The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Waiting for Nine

Episode Date: April 23, 2017

We're in-between Seasons 8 and 9 so to tide you over we have two stories while you wait. "The Thing in the Rust"** written by Michael Marks and performed by Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:02:10) "The Pancake Family"† written by AA Peterson and performed by David Cummings & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 00:37:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here to learn more about Michael Marks  Click here to learn more about AA Peterson  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski Audio program ©2016-2017 - 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 fiction podcast. We're here to frighten you and mess with your head because that's what you want. So give into your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. It's the no sleep podcast. It's the no sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. Well, we're currently in between seasons eight and nine working hard for our season nine premiere

on May 7th. But you know us, we never want to leave you without some creepy tales to hear during the dark hours of the night. So we have two stories for you this week, which originally appeared on Season Pass episodes from season 7 and 8. And speaking of season passes, our new Season Pass 9 will be available for pre-order next Sunday, April 30th, over at the no-sleeppodcast.com. And don't forget to join us next Sunday when we'll be releasing the live show we'll be recording. recorded in New York City during our sleepless live tour back in March. So without further ado, let's kick off the rust and press on to this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a man whose girlfriend is a talented sculptor.

Working not with marble or wood, she chooses metal and welding for her art. But as we learn from author Michael Marks, her latest sculpture, intended to be dark and disturbing, ends up being even more intense than anticipated. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis and Jessica McAvoy. So learn to appreciate all art and what inspires it, even for The Thing in the Rust. Like a car wreck. Twisted bits of metal wrapped precariously around each other

and occasionally fused by the heat of a gasoline fire, helped along by the extra fuel of seat cushioned. and possibly human fat. On top of this pile of scrap, like the angel crowning a Christmas tree, was a two-foot pole topped by a skull that had been crudely constructed out of more bits of scrap metal. On the sides of the pole there were wires bent into the shape of insect wings. Cloth had been pulled taut around them, giving them the appearance of skin as the setting sun shone through the window behind them. The mere sight of the thing made me feel uneasy. The girl, standing next to it,

though, had been my best friend since we were nine, my lover since we were 16. Her welding mask was pulled up with her red streaked raven hair peeking out behind it. She'd unzipped her coveralls just enough to reveal the Ramon's shirt beneath. In one hand, she held her work gloves, and in the other she held the sheet she'd covered the monstrosity with in order to provide the dramatic reveal for me only moments ago. Her hazel eyes flicked between me and the sculpture with nervous anticipation, and she chewed on her bottom lip. There was anxiety written all over her soot-streaked face. Well?

She broke the silence first. and my eyes flicked towards the direction of her voice. My tense standoff with the scrap skull finally broken. What do you think? Heather, I have to be honest with you. I quickly looked back towards the sculpture and then met her eyes once again. It's probably one of the most hideous things I've ever seen. Looking at it makes me feel terribly uncomfortable.

I watched the smile slowly rise on her face before she dropped what she was holding and ran over to me. She threw herself at me and wrapped her arms around my torso, squeezing hard and burying her face in my neck. I could feel her breath on my skin as she laughed. Really? You're not just saying that, right? I mean, you know what I was going for. Maybe I shouldn't have told you. And I want you to be honest with me. I'm being 100% truthful here, babe.

I kissed the top of her head. She smelled like a mixture of her shampoo mixed with the metallic sting of welded scrap. You nailed the feeling. It's like something out of hell. I mean, that skull. Something about it is captivating in the most uncomfortable way. She stepped away from me and looked up towards the time.

of the sculpture. I followed her gaze and found my eyes fixed on it once again. I expected at any moment for the jaw to drop open and hear some kind of wicked laughter pouring from its mouth. Okay, so the skull, it may not be entirely my work. She bit her lip again and rolled her eyes back to me. The edges of her mouth were still in a smile. Where the hell did you find something like that? I tore my eyes away from it again. Was it sitting on the side of the road with a free sign on it? It was over at Manny's scrapyard, just sitting in a big old pile of rusted sheet metal. It was missing one side of the face and the lower jaw, so I rebuilt them. She walked over to her workbench, collecting her gloves and the sheet along the way.

Can you believe that? Lucky fine. I walked back up behind her and wrapped my arms around her this time. It's just the thing. This piece needed. Fantastic work, too. I can't even tell it was rebuilt. Thank you, Cam. Her hand reached up and I felt her fingers run through my hair. Hopefully I can get at some display time.

I'm going to hit a lot of the outsider art galleries this weekend. I'll help you load it up. I'm sure it will kill. I kissed her behind the ear, and she cooed with happiness. I know you worked your ass off on this. I'm proud as hell. I need a shower. Care to join? I quickly nodded in the affirmative. She turned to me with a smile and kissed me deeply while running her fingers through my beard. We left her workshop under the...

watchful gaze of her peace, the skull's empty eyes fixed on us as we stepped into the house proper. I turned back for one last look before shutting off the lights. I could swear the head had turned, just a little bit in my direction, and a shiver went down my spine. I ended up laughing it off, a trick of the light, or possibly just my mind playing tricks on me. And I followed Heather to the shower, to the feeling of Heather thrashing around in bed beside me. The sheets had become almost entirely wrapped around her, and she was screaming like she was being attacked by something. As I tried to wake her up, I took a knee to the gut that nearly sent me backwards off the bed.

I was able to recover just in time to feel her. Her fingers dig into my thigh so tightly I thought her nails might drop ludd. Oh, Heather! I managed to get the sheets away from her face. Heather, wake up. Her feet were still kicking wildly, and her other hand came across her body and nearly struck me in the face. I let go of her and reeled backward to avoid the blow. She suddenly shot up into a sitting position.

and her eyes sprung open. They were wide and filled with an intense fear that seemed to wrap around my spine. She just sat there shaking for a second, and I didn't know what to do but stare at her and wait for what came next. I was frozen in place. Her lips started to move like she was mouthing words. At first I couldn't hear her, but she kept me. repeating it until her voice cracked to life in a heavy breath. It's here. Her eyes slowly turned towards me, and her body started to relax. She lifted her hands to her face like she was about to start playing peekaboo,

then slowly let them fall to her lap, reached out for her and put my hand on her shoulder. As soon as I touched her, she seemed to wake from, whatever trance she had been in. Cam? Oh my God, Cam. I just had the worst fucking nightmare. She threw her arms around me and squeezed tight.

I could feel her heart thudding like a drum in her chest. It was matching the same rhythm as mine. It took about an hour and four or five cigarettes for her to calm down enough to tell me about the nightmare she had. In all the years I'd known her, and in the decade we'd been sleeping in the same bed, she had never had a nightmare like that. Her voice was shaky as she recounted what she saw in her sleep. It felt like something was trying to kill me, but it was like it was coming from inside me,

tearing its way through my chest. Do you remember what happened at the end? when you sat up? She shook her head, no. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and she was hugging her legs. I could see her shivering and wrapped the blanket around her as I continued. You said, it's here, or something like that.

I don't know. She cocked her head to the side and looked at me like she was trying hard to remember. Her face dropped. into a frown. Remember that. I honestly wondered if you were awake at that point. Your eyes were wide open.

I pulled another cigarette from my pack and stuck it in my mouth. I have never seen you have a nightmare like that. That's because I've never had a nightmare like that. Never in my fucking life. She snagged the pack from my hand and lit one for herself before lighting mine. It's probably just stress, baby. You've been killing yourself with that latest piece. Probably.

She had a pout on her face that she attempted to curl into a little smile. Hey, you have to work in a few hours. We should probably get some sleep. You sure? I don't mind staying up a bit longer with you. Just till we finish these. She held up her cigarette between her forefinger and thumb. Maybe talk about something else in the meantime.

We finished our cigarettes and talked about other things to calm ourselves down. Just a nightmare. A bad one, but still, just a nightmare. I came home from work to find Heather in the workshop again. She was sitting and staring at the sculpture as if it was about to divulge some universal secret. She didn't even turn her head when I stepped into the room and started walking toward her. Hey, babe. I expected her to turn her head when she heard my voice, but she didn't even acknowledge my presence.

She was transfixed. I took a few steps closer and reached out to wave my hand in front of her face. Hey, babe? She turned to look at me, slowly, a calm. smile spreading across her face. Her eyes were wide and looked glassy. You okay? I was afraid to admit that she was creeping me out a little bit. She returned to looking at her sculpture again. I've just been thinking about how the piece feels like it's missing something, don't you think? I looked at the sculpture and my eyes went directly to the

crap metal skull adorning the top. It looked as if it had turned just enough to stare directly at us, and I could swear that its mouth had dropped open just a little bit. Did you move the skull a little bit? I heard a nervous tone had crept into my voice. I didn't really know why at the time, but something about the whole situation was making me feel. feel really uneasy. Heather shook her head, no, and flicked her big hazel eyes in my direction again. So, do you think it could use something else? I thought you said you were all done. You seemed pretty satisfied with it yesterday. Oh, I thought I was. She finally got to her feet and walked over to a project running her fingers over the twisted metal of the base.

When I came in to look at it today, though, I don't know. It just struck me as missing something that I can't quite put my finger on. I took another look at it, closer this time. It still made me feel really uncomfortable, but not quite like the day before. The first time she revealed it to me, I got a feeling like I was. looking at something that I understood. Something from the mind of the girl I loved most in the world. Heather had always tried to make her art invoke a somewhat dark and disturbed response.

It was just her style, but this was different now. The bass looked even more twisted than I remembered and more jagged. Each individual bit of scrap metal looked tinged with new spots of bronze rusting I hadn't noticed the first time. The spaces between looked darker, despite the fact that there was more light in the room now. The pole that held up the skull looked more curved and spinal, and the wings that branched off the side took on an even fleshier tone. Did you? I paused when I thought I saw the skull turn slightly, but it was so slight that I wondered strongly if it was just my mind playing tricks.

Did you do any work on it today? She shook her head, no, again. I couldn't decide what I wanted to do. It looks different to me like it's darker, more twisted. Well, that's what I was going for, Cam. She smiled and stepped over to me with her hands on her hips. That's when I noticed the way she was moving was just a little off. Nothing overt.

Just like the sculpture. She just wasn't moving like her. I began to wonder if something was wrong with me. Maybe I'm just tired. I tried to laugh it all off. I really was exhausted. Neither of us had slept well the previous night due to the nightmare. And I had been on edge all day.

It was an easy jump to make that my mind might be a little foggy. Poor baby. She put her hands in my hair and lowered my face to kiss my forehead. Sorry I kept you up last night. All over that silly. dream. Honestly, it's really not as scary as I thought it would be. I snapped my head up and pulled away to look in her eyes. What did you just say? She backed up a little bit, clearly shocked by my reaction.

I said that it was a silly nightmare and that there was nothing to be scared of. Her voice was shaky and off. My head started to hurt and my stomach started to feel sick. No, you said, it's not as scary. What did you mean by that? The scene of her staring wide-eyed into the darkness and saying, It's here, replayed in my mind. To be honest, that moment had been on my mind most of the day.

I was talking about the dream. She stepped towards me again and grabbed my hand. Her thumb caress mine. Cam, are you okay? Yeah. I lowered my head, wondering why the hell I just acted so accusatory. Everything just felt off. I did my best to justify it as me being tired again,

but there was a nagging doubt lingering in the back of my head that just wouldn't go away. I'm just exhausted, and my head is killing me. I'm sorry. It's okay, baby. Heather wrapped her arms around me, and I tried to ignore that even the way she hugged me felt wrong. Let's go have dinner, and you can get some sleep. I nodded, and we left the workshop. As we walked through the door, I was far too aware of the eyes of the skull on my back. The second we left the workshop, I started to feel better.

I told myself it was the beer I downed and the bowl of pasta I ate that righted me. But just like the nagging doubt in my head hadn't left, I knew on some level that it was because I was no longer in the presence of that thing in the garage. At the time, it seemed so crazy, though, that I refused to entertain the idea beyond my subconscious, no matter how much I regret that now. I was walking through what looked like the hallway that connected my bedroom and the living room. It was dark, but off in the distance, I could see a pulsing light that almost seemed to beck into me. As I walked, I walked. As I walked, I could feel a growing unease about both my destination and what was behind me.

I could feel my heart thud in my chest as I alternated between looking over my shoulder and forwards towards the light. At first, there would be nothing behind me but more hallway stretching off into the darkness. But soon, the smell of wet, rusty metal would fill my nostrils, and the taste of blood would fill my mouth. I would look over my shoulder one last time, and something would be there. Its features never came into view. It stood in mostly silhouette, barely lit by the dim glow in the distance.

It had a torso that was nearly human, but thin and emaciated no more than the sun. eyes of a child, but its long limbs caused it to tower over me. Its legs were bent out to either side, but even in the squat position it had to duck its head to avoid the ceiling. Its arms were of proportionate length and bent upwards, so its palms were pressed against the ceiling. Two green pinpoints of light shone from where its eyes would be, and they followed me in the same Way that damned skull did as I started running. The thing gave Chase working its spindly appendages like some kind of oddly designed machine. Every time I would look over my shoulder, it would be switching positions, crawling along the walls or the ceiling, and keeping pace better than I could possibly expect.

I could feel the carpet beneath my feet turned to cold. A rough metal and my lungs would burn as I pushed myself harder. Towards a place I was terrified to go. I could hear whispers, whispers that were in Heather's voice. Cam, it's right behind you. It wants to take me, Cam. Help me. Help me.

I could feel it reaching out from behind me, ready to grasp me by the neck. Just before it could touch me, I reached the light, and that's when the sound of screams would wake me up. Own screams. Up in bed. My body was soaked in sweat, and I needed to suck in a few labored breaths to calm myself. My hand reached out for Heather only to find her side of the bed empty. My heart sunk a little bit as her voice for her.

from the dream echoed in my head. Oh, God, it wants to take me, Cam. It was just a dream, just a dream. I knew sleep wasn't going to be an option again for a little while, so I decided to get out of bed. I needed a drink of water, a cigarette, and figured Heather was probably already up. As I reached for the bedroom door,

I felt a cold draft hit me from beyond it. as if a breeze had come through the wood just to chill the sweat on my skin. I shook my own head back and forth, both in a statement of disbelief and an attempt to wake myself up. You'd be surprised how easy it is to dismiss the unexplainable when it keeps itself small. The chill persisted as I stepped out into the hallway. I looked to my right towards the bathroom. and saw the door was standing open with the light off. Guess she's not in there, I thought, before looking in the other direction and seeing a dim light

at the other end of the hall. It was coming from Heather's workshop, and it looked eerily similar to what I'd seen in my dream. A shutter worked its way through my body as I started taking steps in that direction, looking over my shoulder, expecting. to see the long-limbed thing reethed in shadow and racing towards me. My heart thumped in my chest as I drew closer and closer to the workshop. I expected to hear sound, music clanging metal, the hiss of a welding torch at work, the sounds that always poured out of Heather's workshop when she couldn't sleep. It was silent, though.

The only sign she was even in there being the light. Heather? It was already out in front of me, prepared to open the door. Heather, are you in there? No response, just continued, silence. I shot another glance over my shoulder at the empty hallway. It felt like my heart was in a vice grip as my fingers touched the handle. Heather.

Something deep inside told me not to open the door. My fingers turned the knob and I pushed. I was instantly hit by the smell of something awful burning and a smoke that stung my eyes. Both forced me to turn away and shield my face. My stomach did a dance inside me, threatening to let me. my dinner loose. I slowly turned my head back towards the now open workshop door. I could see that damned sculpture through the haze of smoke and the squint in my eyes. As my vision cleared, I could see that it had changed again. And as the image was processed in my mind, the horrible realization of what I

was seen, struck me like a freight train, and sent me reeling away from the door. I tried to scream, but instead my stomach finally made good on its threat, and I vomited through the coming tears. Heather had been welded into her own statue, although the only way I could tell it was her, it was her tattoos. Her naked body was standing with her back pressed against the base, and her arms pulled back and welded in place with random bits of sheet metal. The skin around these bonds had been burned nearly down to the bone and blackened bits of char, ran up nearly to her shoulders, been done with her legs as well. And it became all too clear that the horrid smell that hit me when I first opened the door was the smell of burnt flesh or a crown of nails

driven in around her hair line. The skin had been flayed from one side of her face and her jaw had been removed, leaving her tongue dangling down from the back of her throat. Someone had split her body open from neckline to groin, and the contents were spilling out in front of her. The entire floor around the base of the statue was drowning in blood, and someone had used it to write along the floor, in front of her. Finally, finished.

I wanted to get back to my feet and make a mad dash back to my room to grab my phone. I was frozen in total shock, though, and instead sat on the floor covered in my own vomit, crying and repeating the same phrase over and over again. I need to call the police. I need to call the police. Suddenly, I heard sounds coming from deeper inside the workshop, and my heart felt as if it turned into a rock in the middle of my chest. Like footsteps moving closer and closer. I tried to slide away backwards, the most movement I could muster, and instead just slipped in the mess I'd made all over the floor.

The source of the sounds came into view in the doorway, and for the first and last time, I laid eyes on the thing from my dream in the real world. This time it was not wreathed in any kind of shadow, and I could see it clearly. Its long, spidery limbs forced it to duck, even in the high ceiling of the workshop. Its torso was so thin you could see the bones shift under its pale skin as it walked, somehow making it seem as impossible as it made it seem real. As it stepped in front of the doorway fully, it turned its head to look at me with its beady little green eyes. Without taking its eyes off of me, it reached out and caressed Heather's head.

before reaching towards the top of the statue and plucking the skull from where it still rested on top of the pole. With a quick, spidery movement, just like I remembered from my dream, it shot through the doorway and leaned down face to face with me. The thin line that ran horizontally across the bottom of its mostly featureless face. split open to reveal a mouth that took on the appearance of a crude smile. I am the muse. Can you not hear my song? It spoke in a soft and almost welcoming voice. The comforting tone made me feel even more terrified than if it had sounded like the devil itself. It pinched the scrap skull

Between its bony fingers and held it up to my face As if it were a point of pride I need to call the pleas The phrase stuck in my throat like a song on repeat The duty of a muse means my work is never complete Again it smiled in a way that was so warm juxtaposed against the situation that it made things even more uncomfortable. It rose up and walked back towards the sculpture again.

I saw it stare longingly at the corpse of the woman I loved. You could sense a sadness from the creature. Tears rolled from my eyes and I felt like throwing up again. It pressed the scrap skull close to its chest and looked at me one more time before scrambling off towards the window, leaving a trail of blood behind it as it skidded through the puddle at its feet. I heard the window break, and in my mind's eye I could see its spindly limbs squeezing their way out into the night and scuttling down the street, all flat to the ground.

I'm soaking in my own tears and trying to wrap my mind around what had just happened. I'd lost the only woman I ever loved to something that I can't even begin to explain. Some creature that seemed to see itself as amused and was broken. I wanted so badly to scream. But all I could do was lay there on the floor in a puddle of my. own sick and tears, too scared to look up again and see what it had done to my heather. All I could do was lay there and repeat the same phrase over and over again. The last unbroken and coherent thought I had.

I call the police. I need to call the police. I need to call the police. Our final tale. We discover that when a police detective retires with an unsolved case nagging at him, it takes an unexpected encounter to bring the 20-year-old crime back into his life. In this dark and deeply disturbing tale from author A.A. Peterson, we hear the taped interview the detective gives after the case is solved. The case ends in a way which will leave all involved shaken to their core.

Performing this tale with me is Mike Delgadoio. So let's listen in as the detective explains the horrific details about a case known as the pancake family. That pale, huh? Jesus, I bet I look like a ghost. I feel like I've bled out two gallons. What? No, no, not a scratch. Sorry to ramble.

It's just that I'm... What's the word for it? Detached. Strange feeling. Seen it enough times in the field. Sort of figured if I was ever going to experience it myself, then I would have experienced it by now. A hell of a thing.

I feel like I'm floating outside my body. Just cut the cord and I'm... to float away. Did you see the crime scene? Don't. Don't look at the pictures. Don't even touch the file. You'll thank me.

I can't get my knees to stop rattling. Is that why you're holding on to your coffee cup like that? I'm shaking the table, aren't I? Oh, hold on a second. Let me back up. Back up my chair there. Oh, there, that's better. We've got to go official now, Hobb.

Can you confirm for the record that you are waiving the right to an attorney? No, I'm still not interested in an attorney. I mean, yes, I'm waiving my rights, sorry. And I'm as sound of mind as I'll ever be. Are you sure? Yes. Let the record show that Detective Hobson, Millgate, retired, has waived his right to an attorney. I won't need a lawyer after the DA stops puking and considers taking it public.

They're not showing that to a jury. All right now, Hobb. Are you ready to begin? No, but I'll talk anyway. What led you to the crime scene on the night in question? Would you believe I was planning a fishing trip before this started? Never mind. Hold on, I'm thinking, hard to organize it.

Never been on this side of the interrogation table before. I guess it started with the reporter, name of Bamer. She contacted me a week ago by email, claimed that she had new information on the Driscoll murders. I was the lead investigator. The case had gone unsolved for 20 years, Cold as ice. Well, frankly, I thought it was all bullshit at first.

You know how that can be. Most of the time, it's not even on purpose. Everyone thinks they know something that'll crack a case wide open. Theories are easy when you don't have to check them against evidence. The Driscoll murders were a big story around these parts. Lots of interest, lots of press. Over the years, I must have gotten a couple hundred shit theories. Anyways, when I retired, I handed the investigation over to Detective Carroll,

but I didn't want him to be bothered. I know he's busy with the recent gang activity. Well, I figured I'd check it out as a courtesy. I wasn't expecting it to go anywhere. So I met her for lunch at Purrier's Cafe. a good-looking blonde gal, professional, so she didn't fit the typical profile of a hoaxer or conspiracy theorist. Not that I put too much faith in profiles.

She also might have been one of those creepy gals that gets off on death. God knows I've dealt with those, too. I still thought she might have been pulling my leg, or maybe she had been fooled, too, but she had a file with her. Looked legit? It contained what appeared to be a confession by the Driscoll murder.

Well, he wasn't a murderer, was he? I really do wish he had been, you know. It would have been so much better for everyone. Can you please fill us in on the relevant details of the Driscoll case? Yeah, let's see. It would have been 20 years ago now. Thinking of all those years.

Oh, I mean, 20 goddamn years. That's a long time to be. It's okay. Take your time, Hob. Thanks. The Driscolls were a family of six out in the suburbs. Upper middle class. Father was an attorney.

Mother ran her own business, selling pottery out of the house. Four children, all high school age and below. Good kids, honor roll, no criminal records to speak of. The oldest son was caught smoking dope at his high school once, but nothing much besides that. Just the typical stuff you find when you look at people too closely. Well, they disappeared. October 13, 1994. No trace was found of the bodies. The mystery, and seeing as how it was right around Halloween, is probably why the press went so crazy.

You still see it show up on some of those unsolved mystery shows. A whole family disappeared, and no one saw a thing. No one knew where they went. So a neighbor lodged a sound complaint, which is how we got involved. there was an alarm going off, and they figured it might be an intruder or something. We dispatched a vehicle. When no one answered the door, the patrolman went in to investigate. Now, there were obvious signs of a struggle in the youngest daughter's bedroom.

The bed had been flipped over, and the sheets were torn. The alarm was a carbon monoxide detector. We found elevated concentrations of carbon monoxide in the fabric. of all the bedspreads except the youngest daughters. We wouldn't have known to look without the alarm. So the neighbor indicated the alarm had been sounding for over a day, and he'd been unable to get anyone to answer the door during that time. We also found several aluminum canisters and some hoses in a dumpster a few blocks away.

At the time, we assumed the Driscolls had been gassed and disposed of at a district. different location, accepting, of course, the daughter who woke up at the end and put up a struggle. Well, the investigation gave us no leads. Well, of course, our first thought was that the father did it. We checked it out, but he didn't have motive. No leads to follow up on. Same with the mother. Surviving family checked out clean, too.

The father had a few clients who might have had motive, but the means weren't there. He was a divorce lawyer, but not for anybody who could have taken out an entire family without leaving evidence. There was a chemistry teacher who lived three blocks away, and we investigated him for a while because of the canisters, but he alibied out. Same with a dentist who lived nearby. and oh yeah the wife had an online flirtation with with some kid out in England but i mean nothing adulterous and he wasn't even in the country at the time of the murder so we settled on happily on the idea of a random killing hardest pieces of shit to catch when there's no pattern like that well we must have sunk

Tens of thousands of man hours into this case, chasing down leads. Nothing ever came of any of it. We did track down the canisters. They were stolen from a laboratory ten miles away. There was no security footage. We couldn't find any leads on the thief. After six months, with no repeat attacks, the investigation went cold. The Driscolls had been...

knocked out and abducted. Like I said, no one ever found the bodies. It was to say they hadn't just run off. Until, well, I'd rather only talk about that once. What can you tell us about how the confession wound up with Miss Bamer? Yeah, Bamer. Well, she'd been following the case for some years, both personally and as a reporter. Like I said, it captured the imagination of a lot of people.

Even seemingly normal folks thought it could have been aliens, ghosts, or demons. Miss Bamer published a retrospective on the murders, given the 20-year anniversary. It caused a renewed interest, which happened from time to time. As usual, I declined to comment, citing lack of new evidence. I remembered her asking for my quote, though, which is why I accepted the lunch meeting. After publication of the article, Miss Bamer claimed that she had been sent a file. She wished to have me authenticate it. The most pertinent part of the file was a confession.

I assured Miss Bamer that such false documents are not uncommon, especially on older cases like this, and that I'd personally heard two dozen confessions of the Driscoe murders. Well, she was insistent. Once I felt she wasn't trying to pull off a hoax or getting off on the idea of talking about murder. I agreed to the meeting. She stated the confession had been mailed to her

in the same envelope she showed to me when we met for lunch. Can you describe its contents? Yeah, old... old newspaper clippings outlining the progress of my investigation. They seemed appropriately yellowed, so I guess they were from the trophy book of the perpetrator. There were also six photos, alleging to be of the individual members of the Driscoll family, as well as several other photos of the facility where they had been taken. Look at that. My hands. My hands. My hands. won't stop shaking. See? I'm trying as hard as I can, and I just can't make it happen.

I'll have to ask the paramedic for a sedative when I'm done with the statement. I don't think I'll be able to sleep otherwise. Huh? No, no, I'm fine for now. I don't want anything to interfere with my recollection for your recording. Just carrying it around in my head is like, sorry, I'll stay focused. The photos were of the Driscoll family, of course. At the time, I didn't know that. The photos had aged poorly, and they could have been of anyone. It was very hard to distinguish features.

However, given the elaborate nature of the file, I figured it did warrant a further look. As to the confession letter, well, it was brief. It gave an address. That's the first thing I noticed. I couldn't locate the address online, which meant it had to be old. The confession letter said, Stop printing lies.

I never killed anyone. It just took a while to get them ready for breakfast. There was no signature. I just remembered something. Oh, God damn it. We got sent a breakfast menu, month after the disappearance. Someone had drawn a red circle around a picture of pancakes. Oh, the letter said they're not dead. They're getting ready for breakfast.

Oh, we put it in the junk lead file. Detective Millgate, do you need a moment? Oh, God. How could I have known? We tried to track down that menu. We could never find out where it had come from. It wasn't any place local. The identifying information had been cut out.

I don't know what else we could have done. I just... Why did you decide to personally investigate the location mentioned in the letter? I wanted to make sure that it wasn't a hoax. I guess I still wasn't convinced. I've had 20 years of people sending... me fake evidence. I guess maybe the case captured

my imagination too. I always figured one day I'd think of something I'd overlooked and solve the whole thing. It felt unbelievable to have somebody dumped the answer in my lap. I needed to see it

with my own two eyes. Well, Miss Bamer had pinpointed the location with city records, but neither of us was sure if it was still there. It was an abandoned industrial building. The last time it had a valid mailing address was 50 years ago. It might have caved in for all we knew.

I think I also wanted to be the one to crack it, whether or not it was dumped in my lap. That case has hung over my head for 20 years. Miss Bamer and I agreed to meet there the following morning. Can you describe the crime scene? Yes. It was an industrial building, as I stated. Approximately 120 feet long by maybe 45 feet wide. It was a wooden structure, and at first the conditions seemed to match the neighboring buildings.

However, I noticed the facade had been recently patched in a few locations. Further investigation also revealed that the entrance had been chained and locked. My understanding was that it used to be a sheet metal shop. At least... Excuse me. Is there a garbage can? I might vomit, but I thought I was empty. No, no, I want to get this done with.

Then I'm going to want that sedative. smell something from inside the building. Very faintly, I figured that would count as probable cause, not that I need it as a civilian, but you never forget the way a corpse smells. They were bad enough that they had that same smell. I hadn't forgotten how to pick a lock, so I let myself inside. I really do wish they had been corpses.

I really do wish he had been a serial killer. I really do. Please say you believe me. I do. Can you describe the interior of the building? I'm trying to focus through this. I really am. I'm sorry.

It's just that I'd like to go to sleep after this for a very long time. Is the paramedic here? Is the sedative ready? The warehouse had not been abandoned as we were previously led to believe. The interior had a hallway with six rooms. The construction was old but visibly newer than the rest of the building. The walls between each room had been soundproofed. There were no windows to the outside or doorways between the rooms themselves.

The only access was through the hallway. I tried to make Ms. Bamer leave at that point. You see, the smell was stronger inside. You could feel it, the smell like a grit getting stuck in your nose, like bits of sand all over your skin. The rooms, uh, the rooms contain. Presses, hydraulic presses. Four foot by eight foot custom presses. I couldn't figure out what they were at first, because they were hovering over what looked like hospital beds. There were IV bags in each room, as well as other medical equipment. God, that's how he kept them alive for so long, of course. God, I think I might be seeing black spots.

Do you need to take a break? Damn it, the idea of having to start this again is worse than the idea of finishing it. Then, please describe your next course of action. The building was obviously an active crime scene. I had no doubt at this point. I was in the lair of what I believe to be a serial killer. I tried to tell Miss Boehmer to leave several times. She refused on the grounds that it would not be right to leave me on my own.

There wasn't much time to make an issue out of it. My opinion of her was that she was a bit nosy, but basically all right, and I didn't think she'd be a liability if she stayed out of my way. I had to make a judgment call as to whether or not I should proceed on my own, in case the family was somehow impossibly stuously. alive and perhaps in danger, or if I should leave and call for backup. I had told my wife where I was going previously, so she knew my absence would be noted and reported if the worst happened. Neither of us could get cell phone reception. Sorry, I'm rambling. It was then that I heard.

Not even a gasp. It was like a gasp, but not really. I don't want to describe it any more than that. There was a sound. It drew my attention further on. I had to act. That's all that matters. There were some stairs at the very end of the warehouse descending into a basement. I told Miss Bamer to remain behind and pulled my servant. revolver. I had a flashlight on my person as well and turned it on as I descended into the basement. The basement had been hand-dug. Maybe even over the course of the entire 20-year disappearance, I don't know. The floor was dirt, and there was a tunnel that retreated back far enough that it had to be supported with struts at regular intervals. When my flashlight first illuminated the stack, I wish they'd all been dead. I wish he'd been a serial killer. Please, take a moment.

After I... After I recovered, my first thought was... Thank God they're all dead. I'm 64 years old for Christ's sake. I'm not a young man who can forget things anymore. When you're young, you have the sense that you're invincible and that you're never going to die. I don't have that to protect me anymore. Look at me whining.

When that had been done to them, I should have found them. Save them somehow. I'm sorry, Hobb. I've got to ask. Can you describe the scene? Yeah, I can. I didn't know where I was looking at first. Hell, I still don't. It was, well, it was a stack, maybe two feet thick. From the stink and the coloring, it was obviously made of flesh. I thought maybe he'd hacked them up and stacked them up in pieces.

That would have been bad enough. The first thing that alerted me to the truth was the eyeball. On top of the stack was a perfectly round eyeball in the middle of a socket that had been distorted to the size of a saucer. When I realized what I was looking at, 20 goddamn years of torture, basically! He had the entire Driscoll family under those presses for 20. years, keeping them alive on an ivy drip, increasing the pressure on them so very slowly that their bodies had time to adapt, until they'd been flattened like, well, like pancakes. He squished them by about a quarter inch every year for 20 years. Then he'd pulled them out when they were too broken and wretched to move

without any chance of recovery and stacked them on top of each other. I have no idea what four. I don't want to. And I was still thinking, thank God they're all dead. When the one on top started gasping again. What did they say? Nothing at first. I couldn't speak without help. I think it would have been Avery Driscoll. Not that I could tell much about the gender or age,

but the hair was blonde where there was hair. The head was a mess of scars. I think the son of a bitch who did this must have removed parts of their skulls. I've got no idea how he got their heads so flat otherwise. Not as flat as the rest of the bodies, but flat. Who the hell knows how their brains handled that? Their lips were punctured by teeth everywhere after the presses had flattened out their noses, I guess. Avery was fourteen when he disappeared. I've stopped shaking. God, I am weird the way our bodies work, isn't it?

What else? There was a machine, a sort of pump. I followed a hose with my flashlight and realized everyone in the stack was hooked up to the pump. I don't think they could breathe on their own, you see? Not after a while. There simply wasn't enough volumes in their lungs to inflate. There was some sort of opening cut right into each of their chest.

There was a switch on the pump. I don't know why I pressed it. I was in a panic. I wanted to do something. Maybe some stupid part of me thought that if I switched it on, they would inflate and be okay. I switched it. I increased the volume of air to the topmost hose. I could hear the pump working harder,

which is when... Mavre Driscoll started to scream. He begged me to kill him. He said other things, too. He didn't make much sense. Kept yelling a bane of error over and over again. Something about the family, too. Didn't understand it.

He was in pain, and I would hope he had gone insane several years previously. Oh my God. Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I didn't know what to do. He wouldn't stop screaming. I believe he was convinced I was his torturer. A closer look at his eye revealed that it was mostly a mess of white scar tissue. He was blind as a bat.

You know, I spoke with some burn victims once. They told me that they managed to find me. meeting and purpose again after a while. I don't know how anyone in the Driscoll family could have done that. Anyways, I stated my name. I told him I was a detective. I told him I was there to help. I repeated it over and over,

knowing, of course, that there was nothing that anyone anywhere could do to help. Miss Bamer arrived, drawn by the sound. Before she saw the stack, she told me that I had screamed and she had come to help, but I don't remember having done so. Nevertheless, she arrived. Then she saw the stack and screamed, but I was intent on Avery Driscoll. He was able to hear. He became lucid for a few moments. It was a strain to understand what he said, but I will never be able to forget it.

He said, please kill me. It hurts. I don't want to be a monster. Please kill me and tell my family I died a long time ago. I don't know if they're still looking for me. Don't let them know what happened to me. Please kill me. He could still cry. And he did, although his tearducks were too deformed for it to be noticeable. I should have forced Miss Beamer to leave. That is the only action in this matter which I regret more than failing to solve this case 20 years ago. Not just for her own sake, but for what she did next. I don't think she could have wounded them any more deeply if she had tried. She took away the last comfort that any of them in that stack had. You see, they had not been able to speak to one another for 20 years. She said, that's all of them, isn't it?

That's the entire Driscoll family. They're all alive in there, the whole family. For 20 years, each member of the Driscoll family had been unaware their fellow inmates were the other members of their family. They'd all been holding out hope their family. their family was okay. All of them dreaming. Someone out there loved them

and was free from suffering. Do you know what the screams of six people tortured over two decades smashed down to the width of four inches sounds like when they're all stacked on top of one another? It sounds like the gates of hell

swinging open. I think that is enough to take a lot. of Melgate. Not yet. It was my mistake. I should have tried harder, tracked down that lead.

Maybe that's what they meant screaming like that. It was my error, so it was my responsibility. Mercy is hard, but I owed it to them. I am the one that failed to save them. It only took

one bullet to go all the way through. I emptied my revolver, though, to make sure they didn't linger, to give them that final piece. It was the only kindness I had to give them. We left, called for backup after that. Neither Miss Baymer nor I wished to remain with the bodies. I elected not to follow the crime scene investigators back into the basement. I asked if I could make my statement and leave, and after one of them saw what I had seen, they agreed. May I have my sedative now? Yes, yes, of course.

Thank you. Please show in the paramedic. I'll roll up my sleeve. My wife has diabetes. so I'm well aware of the routine. Oh, and please make sure you have the same courtesy available for Miss Bamer. She seemed to have it worse than me, after all. Poor woman couldn't even throw up her cry.

Of course. Do you know where she is now? She told the lead at the crime scene she was going home, but we haven't been able to reach her. Did you try the paper? Which paper? The Daily World. Are you sure?

There's no one by the last name of Bamer on stage. with the daily world. I'd like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program. Please visit the no-sleep podcast.com to learn about our season pass 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 unseen hands will be. drag you down into our dark storyland.

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