. It's not. I'm not a sociopath. I understand that people are just people. Even if they play petty power games and look down on those like me, I could never do anything to hurt anyone. At least not willingly.

No. This is a story about the devil. I first met the devil when I was eight years old. I came across him one summer afternoon while I was out in the woods, miles from the nearest house or farm. He didn't look much like I'd expected him to. He wasn't red at all, and didn't have even a single horn. Instead, he was a thin, clean-shaven man in a shabby suit with jet black hair.

He looked like any handsome man, except that he had one goat's hoof and one rooster's claw for feet. It was strange. If I looked directly at him, I could see those strange feet clearly. But if I looked at them from the corner of my eye, they just looked regular. He carried a satchel over one shoulder and spoke with a polished and melodic voice that made me laugh to hear it. He didn't introduce himself, but I knew him. I loved him immediately.

I offered to show him around the woods, and he accepted with a gracious smile. So, I took the devil's hand and led him to the creek where I liked to catch minnows, to the culver's pasture where sometimes there was a mean old bull, to the fallen tree where I liked to build and demolish forts, and finally to the rock outcropping behind my house, where I could watch the hawks dive for mice. At the last stop, he bent down to me and whispered into my ear. Which would you like to be, girl?

the Hulk or the mouse? I don't know why, but the question scared me. I didn't want to be the mouse ripped up by the hawk's talons, but I didn't want to be the hawk either doing the ripping. I told him that I had to go home, and he told me that he understood. He stooped a little, patted me on the head, and told me that I was a good girl, and that we'd meet again soon. I told him that I couldn't wait.

When I told my parents about the nice devil that I met in the woods, they smiled softly and told me that I had a very big imagination. The rest of my childhood unfolded uneventfully. I was not particularly liked, but not particularly disliked. The boys mostly avoided me, but that meant that they also didn't pick on me with much fervor. I was like most kids, a mind full of petty vendettas,

easily forgotten by the time after-school cartoons came on. I don't remember whether I was happy, but I also don't remember having been particularly sad. We were poor, but we had enough to scrape by most of the time when you counted the church donations and hand me down clothes. I had forgotten all about the encounter with the devil by the time I reached adolescence, or if I remembered it, I thought it was a dream.

When you cease to be a child, things that you remember as fact start to take on the characteristics of fiction. so it was with our meeting. It all ran together with make-believe and imaginary friends. I was reminded of the reality of our interaction one day when I was 15. I was watching the news and saw some story about a rich man getting away with murder in the typical fashion. He'd killed his wife and everyone knew it. He'd bragged about it openly, had left evidence out in the open.

As the head juror announced the verdict, not guilty, the man turned not to his lawyer. but to a handsome man seated behind him. The murderer smiled, and the handsome man nodded. In an instant, I realized that I recognized that nodding man sitting in the first row. That jet black hair and shabby suit were the same as that day in the woods when I was eight years old. The whole experience came rushing back to me. At first, I wouldn't believe it, thought that it was a kind of glitch in my brain that connected a half-remembered dream to the image I was seeing.

it made a kind of sense and I could have gone on believing in the lie I told myself if not for what unfolded on my 16th birthday it was supposed to be a surprise that birthday party my parents had gone to extensive lengths

and had spent far more than they could afford to throw me a party that to most people would have appeared fairly modest they rented the basement of the VFW and decorated the cinder block walls with multicolored streamers there was even a store-bought cake and unheard of luxury for my family in those days.

I waited in anticipation for the first of my classmates to arrive. I continued to wait, even as the party's start time came and went. I waited until my parents moved from where they had stood in the corner, speaking in hushed whispers and casting concerned expressions my way. I waited until they came up to me and put sympathetic hands on my shoulders and asked if I wanted to go ahead and open my presence anyway. I didn't. I ran out of the VFW and the entire three miles back to my house.

There, I hold up in my room and cried until I felt empty. I had never been so humiliated in my life. When the phone rang, I debated not answering it. Ultimately, I picked it up, only to hear the voice of my best friend, timidly speaking on the other line. I choked down a giant sob and remained stoically silent on the phone, hoping that Sarah could feel the depths of my anger in that silence. She cleared her throat.

I wanted to go. I promised. I wanted out the skating rink. There was another silence from my end. I really thought I could make it to both, but Darren was there. I did know. Erin Opfer had planned her party on the day she knew I was having mine. Her birthday wasn't even for another week.

She'd done it to be cruel. And for no other reason. I thought about her perfect smug face. In that moment, I hated her more than I'd ever hated anyone in my life. I sat on my bed crying and visualizing the elaborate ways in which Aaron could be punished until I eventually fell asleep. It was mid-afternoon the next day before I heard the news. My dad had just come in from town, and he sat stiffly at the kitchen table,

looking gray and ashen. I walked up to him to see if everything was okay. Sit down. He looked like he might cry. I've got some bad news for you. I steadied myself against the table and slid into a chair. The Hopford girl? The one in your grade?

Well, she was found today. Found? I hadn't known she was missing. My dad choked on his words and shifted. his eyes from mine. I know you were friends with her. I nodded at this, not feeling like it was the time to argue. Well, she was found in the park this morning.

He's dead. Oh, I'm so sorry. He pulled me in for a hug as worrisome thoughts swirled through my head. The next day at school, every classroom was a buzz at the news. Some students were crying openly, and the ones that weren't looked shell-shocked. The details were beginning to emerge of how Erin was found. Of how the ropes that had hung her from the oak tree in the middle of the park had bitten into her naked flesh.

Pieces of her, they said, were just gone. One boy leaned in to whisper in my ear during fourth period. He said her face was frozen mid-scream. The teachers let us out after lunch, said that we all needed some time to deal with what had happened. I was glad to be away from all the mass grief, but I also didn't feel comfortable being by myself. I went home with Sarah, and we sat together on her bedroom floor. She broke the silence that had fallen between us. Awful.

I avoided eye contact. Yeah. They say she was scalped. Can you believe that? What kind of sicko would do something like that? I shrugged my shoulders. Well, I just hope whoever's responsible rots in hell. I really do.

I nodded at her, unable to speak over the lump in my throat. I gestured toward the door and walked out before Sarah could object. The devil was waiting for me in my bedroom when I got home. I didn't feel any surprise, not really. Just disorientation and a guilt that wouldn't slip down out of my throat. The first one is free. The rest are unlimited after a simple exchange. I don't understand.

You don't understand? Well, I think you do. Maybe your brain has rationalized it away. Maybe you've told yourself that it was just a coincidence. But we both know what really happened and who orchestrated it. I did it because you wanted me to. I don't know what you're talking about. It was a lie.

I knew exactly what he was. talking about. You poor meek child, what do you know? Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. I said it more to myself than to the man standing before me. I hoped that the tiny amounts of biblical knowledge I possessed might keep this man, this devil at bay. Inherit the earth? The meek shall inherit nothing. The meek shall live their lives in anonymous toil, trod upon and ignored by everyone who, actually stands up for what they want. Then the meek shall die forgotten and alone. The meek shall inherit the earth.

What exactly do you think they would even do with it? They're certain not going to lead each other to greater heights or elevate mankind. That whole, the meek will inherit the earth nonsense is just a way for the powerful to keep the powerless in line. It's a tale as old as me, my dear. False promises and slap to the face if you're brave enough to ask for proof. The meek are cowards, have the courage to take what's yours. What do you have to offer then? I thought about Aaron, strung up in the tree and shuddered.

His smile nearly split his face in two. My dear, I offer you only what is rightfully yours. I offer you the respect every human being is entitled to. And at what cost? I'm not stupid enough to make a deal with the devil. We all know what comes of that. The devil went down to Georgia. He was looking for a soul to steal. You believe popular culture instead of what you know to be true. Don't be silly, girl. There's no fire and brimstone at the end of a story. Only a full and happy life followed by an easy death. Every part of me was drawn to the man and the offer he was presenting to me. It felt like falling into bed after a long day of work and struggling to stay awake. All I wanted to do was sleep.

To give in to the physical and mental pull before me. I closed my eyes tightly and resisted with all my power. I'm sorry, but I can't take what you offer. He smirked at me, cocking his head to the side. Even to me, she apologizes. His words sent my temper into overdrive. I could feel my nostrils flare as I clenched my fists. His smile only broadened and I knew he thought he was winning.

I forced myself to be calm. Leave now. He looked at me and made a graceful bow, nearly touching his chest to the floor in the process. I'll see you again soon, my girl. You'll be ready for me in time. Soon, I guess, is a relative term, because I didn't see him again for many years.

I graduated high school and went to a state school on scholarship, the furthest one I could find from that room and that park. I didn't return for many years, and by then I had once again convinced myself that it was all a bad dream. It was my mother's funeral that prompted the return. She died alone in her bedroom, while my dad was away looking for a calf that had gotten out of the fence. A stroke, they told me. I was 23. I won't get into the devastation of the loss. Just know that it was earth-shattering.

How could it have been up? Otherwise, it still hurts to think about it, even now, years later. And besides, this is not a story about that. It's about the devil. I saw him again at the funeral. I was standing next to the coffin, blankly accepting the hugs of great aunts who smelled like rose perfume, when I heard the click of his hoof on the polished funeral home floor.

He smiled at me as he entered the receiving line. and for the first time in days, I felt something other than emptiness and grief. By the time he had gotten to me, the rage had built up inside me to the point of pure hatred. What are you doing here? I came to give my condolences. You aren't welcome here.

He smiled at me and drew me in with an arm across my shoulder. No one around me seemed to care or notice. He leaned in close, and I could feel the heat of his breath as he spoke into my ear. Her suffering was great. Still is, if we're being honest about it. I know that's not true.

The doctors said her death was instant. Well, sure, that's what they say. Who would tell a grieving daughter that her mother died in agony? Not the doctors, that's for certain. I, however, believe in honesty above all else. I pulled away from him, but his fingers tightened against my shoulder. That's a lie. Would you like more detail?

The aneurysm that felled your mother started as a small weak spot in her brain. It bulged over time, pulsing against the wall of the artery until it exploded, sending blood rushing through her skull and causing her stroke. Within minutes, deprived of oxygen as she was, parts of her brain began to die. She felt it. The helpless desperation of it all. Alone in her bedroom with not a stomach. soul to ease her lonely terror in those last minutes, the rational parts of the brain shutting down

one by one, leaving only animal panic in their wake. Until at long last, the animal gave up its fight altogether. He leaned in close again. You of all people should know that physical pain pales in comparison to emotional pain. I swallowed hard and peeled myself away from the man's grasp. I don't believe you. And even if I did, I don't want to listen to you anymore. But I haven't even told you about her soul. Don't you want to hear about how it suffers? About how your mother rides in agony even now?

You're a liar. You told me before that there was no such thing as hell. Is your mind that small girl? Certainly does not exist. But does that mean that insignificant souls like your mothers do not suffer for eternity? Or are you really so unimaginative? I clasped my hands over my ears and screamed. I screamed until my dad came over and took me away.

He was concerned, he said, when I asked what happened to the black-haired man. There was no black-haired man, sweetheart. You were standing alone and just started screaming out of nowhere. He looked away from me, his eyes filling with tears. I know how you feel. We'll get through this together. I could only nod. In the years that have gone by,

I think about what the man said to me every day. I can't forget it, and he doesn't let me. I see his face so often. In the background when medics rush into a natural disaster area, in the courtroom during the trials of heinous acts, standing behind politicians as they're sworn in, he's always there.

And he calls me, too, during my weaker moments. I try to minimize those as best as I can. I do my best to stay optimistic and calm in all situations. I stopped reading the news. I don't watch sports. I don't follow politics. I give people the benefit of the doubt and don't give them a chance to disappoint me. The big things I can watch out for more easily.

The deaths, the breakups, the layoffs, those things are consequential and plain to see. It's the little things that get to me. Every time the petty annoyances of the world start to snowball in my head, I try to stay alert. I try to tamp them down and breathe deeply and count to ten. Most of the time it works. But when it doesn't, I know I'll be receiving a visit. As I sit here now and they keep drilling in the walls,

I can feel the anger like a small, hard knot in my throat. The small injustices of the past few weeks have been bubbling up in my memory. Venting here has helped a little, but the phone is buzzing. And I know who it is. I don't even have to look at my phone to see the two-digit number flashed up on the screen. I know that when I answer it, I'll hear that kindly, lilting voice telling me that it can all go away. Who would dare slight me once the devil is done? Not that barista who rolled her eyes at me this morning.

Or the asshole in the Porsche who nearly ran me over in the crosswalk. Certainly not the banker who denied my loan or the date who left dinner early because of a family emergency. I take a deep breath up the phone. Most of us recoil at the thought of dealing with insects, vermin, and other pests. But as told by author Luke Hoan, some people make their career ridding those pests from people's dwellings, and some question their career when the pests become more than just a nuisance. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornets, Ellie Hirschman, and Atticus Jackson. So don't be a pest as we hear the man tell us,

I'm an exterminator in a college town. I'm an exterminator in a college town. Some would call it a city, but whatever you call it, It means a lot of old houses and a lot of people refusing to take care of them. Most of the landlords have a good working relationship with my boss. It's in both of their best interests to keep the kids quiet. Thankfully, most of them are too young or too dim to know what tenant's rights are. There is one neighborhood between the state school and the private liberal arts college

that's been keeping me flush for years. It used to be mostly spray work and glue traps every now and then, but recently. Well, become something more complicated. Started a few months ago during the break after their fall semester. Mice are a problem every winter, and there's this one house that always seems to get infested, the worst every year, to the point where my shop has a standing appointment with the place. I don't know who the owner paid off to overlook its dilapidation, and if I'm being honest, it was a question my paycheck couldn't afford.

You know the house, though. Every college ghetto neighborhood has one. Lead paint peeling on the outside, loose bricks falling off the chimney, cracked single pane windows, no insulation, and so on. The house itself looked like it had given up to the point where even the walls had stopped trying to stand straight. It would look condemned to any person if it wasn't for the pile of pizza boxes, empty bottles, and abandoned furniture on the curb. I didn't expect anyone to be. be home when I arrived. When I put the key in the front door, someone tucked back and opened it slightly, leaning on the frame to keep me from getting in. Can I help you? And the kid who asked me was maybe only a few years younger than me. He looked tired and his skin was shining with grease. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stank of cheap beer. The landlord called me. I need to lay down a few traps. I pointed to my name tag, and his eyes darted to my bag. That's okay, man.

We put down some stuff already, so you can go. Problem's already taken care of. He pushed the door closed, but I stuck my boot in to stop it. The thin wood and glass bounced off my steel toe. Well, sir, if there is a problem with this residence, then it is the responsibility of the property owner or their proxy to investigate the issue. No, we... We already got a guy.

The kid pushed harder, causing the top of the door to bend. I insist. I leaned in with my shoulder and the kid stumbled back. The door swung open and I tumbled forward. The kid was taller than me, but maybe half my weight. His eyes were watering. He was scared. At the time, I thought it was because of me.

Hey, man, you can't just bar. I'll call it. A skittering noise came from inside the nearest wall. The sound of tiny feet ran away from where I stood, traveling from near the ceiling to the bottom of the wall. The kid whimpered and twitched at the noise. Is there someone else here? The cops, if you don't leave.

I looked around the house. It was trashed. Someone must have graduated because, they had one hell of a party. The stairs to my right were draped with men's and women's clothes, a makeshift tiki bar blocked part of the kitchen, and a green and white glass-blown bong on the living room table was surrounded by heaping piles of seeds and stems.

This was all in addition to the scuffs, dense, and bins in the wall, floors, and ceiling that didn't exist on my last walk-through. I'd be impressed if it didn't make my job hard. harder. Right, you do that. I'm going to start upstairs. The kid looked surprised as I took my bag and climbed to the second floor. It smelled as musky as only regret and post-adolescence could. I tried to make it quick. I pulled the chain to the attic door. The folding stairs dropped down and I climbed up. An easy start, just insulation and a walkway. I opened my bag, put on some

gloves and got to work. I checked for any obvious holes and for signs of squirrels or birds with my flashlight. The bug screens put in a few years ago around the port windows were still intact, so nothing came in that way. I opened up a box of glue traps, sprinkling the poison on each one as I dropped it. I went back to the second floor and folded up the stairs. The attic door clanged shut and I heard the skittering again. Four rhythmic sets of nails scratched behind the drywall, running away from the sound before it hit a door frame with a thud. The faint noise of disturbed dust and dirt followed as it fell away. The second floor was mostly bedrooms and I was in no mood to linger. I zipped in and out of each room, ticking the baseboards and leaving traps in the closets.

Every now and then, I would press my ear against the wall. I could hear the echoes of something, but it was still hard to tell what. Raccoons were too big, and while a cat was flexible enough, I would have heard it moaning or mewing. I've heard of possums in the walls before, but I didn't think they were that fast. After I finished the second floor, I walked downstairs, and the kid was on his phone. Red and blue lights flashed outside. The kid actually called the cops on me.

A moment of instinctual panic rose in my chest before I saw a familiar face through a crack in the blinds. Yes, I'll stay on the line, but no, I won't give you my name. The cop knocked gently with the back of his fist. They're here. The kid hung up his phone and walked to the door. We got a call about a break-in. It's just me, Bill. The officer that was called in was the son of one of my boss's friends.

My boss had a lot of friends in the right places, and thankfully Bill was on the more flexible end of that spectrum. The kid turned pale. The cop leaned in. Excuse me. He said as he opened the door more to look inside. His eyes met mine, and he nodded. Um, officer, I don't think you can come in without my consent.

The kid's voice wavered when he said this. Son, you were obviously high, and this man is obviously here to do a job. Are you the property owner? No. Are you a tenant according to the terms of the lease? Kind of? Sit up there while I talked to this nice young professional. The kid opened his mouth to protest, but decided.

it against it. Bill rubbed his brow as the kid walked past him to sit on the porch. So, what the hell happened here? College kids. I'm going to make this kid sweat for a bit, so don't you finish up so we can both get out of here? I don't need a babysitter, Bill. I knew the drill. I pulled some cash from out of my pocket, flipped through it, and slipped him a 20. The less attention this infested place got, the better it was for everybody. He looked at the cash. He looked at the cash. with surprise and palmed it away. Who's babysitting?

He walked around the room. He poked at the greenery in the living room with mild interest. I continued through the first floor and into the kitchen, checking near more baseboards and in and around cupboards. Cups and empty liquor bottles littered every flat-raised surface. Other than the one kid, everyone else had bugged out. It was strange. Not one blacked-out bro or basic bitch stretching for her walk of shame inside.

I would have given it more thought, but I heard a tapping behind the fridge and oven. The sound of Klon Metal refocused me. I pulled the fridge out more to widen the gap. I shined my flashlight in between and saw nothing. Not even mouse shed. I shook it all off and left more traps in the gap. Once I finished the basement, I could clear out.

The basement door was between the foyer in the kitchen. The tiki bar blocked the edge of the door preventing me from opening it. The wooden legs scraped against the hardwood floor as I pushed it out of the way. Bill briefly watched me struggle before going back to check the living room. I pulled the basement door in and pushed down hard on the switch to turn on the basement's lighting. A musty, acrid smell hit me. I've been doing this for a long time. Not to gag.

But the smell of urine and dried shit gets me every time. I pulled my breathing mask from my bag and strapped it on. The homeowner would be pissed if anyone else found out it got this bad. I stepped down the stairs and looked around the corner. The only thing that prevented me from vomiting was the fact that it would sit on my face. There were partially eaten. The skin on their faces was peeled back. and strips of stringy flesh and mashed like a tenderized steak.

The blood from multiple deep bites and scratch marks soaked into the clothing around their arms and legs. Bill? Bill came stomping down the stairs. Oh, fuck me. Yeah, what is it? He came down further and saw the bodies. Oh, fuck me.

He bolted back up the stairs. I was confused at first. It took me a second to realize he went after the kid. Did he know all along? Why the hell would he stay here? The bodies were still fresh. He couldn't have done this. I've seen my share of blood and viscera in my line of work,

but this was something else. My cynicism washed away. They were animals, but these were people. Someone's boyfriend, girlfriend, son, or daughter? daughter? Someone's someone. I felt hollow inside as I stood frozen at the bottom of the staircase, trying to make sense of what was in front of me. My eyes darted from body to body and settled on a crumbling wall of the basement's brick foundation. I heard a sound like scraping metal on stone. As I turned to look, I saw a wet, black-haired creature run out from the hole in the bricks towards me.

I gasped and tripped backwards onto the stairs. In that brief moment of panic, time slowed, and I saw its face. Its oddly humanoid, its eyes were black and beady, but its nose was separated from its snarling mouth like a bit. Tapered ears pointed straight out from the side of its head. It was a dark maroon, and its mouth got wider as it skittered towards me, and with a quick jerk I smacked it with my bag, knocking it and several items from it. my bag to the wall. The thing hit the wall with a sound like a bag of wet trash hitting the pavement.

It let out a shrill shriek and struggled on its back for several labored moments. As it weezed and huffed in its attempt to get back on its feet, I got up to mind and brought my boot down on it. And in my fear, I stomped its head into a bloody pulp. I must have been yelling as I did it because before I knew it, I felt a firm hand touched my shoulder. Calm down. It was hyperventilating, and my heart was pounding in my chest. Is it? ...was still twitching.

And I wasn't sure if its chest was still heaving or just bleeding out. Look, I have to call this, sir. The kid already ran, so I'm already going to be in some deep shit. No need for you to get dragged into this. His voice was calm, but assertive. The voice you would hear while being consoled after a car wreck. He took out his wallet and gave me back the 20. Why don't you take the thing to the trash and get yourself a nice lunch?

If we need you, we'll give you a call, right? Yeah. My boss and his friends would take care of this type of thing. Bill and the cops could take care of this type of thing. Right? Right, right, right, right. You have my number. Bill nodded and pulled a phone from his pocket.

He held it up and walked back up the stairs. I bent down and picked up what spilled from my bag. I pulled out a hefty black plastic bag and a metal dustpan. I peeled the still slightly squirming thing from the ground and sealed it shut in the bag, putting another bag over it for good measure. I wiped my boot with a bleach wipe and threw it and the dustpan into another bag before going back up the stairs. Bill was too calm. He must have not seen its face.

What face was there left to see? I walked past the kitchen and foyer to see Bill on the phone in the living room. He stopped talking to whoever he was speaking to and I nodded at him. He nodded back and I left. I got into my van and drove back to my shop on autopilot without noticing anything outside of my window and with no idea how long it took to get there. My bag sat on the passenger side floor. The dead thing laid in the plastic bag next to it.

I stared at my steering wheel. Was this thing? I looked out into the parking lot and no one else was at the office. It was dark outside. I got out of the van and walked over to the passenger side. I pulled out the plastic bag and its contents slumped into a deer drop shape at the bottom. There was a dumpster out back that I could use to get rid of the thing. I slammed the door shut and walked briskly to the back.

I lifted the lid to the dumpster, and the bag kicked in my hands. It slipped through my sweaty palm, and the thing inside of the bag struggled without direction when it hit the pavement. I picked up the bag and I slammed it against the side of the dumpster, sending a loud clang into the alley behind my office. It was late. The office was empty. I could find something to kill this thing inside. I needed to kill this thing.

I punched in my security code to the back door and let myself in. I turned on the lights and looked at the back workshop. Stacks of traps, boxes of poisons, snare poles, cages, and other instruments of extermination line the walls for whoever needed them. I took one corner of the catch and released cages and dumped the bag in. The cage locked and I pulled a corner of the corner of the box. the back through a gap in the wire frame and cut the plastic. I tugged the plastic away while rolling the creature outprisingly dry. It looked dead. I mean, it wasn't breathing, but it could

have been plain dead. The thing in the cage was a mix of something. It was definitely a mammal. It had black, patchy hair on its body, a long cord-like tail, balls bigger than kiwis, and short bony fingers on his hands and feet. Closer. Anything else. The thing started to twitch, and its lungs started to heave and wheeze. This thing was just an animal, and animals could be killed. I unboxed a garden spike from the bottom shelf.

It was meant to deter moles with a subsonic sound, but for now I just needed the spike. I hovered over the thing where a heart might be screeched and poured out while the thing squealed in discomfort. And for a third time, it stopped moving. Room jelly filled the hole before hair grew back over it. The thing started breathing again, and it looked at me with disdain and hissed. Spare car battery and hooked it up to the 30 minutes or small brick of rat poise,

and the thing ate it hungrily. Blood and bile foamed out of its mouth. And after 15 minutes, back to life, finished the brick, and came back 10 minutes. later. He rattled and bumped on the table closer to me. With frustration as I duct tape the cage down before pulling a snare from the wall. It went on like that. The first time, I remember looking at the clock. Between the time spent trying to kill the thing and waiting to see if it would come back, I'd already wasted half the night. What would the other guys think? Despite its tedium and occasional messiness, this job paid well. Better than anything else I could get at the time. And I'd

I needed it. I had used up everything. Every item on the shelves and walls had been tried and had failed. This thing couldn't be strangled, stabbed, or shocked into submission. I pulled a stool up to the table and stared at the thick and its tiny hands trying to pull at me from behind the wires. I rested my head down, and it felt like falling. The stool under me crashed to the ground, and when I awoke, I was looking at the backlit head of my boss. He was an older guy, bald with salt and pepper hair on the side of his head.

He was short with a paunch, but his arms were thick like tree trunks. He kept a large knife on his belt when he worked, and it scared the shit out of me. I looked at the clock, and it was a few hours before the first shift guys reported in for assignment. Get up. His voice was gravely. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a plant. bucket with a bag of quick-dry cement in the other. He pushed his foot into me and said,

Come on, get up. We've got work to do. Right. He put the coffee down on the table and the bucket on the floor. He looked at the creature and sighed before peeling off the tape. Was it just the one? What? This didn't seem to phase him at all.

Was it? just the one. He didn't look at me. I think so. Make sure next time. There are plastic basins in my office. Get one. Fill this bucket with water and bring both back to me.

I nodded and did as I was told. When I got back, my boss had put on work gloves and was holding up the cage to inspect the creature. He pointed to the door and I followed him. He put the cage down with the opening facing up. The thing rattled around inside, but he kept the frame still. He pulled out the knife from his side and flicked the pin, opening the trap. The thing moved towards my boss, but before it could escape, he thrust down and stabbed it through its face. The thing screeched and he twisted the blade, causing it to go limp.

He tilted the cage back and pulled out the thing still resting on his knife. We have maybe 20, 25 minutes before this thing gets twitchy again. That concrete sets in 15. I suggest you hurry. He made me mix the water and concrete in the alley up back. When that was done, he tossed the thing into the plastic basin and I filled it with concrete without even being told. He looked at his watch. I looked between him and the basin for what seemed like in eternity.

Thirty minutes. We're clear. Get rid of this. What was that thing? Your promotion. What? You get a pass this time, kid, but if you ever, I mean ever, bring one of those things back to my office. The knife was still in his hand. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped off the blood. He sheathed the knife without looking.

I will be very displeased. Understood? I didn't understand at all at the time, but I nodded anyway. Good. Take the rest of the day off. I'll call if I need you. I nodded again and started to walk away. Hey, then take that fucking thing with you. I picked up the basin, got in my van, and that was the last. thing my boss ever said on the matter. On the way home, I bought a shovel and buried the thing in

concrete in a deep hole on the side of some road. The concrete block fell out of the basin with a thud. I still remember a tiny clawed foot poking out, grasping aimlessly as I tossed dirt onto it. My next paycheck had a decent bump in it, and every paycheck after that was the same. I was asked to go back to that house a week or so later to check it over again for mice. The house was completely cleaned out. I later found out from Bill that it was something about the tenants breaking the terms of their lease. There was no one there when I came, but there were signs of renovations. The basement was cleared out and the hole in the crumbled wall was sealed over. I didn't find a thing, just like with anything else in life.

If something weird happens enough to you, it becomes normal. I've seen more than a few dozen of these things in varying sizes and scowls over the last few months. I tell myself I know what to look for and how to deal with them as if they were just any other pest. And that the money is worth it. That's what I've been telling myself anyway. I don't want to have questions about what's keeping me employed. Even if I ask them, I doubt my boss, Bill, or anyone else I've met who seems to know what these things are would tell me the truth. I just want to do my job.

Go home, drink, and pass out. But I don't know how many more mauled faces are chewed on bodies I can stand. It used to be weeks between encounters. Now I'm lucky if I go two days. Not everyone is found near a body, but unfortunately most are. I tell myself that maybe if I could stop them at the source, their nest, their home. Maybe then I wouldn't have to be called in to clean up the aftermath. That maybe if I did anything, I could save some poor kid in the future before one of these things gets them.

But they just keep coming. There's one way I think I can end this. Of all the creatures I've bagged and buried, I've only been. I've only ever seen males. I think these are mammals. I hope they are. If I can find a way to kill them, maybe if I can't, I can bury them.

But that doesn't matter if I can't stop them from multiplying. I need to find the nest. I need to find the source. I need to know. Where is there, And so, another episode has drawn to a close and our nightmares dissolve. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program.

25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our dark tales will envelop you in a nightmarish, swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.