The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E18

Episode Date: September 10, 2017

It's episode 18 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about agonizing accommodations, anatomical angst, and augmented awareness. "I Live in Her Walls"† written by Olivia White and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:05:50) "The Girls of Green Meadow"‡ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Matthew Bradford & Dan Zappulla & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:36:10) "The Kings Inn Motel"† written by Jay N. and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Addison Peacock & Erin Lillis & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:55:20) "Apotemnophilia"‡ written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Kyle Akers & Corinne Sanders & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:14:50) "Gateway into Dreams"† written by Leo Harrison and performed by Dan Zappulla & Jessica McEvoy & Atticus Jackson & Jesse Cornett & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 01:37:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to join the NoSleep Facebook Fan Page   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "I Live in Her Walls" illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy 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

Hey, Mike, heading into the booth. Oh, you bet. Lots to record today. Before you do, I'd like to get your opinion on something. Ooh, new microphones? You want me to try out some new mics? What do you got? Condensers, dynamics, ribbons. Easy there, booth junkie.

No, it's not mics. It's some of the new snacks from NatureBox. Oh, NatureBox. Sure, can do. You know what? That's my new snack obsession. Are these some of the new snacks they add every month? You know what? I love how they create snacks inspired by professional chefs

and the latest food trends. I know, right? Here, tell me what you think of these aged cheddar lentil loops. Hmm. These are awesome. What else you got? And how about these honey crunch crisps?

Oh, and try these coconut cashews. These are so good. You know what? I really should get my own Nature Box. The snacks don't last long here in the studio. Yeah, especially with Jessica around. Yeah, getting your own Nature Box is easy. Right now, NatureBox is offering no sleep fans

50% off their first order when they go to naturebox.com slash no sleep. Wait, wait a 50% off my first order? You're saying, I can get a selection from naturebox's 100 plus list of high-quality snacks made with simple ingredients with nothing artificial in them. Now can I pass that up? Hell, how can anyone pass up the chance to feel good about what they're eating? I love your enthusiasm. Hey, why don't we get you into the booth to record some audio for NatureBox ads. I'll get you to say your snacks can be both delicious and good for you when you up your snack game to Naturebox. You got it. Oops, forgot my water. Hey, why is there no handle in here? The door. It won't open from the inside. That's the idea, Mike. We have a lot of ads for you to record.

Can't have you sneaking out before they're finished. Why do you think I gave you all those nutritious nature box snacks? They'll have to do you a long time. With luck, you'll be out of there in a few weeks. What? Weeks? Hey, you can't do that. What about my wife and kids? No problem.

I'll send them their own Nature Box. After all, they get 50% off their first order. Hey, come back here. Open this door. Hey, let me out of here. You can't keep me in here like this. Come back. Remember, NatureBox is offering No Sleep fans 50% off 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 at your own risk. And tonight's there will be no sleep 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 agonizing accommodations, anatomical angst and augmented awareness. Now that Labor Day is behind us and our thoughts turn to autumn or fall, it's only natural that we think about leaves changing, pumpkins ripening,

and of course the steady march towards the horrifying month of Halloween. We're going to be doing a lot of exciting things as we head towards the big day. There will be contests and chances to win some very special prizes. Some will be open to everyone and some will involve our Halloween Live in Toronto show. If you haven't already, make sure you join our Facebook fan page

because some of the contests will happen through that great group of fans. Now over 5,500 members large. You folks are awesome. And before we start the show, I want to mention one thing about what's happening in the here and now. I don't often reference real world events on the show,

but when this episode comes out on the weekend of September 9-10, our dear friends and fans in Florida will be enduring the wrath of Hurricane Irma. We hope everyone will be safe and find refuge from the storm. After the events in Texas a short time ago, it makes us very aware that the extended no-sleep family is being impacted by these terrible storms. As we did with Hurricane Harvey, we'll be donating money to help Florida recover.

I hope all who are able will also, consider donating to help the people of Florida and the Caribbean. So in both our playful horror way and in a very serious literal way, please brace yourself. And now it's time to start the show. In our first tale, we hear a strange story from a notebook found in an old house. As author Olivia White describes, it's written by a man who was previously squatting in the house and perhaps has never left. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Erica Sanderson, and Nicole Goodnight. So let's listen to what the man claims about the house, or as he says, I live in the walls. I'm a real estate agent, fairly new to the job. We're currently

repping a house on behalf of the bank. The house was handed to me two days ago. Sometimes if the previous tenant has died or disappeared, they leave all their belongings behind. I'm something of an amateur historian, and so occasionally I go looking through these belongings. Their property of the bank anyway, and usually come part and parcel at the house for any new buyers. Yesterday I was surveying the property and I came across a notebook, just resting on the desk in a study, right there, as if it wanted me to find it. It didn't look that old. When I opened it, the words inside were written in crayon, but clearly in an adult's handwriting. The contents are fairly disturbing. My boss has prohibited me from taking it to the police. He says it's fiction and it'll be a waste of their time.

Maybe he's right. But as per the instructions in the text, I'm showing them here just in case. My name is Chris. I'm 26 years old. I'm a former IT technician. I'm survived by my mom, my dad, My sister and buddy, the family dog. I used to have an apartment. I used to have a life. Now, I live in her walls. For reasons I won't go into, I was made jobless and homeless. I could have reached out to my family.

I should have. But I've always been a stubborn guy, and I wanted to handle this myself. My family aren't exactly rich. I didn't want to be a burden. I'd get back on my feet. It wouldn't be hard. It was harder than I anticipated. Nights of sleeping rough or cowering in a shelter.

My bag clutched to my chest out of fear of being shanked by one of the city's more hopeless destitutes. An ache in my body that seeped into my very bones, for which seemingly no warmth could serve as a panacea. An ache I dulled with alcohol. eventually prescription drugs, illicitly obtained from an old wino in the 6th Street shelter, who always seemed to have a healthy supply. By the time I was in desperate need of help, I was too far gone to acknowledge it. I spied the house by chance, exploring a new neighborhood for some prospective panhandling. I scoped it out for days. It was an unassuming Victorian house

in the good part of the city, a for-sale sign swinging old and frigging. gotten in the overgrown yard. White paint with blue trim, lace curtains, and most importantly, a window into the basement that I could easily jimmy. I lurked in the area, watching the house. Nobody was coming or going. It was clear to me that nobody lived there. But still, despite my alcohol and drug-addled brain, I was cautious. I made sure. All I wanted was a safe. I wanted was a place to sleep for a few nights. I wasn't going to vandalize the property or steal anything. A warm bed, hopefully running water, a place to recuperate and collect myself, away from the comings and goings of others in the same boat as me. Safety, comfort, or the temporary illusion of

such things, an injection of hope to keep me going. As I slid through the basement window on that faithful Friday night. Hope was on my mind. This could be the turning point for me. Collect myself, get healthy, move on with the owners, none the wiser. Maybe finally, reach out to my family. Hope. It's what I felt as I dropped onto the bare concrete floor. My eyes adjusting to the cell are dark. Hope. The house doesn't represent hope. It's the plane. where hope comes to die. Upstairs, every surface was coated in a thin layer of dust. Nothing severe, but enough to tell me that my suspicions were correct. The house was empty. It was decorated like your standard townhouse, old-fashioned furniture, perhaps from the 60s,

beige carpets, nigg-knacks in the living room. A locked door downstairs led to a study, perhaps. grandfather clock stood in the hall, silent and unwound. My feet squeaked over the tile floor as I headed toward the stairs, and I winced at the sound, even knowing I was alone. The house felt empty, an old musty smell wafted through the rooms, the ghost of an old inhabitant perhaps, which hadn't been aired since they departed. They left of their own volition, and they left of their own volition, and they died? Something told me the latter. But even the prospect that they might have expired in the house didn't sway me.

My legs ached, my head hurt. I needed my pills and I needed rest. Upstairs promised a bed, a soft mattress, a respite. The master bedroom had all the trappings of his and hers cohabitation, A king-sized double bed took up most of the room, opposite which I spied a built-in wardrobe into which I peered. An old lady's dresses and an old man's suits hanging mothballed from hangers, smelling faintly of mildew. I noticed a hatch at the back of the wardrobe, which I figured must lead to further storage space. A vanity table sat by one window, a chest drawers on the opposite.

wall. The small bedside clock worked, thankfully, and I could see it was nearly midnight. I could explore the rest of the house tomorrow. Right then, I needed rest, suddenly and absolutely. I collapsed onto the bed so soft, softer than I had felt in months. Just before I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, it struck me that I hadn't seen a single photograph. in the house, not framed on a mantle or hanging on the walls. It wasn't too strange, I thought. The previous occupants must have taken them. My brain, asleep deprived, didn't consider the fact that they'd taken nothing else. I woke to sunlight streaming through the window. I felt rested, recovering, and yet strangely alert.

On edge, wary. Had something woken me? It took just a second to realize what? From outside of the room, I heard footsteps, slow and deliberate. And then, a cheerful humming. The voice sounded feminine. Old. Oh, shit.

And the old lady really come back? Suddenly? Of all the awful luck, scrambling out of the bed, eyes darting around the room. I couldn't leave. Lord knows where she was in the house. Sure, I could likely overpower an old woman, but there was no way I was doing that unless I absolutely had to. I'm not a monster. I remembered the crawl space in the built-in wardrobe. It seemed as good an option as any.

I darted to it, pulling it open. A cavernous black space loomed beyond. Without thinking, I pulled shut the wardrobe door behind me and slipped into the darkness. The area I found myself in was cold. I was pressed up against the brickwork, pinned in a claustrophobic corridor between the walls. I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, trying to calm my nerves, then sidled down to a dabbling of light a few feet away. A vent.

Looking into the bedroom, at over six feet tall, I was barely able to peer through, and an old woman entered, a withered, round-shouldered crone who shuffled in, peering around with beady eyes. Her face wrinkled like a prune twitched as if she was sniffing the air. And all the while, a beautiful melodic hum emanated from her lips. The woman moved around the room, tutting, and, and she was, and, you know, and, she was a beautiful melodic hum emanated from her lips. at the unmade bed. I'd hoped that she'd forgotten the state in which she'd left it. Part sank. I see fear gripped my spine.

Beside the bed, I saw it. My worldly possessions. My pills were in there. My booze. My driver's license. Shit! I said a silent prayer that the old woman wouldn't notice. I couldn't afford to be caught.

I couldn't. During my homeless days, I'd been arrested. it twice. Once for aggravated assault against a businessman in a bar who provoked me and looked presentable enough for the law to come down on his side despite witness testimony. Once for public drunkenness, I'd managed to avoid jail time, but I knew if I got outbreaking and entering, they'd lock me up. I wouldn't go to jail. I couldn't, with relief as the old woman turned away from the side of the bed on which my back rested. She shuffled out of view. She shuffled out of view. Towards the vent, I stood up, drifted up into the walls, haunting and soothing. Then the notes

began to transform, shifting into a cruel, cackling laugh. I held firm, heart pounding in my chest. There was no way that little old lady could have seen me in the vent. No way. With a shriek, her withered old face appeared in front of me, staring directly through the vent over six feet high. Her eyes, yellowing and roomy, were wide and malevolent. Her mouth split open in a rictus grin, revealing a smattering of rotten teeth. She shrieked and howled. Eyes locked onto mine gleefully. I stumbled backwards in as little space as I had, cracking my skull against the brickwork behind. Somewhere to my right, I heard a loud metallic slam. The air to the air to tasted suddenly too thin, too clogged with brick dust. I had to get out of there. I no longer cared

about overpowering the old crone. I'd risk it. I stumbled back to the crawl space door. I pushed on it. Unyielding metal met my touch. I shoved harder, my shoulders meeting brick. Unable to get a good purchase. Nothing. The old woman replied. Her voice muffled by the walls. Welcome home, baby. The words chilled me. They were so emotionless, so rasping, and yet within them dripped a menace I could yet barely comprehend,

explored inside those walls for three whole days. There was no way in or out, save for the immovable crawl space door through which I'd entered. It soon became clear to me that the house had been designed, so that passage inside the walls was possible. To get between floors, there were vertical shafts lined with metal rungs. Three accessible floors I discovered. I couldn't reach the basement via the walls, but I could freely explore the first floor, as well as the second floor at which I'd entered. Then there was the attic. After a day of searching, of screaming, of tracking the old woman

between rooms only to be ignored every time, I poked my head out of the shaft leading to the top floor. Here I found a larger open space, almost fit for human habitation. A filthy mattress lay in one corner, sands, sheets, or bedding, and the other was a toilet also filthy, but fully functional. A journal, oddly new and dust-free, rested on the mattress alongside a pack of crayons. The floor made of bricks, looked recently swept. The old woman had clearly been here at some point in the recent past. I looked around for another entrance. There was none.

This meant the old crone had crawled through the walls herself to get here. While searching for an exit, I made a grisly discovery. In an alcove high up on the wall, three skulls sat leering down at me. Hesitantly, I reached out for one looking for something, anything I could use as a tool, a means of escape. and the skulls were cemented in place. They felt like a message. Two further days passed,

during which time I slept on the dirty mattress in between searching desperately for an escape. I was starving, thirsty, delirious from malnutrition, dehydration, and fear. Every time I slid through the walls, I felt the brick pressing down on my chest. as if the house itself was squeezing the life from me. On the third day, throat dry and hoarse from screaming. I made my way down to the kitchen vent and saw the old woman preparing a bloody meal at the counter.

Strands, a stringy meat parted under her large gleaming knife. I eyed the blade with longing. unsure what I could achieve with it, nevertheless the weight of the knife in my hand would have made me feel better. Instead, I begged for food and water. The old woman looked at the vent and gave me a smile. Her teeth were stained with blood, and she chewed on a raw cut of the meat. I caught sight of the garbage can and saw what looked like a. a cat's tail hanging over the edge.

My gorge rose in my throat, and I stifled a cry, all the while hunger bubbled in my belly. Please, I need to eat. The old woman sculled towards me and momentarily disappeared out of my sight. When her face appeared in the vent, I was too tired and drained to eat. even react. I had no idea how

she'd gotten up so high. A chair position beneath, maybe. The whole process had been silent. Or perhaps in my state I simply hadn't noticed. I'll feed you, baby. I let out a cry

of relief and thanks. But no, you listen. I'll feed you, but only if you're good. No funny business, Bobby, you hear? Because I'll know. I'll know. You go up to your bedroom like a good little girl and I'll ring the bell for you. Come to the door in the bedroom and nice treats you'll away.

Understand, baby? I didn't have the energy to question her or ask why she was calling me a good little girl. Or back chat in any way. I simply nodded, sniffling back tears, and began the long crawl back to my room. The old woman kept her promise, and when a tinkling bell echoed throughout the interior of the house, I made my way down to the metal door and found a steaming plate of cooked meat waiting for me. My stomach ached, and I was too ravenous to think too hard about it. I wolfed it down on the spot, swigging from the plastic water bottle beside it.

This routine continued for a week. My body felt like it was atrophying. The withdrawal symptoms from the alcohol and pills had kicked in full force now. And simply dragging myself up and down the shafts was an effort I could rarely expend. Mostly I laid, wretched in my filthy attic room, emerging only to retrieve the daily meals the old chrome provided. After seven days, my strength felt like it was returning, and I decided to wait by the metal door,

hoping I could surprise the old woman when she came to feed me. She never came, nor did she come for the next three days. Your punishment, baby. She crowed from the study when I tracked her there, begging and pleading. She barely even looked up from the old book she was examining. I never tried that again. Instead, I began to chronicle my experiences in the journal. This seemed to please the old woman, despite my lack of mentioning the procedure,

and I was granted a little more food in two bottles of water a day. I kept up the writing after that. I'm up to date now. Yesterday, I awoke in fear from a particularly restful deep sleep. I was sure somebody else was in my room. I scrambled up the mattress, croaking in fear and warning. In the darkness, I could make out a pink shape in the corner, As sleep slipped away and my night vision returned, I could make out what it was.

A dress. I walked over to it hesitantly. For my pretty little girl, a note read, an elaborate cursive. I looked down at the dress. My own clothes were filthy, stained with dirt and dust, and God knew what else. They itched. I felt disgusting. My beard, which had grown busy and unruly, itched too, and my hair fell greasy and vile.

A change of clothes at the very least would have been welcome. But this was preposterous. The idea of wearing a pink woman's dress fell degrading. I ignored the gift, kicking it angrily into the corner. Later, I found myself spying on the bathroom. I previously always avoided that room after checking early on for viable escape routes. The last thing I wanted to see was that old bat showering. That day, though, simply staring longingly at the clean, tiled bathroom was a luxury I decided to allow myself.

To my horror, the old woman entered. thankfully fully dressed. She didn't look up at me as she proceeded to clean the sink. You're not wearing your present. Her back was to me. Her voice gentle, but with an air of menace. How the hell did she even know? She can only see my face through the vent.

And she hadn't even looked at me. My head swam with anger. Fuck your present! I knew as soon as I said it that it was a mistake. The old woman whirled around, her face contorted into a wrinkled ball of menace. Baby, I will not tolerate that language. You're a bad, disgusting girl, and I'm starting to regret ever allowing you into me home. Yes. I'm an awful.

I'm a terrible house guest. You should throw me out. Let me go. I won't tell anyone. I won't. I'm to a shame of what a bad guest I've been. I'll just go and get out of your life. Leave you in peace.

The crone threw her head back and let out a shrill, hooting cackle. Woo, baby thinks I'm soft in the head. Some senile old bathe. Well, I'll tell you, your little brat. Our current president is Trump. It's August 2017. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and my name is... She paused.

And I'm waited with bated breath. I'd learned absolutely nothing about. my captor. If I could call her by name, maybe that would shift the power balance at least slightly. Ah, yeah. Anyway, Bobby, if you don't like your guess, maybe I'll find someone who will. The idea of having company, as macabre and selfish as it was, gave me a spike of optimism. Perhaps with two of us escape would be more forthcoming. I live in her walls. I live in her walls and I need to get out.

A week has passed since my last entry. I've been too afraid to write, too afraid to let my guard down. She's in every room now. Everywhere I go, she's there. humming and guffawing and staring at me. Her face pressed to the vent, impossibly high. Her eyes grow more deranged by the day. It's like she's excited, like she's waiting for something.

I need to get out. Things have been strange in the house lately too, stranger than usual. I keep hearing other voices. emanating from the rooms. But when I make my way to them, it's only the old woman there. But I definitely hear others. Men, women, children. Something's going on in the house. It's maddening, always just out of my line of sight. Always moving when I chase it down. The rooms are changing too, I think. I found myself inside the walls of a room I'm sure I've never seen before. Or perhaps it was the basement. Perhaps I got down there without realizing it. It's a large room lit by candles, decorated with

black drapes. There's a table in the middle. Can't quite see. The old woman wasn't in that room, but nonetheless, I was sure I wasn't alone. I thought I could hear breathing. deep and heavy just below the grate. I scrambled away, pulling myself through the tight gaps. Somehow I found the route back to my room. It took hours. I got lost inside the bricks of this infernal house. I'm scared to explore any further.

I'm scared of where I might end up. The walls are closing in on me. The house feels like it's getting tighter around. me. She's stopped feeding me. I haven't eaten five days. Early move. It's all I can do to muster the strength to leave these final words. Should my words be found along with my body, I need to find her to make them public. I need my mom, my sis, to know that I didn't abandon them. I need to warn you never to enter the house on Hallamere Lane need to be able. Strength, because I'm not alone anymore.

I can hear them creeping through the tunnels, sliding through the gaps. I live in her walls. And now there's someone. So there you go. I don't like being in this house anymore. I called up the bank and asked how the problem. property came into their possession. The old woman who owned it died, they said, but she died years and years ago, mired in debts. She lost her daughter, and then her husband, and it was the beginning of the

end. Somehow the property got lost in the system, and it was only recently that the bank discovered it was their asset. I checked in the wardrobe, of course. There's no crawl space there, just a blank, solid wall. I keep trying to dismiss the notebook as a flight of fancy. A story planted there for someone's amusement. A prank on the new girl on my boss's behalf, maybe. But I've been in that house a lot these last two days, preparing it for sale. And every time I'm there, I hear scratching in the walls. Movement.

I keep feeling like I'm being watched from the vents that line every room. I hate being there. The walls feel like they're closing in. I'm in the house now, in fact, finishing up before I leave for the day. I can hear movement in the walls again. I keep telling myself it's rats. Just rats. But it doesn't sound like rats.

I think I need to leave. If your town or neighborhood has an area with old abandoned buildings, you can be sure the local bored teenagers will make their way there. But as author S.H. Cooper explains, in this abandoned development, one boy soon discovers a disturbing connection to a house which, might not be entirely empty. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Dan Zapula, and Nicole Doolin. So let's hear the deeply disturbing tale about the Girls of Green Meadow.

Once upon a time, my hometown decided it wanted to try to get its name on the map. It was the height of the real estate bubble, and people were buying, developers were building, and our small city was looking forward to a sudden and steady growth spurt. The thing about bubbles, though, is that they have a tendency to burst. When the market crashed, a ripple effect followed. All those eager new homeowners looking forward to their gated communities and McMansions disappeared. With the money gone, the builders followed suit, taking with them all their promises of revitalization for our tired area.

The jobs that had been promised to all the local contractors dried up, and many, including my dad, were left scrambling for work. The only sign that any progress might have been made were a few plotted out neighborhoods, some little more than cleared land with spray-painted lines running across the ground, while others boasted a few almost complete homes. All that had been left to do was slap up some paint inside and sign the paperwork for it to be somebody's home. Regardless of how far along they were, each development had been given some high-class-sounding name to set them apart from the rest of us non-association member peasants, Deerun, High Creek, Maple Terrace. The one closest to me, set back behind a line of thick hedges, was Green Meadow.

It was one of the, what could have been, neighborhoods, with a few paved streets and a handful of houses that had been so close to being finished. After construction halted, they'd simply been left behind. Large empty shells of two-story dreams that weren't going to come true. With no one to claim them, they sat, vacant and unsupervised. It was awesome for me and my friends, a bunch of teenage boys with too much time and not enough to fill it. It wasn't hard to get into the houses. The locks were a joke, more for show than security, and my best best. Buddy Evan was able to pick most of them. Those that he couldn't just had us going around to

the back of the house to break windows so we could climb in. You would think we'd get bored running between the half dozen empty buildings, each almost identical to the last, but we found ways to keep ourselves entertained. Mostly it was just me, Evan and Buck, but sometimes Evan's older brother, Phil, would bring a few guys around to hang. They were mostly, friendly, showed us skateboarding tricks in the cement basins that would have been in-ground pools, even let us have a few sips of the cheap beers they sometimes brought. At 14, nothing was cooler than having those 17- and 18-year-olds around. Green Meadow became our summer escape, one we thought that everybody else had forgotten about, until the girls started showing up. July had hit us hot and heavy, so we'd started going over to

the green in the early evening, when the houses didn't quite feel like ovens. It was just me and Evan that night. Buck had gone away to camp, and we were sitting in one of the upstairs windows firing his paintball gun at some beer cans we'd set up in the driveway. It was Evan's turn, and he was taking his time, painstakingly lining up each shot, only to miss and then demand a redo, and I was getting bored. My gaze wandered idly from the paint splattered driveway, followed a crack in the pavement across the street to the house across the way it looked dark inside from where we were standing same as all the others so when I realized someone was looking back from one of the second-story windows I recoiled slightly with a soft gasp from what I could make out in the

dusky light it was a girl younger than us with oddly chopped uneven hair that hung limply around her face. Her pale features contrasted sharply with the shadows around her. We stared at each other, both completely still, until I'd shaken my surprise enough to nudge Evan, who'd been too distracted with his shooting to notice. Knock it off, Greg. It'll be your turn when... Dude, look. I cut him off with a jab to his shoulder and pointed across the way. But the little girl was gone. Stop trying to creep me out. She's got to still be in there. Let's go look. Maybe she's lost or something.

I was already heading towards the stairs. Evan groaned, but followed. If this is some kind of trick, I'm going to shoot you in the balls. No, man, I swear, she was looking right at us. We called out as soon as we got inside, letting the girl know that we wanted to help her. With the evening fast turning into night, an inky blackness was starting to settle over the house.

making it seem almost unfamiliar. Still, thoughts of my own little sister, half my age and still afraid of the dark, made me creep forward. I wouldn't want her left alone and afraid in this kind of place. Evan hesitated in the entryway, but when I hissed that he was chicken over my shoulder, he followed.

Our footsteps sounded all too loud in the otherwise still and silent house. The further in we went, the faster my heartbeat, until I could feel it pounding in my chest. I tried to tell myself that there was nothing to be afraid of, but every creek of the stairs as we ascended was like a protest aimed at that very thought. Behind me, Evan stuck close, at least letting me know I wasn't alone in my nervousness. We stood at the second floor landing,

peering down the hall towards the room where I thought I'd seen the girl. I could barely bring my voice above a whisper. Downstairs, a door slammed somewhere in the house. That was all it took for me and Evan to turn tail and scramble back down the steps. We'd practically tripped over each other and our desperate flight out the front door, and didn't stop running until we'd cleared green metal completely, and were standing under a streetlight on the sidewalk leading home. What was that?

I could only shrug. Maybe the wind? Or the girl? Could have run out when we were upstairs. Maybe? I wasn't sure he even believed she'd been there at all, but he didn't seem to want to argue the point. We parted ways and went home,

where I slept with a flashlight next to my pillow. We made excuses to ourselves, to each other, and to Phil and his friends about why we didn't want to go back to Green for a while. While neither Revin nor myself would admit we'd been scared out loud, whenever we considered going back, we were reminded of the darkness and that slamming door. It wasn't until Phil offered to let us set off some fireworks he had in one of the unfinished pools that we went back. There was just something about fire and explosions that we couldn't pass up. With Phil and his friends there, it was easy to forget that we'd ever been afraid,

and we enjoyed a few hours of lighting bottle rockets and bike riding along the pool's edges. We hardly even noticed when the sun started to go down. One by one, Phil's friends started to leave until it was only the three of us left. Phil turned to Evan. We should get going. Mum will kill me if you're out late. Fine. Evan agreed before setting off another firecracker.

We left the mess of burned up papers and wrappings behind and crossed between houses to get to the road. Phil was talking to us about something, but I found my attention slipping from him and turning to that house. The one I'd seen the girl in. Unconsciously, my eyes flipped up to the window where I'd seen her last. She was there again, once more looking out at me with that blank, colorless expression. This time, though, she wasn't alone. A second girl. This one a bit closer to me in a half.

age was standing behind her. She had a similar haircut, jagged and short. But instead of watching us go by impassively, she was scowling. As we walked past the house, the front door swung open. All three of us froze for a moment, unsure of how to react, until Phil started to laugh. I couldn't help but think it sounded uneasy, but joined along anyway. Door probably wasn't latched. I could tell he was trying to play off his fright.

Yeah. Evan was quick to agree, but I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was, that this was the same house with the little girl. Before I could tell them to look up, Phil was ushering us along again, reminding Evan that their mom was waiting. I glanced back just once, just long enough to see the little girl still standing in the window.

just long enough to see the older one in the front doorway. Her mouth open and twisted all too wide in a silent, angry scream. She lifted her hand and pointed at me. I didn't tell the guys what I'd seen. One, because I wasn't sure what it really was, and two, because I didn't want Phil to think I was a big baby. They must have been able to tell I was freaked out, though, because they walked me all the way home before doubling back to where

their own place. I hurried inside and tried to make it up to my room before my parents noticed, but my mom caught me halfway up the steps. Whoa, slow down, Russ. I want to talk to you. I got to go to the bathroom. I was hoping she'd just let me go. I was still shaken by what I'd seen and just wanted to hole up in my room and watch TV until I forgot about it. It'll only take a minute. I don't want you staying out after dark anymore. Some kids have gone missing... Okay, fine. Sure. I gotta go. I dashed the rest of the way upstairs before she could argue. I heard her sigh, the put-upon sound of a teen's mother, but she didn't follow. My plan had been to keep myself distracted with light and noise until I fell asleep.

Seeing the little girl by herself had been unsettling enough on its own, but there was something about the other one and the way she'd pointed after me that really got under my skin. I buried myself under my comforter and swore I wouldn't go back to Green Meadow for a while. I was able to drift off after a couple hours. My thoughts clouded with the bright, colorful nonsense of Dragon Ball Z. My room was dark when I was wrenched into wakefulness sometime later. The lights I'd left on, the TV, my computer screen, all switched off. A tingling icy sweat beat it along my forehead, and I tried to sit up, tried to move at all, but my body was unresponsive.

I remained stretched on my back, unable to do anything but roll my eyes wildly around in their sockets. I couldn't even scream. Something moved in the far corner of my room. My eyes so wide that they ached, swiveled instinctively towards it. The older girl was standing there. rigid and straight and still scowling. She took a stiff step forward, and then another, and then I blinked. She was at my bedside, one hand poised over my neck.

I made a muffled gurgling sound in the back of my throat that was supposed to be a scream. Her fingers, icy and hard, pressed against my flesh. I wasn't in my room anymore. I wasn't myself anymore. I was in a dark place, terrified. My mouth gagged. Someone was dragging me. Every time I struggled, I was hit.

In my face, in my side, they didn't care. I knew that. I felt it. They didn't care. And it scared me most of all. The blindfold covering my eyes slipped just a little, but enough. I could tell I was in a big house, unfinished and empty, but not much else. He had me by the hair, that tall boy who I thought was so cute.

The one who said he'd give me a ride home when he saw me walking down the sidewalk after I'd finished my shift at work. I'd only been in his car for a minute before he'd struck me on my head. He didn't care that I couldn't catch my footing on the stairs. He didn't care that I was crying. He didn't care that I was pulling weakly away. He didn't care. The fear and pain that followed.

The violation of my body, the things he did. I had never known that someone could be so cruel. I was barely conscious, barely comprehending, and he was leaning over me, hacking away at my hair with a dull knife already covered in my blood. Out of everything he had done, that was what made me want to ask him why. He had defiled me already.

Why did he have to disfigure me, too? I watched him take handfuls of my shorn hair and shove it in his jacket pockets. A trophy. He had some trouble hauling me up the attic ladder, but he was persistent. There was a box there, a big ice chest that must have been more difficult than me to drag up there. He let me drop to the floor while he undid the padlock and pulled it open. There was already a girl inside. No more than eight or nine.

Her eyes were glassy. Her lips blew. And there was a smell, even with all the ice. Don't put me in there. I tried to beg with my eyes. Don't put me on top of the dead girl. I'm still alive. He lifted me up and dumped me in that ice box on top of that child.

And he closed the lid. Outside. The lock snapped into place. I thought sounded like whispers in the black and the cold. I wasn't. I gasped for air, my eyes coming into focus once more. I was back in my room. I was myself again.

The girl was standing over me, still scowling. But now tears shined in her eyes. Her hand fell away from my throat. She was gone. I woke my parents up with my screaming. Amidst all my babbling and hysterical sobbing, I was able to get out only a single phrase. Phil! It was Phil! Police worked quickly after we called them.

They found the girls, seven-year-old Sue McBride and 19-year-old Olivia Harwell, exactly where I told them they'd be, locked in an ice chest in the attic of one of the unfinished houses in Green Meadow. Sue had been killed about a week before Olivia. Despite his attempts to clean up after himself, Phil had left behind more than enough evidence to convict, but nothing quite so damning as the strands of hair that were found carefully tucked between the pages of a book and the shelf in his room. When asked how I'd known it was him, I made up something about having seen Olivia in his car the night she vanished, and putting two and two together after seeing her picture on the news. I claimed I found the ice chest when playing in the house, but didn't think much of it until later.

They seemed to believe me readily enough, and over time, it got easier to tell the lie. I didn't see Evan much after that, and when I did, he was withdrawn, sometimes angry with me, but mostly just sad. We never spoke about the little girl. We never talked about the night we'd gone into that house looking for her. not knowing that Phil had killed her there just the night before. His family moved away during Phil's trial. I only went back to Green Meadow once, right before they planned to knock all those empty houses down,

and I stood outside the place where Sue and Olivia had died. I looked up into the window where I'd first seen them, the window of the room he'd brutalized them in, where they had been trapped, even after death. I looked up at it and I smiled. A sad but grateful expression. Because there was no one looking back at me. Most people spend the night at a cheap, seedy motel for one of two reasons.

They can't afford anything better or it's suited to certain carnal activities. But there's actually another reason, as we hear from author J.N. and it involves the chance to win a large amount of money. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Adison Peacock, Aaron Lillis, and Atticus Jackson. So whether you're up to no good or trying to win some cash, please reconsider spending the night at the King's Inn Motel. The Craigslist ad didn't say much else, just a local telephone number and address. Call to make your reservation today.

I scoured the ad three times for some catch, some hidden fine print before picking up the phone to dial. I sat up straight in my chair. Yeah, I saw your ad. This prize money, 25 grand? That legit. What's that about? I mean, what do I have to do? Look, dude, it's a promotional thing, I think.

I don't know. I just man the front desk. Stay the night, win the prize. Simple. Yeah, okay, but what's the... It's a double-bed room, $69 a night, non-smoking. Looks like it'll be available Wednesday after four. You want the reservation or no?

$25,000 for one night in some fleabit motel? I gave him my name in particulars and listened as he punched them into a computer. We look forward to seeing you on Wednesday. Please have your ID and a major credit card at check-in. Is there anything else I can help you with this evening? This is some sort of scam, isn't it? No, we're authorized to issue you a certified bank draft come checkout time, assuming you stay in full night. Oh, one more thing. How many other people have won?

But the line had already disconnected. The King's Inn Motel is one of those places. You know the type. Seedy, low slung, red brick buildings, sit back off for the side of some lonely interstate. A humming sign casting neon shades of red and blue over a mostly empty parking lot. It filled with broken bottles and sand. cigarette butts. Kings in with the G broken. Wi-Fi and weekly rates available. Vacancy. An electronic bell buzzed jarringly somewhere in the back as I stepped through the door into the lobby. Inside the air was hot, heavy with the stink of bleach and disinfectant, like the smell of a pool shed

or a nursing home. Chlorinated. The young guy behind the four mic atopped front desk barely looked up from his phone as I approached with my overnight bag. I'm on break. Um, I have a reservation? He dropped his phone to the counter. Oh, so you're the guy. Well, welcome to the King's Inn, where we treat you like royalty. Sorry, they make me say that.

His teeth, when he smiled, they're brown and yellow, leaning drunkenly against one another. License and credit card, please. I slid him across the counter. All right, everything looks good. You'll be in room 205. Housekeeping just finished up in there, so should be nice and clean for you.

End of the row, pass the ice machine. I took my cards back. About this contest. What's the gimmick? Gimic? Yeah, you know, what's the catch? If I knew, I'd tell you, management handles all that.

Can I speak to them? Against the rules. There are rules? He leaned in, conspiratorially. His breath was hot and smelled like garlic bread. If it was me, I'd lock the door, pop a couple Xanics, crawl into bed, and sleep straight through to checkout time. Ah, but that's just me. I nodded as if I understood, and I took the proffered plastic key card.

Checkouts at nine. Enjoy your stay. Room 205 was, indeed, past the ice machine, at the far end of the long, L-shaped arm of the building where it backed up to a dense copse of trees. I parked my car beneath a streetlight and walked the half-dozen yards, passed an endless row of barred windows and cheap plastic patio chairs to the door of Room 205. The door was nothing special, a dented and drab olive green with peeling white stick-on letters above the peephole, and not too dissimilar from a million other such doors lining countless motel corridors from here to Angola.

My room key fit with a tiny thunk in the lock, and I pushed the door inward. Maybe in the moments before I flicked on that overhead light, I expected something different. An axe murderer crouched in the corner, a message dobed in blood above the mirror. Something fantastic or dark. Something worthy of the telling. Instead, the two yellow light shone on a scene that was all too familiar. Coral pink walls that clashed with the jade green. of the carpet, a sickening tableau of stale cigarettes, floral-patterned bedspreads, and faux wood grains. Ooh, I could almost smell the sex, the half-remembered and unfinished axe that lingered hot and filthy on

every surface-like film. Pedantic, yet comforting in its simulacrum of home. I dropped my bag on the small round table to the left of the door and flopped bodily onto the nearest bed. How many unborn babies had seeped into the fabric of these blankets? How many unreceptical loads of cum had sprayed across those pink-tofted headboards? Enough to make it a living sentient thing? I checked my watch. It was a little after six.

Fifteen hours lay between me and that $25,000. What did the guy at the front desk said? Stay the night, win the prize? I grabbed my car keys and headed towards the door. I'd need a pizza or beer if I was going to make it. The air felt different on my return. Used is the best way I know how to describe it. Recycled.

That dry staleness of long disuse shot through with traces of something I couldn't identify, like the final ghostly fingers of someone's cologne. lingering. The TV was on, the usual bevy of infomercials and pay-per-view porn ads, and from where I stood I could see the contents of my overnight bag strewn across the floor. I dropped my pizza and froze, straining for the sound of some hidden intruder. Hello? Silence. I checked the small, dirty bathroom. Nothing. I looked under the bed. No one. I gathered. my things. It was just a change of clothes and some toiletries into a pile and called the front desk.

The guy seemed unconcerned and brushed aside my indignation. There were no other active key cards available for my room, he assured me, and no one had been into the office since my arrival. Were any maids in here while I was gone? Can I switch rooms then? We're all full up. So, you're not going to do anything about the fact that someone's been in my room rifling through my shit? What kind of place is this? I'll log you a complaint and you can take it up with management in the morning. I can offer you a free continental breakfast in the meantime. I hung up.

I'll admit, I thought about leaving right then. Just grabbing my bag and the remnants of my cold pizza and booking it. Home sounded good. Home sounded safe. But the thought of the money stayed my hand. It was past nine now. But more could a few hours. I bolted and chained the door behind me before climbing into the bed.

The sheets, they were thin and rough, hospital quality. They scratched at my legs and the tops of my feet and audibly crinkled when I moved. The pillows were a little more than lumpy plates behind my head. I bathed in the fuzzy blue glow of the late-night TV and fell into a fitful sleep, already counting my winnings. I fumbled in the dark for the jangling cordless phone on the bedside table. Hello? Through bleary eyes, I could just discern the digital alarm clock's glowing yellow time stamp.

2.11 a.m. Thank you to please keep it down. What's that? Do what now? I was finding sure footing in the land of consciousness. Who's this? We've had several noise complaints from guests. Please keep your voices down. It's very late.

Voices? You and your visitor. Look, just keep it quiet, okay, buddy? I sat up like a bolt and felt blindly for the lamp switch, casting the room in a sickly orange glow. Empty. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I rubbed my eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

The room was freezing cold. The drone of the old AC unit under the window rustled those hideous curtains in erratic patterns across the green carpet. Ew. What had he been on about? Something about a guest? I shook my head to try and clear some of the cobwebs. The roof of my mouth felt dry, my tongue bloated and unwieldy.

When I stood to go to the bathroom for a piss and a glass of water, the room seemed to wobble beneath me and I had to steady myself against the TV. I felt sick or slightly tipsy. Like I did when I was six and I had a fever of 102 and the world looked all elastic and shiny. Oh, the bathroom? It was small and grimy. The tub yellowed. I splashed some tap water over my face as I tried to catch my breath.

My cheeks. Ooh, they felt hot. My stomach. Ooh, it roiled. Had the pizza gone bad? I stepped back into the main room as the phone continued to ring. There was that feeling again. That imperceptible otherness.

You know, like that twice diluted stuff you breathe on airplanes. It was a little after. They're 2.30 now. Who was calling? I picked up the phone and punched the green talk button. Hello? The glaring hum of the dial tone was the only response I got. I set the phone back in its cradle. What the... Don't answer that. It's probably Tony. I'm wondering who stole those last five lore tabs. I jumped, as if struck, biting back a scream as I whirled in the direction of the bathroom. A young woman in a loose-fitting sundress was visible through the bathroom doorway.

Her back was to me. Her pelvis was pressed hard against the sink as she applied lipstick to her loamy reflection in the bathroom mirror. Don't tell Tony I'm in here, okay? He'll try and take my jacket. She smiled conspiratorially before climbing into the tub. I crossed the room in three quick strides and grabbed the cheap plastic lining of the shower curtain. Hey, who the fuck are you? I pulled the curtain back with a sharp whisk.

The tub was empty. I turned on the light with a flick of the wrist and stared numbly at the piss-colored grout and linoleum. There was nowhere else to hide. My chest felt tight and my bowels felt twisted. I struggled to catch my breath. Using the wall as a guide rail, I navigated my way back to the bed and sat down amid the tangled sheets. I was going to throw up.

You know what, I, I just, I just needed to lie down. Just rest my eyes, just for a second. That was it. I was sure. I was just, I was just tired, ill. Nothing rest wouldn't put right. Ooh, the pillows felt blissfully soft this time. The sheets satin. How had I misjudge them? In the air. It didn't smell like mold. It was, it was sweet, like fresh laundry. I inhaled deeply through my nose. From the bathroom's dark maw, I heard it. There you go. Go to sleep, baby.

Yes, ma'am. I'll be right here. I could almost feel her lips on my earlobe that time. I could almost smell her earthly perfume. I nodded. Yes. The digital alarm clock now said 304. Surely, it had only been a moment since I closed my eyes.

I found the phone. Yeah. My voice sounded funny, muffled. A wave of static rolled over me. Buzzs and pops and whistles, you know, like a fax machine trying to connect. Hello? Nothing. I closed my eyes.

They felt so heavy. I prepared to press the end on the phone's dial pad when I heard it, barely even there, almost lost among the screeching and buzzing of an unused line. I perked up at the sound of my name, peeled my eyelids open again. Yeah? The words sounded unfamiliar. I couldn't be right. It doesn't want me talking to you. You need to get up.

I struggled into the sitting position, still cradling the phone. Mom, how is this you? You can't be calling. You're dead. You need to get up. Get your keys and get outside now. You can't fall asleep, okay? What about the money? Hurry, Jimmy. I love you. The call ended abruptly. I looked at the phone and thought of my mom. I remember the last time I'd seen her. She looked so small in that coffin, barely filling out her favorite.

pink Sunday dress. A nascent migraine had begun to settle behind my eyes. Whatever Tony said, he's lying. If I turned my head, I could almost see her. A gal Friday, daubing on uneven fingerfuls of mascara. Get your keys? Just go back to sleep, baby. Get outside.

When I stood up too fast, the room spun and I almost fell. I shuffled, barefoot. across the verdant carpet jungle to the table by the door. My keys felt heavy. Baby, where are you going? Get back in bed. We can split this RoxyCodon of them. I need you to wake up.

I grappled with the door lock and chain. My fingers felt stupid, unresponsive. I'm sorry. I have to go. I'm sorry. I pulled too hard and the door swung inward, banging off the drywall with a muffled crunch. Outside, it was early or late, wonderfully cool and still. Rocks and asphalt stung the bottoms of my feet as I stepped off the curb and into the parking lot.

The invisible vice around my chest. The one I hadn't noticed till then, I began to loosen. I staggered over to my car and leaned my forehead against the driver's side window. It felt good just to breathe normally. I climbed behind the wheel and started the car, let off the brake and began to reverse. A loud male voice, dark, bulky silhouette in my taillights. Someone's beating fists on the trunk of my car, grabbing for the door handle. I screamed and threw the car into drive and stomped on the gate.

gas. I shot through the motel parking lot like a bolt scraping sickeningly over speed bumps. I didn't care. I gunned it past the front office, past the neon sign, away from that place and onto the narrow road towards the interstate. I guess I was sleepier than I thought, though. See, I don't remember nodding off behind the wheel and I don't remember the car veering off the road, nor the tree speeding toward me. If I strain, I can vaguely remember the car rolling, a shriek of meddling glass, a well of darkness, finally pulling me in. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Yeah, I heard those words a lot in the coming days.

They were whispered by doctors and nurses, scribbled on charts and forms I was asked to sign. It was almost a week before a police officer, uh, Mitchell, I think his name badge said. filled in the gaps in my memory. Officers responding to calls for motorists on the interstate about an accident near the King's Inn. I'd fainted at the wheel and wrapped my car around an oak tree doing 60 miles an hour. Or maybe it was a maple. Anyway, the first responders pulled me out delirious and screaming about people trying to get me. Well, they thought I was high or concussed.

I still had the key card to room 205 on me, so that, The police made a sweep of the premises. The lights were off in the front office, and the doors both locked. In my room, they found my scattered belongings in an unmade bed. In room 204, they found a gas-powered generator throming away, pumping high levels of carbon monoxide through the air vent that connected the two rooms. 12% concentration, doctors say. Levels that high can cause any number of symptoms.

Nausea, headaches, confusion, auditory, or visual hallucinations. You name it. I thought I was seeing ghosts. Nobody was registered in room 204, and the generator's going to be hard to trace. It's old. Goodbye when just like it at any Lowe's or Home Depot. But we're looking into it.

What about the kid at the front desk? MIA. It looks like a random thing. Some sicko trying to lure people in, gas them up, and do God knows what. You're lucky you had the good sense to run for the door. If you'd fallen asleep, Doc says you might have slipped into a coma. Or worse.

I looked up from the ivy in my arm. Did you find anything else? Officer Mitchell frowned slightly and shifted in his seat by my bed. Like I said, there wasn't nothing in room 204. No prints, no personal effects, except for this. He extended a large, clear, plastic evidence bagged toward me. It was left on the bed in 204. Can't let you keep it, of course.

It's evidence. I squinted at the bag's contents. Cashier's check made out to me for $25,000. And so, another episode has drawn to a close, and our nightmares dissolve into the ether. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com

to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our dark tales will enfelope 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.

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