The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep1: NoSleep Podcast S17E01

Episode Date: November 7, 2021

It's Episode 01 of Season 17. Our spells speak of strangeness in familiar places.“Listen Right” written by Austin R. Ryan (Story starts around 00:05:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat“And Miles to Go Before I Sleep” written by Tor-Anders Ulven (Story starts around 00:31:05)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Driver – David Cummings“Grandpa Won’t Stop Dancing” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 00:36:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Maggie – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Dorothy – Danielle McRae, Grandpa – Jesse Cornett, Grandma – Erin Lillis, Mom – Kristen DiMercurio“The Phantom Bridge Reports” written by Ryan Berg (Story starts around 01:07:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson“The Man in the Alley” written by T. Michael Argent (Story starts around 02:04:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Amanda – Nichole Goodnight, Claire – Mary MurphyThis episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Marcus Damanda’s new Halloween-themed novel, “Hide the Knives”Click here to learn more about Tor-Anders UlvenClick here to learn more about LP HernandezClick here to learn more about T. Michael ArgentExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Listen Right” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio program ©2021 & 2022 – 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

It's the beginning of season 17 of the No Sleep Podcast. You thought the horror was over after Halloween, didn't you? You thought it was going to be all Thanksgiving and Christmas and other festive fun stuff, right? No, dear friend, the horror is year-round here at the No Sleep Podcast. But the fact remains that we are heading into a holiday season where most of us will be spending time with others. Getting out and being around even friends and family can be stressed. at the best of times, let alone coming out of a pandemic. So when stress and emotional issues are starting to become overwhelming,

why not turn to the caring, licensed professional therapists at BetterHelp? The therapists at BetterHelp are there for you, even when all you need is someone to listen and guide you to a better way of thinking. BetterHelp is online therapy that assesses your needs and matches you with your own therapist in under 48 hours. So when it's not about a life crisis or quick self-help fix, BetterHelp can provide professional counseling done securely online with a broad range of expertise available for clients worldwide. There are people all over using BetterHelp,

and they're recruiting additional counselors to ensure the most timely responses. You can log into your account anytime and send a message to your counselor. If you've never tried therapy before, consider this review from an actual Better Help client, as they talk about their experience with therapist Kelly Wallace. Kelly is the first therapist I've ever had. Even though I don't have much experience in therapy to compare, I am certain that Kelly is the best of the best.

She makes me feel like I'm her only client. I feel so comfortable in our sessions and she always knows exactly what to say. I feel so lucky that Kelly is the first therapist I got matched with. She's amazing. Simply put, Better Help wants you to start living, a happier life today. So visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep.

That's better H-E-L-P and join the over 1 million people who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. And now the 17th cycle begins.

Are you a really? ready? It's long gone. In days of yore, there are legends and tales of dark folklore. Round candlelight and fireside, the tales are shared. Enchanting dark secrets in hushed toads declared. And from those days, both present and past, We beseech you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Sleepless Tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide. To Season 17 of the No Sleep Podcast.

We're excited to begin another season of frightful tales with you. Speaking of Frightful Tales, last week, Sleepless Sanctuary Publishing was proud to publish, Hide the Knives, the new short story collection by Marcus D'Amanda. Check the show notes for a link to where you can find this particularly creepy book. And on next week's episode, we'll be revealing the next exciting release on our imprint. It may be closer than you expect. Our theme for this season is a fabulous one.

It... Wait, no, no, not fabulous. That should be fableless. Fables, folklore, legends, tales born of superstitions, enchantments, and menacing, mysterious, mystical myths. And with that in mind,

let's get down to business. I've been told that it's extremely important that I share something with you. You see, much like our previous season, season 17 is going to offer something a bit different in terms of content. In this case, though, it won't be anywhere near as easy as simply hearing it on the podcast. Now, listen very, very carefully.

The way it's going to work is... Ah, looks like we don't have time to discuss that today. Maybe you'll work it out for yourselves. Maybe you already have. In our first tale, we sit down and listen to a man providing us with a caution. There's a sycamore forest nearby, you see, and over the years it's gained somewhat of a reputation, disappearances and deaths, all sorts. But in this tale, shared with us by author Austin R. Ryan, we're reassured that it's totally fine as long as you heed the warnings,

and surely everyone does that. Performing this tale is Graham Rowett. So don't just go hog wild and do ridiculous things that will endanger you? It is a safe place to hang out as long as you listen right. Out here in Indiana, there's a great grove of sycamore trees that grow a bleached white bark all the way around, except for the smallest cuts of brown. They punch up from the dirty green earth like bones splitting out of the skin. Amateur photographer is hike a mile or two down the road to snap pictures of the ground. the forest. Professional photographers go deeper in to find where the trees thicken and whiten,

very close to the color of bone. Desperate, strange, or just plain stupid photographers go a ways down a cracked road lined with dying rust belt towns, all to find the bones of a summer camp that got shut down nearly two decades ago. Not of their credit, the place makes for a damn good photograph. The green and blue tents are half covered in dirt, so they look like little hills rising in between the collapsed cabins. Then the sycamores there are the whitest you ever seen, like teeth chewing the last of the camp away. About 20 years ago, the camp was doing well.

It had built a solid reputation off the backs of several old hands who managed a hiking and canoeing tour of the nearby river. Yet even at its height, we locals rarely sent our country. kids there. We all had stories about that place. Stories older than the towns we lived in. Stories that most folk didn't listen to. Of the most that didn't listen, there was one boy who didn't listen the most. Well, that's not wholly true. Everybody listens. It's just that some don't listen to the right things at the right time. This boy was that kind. Local son of a small town mayor. up with so much talk rattling around his head that he couldn't sort through it all.

He had no idea what words mattered and what words didn't. What most meant when they said he didn't listen was that he didn't listen right. He'd been told six different ways to six different Sundays not to go to that camp, but he'd ignored every story. If he'd have listened, oh, the things he would have heard. In 1966, six hippies went missing, hacking up by those pale six. Sikamores weren't found for the better part of a year. When investigators said they caught the hippies trail, they meant it literally.

The hippie's bodies went from tent to tent, blood running in a trail of dashed lines. Each person had a part missing. The first lost her left eye. The second lost her right. The third had no nose, sheared right off his face. The fourth was missing a left ear. and all of them were carved open underneath the ribs. Different organs and guts lifted clean out of the body.

The fifth got to keep his innards, but he still got it worst of all. Long and deep cuts traced his veins like rivers, letting all the blood out of him so that his skin sat like a loose sack on his bones. They never found the sixth. Further back in 1937, a boy and his father went out to hunt, game and reel in some fish for their family to eat. They weren't found until four years later, and by that time they were cleaned down to the bone. Something had propped them up against the sycamore.

Their arms fixed by thick, hardened sap to two branches each, leaving their legs to dangle. The feet touched the ground, but the toes didn't. Something had plucked all the digits from their hands and feet. Summer of 25, a writer bought land and commissioned a cabin to be built on it. She moved in and wasn't heard from for six years. Folks wrote it off as flapper eccentricity until her family got worried and came to visit. They found her cabin door wide open and her skeleton on a bed crusted over with her own blood. Strangest thing was, the bones in her palm had been snatched, but her fingers were all scattered.

scratched and crushed. Some adventuring types used to look for that cabin. It was easy to tell the ones that really found it from the ones that said they did. If they really found it, their eyes said more than their mouths ever did. If you've listened right, you've gathered that there's something deeply,

deeply wrong in these particular woods by this particular river. There's something not right about how many people went missing and about how all of them are still missing. parts. There's something not right about how their bodies were arranged. There's something simply wrong about how pale those sycamores get. The official reports on all the deaths told reasonable stories. The sixth hippie went wild on drugs and killed the other five. The

father and son slumped up against the trees during a bad winter and died of starvation. A highway Boy man killed the author in her bed, maybe broke her hands because he hated her writing. But if you listened right, you'd know there was much worse than what was in those reports. Even though the boy had been told better, he begged his parents have to death to let him go to that camp. The parents knew the stories and refused for about as long as they could. But anyone who knows teenage boys knows there's plenty of terror and disaffecting one. stuck between two terrors, the parents called up the camp and got just the right reassurance. This place was run by folks who'd heard the same stories and who'd listened right.

All the counselors and staff respected the forest for whatever unknown, awful thing it held. In fact, they'd mapped out just where the danger was. That kind of cartography never could be in exact science, but the counselors knew that, and they did it. and treat it like one. The moment you measure folklore by inches and feet is the moment you go missing. Instead, we measured it by stories. The stories told all of us the signs, and the signs told us when to turn back.

The subtler signs were heavy sap, low on trees, a distinct lack of wildlife, and trees that shaped themselves like bodies. But the clearest sign was always the white on the tree. When the sycamores became white as bone all the way from root to branch, it was beyond time to turn back. These counselors had the signs all memorized. All of them at least half believed in the abnormal nature of those woods, and all of them carried that belief through in their work. That belief reflected in their record, too. Not a kid went missing.

Hell, we rarely even heard of kids leaving scared. Even the townsfolk had a begrudging respect for what they were. That camp did. So the mayor let his son go, figured it'd be good to give back to a local business anyway. The camp, the forest, the river, all of it was good to the boy at the start. The boy had bad ears, but a winning smile, and a nice way of talking he'd inherited from his dad. So he'd made friends with kids and counselors alike. It was all smooth sailing, right up until the canoe trip.

See, it was prime camping season, and the camp was at its prime, too. This load of kids was the biggest the camp had ever seen, and the river was already full of other folks camping on the popular sites along the banks, the spots that were well away from where the forest got pale. Even worse, two counselors fell sick with the kissing disease. They were young, and the young need their room to be a little irresponsible. Unfortunately, that meant that. that the staff took on more kids than usual and needed bigger campsites.

Now, the weirdest and worst misfortune was that one of the cars had its tires slashed. Some counselors wanted to blame the campers, but it didn't look like a knife had done it. The whole wasn't a clean, straight line. It was more gnarled and jagged, like they'd snagged on a branch and not noticed. That bad tire was a big deal, because they brought the campers up the river and the vans. From there, the campers sailed back down to camp over the course of two days and one night. Since they lacked advance to get everyone up the river, they decided to send one team going downriver to get picked up the next morning.

But it had been real lucky if the boy hadn't listened when groups were called and accidentally went with the wrong one. Naturally, that was when he listened best. The canoeing went well, as it usually did. The river in that patch of woods is very kind, even if the trees aren't. The real problem came in finding a camping spot. Each place they stopped at was either occupied or too small. As the sun fell, the growing darkness made it harder and harder to set up camp and spy out campsites.

What was worse, the kids were getting antsy, their voices shaking with the worry of being out late in an unfamiliar place. When they finally found a spot, they'd already gone in too deep. Their counselor knew it, but they were too far and too tired to go rowing back up to camp, and all the other spots had been taken. If camping here was foolish, then going back was dangerous, and camping deeper in was insane. This counselor believed the stories in full, so when she pulled into the campsite, she immediately went looking for the signs.

She could hear animals. Fewer than normal, but still there. That was a good sign. The trees were starting to ring with sap, but it hadn't gotten very low or very thick yet. That was a mixed sign. Last but not least, the sycamores were what locals called half-eaten. There was still some meat on the bones, some brown bark on the white. Another mixed sign. A good sign and two mixed signs was safe. Just as long as long as you. as you showed proper respect to the woods and whatever it holds. If she could get the kids to get to bed early and stay in bed, then they'd sleep through the night. No disturbance. Unfortunately, there was just one sign she'd missed, shrouded by the dark of that moonless night. The large and small branches of two sycamore trees bent and curved around each other

to form what looked like a wide smile. That smile's still there, believe it or not. In the daylight you can see it beaming over the camp. Even though the counselor couldn't see that smile, she felt it. On the outside, she was the picture of calm and focus. She helped everyone unload their canoes, set up camp, and get dinner going as though nothing was wrong. On the inside, her mind was running over all the old stories she'd heard. In late spring, 1903, 11 anarchists were under threat of getting kicked out of the country,

on account of the anarchist exclusion act. They fled deep into these woods and were right in the middle of setting up a hidden commune when four went missing. It was damn fine luck for the other seven that they found their lost friends quickly. When they saw their comrades cut to ribbons, drained of blood and missing a whole appendage each,

they didn't just leave the forest. They left a whole damn country. They reported in to be deported. Back home, they at least knew. where all the horrors lived. Officials didn't corroborate the anarchist's story, just said their friends had a run in with a bear. Now if you knew a lick about the history of this state,

you know better than to buy that. In 1904, there wasn't any official in Indiana about to go deep into that forest just to bury four immigrant anarchist bodies. In 1861, right when the Civil War broke out, several union deserters fled into the woods to see if they couldn't ride things out. They didn't get found until a year or two after the war was over.

Even then, found was a generous term. What they found of the men were their heads, their arms, and their legs. Their torsos had been amputated off of the rest of their bodies and lost somewhere in the woods. Folks back then had all manner of excuses, ranging from exploded ordinance to bears to Satan. The crude but intentional cuts on the soldier's limbs and the total lack of torsos

spark a lot of belief and a lot more curiosity. A lot of tourists and investigators come up on account of that story. The only reason they'd leave alive was because of how well we lied to them. One of them could spit on my own kin before I'd send them off to find what they were looking for. Thinking over all the stories, the counselor decided to take extra precautions. A situation like this was worry enough that most of the counselors thought about what to do if they were in it. There were folk that had made it through these deep woods, folk that had seen and hurt things. Some of those folks would talk your ear off about last night's game, today's lunch, and tomorrow's weather.

But if you ask them about what they saw in these woods, it was like something plucked their tongues right out of their mouths. Still, they'd find their voice again and give some advice if it meant keeping other folk alive. What all of them said was this. If you hear the animals go quiet, if you see the white bark start to gnaw away the last bits of brown, if you see the trees twist into limbs and body parts, then your best bet was to get in your tent. Get in your tent, and do not shine a light,

do not make a peep, and do not, under any circumstance, open the door. You may hear a terrible scratching, like something's going to cut the tent down, but you do not open up. Being damn good with kids, she'd whipped up a fake story about rabid raccoons that roamed the area

that would try to scratch their way in. These raccoons were so fierce they'd scare off all the other animals. However, the rabies fried their brains so they couldn't figure a tent zipper. She told them that if you kept the tent shut, you'd be safe. A raccoon story had the perfect mark

of realistic and scary. You couldn't go to, telling them the truth without a full-blown freak out. You couldn't make up a tall tale too wild, otherwise they wouldn't take it seriously. A kid might even stay up just to see what happens. Any kid who listened to that raccoon story would seal their tent uptight for the whole night.

Of course, there was one boy who wasn't listening. He was smiling that sweet, curious smile he had while he watched the white eat away at the brown on the tree behind the counselor. When Tecumse died in 1813, there were all kinds of stories about curses he put into existence. The strongest curse being the one that killed William Henry Harrison shortly after his inaugural address. Some say DeCumse had put a stronger curse on these woods. If DeCumse could put down curses, he didn't put one down here. The history's older than Tecumse and older than America.

Around 1710, the French was a woman. would sail down from Fort Detroit to Fort Vincennes. The French didn't write about folks going missing. Just things. They'd write about how string, sewing needles, medicines, and saws would disappear. One French physician complained about how he couldn't bring a single medical book down river without losing track of it.

The natives around here have their stories, too. Them being here the longest of any of us. Their stories talk about a forest you keep away from. Some of their stories say the forest was a prophecy, turning white and deadly once European settled on the continent. Other stories say that the forest was always cursed, turning any who took shelter in it into a greedy monster. They call it a windigo.

I was content to leave the story there for a long time, but I stayed here so long that stories started coming to me. It takes some real listening, but you can hear stories older than the tribes here now, older than written or drawn word. If you listen right, you can hear stories inside your dreams, spoken by people so long dead that they've forgotten the names of their tribes. You can follow those voices into dark caverns.

Deep, deep in those caves, you can see where they carved stories of a forest made out of blood and bone all along the smooth walls. You can go into those caves, and you can hear the wind stir up whispers of the long dead. If you listen just right, they'll tell you exactly what lives in those woods. They'll tell you how it brings the white to the trees as it moves, how it frightens quiet and stillness into all that live near it, how it's still bound to this place,

how it needs a suit before it can go strolling into town, how it makes that suit, and what happens. when it's finished. They'll tell you the whole story of how they became ghosts trapped inside a forest of bones. But this story ain't about ancient bodies. This story's about that boy and the body he left behind.

The boy settled into bed when everyone else did, though I know he wanted to stay out and stare up at the stars. From what anyone can tell, he got at least some sleep before it all happened. I hope that he dreamed. of his dad and his mom, because they really did love him. I hope that if something like that drags you away,

life's got courtesy enough to give you a good dream before you go, before the fear and the pain. I hope with everything I have that he felt some kind of love and happiness. What happened? He brought on himself in some part, but he was just a kid, and I know that no kid deserves what he got. The scratching began in the middle of that dark,

night. It circled around a few tents before it finally settled on his. Knowing how deeply he could sleep, it had to rake hard and loud on that door to get him up. It scratched so loud that it woke the counselor up. She told me that she screamed when she heard him unzip his tent. She wanted to run out and save him, but she didn't. She knew she had more chance of dying herself and getting all the other campers killed than she had of saving him. We all knew she was right, but I still never could look her in the eyes after that. No one saw what happened next, but I've spent a lot of time getting as close to it as I could, and I know some things. I know the boy saw the forest for whatever it truly is.

I know he saw the wood come alive into a sick impersonation of a person. I know he saw all the tendons, appendages, organs, skin, and everything else. else the wood had collected. I know he looked deep into all its mismatching parts. I know he saw it grin a wide, empty smile before it grabbed him by the jaw and told him the endings of a hundred stories he hadn't listened to. He was luckier than a lot of others. It only took his teeth on the better part of his jaw after it killed him. It didn't even drag his body off. Still, it was an awful sight. The gums all torn up. The blood pooled in the back of the mouth. The fear and pain that stayed inside his eyes. It still turns my stomach. The camp shut down a bit later. Believe it or

not, controversy and legal troubles weren't what did it. When the owner of the camp was setting up for the next year, he heard not a bird chirping in the forest. He saw a sticky sap pooling up along the base of the trees. And in the branches and leaves, he saw long-bodied people dancing in twisted patterns. Worst of all, he saw sycamores that were white

all the way through. He knew how to listen right, and he knew that camp had to be shut down. That thing had never pushed out as far as that campsite before. Now it claims new lands every single day. Some say it walks a wide range now. It goes strolling through abandoned towns

Looking for things to feed off of And trees to turn to bone They say that if you stick around here You'll see it come through When you do Your best bet is to clutch the sign of whatever is divine to you And pray that it's not missing something that you got Because it don't bother knocking anymore

Truth is There's not much left the thing needs It's got a fine suit already It walks more and it kills more too. I've seen the deer, raccoons, even the fish and the birds that it leaves behind. No animal cuts up other animals like that. The thing is, there's not much left to kill around here. The boy's death chased most folk off.

The rest left with the jobs. This town was dying long before that thing came and put the last nail in the coffin. I thank God for that Everyone bitches about the economy or China Or whatever kills little towns like mine I thank God for all of it I thank God for getting everyone the hell away from that thing You know what's best for you

Then you should get away too Sure I'm staying But that's only because there's no sense of me leaving now I'm too old to be moving And I've got unfinished business here See those trees over there? Each day I come out and look at those trees And each day they're a little bit whiter

It's easy to miss But I notice it since I've been here all my life See, I'm gonna stick around until either I die Or those trees over there turn white as bone all the way around Top to bottom I'm gonna wait for whatever's in those woods To come walking into my town and when it does, I'm going to knock my son's teeth out of its fucking mouth.

Breaking down in the middle of nowhere can be a nightmare. Definite cause for panic, especially if you're in a rush to get to your destination. But in this tale, shared with us by author Tours Enders Olvin, we can be grateful for good Samaritans. I join Jeff Clement in performing this tale. So let's get on with things because I have a story to present to you and miles to go before I sleep. You're not supposed to get into a stranger's car. Not in this day and age.

Not in any day in age, really. But I have places to be, people to see. It's like that Robert Frost poem, you know? The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to key. and miles to go before I sleep. My wife, Ellie, Eleanor, is pregnant. Any day now, the docs say. Any day now, and I'll be a father.

Stuff like that puts things into perspective, you know? Changes how you view of the world. Changes how far you are willing to go. So I got into the car with a stranger. couldn't wait any longer, promises to keep. The woods are lovely, no doubt about that though, dark and deep too. I walked maybe five miles for my piece of shit car before the stranger pulled over. In that time, I met them, many of them, beings of the deep in the dark, lost wanderers and souls, pale faces and muttering voices.

creeping through the dusk. But I didn't fear them. Haunted back roads or not, I had places to be, and I told them as much. I have to get home, I said. Home to my wife and my soon-to-be family. A particularly gaunt figure wouldn't leave me, though.

Followed me for miles, his harrowing shape, always in the periphery. Gentle whispers in my ear, Stay with us. Come with us. You belong with us. But I persevered, fraily, for my boy. I could feel his breath on my neck when the stranger pulled over. Cold as ice, emotionless, hollow, violently, lonely. I knew then, if the car hadn't pulled over, if the stranger had to be pulled over, if the stranger The stranger hadn't stopped that I would be with them now. The lost ones, forever shackled to this road, to the depths of the forest, alone and afraid. Instead, I climbed into the backseat. Thank you, sir.

I'm in quite a rush. The stranger reminded me of my father, a little bit older maybe, in his 50s or 60s. calm, gentle exterior. I told him about my wife and my current predicament, but he never spoke a word. Just nodded silently, eyes shifting back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.

I muttered to myself. When he pulled over, my mind was already starting to slip. A heavy mist descending on an already worn and weary soul. He turned around slowly, tears streaming down his face. He seemed so familiar then, like a faraway memory of something that never happened. You can rest now, Dad. You've kept your promise. You've found me. I have promises to keep. It wasn't your fault.

The brakes, the brakes just failed. It happens. Just one of those things. And miles to go before I sleep. Please, Dad, you have to move on. You have to rest. And miles to go before I sleep. to stay with relatives can sometimes be a weird experience, even when you're very close to them.

Any small change, since your last visit, can make things feel exceedingly alien or unusual. And in this tale, shared with us by author L.P. Hernandez, we're reminded that it can be even more unsettling when that change relates to your loved one's health. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Danielle McCray, Jesse Cornett, Aaron Lillis, and Kristen DiMecurio. So try to be understanding. Maybe he's just enjoying himself, but don't be afraid to call for help when Grandpa won't stop dancing. When Grandpa smiled, it was as if he was trying to remember how. His unsteady eyes were like the underside of a glacier, a blue so pale they nearly disappeared into the whites.

They quivered as if uncomfortable in their own sockets. But it was his smile that had my attention then. His attempt to smile, actually. My little sister, Dorothy, spoke in that breathless way of hers, aimless ideas that spiraled in and out of coherence as she scraped her fork across the porcelain plate, either unaware of or immune to the horrendous screeches that resulted. Her lips were stained,

orange with spaghetti sauce, and I marveled at her ability to eat without impending her speech. Mom once said she was like an idling engine, and Dad had said the key must have broken off in the ignition. They were probably landing in Dublin then, where it was already night. The first stop of their European vacation they cleverly labeled a second honeymoon, so that they would not have to take us. Grandpa nodded and opened his mouth again, still failing in his attempt to force his cracked lips into a smile. My attention turned from his lips to his teeth, which were like a cemetery after a flood,

tombstones canted and crooked. He nodded, as Dorothy described, each birthday gift she received in the order she opened them. But I think his mind was elsewhere. But you didn't send a present this year, did you? Why didn't you send one, Grandpa? Did you know I turned six? I'm going to real school after summer.

But Dorothy was not asking questions she wanted answered. The silverware rattled on the table as Grandpa's knee collided with it. We both looked at his leg as it bounced up and down. He grimaced, revealing the metal from old dental work in the back of his mouth, and slapped his hand on his thigh. The leg stopped, but he strained to keep it still. His shirt sleeve inched up his arm, and he quickly tugged it back into place. He'd been jumpy since our parents dropped us off that morning,

but Mom and Dad were so focused on their trip I don't think they noticed. Was it because Grandma always sent the presents? Do you miss her? This time, Dorothy waited for a response. Grandpa looked to me. I see eyes swimming in salty puddles. His lips danced between a smile and a sneer, never settling on either. My heart dropped for a moment.

The way it does when remembering pain it had only just forgotten. You don't hear that? Grandpa pressed his leg to the floor. Hear what? He just shook his head. The room was indicative of his efforts to cope with her loss earlier that year. The empty jar of pasta sauce on its side to the left of the stove, which was splattered with its contents.

Grandma made her sauce from scratch. That this store-brand sauce was served to her grandkids, would have been a scandal had she been alive. There were dishes next to the sink, probably more than in the cupboards. I realized Grandpa might not know where they went. He only ever needed to find his mugs, one for coffee and one for beer. Instead of putting the dishes away, he made towers of them. It's okay, Grandpa.

I said and reached my hand across the table. Dorothy, sensing she might have overstepped a boundary she did. not know existed, twirled her spaghetti. I gritted my teeth at the sound of her fork shrieking over the plate and squeezed Grandpa's hand harder than I intended. He winced and pulled away, his watery eye swelling from either pain or confusion. His knee was shaking again, seemingly outside of his control, as if there was music only he heard. Grandpa? He seemed smaller than our visit the previous summer, but also not. The seams of his shirt strained to contain his arms, which had always been wiry in my memories. His clothes probably shrunk because

grandma always took care of that. He pulled at the fabric as if trying to loosen them. His eyes grew wide. Maggie. Maggie. Yes, Maggie. Are you okay? He closed his eyes, dabbed at his nose and took a deep breath. Yes. Just thinking about things. Dorothy reached for his other hand. He flinched when their fingers connected. It's okay, Grandpa.

It's okay to miss her. He was looking at the untouched pile of spaghetti in front of him. Grandma. Oh, yes, I know. I cleared the table as Dorothy and Grandpa went outside to watch the stars. The farms spread over 160 acres of pasture, though it was slowly returning to nature. The fields once patrolled by cattle were overgrown. The surrounding forest encroaching year by year.

Sapplings no longer threatened by hooves reached for the sun. At night, when the house lights were extinguished, the sky was full dark, interrupted only by flickering stars. I joined Grandpa and Dorothy on the porch, feeling my way around the Wicker furniture, which occupied the same space it had throughout my childhood. The chair creaked in a thousand places as I sat. Though I could not see him, I knew Grandpa was in his rocking chair by the rhythmic squeak as he moved. Crickets and other insects filled the gaps in the conversation with chittering, quieted now and then as squelching frogs united to temporarily dominate the night.

How many stars are there? By sound, I pinpointed Dorothy's location to the porch steps. Grandpa's voice strained, as if there was some great pressure within him. Oh, lots and lots. Yeah, but how many? His rocking chair creaked, but there was another sound alongside it. A knocking or a tapping. There was nothing beneath the floorboards, just to get it.

gap of three feet and then dirt. So the tapping was like far off thunder ricocheting through a forest, too loud for one old man's boot. It was like he couldn't stop. Why don't you start counting, dear? She did, and we listened to her. Sometimes she made it past 50 before she lost track. Grandpa and I chatted about books and the weather.

Topics intended to redirect his thoughts away from grandma, but his words, fuzzy, it sounded as if he was rousing from a nap over and over. Eventually, Dorothy abandoned her attempt to count the stars. I'm glad we're here, Grandpa. His boot stomped in response. Dorothy slept with her mouth open and snored right through half a dozen jabs at her ribs with my elbow. Even sleep could not quiet her. The ceiling fan word, softening some of her noise. Though I was relaxed, I found sleep elusive. I had slept on that bed many times in my life, but it was not my bed. The house without my grandmother in it felt so empty. I noticed the minor details. The missing glass of water she always left for us. The pot she refreshed before each visit was cold and

unplugged on the dresser. There was a clock in the room, which ticks someplace I could not see, and so I do not know the hour I first heard Grandpa walk down the hall. They were heavy footsteps, as if he had not removed his work booth before retiring for bed, and the sound made the nocturnal noises beyond the walls of the house seem small. His footsteps were uneven, almost as if his legs were of different links, or if one foot had difficulty finding the floorboards. He traversed the stairs slowly, the creek of the woods slicing through the strange drumbeat of his boots. They did not creak under my weight, but at 13 years old, I barely weighed

90 pounds. What are you doing up so late, Grandpa? I wondered this as I mentally mapped his journey into the living room. There was no light beneath the door, meaning Grandpa was walking in the dark. Why would he be walking in the dark? I was wide awake then, sister snoring to my right, every bug in Alabama seemingly outside the window, and Grandpa stumbling blindly around the living room. There was no real pattern to the rumbling of his boots over the floorboards. By the sound of it, he had not reached the kitchen. What else would he be doing so late at night?

I imagined I would soon hear ice clattering in his mug, or perhaps the hiss of a beer can opening. But it was just him moving around the living room, bumping into a coffee table, knocking the remote control onto the floor, and then kicking it against a wall. For ten minutes, maybe twenty, the noise continued. I was confused and abruptly aware of the distance between me and my parents. I sat up, hoping the movement would rouse my sister, but it didn't even interrupt her snoring. I patted the nightstand to my left, probed the drawer and touched items I could not visualize.

I knew my grandpa, though, and continued to search until my fingers found the cold metal of a flashlight, likely heavier than a baseball bat. He disliked the term prepper, but was prepared, if not for the apocalypse, at least for the power outages that accompanied many thunderstorms in that part of Alabama. I eased out of bed, testing the flashlight on the far wall. The light was a murky yellow and fainter than I would have guessed considering its weight. Dorothy slept through both the disturbance on the first level of the house and the introduction of light into the room, feeble as it was. I felt as if my bones were replaced by cold clay, a creeping uneasiness that robbed the strength from my legs as I stood. I knew, with a big sister's intuition, that it would not be good for Dorothy to wake. Something was happening to Grandpa.

The floors whined as I shuffled across the room. Nothing rising above the level of grandpa's noise, though. The hinges, greased by his ever-ready WD-40, opened without a sound, and I stepped into the hallway. The familiar shapes and sights, a small table with a decorative vase, an oversized family portrait in which my mom was also 13, were strange and foreign to me. Their colors were corrupted, sizes distorted in the darkness. The open door to Grandpa's bedroom made the cold, clay soften, robbing more strength, and I placed a hand on the wall to steady myself. I stood at the head of the stairs, the rumbling below, accelerating in intensity.

The wooden stairs accepted my weight without protest as I descended. Faster and faster, as if he was stomping phantom cockroaches. I pivoted on the landing, swallowed the lump in my throat, and aimed the flashlight toward the bottom of the stairs. The puddle of light swayed as my hand shook. My extremities tingled, and I recalled the distress on Grandpa's face at the dinner table. How he had to push his leg to the floor to prevent it from bouncing. How he tugged his sleeve as if hiding an inappropriate tattoo on his wrist.

The beam carved through the shadows, revealing the pattern of faded roses on the couch. I shuddered, imagining the sensation of the crushed velvet against my bare skin. I caught a glimpse of an arm opposite the couch and dropped the flashlight, catching it just before it would have clattered on the floorboards. The tunk sounds were frenzied, nearly matching the pace of my fluttering heartbeat. I shone the flashlight into the living room, my left hand grasping the banister for stability. His back was to me, wispy white hair looking as if he had survived a lightning strike. His head was moving so fast, the motion. in erratic and jerky, almost as if he was going into spasms.

I lowered the beam and caught sight of his flailing arms, which moved without rhythm, reaching blindly into the darkness as if each limb decided it no longer wanted to be part of his body. His legs were a flurry, kicking and stomping. The coffee table was tipped on its side. TV guides and coasters spilled onto the floor, and he wore the same clothes he had at dinner. A checkered, long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans so faded they were nearly gray. But they were not whole. There were tears in the fabric.

And where the fabric was torn, it appeared as if there was a wetsuit beneath. Was he dancing in his sleep? Immediately, I hoped he did not hear me. Faster and faster, head whipping back and forth, arms pulled by ghosts. He bumped into the entertainment center, which might have weighed as much as a compact car and turned, I screamed. His eyes were liquid onyx, not just black, but voids of light. And he kept dancing, dancing, dancing, his legs stomping the floorboards, arms thrashing.

His mouth was wide open and his cheeks glistened with tears. He moved in my direction on spider legs, still dancing, dancing, dancing. Grandpa? I retreated a step. He danced over the fallen coffee table. Mouth opened to scream, but no sound came from him. Grandpa! He danced past the couch.

The black pools of his eyes flickered, icy blue for a moment. I thundered up the stairs and ran in place in the hallway, my socks sliding over the floorboard, searching for traction. I scampered into the bedroom, closed the door behind me and locked it. I padded back to bed and slid beneath the covers. Up the stairs he came, and then he was silent. It was just Dorothy snoring and the bugs.

He was outside the door. Go away, go away, go away, go away, go away, go away. But he kept dancing. He danced past the room until he reached the end of the hall and he danced there for a few minutes. He danced past my bedroom door, lingering on the opposite side of it, before moving down the hall toward his bedroom. The vase was knocked from the table, and it rolled down the stairs to the landing.

He followed behind it, down the stairs and into the living room again, back up the stairs, and up and down the hall, for hours. Exhaustion settled into my bones, peeling the fear away in strips until the sound of his boots clums. Lomping through the house became the background noise of dreams. When the sound ceased, I woke and blinked, hearing only Dorothy and the night outside. I shone the flashlight at the clock and squinted to make sense of its hands. There was a quick burst of motion beyond the door, an eagle screeched as the ladder to the attic was lowered.

Grandpa was not asleep. The ladder unfolded, rumbling the floorboards when it struck them. He ascended, and I thought it. then heard his footsteps above me. It was 3 a.m. I dreamed Grandpa was in the room, dancing in the corner. I only saw his boots, flashing through a pale blue swath of moonlight on the floor. The flashlight would not reach him, as if his body repelled light. When I woke, I was aware of many things at once. The light in the room was midday white, not the yellow gray of morning. My muscles were like old rubber bands from a restless night, with sleep and

consciousness wrestling for control of my mind. The sound of thumping above me burned through my fugue. He couldn't still be dancing, could he? A scream from outside. I bolted to the door on spaghetti legs, my spine feeling like glass as I passed beneath the slightly swaying attic cord. The living room was in disarray, and the kitchen fared no better. Dorothy's attempt at making breakfast sprayed across the stove, a scorched pan and an abandoned attempt at grits. I saw her through the window above the sink, jumping over the sprinkler, screaming and giggling.

She caught sight of me. Though I had no bathing suit, I obliged. I only wanted to speak with my parents, but they were not accessible then. The loudest voice in my head, however, challenged my experience during the night, and it began to feel less real. We leaped over the sprinkler again and again, holding hands or chasing each other. I threatened to grab an old cow patty from the field and throw it at her,

which sent her squealing around the back of the house. I'm just kidding! Movement from a window drew my attention to the left, a figure standing in the kitchen, facing the front door. It was probably just the way the shadows collected on his face, but the skin looked striped with satin black, like a seals. Grandpa? It turned my direction.

I held in my scream and ran after Dorothy. I was prepared to scooper into my arms and keep running, but then I heard the barn door slam shut. When I worked up the courage to enter the house again, there was no sound from the attic. Grandpa was gone. We didn't see him the rest of the day. I called the hotel in Dublin,

but my parents had not returned from their night out. Hi, Mom and Dad. I hope you're having fun and remember to bring me something special. Here's Maggie. Dorothy then passed the phone to me. I took a deep breath before I spoke. Hey, we miss you. If you get this and it's not too late, you can call.

Um, I think Grandpa... My voice trailed off as I glanced out the kitchen window and saw the door to the barn was a little. open. After a few seconds of silence, the phone beeped and a recorded voice invited me to save the message or record it again. I hung up the phone and scanned the yard. Dorothy was busy in the pantry. What do you think they'll buy us? I heard the sound of rustling bags. I don't know. What is Ireland famous for? Um, potatoes, I think. And poets. I flinched. Well, I hope I don't bring home either of those. I didn't think about it.

I darted to the front door and locked it. Maybe they'll get something cool and perish. How did she not hear? The doorknob rattled, and the sound of Grandpa's boots persisted, slamming into the floorboards as if he intended to break through them. They were like the gunshots we sometimes heard during deer hunting season. It felt like there was cotton in my throat. What's up, Maggie?

I glanced over. my shoulder. She was elbowed deep into a bag of cool ranch Doritos. The door shuddered. It's Grandpa. She smiled. Well, let him in, silly. I shook my head. No, it's, it's a game. It's a game grandpa and I played, but you're too little to remember. Her eyes sparkled at the mention of a game. Like hide and go seek or ghost in the graveyard? I nodded as the door should. shuddered again. The wood creaked and sagged a bit. We have to hide. Grandpa's going to get inside, and we have to hide. Let's go upstairs. She nodded and took off, munching Doritos as she ran. I followed behind, jolting every time Grandpa struck the door. Uh, no, I think he'd find us there.

I walked past her, jumped, and seized the cord to the attic door. Dorothy giggled at the sound of wood cracking downstairs. Wow, Grandpa really wants to get inside. I unfolded the ladder. You first. Okay. She scampered up, trailing a fog of Dorito's scented air. There was a tremendous crash from downstairs that corresponded with the thud of Dorothy reaching the attic floor. As I climbed up the rungs, I reached around and grabbed the cord. Once inside the attic, I pulled on the ladder, folding it into itself while still gripping the cord. The attic darkness retreated as Dorothy flipped on the light switch. This is fun!

My heartbeat thudded in my ears. Though I barely heard her, I knew she was much too loud. We have to be quiet. Grandpa will find us and we'll lose the game. Dorothy nodded and mimed zipping her lips. I heard him stomping through the house, but it was directionless like the night before. Maybe he couldn't see out of his new eyes.

The coffee table in the living room skidded and something was kicked into the wall. Look at Grandpa's game. Huh? Grandpa's game. Look, he's got all these notes. This must be a grown-up game. I knew what the game was at once, though this was not a commercial version of it. Don't touch that.

Dorothy withdrew her fingers from the board. and gave me a wounded look. I picked up the notebook and read the last entry, written as if with numbed hands. Only three letters, they occupied the entire page. I am. It sounded as if the stairs were crumbling beneath them. What's happening down there?

A bit of doubt had crept into her voice. I waved her off and flipped through the notebook to the first page. There were questions written in Grandpa's typical, minuscule style. On the top line there was a date. February 28 at that year, only a couple of weeks after Grandma passed. Below each question was a word, sometimes a couple of words. Mostly it was yes and no. Question. Is anyone there? Answer. Yes. Question. Are you here with me? Answer. Yes. Question. How do I know you're real? Answer. No response. I flipped through the next couple of pages. Much of what was written was similar. Grandpa attempting to learn if he was just talking to himself. On the fourth page, he appeared to have a breakthrough. Question. If it's really you, Shirley, tell me something only you would know. Grandpa stomped up and down the hall directly. below us, sounding like a blind gorilla.

Dorothy cradled herself, but said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the attic door. Answer. Page 479 of the book. I did not know which book was indicated, but Grandpa did. Beneath those words was a diary-like entry written with cramped letters. It was from her. It was from Cheryl.

She must have known something was coming and she left me a note. She always wanted me to read that book and knew I would find it someday. Oh, this is wonderful. I don't have you, darling, but I have your letter. Grandpa abandoned the question-answer format from there. He sometimes recorded what the board told him and added his own thoughts and ideas to it. I flipped through a few pages. Grandpa collided with a wall below us,

rattling the little table and causing the planchette to fall to the floor. What's wrong with Grandpa? Dorothy wrapped herself into a tight ball. I imagined him below, sniffing like his old horse red, eyes as black as a pond under a moonless sky. I held up a finger and pressed it to my lips, back down the hall, sniffing and stumbling. I don't think he's playing a game.

The phone in the kitchen ring, barely audible over Grandpa's racket. Mom and Dad? No, we can't. The answering machine turned on, and grandma's voice cut through the den. It's Cheryl and Joe. I'm probably in the garden, and he's probably chasing the calf somewhere. Leave your name and number, and we'll call back. The world went silent. At that moment, the loudest sound in the house was my own heartbeat. My breath ached in my lungs, which felt like an overfilled balloon.

Hey kids, hey dad. Hope you're having fun. and we'll call back tomorrow. Love you all. Mom? Grandpa tramped down the stairs, the wood exploding beneath the heel of his boots. Silence. Just my heartbeat.

Just the sound of Dorothy's rapid breaths. There was a brief chipmunk's sound of the tape rewinding. Over and over. Ten minutes. A half hour. The peaks and valleys of Dorothy's fear left her in a sleeping here. heap next to the table. I turned my attention back to the notebook as grandma's recorded voice

echoed through the house. I think I can see him in my dreams. It's like a bar-off thing, like stars you only notice after you stare into the blackness a while. That's what he is, just a shadow hidden among other shadows. I flipped through a few pages. He said I can see her. He says there is no past and no future for him. All things are happening at once. He says I just need to take a small piece of him into me. I've thought of other possibilities, other paths to her. But my children would never forgive me.

And it's just a small piece, he says. Just a seed. I flipped through more pages, the letters so small at times I could not make out the words. I did what he asked. What it asked. It hurts. It hurts so much. It's like a fire ant in my soul.

The board doesn't answer anymore. Maybe I won't need it. Maybe we won't. A moaning downstairs, accompanying my grandmother's voice. I skipped further ahead, only a few pages from the end of the notebook. It hurts. I can't see her. He said I would see her again, but the world is shrinking.

like a pinhole now. He takes up so much space. It's slipping away. Even these words. Even my hands. I can't feel them like I did before. We can't. We are tired.

The board won't answer me. We are tired. We must rest. We. I. We. On the next page. I am fading.

My bones hurt. I ask. the board to take it back. The girls will be here and I don't know what to do. The sound from downstairs was like nothing I had ever heard before. It was as if the earth ripped open and the soundtrack to hell burst forth. I smothered my ears and it changed nothing. Grandpa's scream was soon accompanied by both mine and Dorothe's. Hot embers in my ears. I wanted to carve out my eardrums. I would have preferred to be deaf for the rest of my life than to listen for five more seconds.

But then it was just Dorothy screaming, which subsided after a few seconds. Then it was just our breaths. I waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Dorothy begged to come with me. She was terrified of the board of Grandpa's writing. I'll come back.

I need to make sure it's safe. She waited at the top of the ladder as I descended. Oh, my God. The stairs were destroyed. I used the banister and the wall to work my way to the living room. It smelled like the ocean, of a low tide and the sea-like that could not make it back to the water. It was brighter in the living room than it should have been, and I soon learned why. The kitchen wall was gone.

The sink. Grandpa's delicate tower of dishes were broken on the tiles. I was staring outside, at the grass still sparkling with dew from the sprinkler, at tracks two inches deep in the softened earth, longer than my forearm, at a shadow stalking through the untended field, where there used to be cattle, but no more, at a pile of shredded jeans and, mixed within, shredded flesh and wiry hair. A bomb had gone off in his work boots. heard Dorothy approach. She looked first to the pile of cloth and viscera, and then to the figure

parting the sea of grass. A black swat, as if excised from the night sky itself, a sky without stars, no longer dancing, moving with purpose to some other destiny. No, not Grandpa, not anymore. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and darkness deep. Remain with us. Embrace No Sleep. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement. and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes each over two hours long and three exclusive.

bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being under our spell. This audio production is copyright 2021 and 2022 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted. without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.