The NoSleep Podcast - S16: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 5

Episode Date: October 17, 2021

Our Halloween Month of Horror continues with the first of two Sleepless Decompositions episodes this month."Sunfall" written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:02:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiEvelyn – Sarah Thomas, Kendra – Erin Lillis, Oula – Nikolle Doolin, Dad – Jesse Cornett, The Gardener voices performed by – Erika Sanderson, Jeff Clement, Danielle McRae, Graham RowatClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to for Season Pass 17Click here to learn more about S.H. CooperClick here to learn more about S.H. Cooper's novel, "Inheriting Her Ghosts" Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Sleepless Decompositions" illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio program ©2021 - 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

Sleepless listeners, I'm your host, David Cummings. We continue our insidious march toward Halloween with the first of two sleepless Decompositions episodes this month. And as I've mentioned before, we're excited about our two big Halloween episodes coming out at the end of the month. One of them is a Season Pass bonus episode for both Season Pass 16 and 17 members. And I'm happy to announce that Season Pass 17 is a season past 17 is a season. is now available to order.

Technically, it's a pre-order period because season 17 starts on November 7th, but it will unofficially kick off with the Halloween bonus episode. It's the perfect time to jump into a new season pass. 25 full-length episodes over two hours long, plus plenty of bonus content, all for only $25. Check the link in the show notes to buy yours today. And we're excited to present a story written by Friend of the...

show S.H. Cooper on this episode? When you're finished listening to the episode, why not check the show notes to find out where you can purchase Ms. Cooper's novel, inheriting her ghosts. There's no better time to start a creepy horror novel. Perfect rating for the Halloween season. So with this episode and the novel, make this a super-duper Cooper month of horror. Now it's time to begin. As mentioned, we have a tale from the darkly creative mind of S.H. Cooper. In it, we meet a woman who reluctantly chooses to return to her hometown because her father is not long for this world. You may be able to imagine what it's like. A family she's no longer close with.

A stepmother who, to put it kindly, isn't quite so loving. And memories of growing up in a town she's long outgrown. But family matters. and things need to be dealt with. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Erin Lillis, Nicole Doolin, Erica Sanderson, Danielle McCray, and Graham Rowett. So understand the importance of family and do what needs to be done.

Home may not be what it used to be, but it's still home, even when you come from, Sunfall. We go back to the places that break us. Sometimes it's only in memory, a smell or a song that sends us wandering the same hurt we'd rather leave behind. But sometimes, if you're unlucky, you find yourself having to make the return journey in person. I promised myself I'd never step foot in sunfall again. I kept that promise for over ten years. If family wanted to visit, usually to eat my food and ask for money, they came to me.

If old friends wanted to catch up, usually the money thing again, telephones were invented for a reason. If anyone from my old life needed anything, read money, for any reason, they'd have to find me first. There was only one thing that would make me go back on my word, and even I didn't know what it was until it happened. Your dad's dying. Kendra had never been one for Smalltalk, but that was one hell. hell of a hello, even from her. He has been for years. Gout, diabetes, high cholesterol, he'd been dancing around the drain with them for years, or so he liked to say. A couple hundred bucks wired to his account was usually enough to act as a miracle cure until his next sudden and

devastating decline. This time they gave him an expiration date. That was a new addition to the script. How long? Few months. What is it? Sticking to the 20-question checklist was easier than trying to figure out how I should respond on an emotional level. To her credit, my stepmother didn't start in on me over not breaking down into hysterics at the mere mention of my unwell father. Shit, this really was serious. His liver is failing. They won't put him on a transplant list because we don't have insurance.

Those assholes at the hospital. are really going to let him die because of some fucking paperwork, and right before the holidays, too. I lowered the phone from my ear while she kicked off with her tried and true rant against the system holding them down. At least this time she had a good reason. I couldn't help but wonder, though,

how much of the hospital's refusal came from insurance and how much came from the fact Dad couldn't get through a day without a 12-pack and a whiskey chaser. I wasn't sure there'd ever been a time he didn't have a bottle in hand. Still, liver failure hadn't really been on my radar. Maybe because I expected his heart to give up on him first. Maybe because I'd never actually expected any consequences to catch up with him. So you're going to come?

Kendra had paused her tirade long enough to remember I was still on the line. I decided to answer her honestly. I don't know. He's your dad, Evelyn, you need to. It didn't seem appropriate to point out I thought, of him more as a sperm donor. I'll think about it. What's to think about? It's not like you're going to have a whole lot more chances. With work and stuff, I... He wants to see you. It's been a long time. I sighed and leaned against the wall, fingernail of my free hand between my teeth. How long has it been

since I chewed my nails? I wondered when I caught myself doing it. A long time. I ended the call without making any promises. Kendra prodded a little bit, but showed a surprising amount of restraint in accepting my non-answer, grudging as it was. I hadn't lied about having to work. The firm had some depositions looming,

and there was a slew of evidence for the Clark file that was finally supposed to be coming in. My boss wasn't likely to just hand me some time off in the middle of such a paper avalanche, not even if my dad was dying. That was what I was. was hoping for anyway. An excused absence from dad's bedside on account of being a functioning adult with responsibilities, something he and step-mommie dearest could never seem to get the

hang of. Ula had been unexpectedly human for a litigation attorney, however. Why even tell her? Just don't go, a little voice suggested from the back of my mind. I sank onto the arm of my couch, absently running my thumbnail across my lower teeth. I had to let her know. I needed her to tell me no. Otherwise, the only reason I'd miss out on seeing my dad for a final time would be entirely my doing. And I wasn't sure I was quite ready to nurse that kind of guilt for the rest of my life. The guilt came anyway, in tiny ways, that I slept while that night despite the news, that I got up, showered, dressed, applied my makeup, all without a thought towards him, that I drove the 30 minutes to the office, singing along to the radio

the whole way. The realization sank its claws into me as I pulled into my parking spot. My dad was dying, and I was seat dancing to Thriller. I shot off my car and scoffed. Who cares? I allowed myself to think, only to immediately. answer with, I should. I became divided in my own skin. One half still the little girl determined to play dutiful daughter and win her father's affection, the other, a bitter woman bearing the little girl's scars of repeated failure. It's too early for this shit. I grabbed my purse to head inside. The receptionist smiled from behind her festive array of glittery pumpkins, a dead-eyed expression I shot right back at her and buzzed me into the building.

It was still slow, more paralegals like myself in than our attorney bosses, and we milled about while waiting for the first pot of coffee to brew. Ula had thoughtfully left a stack of casla on my desk to put away, and I busied myself with repeated trips to the firm library until it was my turn at the caffeine trough. When I returned to my desk, cup of seasonally spiced coffee, gripped triumphantly in both hands, I saw that the light in Ula's office had been turned on, announcing her arrival. I hesitated, eyes shifting between her door and my desk. Talking to her right away would rip the band-aid off, but putting it off until later might

save me any clumsy condolences from my workmates once word got out. It can wait. I slid into my seat and savored my first sip of coffee, the only one I got before Ula called me into her office. I poked my head in. You need something? Morning. She waved me toward one of the chairs across from her. She was only a decade older than me, but the Esquire at the end of her name, along with the stylish silver streak in her hair, lent her a mature authority she enjoyed wielding

around the firm. I stepped more fully in the room. arms crossed in premature defense, but didn't sit. Is it a good one? What? Morning. You never just ask me to come in and chit-chat first thing. You haven't even had your tea yet.

Oula sighed and folded manicured hands on her desk. I got a voicemail from Kendra. Hearing her say my stepmom's name was almost enough to rock me back on my heels. A little warning before my personal and personal. professional worlds collided would have been nice, but I managed to maintain a mostly neutral expression. Sorry about that. Why, oh, why, had I let my excitement get the best of me seven years before and spilled the details of my shiny new job to my dad? And why, out of everything I told him, had he chosen that moment to be sober enough to remember them? Ula arched a penciled brow.

Are you going to sit now? Yes, at my desk. Promise you won't hear from her again. Evie, she told me about your dad. I hated that tone of voice. The maternal concerned pity. She saved it for only the most special of occasions. I much preferred her in attorney mode.

It's fine. He's fine. Sit. Reluctantly, I dropped into a leatherback chair usually reserved for clients, One foot tapping impatiently against the floor like a petulant teen dressed in business casual. I know you have issues with your family, Evie, but this isn't just missing some holiday dinner. You only get one dad. And if you knew mine, you'd know why this isn't a big deal.

I get it. I knew mine. My foot stilled with a cringe. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. I'm an ass. bonding over our crappy upbringings had helped us establish our relationship when we'd first been teamed up

as the firm's newest attorney-assistant pair. I knew her old wounds, she knew mine. And when her dad had died the year before, I'd watched her struggle with all the leftover baggage that had never made it into the will. Her smile was small. You think you know how you'll feel when they're gone. Relieved, glad.

Maybe a little sad. But there's regret, too. Mostly for the things you never said. There's no point talking to my dad. He doesn't listen. It's not for his sake, you say it. You're the one who has to live with the missed opportunity. I stared at the floor, studying the blue speckled carpet as if I'd taken a sudden interest in office industrial chic.

You should go, Evie. Closure is underrated. What about the depots? Clark's evidence? Samson is off this week. I'll borrow Lori. Oula... Think about it. Let me know by five. I hate when you turn into a real person.

Feels dirty. I'm going to approve some outrageous bills to get the stink off. When I didn't immediately stand, she did her best Merrill Streep impression and gazed at me over the top of her glasses. That's all. I scoffed, glad we were back on more normal footing, and made it to the door before she stopped me one more time. Evie, you weren't going to tell me, were you? I shrugged with a thin-lipped grin. I hadn't decided yet.

At 455, I put in a request for a week of paid time off. HR must have been warned it was coming, along with a healthy dose of my boss's particular brain. and of persuasion because I had approval by 4.57. Ula was on the phone when I peaked in to mouth, thanks, on my way out. She shot me a smug-wiggle wave in return, then promptly went back to chewing out the unfortunate opposing counsel she had snared on the line, her way of saying, you're welcome, now don't make it weird. I took the hint and walked out to my car with my phone in hand. Dad's number was already pulled up, but I sat down.

there for a long time, just staring at it. Hitting that call button felt like a commitment. To go back, to see them again, to say goodbye. I put the phone in my cup holder with a sigh and started the car. Later. Instead of putting it in reverse, though, I continued to idle. The nail of my pinky finger clamped between my teeth. When I caught myself once again returning to that childhood habit, I tore my hand away and swept my phone up. Closure is underrated. It rang three times before a slurred voice, Ed sharpened with irritation, picked up. Just the sound of it. That single word that was more demand than greeting made my pulse quicken. I licked my lips with a dry tongue and exhaled slowly. Hey, Dad. Just wanted to let you know I'm coming to visit. To that

that same evening. I packed light, keeping it limited to a five-day rotation of clothes and the necessary toiletries. No laptop, no tablet, nothing that could be pawned off if I looked away for more than a minute, except my phone, which would never leave my person. That still seemed too much. It's not even a full week, I mumbled to myself while locking my apartment door. I'll be back in time for the office Halloween party. I can do this. Dad's unenthusiastic response to my planned visit followed me down the flight of stairs and into the parking lot. Why? he'd asked, suspicion seeping through the phone. It was a fair question, really. I knew it was.

But for some reason, that didn't ease the sting of it. And that somehow made it hurt worse. After 28 years, a tiny, insane part of me still expected, hoped. He'd maybe one day respond like a real dad. I chucked my duffel bag into the back seat and rounded to the driver's door with a shimmy of my shoulders to knock loose the dark feelings already attempting to take hold. Not even a full week.

Traffic out of Tampa was as bad as I expected it to be. A bidding start to what was no doubt going to be a great visit to the old homestead. I crawled along bumper to bumper in the wave of vehicles making the journey away from the city. The drive to my dad's house would take just over an hour and a half, plenty of time to catch up on a podcast or two, and think about all the things I'd rather be doing instead of going there. Sunfall.

Ugh. Once outside of the city limits, there wasn't a whole lot to admire about the Florida landscape. It was flat. There were occasionally cows. That was about the extent of it. I tried to keep myself occupied with the latest. episode of a true crime podcast I'd stumbled upon, but the details went in one ear and were shoved

out the other by encroaching anxiety. I shut it off before the killer's reveal, hoping to return to it when I was better able to follow along. The miles started to shrink the closer I got to my hometown, each one passing quicker than the last. When I saw the sign pointing toward the exit leading to sunfall, I had the impulse to slam my foot on the accelerator until I hit the Atlantic, I bought it back with another reminder. It was only for a few days and switched on my blinker. Times stood still in Sunfall. I was convinced of it the minute I reached its outskirts. The same smattering of derelict mobile homes still acted as the town boundary line. My car bounced along the same pits and potholes that'd been there since I was a kid.

I was half convinced I even remembered the raccoon roadkill baking into the pavement beside a vacant stretch of overgrown lots still marked as for sale by a sign so sunbleached it might as well have been blank. As I slowly rolled through the quiet residential intersections, I found myself wandering the side streets in my mind, reliving them as I had as an unsupervised kid roving about with friends. That's the house with the pit bull we'd pet over the chain link fence. Wonder if it's still alive. Good to see wife-beater Mick Jorts is still out washing his truck. Less hair, more belly, same old wife-beater. Boat-ramp Lane.

How many nights did I spend down there? The tiny smile that curved the edges of my lips surprised me. Of course my childhood hadn't been all bad, but it was easy to forget the roses buried in a garden of manure. The lake, though, that had been good. It'd been the spot. First kisses, first fumbles, first fumbles, first. broken hearts, and all the inconsequential stuff in between, mostly because there was nowhere

else in Sunfall to go, but also because it was pretty, peaceful, a big change from the ugly chaos so many of us spent our days in. There'd been a rumor about the lake, or a legend, something. The more I tried to remember what it was, though, the more it evaded me, like an itch I couldn't scratch. The lake. I scanned downtown as I drove through. A few garages, a second-hand shop, the grocery store with perpetually dingy lighting that made everything look just a little dirty. Lots of boarded-up windows and strip malls that had been built by hope and abandoned in reality. The lake, the lake.

Repeating it didn't dig up any forgotten lore locked away in the depths of my brain, and I gave up as I turned onto my dad's street. The houses were all similarly small and set back on large plots guarded by oak trees draped in Spanish moss. Rusted car chassises and children's toys doubled as lawn decorations, alongside inflatable jackal anons and posed plastic skeletons. A few of the neighbors were sitting out in their driveway. Cans and cigarette butts scattered at their feet. They tilted their beers to me as I passed, unsmiling. A gesture to let me know I'd been noticed and that they were.

were keeping an eye on me. Ah, old Florida at its finest. Dad's house was the last on the road, separated from the rest by a swath of trees. It stared out across the road at acres of scrubland some housing developer had bought up decades before and then defaulted on. Muscle memory, still ingrained after so long, more than desire had me turning into the long driveway, and I parked behind a cherry red Mustang that was almost as old as I was. Hey, Bonnie, I whispered to the car, eyes tracing its still familiar boxy outline. In theory, I'd never been allowed to drive it. But when dad was in the bottle, Bonnie and I became best friends.

It'd been my first means of escape after mom left. At only 14, I'd been lucky none of the handful of local cops had put. me over. Then again, maybe they had seen me and chose to ignore it. After all, they knew who the car belonged to, and nobody really wanted to bother with the daughter of Bobby Summers. I sighed. How much longer, I wondered, could I reminisce about Dad's old car before I was forced to face the music and head inside. With a prolonged groan, I pushed open my door. As soon as I climbed out, as if it had been waiting for me. Something bit hungrily into the side of my neck. I slapped my hand over the stinging spot and grimaced. Nothing said welcome home like the kiss of a lingering

autumn mosquito. After a quick look at my reflection in the driver's window confirmed the resulting small welt. I grabbed my duffel bag and walked to the front door. Kendra took her time opening it. You came. Her eyes were glassy and she swayed slightly. Not quite drunk, but more than a few sips past sober. I called Dad a couple hours ago and told him I was. Oh, well, I wasn't sure you would. You're going to have to wash the guest room sheets. She left me standing in the entryway and crossed to the floral print sofa,

where she melded into the person-shaped imprint left in its cushion. Taking that as her invitation, I stepped inside. The house smelled of stale cigarettes and whatever frozen, frozen dinner Kendra had burned in the microwave. A deep voice proclaiming the pyramids were built by aliens drifted from the TV. I took stock of the living room. Its carpet and walls smoke-stained to an orange beige and the adjoining kitchen done up in late 80s laminate. It was smaller than I remembered, and the caged-in feelings squeezed just a tiny bit tighter around my chest. I scratched absently at my neck, where the sting had settled to a dull twinge.

"'Dad didn't tell you I called?' "'She grunted noncommittally, "'without looking away from the screen, "'and took a long swig of beer. "'Kindra had been pretty once, "'bottle blonde, beachbody, "'and a decade younger than dad. "'She'd been just his type

"'and walked in only months after mom walked out. "'I could still see remnants of who she was "'if I looked close enough, "'under the now-fried hair and leathery skin, "'but the years hadn't been coming. I didn't feel too sorry for her, though. The outsides had just come to match the insides. Where is he?

Bed. She was irritated I was interrupting her show. Must have slipped her mind she was the one who insisted I come. He wasn't feeling good. It was about the reception I'd expected. I took the hint and saw myself to the guest room. Any trace that had once been mine had been scrubbed away in favor of catching the overflow of kitsy figurines, old clothes,

and whatever other odds and ends didn't have a proper home. It took some rearranging, but eventually I tunneled through the boxes of dollar-store junk to the twin bed beneath and sat heavily upon it. I was rewarded with a cloud of dust rushing up to greet me. Instead of stripping the bed and throwing its covers in the wash, I went to the linen closet in the hall and grabbed whatever assortment of blankets and pillows that was available.

With arms full, I paused and glanced at the shut door across from mine. Dad snoring, shallow and uneven, reverberated from behind it. A hundred, hundred nights spent listening to that same snore, sometimes coming from the couch, sometimes from face down in front of the fridge, came rushing back to me. Is he okay? Is he going to wake up again? A surge of anger drowned out all the questions a kid should never have to ask,

and, as I'd always done, I retreated back into my room. The nest I managed to build from the faded unicorn sheets, throw blankets, and lumpy pillows, wasn't particularly comfortable, but I plopped down in the middle of it anyway. The only other alternative was to join Kendra and her conspiracy theory programs, which was as appealing as digging out my own toenails with a dull spork. I reopened the same podcast I'd been trying to listen to on my way there and started it over again. I'd hoped if I kept my eyes closed, laid still and focused on the narrator's soothing voice, I'd eventually fall asleep.

But one episode turned to two. Then I turned to a different show of short spooky stories and then switched to music. 8 o'clock became midnight, and while I normally would have been conked out long before then, I found myself staring up at the dark ceiling. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't had dinner. Kendra had stumbled to bed a couple hours before, so I felt safe enough to get up and tiptoe to the door. My phone's flashlight led the way to the kitchen, where I had my choice between an expired box of cereal and a can of chicken noodle soup.

I opted for the latter, knowing I'd probably be made to pay twice what it was worth when Dad discovered I'd eaten it. I dug out a pot to heat it in and turned the stovetop knob to hide to speed the process up. While I waited for the soup to simmer, I leaned against the counter, arms crossed over my chest. A flash against the dark caught my eye. It was only for a second, glimped in the edges of my phone's light, A thin streak of something silvery running from the window over the sink to the fridge. A spider web, I assumed.

Bored and in need of a distraction, I tilted my phone toward it again. Once more, it illuminated the thread-like substance strung across the kitchen, and I frowned. Florida has a good number of spiders, so it wasn't at all unusual to find a stray silk strand. but as far as I knew, none of them had a greenish sheen to their webbing. Curious, I leaned in, trying to figure out if it was a trick of poor lighting. But closer up, the green was more vibrant, even seemed to glow a little. I blew on it, sending a ripple down its length. When it settled again, I extended my pointer finger and gently poked it,

A sting shot up my finger where it made contact, and I yanked it back with a sharp inhale. The strands stiffened, then shuddered, and quickly curled in on itself and retracted toward the window. I recoiled as well. My throbbing finger pulled protectively against my chest, and I stared between the spot the strut had been and the window. I was no spiderologist, but in addition to not glowing green, I was pretty sure webs weren't supposed to. to hurt, and they definitely weren't supposed to move on their own. While I stood there contemplating whether I needed to call an exterminator or an exorcist, the soup came to a roiling boil and splashed over the pot's shallow sides, hissing noisily as it landed on the burner. I swept it

from the stove and held it over the sink, letting the overflow drip freely while I waited for it to be cool enough to wipe up. The world through the window in front of me was inky black and still. My own face, only half visible, but clearly disgruntled, stared back at me from the glass. How achingly familiar it was to stand there in the dark, trying to see past my own unhappiness at the backdrop of my father's house, to whatever might lay beyond sunball. The only difference was it usually been through my bedroom window. I'd known coming back was going to be hard, but I hadn't expected it to make me so damn emotional. I killed the light on my phone, extinguishing my reflection and, hopefully, the dramatic flare for melancholy I seemed to have developed. In doing so, the outside became more visible.

So too did the dozens and dozens of silvery green threads criss-crossing the yard. Slowly, I set the pot down in the sink and pressed my face closer to the window. The gossamer. Its glow little more than a faint twinkle, lay across the grass like dew, wove around the tree trunks and up into the branches, stretched into the empty lot next door, tiny little filaments shining in the moonlight. I abandoned the soup and hurried to the back door, but stopped short of actually opening it. If touching a single one had been painful,

what would stepping into a yard full of those things feel like? One was a bee sting. More would probably be the whole hive. I released the knob and stepped back, turning again to the window. But the night was clear and hot and black, and there was no sign of any spider web, glowing or otherwise. I ate my midnight snack straight from the pot in confused silence, checking periodically to confirm the threading had it made a reappearance. At one point, I stepped into the yard, braced for a jolt of pain from source unseen. But all that waited for me were hungry, buzzing mosquitoes and the Florida humidity stifling even in late October.

A few cursory prods of the grass immediately outside the door only stirred up the nearby toad, and a quick peek around the side of the house was equally mundane, leaving me baffled. The pressing need to figure out what those strange threads were faded, however, when the hairs along the back of my neck rose, each one a prickly warning that I wasn't alone, that I was being watched.

At first, I tried to ignore it, reasoning that just being outside in the dark was enough to trigger my nerves, already a bit fragile from being back. But the longer I remained outside, the louder my lizard brain became. There's something standing in the empty lot. someone hiding amongst the trees and they're watching you.

I ran all the way inside and flipped the deadbolt into place behind me. I stayed huddled against the door until my jellied legs firmed up again. With my heartbeat still pounding in my ears, I moved mechanically through the kitchen, first cleaning the stovetop and then washing and drying the pot and spoon I'd used. I kept my head down. All of my focus on the sponge and soap suds. Anything to keep from looking outside again. Scrubbing away the broth residue and stubborn noodles still clinging to the pot's bottom was simple.

Solvable. It made sense in a way I really needed right then. I crept back to my room and curled up in the middle of my makeshift nest. My eyes squeezed shut. It occurred to me that I should be telling myself it wasn't real, and I'd only imagined it, that it was probably from stress. or something. But what was the point of lying? Even if it was only to me, I had seen something. There was no doubting that. I just couldn't make heads or tails of what. And I was certain someone

had been in the vacant lot. Sleep came in small waves, never very deep, never fully settled, and the hours dragged until morning. Even after the sun had started to come up, and my back ached relief after so long on the floor, I stayed where I was. My dad had never been a great source of comfort for me, my stepmom even less so, but even their company was preferable to going back out there alone. I waited until I heard the telltale squeak of their door opening and the unsteady footsteps leading to the bathroom, before I changed into a fresh set of clothes and then a little longer still until the scent of coffee brewing confirmed at least one of them had made it to the kitchen without incident. That thought, that they'd made it safely to the kitchen, came with a cold

realization. I scoffed softly, partially in disbelief, partially because of how fucked up it was, even if unintentional. Had I just used one of my parents for bait? It would definitely be something to add to the pile for a future therapist to sift through later. I finally left my room and made a detour for the house's only bathroom. It was in serious need of a bleach-based makeover, its air haunted by the odor of hairspray cans passed and the mildew lurking in the bath mat. Without me around, it seemed the housekeeping basics had fallen to the wayside. I kept my visit brief and my contact with any surface even briefer.

Dad was seated at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee, Irish, if the smell was anything to go by, in front of him, and a cigarette in hand. He was scrolling through his phone, upper lip pulled into its usual snarl, and hadn't noticed me yet. If the years hadn't been kind to Kendra, they'd outright taken a beating on my father. His face was puffy, skin tinged with undertones of yellow, his belly distinctions. He wouldn't have looked out of place in a hospital bed. I lingered in the doorway, suddenly self-conscious and unsure. I could feel myself shrinking, becoming a small girl with crooked pigtails and crooked teeth and crooked posture. My pinky nail was between my teeth.

What was he going to say? What was I supposed to say? Did I ask him about what I'd seen last night? Hey, Dad, long time no see! Sorry about the whole dying thing. Oh, by the way, know if you've got any radioactive spiders hanging about? When Mom was still around, she'd made it easier, doing her best to shield me with her smile, doing the talking so I didn't have to.

But Mom was gone, had been for a long time, and I'd never been able to forgive her for it. Dad coughed, a terrible hacking fit that rattled his whole frame, and startled me into a jump. As it subsided, he looked up, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. The eyes that fell on me, bloodshot and roomy, did not light up with joy at my presence, didn't shine with pride or welcome, didn't even hint at any kind of affection. They were flat, annoyed, bothered. No Disney Channel bullshit here.

What are you doing here? I told you I was coming. I knew full well he probably had no recollection of our conversation. The little girl slipped into the protective armor of apathetic adult, and I crossed to the coffee maker to grab myself a cup. What the fuck for? It'd been a while. You hoping to see me keel over?

Come to grab what you can and run off again? I cast a disparaging eye. around the kitchen before meeting his gaze again. Yeah, you caught me. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke toward me, surrounding me in a cloud of stinking gray. I waved it away, my breath held, but stood my ground. He wanted a reaction, was waiting for one with a self-satisfied smirk,

but I wasn't about to give it to him. Tense silence built between us as we stared each other down. The ticking of the gaudy brass sun clock hanging in the living room grew with each second it counted off. Fuck this. I was unwilling to play his stupid game anymore. The thread things that seemed so important before were like a distantly remembered dream when face-to-face with dad. Even if they had been real and were still outside, just invisible to the eye, getting caught up in them seemed preferable to staying in that house with him.

I'm going for a run. Oh, are you? Kendra, sobered up from the night before and wrapped in a thin pink robe, appeared in the kitchen doorway. I thought you'd come with us to the doctors this morning. Why? So she can see all the shit wrong with you. Then, more pitifully, as if she were the true victim, she added,

and see what kind of hole you're leaving me in with all these bills. There it was. Kendra had never cared about me reconciling with Dad, probably hadn't even talked to him about me coming home at all. As always, it came down to the almighty dollar. I was such an idiot. Running wouldn't get me away fast or far enough. I left the room with a disgusted sigh

and grabbed my keys and purse before slipping my flip-flops on. Kendra followed me out to my car, asking where I was going. Didn't I want to hear what his doctor had to say? I shrugged her off and slammed the door, starting my car with a sharp turn of the key. Ungrateful bitch, your dad needs you and you're leaving? You're just like your mother.

The last barb might have been more effective if it wasn't one she'd been using on me since she'd stepped into my life. Whatever pain I'd felt at mom's departure had long since been buried beneath the years of resentment that followed. Kendra herself, constantly trying to weaponize my grief against me, had helped Diggett's grave. I backed out of the driveway and cranked the wheel harder than necessary, jerking the car onto the road.

The tire squealed in protest as I shifted into drive and slammed my foot on the accelerator. The dark clouds brewing over the town had turned it from dreary to downright depressing, further muting the already dull building facades. A few straining against their fate with accents of black and orange and washing out the people sitting at the bus stops, loitering on corners, hanging out in gas station parking lots beside rusted shopping carts piled high with all their worldly possessions. Smiles were few and far between, with more than one already clutching a paper-bagged bottle. Some had jobs to get to, homes to go back to, but many had sunk to the curbside and never managed to get back.

up again. Employment was hard to come by. Meth, not so much, booze, easier still. Florida man was alive and well in sunfall. With nowhere else to go, my aimless driving took me to boat ramp lane. It was a cramped road, barely paved, that sliced through heavy forest. I couldn't remember if it was a nature preserve or had just been too swampy to build on, but either way, It had managed to escape development. Its end widened into a circular parking lot, just big enough for a dozen cars if they squeezed in tight. Given the early hour, I was the only visitor in sight,

something I was grateful for as I got out and stalked down the dirt path that encircled the lake. It went on for miles, winding through dense undergrowth to wooden boardwalks built over the swampier areas, around and around until it was. eventually looped back. The body of water itself was so large you couldn't see the opposite shore, and when the fog rolled in thick enough, as it had that morning, it had a way of making you feel completely cut off from everything, except the ground beneath your feet. My anger had already burned itself out by the time it had taken me to get there, and with each replay of the day's

events. The smoke blowing, the clock ticking, the smirking, the smirking and the screeching, my pace picked up until I was running, trying to force the fury out before it turned to poison in my blood. Fuck five days. As soon as I get back, I'm packing my stuff and I'm gone. Flip-flops, as it turned out, weren't ideal athletic footwear. And when I skid across a slick patch of grass poking up in the middle of the path, I went down. My knee took the brunt of the fall, the resulting sharp sting telling me I'd broken skin, and I landed hard on my side. After a moment, I rolled onto my back, chest heaving and tears blurring the overcast sky. Ula had been wrong. I never should have come back. Eventually, once the crying stopped, I could bring myself to

to sit up. Numnness had replaced the anger, leaving me drained and my limbs heavy. Still not quite ready to go. I pulled my legs against my chest, only vaguely aware of the shallow cuts on my knee, and stared vacantly out over the lake. It lapped lazily against the shore, but the oncoming storm promised to swell the gentle waves into white caps. As if to confirm my suspicions, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the distance. It's deeper than the map's show. A childish voice, drawn up by the view, echoed from years past, and I frowned, trying to root out the rest of the memory.

It's deeper than the map's show. Finally, the pieces clicked into place, and the thing I'd been trying to remember when I first pulled into town came back to me. The legend of the lake that said outsiders see one bottom. but locals another, and in that deeper section known only to Sun Paul, grows a garden. Whoever finds this garden will be granted eternal life. Very Ponce de Leon, fountain of youth-type stuff, that the kids enjoyed sharing in secretive whispers behind their hands,

like everyone else didn't already know it. I wiped my cheeks with a bitter smile, recalling all the afternoons spent with friends, daring each other to try and bind the garden. We'd paddle our little rowboats out to the middle of the lake, unconcerned with the snakes and alligators that called the water home, and would take turns diving as deep as we could go, trying to reach the bottom 25 feet below.

I couldn't remember if I'd ever actually made it. I pushed myself to my feet and brushed the dirt and dew from my backside before approaching the lake's edge, more mindful than I'd been as a kid for any reptiles watching from the reeds. Satisfied I wasn't adding myself to an impromptu breakfast menu, I crouched, hoping the peaceful setting would help soothe my frazzled nerves before I left. The water reflected the steely sky above, and just beneath the surface, already starting to roil with the increasing winds, silvery green threads danced.

I didn't react at first. Equal parts mesmerized and terrified. There were hundreds of strands. waving with the current like so much seaweed. The tendrils stretched in the lake's every direction, and as I followed their spaghetti-thin-links, I realized they weren't confined to the water. With a startled cry, I jumped upward, spinning to find them snaking through the grass and climbing the trees,

casting the area in a glimmering net that hadn't been there seconds before, just as they'd been at my dad's house. All except for the spot where I'm not. I was standing. They formed a wide circle around me, not even a single strand running close to my feet. Fear started to overtake the shock when I glanced over my shoulder again, desperately trying to make sense of what I was seeing. A face gazed up at me from the water, colorless, chunks of flesh eaten away. The rest bloated. Its eyes, her eyes, I realized, were clouded marbles in her skull. And as I screamed, her hand, equally misshapen and swollen, broke through and

began to reach for me. I somehow found my legs and lurched away, my stomach heaving, threatening to be sick. The threads parted before me as I staggered back toward my car, closing once more after I passed. When I looked back, the top of the woman's head was just visible, and her eyes were still locked on me. Overhead, the bruised sky hung low and split open, unleashing a downpour as I careen toward home. The sunball I raced back through was not the same one from only an hour earlier. Thick ropes of webbing snaked around buildings and penetrated windows and doorways. The town was enshrouded in a sickly veil of glowing green. Worse were the people. Residents huddled together under overhangs to escape the rain. All of them oblivious to the tendrils sunk deep

into their exposed flesh. The threads pulsated and twitched, as if drinking from their human hosts, and in the white flashes of lightning, the people's features shriveled, revealing miserable, mummified faces, walking corpses that gaped in agony. The terrible visages vanished with the lightning, and they were normal once more. Save for the hungry, sucking threads probing their bodies. I screamed as I peeled away, panic and confusion coating my mind in a blank, black fog. All I could think, beyond the repeated chorus of what the fuck, was that I had to get back to my dad's house.

I had to get out of sunfall. I ran through red lights and ignored speed limits, but the thread was everywhere, blanketing the town, violating its people. But no one seemed to notice it. it. Why wasn't anyone noticing it? Wife Peter McJorts was beside his truck, obliviously dragging a soppy rag in slow circles over the silvery green filaments while others dug into his bare arms. The old Florida neighbors sat in their driveways, cans already around their feet, threads burrowed into their ankles. Each flash of lightning made monsters out of men.

I almost rear-ended Bonnie as I pulled into the driveway, stopping down. just short of the Mustang's bumper. Rain beat hard across my face as I dashed for the front door. I'd almost made it when that feeling arose again. The certainty I was being watched, same as before. It made every inch of my skin crawl. Instinctively, I turned toward the empty lot. She was there, amongst the trailing threads like Christmas lights,

watching me with her marble eyes. Her dark hair, left only in patches across her torn scalp, hung limply around her face, and she stood with an unnatural stiffness that curled her fingers and bent her neck. Only scraps of clothes still clung to her swollen form. I stumbled back a step, then another, ready to run again. But she made no move to pursue me, only watched. And there was something in that ruined face, an attempt. at an expression.

The longer we stood there, gazes locked, separated only by sheets of pelting rain, the more I began to recognize it. Little by little, in the way it tugged at the corner of her mouth and tried to crease her brow, I knew what it was.

Heartbreak. I knew who she was. The front door was flung open, startling me into turning toward it, and Dad built its frame. What the hell are you doing? Is that Evelyn? Strands of silver-green bit deep into his person.

Mom! But when I glanced to the empty lot again, there were only threads. What? I... I saw Mom. I swallowed hard, almost unable to look at him and the tendrils sprouting from him. Over there.

She... She was there! I expected to hear I was stupid. I was delusional. She wasn't coming back. Not a barely audible... No. Ignoring the rain,

he charged in front of me and looked wildly along the tree line when he didn't find anyone. He whirled around. You're a fucking liar. No! She looked awful. She was in the lake,

and then she was here. She... The lake. His voice lowered, and the quiet fury that filled it drove me back step. He closed the distance and grabbed my upper arm so tightly I cried out. The threads hanging from his face thrashed with his sudden anger. You saw her at the lake? Yeah, I...

He threw me into the house, sending me sprawling to the floor. Kendra gasped. But instead of attempting to help me, she scurried toward the hallway, ready to escape into their bedroom in case he turned on her. The wall shook when he slammed the door. Bitch! Dad paced at my feet, muttering, hands clenched into fists. She couldn't be here.

She couldn't have. It's her fault. It should have worked. It should have fucking worked. Mom? Kendra cowered against the wall. Her face beneath the fake tan and the threat. bed's pale. While he was distracted, I tried to scoop back, putting space between myself and my

father in preparation of running for the kitchen door. But moving was a mistake. His wrath fell on me again. I should have gotten out. He jabbed an accusing finger toward me. Not you. What are you talking? He wrenched me up by the front of my shirt and shook me into silence. I grabbed at his wrist, trying to pull away. But his grip was vice-like. You fucked this up somehow. You and that bitch, what did you do?

I'd seen Dad angry plenty of times, but never like this. The rage twisting his face into a ruddy, vain-lined mask I barely recognized. Never so full of hatred. Um. Kendra tried again, but he never acknowledged her. His hand moved from my collar and closed around my throat. throat, tightening, crushing, until I couldn't breathe. I thrashed, kicking and punching at him, but his fingers continued to squeeze. Black and white specks, like static confetti, burst in my

eyes. My flailing became more frenzied, but weaker, each blow sliding off without any effect. I thought I heard Kendra scream over the blood rushing in my ears, but Dad continued to squeeze. I'm going to die. It was the last thought I had before I slipped into merciful, empty unconsciousness. Rain drummed loudly right over my head, each drop a nail hammering into my skull. I pried open one eye to darkness, and then the other, dimly wondering where I was and why everything was so sore. My throat burned, my head pounded.

When I tried to cover my ears to block out the sound of the rain, my arms refused to cooperate. They're tied, I realized, the heat of panic spreading across my chest. My legs likewise were bound at the ankles. Dad choked me. Each second was making me more lucid and the direness of my situation all the more clear. To beep back the terror inching over me, I attempted to focus on figuring out where I was. The hum of an engine and the steady thrum of tires over pavement told me I was in a car. A bounce sent my head smacking against a hard surface, and I dropped back with a groan. The trunk of a car. It didn't stink of fast food and cigarettes, so not dads. I'd had my keys in my hand when he attacked me. It had to be mine. Where are we going? The second stretched into an

eternity punctuated by peals of thunder. The few times we rolled to a stop, probably at red lights, I tried to scream, but even I had trouble hearing the horse-rasping mules I made. There was no way anyone outside could have heard me. The last time we stopped and the engine died, I wriggled as far back into the trunk as I could go. In a muffled haze, I heard the driver's side door squeak open and close again. A pause. Another door opened, shut. Pause.

Something scraped across the car's roof. Silence and steady rainfall. The trunk popped open. Dad hauled me out, his chest heaving with exertion and frantic exhilaration. The dangling threads puncturing his flesh twisted and writhed. He started dragging me through the downpour and, immediately I recognized the small parking lot, still empty due to the weather,

the dirt path running down beside the water. The lake, I tried to say, but my damaged throat strangled the word. He showed no sign he'd heard me. Even after I went limp, becoming dead weight in his arms, he continued to pull me along with surprising strength. The gleaming strands slithered to the wayside,

giving us a wide berth as we passed. A canoe waited at the water's edge. It was old. Its paint chipped and bleached from years of sitting upside down in the backyard, where it had been a fixture for as long as I could remember. I hadn't even known it was waterworthy. Dad pushed me roughly over its side, so I landed face-first in the bottom, with the gathering rain and floating detritus that had

collected during a lifetime of disuse. A daddy long-legs crawled up the siding, disturbed from its hiding spot by my sudden appearance. But it was the cinder blocks that held my gaze. A pair of them, already tied off with a length of rope, had been placed in the middle of the boat. Dad! I tried again. My mouth caught and dry. The canoe shoved off from shore and rocked violently as he clamored into the back of it. An oar splashed noisily against the water.

I rolled onto my side so I could see him. His face was red and fixed straight ahead. I'm kidding. Teardrops and rain mixed on my cheeks. Dad! Shut up! His eyes were aglow with a wild, desperate light.

I don't know how that bitch got out, but it's not going to happen again. I'm going to do it right this time. I stared at him, uncomprehending, and saw only a stranger. He was mumbling to himself again, rowing us further onto the lake

with erratic yanks of the oar. It should have been me. It was my sacrifice. Yeah, I should have been the one that leave, not her. Resentment stamped itself across his features when his gaze fell to me. Not you. I tried to sit up, hoping I could find a way to reason with him.

But he kicked me hard in the chest. I fell, curled into a ball, gasping raggedly. The gardener will take you. His promise was ice against humid heat. I will be free. While I continued to gape for air and understanding, he pulled the oars in and tugged my bound feet toward him. I kicked feebly, but it only irritated him further,

and he punched my legs until they were still, tying the rope connected to the cinder blocks around my ankles. Hear that, Gardner! I've got another one for you, and this time you better. I better fucking take it! I wanted to beg, wanted to make him see me as his little girl, helpless and afraid. But all that came out was, please!

The silvery green strands hanging from his face convulsed as he took me by the upper arms and pulled me close. I'm not dying in Sunfall! And he pushed. Water swallowed my screen. Two muted splashes followed shortly after, and I was sinking fast, dragged downward by the heavy concrete. I struggled against the duct tape and the rope, all too aware the gray surface was getting further and further away. I hadn't taken a proper breath. My chest constricted, burned, demanded air, and I fought against the rising impulse to open my mouth and inhale.

It wouldn't work for long, and down I continued to go. Go deeper, darker, colder. It's deeper than the maps show. The surface was gone. I squeezed my eyes shut as if it might help ward off the clawing, consuming need to breathe. And when I opened them again, saw that I had come to rest on the bottom of the lake. And all around me, arranged in neat symmetrical rows, dozens of bodies rose from the lakebed to sway in the gentle underwere.

occurrence. Threads wound to create thick cords dug deep into the bottom, holding them in place. The green glow, the only light source in that desolate place, illuminated their bloating, decay and torn parts. Each was ravaged by their time underwater, and each had their arms raised upward, as if reaching for a sky they couldn't see. Slowly, the one closest to me turned. Its single eye, clouded and wide in a skeletal face, reflected green. The remnants of its lips cracked open, spreading into a silent snarl, and its arms lowered to stretch for me, bony fingers curved into hungry hooks. One by one the surrounding bodies did the same, turning toward me with ethereal slowness.

Their rage written in their gnashing teeth and swiping hands. I opened my mouth to scream and inhaled lake water. Once it started, I couldn't stop it. I spasmed, beyond any kind of rational thought, and let my lungs fill. Freezing fingers closed on my wrists behind me. There was a snap, another, and I was dimly aware I was free-floating. The rows of living corpses drifted swiftly by on either side of me, and I realized I was moving.

Suddenly, impossibly, I was in open air, being flung onto a hard stone floor. I staggered to my knees before doubling over and vomiting up a stomach full of foul water. Not mine. Not mine. Not mine. The voices, overlapping and coming from every direction, filled my head. They were male, female, both and neither. ending with a lingering echo.

I reeled back, still coughing and sputtering, and nearly choked again at the sight before me. The walls of a cave surrounded me, saved for the ceiling of water high overhead, currently tossing with the storm, its stank of rot and stagnation. In the center of the cavern, on a raised dais sat a gelatinous horror,

its rounded, bulbous mass, home to a litter of skulls and bones. From it flowed thousands of silvery green strands, not like webbing as I'd first thought, but like jellyfish tentacles, all snaking up to pierce the water overhead. I vomited again. A sacrifice made.

Not a fierce year. What? What? I could barely bring myself to speak. Cut for the garden. No roots. Not mine. Sacrifice.

Garden. Dad had said something about that, hadn't he? I pressed my hands over my mouth, my mind and stomach heaving, and sank to the floor. Confusion. Fear. She doesn't understand. I made myself. look at it again, whatever it was, and stifled the urge to scream out my terror.

What? Who are you? I almost couldn't get the question out. The gardener. We harvest sunflow. Sunfall is ours. Harvest? Misery.

Stride. I don't. The people grow. The people die. Images filled my head of all the townspeople riddled with the gardener strands. The threads wrapped around the town, pulsating, sucking, feeding. They were connected to this thing. It burrowed into their bodies, feasting on their sadness, sustaining itself on their suffering.

Realization dawned on me like a slow-turned knife. You. You're what keeps sunfall like this. You're why nothing gets better. What came first? The grief. Or the garden. All the jokes about people never leaving.

The jobs never staying. The opportunities never coming. I dragged my hands down my face, suddenly feeling feverish. It had never been a joke at all. They, we were all. All tethered to this monster. Crushed by it, I got up. An exchange for life.

Water rippled behind me, and I spun. A pair of marble eyes beneath patches of dark hair were just visible in the entrance pool to the cavern. Mom. More images swirled in my head. My parents, years before, in the same canoe I'd just been in. Mom tied up, Dad yelling.

They reached the middle of the lake. Dad's losing his nerves. He can't bring himself to throw her overboard. He's telling her to do it. A sacrifice for an escape. She pauses her struggling for just a moment, gazes into the water. And while she does, a decision is made. Instead of fighting back, Mom agrees.

and plunges herself into the lake. The sacrifice has been made. Eternal misery for an escape. The memory left me and I gasped, head thrown back and eyes wide with tears. Mom never walked out. Dad had done this before. Except that time he fucked up. He gave Mom a choice to do it herself because he was too much of a coward.

And she took it. And she chose me, knowing she would be one of the ones who truly never leave Sunball, not even in death, knowing she be planted in the deep, where no maps show, made to feed the gardener her heartache as long as it remained to eat. She was why the threads couldn't take hold, why they avoided me, because I was her child, and not the gardeners. I crawled toward the pool on hands and knees, sobs racking my body, and reached for her.

Mom's fingers, the same that had broken through the tape and pulled me to the gardener, closed over mine for a moment. And in her pale eyes, past the torment and pain, there was triumph. Not mine. Unruited. Not mine. The gardener's voices were becoming,

agitated, almost pained. I was never meant to come back to sunfall. I could feel it. Rejection radiated off of the creature, as if my presence alone was enough to cause it discomfort. Thread shot through the water behind Mom and wrapped around her ankles. Mom, no! I tried to grab hold of her, but she shook her head, a proud but resigned motion and was yanked back down into the depths. Her freedom for mine, once more given willingly, lovingly. Go now. Not mine. Leave.

Water flooded the cavern, and I was forced to swim upwards, leaving my mother and the terrible gardener behind. I broke through the surface, gasping for air, and swam weakly to shore, to collapse, sobbing in the shallows. When I was calm enough to get up, I staggered across town on foot, all the way back to my dad's house. My car wasn't in the driveway. I wondered only for a second where he was stashing it. It didn't matter.

The sight of me, standing on her doorstep, sent Kendra into a babbling, crying fit. She was sorry, she thought I died, she was scared of my dad. But that didn't matter either. All I cared about, the only thing I could think about, was leaving. I pushed past her, entering only long enough to find Bonnie's keys, and walked right back out to the Red Mustang. She screamed from the doorway that I couldn't take their car while I backed out of the driveway and left her, my dad, and Sunfall in its rearview mirror. For that moment, anyway, we go back to the places that break us.

Sometimes it's to fix what was broken. I know what's waiting for me now. And I know I have to go back to Sunfall. You have been listening to Sunfall by S.H. Cooper. Produced for the No Sleep Podcast by Phil Mikulski. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn more about the people who bring you this show. Join us next week for Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 6.

This audio production is copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyright for this story is held by S.H. Cooper. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.