The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E20

Episode Date: September 24, 2017

It's episode 20 of Season 9. On this week's show we have six tales about family fears, post-mortem perceptions, and hellish homicides. "Don't Use Elevators"¤ written by Matt Dymerski and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:04:30) "My Brother Ben, Who Was Adopted"‡ written by Michael C. Gettings Jr and performed by Kyle Akers. (Story starts around 00:20:00) "Have You Ever Been to Bunnyman Bridge?"¤ written by Sherman Smith and performed by Atticus Jackson & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:35:30) "The Ashland Police Department’s Evidence Locker"‡ written by Kelly Childress and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio & Atticus Jackson & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:53:00) "My Ancestor’s Sacrifice"† written by Sam Raffield and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Andy Cresswell. (Story starts around 01:16:30) "Cold Feet"† written by Felix Blackwell and performed by Peter Lewis & Matthew Bradford & Mike DelGaudio & Elie Hirschman & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:50:00) 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 learn more about Erin's Never Not Clever store   Click here to learn more about Matt Dymerski   Click here to learn more about Sherman Smith   Click here to learn more about Kelly Childress   Click here to learn more about Felix Blackwell   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "My Ancestor’s Sacrifice" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke Audio program ©2017 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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 six tales about family, fears, post-mortem perceptions, and hellish homicides. Well, this is the last weekend of September, so that means next week we're into the month-long celebration of Halloween. I thought I'd take an inappropriate amount of time to share the history of Halloween dating back to the pagan rituals of the 16th century. You see, the medieval Gaelic calendar was divided into... Hey, David, got a sec? Oh, damn it, I didn't see the recording light was on. I'm sorry, sorry. Well, you can probably just edit this out, right?

Oh, no, no, it's okay, Aaron. Why don't you say hello to the listeners real quick? Oh, right, right now? Oh, is this, is this on? Testing. Hi! Hi, everybody. I'm Aaron, one of the newbies in this season.

Thanks for being so warm and welcoming, everybody. Well, it's great to have you on the show. So, why did you just swing in here? Oh, yeah, right. I just, I wanted to give you this gift. Oh, you didn't have to do that. Oh, this is a really cool shirt. What's the occasion?

Oh, no occasion. I just noticed that ever since you got back from hiatus, you've been wearing like in the same three shirts on rotation. And, you know, I just thought maybe you lost your luggage or something. And, you know, I could do something about it. And so I designed this special for you. Designed. Oh, that's right. In addition to voice acting, you also design and sell stuff on your never not clever website. Exactly. Yeah, I've been designing and making enamel pins and stickers and T-shirts and more for about a year now. Oh, and, and, and, This is more recent and exciting. I'm now also a partner with some other companies and artists to sell horror and Halloween-related products. Wow, so you're not just part of the show for the experience. You actually like horror. Yep, and my current goal is to make Never Not Clever.com shop for creepy and weird and creative types, like us and the writers and the listeners. That's really cool.

So is that the only place where listeners can find you? Well, they're at Never Not Clever.com, and I'd love it if our listeners gave me a follow, if they're interested on Instagram, it's at never underscore not clever, and Twitter also is the same thing, at never underscore not clever. I'm totally Halloween-infused 365 days a year. Is that why you're currently covered in spiders? I almost looked. You almost got me, David.

Oh, that wasn't on purpose? David, stop. I totally get dry humor, but you know what? I don't actually particularly find insect humor to be super funny. It's sort of a bad PTSD. kind of thing. No, Aaron, you're covered in spiders. No. No, no, no, no, no, no. Get them off. Get them off me, David. David, get them off me. Oh, watch out for that. Oh, yeah, that's a garden. Oh, good thing we have insurance. Well, so that was Aaron Lillis, ladies and gentlemen. She seems to have taken the spiders with her, but I will say she has left a refreshing

pumpkin spice smell in her wake. And sadly, that little distraction has taken up all the time for my history lesson. Oh, well, why don't we start the Halloween spirit early and kick off this week's show? In our first tale, we encounter a normal device used daily by many people, the common elevator, or lift as our British friends call them. But as author Matt Demoski explains, when a group of strangers enter a rather dilapidated lift, they quickly realize they'll all have to work together to stay safe.

Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Erica Sanderson, and Ellie Hirschman. So this story has a very clear moral. Simply put, don't use elevators. I have no justification for what happened. Now that I'm back in the States, I've come to understand that Spain has the world's highest concentration of elevators, and that the apartment buildings they're most often found in tend to have poor maintenance. But that doesn't make me feel any better.

My great aunt had invited us to Spain to visit the old family stomping grounds. But the elevator in question was actually the middle in a row of three at an unrelated apartment building. I'd slept in to deal with jet lag and so I was alone when the taxi dropped me off. The family friends party

was at their place on the fourth floor, so I headed into the crowded building while smoothing my clothes and after briefly checking my hair in a mirror in the lobby. The pause made me miss the elevator on the left, so I waited with a few others. The middle elevator was the one that came for us. Alongside me, there was a Spanish boy of about four or five, an overweight British man, a gray-haired older woman with frail arms, two teenage boys, and a guy wearing glasses, who was just a little bit older than me. I will remember their faces for the rest of my life. I pressed four.

A series of hands pressed five, seven, eleven, and fifteen. I remember because the pattern of lights impressed itself upon my memory when the elevator first jolted roughly into motion. Upon seeing my discomfort, the overweight British man laughed kindly. Oh, it's just how it is here. You get used to it. I nodded politely, but continued to clutch the bar in the back. It was a little loose, prompting me to look around at the shaking walls as they bounced back and forth what looked to be a full inch from the corners they should have been locked into.

The naked bodies of the bolts were visible at various moments, and I remember thinking that this elevator was basically a sparse cage with thin aluminum walls sticking on through nothing more than low-cost glue and premium-grade bullshit. I could even envision the building manager's face as he might hypothetically explain that the elevators were perfectly safe because nobody had ever been heard in them before. Small consolation. Still gripping the bar, I watched as the elevator passed the fourth floor and continued up. Had I pressed the button?

I had. The four was still lit, but we'd gone right past it without even slowing down. Looking up, I tracked the floor indicator until it hit six, and we jerked to an abrupt stop. The sound of something metal whirled and clanged beside us and then blow. We looked at each other for a moment before comprehending that something had fallen off of the elevator somewhere,

and then we'd come to a stop when we shouldn't have. The old woman said something in Spanish to the guy my age, but he just pushed up his glasses and shook his head fearfully. Brakes must have come on. He was moving forward between the others to test the door. He slowed his step when the car shifted and swung slightly under us. The two teenage boys and the old woman screamed. The brakes had not come on.

We were hanging free in the elevator. shaft. Careful with his movements now, the Brit tried the doors. The outer layer opened a bit, but he couldn't get good leverage in the crowded car. Hesitantly and very, very slowly, I let go of the bar in the back and crept forward to help him. I was no hero. I just wanted off immediately. We managed to pull open the doors and found ourselves staring at white brick. Wherever we were, the floors above and below were not visible at all. We were stuck. We tried our cell phones, but the old building was a heavy set one made a brick and concrete,

and none of us had any signal. The Brit lifted the elevator phone, but the wire beneath came with it, attached to nothing. I guess we just stay here and yell as loud as we can. Somebody's bound to hear us. The car swung perceptibly back and forth as he shifted his stands, and he gripped the bare brick to slowly stabilize us as more terrified screams rang out. Nobody move, right? We didn't need to be told twice for an unknown and exhausting span of minutes.

We clung to anything we could, stayed absolutely still, and stared at each other's horrified faces as the Brit bellowed at the top of his lungs. No response was evident. When we decided to all yell together, one of us must have moved because the car began to swing and the left wall of the car. That thin aluminum, I'd silently insulted with its aging bolts and bouncing corners, suddenly screeched and fell away. We all froze while a crash of metal on concrete sounded,

then sounded again, then echoed from far below. Our tangled cage now felt more like a swinging bucket trying to spill us out, into darkness. The left car was above us, so there weren't any cables to mark the pitch black elevator shaft that was waiting to swallow us up. Worse, the young Spanish boy that was four or five years old stood crying near the open edge as we swung back and forth. The old woman was the first to react quietly, but insistently, she told the boy. Venaki? He looked at her but was too scared to move. She tried again.

Venaka. He did not move, but cried something in Spanish. He says he's not supposed to talk to strangers. The Brit lifted his arm to reach for the boy, but then thought better of it. I can't move, or I'll swing the car more. Is the boy alone here? You, brothers? The two teen boys widened their eyes.

They didn't know him. Grandmother? No. No. Father? The man my age with the glasses clung harder to the bar in the opposite corner and shook his head. He was sweat-soaked from fear. The Brit looked to me, but it was obvious the boy and I weren't related.

A thought occurred to me. His family must be in this building somewhere. They probably let him play outside with the other kids and ride the elevator alone. I felt my heart swell with hope. They'll miss him. Sooner than any of us will be missed. His family will wonder where their child is. He's not on the playground outside, and he's not with any of his friends.

Yes. The two teen boys nodded and laughed with nearly explosive relief. I turned to the boy. Come on. The boy looked at me, but he was still frozen by the edge. We stopped swinging as much, and it was getting safer to move. Tears were running down his face. His lip was trembling, and he'd peed his peed his peed his peed his peed.

hands. It's fine. Come on. I clutched the bar and held out my other hand as far as fear would allow. Even if he was scared of strangers, I would grab him by the wrist if I could. The rightmost elevator on the side we couldn't see chose that moment to kick into life. The car shook. The boy sailed out of sight. Swallowed up by darkness without a single sound. He was gone just like that. We didn't react. We didn't even scream. None of us moved for at least 30 seconds. I stared at the place where he'd been, hoping I'd just hallucinated the event. Nope. The Brit swallowed loudly. We're only on the sixth floor. It's survivable. But it wasn't. We knew six floors down to sheer concrete and metal. There was no way a child. There were no more attempts to

solve our situation after that. We sat in silence. We cried without sobbing. We stared at the floor without words. An hour passed. Then two, my sorrow and terror solidified into something darker and sharper, and I found myself staring at the still-lit buttons we'd all pressed on the way in. Four, five, seven, eleven, and fifteen. Five numbers. When I finally broke the silence, My voice was colder and harsher than I'd ever heard it. What floors are you all from? Noticing the dangerous tone in my voice, the Brit responded slowly. Fifteen.

He and I looked to the old woman. Cinco. The three of us looked at the two teenage boys. Nervously, they replied together. Seven. And I pressed four. The words spilled out of me as the five of us looked to the sweat-soaked man with glasses. which leaves 11 huddled in the corner yet still clutching the bar he nodded

elandissimo piece he paused thinking of the words 11 that's all of us why i think i knew what was happening even as i was speaking that's not all of us the tears were running down my face again but not because i was afraid the anger rose with each word. That's all the floor, yes, but that's not all of us. What floor was he going to? What floor did that boy live on? I think the man with glasses realized it too. He looked to each of us in turn, finding us a united community of fury. He half smiled, hoping to lie, but his smile fell as he realized we already knew. He wouldn't move away from the edge because we were strangers, but he would have come to you? He tilted his head and opened his mouth as if about to bargain or plead for his

life. But that too faded as we began to creep toward him across the unstable floor. He clung to the bar for dear life as we grabbed at him, but the words he finally chose were not about that. He screamed something in Spanish. The Brit's jaw was trembling with anger and sorrow. His strength was important to the process, but it was my kick that finally sent the man with glasses over the edge into darkness. As before, there were no screams. There was not so much as a thud.

With justice served, the energy went out of us like a deflating balloon. We sat in silence once more. The only words exchanged were between, me and the Brit. What did he say? What did you grant? The Brit looked at each of us to confirm our agreement before settling his gaze on me. He said, don't tell them what I did. I don't want her to know what I did. We were rescued seven hours later. When they asked us what happened, we all looked at each other and told the same story. Father and son had fallen together, accident, Several family members clutched the new widow tight, but she held it together.

I don't know why she chose me. As the police finished taking statements, the bodies were being carted out, and we were all turning to leave. A hand fell on my shoulder. You, American. I turned around to face the widow with her two piercing eyes surrounded by halos of grief. Is this what happened? Did he die trying to save our boy? Was he a hero?

I couldn't think. Maybe I said it was all an accident, but he was no hero. It was a pathetic coward who was too afraid to even just speak up to save his son's life. Maybe I said, I don't know. I was too scared to look. Maybe I said, no, we murdered him for sitting by and watching his son die. Maybe I said, yes, he was a hero, a brave man. I'm embarrassed I couldn't match his courage. I said one of these things. I honestly can't remember which. Even at that moment, I didn't know which of the screaming phrases in my brain actually left my mouth. The only image that survived the stress of that moment is of her nodding lightly and letting me go. And I could only wait, paralyzed for her to hug me. Cry suddenly, not in agreement?

or shout for the police. Instead of any of those reactions, she spoke but two words. I understand. I was left to wonder for the rest of my life. Which one I told her. As the internet and social media grows increasingly prevalent, it's not all hookups and old school friends you can find.

As we learn from author Michael C. Gettings Jr., a classified ad brings about the reunion of two brothers separated at a young age for adoption. But time and distance aren't the best things to foster brotherly love. I join Kyle Akers in performing this tale, so let's hear the story that one man tells about my brother Ben, who was adopted. Every couple of years or so, I try to draw my brother from memory. I draw an ink and it never turns out well. I think the lines I sketch look good, but when I wake up the next day, I have a headache and they're just lines.

No replacement for Ben. No actual semblance. I have a hard time remembering his face, and once I look at the unrecognizable scribbles from the night before, I go to Craigslist. I send a message to the ether. Username Mark. Subject, my brother Ben, who was adopted.

Ben and I didn't grow up in a great home. I don't think we actually had the opportunity to grow much at all. Child Protective Services was called to the house a few times. Not because we were slapped around or we showed up to school with bruises. I didn't actually have the opportunity to start school since we were split up when I was four. But that there was never a car in the driveway, that there was a funny smell coming from the house, what have you? Miss Star next door was nosy, but a good woman. Our parents would always come back, though.

Take the newspapers that had collected on the stoop and put them on the stack inside. Ben looked after me as best he could, but he was five. Even when our parents had told him, it's your job to keep Mark safe, he stuck to it. Make sure he gets so bad. He had a protective instinct that was second to none. That might just be my nostalgia talking. At the age we were separated, I had no concept of self or of protection. Miss Starr called CPS for the last time about 26 years ago.

The service showed up to find me in a bath crying. I had been stewing my own filth in garbage for at least five days. My parents were in their bedroom, wrapped in a lover's embrace. Both were cold to the touch, their skin ivory, as the crime scene pictures I found later showed. CPS tried, they really did, but they had to do what was for the best. When they came, I clung to bend tight. I wouldn't let go of him. I screamed and I cried, but they pulled and they pried.

Eventually, he was taken away. As was I. I was adopted by a caring family. Before I lived with my new family, I'd never actually had hot chicken soup before. As I grew, I learned that Campbell's concentrated was meant to be diluted with water, not dropped into a hungry mouth with a dirty spoon and without a care. I was a problem for most of elementary school. I did not have the faculties to process the neglect I'd endured, and so I lashed out.

Not quite Jeremy levels of drawing pictures of mountaintops, but close. I would routinely cry out for Ben. Counselors suggested that I journal about it. Try and capture my emotions to find an outlet. So I went to Zanga, started a blog. Every year of middle school, every year of high school, I would imagine walking into a new classroom and seeing him sitting, book out, and our eyes would meet. He'd knock his desk over, standing up to race to me, and I'd barrel past my new bewildered teacher,

and we'd hug. I dropped that fantasy in college. I worked hard and eventually graduated with a degree in graphic design. Makes the shitty pictures I draw off Ben that much more frustrating, but two weeks ago, my friends, two weeks ago, I received an email. Mark, I know I caught this message a few days after it was posted, so I hope I'm not too late. But if you're the Mark that lived in Westing, Connecticut with the Grody parents, with Miss Star next door, let me know. It's me, Ben, your brother, who was adopted.

I took two days off work to process this. I stewed a bit, I think. Probably more resentful than I should have been. Day one was pure excitement. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Day two, the bitterness creeped in. Hey, champ, could have tried a little harder. I sent the email back with my address on day three.

My roommate had just bounced to move in with his girlfriend, so I had a spare room with an inflatable mattress, and if Ben turned out to be not who I imagined him to be, I could always call the cops. Considering I lived about three miles from the nearest precinct, this was a careful, calculated risk. I'd scheduled some vacation time from five-star graphics a few months ago. It didn't coincide with Ben showing up, but they were flexible and let me shift the dates a few weeks back.

So I cleaned the apartment, I swept the walk up, I raked the leaves in the front and backyard, and I sat nervously on my recliner. And then the door ball rang that night. I opened the front door. Ben was backlit by the street lights, almost in complete silhouette. When my eyes adjusted a flop of curly black hair, the crooked nose that was so familiar and the wry smile.

I could take or leave the flannel he was wearing, but I don't dictate how people dress. He had a gym bag slung over his shoulder. Holy shit. Mark? Holy shit. Ben. We both grinned like we were set to eat the moon. And then we hugged.

It was the tightest embrace I'd felt in quite some time. I showed him to his room and he unpacked as best he could in James's space. without a dresser he laid his clothes out on the floor in neat stacks shirts folded undershirts folded boxers folded socks paired all neatly against the wall the ben i remembered was a little less type a i guess but we were kids then and every day that we wake up we're not the same person that we were yesterday and 26 years is a lot of yesterdays i had been meaning to replace the halogens in the dining room with LEDs for a while but never got around to it

Then cooked, setting the plate gingerly in front of me with a small flourish. Some sort of pesto pasta that tasted great, considering I'd fallen to eating cold pasta out of a can recently. And we had a couple of craft beers. What's life been like? Not terrible. Caught a loving family. Kind of excelled once I put you behind me, to be honest. This is kind of taking me back a bit.

Who the fuck you tellin? I go on Craigslist to find full. fucking furniture, not a lost relative, and then wham-bam, there you am. And then you goddamn replied to the email. Fuck, my- Before this, did you try to find me? Yeah, both my new folks passed away before I could think to ask them about the adoption agency. And they were pack rats. I wouldn't have been able to find the form, even if I'd been granted as many seconds as there are grains of salt and, you know, salt mine. Fuck, I thought I'd find the metaphor, but it got away from me after I started talking.

So, you? I did try to find you. Due to an agency screw up, they couldn't find your file. Can you imagine how much sooner this reunion would have happened if we'd had electronic records back then? I work in the e-record field, usually for hospitals, but I do some scanning on the side, and it's goddamn invaluable. Nice. Ben's smile faltered for just a second.

Yeah, yeah, nice. I tried to cram as much childhood as I could over the next few days, knowing this would never last. It was weird and abstract, but we went to playgrounds. He pushed me on a swing. I pushed him, and he would launch out of the swing at the apex and do a walker roll when he hit the ground. We played ski ball at the boardwalk,

and he used his tickets to buy me a novelty eraser. Four big mistakes. stamped on it. Like you, he said. And on the third night, we sat down on the beach overlooking the water. I'm sorry. He didn't look at me, but stared over the crashing waves. For what?

I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I know how much you needed me. And I... His voice faltered. I didn't... Mark, I was five. I thought you'd be fine. I am.

Fine. Fine and dandy like sour candy. Fine is red wine. As chill as trichnine. I'm so fine, my first name should be raf. Rayf, like... Rayf fines. Yeah, yeah. That was a bad fucking joke, Mark. I'm sorry. You're not. Maybe soon. Well, I am now. Hey, remember the song mom used to sing when she was around? Turning off the belt line Weather worn and running low scent of the shore pine Evidence

I'm home Mark Shut the fuck up I don't want to remember any song mom used to sing I don't remember it Let's just go home and let's eat Seems like the only thing you knew how to cook was pesto pasta but this is what brothers do, right?

Wear on each other? Not, not understand the song our mom used to sing to us. It used to calm bend down, but now. He didn't set the plate gingerly in front of me. No small flourish. He placed a wine glass in front of me and filled it near to the top with one of my reds. He did the same for himself before taking his seat. Sorry, don't know what's gotten in to me.

This wasn't like I thought. it would be. I think you inviting me here may have been a mistake. I took a bite of pasta. He did change it up a bit. There was a bitter hint. No, I won't hear that. I've been looking for you for a long time, Ben. Do you remember when dad used to talk about the weeping willows and why they would weep? Ben slammed his fist on the table rattling the silverware. He stared down into his pasta. Without looking at me, he raised his wine glass to his lips and chugged almost all of it. No.

There was a buzzing in my head. But give me a minute, and maybe... He picked up his wine class and took the last sip. I... clouds now in my eyes, took another bite of pasta. He said they wept because... Ben slammed his fist on the table again. I said, give me a minute! I tried to.

Honest to God I did. Should have replaced the halogens. Should have done it sooner. Ben was turning into a shadow. I could see him smile. Oh, he smiled so big. His teeth's so shiny. The only point of light in the room now.

Because they can't walk around, and it gives them cramps. All I could see were two pinpoints of light now. Both starring Ben. He stood up and walked along the table. He gripped my hair pulling my head back, leaning in close and chuckled. Craigslist, you're not my first, Mark. Found out about you, your brother and your folks through your stupid fucking blog.

I wanted this the last longer. Wait, fuck did you do to me? He started coughing. You're not my first Ben. Blinding lights, agonizing. A hangover from hell. I couldn't move. I turned from side to side until the feeling came back into my limbs.

A bathroom. My bathroom. Sink pristine. Mirror, pristine. LEDs installed. In the bathtub, Ben. As soon as I'd tasted the pasta I had known, Rohipnal, not what I would have chosen, but hey, nobody's perfect.

My memory came and went. I'd collapsed onto the floor, and Ben collapsed shortly after, knife in hand. He had laced my pasta. I had laced the wine. He was a drinker. I had pegged that from the first night he stayed here. When I was four and Ben was five, our parents put him in charge of giving me a bath. I hated Baths.

To this day, I still do. I fought my brother, but he got me into the tub. I grabbed his shirt as he walked away, and he fell. He fell into the tub with me, hitting his head on the faucet. By this point, our parents were dead in their bedroom. Ben drowned in four inches of water, and I couldn't save him. I didn't want to let him go. So I sat there for five days until Miss Star called the police.

Currently, I lean over the bath and stare at the form in the tub, face down in four inches of water, and climb in with him. After five days, I'll take the nameless shape and I'll put him under the yard with the others. And then I'll try to remember Ben's face. I draw in ink and it never turns out well. I think the lines I sketch look good, but when I wake up the next day, I'll have a headache and they're just lines. So I think I'll head to Craigslist and send a message. to the ether. Username, Mark.

Subject, my brother Ben, who was adopted. Local legends and Halloween go hand in hand, especially when it involves specific places and the mysterious sightings which occur there. As explained to us by author Sherman Smith, one legend includes a rather morbid statistic related to it,

and it will take two friends to figure out the truth behind. the legend. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson and Ellie Hirschman. So be very cautious if someone asks you, have you ever been to Bunnyman Bridge? Dude, you've never heard of Bunnyman Bridge? I had been living in Virginia for less than six months when my buddy Scott asked me this question. I was a recent transplant from New Jersey and had no idea what he was talking about. We were sitting on the lawn outside of the house we rented together, tossing back beers in the brisk evening air. No, what's that? Well, back in the 70s, some kids were out by this bridge in Clifton, right?

They parked near the bridge, a underpass thing, looking to bang, I guess, guy and a girl. Anyway, they park, and before they can even turn off the car... Scott's left fist smacked into his right palm. Bam! Window shatters! Crazy dude dressed like a bunny, full bunny suit, ears and all, standing there, hatchet in hand. He had smashed out their window, warns them to leave and never come back. They haul ass out of there, right?

Tell the cops. The psycho threw the hatchet at them or something because they had it with them. Cops never found anything. But they'd find corpses out there like every year after that. That's crazy. It sounded tame compared to the stories we told and retold growing up. New Jersey is a messed up place. That was Halloween night.

If you go out there on Halloween, the bunny man comes out and tries to chop you up. I finished my beer and put the empty can down on the dewy grass. No, Scott, we're not going out there. He completely ignored me. We're going out there. We gotta. It's awesome. I sighed. He can't talk Scott out of doing stupid things. Ask any of the emergency room doctors that had stitched his ass back together over the years.

Fine. We'll go. Scott was like a kid on Christmas Eve. It was two weeks before Halloween, and I figured he'd get drunk and forget all about it. I was wrong. Halloween crept up on me, and that entire day Scott wouldn't stop going on and on about our trip to Bunnyman Bridge. He filled the gas tank in his Jeep, bought snacks, and even paid for some decent weed to smoke. on the way out there. At this point, I'd be a dick to say no, so off we went. The drive from Norfolk to Clifton took a little over three and a half hours. We were going way out there. It's a tiny place,

lots of historical significance, not even 300 people living there full time. The bridge was outside of town on a back road near some old homes. I didn't believe for a minute that a crazy killer in a bunny costume would be wandering around at mid-mid. It had been almost 45 years since the story first popped up, but I do believe in being prepared. I'd been in the habit of carrying a small pistol with me everywhere I went since moving to the state. I wasn't stupid enough to leave it at home. We weren't trespassing, so I wasn't afraid of getting in trouble. I had my concealed carry permit.

Better safe than sorry, right? We rolled through the old town before midnight and made our way to the outskirts. During the day, I'm sure it would be a beautiful place to visit. Old churches, a steam locomotive parked on the tracks, a true throwback to the idyllic Americana of 60 years ago. At night, the tall peaks on the buildings cast odd angular shadows against the ground, elongated by the light of the full moon. There were no street lamps, or any kind of electric light.

Most of the buildings we passed were dark. Once we drove through town and onto the back roads, it was even worse. Dense treetops bowed out over the road, blocking the moon for the majority of the drive. The headlights fought to pierce the thick fog covering the roadway. Scott couldn't have picked a better night to come out here. I'm not easy to scare, but my palms were starting to sweat a little. Their hair on my forearms was on end, sending tiny pinpricks of electricity at my spine every time they brushed the interior of the car.

Despite the balmy weather, I felt a chill creep along my skin. We rode in silence for the better part of the trip before Scott pulled over and parked. He turned to face me, looked me in the eye, and grinned. We're here. Without breaking eye contact, he killed the headlights and turned off the engine. The world descended into darkness, an inky black nothing that swallowed us up. up. Without the thrum of the old Jeep's engine, it was as quiet as a grave. The sudden silence left my ears ringing. So we drove all the way out here. Now what? I looked out the window, squinting,

trying to see. The scant moonlight that cut through the canopy of leaves didn't illuminate much. We walked to the bridge. Scott didn't wait for me to respond. He got out of the car and closed his door, he began walking down the road, not looking back. I wasn't about to let him wander off without me. Scott is a disaster waiting to happen, and I didn't feel like spending my evening with him in the ER again. I jumped out of the Jeep and followed him. The road meandered through the thick trees for a few hundred yards before coming to a tight curve. We walked through the still night side by side. Rounding the bend in the road, we reached an area where the tree cover was thin and the moonlight broke through.

The road narrowed into a concrete tube cutting through a small raised embankment. It was too dark to see the top of the elevated roadway. In the waning moonlight, the tunnel was little more than a yawning black opening, flanked and pale gray concrete. Bunnyman Bridge. He took out his phone and turned to face me.

Leave it to this idiot to take a selfie at a time like this, I thought. He made his stupid face, moved the phone around to line up the photo, and press the screen. As he did, I noticed movement near the tunnel. At first, I thought I was seeing things, but then I saw it again. From the bushes on the side of the structure, a tall white form emerged. Scott saw the look on my face and spun around phone in hand. The flashlight on his iPhone came on and lit up the roadway. Standing there, in front of the gaping black maw of the underpass, was a man in a bunny suit.

Well over six feet tall and gangly, all limbs in no mass. There was a yellow and red fire axe gripped in his hands. The long, slender ears of the bunny suit swayed behind him as he slowly made his way toward us. Dark patches stained the front of his suit. I didn't need to stretch my imagination to figure it. out what it was. Blood. Scott stammered and backpedal into me.

Without thinking, I reached behind me and removed my compact pistol from its holster. I pointed the gun at the approaching form and leveled the Tritium sights on center mass. Back? The fuck. Up. I tried to sound commanding, but even I could hear the warble in my voice. I'll fucking shoot you. I swear to God.

Leave. The bunny man didn't stop. He continued moving towards us, closing the gap. The axe swayed back and forth in front of him, and as he neared I could see there was blood on the blade. I told myself to be rational. This was obviously a guy playing a prank on Halloween. He was trying to scare some idiots who came to see the bridge.

But most people would drop that shit in a heartbeat when there was a loaded gun pointed at them. He kept coming. The movement was slow, but he kept pacing towards. us. I couldn't see his face in the deep shadows, but I could tell. I knew that he was staring me in the eye. He pivoted and ran full bore towards Scott. I didn't hesitate. I exhaled, relaxed my arms, and squeezed the trigger gently. The recoil shook my already strained muscles. The bunny man staggered, slowed, and slumped down into the roadway. He had only moved to the

a few dozen feet from the mouth of the tunnel to where he now sat. The scent of cordite tainted the cool night air. Crimson oozed from the front of his suit and joined the darker brown patch already there. The X slipped from his grip, making a dull clink on the asphalt. Scott stammered, mouth moving like a dying fish. He turned and ran back toward the Jeep. I kept the gun trained on the man and approached with caution. The bullet had struck him in the chest. But not in the heart. Still, I was sure he wasn't going to last long. I moved to the side, kicking the axe away from him.

Scott, call the police. He didn't respond. I let go of the gun with my left hand and reached for my phone. My right hand, still holding my pistol, betrayed my frayed nerves. It vibrated at the end of my arm. The man coughed and sputtered, blood splattering his lips. Please. He reached for his midsection.

I assumed he was going to press his hand to the wound, but it disappeared into a pouch on the front of his bunny suit. I hadn't noticed it due to the huge dark smear across the front. His hand came out holding a furry black object. The rabbit, neck broken and head hanging limply to the side. He reached his arm as far forward as he could, which wasn't far, and tried to fling it to his side, back toward the tunnel opening. It landed two feet away with a sickening thud.

He looked me in the eye. For the first time, I really took in his features. He was young, my age, younger even. Clean cut. I don't know what I was expecting. Crazy eyes, maybe? Homeless drifter meth-mouth? I'm not sure.

But it wasn't this. The Russian towards the rabbit. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a pain to cry, followed by a wheezing, gurgling sound. It had hit him in the lung. I stared at the rabbit trying to understand the situation. I was in shock, looking back on it. You never know how you're going to react the fucked up situations life throws at you until you're there. That was the first time I paid attention to my surrounding since I initially saw him.

The moon had shifted and I could see the opening of the tunnel now, and the large black fingers splayed on either side of the concrete. The opening was at least 12 feet wide and somehow these hands were grabbing both sides at once. Hands that had to be a foot long easy. Two tiny red orbs danced in the darkness, the light refracting and giving them an odd, pale glow. That's when I first heard the scratching. Slow, like the labored dragging of heavy furniture across an ancient wood floor, followed by a ticking, tapping sound.

The bunny man heard it too. His eyes grew wide, his mouth trembling. He attempted to speak again, but all that came out of him. was that wet rattling cough. He fell over trying to reach for the rabbit. I'm not sure why I didn't run for the Jeep. I sincerely wish I had. Phone and gun forgotten, I grabbed the rabbit carcass.

It was still warm. I threw it with everything I had left in me into the dark opening. The silence grew palpable, and the tapered shadow fingers retreated into the tunnel. I heard a sickening crunch. The dragging started again, retreating into the depths of the darkness. I looked at the bunny man laying on the ground, laboring to breathe. His face relaxed and he smiled.

His unfocused eyes locked on mine, and he looked relieved. You... Your problem now. I walked to Scott's truck and found him curled up on the floor in the backseat crying. I regained my senses enough to call the police at this point. They came out, took our statements in my pistol. They kept us there for a while. The bunny man was a student who had been living in the area.

We didn't find out much else. They found two more dead bunnies in the pocket of his outfit. They determined I had fired in self-defense and I wasn't charged with any crime. Scott never asked to go to the Bunnyman Bridge again. He moved out a few months later and I haven't spoken to him since. Time went by. My therapist told me that I imagined the thing in the tunnel, that it was my way of coping with killing a man who intended to do harm to me and my friend.

I began to believe it. October came again and Halloween passed without incident. I was curious, though, about why I never heard anyone talk about the real Bunny Man after what had happened. You'd think that would add to the legend, but I never saw it mentioned anywhere online or in the news. I was reading a forum post about local Virginia legends when the Bunnyman Bridge came up.

Most people regurgitated the same old tales about escaped convicts and supernatural rabbits. But one person posted something that chilled my blood. They found another corpse this year, eaten. As it happened in five. maybe six years, the bunny man must be gone. Cold crept up my spine. The bunny man must be gone. I could hear the sickening crunch of that thing eating the rabbit. Corpses. Eaton. Your problem. It took me a while to come to terms with what happened. I've spent the better part of this year

driving to Clifton and walking through the tunnel during the day. I want to know every inch of that road before October. Nobody is going to die this year. I've already purchased a bunny suit and an axe. I'm not sure where to get rabbits from, but I have time. It's only September after all. When a young woman gets an internship

working for the local police department, she learns the ropes from her police officer cousin. But as author Kelly Childress shares, When the woman gets access to files surrounding a brutal murder, the details she discovers will leave her shaken to the core. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgado, Atticus Jackson, and Ellie Hirschman. So brace yourself for the disturbing tale unearthed

from the Ashland Police Department's Evidence Locker. In my senior year of college, this would have been in, 93. My degree required an internship. Luckily, the local police department had a friendly relationship with the criminal justice faculty at my school. It was easy for me to nab a position in my fall semester, and most of the cops seemed like they enjoyed showcasing their expertise to a newbie. I enjoyed a couple weeks of ride-alongs and tours of the headquarters, but soon I felt like I'd gotten the gist of it, to be honest.

This was a college town in rural Illinois, so it was basically drunk kids, meth cooks, meth users, and traffic tickets. Sprinkle on some bar fights, shoplifting, and domestic violence, and you had Ashland figured out. My internship was made even better

by my cousin, Frank, an Ashland cop, who saw to it that I wasn't bored. He would show me which parts of it of town to avoid. Tell me some of his war stories. And once, when we were patrolling late at night, he sped down a stretch of road while blasting the theme song from cops. It's been long enough, so I'm not worried about getting myself or Frank in trouble now. He left the force in 2007 and has been working happily in private security ever since. I ended up staying on the academic track

and am similarly unconcerned about getting in trouble for something I did over two decades ago. The thing I shouldn't have done was photocopy police evidence without permission and keep it. I still have the copies, one letter and some journal pages, sitting right next to me. I had forgotten about it until I read my email this morning and saw a message from Frank. Then I went to the basement, where I kept all the nostalgic junk from my adolescence and early adulthood, and started digging through boxes. I can't explain why I kept those pages for so long. The shock value alone is probably sufficient enough explanation, but there was something else, some sentimentality or something. The woman who wrote them is gone and has no family.

and some part of me hated the thought of her existence winking out of memory like a dying star. The night I copied the evidence was a Friday. I was scheduled to be at the police department at 4 p.m. to midnight. Frank was working, so he scooped me up and we set out in his squad car. A couple speeding tickets, a wellness check, and one sub-sandwich later, the sun was setting. Frank turned around in a cul-de-sac to begin patrolling his sector again.

Navigating the winding neighborhoods, he slowed as we passed one block. Has anyone told you about the murder that happened over here? My interest was peaked. In the three weeks of shadowing, one noticeably absent part of this internship was the regaling of famous local crimes, tempted by the prospect of an eerie tale to usher in the fall evening. I told him I hadn't. Frank pointed to one of the homes, a small farmhouse with a wraparound porch. Its white paint was peeling, and although it looked small, it had a second story with a large balcony.

In the 80s, a lady named Alice Weiss lived in that house. A guy named Colton lived over there. He pointed to the Powder Blue House next to the Powder Blue House next to the house. door. It was in better shape than the White House, but it still looked pretty run down. The vinyl siding was dirty. Unkept vines choked the porch's lattice work. Unlike the rest of the homes in the neighborhood, this one still had a gravel driveway, peppered with tufts of weeds. Then around Thanksgiving, cops get a call about gunshots coming from the Colton House. They show up and find Weiss on his front porch with her brains blown out and

Colton inside in the same condition. What got people extra riled up is that Weiss had pentagram-shaped burns on both her arms. Coroner said they were a decade old, at least. Colton's body had pentagrams carved into his skin, too, but they were fresh. It looked like Weiss did it before she killed him. Well, this was right in the middle of all the 80s' satanic panic, right? I secretly hoped Frank would think I was knowledgeable. Right, but that bullshit cropped up all across the country, and there were plenty of alleged cases without any real evidence to back up the accusations.

Here we had a case with flesh and blood victims, one of which had satanic markings on her body predating that whole fiasco. Fair enough. Frank made a right at the stop sign and continued through the neighborhood. That's kind of the end of the story, unfortunately. Weiss had been mentally ill for most of her life, and people were exactly. as understanding as you'd think. Everybody assumed she was just a crazy woman who worshiped the devil because that's what crazy people do. And when that wasn't enough, she murdered her neighbor.

I mold over his words as a silence overtook the cruiser. Frank broke the quiet a few minutes later when we emerged out on the main road. And as much as people tried to forget it happened, the Weiss case just stuck with people. Colton had been her neighbor since she was born, known her family, known her grandparents. They lived next to each other for over 30 years, and then one day out of the blue, she just murders him and offs herself. A tinny voice on Franks Waki interrupted him. Dispatch needed an officer to come back to the station and help with an emergency ex-party order. When we got there, a distraught woman with a black guy was sitting in the lobby.

rapidly tapping her foot against the tiles. Frank gave me a knowing look and told me to go find Sergeant Tate. He would come get me when he was done with the paperwork. The Ashland Police Department was clearing out old files to be moved to off-site storage, and today it was Sergeant Tate's problem. I helped him move box after box, looking longingly at some of the files. After 30 minutes, the sergeant told me in a low, voice, he was going out back for a smoke. On his way out, he called over his shoulder in a teasing

voice. No peeking now. Offering him an empty promise not to, I stood obediently until I heard the door shut behind him. Then I went to work. I rifled through every box, content to read a little here and there, but at the front of my mind was the story Frank had told me less than an hour before. After a few minutes of unstacking boxes and hectic shuffling, I hadn't found any files from before 1979. The excitement I'd felt gave way to resignation. I wouldn't be finding anything on Alice Weiss in here. Nevertheless, I continued to look through the old files, though at a slower pace. There was still a chance I might find something. Plus, I reasoned that I might as well look while I had the time.

My instincts ended up proving correct. My heart rate quickened once I started to see dates from 1980, then 1981. I kept going until, in a box of files from 1984, I saw it. One Manila folder bore the label, 0-10-11-1-785-009. Weiss House. I glanced around and pulled it out of the box. The folder contained only a letter and a small journal, both bagged.

Automatically, I threw it back in the box and carried the whole thing to the adjacent corner, where there was a small desk, a file cabinet, and a copier. I peered out the doorframe, saw nothing, heard nothing. I started the photocopier and slid the letter, still in its plastic, underneath, and hit start. The machine whirled to life, and I whirled around and started to loudly restack some of the boxes. I knew Sergeant Tate smoked American spirits, so I had a comfortable eight to ten minutes before he returned, and I'd used at least five searching boxes. The second the copier had finished, I put away the letter, maneuvered the journal open, and began on the first few pages of that. I had never felt so tense, and the compulsion

to duplicate those documents was not one I could explain. I had started, and I barreled on to finish, feeling dread at both the potential for trouble and the prospect of not succeeding. When the final page came out, I returned the journal to its box, folded up the papers, and shoved them into my small purse. Then, since I didn't hear Sergeant Tate, I decided to rearrange some of the boxes to hide my unexplainably desperate search. By the time he returned, smelling faintly of smoke and humming tunelessly, I had calmed down and resumed my normal work. I finished my shift, hencely aware of the paper crammed in my back. When I got back to my apartment, it was blissfully empty,

the remnants of my roommate's pre-party lying scattered around our living room. Hesitant to look at my spoils, I changed into pajamas and reheated some leftovers. I eyed my purse as I ate. Once the food was gone, I retrieved the wad of paper. The evidence tag was blurry, but legible on the page beneath the writing. Dated 11-1785. It referenced a case number

and listed case type as Homicide Suicide. I read the one-page letter first. It was written on lined notebook paper in confident, swooping cursive. My name is Alice Weiss. I'm 33. I still live in the house I was raised in.

3106 Birch Lane I have been in and out of psychiatric care for over half of my life Recently my therapist and I have been doing some new things to try and get at some of my problems Among other things I've been having nightmares on and off for the past 15 or 16 years I can't glean anything useful from them Just an unhelpful combination of darkness

Candlelight, Fear, Pain screaming, nausea. So, after failed attempts at everything from cognitive behavioral therapies to medication and dietary changes, she's asked me to keep a dream diary. If I commit to writing down anything and everything I remember, she says I may understand a little more about what is actually happening in my dreams. The last few weeks, I've been writing down what I remember when the dreams wake me up in the middle of the night. I didn't read any of the entries until earlier today. I was afraid of how it would all sound in the daylight.

It worked, but I don't think this is what my therapist meant to happen. I remember where the burns came from. It wasn't something I did to myself like Mama told Dr. Colton. I remember everything now, and I'm going to kill that son of a bitch. The second item was a black notebook, one of the small pocket-sized ones. The handwriting was barely recognized. But the evidence tag says it was written by Alice and found in her house. The handwriting was a similar type of cursive, but the lines were bolder and narrower,

like their author was stricken with urgency. The day after my 15th birthday, Mr. Colton came over asking to borrow some sugar. Mr. Colton was my parents' age, but he lived with his elderly mother. Thus, he had acquired the label of weird old man, the kind of unspoken distrust that we kids felt towards unmarried adults. His eyes roved up and down my body as he asked. I thought this was the worst thing. Before I could give him the sugar, he lunged at me, pressed a cloth over my mouth. When I woke up, I was blindfolded and bound at the wrists and ankles. I never found out where I was. I thought this was the worst thing. I think I'm underground. I don't know how long I've been here.

at least. The room I'm in a small, no windows. I don't think it was built by professionals. The room seems to be hewn out of solid rock. There aren't the reassuring right angles of newer construction. Mostly men, but sometimes women come and go, bringing me food and taking it away, and bringing me a chamber pot and taking it away. I think they're all different, but it's hard to tell. They don't speak much in their hoods. cover their faces. Sometimes they forget to bring me food, and sometimes they forget to take the chamber pot away. I thought this was the worst thing.

I think they drugged me quite often. A few times I've passed out suddenly, and when I wake up, my body hurts. Sometimes I have bruises and cuts without knowing where they came from. I thought this was the worst thing. The drugging, passing out, waking up with injuries has been getting worse,

This last time I woke up with my forearms all bandaged up. Whatever's underneath hurts. It burns and itches. I'm too tired to look. I thought this was the worst thing. They feed me bread and water once a day. Once I complained that I was still hungry. My keeper suggested I eat some of the roaches.

The candlelight twisted his grin into a cruel mosaic. I thought this was the worst thing. I wake up to a new pain. My inside's hurt. I don't know what they've done to me this time. They treat me better now, so I try not to think about it. I get more food, candles, and a few extra blankets to sleep on. They've started posting someone outside my door at all times.

The person is always humming something low and tombless like a Gregorian chant. I thought this was the worst thing. Time passes. My belly swells. The bandages on my arms disappear one day. Two circles with a star inside. I might have been angry or upset about this once, but now I just don't care much.

One night I am ripped out of my sleep by a ripping pain coming from below. I scream into the tiny concrete room I am in. I keep screaming and screaming until they come. I don't get any drugs this time. I feel split in half before God and everyone. More opened and vulnerable than I have been this entire time. The pain is so bad I forget how much I hate Mr. Colton and his friends as they tend to me. I beg for them to kill me.

It takes hours before the baby comes out. I thought this was the worst thing. I rest and they take the baby away. If this were one of Mama's radio dramas, I would scream and cry more. Rage until all of my energy is gone. Demand to see my baby. But I don't want to see it.

I don't want anything but my room, my school, my old life back. Today I hear footsteps approaching my prison. They tell me everything will be okay as long as I do one more thing. This scream that erupts from my throat is louder than any noise I made with the baby. They bring me a platter with a tiny, frail human figure on it. The flesh charred and blackened.

They tell me to eat this. So, yeah, I was a little shaken after reading. Luckily, I still had ten weeks left in the internship. I was able to get a little more information out of Frank and some of the other cops, including some of who had been around when the murder occurred. One of them, Lieutenant Mueller, remembered some of the facts floating around in the aftermath of the deaths. Roughly 40 years apart in age, Alice Weiss had lived next to her eventual victim, Randall Colton, for her entire life, excluding her hospitalizations.

doing my best to act like just another college kid, intrigued by cheap gore and true crime. I mentioned Frank had spoken about pentagram burns on Alice. Her psychiatric records specifically acknowledged the burns, because they were the reason she was admitted to her first facility when she was a teenager. Her mother says she found the burns when the girl started wearing long sleeves, even in July. Weiss claimed she had no memory of where they came from, but even as a teenager, her records also spoke to a history of depression, hallucinations, and self-harm. I brought it up again with Frank a few weeks later.

Specifically when I was at lunch with Frank and one of the Ashland PD's detectives. I can't remember his name, unfortunately. I do remember Frank telling me he was a Chicago cop before moving to Ashland, which is why he's the only one who doesn't get phased by this stuff. My biggest question was the connection between Randall Colton and the Dr. Colton mentioned in Alice's final letter, and the grizzled detective answered it without even realizing it. I get why people react so strongly to the wise thing. You live right up next to people, sometimes for years, and they're never a threat to you.

And then suddenly, they're the worst kind of threat. And in small towns like this, it affects people even more powerfully, because you're naturally more interconnected. Hell, we even found out in the course of that investigation that Randall Colton's brother was a psychiatrist over at Marion's South State Hospital, and he treated Alice Weiss back in the 60s when she had her first breakdown.

So that's all, right? A young girl in a small town, stricken with poor health at an early age, in a time when mental health treatment was still young, struggling for years before ending it all in a terrible fashion. Time goes on. Family homes empty and refill.

Cases get put in off-site storage. People forget. The reason I dug out my copy of Alice's last words were because, as mentioned earlier, Frank sent me a short email this morning, asking if I remembered about the murder house from my internship. He attached an article from the Ashland Local News.

3104 Birch Lane, Randall Colton's old house, burned to the ground yesterday. The tenants weren't making meth there, and the house exploded. Three people died. Once the flames were out and the emergency responders were able to properly investigate the scene, they found a crude sub-basement. Frank told me he'd heard from one of his old buddies that the room must have been decades, old, constructed well before things like home inspections and building permits were a reality. Through a hidden door carved out of the foundation, they found a small hallway leading to a smaller

room. I didn't ask Frank if they found any pentagrams on the walls. I'm sure he would have told me if they had. The way Frank put it in his email... Hacking into the ground like that, it's a miracle the house didn't collapse 20 years ago. Although I know he didn't mean to be ironic, I'm not sure miracle is the word I would use.

And so, another episode has drawn to a close, and our nightmares dissolve into the ether. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com

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

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