The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep14: NoSleep Podcast S17E14

Episode Date: March 6, 2022

It’s Episode 14 of Season 17. Our spells keep building and building. “Please Be Quiet” written by Maya O. (Story starts around 00:03:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Nichole Goodnight, Mom – Nikolle Doolin “21:12” written by Peter J Stewart (Story starts around 00:12:21) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Guy Woodward, Dad – Guy Woodward “1237 Columbus” written by Ken Brosky (Story starts around 00:32:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio, Dr. K – David Ault, Kubra – Wafiyyah White, Quinn – Atticus Jackson, Adam – Kyle Akers, Lita – Linsay Rousseau, Mr. Murphy – Dan Zappulla, Carlos – Jimmy Ferrer, Fatima – Danielle McRae “Goat Valley Campgrounds – Chapter 1” written by Bonnie Quinn (Story starts around 01:02:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Kate – Linsay Rousseau, Man With Skull Cup – Mick Wingert, Louise – Erika Sanderson, The Thing in the Dark – Peter Lewis, Bryan – Kyle Akers, Hanging Man – Jake Benson “Old Hag Harris” written by Erick Johnson (Story starts around 00:58:20) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Jason – Matthew Bradford, Michael – Kyle Akers, Daniel – Elie Hirschman “A Letter from Wyrm House” written by AE Stueve (Story starts around 01:31:15) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Nathan – Peter Lewis, Father Cambry – David Cummings, Vincent – Graham Rowat, Sister – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Mom – Mary Murphy, Gas Station Attendant – Elie Hirschman, Townsperson #1 – Erin Lillis, Townsperson #2 – Matthew Bradford, Monster – Jimmy Ferrer This 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/nosleep Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about Maya O. Click here to learn more about Bonnie Quinn Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “1237 Columbus” illustration courtesy of Emily Cannon Audio program ©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

In times 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. At the sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers, I'm your guide, David Cummings. Something dramatic happened this week. I was sitting in my living room watching a documentary about farming when someone began banging loudly on my front door.

I went and answered it, and my arch nemesis multiple. A multiversal time witch, Joanna fell across the threshold, collapsing onto the floor. I can't say much. She's in a bad way. She's currently resting in my guest room in the basement. But what I can tell you is this. Someone, some thing, has stripped her power from her. From what I can understand, this is an unfathomably painful process for a witch. When I asked her who did it, all she could mutter was a single name. The Goat. Now, sleepless friends, I can't help but feel this relates to the exciting event happening

this episode. The No Sleep podcast is proud to present episode one of Goat Valley Campgrounds, a 10-part horror audio drama from author Bonnie Quinn, adapted from her massively popular How to Survive Camping series. Goat Valley Campgrounds follows Kate, a young woman who's taken over the management of the campgrounds from her parents. It's a rather substantial task. Why? Well, you'll have to listen to find out. For the traditional feed, each episode is featured at the end of the regular No Sleep podcast episode and will be released weekly, starting episode 14 and concluding in episode 23.

For season past 17 holders, the Goat Valley Campgrounds episodes will be appearing as separate weekly entries in your feed. All of the Goat Valley content will be available to everyone, whether the traditional or season pass feeds. You're going to want to join us for this camping trip. It's the largest and most ambitious audio drama project we've embarked on to date, and we can't be more thrilled to be working with Bonnie on creating content in the Goat Valley universe. And so, pitch your tent and get the campfire going. It's time to start this week's show. In our first tale, we join a 17-year-old girl on her way to meet her grandmother for the first time. It's unusual not to have met such a close relative in that amount of time, but surely there's a

reason. And in this tale, shared with us by author Maya O, even if there is cause for the delay, we must only speak of it in extremely hushed tones. Performing this tale, are Nicole good night and Nicole Doolin. So keep the volume as low as possible. Grandma is asleep and we don't want to wake her. So stop being so noisy. Please be quiet. My mom whispered as we crept through the front door.

You have to be quiet. Your grandmother is asleep in the attic. Why is she being so dramatic? I thought to myself. Why did you wait 17 years to tell me? me I had a grandmother who lived in a creepy old backwoods house. My mother shushed me, hurriedly ushering me through the house and into the basement. If the surprise road trip to a surprise house with a surprise grandmother was a strange start to my day,

the basement just piled on the weird. beige padded cloth walls, thick red carpet, giant soft couches supporting a mountain of pillows and clashing prints. Mom, this place looks like that. like if a porn set from the 70s had terrible taste. How do you know what a porn set from the 70s looks like? I rolled my eyes at her. Sometimes I think she believes the internet is a figment of my imagination.

This room is soundproof to prevent us from disturbing and waking up your grandmother. About that, why didn't I know I still had a grandmother? I thought she was dead. Are there any other family members you're hiding out in the boonies? Your grandma. She's special. She's not from here. She was a young orphan

ferried over from a world away. No name, no money, and no memory. Her life was really hard growing up. This country can be unforgiving to anyone they see is different. Hearing that, there was a twinge of empathy for my grandmother.

I've always felt different my entire life, and people were cruel. But then she met your grandfather, and it was love at first sight for them both. They got married very young and had me really early. My mother smiled wistfully. We three mostly just had each other this far out. But it was a great childhood.

Constantly outdoors helping mom grow food or helping dad maintain the house. I had hope for the same when I had you. It didn't skip my notice that my mother had used mom and dad to refer to my grandparents for the first time. Once I moved to the city, I didn't visit as much as before, so I never realized. Your grandmother got sicker the older she got, started to lose her sight and smell. I had to take long naps.

It was a strain on your grandfather, but he insisted on taking care of her himself, making me promise to do the same if he died first. So on the weekends, when you are with your dad, I come over. Clear up the weeds, stock some food, do the laundry. and now that you're old enough, I have you to help me. You still haven't explained why you never told me about her. No, I didn't. How about we stop at that diner you like on the way home,

and I tell you the rest over pancakes and bacon? For now, just be really quiet as you walk through the house and stay on the ground floor. You can work outside we're eating the garden while I finish up the laundry here. She tossed me a pair of gardening gloves, shewing me away. Maybe if I... I wasn't such a curious, stubborn brat, things would have gone very differently that day. But a secret grandmother, how many people would be capable of sauntering off to yank some weeds with a mystery like that left unsolved? Determined to meet her, I headed up to the attic. For an old

house, nothing creaked. Climbing the stairs was silent, the carpet dampening my footfalls. As I stood in the entryway to the attic, I struggled to get a clear look at the sleeping form on the bed, the hazy light weakening quickly with the setting sun. Screw it, I thought. Grandma? She didn't move. I took a step forward. Grandma!

At first, nothing stirred. Then the whisper of sheets being slid from a body. A creak of joints as the figure on the bed sat up straight, head swiveling side to side in the deepening shadows. A harsh groan escaped her as her feet touched the floor, followed by a raspy throttle, as my grandmother hunched over on all fours. Her bones cracked and bent and warped, each arm and each leg at opposite angles to each other, while her head gradually began twisting around

to find the source of the noise. With each jerking twist of her head, I felt myself shrink deeper and deeper into myself, praying she didn't see me, praying that I could be quiet enough to be invisible. When her head had turned completely around, her eyes locked onto mine. No flicker of humanity shone in those primal

depths. They were deeper and darker than the infinite night sky. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I barely breathed. She inched spasmodically towards me, the direction of the last sound she had heard. Closer and closer. I didn't feel the trickle of urine run down my leg. Closer and closer. A scream started crawling up in the back of my throat. Closer and closer. Then she was close enough to smell. Wet, putrid earth underlaid by hints of lavender mixed with the coppery tang of fetid blood. I nearly broke but was saved by a loud bang from outside. Hunter's gunshot perhaps or a car backfiring on a distant road. It jolted my grandmother to action. She opened her mouth in a silent shriek, almost like the sound had physically hurt her in some way

and bolted to the window, shattering the glass as she jumped through it in pursuit of the source of the noise. It felt like an eternity before I could force myself to move again. When my limbs finally worked, I ran to the basement, hurtling into my mother's arms and sobbing uncontrollably. She held and soothed me like I was five, not 17, rocking me in her arms until I had quieted. I told her what happened. I told her how sorry I was I didn't listen to her that I thought I knew better. It's okay, little lamb. Do you think I wasn't an obnoxious,

teenager at one point too. The same thing happened to me when I first came back home. But luckily, your grandfather was around to befuddle her senses. She wouldn't really hurt Kenny told me then. But he also sounded very uncertain when he said it. However, your grandpa did teach me how to track her and put her back to sleep. And now it's your turn to learn. It'll be hard. She has a really big head start. So we better get hunting. Mom told me this. was our family secret, our family curse, and not to tell a soul. But I'm disobeying her again to tell the story, to warn everyone. Whoever you are, wherever you are, please be quiet. My grandmother is awake, and I don't know where she is. Many neighborhoods have that one house.

You know the type I mean. It stands out and not in a good way. It's filthy, maybe a window or two is boarded up, the yard is littered with rusted car parts or broken children's toys. It's an eyesore. And in this tale, shared with us by author Peter J. Stewart, we meet a man whose address means he's forced to see the ramshackle old building every single day. Performing this tale is Guy Woodward. So it's time to enter nightmare mode as we go check out the horrible house across the straight. It is getting late after all. The time is 21.12.

I read stories about haunted houses. They're always at the end of a creepy lane or hidden away in the middle of some long-forgotten forest. However, that is not always the case. You see, I grew up living right next door to a haunted house, but it wasn't he in a fantastical location. No, it was tucked away on an unassuming street on the west side of Glasgow. to any passer by, it just looked a little bit run down, but to me it was something more. The house he sat on a corner. There was on the end of Kirkland Street at number 21, and the haunted house was number 12 Melbourne Avenue. Everything about the houses was mirror opposites.

Theirs was a clean, sparkling beige. Theirs was a dirty brownish green colour. Their garden was pristine and neat. There's was strewn with old toys, overgrown plants, and a trampoline that looked as if you need a tennis jab just for looking at it too long. My parents said it looked like that because it was abandoned. But I knew that was a lie. When I was five years old, I saw someone peeking out from behind the blinds in the upper window at the back of the house.

My mum said I was just imagining it, but my dad went round to check anyway and didn't he see anything. They both said it was probably just a trick of the light or something like that. But I know what I saw. A shadowy face with eyes full of feared glimmy. and in the street light. Every day on my way to and from school, I used to run past the front of number 12. I was afraid that if I lingered too long,

whatever lay within its walls would reach out and grab me, gobbling me up for daring to cross its path. Still to this day, I don't think I ever quite lost that habit. Even as an adult, long after I'd inherited the house from my parents, I would always quick on my step as I passed by the front of number 12. Over the years, I noticed something else that didn't sit right with me

about the house next door. It was always a mess, but it was never more or less of a mess, if that makes sense. Occasionally, I would clean the leaves out of their garden, purely a self-preservation for my own as they frequently blew over to ours. The strange thing was,

the very next day the leaves would be back in their garden, organized in a very similar pattern. I would check my waistband to see if the leaves I gathered were still there, and they always were. For another example, I would pick up the discarded junk that lay in the garden, and the next day there would be more.

My wife would tell me that it was probably just new junk or leaves that blew down from another tree. There were slight differences I would concede. But the rubbish would always be in the same place, even if it was made up of different things. It was like it was snapping back to its original state, but it was unable to replicate itself exactly. I became obsessed with this thought

that the house was somehow keeping itself in that state on purpose. I would say I was going out to do some gardening, but at some point would all. always just end up staring across at the neighbour's house. It felt as if it was mocking me, as though it could see me looking at it, and it felt like everywhere I went it was rattling around in my head. I tried to track down a previous owner

and find out if the house was ever intended to be sold, but it was never given a straight answer. Someone at the council mentioned that at one point, the house had been condemned, but for some reason no action was ever taken. They promised me they would look into it, but when I called back a few months later after nothing had happened, They said they had no record of me calling in the first place.

That was the final straw. I needed something to happen. It felt like until that house was gone, I would never be able to go home with living. So I decided to force the matter. I thought if I smashed it up a bit, then the council would have to do something, even if just to protect the surrounding houses. So, in the middle of the night, I dug out one of my dad's old golf clubs and snuck around to the house. I was sure if I smashed one of the living room windows,

one of the neighbours would surely call the police and if by some stroke of luck I wasn't caught and arrested it would hopefully get the council's attention standing in front of the house I lifted the club above my head and swung it as hard as I could against the window but nothing happened

the club just bounced off with it so much as leaving a scratch I swung again and again but still nothing happened looking around I expected to see some lights coming from the surrounding in houses as people looked at to see what was causing all the commotion, but no one stirred. I took one last swing of the club and pulled all my frustration into it, willing it to finally

break the glass. But instead the club snapped and sent half itself flying away only to be lodged in one of the overgrown bushes. I screamed, throwing the handle away before turning at the front door and kicking out. Much to my surprise, I was just about to connect with it when the door casually lurched away just ahead of my foot, causing me to fall full. forward into my first and only attempt between the splits. Pulling myself to my feet, I dusted the wet leaves from the path off my trousers and looked at

the open door. No one was there. No one held the door open or looked confused by my attack on their house. It was just an empty hallway. But I got the sense it was calling me in. Taking a deep breath, I cautiously made my way inside.

I half expected the door to slam shut behind me the way you see in horror films, but I just lay open, looking almost as if it was being held to the wall. I tried to switch on the light, but it obviously didn't work. So I took out my phone and turned on the torch to look around. It had almost the same layout as my house. The only difference was it was inverted.

That wasn't anything too odd. It was to be expected from these old council houses. But unlike my house, everything in this hallway was covered in a thick layer of dust. Out of habit, I reached down to run my finger along the top of the sideboard that sat halfway along the corridor. but just before I touched it the dust moved away ahead of my finger pulled my hand away quickly and stepped back only noticed that when I did

I stepped into a footprint in the dust that perfectly matched my own at first I thought I'd stepped back into the footprint I'd made him coming into the house but as I looked around I saw that it wasn't the case it was as if the dust in the floor expected me to step into it and had moved out of the way I stood still for a moment my heart jetting in my chest as I thought about turning and running

but as I did so footprints appeared in a running motion leading away from me and out the door. I saw the leaves in the past squashed down as if been stepped on and the gate at the end shoot as if something brushed by it on the way past. Before I had time to think, another set of footprints turned away from mine and walked further into the house. The rational part of my brain began to splinter and crack as I tried to make sense of what befell me. One set of steps forward into the unknown

and the other I returned to safety. The steps played out like choices I could take, but I knew I couldn't go back. Not after all these years of wondering, I needed to push on. Turning away from the door, I stepped forward into the pre-step footprint ahead of me, and as I did so, the door behind me seemed to unmoor itself from the wall and drift slowly shut. I was in now, and it seemed as if there was no going back. I traced along the steps before me that led into the living room. As I opened the door, I saw footprints leading off and scathing.

directions around the room that led away from the door. I didn't know what to make of it. You always prefer to think you'd be brave in situations like this, but I could almost hear the sound of my concepts or reality shattering at the sight. Closing my eyes, I tried to steady myself to try and empty my mind so that I might piece of black together. It was then that a memory came to me. I was 13, feverish and hallucinations were keeping me up at night.

They weren't visual ones. they were more like burning thoughts that crept in, twisted themselves around my mind and wouldn't let go. My mum sat on the edge of my bed, gently stroking my sweat-soaked hair, as she tried to settle me. She told me to try and think of a happy memory and used it to overpower the bad thoughts.

The stronger the feelings in the memory, the better, she said. It was a struggle, but eventually I managed to think of a trip we went on to a theme park when I was little. The thought was of us riding rollercold, and I focused all my limited energy into conjuring the feelings and sensations, the wind rushing through my hair, the cold metal under my fingers as I gripped the safety harness, the adrenaline followed by the sound of joyful screams and cheers.

As I lay there on the bed, it felt that the roller coaster was carrying the hallucinations and bad thoughts away, and soon I slipped soundly again. The memory acted like a glue that piece my rational brain back together. It began to settle my nerves. nerves, brought explanation for what I was seeing and even gave me a brief comfort that this might be a dream. I knew it wasn't though, but still I began to settle and so I opened my eyes and looked down at the ever-present footsteps. Two of the explanations I had managed to conjure, whether the steps were showing me possible paths to take, or maybe that life is random and I could take any path I chose, so I chose a route, or at least I thought I did as I walked around the room.

taking in the old dust-covered photos of people who had never seen before. I hadn't been able to find much in the previous owners, but I'd come across some old photos. However, none of the ones that hung here were the same. I looked around the outside edge of the room and made it back to the door, only afterwards realising that I had not created my own footprints. Instead, I had seemingly walked a path that someone else had walked before. Some of the footsteps now led down the corridor and into the kitchen.

Others led away from the door and up the stairs. Both tracks began to give the impression of multiple people stepping on the same path, as the footsteps seemed abnormally large in some places and patterned in others. I looked back at the now closed front door and tried my best to steady myself at the thought that it was probably a mistake to have stayed. But soon I followed the steps up the stairs. Just as in our house, at the top of the stairs there was a bathroom, and, to the left of it, two doors that led to the front and back bedrooms.

I followed the steps into the bedroom at the back of the house, and stopped in my tracks. Suddenly, it felt like I had jumped into freezing water, and all the air had rushed out of my lungs. I gasped like I was clasping for the air bubbles that floated away as I drowned. The mechanics of breath had left me as I stared across at a desiccated corpse sitting in a chair in the corner.

His blank hollow eyes stared back at me standing in the doorway, looking as if it was silently waiting to hear what I had to say. Wind of my hair, combedle under my fingers and joyful screams, I thought over and over until my breath returned. All the while, another thought became muddled in the mix about just how sad it was for someone to have been left like this for so long. And you no matter how afraid I was, I couldn't leave them there. So I steeled myself and began to walk towards the chair.

But as a step forward, an almost imperceptible change of the light occurred outside. I turned towards the window, and as I took another step, the light changed again. This time, however, the change was all dramatic. as I could see daylight streaming in through the window. Slowly, I took another step that caused the light to shift back to night, with the familiar orange glow of the street lights shining through the blinds. With every step closer, the more time seemed to rush by, the light rapidly spinning between night and day over and over

for what looked like years by the time I reached the window. It was night again when I pulled back the blinds to look out and see what was causing the phenomenon. However, the only thing I noticed was the face of a young boy staring back at me from the bedroom window of my house. I spun on my heels, ready to run back home to face the intruder. But then I stopped. Remembering the face I saw in the window when I was a child?

Everything seemed to make complete sense and no sense at the same time. Two opposing thoughts fighting for dominance of the same place. I felt tears rise in my eyes. Unsure I would to think I'd do. But as I looked down, there were indentations in the dust where someone else's tears had fallen before mine. All I could think to do was run, so I did. I ran out the room and down the stairs.

As I went, I tried to compartmentalize my thoughts to separate the impossible from the possible. That wasn't me. It's no possible. None of this is possible. It wasn't me. I just need to report the cops and deal with it was in my house. That's all I need to do. That's all I can do.

I was almost at the front door when I stopped in my tracks as someone on the other side knocked. A voice I instantly recognised called through. Hello? Was anyone in there? It was my dad. That night he came round to check if anyone was inside the neighbour's house. I grabbed the door handle and twisty, pulled and shook it as hard as I could. But I wouldn't open. I'm here. Please, Dad, help me.

Please, please help me. I screamed as hard as I could. But I already knew he hadn't heard me. He left soon after and I slump down against the door. The dust moving away ahead of me as. I sat and I knew in my gut that I was trapped. I saw footprints appear again, running away from me. They headed to the back door and the windows but eventually every one of them slumped down, sending up plumes of dust when the realisation hit them that they were all stuck here.

I'm not sure how long I sat there but eventually I pulled myself to my feet and walked back upstairs with a sinking feeling that I knew what I was going to find. Moving past the bathroom and the back bedroom, I opened the door to the large front bedroom and looked on to my fate. I should have felt terrified. Felt a cold chill wash over me until I broke down and screamed or cried. But I didn't. I was numb. And I knew deep down there wasn't any point in screaming.

The room was filled with identically dressed corpses, all laid out in neat rows. They were all in various stages of decay and were unrecognizable aside from the blue jeans and black hoodies that they wore. I hadn't noticed it before with the other corpse, that it was dressed identically to me. It isn't something you really think about when you first see one. As if you would say, oh sorry, oh, we're wearing matching outfits, isn't it embarrassing? You just look away. But it was impossible to look away now. I thought about the footsteps running out of the front door that belonged to the me who made the right choice.

But that choice was long gone. Looking down again, I saw I set a footsteps leading to every one of the corpses before turning and walking back out of the room. And so it was clear to me there was only one thing left to do. Like I said, I wouldn't leave that first corpse where it lay. So, slowly, I walked back through to the other room, to the other me in the chair. As I lifted him a small digital clock dropped from his hands and landed in the dust, blinking up at me.

2112. 2112. 2112. It blinked over and over and never changed. All I could do was laugh. I mean, what else he meant to do in a moment like that? When you find yourself caught in a large cosmic joke? As I laughed, I carried me through to the other room

and lay him down at the end of a row. In a way, it was nice that he wasn't going to be in his own anymore. Turned away and walked back through to where he once sat, picked up the clock, sat down and waited for me to have. I've. Hey, did you know 2112 is a classic album by Rush? There's a little Canadian trivia for you while we take a short break. As you can probably tell, I'm walking through the forest at the moment. I'm looking for a campground near here. I think it's called goat veil or something like that.

Anyways, I've heard it's a great place to camp. But since you've joined me on my walk, I thought I'd share the joys of getting outdoors. The weather is turning nicer and the fresh air feels great. And since it seems there's no one else around for miles, I might just take off some layers of clothes. Maybe all of them, who knows? They say taking a forest bath is one of the best things for you. You ever heard of forest baths? Well, you see, it's not simply a walk in the woods. It's the conscious and contemplative practice of being immersed in the sights and the sounds and the smells of the forest. The studies have shown that it does wonders for your body and mind. Boost your immune system and mental health.

And unlike me, you don't have to do it naked, unless you want to. But seriously, there are plenty of ways you can take better care of yourself. And if bathing amongst the trees isn't something you can do right now, You can always help your mental health by speaking with one of the trained therapists at BetterHelp. Think of it like spring cleaning for your mind. I don't have to tell you that there are many things going on right now that are making it difficult to stay balanced in terms of your mental health. That's why we always recommend Better Help. It's basically customized therapy.

You sign up with Better Help by letting them know the things you're dealing with. Better Help assesses your needs and matches you with your own licensed professional therapist. And it doesn't matter where you are or what you need. BetterHelp is available for clients worldwide and they offer a broad range of expertise, including ones which may not be locally available in your area. You can log into your account anytime and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses. Plus, you can schedule weekly video,

or phone sessions. It's an extremely helpful service I highly recommend you consider taking advantage of. So visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's BetterHELP. And join the over one million people

who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experience professional. As you know, this podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. Okay, that's enough exercise. I'll find that camp sooner or later. It's time to return to the show,

where we'll go from being an exerciser to an exorcist. Sometimes there's nothing else left to do but clean the house. Sure, you could dust, vacuum, wash, and polish, but does that really scrub the dirt away? The real ingrained badness deep within the roots of the property? In this tale, shared with us by author Ken Braskey, it's going to take a little more than bleach and elbow grease to get this address, ship-shape. It's going to need a spiritual cleansing.

Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, David Alt, Wafia White, Atticus Jackson, Kyle Acres, Lindsay Russo, Dan Zepula, Jimmy Ferrer and Danielle McCrae. So let's join this not-so-marry band of exorcists as they attempt to scourge the trauma that haunts One, two, three, seven, Columbus. A body lay in the center of the lobby.

They shine their flashlights on it. Five beams, like spotlights. In the dead silence, the click of the building's front door causes them to flinch, and the five beams of light bounce like fireflies. The sound belongs to the type of. latch that locks automatically to the outside world. But each of them is aware of what keeps them locked inside as well. One of the beams of light follows a trail of blood down the lobby. The blood

sits on beautiful tiled flooring, which sheen has not yet been tarnished by thousands of bootsteps of workers removing everything of value from the building. The trail seems to stop at the far wall, where a section of the marble mural of New York City has been broken, leaving chunks on the floor. None of the five visitors are afraid of the corpse. What they fear is the darkness and the secrets it holds. Dr. Kay is the one to kneel down and check for a pulse. Nothing. His voice seems to hang in the vaulted ceiling among a constellation of stars and planets drawn with cold leaf.

Dr. Kay flips the cords onto its back. A man, his skin is as white as printing paper. The expression is frozen in a look of pure horror. Lita follows the gaze of his bloodshot eyes. He seems to be staring directly at the constellation Orion that looms 20 feet over their heads. Her gloved hands rub her arms. She can feel the dead man's fear. It lingers in the air like blue smoke.

Quinn makes the call. He speaks tersely with the person on the other line. He makes it clear the body is not their responsibility. What a shitty day. Kubra pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her avenged sevenfold sweatshirt, distributing them to everyone but Dr. Kay. When the orange flame gets close to Lita's face, she can feel the warmth and smell the butane. Then it's gone, and the darkness closes in again.

The stench of shit and something else, something ethereal, a smell that's hidden deep under the thousands of smells that exist in an occupied building. But in a building about to be demolished, with nothing left inside but ghosts and memories, a trained nose can't smell it. Layers and layers of suffering, agony, despair, horror. 85 years of it. 46 stories of it. And the people, maybe hundreds of thousands or more,

who've worked in this building, who suffered in this building. An entire floor of attorneys and paralegals selling their souls on a daily basis. Offices for a Chinese newspaper downplaying atrocities perpetrated upon Uyghur Muslims. A social networking company that outsources its most horrific posts to low-paid moderators. A nonprofit that was embroiled in scandals for 20-plus years. A bank. Five apparel companies. Two cosmetic companies.

But still test their products on animals. and on and on. Leda knows the history of 1-2-3-7 Columbus Avenue, but now, here, standing in the darkness and watching the bright orange cigarette cherries dance like fireflies as they move up to a mouth, grow hot, then fall back down. She can feel the history.

This is her job. Dr. Kay is still kneeling in front of the corpse, shining his flashlight across the body. Middle-aged, not in very good shape. any visible sign of trauma is the cut on his wrist. He was a supervisor for the construction company. How could you possibly be sure about that? Dr. Kay shines his light on the badge pinned to the man's shirt.

Carlos D. Leon, Worthington Building Partners, Incorporated. The unmistakable click of a latch turns the five back to the front door. A man steps inside, stopping in the darkness. Like a choreographed ballet, five beams of light guide him across the lobby. Only one, Kubras, is squarely on his face, forcing him to squint and frown. He's a young man with dark, slick back hair, wearing a dress shirt and a blue tie that's been loosened at some point. Maybe he'd just gotten home after a long day of work, Leda thinks. When he sees the corpse, he steps back.

Holy shit, you're Mr. Worthington's assistant. Quinn doesn't ask questions. He makes statements, and you either agree with him or not. He doesn't like it when you don't agree with him. He's been doing this for too long now to deal with ignorant bullshit. The scars on his face runs so deep, it's a wonder you can't see bone. Lita can feel the years and years of sacrifice he's made to this job, the way you can feel hot coals through steel.

David Murphy, did you call the police yet? That's not our job. Why would... He turns, squints, and reaches for Kubra's flashlight, turning it away from his face. Why wouldn't you? Jesus Christ, there's a corpse. Adam Wagner finally speaks up. He uses a quiet, patient voice. If we call the police, they'll turn this entire building into a crime scene.

We won't be able to perform the exorcism. And it would be very dangerous for police to move through the building now. Do you understand? The young man begins pacing. Is this normal? No. Adam glances at Lita. She feels her heart floges.

He's worried for her. They don't know each other well outside of this. And yet, she can't deny the attraction has grown over the years. Lita feels Quinn's eyes. She wonders if he saw the moment she had just chaired with Adam. Help us move the body out of the lobby into the basement. Right, right. Okay, then I go.

I don't want any part of this. Then you go. The elevators are out of the question. in building this old, carrying so many horrors, it would be a miracle to survive the descent. So, together with Quinn and Mr. Murphy, Leda helps drag the corpse into the basement. The other three are taking the stairs up to the 10th floor, which has been empty for over a year. A good place to begin the ritual. Quinn carries most of the weight down the stairs, listening absently to Mr. Murphy's terrified questions.

Quinn has no patience for people like this. He's been through too many exorcisms. But Lita is an empath, and she feels compelled to give Mr. Murphy answers. She explains, as best she can, how a building can accumulate so many horrible memories. Are we talking murders? Sure. There were a few. Careful here. Lita shines her light on the turn in the staircase to ensure Quinn and Mr. Murphy don't trip.

There was a couple having an affair on the 15th floor in the office of the husband while he was on business. trips. They killed him when he arrived home early one night. What about like torture? Lita shakes her head. It's the common pain we never deal with that builds up. The anxiety and sadness of a secretary who endured a lifetime of sexual harassment. A banker who moved mob money, a lawyer who killed his conscience to represent a tobacco company, a depressed survivor who got daily reports of all the horrible, illegal shit people post on social media.

All of it builds up. But so what? Mr. Murphy has begun breathing heavily. Quinn thinks he must spend most of his time in the Worthington offices. A company that big is haunted by its own pain and suffering. When it finally must go down and be replaced by an even taller building, it will need to be exercised. I like to imagine it like this. Lita opens the door to the basement and steps aside.

Shining a light on the concrete floor. Every bit of pain and suffering and anxiety and sadness is an egg. And all these eggs are being pushed into a kitchen trash can. What happens when you put an M-80 under the trash can? Egg yolk everywhere. Exactly. Lita smiles at Quinn as he carries the corpse past her. We just remove the eggs before the M-80 goes off.

Sorry for the weird metaphor. I grew up on a farm. The basement is dark. Lita shines a light around, revealing a machine shop to the left and doors farther away to the right. Pipes run along the ceiling like blood vessels. Quinn feels his heart constrict at the sight. This building is alive. No.

This building is dead. The words fight in his head, back and forth. A memory comes to him of another building. This one in Chicago. An apartment building filled with horrifying, racist angst that seeped out of the walls. White residents who'd gone to great lengths for decades to prevent any black tenants from moving in.

By the time Queen had arrived, their prejudice painted every room and ate into the old drywall like acid. So what happens when Worthington puts up a new building? If we did our job right, then it'll have a clean slate. Not for long. We think because we can move on from the pain,

that it simply disappears. But pain is a shadow. Quinn? He clears his head. There. He nods to the left. They carry the body to a workshop station next to a table saw and droperse. Quinn feels the relief in his shoulders once he's no longer carrying the body.

He should have never survived this long. He's lucky. That's what the other crab fisherman used to say back when he was a teenager. Everyone else had injuries. Crab fishing had a 100% casualty rate. So does this job. I'll need to get an Uber home. Before Mr. Murphy's thumb can unlock his phone, Quinn's callous hand is around his neck.

He pushes the man to the wall behind the table saw. I'm so sorry. Lita. She shines a light on Mr. Murphy's horrified face. His questions are choked by Quinn's grip. Carlos de Leon, work through this man. Mr. Murphy's brown irises fade to white. What happened?

Mr. Murphy's voice changes. Lighter, sadder, just a hint of a Hispanic accent. I wanted to see the building before it came down. What happened? Something followed me in the darkness. Drul escapes from Mr. Murphy's mouth. It frightened me. I ran. I wanted to feed the building. My pain. Quinn's muscles tighten. This building is more

dangerous than they'd expected. When you woke for your last shift on the Yankee Doodle, were you scared of the bodies? Quinn looks into the whites of the young man's eyes. He's never told anyone about his last day as a crab fisherman. Did you roll in the blood? Mr. Murphy bites his tongue hard. Blood slides down his chin, following the slick trail of saliva. Did you leak it from the steering wheel? Could you feel the horror surging through the boughs when the crabs turn manic? Could you hear the click, click, click of their claws? Quinn, let him go! Now! You should have exercised that boat. He should have never fled. Now it sits at the bottom of the ocean. Schools of fish swim,

Do its hole, and they go mad. Their blood clouds the water. Something grabs Quinn's leg. Lita screams and falls back, shining her light. The corpse of Carlos D'Leon. Quinn tears himself away. Darkness overwhelms the beam of light, blanketing the dead man's body,

moving him like a marionette. What's happening? Mr. Murphy rubs his eyes. What? He screams as the corpse grabs his legs. Leda, run! Quinn has to shout because the table saw has turned on and its blade screams like a banshee. Quinn takes one look back in time to see the two shadows merge.

Mr. Murphy's cries for help muffled by a cold, stiff hand. Quinn takes the stairs two at a time, shining his flashlight ahead. Lita moves quickly on younger muscles. Quinn does his best to keep up. He doesn't want her to get too far ahead. He feels responsible for her, for all of them. She stops at the door. Quinn follows her through before he realizes.

Their one floor below the tenth. Lita, in her panic, has accidentally counted the basement as the first floor. The ninth floor is alive. It's an open concept office space, but all the partitions and glass and cubicles have been removed. They don't need flashlights to see the ghosts. They glow like creatures living at the pitch black bottom of the ocean. A middle-aged woman cutting her legs with a razor blade. An older man dressed in vintage clothes, pacing back and forth, muttering silently to himself.

Another man standing near one of the windows, debating whether to jump. Lita's breaths come rapidly. Quinn grabs her and carries her back to the stairwell. They have to hurry now. It's already begun. Ubra finishes painting the pentagram on the concrete floor, while Dr. K. and Adam arrange the candles. They're reciting verses from their holy books as they do so. This is their role.

and they take it seriously. Kubra dips her paintbrush in the little quart-sized can of white paint and begins writing on the walls. She starts with the 72nd chapter of the Quran, then the first chapter, and finally the second chapter. Al-Gin, al-Fatia, al-Bakara. This order, she's learned, has had the most profound effect in drawing out the evil that haunts these old buildings. But painting all the letters is a total bitch. She can multitask, though. She can recite some parts, paint other parts.

She's still experimenting. Every exorcism, she varies the sentences she paints across the walls. Which of the Holy Words has the most power? She jots down notes in her journal when she gets home, after showering away the sweat and terror. In this way, she sees herself as a scientist. She always wanted to be a scientist growing up, but never got the chance. If they ever had to exercise her childhood home,

Lita would see images of Kubra's father destroying a chemistry set in the basement, throwing a tantrum over Kubra's secret collection of bugs, burning her journal full of drawings of plants and flowers from the backyard. He wanted her to be an engineer. Engineers make more money. That's all he cared about. She reached one of the two corner offices. The door is open.

The room empty. She chooses a special passage from the Quran for this room. And ask for Kasinac. They shall be the firewood for hell. The moment she paints the last word, they appear. Ghosts of painful memories. A woman in the corner sobbing, her flapper dress torn. Two workmen tumbling on the concrete floor, punching each other violently.

A man at a desk writing something on a piece of paper. If Lita were here, she could tell Kubra about their pain. Kubra, ever the curious one, can only walk over to the ghostly man at the desk. She bends over to read what he's writing. Regarding your husband's recent death, I am sorry to be the one to tell you that Unity Fair Life Insurance will not be paying out the policy. Please see the section of your contract regarding suicide. You asshole.

The man looks up at her, looks directly at her. He stands from his desk. Kubra steps back on shaky legs, her body going numb. That's not supposed to happen. Her mind searches desperately for the passages of Alfatia, her mouth mumbling them as she backs out of the room. Something catches her eye, the door to the other corner office. It's open just a crack.

And a tall, dark figure is standing there, watching her. She runs back to the pentagram, just as Quinn and Lita burst through the stairwell door. Hurry, we have trouble. Degram's candles flicker as each exorcist takes a seat at one of the points. Adam crosses his legs, one hand absently reaching for the cross around his neck. He gives it a kiss. Cold darkness presses on his back. He's never felt such pressure from a building before.

It's as if the air all around him has accumulated mass, soaking into the darkness, pressing so hard that the candle flames bend sideways. and then it's begun. The others fall into a trance, one by one. Whosoever will be saved, before all things. Adam's vision blurs. His fingers clamped tightly on his knees. From all around him come screams of agony.

With faith, unless everyone do keep whole and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly. Something moves behind Quinn. Adam can see it on the edge of the darkness. It's gray flesh absorbing the oranges of the nearest candle flames. Perspiration gathers on Adam's forehead. He's never seen anything like this thing. One clawed hand reaches for Quinn.

Adam cannot break concentration. He must continue. For there is one person of the father, another of the son, and another of the Holy Ghost. Ghosts of men and women wearing fashionable clothes are drawn into the Pentegrine. They dance and jump around like caged animals. They rend the flesh from their bones. And yet they are not three eternals, but one eternal. The others are struggling.

Tears streamed down Dr. Kay's cheeks. Quinn's face has turned a purplish red. Kubra's entire body is shaking. The building's aggression is eating them alive. So the father is God, and the Son is God, and the Holy Ghost is God. He closes his eyes. He has to focus. There is no tongue licking the back of his neck.

There is no blood seeping out of his acne scars. There is no snake coiling around his torso. It's the building. For the right faith is that we believe and confess. Adam! Ita deus, and homo unis is Christus. Adam! He opens his eyes.

Lita is staring at him. She reaches out a hand and touches him. Her fingers warm to the. touch. We can't fight it with just words. It's too powerful. His prayer trails off. She's moved off the pentagram crawling over to him.

She looks so beautiful, so vulnerable. He catches her before she collapses onto the floor. It's not enough to recite the prayers. Her hand wraps around the back of his head. He's wanted this for so many years. to feel her hand on his body, her fingers on the back of his neck. He's wanted her to love him the way he loves her. We can only win this if we work together.

She pulls him close and feels the power coursing through her. Of course, she's an empath. She's using the feelings they share for each other, magnifying it somehow. And it's working. He can feel the darkness receding. He can feel the horrible memories dying away, fading into nothingness. And he loves this woman. He loves Lita with all his heart.

Dr. K. cannot open his eyes. He knows that's what the building wants him to do. He knows it's trying to scare him, trying to manipulate his thoughts and break his concentration. He speaks the ninth chapter of the Bhagavad Gita, then moves to the seventh chapter. Then to the third, the most confidential knowledge to the knowledge of the absolute, to the karma yoga. This sequence can kill the horrible memories that haunt this place. But it fights back with a violence that Dr. Kay has never experienced. And behind his eyes, the last day of his daughter's life play out.

She is standing on the sidewalk outside their house. She is playing with a ball. The ball goes into the street. The evil wants Dr. K to cry out. It wants him to try and save her, even though she cannot be saved. She will go into the street. She will be hit by the passing car. Her body will roll under the wheels, and she will lie there in pain, breathing heavily, moaning as her life slowly, agonizingly, fades away.

He will watch it all. break his concentration. Fatima looks at him. She drops the ball and it rolls into the street. Only instead of following it, she stands there, looking at her father. She cocks her head. He recognizes her voice. It takes every ounce of strength not to call her to him.

Papa. She holds out her arms. Her face crinkles in the way he remembers, the way she expresses. The way she expresses. pressed a simple pain over a simple request, a cup of orange juice, an extended bedtime, her father's embrace. He knows all it will take is for him to call out her name and she'll come running to him. He'll be able to feel her little body pressed against his once again. But he must not,

and he will not. And it hurts so deep inside his heart that it feels like the pain must exist in an infinite black hole. The pain we carry falls from us like crisp autumn leaves. And then the image is gone. Dr. K. opens his eyes. Everyone is still concentrating. Everyone but Adam. And the black scaly creature attached to him that has begun eating his face. Quinn knows something is wrong. It's his job to know. He opens his eyes and sees Dr. K pointing in horror at the thing attached to Adam, like some, primordial, primal, humanoid creature whose flesh has been turned inside out. And its great, gaping mouth is clamping down on Adam's face while he screams down his throat.

Quinn stands, pulls his knife and leaps at the creature. All around him, he can feel the building regaining its strength. The darkness squeezes. Don't let up! Adam! Focus! It's the knife into the back of the creature. Its wet flesh burns him.

his skin. Don't let up, damn it! He wraps one arm around its neck, using his weight to pull it back. But it doesn't let go of Adam, dragging all three of them onto the floor. The weight of the darkness has lifted. The others have refocused their prayers. He risks a look at Lita. Despite her concern, she's managed to close her eyes.

She trusts Quinn to save Adam. The creature's elbow digs into Quinn's stomach. He grunts, keeping his grip around. its neck, stabbing again and again. Black, foul-smelling blood oozes out of the wounds, but the creature refuses to let go. Adam, you have to let go of it. Whatever it's showing you, it's not real. Before, it's too late, Adam.

The creature swings wildly, its claws ripping through Quinn's coat. He cries out in pain, cutting through the creature's muscles, until he feels bone. But its giant mouth refuses to owe. open. Blood trickles down Adam's cheeks. Adam, let go of whatever it's showing you. He stifled cry. Quinn glances over his shoulder. He sees Lita looking at them, tears streamed down her cheeks.

It's not simply the empath in her, he realizes. And suddenly, he knows how it got to Adam. Adam. He keeps a grip on the creature's slippery right arm so he can get close to Adam's ear. Adam is in danger. Let go. It's the only way to keep her safe. Adam's body goes limp.

The creature's mouth opens and it lets out a scream, swinging madly at Quinn. He jumps back into the center of the pentagram where he can feel the air swirling like a tornado, snatching his breath from his lungs. He crawls back to his point of the pentagram, watching the horrible creature turn. It's gaping mouth, taking up most of his. circular face, bits of flesh still clinging to its teeth. The creature flinches. It lets out a horrible scream. The air all around them swirls faster. The candles blow out, leaving them in darkness. And then everything is quiet. A flashlight turns on. Then another. Then a fourth.

Finally, Quinn shines his flashlight on Adam's body. He feels a profound sadness at the sight. He's failed Adam. Now the young man. man is just another casualty of the pain we leave behind. The horror and sadness and agony that's never addressed. They pack up their things. Dr. Kay holds on to a sobbing Lita. Kubra lights a cigarette. Quinn dials Worthington's number.

It's done. You can take down the building. To accumulate a fresh conglomeration of horrors. Welcome to Goat Valley Campgrounds. Looking for a place to escape your busy life and reconnect with nature. Coat Valley Campgrounds features 300 acres of quiet forest and peaceful scenery for you to enjoy. Come meet Kate. She runs the place, like her parents before her.

We know you'll enjoy your stay as long as you behave yourself and follow the rules. Your survival depends on it. The No Sleep Podcast presents Goat Valley Campgrounds by Bonnie Quinn. Chapter 1 I run a private campground. My family has owned it for three generations now. I'm the current manager. I'm sharing my story because, well, I won't be able to do so for much longer.

Call it a legacy. Call it posterity. It's important is what I'm saying. simply handing out the rules isn't enough. It was never enough. There will always be dangers from the thing in the dark to the lights. And yes, even the man with the skull cup. And I won't be able to speak to so many of you for much longer.

This is my last chance to tell everyone my story. When we're done, I'll return to the woods. My name is Kate. Let me tell you about Goat Valley Campgrounds. Goat Valley Campgrounds is about 500 acres. Most of that shaded by forest and the rest is an open field. We host events like dog clubs, music festivals, etc. We've also got open camping weekends throughout the year and in the height of summer.

We're open full-time for general camping. A lot of people take advantage of that. It's a cheap and pleasant vacation. Hammocks get erected in the trees, grills get unloaded from the backs of trucks. There's some pretty elaborate setups from the people that come back year after year. The return campers are smart. They know what they're doing.

Everyone knows their job when they roll in. They unload as a group, tents start to go up, to community areas and kitchens go in the same place year after year where they've found the land suits their setup best. Tent locations might change, but every camper knows where their tent is going and their allotted land. It's a far cry from the disheveled messes that show up and simply expect everything to work out with no prior planning. By noon on set up day, the experienced campers are sitting under their dayshades, sipping beer,

while the newbies are relocating tents because they didn't leave enough room for walkways. I've tried to help. I put together a guide that everyone receives in the mail once I have their registration info and payment. Sure, the postage is a bit of an expense, but I feel having a hard to be a hard. copy makes them more likely to read it. Not having to fill out as much paperwork with the police is worth the money. I've titled the brochure How to Survive Your Camping Experience. I really wish people would take that name more seriously. The first page is full of practical advice. Stuff like have a sturdy waterproof container that holds a spare change of clothes and a blanket.

This will ensure you have something warm and dry if your tent floods. Place solar lights near your tent stakes. This will keep people from tripping over them or the ropes at night. If the ground is soft from heavy rain, reinforce tent stakes either by weighing them down or by using longer stakes. They can get pulled out of the ground by a strong wind otherwise. The second page is advice more specific to the area. This campsite has been in the family for generations after all, and a parcel of land obtains a sort of significance when it's been passed down from air to air. It's an old place in the world, perhaps not an ancient place, but old enough to have attracted the attention of those

things that prefer old places to make their homes. We'll have to sell the campsite before it becomes an ancient place, as it will be unsuitable at that point. But there are still many generations to go before that happens. This is the part that the new campers don't take seriously. They think it's a prank, some little joke of the reclusive camp manager who perhaps doesn't spend much time around other people. The experience campers try to tell them otherwise, but they don't always listen. I feel my rules aren't onerous. Here's a sampling. If you hear something trying to enter your tent at night, sit up and say in a clear, calm voice that you are not receiving visitors, but it is welcome to visit you in the morning. If a stranger appears the next day asking for entrance to your camp,

invite them in and give them food and drink. This will give you good luck for the rest of your stay. Fairy rings are generally benign. If there are the remains of a small animal inside the ring, however, inform camp management immediately. Don't follow the lights. I can't believe I even have to say this one. Don't follow the lights. I confess it's a haphazard list, but there's a lot of vicious things out there, and they all function in slightly different ways.

I do some things as part of camp management in an effort to minimize the danger to my campers. We set out traps for the creatures stupid enough to fall into. to them so that they can be dispatched by my uncle and his two sons. We're closed during Pentecost on midsummer day and other significant times of the year. But we can't do everything. We can't save people from themselves. Every morning I circle the camp on a four-wheeler. My staff do the same a couple times a day. We look for any new developments on the land, such as a tree that needs pulled down, for example. Campers know they can hail any of us if they need something. I leave directly after I finished my breakfast and a cup of coffee. My house is on the campsite,

so it's especially easy for me to take the morning shift. There's never many people awake yet, so it was especially noticeable when I saw a man approaching me ahead, walking down the middle of the road. He looked unremarkable, they always do, but he walked slowly and deliberately. His head bowed so that it was difficult to see his face, and he carried before him in both hands a human skull. I pulled the four-wheeler over and waited. my stomach twisting with fear. Rule number 12. If you're approached by a man offering you a drink from a cup

made out of a human skull, except it will taste foul and you won't be able to eat without vomiting for the next 24 hours, but this is better than what he will do to you if you refuse. I've drank from the cup before. It's how I learned of his existence and subsequently added him to the rules. He stopped me on the road,

and at the time, I thought he was a camper needing assistance until he handed me the skull cup and bade me drink. I did, as I'd already learned that when a being of power asks something of you, it's better to comply. It may not be enough to save you. Sometimes they invite you to partake in your own demise, but the odds of compliance are better. He lifted the cup to my lips, and I drank, one swallow, another.

He kept the cup there. His thin fingers brushed my hair back when it slipped past my ear, and I drank it in entirety. The water inside tasted bitter and salty with a vegetal undertone. My stomach twisted and I swallowed hard, struggling to keep it down. Thank you for the drink.

He knew I lied, for he smiled briefly in wry humor, his dark eyes flashing with cold amusement. It was wise not to refuse. He told me what he would have done had I not drunk, and my insides crawled with horror as he spoke, and I wanted him to stop,

but to interrupt would have been a dire insult. His words were etched into my memories, and for days after, I wept whenever I thought of the fate I had so narrowly avoided, I still feel cold and small when I think of the things he told me. That evening, I threw up my dinner. I threw up the crackers I ate.

I even threw up water. Finally, I stopped eating and drinking all together and waited a full day to try again. I was weak and miserable, but I survived. Now, seeing the man approaching on the road, I mentally cursed my misfortune. This was our busy time of year. I couldn't afford to be sick for a day. He stopped just before he reached me, raised a hand and beckoned for me to come closer.

He didn't raise his head until I stood just across from him. And when he did, he flashed that thin, dry smile at seeing the expression of dread on my face. Are you not thirsty? Not particularly, but if you wish to offer me a drink, I will not be so rude as to refuse. My heart hammered in my chest. Let him release me, I silently pleaded. He put a hand over the top of the skull, covering up the carved opening in the water inside. Be at ease, I did not come to offer you a drink.

I came to give you a warning. Some of your charges have conducted business with the children. I stood there, staring blankly at him in incomprehension. He sighed, almost imperceptibly. And even though his expression didn't change, I felt the weight of his disapproval when he spoke next. These ancient beings do not enjoy having to explain themselves. The children with no wagon.

Someone bought ice from them. Oh, oh God. He won't save them. He walked past me. His shoulder brushing mine as he did. No one will. Rule number 18. You can buy ice from the children that approach your camp only if they have a wagon.

Those are the children of other campers trying to make some extra spending money. They only upcharge by a few dollars, so consider tipping. If a group of children approach you without a wagon, do not buy from them. Act like they don't exist. They'll eventually leave. It wasn't until the man was almost out of sight that I realized I didn't have any idea which camp had purchased the ice and there were a lot of people here right now. I did the dumb thing. I jumped on the four-wheeler, turned it around, and went after him. I pulled up along the side of the road,

a respectful distance away, and called out to him. Hey, what campsite was it? Are you thirsty after all? I understood it for the threat it was. Nope, I'm good. Sorry for bothering you. I drove away before he changed his mind on granting me mercy. This was a terrible dilemma for me. I hadn't had anyone buy from the children without wagons before. Most people find their silent steers creepy, and the normal children are pretty aggressive with their ice routes anyway, so that no one needs to buy ice by the time those other children show up.

I had no idea what to expect. I had no idea how to undo what had been done. I got on the radio to contact one of my senior employees. Brian, we've got a problem. someone bought ice from the children. I don't know, maybe the camper was hung over and wasn't paying attention. Anyway, we've got a problem now. I have no idea.

My great-uncle tried to run them over with his pickup once, and it caused a tree to grow up around the truck and crushed them inside. But I haven't ever had anyone buy ice from them. A bunch of unruly, creepy children that go around trying to get someone to buy from them? Absolutely. Get in touch with the rest of the staff and tell them to be. be careful and watch out for anything unusual. Start asking around and find out who bought the ice.

I don't know. I'll probably start by yelling at them for a bit. While my staff searched for the ice buyer, I hold up in my office for the rest of the day. I have an extensive collection of resources on human things, from family notes to scholarly books on folklore to collections of fairy tales. Yes, fairy tales. There's patterns in them that still apply.

I went digging through my books of camp management and folklore, trying to find some sort of ritual or appeasement I could attempt. Nothing I was willing to risk. The family notes all agreed on one thing. Leave the children alone. I wasn't about to risk myself on a mere theory. Night fell and I reluctantly abandoned my efforts until the morning. My worry made it impossible to sleep through the little girl weeping outside my window and begging to be let in. She's not in the rules.

She only harasses members of my bloodline. I was almost relieved when the beast came and dragged her off while she screamed in mortal terror, signaling that dawn was near. Not so relieved that I didn't cover my head with my pillow, though, trying to block out the sound of that final sickening crunch and the heavy tread of the beast's footsteps as it retreated before the morning sun.

Only once it was silent did I roll out of bed and throw on some clothing. I skipped making coffee, and instead went straight to the garage from my four-wheeler. I needed to see what happened overnight. The man with the skull cup stood on the road, staring off into the trees and calmly sipping the water inside like he was taking his morning tea. I pulled up close by and killed the engine so we could talk.

Skipped your coffee, did you? Want a drink? I'm quite satisfied, but I will gladly accept, if you wish to share. That thin smile again. Now he was just messing with me. I did warn you. I'm disappointed that you didn't heed it.

I'm working on it. My staff will find out who bought the ice. And nothing bad has happened yet. Oh, look over there. I looked in the direction he pointed to. Not far away, a slew of people, 12 and all, dangled in mid-air. For one brief, horrifying moment, I could only think of the time I'd found someone that hadn't heeded my rules,

their gutted body dangling uncomfortably close to my house like it was a warning, how the police had let me do most of the work getting it down while they waited on the ground with their damned paperwork. I don't make my staff clean up the remains. That's asking too much. These people were alive. I almost wept with relief. They'd been pulled from their tents and stripped naked than taken into the woods.

Their bodies were covered with bruises and scratches from being violently dragged across the ground. Then they'd been hoisted up into the trees and left hanging by their ankles from the boughs. Next time it will be their flayed skins hoisted in the branches. You should end this quickly. I'm surprised by your concern. I need people to share a drink with. I can't do that if everyone dies. He turned and left, leaving me staring at the victims dangling in the trees like fleshy wind chimes.

I radioed the staff and told them to block off their road leading. to this part of the campground. Then I made some phone calls. Getting these people down would require the help of family. There's a lot of us. We tend to stick around the area, even if we're not directly involved in the campground. My uncle was quick to respond,

along with some uncles once removed or some cousins, or I don't know, I don't keep track. We set up ladders and started cutting the terrified campers down. They didn't fight much while we were doing this, just hung there limply, crying or whimpering softly. It made the job a lot easier. Dead weight is predictable and we could pull them towards the ladder,

get a good hold on them, and then cut the ropes and pass them down to the ground. Most of them were silent with shock. Some wept. There was one, however, that was still lucid. He clutched at me as my uncle passed him down off the ladder to where I stood waiting to help him get his feet under him. His knees buckled as soon as he was on the ground,

and I eased him to the ground. He clutched at my arms. His eyes wide and unfocused. His nails were cracked and dirty, stained with blood from crawling at the dirt as he was dragged across the ground. The children, they were laughing. It's just a game of them. I couldn't get away.

He began to shake violently. I glanced around to see if anyone had thought to bring blankets with which I could cover him. They're like. Children tormenting a fly. They're going to start pulling the waves off next. He took a deep, shuddering breath. The man's words resonated in my head. The children were going to start killing people.

That did seem like the logical progression. And the man with the skull cup had said as much. These inhuman things don't lie, typically. I'd never known him to lie. I could still empty the campground I'm mused. That didn't really solve the problem. It would just redirect the children from my campers to my family and me. I live on this land, as do a number of many more closely related relatives.

If given a choice between my family being at risk and my campers, I'll pick my campers. At least so long as casualties were within an acceptable margin, wouldn't do to lose many of the people that essentially pay the bills around here, after all. Clearly, I had to do something to stop this from escalating. My books had failed me. I wasn't about to resort to guessing. There was, however, someone I could ask. I went to my most senior camp.

They're a group of friends that have been camping here for over two decades. The members have changed to the point that the founders have all been replaced, that they've kept the traditions and are willing to work with me. As a result, I've given them the best campsite. It's up on a hill nestled in a clear patch among the trees so that the camp has shade most of the day. and there's places to hang hammocks. A gas line runs up the hill,

so I have to keep part of it free of trees, which funnels the breeze straight to their spot. It's noticeably cooler there than the rest of the site. It's also the most dangerous place to camp in Goat Valley campgrounds. I heard shouting before I arrived. I slowed, cutting the noise of the engine down enough that I could make out words. I needn't have bothered. It was nothing but cursing.

I couldn't tell if it was an inner camp dispute, doubtful. they kept the drama to a minimum, or if they were angry at another group. Plausible. They had a couple feuds going on with the younger camps. Or if it was something else. Bracing myself, I hopped off the vehicle and walked in past the line of tents that marked their boundary.

There were five people in the common area, clustered around the beer kegs. They had a cooler that was outfitted with four taps and they ran lines up through a steel plate that was packed with ice, providing access with chilled beer from the tap at any time. The kegs were all homebrew. Right now they had all four taps open and dark liquid was spilling out onto the ground.

There was an odd smell in the air that turned my stomach. Like a butcher's shop, I thought, finally placing the smell. Hey, Louise! The senior camper that did all the brewing turned around at my call. Look at this! Is that blood? Yes!

She kicked one of the kegs. All of the crows. them a blood. What's going on? Don't let this get around, but someone bought ice from the children with no wagon. Yeah? They didn't come by our cam, but I've seen him around, creepy things. Even without the rules, you'd think people would know better. He'd think that, wouldn't you? Anyway, I've come to talk to the thing in the dark. I'm hoping it'll tell me what to do about the children. I can ask about the kegs while I'm at it. I glanced at the back of their camp,

where the trees crowded in close enough so that their shadows overlapped and the forest floor was noticeably darker under the lattice of their branches. Sure. We haven't seen the solars go out all week, though, so maybe it's not at home. Rule number 10.

Keep track of what time the charge on the solar lights typically runs out. If the solars go out before then, do not leave your tent until sun up. Do not open the tent, not even to look. Stay in your tent. try to sleep and wait for daybreak.

It likes us, you know. I give it beer. You, what? Give it beer. I pour a mug a beer into its branches whenever we tap a new keg. It's only polite to share. And it's okay with this? Hasn't killed me yet.

And people say I'm reckless. I promised Louise to ask about the kegs and then I crept into the forest, wincing at the branches that cracked under my feet. Some of the creatures in the campsite were less malevolent than others. So long as they were respected, they wouldn't kill you or even seriously harm you. I'd spoken to the creature in the dark only once before, when I thought to put the senior camp near its lair. I asked if their proximity would disturb it.

It replied that they would not, but nor would it hesitate to take any of them were they out in the open when it passed by. I don't know what happens to the people it takes. Their bodies are never found. The entire camp dreams of dying, however, of slow and torturous death in whatever manner they fear most. I dream of the little girl and the beast, and when I wake, I know that I'm going to be talking to the police yet again. The creature's lair is nothing more than a mound of broken branches, easily mistaken for a pile of stacked debris. There are some signs, however.

The air grows colder as you approach. Sound falls away, encasing you in silence, so that the only one. thing you hear is your own heartbeat. Mine was growing steadily faster as I drew nearer, and it felt like the darkness in between the piled branches was reaching out, gathering up all the light and dragging it to its doom. Flowers littered the forest floor, the white, parasitic ones with bowed heads,

feeding on the tree roots running below the barren soil. Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but I... I have a question? A long silence. I waited, wondering if this was in vain, and perhaps the creature wasn't there. Then it spoke, and its words were rough like stones rolling against each other, and I winced in pain, for it felt like my head was between those stones,

and my skull would crack under their weight. It asked me what I wish to know. I'm here about the children, you know, the ones with no wadowing. They are not of my concern. They do not come here. I don't mean to be rude, but I think they are your problem. The ground rumbled underneath my feet, a faint tremor as I held perfectly still, heart-pounding. Only once the ground was still again did I dare continue. You see, they turn Louise's kegs of beer to blood. She's very upset. That's the beer she shares with you.

The children have harmed the one that brings me offerings. Well, Louise is passionate about her beer, so yes, they did harm her. Will you tell me what I need to do? A faint vibration rippled through the soil like a drawn-out sigh. The children are displeased by their lack of prey. Rejoice had finally been given. I pressed my fingers against the bones near my ear, as if that could help for me. relieve the pressure from its voice.

To do what? The pile of branches shifted. The earth shifted and I stumbled, realizing in sudden terror that the small lump of debris was not nearly enough to contain the creature inside, and it was far larger and perhaps far more terrible than I'd imagine.

Its shrug had nearly thrown me to the ground. The kegs are just the start. More will suffer. All will suffer. Suffer and then the dying will begin. My entire campsite was at risk. I felt cold inside. I could evacuate, I thought.

I could claim there was something of gasline rupture, disease outbreak. There were some options available that would explain why I was throwing everyone out. Then what about my livelihood? Would people run? I'm a little ashamed that greed factored into my choices. But this campsite has been in my family. for three generations, and I wasn't going to ruin it all now. Eliminate the one that started it.

Everything else will unravel. The ground bucked violently, and I was thrown to my hands and knees. I stumbled to my feet, thanking it profusely. I gibbered my apologies for disturbing it and my gratitude for its advice. Then I fled, fighting the urge to look back the entire time. Did it tell you how to fix the kegs? Uh, no. It didn't. You're out of luck, I think.

Seriously? Well, that's just not fair. We didn't buy ice from the children. So why they target our kegs? Do you know how long I spent brewing these? We've got five kegs and one of them is even a cider. And I don't drink cider, but some people insisted. She gave a hard stare to a handful of her campmates loitering nearby. I'm very sorry, but there's really nothing I can do about it.

She continued to glare at me. I think she was hoping I'd give them some sort of concession, such as a discount for next year, or stop counting the incline near the road as campable space that came out of their land allotment. I held my ground. There's a liquor store in town that carries a wide selection of beer. Nah, it's fine. Hard liquor wasn't affected.

Time for gin and tonics, everyone. I left them to their drinking. Eliminate the one that started it. Those words rattled around in my head as I went from campsite to campsite, asking if they'd bought ice from the children. I received quizzical looks from the newer campers, but the older ones answered solemnly, understanding the gravity of my question.

They'd read the rules. Finally, I found the camp that bought the ice, and they identified the person that had made the purchase. He was elsewhere at the moment, but I could stop by later, they suggested. I said it was fine. I wasn't ready to talk. to him. I wasn't ready to take the creature in the dark's advice. I had to swing by the front

office to meet with the police officer that was handling the abducted campers. Probably wanted me to cut a check for the hospital. Paying for medical treatment helped keep my people quiet, especially with the police there to indicate the authorities were going to obstruct any attempts to cause trouble by the victims. I admit that I resented it a bit. It's not like these people were likely to come back and keep paying camp fees. Some of the people, do return, though, you'd be surprised. I was still reading through the invoice the police officer presented when I happened to glance up and look out the window. On the other side of the road stood a child, a young boy, perhaps 11, barefoot with shorts and a t-shirt. In one hand, he held a pair of

scissors. He smiled as my gaze fell upon him, and he slowly opened the scissors, shut them, open, shut, like children pulling the wings off a fly. Next time it'd be their flayed skins hanging from the tree branches. The police officer said something and my attention snapped back to him. I had to ask him to repeat it. When I looked through the window again, the child was gone. The thing in the dark had said that the children were tired of not having prey. Pray I'd denied them with my rules and that this would only get worse and worse.

until people started dying, that everyone was in danger. Eliminate the one that started it. As soon as I was done with the officer, I jumped on my four-wheeler. I returned to the camp that had bought the ice and called the man responsible aside for conversation. I asked him if he'd bought ice from some creepy children

with no wagon, and when he said he had, I asked why he'd broken one of the rules of how to survive camping. It was rule number 18. Hadn't he read it? He replied that there are a lot of rules. I took a breath, held in a moment, reminded myself that the majority of people are good intentioned and don't do things simply to be contrary or cause trouble. That it's my responsibility as both camp manager and a decent human being to be understanding

and help people because we have a common goal. I want them to have a safe and fun camping experience so they come back and they want to have a safe and fun camping experience so they can come back. come back. This man didn't ignore my rule simply out of spite. It was an accident, an unfortunate accident. I asked him why he glossed over that rule. My tone was polite and friendly without a hint of condemnation or judgment. That's the important bit. People respond in kind. So long as I didn't accuse, our ice man wouldn't become defensive and we could have a productive conversation. I'd done a lot of reading on conflict resolution and behavioral change. He hadn't taken them

seriously, he admitted. He'd certainly read them, intently, in fact, because he thought it was a joke, but it was a clever joke, and he enjoyed it. But real? Nah. He pointed to his tent, showing how it had three feet of clearance between the other tents, rule number four, and that they'd brought a longer hose so they didn't have to split the closer one more than three times, rule number six. The will was there. My system was flawed. It didn't change what I had to do. I thanked Iceman for talking to me and walked away. Then I went into the woods and gathered some things. It took a while to find them all. But I'm familiar with my campsite, and I know where these things are likely to be found. Then I returned to my house with the mushrooms in hand. They're called Destroying Angel, Amanita Verosa.

I crushed the fungi and careful not to touch it with my bare hands, took the resulting juice back to Iceman's camp. When nobody was looking, it pulled. poured the liquid into his reusable water bottle, swirled it around to coat the sides, and then left it to dry. They wrote the initial symptoms off as mere food poisoning. At the time, Iceman's campmates took him to the ER. He was suffering from liver and kidney failure.

They did their best, but I had put a generous dose in that bottle, and his body simply couldn't keep up, not even with medical intervention. He was dead within 36 hours. The police dropped by, of course. I talked with them for a bit. commiserated on how difficult it can be to protect people from themselves. And that was the end of it.

They understand what it's like in the forest. I feel I'm to blame. I know rules are ineffective, but they were easy. And that's what I relied on. I wrote off the deaths as isolated incidents instead of warning signs that I wasn't doing enough to determine if my rule list and other measures were accomplishing their intended purpose. You know what does help people change their behaviors? Storytelling.

It's one of the most effective techniques, far more effective than a list of rules, which according to research is the least effective method, and the most prone to antisocial behavior, which is basically people deliberately sabotaging the system out of spite. Instead of telling someone, do this, you tell the person a story that demonstrates the behavior you want, preferably true as that carries more weight. And the more personal it is,

the more the individual will relate and subsequently accept what you're trying to tell them to do. I'm a camp manager. I don't have a list of rules because I'm trying to ruin your fun. I have a list because I'm trying to help you from coming back to camp and finding your tent collapsed and full of rainwater and having no dry clothes or nowhere to sleep. I'm trying to keep you from spending half a day setting up tents

because you didn't plan where everything would go in advance. And I'm trying to keep you from doing small, simple things that could result in a horrific and most assuredly agonizing Demise. Goat Valley Campgrounds was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn. Produced for the No Sleep Podcast by Phil Mikulski. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Lindsay Russo as Kate.

Mick Wingert as The Man with the Skull Cup. Erica Sanderson as Louise. Kyle Akers as Brian. Jake Benson as the hanging man and Peter Lewis as the thing in the dark Join us next week for chapter two of Goat Valley Campgrounds 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 existence, extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program, 25 episodes each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes,

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