The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E19

Episode Date: September 17, 2017

It's episode 19 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about terrifying travel through time and space. "Fran and Jock"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Jesse Cornett & Erin Lillis & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 00:03:20) "Don’t Be Last Off The Train"† written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 00:17:00) "My Best Friend's Instagram"† written by Olivia White and performed by Addison Peacock & Kyle Akers. (Story starts around 00:42:30) "The Proposition"‡ written by J.D. McGregor and performed by Dan Zappulla & David Ault & Nichole Goodnight & Erika Sanderson & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 01:04:30) "The Other Side of the Grave"¤ written by Matt Dymerski and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:37:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here for tickets to Halloween Live in Toronto   Click here to see more from Mark Pelham   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about J.D. McGregor     Click here to learn more about Matt Dymerski   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Other Side of the Grave" illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham 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 terror. Terrifying travel through time and space. I'd like to introduce you to a couple of new contributors to our show. The first is artist and illustrator Mark Pelham. Mark lives in the Bay Area of California and has only been into drawing for the past couple of years. He's certainly a fast learner and is inspired by Stephen Gammel of the great scary stories to tell in the dark books. Mark has also done a lot of the art found on our Facebook fan page, so we welcome Mark. to the podcast family. Thanks for sharing your talent with us, Mark. And I'm proud to welcome to the

podcast a gentleman named Jesse Cornett. Jesse is a voice act. Wait, what's that you ask? Jesse has been with us for years, feed the pig and all that. Well, that's true. Jesse has brought his stellar voice acting to the show for quite some time now. But today we welcome him as the newest member of our production team. Jesse has been producing great audio stories for years over at chilling tales and the Simply Scary podcast. We're thrilled he's joining Phil and Jeff to form a triumvirate of terrifying tone technicians, or let's just say, we now have three excellent producers to bring our tales to life. Welcome to the show again, Jesse. And finally, a quick note about our Halloween live in Toronto show. If you're still planning on getting tickets to the show,

I will encourage you not to delay. Tickets are very close to being sold out. I don't expect expect there will be any left by the end of September. Check the link of the show notes for tickets. There's a new working link for those getting errors when ordering on the old Ticketmaster link. So there you go, a new illustrator and producer for your eyes and ears. And for the rest of your body, well, it's time to kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a young woman who was given two keepsakes by both her late grandfathers. But as sweet as that sounds, author S.H. Cooper reveals that the gifts don't always seem quite so innocent. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Jesse Cornett, Aaron Lillis, and Mike Delgado. So don't leave your teddy bears behind,

especially the ones known as Fran and Jock. I was the last in a long line of grandkids on both sides of the family. Now, no one has ever said as much, but I'm pretty sure I was an oops, baby. The result of one too many glasses of wine and a couple over 40 who thought unplanned pregnancies were for teens. Oops. By the time I came along, both of my grandmothers had already passed away, and my grandfathers were elderly and lived in different states. Trying to coordinate travel plans for a family of five, including an infant, was difficult on a budget, and neither of my grandpa's were up to frequent trips, so visits were rare

and spaced out over long periods. Still, both my parents wanted me to have a relationship with them, so we'd trade phode calls so they could hear my nonsensical baby babble. They'd write me letters for Mom and Dad to read me, and they'd get crown scribbles in return. When I was three, they both started to experience declines in health. First, my maternal grandpa, and then my paternal one. Fearing the worst, Mom purchased a pair of teddy bears, the kind that had recorders in them so you could record a message that would play with. the bear was hugged and made sure to get a message saved from both. My mom's father died when I was four.

A few days after his funeral, I was given a white teddy bear with bright blue eyes that twinkled from beneath a plaid, flat cap in a green sweater. When I gave it a squeeze, I heard my grandpa's slightly muffled voice from its stomach. Two years later, after Dad's father passed, I got the other one. It was a slight gray color, and the stitching on his face gave him a rather serious expression for a stuffed animal. A pair of red suspenders held up his tan trousers. I fell asleep hugging it, and my dad told me some years later, with tears in his eyes, that randomly throughout that night, he kept hearing grandpa's voice coming from my room. I named my white bear Fran and my gray bear jock

and put them on a shelf above my bed where they had sat throughout my childhood. Honestly, I didn't give them much thought. They had become fixtures of my room, the same way the lamp and the dresser were. Every now and again I'd come home from school to find one of my parents standing beside my bed, looking up at the bears or giving them a little squeeze. Even as time passed, they still recited their single phrase without fail. Aside from those instances, though, Fran and Jock were little more than dust collectors from my childhood. When I went away to college, the two didn't make the cut and were left behind while I made my way out into the world for the first time. I think my parents were a little disappointed that I wasn't more sentimental.

over the tetties, but any memories I had of my grandpas were hazy at best, and I didn't have the same emotional connection that they did. When Mom gently asked about whether I'd like them when I moved into my first apartment, I told her no, that they were probably better off with her. Okay. Well, they'll be here if you change your mind. I was pretty confident I wouldn't. The next time I went back to my parents' place was to house sit while Dad took Mom on their

long-awaited vacation out west. He'd been promising her they'd go for over 30 years, and they were both buzzing with excitement. In typical mom fashion, however, she was also very nervous. You remember where all the financial documents are in case anything happens to us, right? She asked from the backseat at least six times on the drive to the airport. Yes, in the white bin under your bed. And the wills? Fireproof lockbox in the back of your closet.

And the... I think she's got it, hon. Dad reached back to give her. her knee a squeeze. Mom harumphed and sat back. Just call if you need anything. I'll be fine. Don't worry. You're only going for a week. A lot can happen in a week. I grinned at her in the rearview mirror, unconcerned, and she made a face at me, but seemed to relax. After I dropped them off, I drove back to their place and started to make myself at home again. I tossed my suitcase on my bed and went into the kitchen to make some dinner

and catch up on one of my shows. It had been a while since I'd had a true, completely free week all to myself, and I plan to take full advantage of it. After I ate, I kicked up my feet, stretched out, and commenced lazy lump mode. I managed to get almost three episodes in before I started to knot off. I checked the clock over the TV inside. It was only just after 11. Was I really turning into an old early-to-bed woman already?

The horror! I rolled off the couch and she was. shut off the TV and all the lights, plunging the house into a deep darkness. Even in the inky black, I didn't feel even a twinge of nervousness. I'd grown up in this house. I knew it like the back of my hand, and all of its creaks and groans were almost comforting. I made my way to my room and flipped on the light. It had been at least five years since I lived there, but my parents hadn't been much to change the room, except store a few bits and bobs in the closet. They said it was so I'd know I'd always have a place with them.

I thought it was because changing it would make the fact that I was out for good more real. Whatever the reason, I appreciated the familiarity. As I started to unpack my bag, my eye was drawn to the shelf over my bed. Fran and Jock, ever vigilant, were sitting in the same spots they'd occupied for most of my life. I don't know why, but I couldn't help it smile and reach out to them. I took Fran down first and gave his little cap a tweak before squeezing him around his stomach. After putting Fran back, I did the same to Jock, who stared up at me with his usual sternness, even as I plucked one red suspender.

It was the first time I'd listen to them in a while. Even if they didn't resonate as deeply with me as they did my parents, I was glad to find their recording still worked. A quick trip to the bathroom and a change into my PJs later, I was in bed and fast falling asleep. I can't say exactly what woke me. A nightmare, I figured, given that my heart was beating quite quickly,

but I couldn't remember any details. I took a deep breath and, and rolled over, already falling half asleep again and found myself face to face with a dark figure on the pillow beside me. I yelped and sat up grabbing at my phone my nearest source of light and shined it towards my bed. Fran was laying on his side beside me. I let out a small chuckle and gave myself a little shake

to dismiss the lingering fright that he'd caused and picked him up. Did you fall off with the shelf? I must have put him back too close to the edge, earlier and gravity had done its duty. I gave Fran a gentle squeeze. I stared down at the band, blinked once very slowly. I must be more sleepy than I realized, I thought. I was hearing things. To prove myself that had just been my imagination, I squeezed him again. It was still grandpa's voice, but instead of the soft warmth that had always had, it sounded cold, almost menacing. I threw Fran across the room where he hit the wall. From over the over, he was a little

my head, I heard Grandpa or gravelly voice. I whipped around and looked at the jock. He was sitting in the same place as always, but now he was turned towards the door instead of facing forwards. Had I put him down like that? I couldn't remember. Grandpa's voice came from Fran again, louder this time. The two went back and forth, their voices getting louder and louder until I slapped my hands over my ears and leapt from my bed. I wanted to scream, but my voice was stuck behind my fear-tangled tongue. I stumbled across my dark room chased by my long-dead grandfather's voices. I froze. Down there? Down under the shelf? I glanced over my shoulder at the gray bear, staring silently down from over my bed. I had to get out of my room. I had to get out of this

house. I yanked open the door. I was halfway out into the hall, tears streaming down my face. I didn't know what was happening. Was it going crazy? Was I dreaming? Was I dreaming? All I knew was that my two childhood toys were screaming threats at me, and I had to get away from them. I turned towards the stairs. From somewhere downstairs, a step creaked. Someone else was in the house. They weren't yelling at me at all, I realized, with a very strange mix of confusing relief and newly formed horror. They were yelling at the intruder who was making their way up the stairs towards me.

Footsteps clamored across the wood floor down. downstairs. Something fell over in the living room with a loud crash and again in the kitchen before the back door slammed against the counter as if it was thrown open in a car engine rumbled to life. Somehow, I regained my wits enough to run to my parents' room and look out the window to the driveway below. An SUV was peeling backwards out into the street. It slammed into the neighbor's mailbox, righted itself, and then screeched off into the night. Heavy quiet had fallen over the house again. After waiting a few long, ten, minutes. I crept back up the hall and peeked into my room. Fran and Jock were where I left them,

both completely silent. When they stayed that way, I hesitantly approached Fran, who was laying on his side with his little flat cap beside him. I picked him up and with trembling fingers squeezed his stomach. I put his cap back on his head and gently put him back onto the shelf besides Jock and backed out of the room, watching them the whole time with wide eyes. As I rounded the corner heading downstairs to the phone, I heard Grandpa's voice trailing after me. The police arrived a bit later, following my frantic call to 911.

I filed a report leaving out the bit about my talking bears and allowed them to collect whatever evidence they could. Every so often, I found myself glancing at the stairs, almost like I was expecting a repeat of whatever had just happened. He never came, and the cops wrapped it up, leaving me alone again. When I called my parents to tell them about the break-in,

they immediately wanted to rush home, but I assured them that there was no need. Really, I don't think you have anything to worry about. We could be on the next plane. No, I'm okay. Whoever that guy was, I'm pretty sure he won't be back. It took a few more go-arounds, but I eventually convinced them I was safe. And I felt it, too, for the most part. After the initial shock had worn off and I'd had time to process what had happened,

I really was okay. I couldn't explain it. I couldn't tell anyone what had happened without sounding crazy, but I knew it had been real, and I knew as long as I had Fran and Jock sitting on the shelf above my bed, I could sleep easy. A few days later, the cops did find the guy who broke in. He was a co-worker of my dad, who, he overheard, would be out of town. He thought the house would be empty and easy pickings. When he tried to tell them about the two crazy guys upstairs and their violent threats,

they rolled their eyes and laughed at him, He was very surprised to hear that only a 22-year-old woman had been in the house during his botched burglary. When I returned home to my apartment a week later, Fran and Jock were with me. I keep them on the TV stand in the living room now, where they have a full view of the front door. Whenever I start to feel a bit anxious about being alone,

I give each bear a little squeeze and smile as they speak. And now I respond. I love you both, too. We know that being the last person in a train station can be risky, but did you know that you should always make sure there's someone else on the train with you? That's what we learn from author C. M. Scandrith. She explains how the trains themselves know if you're alone on them, and they'll deal with you accordingly. Performing this tale is Aaron Lillis. So take heed of this simple warning. Don't be last off the train.

Late night trains used to hold a particular kind of romance for me. I'd sit with My head pressed against the cold glass of the window, watching the points of light grow close, closer than streak past. Neon and sodium bulbs. An incomplete rainbow of yellow, orange, red, white, and green. I loved it when it rained. When those lights reflected from the rain-washed roads, the effect doubled. You could get lost in that distorted mirror world of streaky colors, blurred and smeared by the motion of the train and the influence. and the imperfections of the wet asphalt.

With my headphones snug against my skull, I'd listen to melancholy music and imagine what it must have been like to ride the old trains of iron and steam before these smooth-shelled electric things killed them off. But I don't think about any of that anymore. Any romance is long gone, and so is the music. My phone left on a strange train

in the desperate hope that this message will reach you. God, I hope it reaches someone. I'd been asked to work late on a project at work to get some last-minute scripting tweaks done. When I finally finished up, I was forced to run for the last train. My bug slapped against my back as I ran, and I'd just managed to slide between the doors before they snapped, closed with a hydraulic hiss.

I wasn't sure I'd ever been on the last train before. I can't remember now. In any case, I was tired, and it was approaching midnight. so I hunkered down in one of the seats, pleased that I had the carriage largely to myself. My terminus was the city's central station, a huge edifice of old brick and ancient clocks, just like many other old train stations around the world.

From there, it was a short walk back to my studio apartment and the bliss of my bed. I was barely aware of the train pausing at each smaller station to disgorge its scant passengers. I dozed fitfully, my music lulling me. But when we finally ghosted up to the Central Station, I was completely alone. Not another soul left in the carriage. Fuzzy-headed from my not-quite sleep, I grabbed my bag and walked to the double doors,

stepping over the short gap onto the platform. All dim fluorescent lights and chewing-gum speckled pavement. The platforms were the same as anywhere else around the world. long tunnels between stationary trains, smelling faintly of cigarettes, metal and engine oil. I didn't register anything was wrong for a good five minutes. In these large metropolitan stations, the platforms can be hundreds of meters long, just like this one, which was so long that I couldn't really see the end, as it curved very slightly to the right.

No, that couldn't be right. These train platforms didn't curve, they were straight. increasing my pace, I walked briskly alongside the lighted carriages on either side of the platform, counting them as I went. Five, ten, twenty, forty. That couldn't be right either. Panic began to build, like hot needles in the back of my head. I started to jog, then to run along the platform, which always seemed to curve just slightly to the right, hiding the station from me. Glancing behind me confirmed it. Where I had come from, it bent slightly to the left,

the beginning of the impossibly long row of carriages out of sight. This doesn't make any sense, I remember thinking. My bag thumped painfully into my hip as I ran, and my breathing was labored from the exercise. You're dreaming, the rational part of me declared. You fell asleep on the train, you just need to wake up now. But this didn't have the hazy, the imprecise quality of a dream.

The steel beams supporting the roof of the platform was scaled with painted over rust, and they hurt my hands when I slapped them. I wasn't dreaming. I'd often wondered what it was like to go insane. I'd imagined it was sort of foggy and confusing and dispersed with lightning bolts of clarity that only served to confound you further. So, if that's what this was, if I had indeed gone mad, This wasn't what I had expected at all.

I certainly hadn't expected raw, naked fear. When I couldn't run anymore, I stopped and sat on one of the metal-backed bench seats along the platform. Under the dim lights, I unshouldered my bag and checked my phone for the umpteenth time. No signal. The tears came unbidden, forced from the corners of my eyes by frustration. How could this possibly be happening? It couldn't. It was impossible. There was just no way this could be happening to me.

Nowhere in the world were train platforms this long, this silent. The train still sat on either side of me. Filled with bright electric light, the upholstered seats lit up and empty. Beside the bench seat was a rubbish bin, filled with newspapers and plastic drink bottles. Fishing out a page smeared with nameless gunk, I looked for the bench seat. the newsprint header that would identify where I was. I couldn't read it. The page was covered with neat rows of jumbled symbols from all languages. Here were a few English characters. There's some blocky Cyrillic. Japanese, Chinese, and Korean characters were dotted through it all, along with strings of numbers, and some alphabets I didn't recognize at all. It was though every

newspaper in existence had been cut apart and mashed together to create this incomprehensible gibberish. The tears came in a flood then, and I fished in my bag for a little pocket of tissues. Think, the rational part of my brain told me, you can get yourself out of this. Any situation, any problem can be solved with enough logic and planning. Blowing my nose, I tried to take stock of my situation. Think. There were working lights on the platform, so there was electricity, which had to come from somewhere. The train. Trains had power too, and pushing one of the glowing buttons on the side of the nearest carriage, made the door hiss open. Inside, the train was as empty and ubiquitous as the rest of this place.

Not quite familiar, not quite strange. A perfect blend of all modern designs, just like the newspaper. Everything had changed, without me noticing a thing. Climbing up onto the roof of the platform was impossible. It overhung like a canopy, held up by T-beams from the center. The sides of the trains were also too smoothly manufactured from my feet or hands to gain any purchase. That killed my idea of standing on the roof of a carriage to get a better look at this hellish limbo I had drifted into. I needed to think of something else.

If the platform curves, I reasoned, then it must form a circle. That would explain why the platform seemed endless, no matter how far along it had I. I ran. Through the windows of the nearest carriage, I could see another train, almost flush beside it, sitting on a second parallel track, and on the other side of that carriage was another platform. Hammering the glowing green door buttons, I clambered between the two trains, then exited onto the next platform. It was exactly the same as the one I'd come from, flanked by train carriages on both sides. Surely, if I kept climbing through the carriages, eventually I would reach the center of the ever-decreasing concentric circles. And there just had to be something in the middle. I could feel it.

How many trains I climbed through, I don't know. I lost count very quickly. But each time I emerged, the platform I stood on seemed to curve just a fraction more sharply, bearing out my theory that I was moving inwards, not outwards. Hope started to swore. well inside me like a bubble as I stopped to remove my jacket and push it through the straps of my bag. My blouse was soaked with sweat. When I glimpsed red brick through the windows of the furthest carriages, I started weeping again, but this time with relief. The trains had changed, so gradually I had barely noticed. Now they were so new they seemed practically futuristic, sparkling clean and all injection molded, smooth as a space shuttle.

There was welcome air conditioning, keeping the temperature cool and stable, and the seats were pristine, not a hint of wear or graffiti. The final platform was indeed a perfect ring, built around a central station. At first glance, it looked not too dissimilar to my own familiar home station, and my heart leapt, but deathly still silence greeted me when I stepped out. No bustling people. No echoing footsteps, no disembodied voices announcing destinations and departure times through hidden speakers. At least I wasn't trapped in the rings of carriages anymore. Like the newspaper I'd found, and like the trains themselves, the place seemed to be a blend of every station I'd ever seen from Paddington to Grand Central to Antwerp.

It was a perfect, huge circle, crammed with iron pillars and strange mosaics. The patterns were random, somehow familiar and alien all at once, just as jumbled and nonsensical as everything else. My footsteps echoed alarmingly on the tiled and marbled floors, and I instinctively slowed my pace to quiet them, fearing that they might draw the attention of some unnameable and terrible thing. Empty kiosks and ticketing booths gaped at me. The very center of it all was a huge brass and, steel clock, built into the floor of a small amphitheater. The clock's face had no hands. At the base of the clock was a pile of what looked like junk, pieces of train seats, bits of

iron railings, bent signage, and other random pieces of locomotive garbage. I picked my way down into the shallow basin to take a closer look. And then, with a terrible, deliberate set of jerky movements, the heap heaved itself upright until it stood on two legs roughly the shape of Amman. I screamed until the sound echoed off the tiles. Of course I screamed, who wouldn't have? Trapped in an impossible limbo, confronted by some monster made of dead train parts, I don't think there's a person alive who wouldn't have done the same. I started to run, but the stairs of the amphitheater were uneven heights and wits,

so I stumbled and fell. I heard a hoarse, horrible voice call out from behind me as I scrambled to get upright. Then a shadow fell over me. It's all right, missy. I ain't here to hurt you. I unscrewed my eyes and peered up at the thing. Through a gap in all the junk that made up the monstrous creature, the kind, bearded face of an old man smiled down on me. Don't mind all my bits and pieces.

It's just my disguise. So as the trains don't mind me none. My body's still roaring with adrenaline. I simply stared up at him, heart bouncing in my chest. Come on, then. He extended a gnarled old hand from amongst the detritus to help me up. Let's have a nice cup of coffee, and I'll tell you about this place. Introducing himself as Brian.

The man in the junk suit led me to a kiosk beneath an overhanging mezzanine. Inside, the little booth was crammed with all manner of things for all the world like the largest collection of lost and found items ever assembled. Over a gas camping stove, he heated water in a small pot, or the relative of one. It had been cobbled together from what looked like Coke cans, cleverly spot-welded together. As the water boiled, Brian babbled excitedly, as though he hadn't seen another human being for the better part of a decade. Always things left behind. Folks leave things on the trains, books, phones, food, and all that stuff finds its way here. Lost forever, just like us.

His voice was light, casual, but I didn't like the sound of that. What do you mean? Oh, don't you be thinking about getting out. Taint no way out. He very carefully poured two sachets of instant coffee into the boiled water. His expression reverent, as though he was offering up a holy sacrament. This is the good stuff, you know. Only bring it out for guests. Guests? He produced a battered spoon, swirling the dissolving granules around the pot. Yep, guests. Don't get them very often. Most of them ain't as smart as you, so they dies out there in the rings. Either hunger or thirst get them, or the trains do. I tried not to believe him, but there was an unmistakable air of truth beneath his oddly shifting accent. What happens when people die out there?

Trains take them. Sometimes you find their empty clothes and shoes. Sometimes you find parts of them smushed in the doors. He ignored my shudder, rummaging through one of the many piles of junk, producing little cafe sachets of sugar and holding them up like a magician. How many you take?

Just one, thanks. The coffee cups were also aluminium cans, handles cunningly folded from the cut tops. He pushed one into my hands and gave me a smile full of crooked brown teeth. You're wondering how you got here. Well, best I can figure, you were the last one off your train, and it were the last train. Just like me. Just like everyone.

I nodded, thinking hard while I cradled my coffee. Surely, if there's a way in, there has to be a way out. His junk helmet on the floor beside him now. I realized Brian was even older than I had first thought. Seventy if he was a day. He shook his head. His hair was patchy and matted, inexpertly cropped, probably with a pocket knife. No, told you, ain't no way out.

Been here maybe 30 years, you know. Tried everything. 30 years. Shit. Maybe we could figure out something together? He scratched his filthy beard, slurping his sugar brew with enthue. enthusiasm. Yeah, that's what you all say when you get here. The spare junk suit he gifted to me was amazingly uncomfortable, heavy and hot, and it badly hampered my movement.

But he explained, the more you messed around in the rings beyond the station, the more dangerous the trains became. It's like they're alive. We walked through the carriages, hunting for lost property. And they get angry about us flesh things being inside them. But with bits of train on us, they don't see us so good. Reckon that way they can't tell us from their own insides. What happened to the last person who made it to you in the center? I got stupid.

Went on out to the edge where the trains start falling to bits. Got his self-killed. The edge? Yep, the edge. Trains get older farther out you go. Start rusting to bits. It's like a big old junkyard. What's beyond that?

Nothing, girl, nothing. Just red dust goes on for hundreds of miles. Tried crossing at once. Almost died. Almost died coming back in as well. Because the trains could smell it, you know. They could smell the edge on me. I didn't have much to say after that, though Brian kept up his incessant, whispered commentary as we roamed the carriages. He said he'd been a broker during the stock market crash of 87. The night the bottom fell out of his company. Shares was the night he'd been on. on his way home on that last train, planning on putting a gun in his mouth. Yeah, New York, or should I say New York?

Used to sound a bit like a New Yorker, but these days I think I sound more like my grandpappy than anything. So, anyways, instead I ended up here, didn't I, where money don't matter a damn. We scavenged all day, finding only a few umbrellas, two paperback books, a handful of half-eaten snacks and an iPad. Hmm. Waste not. Brian stuffed a quarter of a cold meat pie into his mouth, fluff and all. I was hungry, too.

Mechanically downing the contents of half a bag of crisps, I sat on the pile of train seat cushions Brian used for a bed, morosely inspecting all the garbage he'd collected. His bookshelf was impressive and spanned a good 50 years. Two volumes of Harry Potter sat in pride of place at one end. Can't wait to read the second one. Numbers one and three was damn good. There's seven, you know.

I sipped rainwater from a bottle. Brian had mentioned it rained every three days here right on schedule. Ha, damn. Well, someone better get real careless with the rest of them soon. I couldn't believe how upbeat he sounded. How do you handle it here? How the hell do you not just give up hope? He shrugged.

Yeah, just got to. Keep on, keeping on. I stared at him and couldn't help but notice how thin he was without the clumsy bulk of his protective junk suit, like a bunch of leathery old pipe cleaners twisted into human shape. I wondered how long it would be before I was hungry enough to chew bubblegum scraped off the bottom of train seats, and how long it would be before I no longer cared.

Ryan seemed to thrive on my company, asking me endless questions about the outside world. He'd managed to keep loosely up to. to date with current affairs via cached news pages on lost cell phones and from magazines stuck down the sides of train seats. Unlike the scrambled babbled, babbled newspapers and signs on the platforms, anything found inside the trains themselves was perfectly readable. But I was the best source of news this old man had had access to for years. He didn't even seem to mind that I wasn't white and American like him, although I got the feeling he would have once. But politics and prejudice

are quickly forgotten when your existence is reduced to subsistence scavenging. Whether he was trying to impress me or just wanted a distraction, I'm not sure. But eventually, Ryan brought out a rickety folding ladder he'd constructed from bits of rail and pipe, then took me deep into the rings to the point where the train started looking old and shabby. With the assistance of Brian and his clanking ladder, I was soon standing atop one of the rusting carriages squinting out towards the edge. He'd been right. It was a wasteland. The carriages began to collapse in on themselves not half a mile from us.

The lines of trains slowly devolved into a mess of jagged, orange-brown metal that looked for all the world like the teeth of a primitive meat grinder, still stained with leavings. Beyond that, there was nothing but a flat, red wasteland of rust. murky clouds and puffs of dust rose and fell listlessly tossed by what little wind blew here. Told you, there ain't no way out. Ryan clambered up beside me, forgetting his customary whisper. What happened next occurred so quickly I barely had time to register it.

One moment the old man was standing there in his junk suit like some ancient trash golem, gazing out onto the hazy desert. The next, he was gone. Fallen straight through the rusted roof and onto the crusted spikes of old iron seats, their fabric long rotted away. Riding the wave of adrenaline, I slid down the side of the carriage, hauled the stiff doors open, and pushed through the derelict carriage to get to him. His leg was broken, that much was certain. A sharp spur of white bone poked out through the old upholstery of his suit. Blood slick steadily down his face, coming from somewhere beneath his helmet, and his eyes.

were half open, his pupils dilated. As carefully as I could, I half-drugged, half-carried him to the doors, then started to pull him onto the platform. It was probably the agony of his jostled leg that brought him back to consciousness, and he groaned. The animal sound loud enough to echo in the rusted Hulk. The force with which the doors snapped shut set me sprawling backwards out of the carriage. I fell against one of the iron pillars on the platform. holding the arms, head, and torso of my only friend. But there was nothing left below his waist. There was nowhere safe to bury him,

nor could I get his remains back to the station. Only some lingering instinct for self-preservation got me back to the kiosk hovel before I collapsed on the dusty bed that still smelled of old man. There, I cried, and I screamed until my face and throat burned. With Brian gone, I am truly alone in this place. I never scavenge very far now.

I stay as close as I can to the central station. The bones of my wrists stick out, stark little knobs, and I know my face must be as gaunt as the anorexic models on the covers of the magazines I find from time to time. But I won't go out any further into the rings, even though there might be more food out there. I'm too afraid of the trains to venture very far, but that rational part of my mind has quite never given up on escape.

I have a theory, one borne out by something I discovered quite by accident. A while ago, I started leaving objects out on the trains as sorts of markers to show where I'd been. When those markers eventually disappeared, I figured that the trains must just absorb them, taking them away like they do with the remains of their hapless victims. But last week, one of the books I'd used as a marker came back, and a train ticket had been left in it as a bookmark.

I think inanimate objects can pass through. I think anything that isn't alive can make its way back. So, with my endless free time in this place, I've managed to write this story, this warning, as eloquently as I can, because I need you to believe. If you're reading this story, then I have succeeded. My roughshod plan has worked. If you can't, please, please try and find a way through.

Please try and think of a way to save me from this hell. I don't want to be here until I'm old and resigned like Brian. I don't want to die with my intestines vanishing into the bowels of a train carriage. But if you can't think of anything, then at least try to. not to end up here. Don't catch the last train and don't ever be the last person to get off. And if you can't do anything else, I'm sure nobody would mind if you left a little food under your seat. We all know how easy it is to keep in touch with friends thanks to social media. As author Olivia White shares, a woman enjoys seeing the photos from her friends trip to Greece.

That is, until the pictures start to become very, very disturbing. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock and Kyle Akers. So let's hear her describe what she saw on my best friend's Instagram. A week ago, my best friend Greg went on holiday to Greece with his family. We'd been friends since we were in diapers. It might seem dumb to say I was going to deeply miss my best pal when he was only going away for a week, but we were like siblings. and usually our families would go on holiday together each summer.

I can't think of a year where we didn't, in fact. This year, my parents planned to visit my grandparents, who've recently moved to Australia. The flights were booked for later in the summer, which meant that the time-honored vacation tradition of us and Greg's family, the Hawthorns, was going to be put on hold this year. So, yeah. On the evening before Greg departed,

I was feeling a little melancholy. We hung out by the creek, watching the sunset over the shimmering water. Make sure you take lots of photos. Keep me updated. I want to see what a great time you're having. I knew I didn't even have to ask. Greg was absolutely addicted to Instagram. I often chided him for what frankly seemed like an obsession with the social media platform. But the truth was, I kind of got a kick out of seeing his life chronicled by filtered, processed snaps.

Of course, the fact I was in a lot of the photos meant I had to pay attention. That's my excuse anyway. Greg smiled. Oh, you know it. He raised his phone and pulled me closer, taking a snap of us there and then. He fiddled with his phone, editing the photo just so, and within seconds it was posted out into the world. Is Sarah excited?

Sarah is Greg's sister, younger by one year, sophomore to our children. Junior. She hung out with us sometimes, and I considered her a pretty good friend, too. Not close, not like Greg and I, but enough that I'd miss hanging out with her own vacation as well. Oh, yeah, already planning all the touristy shit she's going to drag me to. And hey, guess I got no choice but to Chronicle at all. How else are you going to live vicariously through us? And you've got to repay the favor when you're in Australia, dude. Get picks of all those giant spiders and stuff. I rolled my eyes and laughed. And so, as Greg's vacation began, I found myself checking his Instagram account more than usual.

We talked, of course, by text and via email, but not that often. I kept a bit of distance between us. Whether it was missing my best friend or simply hormones, I was feeling pretty down that week, and I didn't want my mood to reach Greg in any way. His picks never ceased to make me smile, though. There were photos from the airport, photos on the plane, photos when he touched down, Greece. A photo of Greg and his family, his mom, dad, and Sarah gathered round as Greg held the phone out in front of them like a selfie pro. Greg had a bit of a following on Instagram. At first it had just

been me and some of our friends, but soon he'd developed something of a fan base. It was a little beyond me, really. Sure, Greg was a fun, charismatic guy, but he was just posting photos. He wasn't like Logan Paul or anything, but his photos would always get a few thousand likes. He also seemed to get a whole bunch of comments from other girls our age who clearly had the hots for him. This never ceased to amuse us both. Even more so when these random internet chicks clearly threw shade at me if I appeared in a photo with him. Still, that never stopped me stoking the fires and winding up Greg in the process. So hot, I posted on a particularly striking selfie of Greg striding topless across golden Greek sands.

Greg responded in the comments, running with the joke. Yeah, the sun was blazing that day. A picture of Greg and his mom together filled me with longing for a vacation I'd never taken. Mrs. Hawthorne was one of my favorite people. You guys are so cute, I posted. Huh, look at that guy looming in the background. I remarked on a picture of Greg, Sarah, and their dad standing. in a square in Athens.

That night, Greg was able to call me for the first time since he'd gotten to Greece. We engaged in the usual greetings and ribbings, both skirting around the subject of how, like, co-dependent idiots, we totally missed each other. I listened as Greg told me about some of the people he'd met in Greece, a few older college guys who were on vacation from the States, including, as Greg put it, a very eligible young bachelor. Then he told me of an old French guy who claimed to be a famous author but wouldn't say who, and a Greek girl he and Sarah met, Karras, who Sarah had become fast friends with.

Make sure you post plenty of photos of them on Instagram. I knew that anyone Greg met would be roped into his obsession. Greg hesitated for a moment, as if thinking about something. Let's see that guy you were talking about. Oh, I don't know if he was a guy, really. just some figure looming in a doorway right in the back. Not really a big deal. I could imagine Greg's shrugging.

Seriously, though, you've got to see Chad. Dude, they're there to die for. I snorted with laughter. Chad? Really? Your new crush is called Chad. Instagram that shit, bro. Count on it. And Carith.

You'll like her. The next day I kept an eye on his feed sporadically, keen to see this Chad that had Greg so enraptured. It wasn't a good day for me. A girl I'd been talking to, Raina, had been ghosting me, and I was feeling a bit left out of life in general. Childish stuff, but I figured that being 17, I was allowed to indulge in a bit of teenage angst bullshit from time to time.

Silly as it sounds, Greg's regular Instagram updates kept my spirits just above despair. There were a number of beautiful landscapes. Some tourist spots near Athens, a few pictures of Greg's new buddies. Chad did indeed have abs to die for. I could see why Greg was taken with him. After that, there was a picture of Greg, Sarah, and a girl who was tagged as Carus. Caris was stunning.

No wonder Greg had said I'd like her. Between her and Chad's abs, I was really beginning to regret not being there. I was so caught up and staring at Carus, that I almost didn't notice the figure in the background of the photo. The selfie had been taken with the camera pointing down a street, and behind the trio stood a dark, shadowy figure who appeared to be approaching them, maybe 30 feet away. I squinted, confused.

The lighting and shadows didn't match up with how the figure appeared. It was as if they and only they were enshrouded in darkness. It was weird. A costume, maybe? An Instagram filter? Yeah. Greg had stuck it there to wind me up after the one I'd seen. I commented on the post.

Oh no, another dark figure. Nice editing, Greg, bro. And y'all are so cute. Yeah. Greg would know what I meant. An hour or so later, Greg replied to my comment. Ha, ha, you and your dark figure? Figures. Can't fool me, yo. And yeah, didn't I tell you how cute we are?

I was now convinced that Greg had doctored the photos somehow to tease me. I was dead-ass a horror fan. Couldn't get enough of it. And Greg and I were always concocting schemes to freak each other out. He was normally a bit precious with his Instagram account, though. I was surprised he'd meddled with the photos. I didn't hear from Greg for a day. No post to his Instagram, no texts. Nothing concerning, I told myself. Probably no 4G or Wi-Fi access. I had no idea what the telephone situation was like in Greece. Still, when a whole bunch of pictures appeared at once in the late afternoon at what would have been around 10 p.m. in Greece, I admit I was a little relieved, at least until I looked at them. In all of the photos showing Greg, there was

a dark, shadowy figure. The locations changed, but the figure didn't. The photos had been posted chronologically, and I could see that over the course of the day, the figure had gotten closer. I still couldn't make out any details. It was as if the camera itself wasn't able to process

whoever or whatever this figure was. There seemed to be a slender, almost, seductive suggestion to the figure's movements, though. Like, whatever this thing was, it was posing. This was an involved prank for Greg, who normally resorted to cheap jump scares or props to freak me out. And if these were edits, then they were damn good. He would have had to have access to some heavy-duty image editing software on a PC somewhere.

I heard creaking outside my room. And goose flesh prickled my skin. From my phone screen, the figure seemed to glare out at me, peering over Greg's shoulder, looking at me. More creaking. My heart thundered. When a knock sounded on my bedroom door, I let out a scream crawling backwards up my bed.

My dad pushed the door open and stood there looking bemused. Am I really that scary, honey? Anyway, just thought I'd let you know. Mum and I are out for the evening. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Why was I so freaked out by what was probably a dumb joke by Greg? I snatched up my phone, Resolute. The most recent photo showed Greg and Sarah with Chad and the guys.

The figure was just behind the group. Maybe a couple feet away at most. There was no possible way to interpret it other than that the figure, eerie, shadowed. like was approaching the group. I noticed something then. I scrolled back through all the other photos with the figure, confirming my theory. All of the photos had plenty of comments and likes. Not a single comment acknowledged the figure, not one.

Sure, Greg could have been deleting any that did, but like I say, he was precious about his Instagram. He liked the comments, the faves. It took something really severe for him to delete. elite one. For the purpose of a prank, it seemed implausible. Seriously, are you doing this? It's freaking me out. It's not funny. I posted. Shortly after, Greg replied to my comment. I don't know what you're talking about. I swear. Can you explain what you're seeing?

Could it be a glitch on your phone? I want to call you, but I can't get phone reception. Text me for when I can. I texted Greg, hello, and waited. 30 minutes later, the message hadn't even been read. I flicked back to Instagram, looking to study the photos again. A new selfie had been uploaded. Greg and Sarah standing in a bustling street at night, lit by the warm glow from a nearby restaurant.

They were both pulling dumb faces for the camera. I didn't see the figure at first, but when I noticed it, I let out a gasp and dropped my phone. My hands shaking, I retrieved the device and looked closer. The figure was clearly right behind them now. It looked to be at least six feet tall, if not taller. It towered over Greg and Sarah, framed directly between them.

And still, there was something seductive about it, something stylized. It was hard to explain. But that wasn't the worst part. I wasn't sure it was so blurry, so out of focus. guess, but it looked like the figure was raising an arm, reaching towards them. I texted Greg again. He still hadn't read my first message. Please reply. Then back to Instagram and another photo. I audibly gasped. Greg and Sarah were sitting with a lake at their back, moonlight dancing off the water. Both their eyes were wide open in surprise.

Not fear, not yet, but shock all the same. I couldn't see what their mouths were doing. They were both covered, each by a shadowy hand, clamped over their jaws. I could just about make out the details of the figure's fingers now. This couldn't be a prank. It couldn't be. The photos were being uploaded far too quickly to be edited on the fly. Greg and Sarah were wearing the clothes they'd been wearing that day.

And it was one thing to suspect Greg of pranking me, but Sarah? Never. She hated horror, hated the idea of even making someone else scared. Whatever this was, it was legitimate. I was sure of it. Fear pricked my heart. Fucking text me back, Greg. I texted him yet again, imploring him to contact me.

My messages remained unread. A new photo had appeared. on Instagram. It was the same bench, the same lake. But there was nobody in the photo. No indication of who was holding the camera. No sign of Greg and Sarah. Had Greg simply taken a photo of the lake?

That meant he was okay, right? I studied the photo. I froze suddenly. A cry forming in my throat. There, far into the lake, but under. Unmistakable now I'd noticed it, stood the tall, shadowy figure. It had its arms down by its sides, its hands hovering just above the surface of the water, palms flat, pointing downwards. Like a dancer, it stood there, frozen at the end of a performance.

It's back to the audience. Unbidden, the sound of rapturous applause and cheers intruded on my mind. I felt like I was privy to a show that I would never, ever want to see. But see, I could. And the more I looked, the more I was sure, the figure's hands were resting on top of two heads. Two heads, which it held under the water. I began to panic. What should I do?

Call the cops? Here or in Greece? I had absolutely no idea how to reach any Greek authorities, and what if even after all This, Greg, was playing a prank on me. I texted him yet again. This isn't funny. Text me back. Please.

I'm so concerned right now. Please. 30 seconds later, the receipts showed that my messages had been read. I let out the biggest sigh of relief I've ever given. I started laughing and crying at the same time. I could see Greg was typing. Sorry. Everything is fine.

Just a prank. I couldn't stop laughing, crying, seething with anger, and gasping with relief. Send me a selfie, just for me. I need to see your face. I need to know you're okay. You first. Even then, despite it all, Greg was teasing me. He knew I was picky about selfies.

But it was for Greg only. It didn't matter. Likely, he wanted to see how much he'd freaked me out. I sighed, wiping my eyes. I had no energy to argue, easier if I just did what he wanted. I snapped a quick picture of my face, my eyes wide and glaring angrily, then sent it to him. I waited for his response, staring at my face on the screen. When I noticed it, a copper taste of adrenaline flooded my mouth.

My breath caught in my... Flected in my eyes as if standing opposite me in my room was the shadowy figure. My gaze flicked up to the wall, heart pounding. Nobody, of course, I was alone. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. My phone vibrated in my hand. I looked down and I screamed, and I don't think I stopped screaming for a full five minutes.

The photo had been taken underwater somehow. In it, Craig and Sarah were suspended there. clothes floating loosely in the water. Their eyes were open, unseeing, mouths hanging slack. Between them floated the figure. But it wasn't a shadow now. Its own hair was long and lank, drifting around its head in a halo. Its skin looked waxy and smooth, even underwater.

A female form with wide, yellow eyes, with pinpoint irisines. stared back at me over a nub of a nose. A thin, elongated mouth was stretched out into a half-smile. One bony finger ending in a sharp talon was pressed against its lips in a shh gesture. I stared at the picture, dumbfounded. In the photo, the still photo on my screen, the creature blinked at me. Our eyes met, separated by distance and technology. It lowered its finger from its mouth, blinked again.

Its mouth puckered into a purse, a kiss. And then with one graceful motion, the creature turned and swam away, leaving the floating bodies of Greg and Sarah bobbing in their underwater graves. Greg and Sarah were found the next day on the bank of the lake, drowned. Mom and dad discovered it from Greg's parents and broke the news to me gently, but I already knew. Of course I knew. They think someone lured them into the lake and drowned them.

They have no idea how true that is. She chose them. I know this, just as I know who she's chosen next. The photo in my text messages is just a blur now. You can't see Greg, Sarah, or anyone. And Greg's Instagram, well, it's gone entirely, like it was never there. But when I look at the selfie I took for Greg, well, that's still there. And every time I look, it's changed a little bit.

Just a bit, but it changed nonetheless. You see, with each passing hour, the figure reflected in my pupils gets closer. I looked just now. She's nearly reached me. I can see the sirens wide yellow eyes reflected in mine. She wants me to look. She's calling for me to look. But maybe if I don't look again, if I resist, I'll be okay.

What else can I do? 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 enfel up you in a nightmarish, swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of creative Reason Media, Inc.