The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E17

Episode Date: September 3, 2017

It's episode 17 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about tremulous time, tunneling terror, and tired turmoil. "When The Clock Stops"† written by Luke Hoehn and performed by Erin Lillis & Jesse Cornett & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:03:00) "The Tunnels"† written by C. E. Avery and performed by Brian Mansi & David Ault & James Cleveland & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:32:20) "What Came After the Accident"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Addison Peacock & Kyle Akers & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:59:20) "My Daughter"† written by S.A. Newman and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 01:15:35) "The Hour of Our Death"‡ written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Dan Zappulla & Matthew Bradford & Elie Hirschman & Eden & Atticus Jackson & Jeff Clement & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:32:30) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here for our Soundcloud page and the Summer series   Click here to learn more about Luke Hoehn   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about S.A. Newman   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‡ "What Came After the Accident" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody Audio program ©2017 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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

On this week's show, we have five tales about tremulous, time, tunneling terror, and tired turmoil. As our Season Pass members found out last week, we've returned to the ongoing series by author Marcus Demanda, featuring the young woman who calls herself Summer. Last week was part seven in the series, and this week we feature part eight. So if anyone wants to get caught up on the series, which originally was presented on our season pass episodes, we've posted the first six installments on our SoundCloud. page. Easy to find at

SoundCloud.com slash the no sleep podcast. That's over four hours of great storytelling available to everybody. So if you haven't already let Summer introduce herself to you and learn what a devilish little rascal she is.

And I'm proud to announce the winner of the PodCon contest I announced last week. We had over 150 entries from our fans in the Pacific Northwest so we thank everyone who enter. It's great to see such enthusiasm for podcasting. And now, congratulations to Katie Bernston for winning the special prize pack.

We hope you have an amazing time at PodCon, Katie, and with all the special extras which go along with your prize. So with that great prize won and the prize of the summer series for everyone, we're all winners, and winners deserve some horror stories, so let's get started and kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we hear the story of a young woman working an extra shift at a convenience store. But as author Luke Hoan describes, the customers she has on her shift are not only disturbing, but also persistent. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Jesse Cornett, and Atticus Jackson.

So keep your eye on the time, because you never know when the clock stops. I got my first job through my parents. When I was about to graduate high school, they told me they didn't want me to go to college. I was a good student and at the time, a better daughter, so this was hard to hear. They said they didn't have enough money left for me because they were already paying tuition for my two older brothers. Instead, I'd have to work, find a nice man, and settle down. Needless to say, my life plan wasn't exactly theirs, but being the dutiful child I was, I felt I didn't have much say in the matter.

The job they found for me was at a convenience store on the edge of town. My parents, or maybe one of my uncles or aunts, had escaped from the communists with the store owner or one of his brothers or sisters. My father told me the owner was a nice man with a nice son. I think it was a cover to show off how hardworking I was and how well I could take direction. A good obedient worker would make a good obedient wife. The owner paid minimum wage, which was more than the nothing I was currently making, so I wasn't one to complain.

The term convenience store might be misleading. It was really more of an everything store for the single night stay hotels and truck stops that surrounded it. We sold I Love NY T-shirts, off-brand foodstuffs, room temperature hot bar meals, random car parts, basic toiletries, cleaners, small electronics, and a host of foreign goods in addition to the standard cigarettes, condoms, lottery tickets, and beer. The owner tried to explain why he sold so many different things on my first day. Say a man walks in with friend. Man needs car battery, friend wants chips.

Man buys battery, he's good. Friend eats chips is good. Everybody happy. Maybe friend get T-shirt too. Two T-shirt. Who doesn't love New York? It's very good. Happy good.

It didn't make sense. We were hundreds of miles from the city, but I didn't mind the answer. To my surprise, my parents were half right. The owner was a nice man. I worked the first shift. I guess what you would call bankers' hours, so I was always home to help Mom with dinner. And without homework to worry about,

I still had plenty of time for myself afterwards. I was paid under the table more than what my parents thought I was making, so that just meant more cash for me. His son, on the other hand, was, how do I say this? Much less respectful. I thought he worked at the store, but I never saw him work while I was there. I wasn't sure if he worked the afternoon shift or the night shift. All the staff members were asked to wear the same color polo with a night.

name tag, something the owner saw and had liked at other stores. His son always dressed in clean designer jeans and a shiny button-up shirt. He wore jewelry that I didn't know he could afford. He always hung out with richer people. I tried to say hello once, but he was just mean. He said that I was too flat and too thin and my hair was too dark. That he deserved an American blonde with wide hips and big tities. His words not mine. I shouldn't have been surprised that I would have to cover for him eventually. One day when I was getting ready to go home, the owner was on his cell phone, rubbing his face and cursing under his breath in my parents' language.

He saw me and smiled genuinely before frowning as he heard something on the phone. I couldn't make out the whispered shouting, but I already knew I was going to be the solution to his problems before his call ended. You are a good girl, yes. Yes? There was a quiet desperation in his eyes. I nodded sheepishly. Good.

My son... My son cannot work tonight. I have a girl who can work, but she cannot be here until 11. Can you work until then? My mom would be expecting me home for dinner. Oh, I'll have to ask my mother. I pay you double, yes? Cash now.

Free dinner here. Anything you want. Make mother happy, yes? Let me check. I had hoped she would say the no I didn't have the spine to say at the time. The hot bar was abysmal, and while the money would be nice, staying another seven hours was a bit much. I texted my mom, and, unfortunately, after a frowny face and two dollar-signed smileys, I got the okay. You can count on me. I forced a smile back to him.

You are a good girl. He spoke fast, his accent more noticeable. You have cell number if you need me, yes? Yes. You call if you see any bad men, yes? What? Nervousness crept into my voice. Bad men?

Yes, bad men. Not nice to good girls like you. They hurt you, you hide. You call. I come and hurt you. them more, yes? I didn't know what to say. My eyes and my mouth must have been wide open.

No, you good, girl. He looked around the store. He walked behind the counter and unlocked the cigarette case. He rifled up top, higher than I could reach, and pulled out a box of something. He locked the case, put the box next to the counter, and opened up a tube of spray the size of an energy drink can. This spray very bad for eyes. Bad men come. If bad men, come spray his eyes.

He cries like baby. You hide in office and call. Yes? Yes. I took the spray and a ring of keys from him. You are a very good girl. Ah, thank you. My son will never deserve you.

You are too good. He pulled out a money clip thick with cow. from his back pocket, pulled out three times my normal wage, handed it to me, and left. The store was empty, and I was alone. Europop filled the silence as I walked back behind the counter. It was less than ten minutes before the next group of customers came in, followed by the next and the next. Older men in business clothes came in with women with too many wrinkles for their age

to buy condoms and herbal enhancement supplements from a display. by the register. Truckers came in and bought easy frozen dinners by the armful with six packs of beer. The occasional teenager would stumble in and buy a basket of snacks, leave without them only to return and try to buy them again. Between every odd person picking up a shovel or a pack of supplements was a seemingly normal person picking up the one thing they had forgotten on the way home from work, like light bulbs, batteries, diapers, or alcohol.

It was another five hours before things finally slowed down enough for me to get something to eat. Hunger helped me redefine what was appetizing, but the hot bar, hot dog roller, and pizza carousel were all picked over. I warmed a cup of noodles with day-old warm water meant for tea. The salt killed any staleness, and I convinced myself it was good enough until I could get home. After I ate, I looked at the clock, and it read 9.15 p.m. I still had another hour and 45 minutes before I could go home. I cleaned the mess the customers had made and wiped down the metal around the heating machines. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to replace the food, and being as late as it was, I didn't see much of a point.

I looked back at the clock, and it was 9.20. I put a few more hot dogs on the roller, unwrapped a cheese pizza, and pulled the metal lids over the hot bar. The clock read 927. I sat behind the counter and waited. If I were at home, I'd be watching shows with my mother, waiting for my father to get home. If she was asleep, I would steal myself away to read a book. I looked around the store and it was empty. Normally, I would feel guilty for reading on the job, but since there was no one there,

I took a trashy paper back from the magazine section. A powerful businesswoman was lusting after her young male rival. but she couldn't let her board of directors find out about her struggle between love and success. It was sappy, poorly written, and surprisingly graphic, so I was hooked. The chime of the front door snapped me back to attention a hundred pages in. I stuffed the book under the register and looked at the clock. 10.55 p.m. I looked around the store to see if I could see a young woman, or an older woman,

nanny woman with a polo shirt and a name tag to relieve me so I could go home, but I didn't see her. I looked at the security monitor and saw a man in a business suit looking through the aisles. He was frantic and knocking down merchandise from our already somewhat disorganized shelves looking for something.

I reached for the spray can and pulled it close to me. I watched the minute hand go from 1055 to 1056, 57, 58, 59, 11 o'clock. The man stumbled forward. His suit was torn, but it was still nicer than anything anyone I had seen wear while I was working there.

He was out of breath. His left eye twitched, and he was struggling to maintain composure. Excuse me, miss. He looked at me with mild confusion, like I wasn't supposed to be where I was standing. He ran his hand through his hair to get it out of his face, and he smiled. I'm a first aid kid. It's by the back, near the car accessories. I fiddled with the cap on the spray. Emergency kits.

And painkillers? Naproxin. Aspirin, maybe something stronger. You know? I think I knew what he meant. The owner stocked medicines from the old country that you couldn't find in America. More bang for the buck, as he would say. But I was a good girl and probably didn't need to know about that.

We have that behind the counter. Thank you. It was curt, not rude, just done. He smiled and hobbled out of the store. His suit was torn at the shoulders, and blood stained through his pants around a damaged leg. The door chimed as he left. He looked down both sides of the road and hobbled faster. I heard his car peel out, and he drove away.

In less than a minute, two cars with flashing lights sped down the road in the same direction. The store was quiet. It was 11.10 p.m., and I wanted to call the manager. That man hadn't even bought anything. There were some odd people in the store before, but I had never been alone with them. There was always someone, either the owner or another customer, in the store with me. I didn't want to wait for the next girl to come. I had been good enough.

I pulled the cell from my pocket. I punched in the first few numbers, but before I got to come, could hit send, I felt a blinding headache sweep across my forehead. The book was back in my hands. My head still ached, but I didn't know why. The door chimed. I felt a feeling of dread. The clock read 1055. I put the book down and checked my cell. It was still 1055 p.m. I looked at the security monitor and a man was in the car accessory section rifling through first aid kits. He hobbled towards the counter and I yelped. His suit was torn at the shoulders, blood staining one of his pant legs.

His hair was hanging loose and his nose dripped a thick red droplet to the top of his lip. He ran his hand back over his hair and he sniffled. He blinked out of rhythm and wiped the blood from his face with a shawl. shirt cuff. Sorry, Miss, rough night. I found the first aid kits. Do you have any painkillers? Naproxin, aspirin,

aspirin, maybe something stronger, you know? I had the strangest feeling of deja vu. Behind the counter. I blinked and shook my head slightly. My brow furrowed and I frowned. Miss, something stronger. Now. I'm sorry.

My hand was playing with the cap of the spray. The man looked hungry. He looked desperate. His nostrils flared and a drop of blood dripped onto the counter. Just a minute. I started to back away. He pulled up his wrist and looked at his watch. The time read 11-17.

Shit. He covered his wrist before I could look again. He quickly looked up at the supplements the truckers took, jerked forward, and grabbed a handful. He stuffed them into his pocket and hobbled off without paying. He went straight to his car and peeled out. He had shoplifted. Or maybe I just let him steal. It was hard to tell in my confusion.

A few minutes later, a car with flashing lights sped down the road, while another car pulled into the parking lot. It was a black town car. It flashed red and blue lights from behind the top of the windshield. The car parked and the emergency lights turned off, leaving only headlights. I could see an older man with gray hair and paper-thin skin in the driver's seat. Another younger man got out of the passenger side. He was lean with dark skin, and he wore a navy blue suit with a black tie.

The door chimed when he came in and he looked around the store, almost as if he was appraising it. He walked up to the counter and looked down at me without any expression. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood. He brought it up to his nose to smell it before folding it back over. Do you know what time it is, miss? His voice was low and authoritative. Are you a policeman?

He pulled out a badge with his photo, name, and a three-letter acronym for an organization I didn't recognize. In a manner of speaking, have you ever experienced any loss of time, headaches, deja vu? I don't know. I felt like I was missing something, but I couldn't focus on what? There was a man. He stole from me. What did he take, miss? His tone cooled.

I looked at the man. in the car and he was staring at his watch food money medical supplies yes it was starting to sink in that man could have hurt me killed me he came for pills but he didn't wait all right miss everything will be fine i just need you to remember he winced in pain and tried to shake it off i felt a pressure squeezing on my head like a vice. It tightened until it felt like my brain would collapse. My eyes watered and I closed them in agony. I opened them and I was sitting at the counter. The book back in my hands. My cheek was wet with a tear but I couldn't remember crying. My temples throbbed. The door chimed. The clock read 1055. I felt a feeling of panic.

I dropped my book and checked my cell. It was still 10.55 p.m. A man came directly to the counter. His suit was torn at the shoulders. His pants were dyed maroon in patches, and his hair was wild. Deep red liquid pulled under his nose to the top of his lip. He wiped his face on an already stained cuff. One eyelid twitched over bloodshot, almost bruised eyes.

He had deep scrubbed. and pieces of glass were digging into his flesh. Pills! Now! He reached over the counter and some of the glass fell. I jumped back and pop the top of the spray can and held the button down in front of his face. The can hissed loudly, and a stream of orange foam and jelly landed around his face while he cried in anguish. Blisters formed around his eyes, and when he instinctively went to rub them, his fingers bubbled.

as well. I screamed in reply. I turned to run to the office, but something stopped me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't blink. Everything was silent. Time stopped. Reality snapped back and I lost my balance. My legs flung forward past the office door into the glass door of a freezer along the wall. I bounced hard and fell awkwardly to the ground. the man grunt in pain and curse under his breath. He pulled the fading strings from his face and tried flicking them to the ground before wiping them on his suit coat. I tried to be nice. He hobbled over past the counter, past the cheap trucker pills, and passed the hot dog roller and pizza carousel to me. He checked his watch

and wiped sweat from his face into his hair. Less than 12 minutes, I'm going to die in a collision with a federal agent's car because I was focusing on my fucking body instead of on the fucking road. So please stop wasting my time. Give me the pills. He spat blood on the floor. The spatters hit my face. I started to cry and he made a mock crying noise. Speed it up. His face contorted and a vein throbbed in his head. Trickles of blood left his ears. I scrambled to my feet quicker than any human could physically manage. I was his puppet.

My eyes darted to the clock and the second hand moved forward faster and faster. My feet paced up behind the counter and I had keys in my hand before I knew it. He screamed in frustrated pain and I was no longer on autopilot. I turned to look as he was trying not to touch his eyes. His right eye was shut and closed with yellow crust and reddened tears. The remnants of the spray still clung to part of his face in a thin but viscous orange film. I dropped the keys and started to run to the door. I pushed forward, but it was like running in sand.

I was fighting against a current that wanted to drag me back to the man in the bloodied suit. Tens of seconds forward struggled against never-ending movements backward. In the distance, I could see two cars with flashing lights coming forward. One lagged behind while the other move forward normally. The car parked, and a dark-skinned man in a navy blue suit tried to get out of the car. The door would open and then it would shut. I kept pushing forward, and the car door opened and then it shut. The driver of the car turned off the lights and got out.

He lifted his hand up in the air, and I felt the world. world stop. His hair was gray and his face was weathered by time. His skin was like paper, thin and white. He wore a similar navy blue suit, but the cut was wider and the color was faded. His eyes darted side to side rapidly as he tried to close his fist tighter and tighter as if squeezing a piece of coal into a diamond. The old man walked past me calmly and silently. My eyes couldn't move, but I saw the reflection of the bloody man in the glass in front of me. His body shimmered back and forth like it was stuck on a loop. He'd try to move forward, but his body would snap back in place.

I could see him try to move backward, and the result was the same. Each time he failed, I could see more blood coming from his ears and nose. His eyes were no longer white. The old man stopped in front of the man in the bloodied suit, and lifted his other hand. His finger traced an invisible thread in the air, and once he found the end of it, he plucked it out of the air.

The bloodied man was panicking. With the old man's fist now completely closed, only the bloodied man's face could move. The old man let go of whatever invisible object he held delicately in his fingers, flicked it towards the bloodied man and unclenched his fist. I screamed and tumbled forward. The man was thrown forward with surprising force.

His face was cut open, and I heard his bones break as he flew across the length of the store. He smashed through the glass in front of me and tumbled head first onto the pavement outside. I was shaking. I looked at the clock, and it was 1117. The dark man jumped out of his car to investigate the body. The old man walked back across the store, checked the clock on the wall, and checked his watch. He looked at me with indifference and snapped his fingers. My eyes were glued to the page.

A powerful businesswoman was lusting after her young male rival, but she couldn't let her board of directors find out her struggle between love and success. It was sappy, poorly written, and oddly familiar. My head hurt, probably from eye strain. I stuffed the book under the register and looked at the clock. It was 10.55. I looked out of the glass door to the street outside. A car with its lights on, idled slowly into the parking lot, only stopping when it hit the curb.

I looked around to see an empty store. I pocketed the can of spray and pulled out my cell phone. I walked back to the glass. But I think I knew what I was about to see. My reflection showed a small, dried dot on my face, and I touched it. When I saw that mangled corpse in that torn and bloodied suit in the car's driver's seat, I remembered everything. My mind went blank.

I might have been in shock, but I still managed to spit on my hand and wipe my face clean. I waited another 15 minutes, and two cars with flashing lights pulled in. An old man with paper-thin skin sat in the driver's seat as a dark-skinned man in a navy blue suit came in to talk to me. Do you know what time it is, miss? His voice was low and authoritative. I looked at the clock and the glass face was broken. I checked my phone. 11.09 p.m.

Are you a policeman? He pulled out a badge with his photo, name, and a three-letter acronym I had only seen. once before. In a manner of speaking? He put the badge away. Have you ever experienced any loss of time? Headaches. Dejave.

No. He turned to look at the clock. Then his wrist and back to me. But he didn't say anything. Thank you for your time, miss. If you would like to call your employer or a parent, we can wait here with you until they arrive. I thanked him and called my mother.

She was worried, but my father. father was furious. He was angry with my mother and angrier at the owner for letting his little girl work so late and alone in the bad part of town. When my father came to pick me up, he kissed me and held me close. The owner arrived shortly after. The police must have contacted him when they arrived. My dad punched him in the parking lot in front of the flashing lights, but no one stopped him as he walked me to his car and drove me home. My parents argued that, he said, he was a through the night, and we finally had a frank conversation in the morning. Even though they couldn't afford it, they would allow me to go into debt as shameful as that was to them

if I wanted to go to college. I was a good student and a better daughter, and the thought of some man from the old country taking advantage of that sickened my father. I took the money I had saved and enrolled in my first semester of community college that spring. I was able to work on campus over the summer, and I received a scholarship based on my grades and work ethic after that. I got my associates in accounting and used it to work my way through getting my bachelor's, and I'm hoping eventually my master's. Time moved on, and my parents were proud of me. It had been years since I thought of that night.

I don't want to say I ever forgot about it. It was just, at some point, with everything going right, the bad memories moved to the back of my head and turned into a bad dream. It wasn't until a few days ago I thought to share this story. You see, I went to visit my parents over the weekend and they asked me to go to the store. They asked me to pick up some goods from the old country, but I couldn't find them at the ethnic section of the supermarket or at the natural food store. Almost on instinct, I drove to the bad part of town and to that convenience store. I think the owner's son was working. I don't think he recognized me even if he recognized where my parents were from. He was a little heavier

and his chains were replaced by a cross. He looked more like his father than his father had. I bought what my parents had asked for in cash and said goodbye. The place was exactly as I remembered. Everything was the same, down to every little detail. The I Love NY T-shirts, the room temperature hot bar, the random household items and a host of foreign goods in addition. to the standard cigarettes, condoms, lottery tickets, and beer. Everything was exactly the same. Even the cracked clock on the wall. The clock still stuck at 10.55 p.m.

Spending summers with extended family can be a fun vacation when you're young. But as author C.E. Avery shares, one young man tells how his uncle and cousins didn't make him feel particularly welcome. As such, he spent a lot of. of time alone discovering the mysteries of the nearby woods. Performing this tale are Brian Manzi, David Alt, James Cleveland, and Erica Sanderson. So if you ever find the entrance, think twice before entering the tunnels. When I was a teenager, I used to spend my summers at my uncle's farm in the country. The only one in that whole branch of the family who really liked me was their

old Basset hound, Boomer. He always looked pleased to see me when I dumped my suitcase down on their porch, which is more than can be said for my cousins. They were a pain and looked down on me because I was from the city, so I spent a lot of time on my own whilst they went down to the lake most days, swimming and larking around. My uncle wouldn't have liked this if he'd known. There'd been some children going missing in the local village over the past spring, taken by animals maybe, and he had forbidden us from wandering alone. However, my cousins dislike me as much as I dislike them, so they kept my secret and we kept our distance. The area around my uncle's farm was all scrubland and dry grass in the summer, the heat from the relentless sun growing stifling during the long

afternoons alone. His farmhouse was the only home for miles around, a single blot on the wide empty expanse of the valley. It was positioned at the foot of the steep hills which rose out of the valley and were covered in thickly crowded trees. This shady wood was the only cover for miles around. And because I liked rambling around but didn't like sunburn, I used to walk up through these woods most days. As I passed the first trees at the base of the hills, I could always still hear my cousins yelling down by the lake. But as I pushed deeper, their cries were drowned out, and the only sound was the constant chirping and humming of crickets. The sun, dappled down through the canopy of trees and created a dim light, the air quiet and still.

I spent many happy days climbing right to the top and out of the woods, looking down over the valley. But one day, something happened that put a stop to that forever. On this particular afternoon, I deviated from my set path up the hill, going off the trail and pushing deeper into the gloom than I ever had before. Even the crickets didn't follow me there. It was dead silent. As I put my foot down on the leaf-cover dirt, I noticed that instead of the usual earthen crunch,

the sound my footstep made was an echoing bang, as if I had stepped on something hollow. I stooped down and pushed away at the shrubs at my feet, revealing a trapdoor made of dark wood. I looked at it for a few minutes, trying to work out why it was there. My cousins had told me that there was a network of old mine shafts built into these hills, but they'd been disused for a hundred years.

This trapdoor, however, looked relatively new and sturdy, not at all decrepit or rotten. Perhaps someone had put the old mining tunnels to new use. I remember that I lifted up the lid and it came out of the ground with a creek and a suck of air. The shaft beyond was dark and deep, a ladder leading downwards into the abyss. A strange smell wafed up towards me on a gust of dead air, not pleasant. It smelled like an animal had got in there and had never got out. Today, I can't remember what possessed me to climb down there. It could have broken, and I could have fallen to my death.

I don't know how far down the shaft went. I could have been falling forever. But I was a kid, and I was stupid. So I climbed down into the hole. I found that the ladder only went down a short distance, and then there was a short drop onto a dirt floor. It was dark down their shaft, almost pitch black, with what little light there was coming through the trapdoor in the ceiling. The tunnel seemed as if someone had excavated it further than it would have been when the mine was still operating, and the walls looked like someone had dug them out, making more room for the passage of a person's body.

I was planning on just going a few steps into the tunnel in front of me, enough to have a story to tell my cousins, then running back down the hill to the farmhouse, in time for dinner and boasting about my adventure. However, a sound from deeper within the tunnel made me pause. It sounded like a whimper, like an injured animal, a dog maybe. I've always had a soft spot for dogs, and the idea that one had fallen down the shaft and been hurt plagued my mind.

What's more, when I strained my eyes, I thought I could see a faint light coming from the end of the tunnel. A soft light just on the edge of perception. The whimpering sound came again from that direction, and I resolved to follow it. As I continued down the tunnel, my eyes became accustomed to the darkness. I realized that under these hills was a maze of different disused mine shafts. As I could see tunnels branching off at regular points, many so small I would have to crawl through them, even as a teenager. The unpleasant smell grew stronger, as did the sound of moaning, and I braced myself to find the animal in a dreadful state. The light that I could see in the

distance was getting brighter, and I decided that it must be daylight streaming in from another opening into the mine. By the light it afforded me, I made my way into a sort of chamber that opened out from the main tunnel and was obviously used for storage back in the days this mine operated. There were still crates, broken and dusty now littering the floor. I saw that behind a pile of long rotted sacking was a small hole, big enough for me to crawl through in the craggy wall of the mine. I got down onto my knees in the dirt and peeked through. At first, all I could see was darkness. Then I made out a shape, right in the back of the antechamber I was peering into. It was a huddled shape, small and ragged, like a dog curled in on itself in pain.

The whimpering sound was coming from this creature. Poor boy, I said, trying to work out how to squeeze into this little room and bring the dog out to safety. As I spoke, it froze and stopped that low, keening noise. it had been making. It stayed curled up on the ground. I could just about see that, but it was suddenly quite still. I got down on my knees and crawled through the hole into the dark. I had just about enough room to stand up in the dingy space. I made my way over to the huddled dog, which I could now see was shivering wildly. Suddenly, I saw something that made me stop dead. A hand. A human hand, or humanoid at least.

I could see that underneath the dirt and grime was white skin and cracked, sharpened nails. As I took this in and began to back away, slowly I was still in shock. The thing began to turn towards me. In the gloom I could see it was hairy, wild black hair that looked coarse and matted. And as its face looked up at me, I thought I could make out a gloom. glittering malevolent eye. It groaned low in its throat and began to drag itself towards me, painfully slowly, like it had no use of its legs.

It smelled like the rotted gases of an unopened coffin, and it moaned and moaned like a dying animal. I yelled and banged my head on the earthen wall, scrabbling to get out. As I crawled back through the hole in the wall, I could feel its hair brush my naked shin. Feel its hands, its claws, pulling on the leg of my jeans. When I stood up, I began to run blindly back up the tunnel that I had come from,

and as I cast a look over my shoulder, I saw that glittering eye looking back at me. The moans had turned into screeching, tortured screams that seemed to come from all sides. And they were coming from all sides, I realized as I sprinted for the light of the trapdoor. There was more than one of those things down there. Those shuddering, groaning things. And I could hear their yells of frustrated hunger from all around. As I grabbed for the ladder that would lead back up to salvation, I glanced around and saw three of the dark creatures crawling across the dirt floor towards me,

their eyes shining in the dark. I yelled again and sped up the ladder, slamming the trapdoor closed as soon as I reached. the top. I was 15 that summer, 10 years ago now, and I'm telling this story for the worst reason possible. My uncle died recently, and his funeral was held three days ago. So, being a dutiful nephew, I went back to attend it. This meant entering that old farmhouse, which I hadn't returned to since I was a teen. I'd never really explained to my relatives why I suddenly stopped wanting to spend summer at their house, just as I'd never told them.

anyone about what I'd seen. How could I? What I'd seen wasn't human, but it wasn't animal either. It was monstrous, and it came back to me again as I stood at my uncle's graveside. The reading of his will was due to commence an hour after the funeral, but as I looked up at those hills surrounding the valley, those woods that held those terrifying tunnels, I was struck with an insane desire to return. I was 25, and two old. to be frightened by things that went bump in the night. I had been haunted by nightmares ever since that summer, and I had a sudden thought that returning might help me lay those ghosts to rest. The wake was being held at the house, only 20 minutes walk from the graveyard. Some mourners,

including my cousins, had chosen to head back on foot, and I joined them. I split off from the main party after a little while, though, telling my cousins I had an errand to run. Maybe it was the sobering quiet of the graves, or the thought of my kindly uncle's slow descent into the depression which had ended his life, but I had been suddenly struck with the urge to find that trapdoor again, to find that spot in the woods which held the entrance to those awful tunnels. I think I managed to convince myself that if I could just take a peek inside and come away from there not scared out of my mind, then maybe the whole thing had been only a nightmare or some, crazy fever dream. In any case, I reasoned, the worst I could find would be a perfectly normal feature of the old mines, some disused tunnel and perhaps equipment, nothing supernatural there. Then perhaps my memories would leave me alone forever. Yes, that was a good idea. The sun was just as hot on the back of my neck as I made my way up out of the valley and into those woods.

although the day was stiller and much quieter than I remembered. No cricket sung. I quickly reached the place where I remember the trapdoor being, my adult stride far outmatching that of my 15-year-old self. Besides, now I had a purpose, and that drove me on faster than I could have believed. As I came to the spot, I saw that someone had placed wooden boards over the top of the door,

and I felt a surge of both disappointment, and relief as I realized that the shaft had been nailed shut from the outside. Nails had been bolted haphazardly into the wood, sealing up the opening with a finality that made my stomach sink. I considered my options. Should I turn back and let the past, and those creatures that haunted my waking dreams, stay buried in those mines? Or should I go down to the farmhouse and get a hammer, maybe a pickaxe, and force my way through the sealed trap door into the darkness beyond? I had come too far to turn away, I decided. Ten years too far.

After returning to the house to retrieve the tools I needed from the old shed, and avoiding my cousins, who surely would think me insane if they saw me sneaking out of the wake with a pickax, I was back at the scene of my nightmares. 30 minutes later, after prying up each and every nail and pulling aside the lengths of wood that covered it, I was looking down at that same trap door. The smell when I opened it was even more revolting than I remembered.

A gust of hot, stinking air hit me in the face, and I wretched. The smell of raw sewage, and also, inexplicably, something kind of fruity and sweet. But not in a pleasant, tuti-fruity kind of way. More like food that had been left out in the damp too long and was only good for flies. I shivered despite the extreme heat and clambered down into the shaft. I had come prepared this time, bringing with me a flashlight that I used now to illuminate my surroundings. I saw that the tunnel I was following was much the same as I remembered ten years before, perhaps a bit smaller, or maybe it was the same one and I had just grown too big.

But the same winding system of tunnels and shafts branched out from this main line I was making my way down. I soon came to the big storage chamber, and I tensed. The thought of carrying on into that place where I had seen, or had thought I'd seen, those things were terrifying to me, despite the rationality that adulthood was supposed to have brought. I had proven enough just by coming this far, I decided, and needn't go any further. Besides, the reading of the will was due to start soon, and I had to get back. I was just turning around to go back up the passageway when a noise came out of the gloom straight from my nightmares. A labored, shuffling sound like a body being dragged across a harsh floor. Slow and inevitable, it seemed to be coming towards me.

Did I hear a groan in the darkness? Or was that the memory of long ago playing tricks on me? I cast the beam of my flashlight around wildly, trying to see what was clawing. itself towards me. I backed away from that storage room as fast as I could without taking my eyes off the direction that sound was coming from. In doing so, I think I must have taken a wrong turn because I couldn't feel the comforting bars of the ladder behind me as I backed up to the wall, only dry earth. Just then, the light caught something just on the edge of my vision and all my rational thoughts ceased. A dark head peering around the corner. Hair.

hanging in tangles to the floor and clotted with dirt. And through the grime I could see, that crazed malevolent eye. It was looking straight at me. I screamed again and ran blindly into the dark as I had done so many years ago. I heard a scrabbling behind me as that monstrous creature ran

or crawled or clawed after me. A senseless moaning coming from its throat. As I ran, my flashlight slipped from my fingers and I felt tears of terror slipping down my cheeks. Just at that moment, I ran headfirst into the ladder and, with a relief that was unimaginable, I began to pull myself up. In trying to conquer my demons, I had only ended up repeating that day so many years ago, right down to this very last detail. As I pulled myself out of the darkness and into the light, I looked behind me and saw a glimpse of my pursuer.

Long-limbed and athletic, it seemed to jump and clamber along the very walls of the tunnel, and up towards me. Hastily, I shut the trapdoor lid and ran, only grabbing the hammer in my haste to be away. On reflection, I should have perhaps nailed the boards back over the opening. But then, knowing what I know now, perhaps not sealing the entrance again was the only good thing I have ever lived. done. I was freaked out, of course. That's an understatement. As I came tearing down into the valley, I must have looked like a crazy person, eyes rolling, soaking in sweat and face wet with tears. As I approached my late uncle's house, I slowed down, realizing I was no longer being pursued.

Collapsing on the porch, I reviewed my options. I had to tell the police what I'd seen this time. They wouldn't believe me. They'd think I was mad, but at least they might send a team up into those minds and open them up and release the ghosts within, the ghosts in my mind. And even if they sent me to a mental hospital afterwards, at least I might be free.

But I would have to wait until after the reading of my uncle's will. It was due to begin any minute when I was in no state to walk into a police station at that moment. What would I say? There's a monster in the old minds, send help? I resolved to hear the reading of the will and then decide what to do. They were all waiting for me to take my seat inside anyway. As I sat down, trying to smooth my hair so I didn't look too insane, my uncle's solicitor stood up and cleared his throat. Yes, uh, here. He threw a pointed

look at me. I should like to first read a letter entrusted to me by the deceased, with instructions that it should be read before the will. He produced a sealed envelope and opened it, running his eyes over the first few lines. In accordance with my uncle's apparent wishes, he had not opened it beforehand, and so this was the first time he had heard of its contents, the same as us.

After a few seconds, the solicitor blanched, looked sharply up from the letter at us, and then back down again, before covering his mouth with his hand. My God. What is it? you old fool. My oldest cousin pulled the letter from the solicitor's unresisting hands.

He scanned the first few lines and then his eyes grew wide. An anonymous aunt cried. What's the problem? My cousin exchanged a look with the solicitor, who seemed like he was trying not to be sick. And in an emotionless voice, he read. This is my confession. In the spring and summer of 2007, I kidnapped six children from the local area.

I bound their feet so they could not run and... He faltered, then passed the letter over to me to continue to read as he, like the solicitor, turned pale and started to heave. I read from where he left off. And cut out their tongues so they could not scream. I held them in the old mine. In the winter of 2008, in order that my crime should not be discovered, I killed all but two of them. I left their bodies in the hills.

Those two that evaded me also surely died, as I sealed off the entrance to the shaft. Now I will put a bullet in my head and be done with it. May God have mercy on me. I finished in a voice not much higher than a whisper. There was silence in the room, and almost as one, every gaze went west, towards the wooded hills which could be seen from the window.

Three days later, and we were still struggling to comprehend the horror of what my uncle had done. The police said I had to stay, to be interviewed over and over until my voice was cracked from crying. And I ended up sleeping on the same pull-out couch in the front room which I used to take as a teenager. Things have come full circle. The police sent a team down into the mines. They found five skulls and innumerable other bones. Four skulls grouped together in the same anticham. I had stumbled across ten years ago, and the fifth found a long way deeper in the mine.

All bones showed signs of being gnawed by animals, according to the police sergeant. I wasn't so sure. They were also confident that they would soon find the skeleton of the sixth child my uncle kidnapped, but I wasn't so sure of that either. They dismissed my report of seeing a person down in those tunnels as over-imagination, Probably a coyote with mange, the sergeant had said, and I just looked at him. Whatever I saw down there was gone. Escapeed when I left the trapdoor open.

Free at last, you could say. I kept going around and around the same thought. If only I had told the police what I'd seen all those years ago, I could have saved them. He kept them in the dark for more than a year after I ran across them, feet tied together, tongues stolen. so they couldn't call for help, could only moan for me to help them, and I had only run away. Christ. My cousins took to spending a lot of time out of the house, too disgusted by the memories of their father to live and sleep amongst his possessions. That was understandable, but for me it was the opposite.

My fears were outside of some vengeful malevolence lurking in the long dry grass. That meant I was frequently on my own at night. and that was how I found myself three nights after the funeral. I paced around the ground floor of my cousin's house as all these haunted thoughts ran through my mind. I noticed with a jolt that it was getting dark and I hurriedly went around turning on every single light so that the farmhouse glowed with a comforting warmth.

I didn't want to be left in the dark ever again. I kept looking out of the window, up at the hills. I knew what I had seen down there, despite what the police had to say. I knew what I had condemned that poor soul to all those years ago. It, or she, or he, was gone, perhaps to a home so long ago lost, and for that I was glad. And yet I still didn't want to be left alone in the dark. I ended up lounging on my couch bed, too full of all these thoughts to sleep. The house was quiet and I needed some distraction, so I switched on the TV.

Reception there was terrible, and I could only get one channel. Some stupid comedy show. The husband is dumb, the wife is long-suffering, everybody laughs. I sat and chewed my nails, rising yet again to look out of the window. I absent-mindedly ran my hand through my hair. Then I froze. In front of me, out the window, my shadow counterpart was spread out on the ground. One hand raised.

The light behind me was blazing, and I suddenly realized that with all the lights on in the house, it could be seen for miles around. The farmhouse is the only building in the valley, and it was shining like a beacon. Frantically, I ran through the rooms of the house, slamming off all the light switches, skidding on the smooth floorboards and my haste. The beacon is extinguished, the house now in darkness. No one could see me now, I thought. I was scared in the gloom, but I was safe. I curled up on the couch and absent-mindedly brushed a wad of dog hair off it with my feet. I thought about watching some more TV, but the idea of making any noise and broadcasting my presence terrified me. I was just thinking that perhaps I was overreacting in starting to feel a little ashamed of myself when I realized something. Boomer died a good five years ago. and his faithful old bones now rested out in the yard. My cousin mentioned that when I first arrived. I looked down at the floor, at that wad of hair.

In the dark, I couldn't make it out so well, but it looked longer than dog hair, thick and matted. Terra gripped me again, sharp and urgent, and I cast my gaze wildly around the room. I could make out a shape at the other end of the couch. I froze, unable to look away, squinting to make out any features in the shadow. Then, the thing moved closer, and I... Staring back at me was a single...

Manic. 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.

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