The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Summer Vacation

Episode Date: August 20, 2017

It's our Summer Vacation episode. We're taking the week off but please enjoy two classic stories from Season 8. "The Ringing in My Ear"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson & James Cleveland. (Story starts around 00:01:45) "The Black Tree"† written by Jacob Healey and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Matthew Bradford & Elie Hirschman & Nikolle Doolin & Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 00:15:55) 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 S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Jacob Healey   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "The Black Tree" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath 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 Summer Vacation episode. I'm David Cummings. You know, we're down at the beach this week, but we still have.

two tails to chill you faster than an unexpected wave splashing your nether regions. Just a reminder that we'll be back with Season 9 episode 16 next week. Oh, and tickets for our Halloween Live in Toronto show are now on sale. Go to LiveNation.com or Ticketmaster.ca and search for no sleep to get your tickets. So enjoy the stories and we'll see you back here next week. I'd better go. board isn't going to surf itself. In our first tale,

we meet a family in turmoil. When a parent has to endure their child's suffering, it can shake their character to its core. As author S.H. Cooper shares, the effects can sometimes be more than emotional. Sometimes other senses

are impacted. Performing this tale are David Alt, Erica Sanderson, and James Cleveland. So when the pain is too much, much, you just might say you hear the ringing in my ear. I remember the day I started to lose my hearing. I remember it because two things had happened the day before.

I'd received a particularly painful, numbing injection at the dentist's office prior to having some work done, and my daughter was attacked and left for dead in a dumpster just outside her college campus. We got the call at 4 a.m. being woken like that by a shrill ringing in the other one. still and quiet dark is something no one should have to experience. You know before you pick up that something has happened, that something life-changing is about to be dropped in your lap, and all you can do is answer. Mr. Barrister, I'm sorry to call at this hour. It's about your daughter. I'll never forget those words or the icy way they wrapped around my heart. My daughter, my baby girl. I looked at my

wife, she looked back at me and she knew. If I never again hear the sound she made then, I will consider myself blessed. In the flurry of packing and finding a flight to get to Emily and all of the gut-wrenching worry, I didn't even notice it at first. It wasn't until we were in the air and Helena was whispering prayers under her breath beside me that I heard it, a high-pitched keen in my left ear that came in what I can only describe as short beeps. It reminded me of hearing test tones. I stuck my finger in my ear and wiggled it around, trying to lessen the sound, but it remained steady and irritating and beeping. It was pushed to the back of my mind the moment we landed, however, and we raced from the airport to the hospital, where Emily was lying unconscious with

a row of machines standing vigil at her bedside. I'd seen them countless times before. I knew what they each did and why they were attached to her, but in that moment, they were strange, mechanical monstrosities that made her look so small and frail. As we sat there, stroking her hair and telling her how we loved her, I had a flashback to the only other time Emily had ever been in a hospital. She had been six, maybe seven, and it was bedtime.

She wanted to stay up longer like her old. a brother, but I told her to stop jumping on her bed and to settle down for sleep. I turned my back for just a minute. I don't even remember why. And she slipped. Blood was pouring out of a nasty gash over her eye where she'd struck the headboard, and she was screaming. After we'd calmed her down and got a look at the wound, we agreed she'd need stitches. While Helena got her dressed, I called the hospital where I worked as an anesthetist and got a hold of one of my doctor buddies to let him know I was coming in. Helena stayed home with our son while I took Emily in.

Is it going to hurt? She was staring at me in the rearview mirror, one eye covered by the cloth she was pressing against her forehead. No, I'll make sure it doesn't. How? My little girl, ever the skeptic. Do you remember how he talked about how daddy makes people go to sleep for his job? It had become something of a joke in our house.

Better behave or daddy will put you to sleep forever. Yeah? Sometimes I only make part of a person fall asleep. That way the nice doctors can make them better and they don't even feel it. You're going to do that to me? Yep. And you're going to stay with me the whole time? Of course.

She barely winced when I injected the local anesthetic and then fell asleep during the actual stitches. Emily was a tough little girl. She was a tougher young woman. It took her three days to wake up. In that time, the hearing in my left ear had started to fade until the only thing I could hear with absolute clarity was that high-pitched ringing I'd first noticed on the plane. I couldn't worry about it just then, though,

not when my family needed me so badly, and I didn't mention it to anyone. Emily's recovery was a slow process. She claimed not to remember who had attacked her and said she couldn't offer any description or statement to the police. She was tight-lipped about what happened, even with her mother, with whom she'd shared everything. My carefree, forever-smiling daughter was now haunted, and every time she looked at me, there was such pain etched deeply into her eyes.

I'd never felt so helpless or hollow. After she was released from the hospital, she quietly withdrew from school and moved back in with me and her mother, where she spent most of her days shut away in her room. All the while, the deafness and ringing in my ear continued. Beep, beep, beep. Still, I put off going to get it checked out. I figured it was some kind of screw up from the dentist's injection, and there wouldn't be much that could be done about it anyway.

It would be almost impossible to prove. My focus was entirely on Emily, and helping her in any way I could, my own issues be damned. We got her into therapy. We researched healing techniques. We devoted ourselves entirely to her physical and mental health in every way she would allow. It took months. But she started to smile again.

The night terrors started to recede and peace by piece our Emily started to come back to us. We had just started discussing whether she felt comfortable enough to return to school when things began to unravel. Emily had come to the hospital where I worked to have lunch with me. We were sitting in the cafeteria, our trays of food untouched in front of us while we talked about what courses she might like to take. She was in the middle of telling me about a genealogy class she was interested in when she froze, mid-sentence, and the color drained from her face. Kiddo, you, okay? I followed her fixed stare back to the register line where a trio of people were waiting to pay for their food, and then looked back to her. I need to go.

What's wrong? Love you, Dad. She practically ran out of the cafeteria. I turned back to the three at the register. Two, I recognized the chief of medicine and an oncologist, but the third I didn't know. He was a young man around Emily's age, and the passing resemblance he bore the chief led me to believe he was a relative of some sort, probably a grandson. The longer I looked at him, the louder the ringing in my ear became.

When I got home that night, Emily was sitting on the back. back porch, staring off vacantly while our dogs wandered about the yard. She jumped when I opened the slider and took a seat next to her. You okay? Yeah. The silence that fell between us was a heavy one. About today. Victor. I didn't say anything, afraid to interrupt and cause her to shut down again. He goes to the same university. We had a biology class together. Every word sounded like it was being torn forcibly out of her. We found out we were from the same areas, so we talked a few times about classes

and how you and his grandpa worked for the same place, and then we traded pictures and stuff. And stuff was clearly things that no father ever wants to think of his daughter doing. I just nodded. It was going too fast, though,

so I told him I just wanted to be friends again. He didn't like that. He told me if I didn't do what he wanted, he'd share the people. pictures I sent him. Her voice cracked and she turned away from me. That's illegal now in a lot of places though,

and I said I'd make sure he got into trouble. He got angry. Victor had cornered her outside a club and tried to get her to go home with him. When she refused, he became violent. He dragged her into an alleyway and attacked her. He said, if I ever told, he'd share all of him. of our texts so people would know I wanted it and he'd make sure you were fired and that your career would be over. Emily was shaking with sobs.

I was the chief of medicine. He could have done it. I pulled her in close and held her while she cried. No matter how much I tried to tell her that we needed to call the police, she refused. I can't, Dad. It has texts and pictures. No one would believe me. The next day when I went into work, I went straight to the chief of medicine's office. I didn't know what I was going to do or say I just had to do something. I'd barely knocked on the door when he called me in.

Before I could speak, Dr. Gladson looked up. Oh, good. Martha found you. I wanted to talk to you about my grandson, Vic. He's having surgery this afternoon. Oh, nothing too serious. but I'd like you to be his anesthetist. I'd ask Taylor, but he's already scheduled. I almost said no.

I almost shouted that his damn grandson was a monster. I almost told him I'd sooner see him dead. Instead, I took a deep breath. Of course. Good. It's at 2.30 with Dr. Lim. As I turned to leave, the ringing in my left ear seemed so loud that it was almost throbbing. At 2.30, as promised, I was seated at the head of the

surgery table behind the ether screen. Victor, a good-looking kid with a cocksure attitude about him, was lying in front of me. Hello, Victor. Hi. He wasn't at all nervous, which told me he didn't know who I was. It didn't surprise me. Not many people bothered to learn the anesthetist's name. Is this your first surgery? Nope. So you know how anesthesia works? Count back from ten, yeah? Yes.

I made small talk while I set up, asking him about where he went to school and what he was majoring in. When it came time to put on his mask and count down, I asked him one more question. Ten. I think you might know my daughter. Nine. Eight. Yeah, Emily. Seven.

Oh, yeah. I think so. Six. She ever tell you what I do for a living? Five. Four. Three. Two.

Sometimes. Permanently. The beeping in my ear was especially loud then, and slowly I realized that it was echoing. I looked up at his heart monitor, sitting not too far over my head. And it beeped in time with the ringing in my ear. The surgery went well for about 20 minutes until Victor experienced a sudden drop in blood pressure. The shock to his system sent him into a violent seizing fit

and the surgeon was barking orders demanding this and that to stabilize the boy. There was nothing that could be done. Anesthesia overdoses can be such terrible, tricky things. As the staff struggled to revive him and I made a show of doing the same, The steady rhythm of the ringing in my ear changed for the first time. Victor was pronounced dead at 302 p.m. At the same time the heart monitor was turned off, the ringing in my ear ceased and sound returned to it in a loud, almost painful burst.

I was glad for the surgical mask then as they covered Victor with the white sheet. No one could see that I was smiling. In our final tale, we visit a small town with a local legend. which stretches back many generations. As shared by author Jacob Healy, we learn how a childhood game led to an encounter with the past and how pervasive and eternal the curse of evil can be. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado,

Matthew Bradford, Ellie Hirschman, Nicole Doolin, and Addison Peacock. So remember this. Some legends have warnings and you'd best pay attention, otherwise you might end up at the black tree. When Jimmy Satch and I were nine years old, two sixth grade boys walked into the school bathroom and turned off the lights. The three of us, along with what seemed to be half the school,

waited outside with bated breath. In a strange way, I think everyone wanted it to go wrong. See, these two youngsters were taking part in a game, which to this day astounds me, with its stupidity. They were to stand in the darkness before a mirror. They would repeat an incantation three times. Then, if all went as desired, a malevolent being from the unseen world would come through the mirror. I'm not sure what the plan was supposed to be at that point. Of course, the game never actually works. I've since learned that it goes by many names,

Bloody Mary, the Candyman. But at our school, it was known as Skeleton Jack. Legend had it that over 300 years ago, a pirate named Jack washed up on the shores of our Massachusetts Bort Town. After Jack committed some unspeakable crime or another, the townspeople sentenced him to death by skinning. They flayed him alive in the square one day. And God!

How he screamed! He screamed even after all his skin was gone. The townspeople weren't sure what to do. After all, no one had ever survived an entire flaying before. So they started cutting away his muscle, his fat, his cartilage, his tendons, his guts, everything but his bones. And when they were down to the bare skeleton, Jack was still screaming. The mob was so unnerved that Jack was eventually able to escape, fleeing into the 100-acre forest at the outskirts of our town.

It is said that if you're alone in those woods at night, and you listen very carefully, you can still hear him, screaming in agony and prowling for revenge. It's not a very believable story, to say the least. Our town never skinned people alive for one thing, And if they had, nobody could possibly scream with their throat ripped out. But for a grade schooler, it had the desired effect. That's why a deafening hush fell over the crowd outside

when those two boys began their seance in the bathroom. Jack, Jack, Jack, Skeleton Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Skeleton, Jack. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Skeleton, Jack. Then, nothing but silence. A wave of relief seemed to wash over the crowd of students waiting outside. We had all resigned ourselves to disappointment. When, all of a sudden, the most frightful scream I had ever heard reverberated throughout the halls. It was coming from inside the bathroom.

Things had gone wrong after all. The crowd dissolved into pandemonium. The screams from the bathroom got louder, more intense, more agonement. People suddenly wanted to get as far away as possible. Like I said, I'm not sure anyone knew what the plan was supposed to be in the event of this game's success. But we were all in too deep now. Skeleton Jack would burst through that door at any second. Teeth, bared in a bony snarl and ready to separate every last one of us from our precious skin.

There are some moments in life that you just never forget. I've never forgotten the sound my first car made when it slammed against a highway wall at 50 miles an hour. I've never forgotten the look on my wife's face when she got the news that her mother had died. And until the day that I die myself, I'll remember those two boys, tripping over each other in their scramble out of the bathroom,

clothes torn and flesh covered in deep, bleeding gashes. Like Jack, they were still screaming. Let's go, you Jagovs. Satch and I stumbled through the thick brush, struggling to keep up. Jimmy was faster than us. In fact, he would become a very good distance runner someday. And he was growing impatient. We were at least a mile away from the frontier road, which is where our town ended.

The last person we'd seen was old Buck Billings, who threw us a friendly way from his porch as we walked. That had been about 30 minutes prior. By this point, grass and bushes to our waste surrounded us. Lots of them prickly. Poor Satch decided to wear shorts on this adventure, and I could see a couple of drops of blood already trickling down his leg. Another hundred yards in front of us was our destination for the day. The forest. I pressed forward, breaking even with Satch. Come on, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can go back. This is bullshit, man. We've been walking for two hours straight.

Satch was right. None of us would be old enough to drive for another seven years, so we had to walk the whole way. We practically staggered into Jimmy, who was waiting for us at the edge of the forest. Jump in Christ, you guys are slow. Jimmy was a nice guy, but he couldn't stand being second best at anything.

You could tell him it only took you 15 minutes to finish your homework, and Jimmy would do his again. Do his homework again. just so he could say he did it faster. Satch, on the other hand, was a slow kid. Truth be told, I probably could have kept up with Jimmy, but I was better friends with Satch. I didn't want him to feel bad.

His dad was an absolutely hulking black guy who nearly became a pro baseball player, and he wanted his boy, named after the great Satchel Page, to follow in his footsteps. But such had asthma, and he was about as athletic as a dirt clod. And as I watched him take a pull from his inhaler, it couldn't help but feel sorry for him. The kid would always feel like a disappointment to his old man.

The three of us stood on the edge of the forest, the cusp of legend. This was the last place where the bones of Jack the Pirate were ever seen. Man, this is it. Jimmy's hands were on his hips as he surveyed the imposing woods before him. He's in there, Skeleton Jack. No, he ain't. How would he even move without any muscles? Jimmy gave him a dismissive wave of the hand.

Get bent, man. I want to see it for myself. And with that, Jimmy took his first step forward into the shadows. I looked at Satch reluctantly, and he looked at me the same. And neither of us wanted to follow Jimmy. Well, we followed him anyway. Of course, none of us were really expecting to find Skeleton Jack. The day after the bathroom incident at school, the principal went around to all the classrooms and explained.

The blood those boys were covered in when they ran from the bathroom wasn't really blood at all. It had all been an elaborate prank. and neither of those boys would be returning to school for the rest of the week, or the week after. Myself, I thought the prank was brilliantly effective. So did Satch. But when the principal visited our classroom, Jimmy just looked put out. The rest of us had merely been thrilled by the prank. Jimmy had actually been excited. I suppose it was at least a little exciting to be part of something like that.

And I suppose that's what got me and Satch out into the woods that day. Two months later, struggling to keep up with Jimmy on his undying quest to scare the shit out of himself. The kid was an adrenaline junkie. And it was the beginning of summer. He needed an adventure, so it fell on us, his two best friends in the world, to help him find one. This was all for fun. None of us actually believed in skeleton, Jack. But the moment I stepped into that forest, the moment I began to feel the dank and suffocating air within,

I believed a little bit more. I looked at Satch, and despite our rapidly darkening surroundings, I could see on his face that he wasn't ruling out an encounter with Skeleton Jack either. Jimmy was only 50 feet in front of us, but we could barely see him. There was no path to speak of in those woods, just wild, untamed. haimed growth, boulders to climb over, roots to trip on, and the darkness cast a gray tint on even the greenest of leaves. It was little wonder that everyone in the town seemed to avoid this place. I gazed nervously upward at the thick ceiling of foliage through which the sun

was just barely visible. How are we going to find our way back? I looked behind me. We had been in the forest for a mere two minutes, and already the world outside seems like a memory. wondered how far Jimmy intended to go. Let's catch up. We need to stay together. I picked up the pace and Satch reluctantly followed suit. But by the time we reached Jimmy,

Satch was at the very end of his very short rope. Dude, it's creepy as shit in here. Stop walking for half a goddamn second, will you? Jimmy stopped. There were no birds chirping, no crickets, cricketing. Nothing except the sound of our own

heavy breaths and the crunch of our footfall. We were alone, surrounded in gray, and the eerieness was almost palpable. Maybe we didn't think this through. There's nobody out here, not skeleton jack, not anyone else, which means that if we get lost, then there won't be anyone to help us. You really want to spend the entire night out here, maybe more? Jimmy turned and pointed. All we have to do is keep walking back the way we came, and we'll get out of here. His tone was half indignant, half pleading. I'll slow down, though.

And if skeleton jack comes for you? He looked pointedly at Satch. I got your back. I ain't scared, man. Satch marched ahead. Jimmy, smiling, followed. I didn't speak, but I should have. I should have told them to turn around that something was wrong,

that we weren't supposed to be here. I should have told them that despite our approach, apparent solitude, I felt like somebody was watching us. But I didn't. I just walked behind Jimmy, eyes trained on the ground, willing myself not to wuss out. There's some shame a nine-year-old just can't recover from. We walked for what felt like another hour before I had the guts to speak up again. I finally became more scared of dying out in that forest than of receiving a disapproving glare from my friend. I look pointedly at Jimmy, hoping I sounded much braver than I felt. We've gone far enough. We're not even supposed to be out here in the first place. If we don't

make it back before dark, then we'll really be in shit. Jimmy paused, contemplating the wisdom of my argument. He seemed almost ready to give up on our adventure when his eye caught something in the distance. The fuck is that? He walked past me. I turned around. I could see what he was looking at, a tangle of jet black branches off in the distance. Come on! Satch looked almost delirious from exhaustion. A minute later, the three of us stood before a tree that was unlike any we had ever seen.

In contrast to the grand oaks which surrounded us, this one was short, frail and withered. It grew no leaves. That would have been unthinkable. It was a solid black throughout, a dark black, if there is such a thing. I learned from science class a few years later that black is not actually a color. Rather, it absorbs all colors and reflects none of them back to the eye. But if I had not seen this tree, I never would have fully comprehended such an idea. For while all the other trees within this forest were brimming with life, this one seemed to absorb.

Orb life. To steal it. Even the air around it felt darker. Holy shit. Jimmy let out a low whistle in agreement. You see in this man? I did not answer him. I had heard something and I was listening intently,

trying to hear it again. What's he doing? Jimmy shook his head. Shh. I tapped my ear to indicate that I was listening for something. Everyone was quiet for a few seconds, but whatever I had heard seemed to be gone. I don't hear nothing, man. You must be losing your marbles. Losing your marbles. Satch was perhaps grateful not to be the bud of this particular joke, but I didn't care.

I was too mystified by this otherworldly tree. I found myself wanting to investigate it and run from it at the same time. We all gazed at the tree for another moment or so. Finally, Satch broke the silence. Dare you to touch it. Jimmy's eyes lit up. This was what he had come here for. Myself, I became more frightened of this tree with every second we remained near it. Something about it just seemed mean, malevolent even.

And I had heard something before. and I still felt like we were being watched. I cringed as Jimmy approached the tree, but I knew better than to say anything. He was going to touch it no matter what. The only question was whether I'd get out of this situation without seeming like a scaredy cat. Jimmy reached his hand out, placed his palm on the surface of the tree, and nothing happened. Satch let out a breath. Even Jimmy looked a little relieved.

I myself began to loosen up a little bit. Have fun, dummy. But then I heard it again. Breathing. Nearby. Angry. You guys hear that? The panic was now unmistakable in my voice.

I hear what? I paused and strained to hear the breathing. But it was gone. I heard breathing. I think there's someone else out here. Yeah, and I think you're hearing things. He pulled out a small pocket knife and handed it to me. Carve your name in the tree. I dare you.

Shit, I'd been dared. He might as well have held a gun to my head. The social pressure of dares among nine-year-olds was nothing short of enormous. I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and walked towards the tree. It looked even stranger up close. Its edges seemed not quite solid, almost fuzzy. Like a picture taken by someone who wasn't holding still enough? I could only form one thought.

I should not be here. I threw a pleading glance towards Satch. He tried to help me out. Hey, it's getting dark. Jimmy hushed him. His eyes were trained on me. He came out here for an adventure. and damn it, he wasn't going to leave without one.

Reluctantly, I raised my arm to the tree, remembering what I had told Satch earlier. The sooner I did this, the sooner I could leave. But as I pressed the blade against the almost ceramic surface of the tree, I heard it again, breathing, right in my fucking ear. I whirled around and ran from the tree at full sprint. I blew past Jimmy and Satch and ran for my life. and I barely even heard them chasing after me, calling my name.

I didn't even begin to care about the social repercussions of my actions until I stopped, almost a half mile from the tree. From that breathing! Jimmy was laughing when he reached me. Even Satch had an amused look on his face. Man, I ain't seen pussy like that since I found my old man's girly magazines. Like I said, there's some shame a nine-year-old. just can't recover from. After two weeks of merciless teasing, and yes, I mean merciless, if you'd

known Jimmy, you'd understand. I decided to do something drastic. That's how I ended up by myself in the middle of the night at the edge of the forest, with little more than a flashlight and a thin jacket to keep me company. The sky was deep and full of clouds, only illuminated by the partially concealed full moon. A thin mist hung in the air. It was a dark and not so stormy night. Over the course of my life, I've noticed that bad decisions come far more easily to me during the hours when I should be asleep. The night in question was my first inkling of that truth. For, as I stood on the edge of disaster, waiting to take my first step into the jaws of hell, adrenaline coursing through every vein in my body.

I did not feel scared in the least. I felt alive. I coolly walked into the shadow, not having any idea how I would find the tree and not caring in the least. The absolute silence of that forest should have unnerved me then. It unnerves me now to think about, but nine-year-olds just aren't equipped to notice some things,

I suppose. No, I walked obliviously through those woods, leaves crunching and twigs snapping beneath my feet, and not one cricket sang to me, not one owl hooded. That should have been enough to get me to turn around. But of course, I didn't. I was determined to rid the word pussy from Jimmy's vocabulary once and for all. So I pressed on. And even with my adrenaline high and my inhibitions low, I began to realize something. I was being led. Led by what? I didn't know. But as I stopped to gather my bearings, I looked around at my surroundings. I had not the faintest idea where I was, yet remained perfectly sure I should head in a south-feworthy. westernly direction. I felt as though I was being guided by some unseen force. That feeling gave

me pause. I could turn back, yes, and nobody would know I had chickened out yet again, but I would know. Even worse, my friends would never hear of the courage it took to get me to this point. This would have all been for nothing. I kept the taunting faces of Jimmy and Satch in my mind as I marched onward, doing my best to ignore the. with a growing suspicion that something wanted me there. The final 15 minutes of that walk was harrowing, to be sure. But when I finally came upon the tree, nearly invisible in the dead night, I was filled with the deepest sense of dread that had ever plagued me.

And as the breathing began to surround me once again, and as the breaths turned to indiscernible whispers, I shook. with fear. I could do this. I was just imagining things. The pocket knife and stared at the tree with fierce determination. Run there, carve, run back. I was fast.

Not Jimmy fast, but I was fast. I could outrun something if I needed to. Now or never, baby. And before I even knew I was going to, I began a mad dash towards the tree. Just before I reached it, my answer. ankle caught on something and I hit the ground hard, putting my hands in front of myself to brace my fall. The knife twisted from my grip and its blade ran a deep slice down my palm. The pain was instantly blinding. I curled up on the ground holding my hand, but when I heard the

whispers around me grow louder, I scrambled to my feet. Blinking back tears, I grabbed the knife, used my bloody hand to brace myself against the tree and began to carve. The wood gave easily, as though I was slicing into a piece of fruit. I was done in seconds, and I had no interest in admiring my handiwork. I turned to run, but I couldn't. My bleeding hand was suction to the tree, and I felt the blood pulsing from it at an alarming rate, as though it were being sucked from me. I tried to pull my hand away gently, but the pain was too great.

The whispers around me turned to laughter. Quiet at first, but the longer I was stuck to the tree, the louder it became. A woman, hysterical. Eventually I felt as though she were cackling right in my ear. In exquisite panic, pain be damned, I yanked my hand away from the tree, freeing myself and tearing off a huge chunk of my palm in the process. I howled in agony and turned to run. I fully expected something to stop me.

What, I'm not sure. I didn't care then, and to be honest, I'm not sure I care now. All I cared about in that moment was getting as far away from that tree and that forest as possible. And luckily, whatever else was in there with me, allowed it. Blood dripped from my palm as I fled through the woods. I only stopped running once to pull off my shirt and wrap it tightly around my hand. Nobody had taught me to do it. It was just purely instinctual, a biological yearning to keep my blood inside me. I wept without knowing it until I reached the edge of the forest. It was only when I finally came back to the vast,

open field at the outskirts of town, that I relaxed enough to turn back towards the woods which had held me hostage, smile, and raise the middle finger of my not-bleeding hand. Despite my best attempts to stay quiet when I got home that night, my father heard me fumbling around and came downstairs. He was, of course, concerned about my mangled hand and promptly disinfected and bandaged it.

Then, when I was no longer in a medial, at danger. He demanded to know what the hell had happened. I hadn't had enough time to think of an excuse. So I told him the truth, the whole truth, from skeleton jack onward. His face, angry when I started, looked nothing short of terrified by the conclusion of my tale. I had fully expected to be grounded or even had my ass whooped for lying. But my old man hung on every word I said. He didn't even interrupt me. Although, he let out a despairing groan when I first mentioned the black tree. He was silent for a long time after I had finished.

He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Finally, he spoke in a quiet, measured tone. Son, you didn't know. You couldn't have. Not what I was expecting. Didn't know what? That tree. My father lived in this town his whole life.

and his father before him. When I was very little, maybe even your age, my grandfather told me a story. Was the tree in it? He nodded. Your skeleton Jack's story is nonsense, as you know, but it's loosely based on something that actually happened. Have you ever heard of the witch trials?

I shook my head. Many, many years ago, before America was even a country, Most people around here weren't as reasonable as they are now. They were superstitious, scared of a lot of silly things. One of the things that they were most scared of was witchcraft. It's very sad to us now, but in those days, many women in this part of the world were killed because they were accused of being witches. But witches aren't even real.

Well, I think for the most part, you're right. People usually accused a woman of witchcraft. when they didn't like her. Most of the girls who were killed didn't have a drop of actual magic in their blood. But you think some of them did? Yes. One of the women killed in this town

was named Jacqueline Strong. I've read the journal entries about her myself. Well, you can too if you go to the library. Folks said she was the most beautiful girl they had ever laid eyes on, but even the most rational thinkers in the town believed her to be evil. Why? Because she was. She came from out of town, just showed up one day. And once she did, strange things started to happen. People got sick, people she didn't like.

The crops of a man who had made a pass at her withered overnight. Snakes began to appear everywhere in town, even poisonous snakes that don't usually live in Massachusetts. So they killed her? They killed a lot of women for a lot less, especially over in Salem. There wasn't much of a justice system in those days. Folks didn't hire lawyers and go to court and have a judge tell them if they were guilty or not. It was all decided by the people. Eventually, enough of the town became frightened of Jacqueline that they marched her out into those woods and strung a noose up in a tree. I gasped. I knew it exactly what tree Jackal and Strong had been hung in.

Before they dropped her, she looked her executioner in the eye. He later wrote in his journal that she was so beautiful he could hardly bear to carry out his task and that he wished he could follow her into hell. He ended up taking his own life at that very tree a week later. Before he hung her, she told him, I could stop you if I wished. The executioner asked her why she didn't.

She just smiled at him and said, I have a better idea. He dropped her, but she didn't die. Her neck had broken, but she just hung there, eyes open, blinking at the townspeople, a smirk on her face. They picked her up and dropped her again. The rope even saw.

scraped most of the skin from her throat, but again she didn't die. She just stared at all the townspeople smiling calmly. This scared them all so much that they eventually just walked back to town, leaving her to hang overnight. But when they went back in the morning, she wasn't there. Neither was her rope. All they found was the tree they had hung her from, black and withered. and filled with evil. My dad made me swear not to tell Jimmy and Satch about any of this. There's still a chance nothing will happen. But he refused to elaborate much further.

I wanted to honor his wishes. I truly did. But not sharing my bravery with my friends was simply too much to ask. Jimmy, always ready for adventure, was enthralled by my tale. Satch, less so. I think he felt somewhat responsible for what had happened to me. He wasn't as bad as Jimmy, but he had teased me as well. Still, both of them agreed to help me search in the library for information regarding the death of Jacqueline Strong.

So, at the end of our summer, all three of us found ourselves pouring over books a few days earlier than we had expected. The library was the oldest building in the area, and it contained a dizzying amount of information about it. our town's history. Sarah Sales, the assistant librarian, was an exceptionally pretty lady. She also loved to see children in her library. It was a slow day, so she was eager to help us. What are you trying to find? She eyed the stack of photocopies on our table. We're looking for information about the witch trials. A lady named Jacqueline Strong was killed back then, and we heard some crazy stories about it. A flicker of recognition and perhaps fear crossed her face, but she forced it away.

The subject matter was macabre, but we were interested in learning. Perhaps she was motivated by her love of teaching or of children, and she smiled and said, Well then, let's get to work. We were glad to have her. To us, the writing was almost illegible, but strange penmanship and even stranger spelling, was no obstacle for Mrs. Sales, who would soon become herself a victim of this ultimate wickedness. We didn't learn much more than bits and pieces, but it was enough to string together an idea of the secrets that the tree held. Evidently, Jacqueline Strong's executioner wasn't the only

person who died at that tree. After his body was found slumped at its base, a string of suicides followed. Hangings. The overwhelming sentiment was, was that the men who strung themselves up in that tree were normal, everyday, good men. The shock and sadness of the townspeople permeated the pages we read. One instance was particularly intriguing. Catherine Keene, wife of the recently deceased Christopher Keene, wrote of her husband's last days that he had seemed distant, less affectionate, and she feared he had been taken by a woman more beautiful than she.

We also learned that when the executioner's body was discovered at the tree, wrists cut vertically, any trace of his blood was conspicuously absent from the scene. One superstitious town leader suspected vampires sucking his blood in the dead of night. I thought that particular theory unlikely, but still half-consciously traced my fingers over my bandaged palm. After a while, Mrs. Sayle seemed to realize that researching suicide, side with nine-year-olds was probably not the best use of her time, so she bid us farewell. But as she walked away, she turned back around, perhaps eager to justify our morbid studies by delivering some semblance of useful education.

History is an amazing thing, kids. Never lose your passion for it. Without it, the past would be completely forgotten. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added. That tree's still out there, you know. Yeah, we know. Jimmy Satch and I made a sacred pact never to enter the forest again. Still, the horrors began anew one chilly September night, just weeks after school had resumed. Old Buck Billings, always armed with a smile and a wave,

suddenly went missing, and nobody could find him for three days. Probably fell down and got stuck somewhere. Somewhere nobody's thinking to look. You really think that? I had an image in my mind of poor Buck, all strung up in that ungodly tree, the wind swaying him back and forth. Good a guess as any.

But my father looked worried. When they found him, the town was in shock. Old Buck was the last one you'd expect to off himself. Something wasn't right. And I think people could sense it. The night after they found Buck, Clint Redding rolled out of bed and told his wife he'd be right back. She woke up at about four o'clock in the morning to snakes slithering through her sheets.

She screamed bloody murder, but of course her husband didn't come because he wasn't there. I don't think I need to tell you where he was. By this point, the town was in panic. They even held a meeting somewhere. and I think most of the grown-ups were invited. I know my dad went at any rate. At the meeting, there was little, if any, mention of the supernatural. It's funny how different kids and adults are.

At school, a natural explanation for this suicide epidemic would have been laughed off the playground in derision. We knew what was up. At the meeting, a recent college graduate named Timmy Fletcher volunteered to stand guard in a night shift by the tree. lest another citizen fall prey to its branches. Apparently, this seemed like a good idea to everyone involved. By the next morning, I'll be damned if John Roberts and Vern Sails weren't strung up in that tree

from the very same limb, along with Timmy Fletcher, of course. The next night there was a knock on our door. My father answered it, then called for me. The expression on his face was grave. It was Sarah Sales, the beautiful librarian, recently widowed. If any woman in town could have seduced her husband away from the wiles of Jacqueline Strong, it would be her. No question about that. Tears soaked her face, and she spoke to me in desperation when I appeared in the doorway.

You knew. You knew this was going to happen again. How did you know? My father gently nudged me aside. Come in, Sarah. I'll explain everything. He motioned for me to go. This was not a conversation for children. Or perhaps, with both of them being widows, my mother had unexpectedly passed a couple of years prior. He hoped they would find comfort in each other.

I hoped that too a little bit, but it was not to be. For one blessed week, The suicide stopped. People started to breathe a little easier around town. Things started to get back to normal, if there was such a thing. Despite what was quickly becoming an overwhelming guilt, I even remember feeling a little normal myself. But as I slept one night near the close of my fall break, a sound awoke me.

My father was out of bed, stumbling around in the dark. He had knocked something over. I'm not sure what, but it must have been rounded because I heard it rolling around on the floor. Whatever it was, he didn't pick it up. I rubbed my eyes, wondering what he was doing. I squinted at the door of my bedroom, which was open just a few inches so that I could see into the dark hallway outside. The moonlight, pouring in through my window, gave only the slightest illumination to the shadows. I heard whispers, indistinct.

I tried to sit up, but I could not. I felt as though I were tied to my bed. I sat there, paralyzed as the whispers grew louder. Footsteps. Only one pair. My father's boots, I could tell. So who was he talking to? Who was whispering?

I need not wonder long, for at that moment, a shadow appeared on the floor in the hallway. I could do nothing but watch in horror. as the silhouette of a woman stepped in front of my doorway, looking directly at me, only lived by the feeble moon from my window. She was overwhelmingly beautiful, that was true, but she radiated such evil as to be completely unattractive. Her head perched atop her neck at the most unnatural of angles. I tried to scream, but could make no sound. She smiled, cruelly, raised her to her lips and walked silently down the hallway. Footsteps followed her. My father walked down

the hall, passing my door without even glancing inside. He was holding a length of rope. Silent tears streamed down my face. I was powerless to do anything except watch as my father followed Jacqueline Strong into the forest. My father was the last one. My father was the last one. When he was discovered, I told the authorities everything. They, of course, were skeptical, or at least acted like they were, but it felt better to be safe than sorry. They asked me if I wanted to watch. I told them I did not. Later that day, six men, very brave men, I thought, rode out to the edge of the forest with axes and picks and shovels.

They walked to the black tree and chopped. it limb from limb. They dug out the roots and carried the entire wretched thing away. That night, they burned every last piece of it in an old industrial furnace. And thus ended the terror Jackal and Strong wrought on our small port town, or so I thought. You see, I'm a grown man now with a wife and children of my own. And after many years of avoiding this place, I took them all on a vacation to, see the town where their father grew up. I showed them the baseball field I played on, the school I went to, and even to the edge of the forest where Jimmy, Satch, and I hunted for a silly myth

rooted in a terrible reality. I never told them the real story of how my old man died, and I never intend to. But, as I say, there's some shame that no nine-year-old can recover from. Six men died years ago in this town. And if you had to pinpoint the responsible party, well, it would probably be me. That's why I walked out into the woods last night. I wanted to see the place where the tree used to be. I wanted to know it wasn't there.

I needed that closure. It was like riding a bike for the first time in a long time. I knew the way. I felt the way. And when I reached my destination and stood in the place where my father and so many others had met their end, I knew I stood before evil. I was baptized in fear on that spot. For there, protruding from the cold, unforgiving earth, grew a small tree, a sapling,

fragile, less than a foot high, and as black as a raven's wing. 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 permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.