The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep16: NoSleep Podcast S17E16

Episode Date: March 20, 2022

It's Episode 16 of Season 17. Our spells are your ticket to ride. “The O’Sullivan Song” written by SH Cooper (Story starts around 00:06:20) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Carrie – Mary Murphy, Gran – Erika Sanderson, Amy – Kristen DiMercurio, Security Guard – Atticus Jackson, Police Officer – David Cummings “The Last Train” written by Jen Mierisch (Story starts around 00:23:30) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Mick Wingert, Kenna – Nichole Goodnight, Shana – Nikolle Doolin, Debra – Erin Lillis, Tyler – Matthew Bradford, Renata – Wafiyyah White, Newscaster – Mike DelGaudio “The Paper Boy’s Bike” written by Themascura (Story starts around 00:50:45) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Vanessa – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Terrabeth – Linsay Rousseau, Jason – Jeff Clement, Eric – Kyle Akers, Tim – Dan Zappulla, Kylie – Danielle McRae “Goat Valley Campgrounds – Chapter 3” written by Bonnie Quinn (Story starts around 01:18:30) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Kate – Linsay Rousseau, The Former Sheriff – Jesse Cornett, Camper 1 – Andrew Tate, Camper 2 – Mary Murphy “A Trick of the Light” written by Jeff Wood (Story starts around 01:12:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Peter Lewis “The Woman in White” written by Sergeant Darwin (Story starts around 01:28:30) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Mom – Nichole Goodnight, Caden – Elie Hirschman, Grandma – Linsay Rousseau, Edith Vance – Erin Lillis, Ms. Vance – Nikolle Doolin, Dorothy – Mary Murphy, Geraldine – Kristen DiMercurio This episode is sponsored by: ZocDoc – Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. 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 SH Cooper Click here to learn more about Sergeant Darwin Click here to learn more about Bonnie Quinn Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “The Woman in White” illustration courtesy of Alia Synesthesia 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

I'm David Cummings, standing outside the No Sleep Podcast Studios. We've got plenty of horror for you coming right up. But first, I'm out here to interview people on the street. Like you, sir. Can you take a moment to speak with me? Speak with me about what? I'd like to get your thoughts on Zoc Doc. They made a documentary about Mr. Spock?

That's great! I'd say it's the most logical thing to do. Ha ha! Get it? Spock, logical? Okay, there you go. Bye! No, no, no, not Spock, Doc. I said Zoc Doc, the free app that shows you doctors who are patient reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. I'm out here trying to let people know that in the chaotic world of health care, they can let Zock Doc be their trusted guide to find a quality doctor in a way that is surprisingly pain-free.

With Zoc Doc, you can get your docks in a row? Ah, Madam, Madam, can I ask you about your experiences booking medical appointments? booking medical appointments? Why? What do you know? Am I sick? Am I dying? Oh no, no, no, I'm just curious about how you do it. Well, it's not easy finding and booking a doctor who's right for you. Will they take your insurance, understand your needs, or be available when you can see them? So many things to worry about. That's why you need Zock Doc. With Zock Doc, you can focus on doctors who are in network, putting you on the path to see the doctors who are right for you. I need to use Zoc Doc right away. I don't feel well all of a sudden. Out of my way.

I wasn't implying you're sick. Oh, dear, this isn't working out. Ah, excuse me, miss. Can I ask you about Zock Doc? Zock, oh, I've used that app. Well, that's wonderful. Can you share your experiences with it? Oh, sure.

I needed a doctor near where I worked because I had a bad sinus infection. I used Zock Doc and booked my appointment with a well-reviewed doctor who worked with my own. insurance. Easy peasy. So you're telling me you went to Zocdoc.com, chose a time slot for an in-person visit, and just like that, you were booked? That's right. I found a doctor that was right for me, and booked an appointment that worked well with my schedule. Oh, there's my bus. Got to run.

Thank you, kind lady. Stay healthy. So there you have it. Every month, millions of people use ZocDoc. They make it their go-to whenever they need to find and book a doctor. Go to Zocdoc.com slash no sleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Many are available within 24 hours. That's

Z-O-C-D-C dot com slash no sleep. Zoc-Doc dot com slash no sleep. There he is, officer. The man who frightened me. Oh, dear, I'd better go. Let's start the show and be really frightening.

It's long gone. days of yore. There are legends and tales of dark folklore. Round candlelight and fire side. 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, David Cummings. As you know by now, our camping trip in Goat Valley continues onwards, with danger and intrigue around every turn. I'm enjoying it so much, in fact, that I was considering booking a vacation there myself. I've had no leads for my 2022 break and Goat Valley Camp Gramp. seemed a perfectly safe, tranquil place. However, I got a pamphlet in my mailbox this week.

It talks of a countryside paradise where gilded fields lead to rustic dwellings, where visitors can picnic beside a cerulean lake or investigate the subterranean cave system beneath the village. They can hike in the mountains that ring the entire area or explore the sun-dappled forest to the south. And to the east is an orchard that grows the most divine apples in the whole country, so they say.

It's a place called Gold Meadow, and I really want to visit. This year, they're opening the village to visitors for the first time ever. Now, that seems strange to me, so I did a little bit of Googling, and it seems like the town of Gold Meadow suffered not one but two mysterious tragedies. In the 1960s, almost the entire population of the town disappeared overnight, and in 2017, I won't go into that right now. I need to read up on it some more so I don't spread false information.

I should also probably check in on Joanna at the health clinic soon. She's been strangely quiet this week. Well, well, but now on with this week's episode. In our first tale, we join a young woman named Carrie. Carrie's family has a bit of a unique quirk. They have their own banshee, Thanks to her grandmother, Carrie knows all about it. But in this tale, shared with us by author S. H. Cooper,

Carrie's own encounter with this personal demon seems a little uncharacteristic. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Erica Sanderson, Kristen DiMecurio, and Atticus Jackson. So raise your head skywards and let off a scream. It'll be music to someone's ears. Just try to drag up. Brownout, the O'Sullivan song. My family came over from the old country only a generation ago. Kran waddled off the boat in 1954,

nine months along and ready to drop Dad the moment she set foot on American soil. She'd the courtesy to wait until Granddad got her to their apartment in the Irish Quarter, at least. Despite being a modern couple in many ways, my grandparents brought some superstitions over with them, stuff having to do with fairies, rituals to ward off bad luck, that kind of thing. Because of them, I knew a lot of the folk tales by heart, and could even say a few Irish Gaelic praises,

something Grandad was especially proud of. As they got older, their beliefs remained deeply rooted, even after they were unable to make the long journey back to Ireland. The reality that they'd never return home again hit Grandad hard, and he'd become moody and agitated. He had grown ill and frail. in his later years. Grand cared for him night and day, helping him from his bed to his chair and back again once evening came. Despite being in her late 70s, she remained spry and sharp-witted.

It must have pained her to watch Grandad's decline, but she hid it well. I still visited a few nights a week to help out as much as I was able, even if it was just keeping her company. One night, I overheard Gran whispering to Granddad as she tucked him in. She'll shore when it's time. He groaned softly in response. After she rejoined me in the living room, I asked her if she was expecting company. She'd smiled, a bit wistful, a bit sad, and patted my knee. Granddad isn't doing well, Carrie.

I nodded stiffly. We were all aware that he was probably in his final days. He's just waiting to hear the song now. We bought our, I suppose. Tears glistened in her eyes And she wiped them quickly away I had to force my next words Past the sharp lump in my throat

What song? The Banshee song She sings it for all the O'Sullivans When their time draws near I frowned despite myself I thought Banshee screamed or something Some do, some whale It depends on the banshee

There's more than one Oh hi She She regained her composure a bit as we moved away from the direct topic of Grandad's health. Almost all of the old families have one, and each one is different. The O'Sullivan Banshee is said to be a beautiful maiden with long silver hair, and her song is sad. Your great-grand believed she's one of the ancestors who died young and comes back to sing us to our final sleep. Grandad is worried she won't be able to find her.

him so far from home. He told him that it doesn't matter where he is. She'll see him off, same as all the others before him. His fears, it turned out, were unfounded. Only a few days after our conversation, Grandad started asking Gran if she could hear it. He was smiling, unafraid, and Grandin held his hand. He passed away the following night. She told me over the phone. She came. She left. She left. She Let him know it was almost time, so I could be with him at the end. I didn't believe it, but it brought Grand comfort, and that was all that really mattered. Grand passed away seven years later. She'd moved to an assisted living community by then, and I was away at grad school.

If she heard any kind of song in her last few days, she never said anything about it. We buried her alongside Grandad in a Catholic cemetery, took a few days to mourn. and then we're forced to return to our normal routines as best we could. It was like Gran was fond of saying, Life doesn't stop just because death decided to visit. It was a rough time. But I graduated with my PhD, moved even further away from home to start my career,

and eventually found my footing again. Well, I forgot a lot of the stories they told me, and the few Gaelic words I'd known faded with time. I'd like to think both of my grandparents still wouldn't, have been proud of the woman I'd become. I was almost 30 and living alone for the first time in a city far from my family. My job counseling at-risk youths was high stress and required long hours on what was too often little sleep. I combated it with a lot of coffee and sugar. It left me feeling strung out, but oddly fulfilled. Such unhealthy habits have a way of catching up with you,

however, and I crashed hard, barely two months after I began. I only remember fragments of the dream I had the first time I finally got a full night's sleep. I was in my apartment, I think. Someone was with me. There was screaming. It was coming from somewhere far off. I woke up afraid, my heart pounding, and the last notes of a woman's cries still ringing in my head. I had to stop watching true crime shows while reviewing client files right before bed. I decided. Nightmares had never stuck with me long, and that one was no different, especially not when I had a handful of new clients waiting to see me.

It was quickly forgotten amidst intake forms in initial meetings. At least until I sat down with Amy Belfry a few days later. She was 17, already with a police record, and teetering on the edge of returning to Juvie, She'd come from a bad home, fell in with a worse crowd, and didn't seem very interested in escaping any of it. You'll be 18 in six months. Once you cross that line, there will be no going back. There are no safety nets for adults.

We really need to start looking for ways to... I trailed off, and the purple-haired teen cocked an impatient eyebrow at me. I shook my head. Sorry, I thought I heard something. I started my speech over, but stopped again in short order. You didn't hear that? Hear what? It sounded like a scream.

Welcome to the ghetto, Doc. I refocused on the matter at hand, but the scream stayed in the back of my mind. I'd barely been able to hear it as if it had been coming from outside and down the street, but I couldn't shake that something had seemed familiar about it. Amy left my office with a packet of resources and instructions to return weekly, or more if she felt like she needed the guidance. She rolled her eyes, and I heard the distinct sound of a weighty folder landing in the garbage bin outside my office. I sighed, but didn't get up.

I was quickly learning that not everyone wanted my help. I was a bit surprised then when she returned the following week for our scheduled appointment. Nothing better to do. We spent the hour talking. I'd ask her something. She'd answer and then ask me something. I'd reply with as much information as I was professionally and personally comfortable with. If I wanted her to trust me, I had to give her something to work with.

Our second session definitely seemed to go better than the first. Little by little, Amy was warming up to me, and I felt it was only a matter of time before we would be working toward a better legally sound future for her. That optimism stayed with me through the day and into the early evening, when I was finally finished and heading down to the parking garage. It was quiet and mostly empty, not unusual for that time of day. I kept my keys held like claws between my fingers and hurried toward my car. My footsteps echoed off of the stone pillars around me. The only sound until the scream. It came from behind me. Back by the elevator I just saw.

stepped off of. It was angry, and when I rolled around, I expected a woman to be charging full tilt at me. The garage was empty, however. I stood in place for a moment. This clenched so tightly around my keys that they dug into my flesh. I took a step back, trying to even out my quick, brightened breathing. Suddenly, the screaming seemed to come from everywhere. Loud, piercing, furious. I yelped and scrambled the rest of the way to my car. I barely let the door close behind me before I was screeching out of my spot and racing toward the attendance booth. At the sound of my tires skidding around the corner, the security guard inside the booth poked his head out of the window. Concern was stamped across his features. You okay, Dr. Sullivan? I think someone was following me. You didn't hear that?

I kept looking over my shoulder, but there was never anyone in pursuit. His brow wrinkled. Hear what? The screaming! He shook his head, befuddled. I barely slept it all that night. I'd close my eyes and hear the screaming all over again. It was so hateful, almost a roar. It would have been impossible for the guard to have missed it

in the otherwise silent garage. Unless he'd had earbuds in or his radio turned up loudly, the logical little voice in my head said. There was a high population of homeless people living around the building I worked in. It was possible I'd just disturbed one who was sleeping under the nearby stairwell, and their response had been to yell at me until I left.

When did I have seen them, though? Amy surprised me by coming in again that Friday. She said she just needed someone to talk to. I was only all too happy to let her unload, and we worked on forming a plan of action to help her improve her situation. As she got up to go, she paused and smiled at me.

the first genuine smile I'd ever gotten from her. Thanks, Doc. It was one of the best rewards I'd ever gotten. I was still floating a bit when I closed up my office at night and started down the hall for the elevator. I pressed the button and stepped back to wait, while it made it slow climb four stories up from the parking garage. The hallway was dark,

lit only by some emergency lights and the glow from the receptionist computer, which he had a bad habit of leaving on. It could be a bit eerie, standing in my work's lobby after hours like that. So when I heard the faintest sound of someone singing from down the hall behind me, I thought it my imagination. Still, I pressed the elevator call button a few more times. The sound persisted. I tightened my grip on my purse and my keys and looked around.

It was a female voice, so soft and low that I had to strain my ears to listen. It was singing in a language that was both strange and familiar. Memories I thought long gone stirred. Gaelic. She was singing in Gaelic. I half turned. The dark outline of a woman was standing at the far end of the hall. Just outside my office door, she was featureless in the shadows.

The emergency light was only strong enough to illuminate the top of her head, casting a dim red blow across silver hair. Her song faded. as I looked at her. The screeching keen that followed seemed to shake the entire office. My purse tumbled from my arms as I forced myself to run. I shoved open the door to the stairwell and let down the steps two at a time, screaming for help.

Behind me, the door clattered against the wall as it was pushed open for a second time. That awful high-pitched scream reverberated down the stairs after me. As I flew past the door leading to the third floor, A pale face, unnaturally elongated into an enraged snarl, pressed against a glass. I couldn't tell if she was young or old, ugly or beautiful. All I could focus on was her dark, flickering eyes, half-veiled by silver hair and the scream. If someone had taken a chisel and hammered it into my eardrum, I doubt it would have hurt more than that scream. It sank like needles into my head until I was clawing at my face, trying to make it statured.

Stop. I stumble down the remaining flights, always aware of the woman following me, unable to escape her wild keen. I burst into the parking garage, but instead of going to my car, I ran immediately toward the security guard at the gate. I'm not sure who was screaming louder at that point, me or the silver-haired woman. The guard was already out of the booth and coming toward me by the time I rounded the corner. He caught me and helped me back to the safety of the booth, where he locked both of us in and called the police. I think I'm being stalked, I told the responding officer. In his statement, the security guards said he only ever heard me screaming. There was no second woman.

Still, I begged for an escort home so that I could get some of my things and go stay at a hotel until I could get a flight out to my family. I rode in the front seat of a police cruiser to my apartment building. As soon as I opened the car door, I heard the singing. Slow, sad. In a language that was both strange and familiar, Kranz's voice whispered from the back of my mind. The Banshee song.

I hesitated, perched on the edge of my seat, as realization crept across my shoulders and down my back. The O'Sullivan song, the reason only I could hear the screaming, it wasn't a person that was chasing me. But Krant said that the O'Sullivan Banshee didn't scream or wail. She sang to warn someone of their impending doom. Why, then, had she been screaming at me?

She only sang when I was heading towards home. I tilted my head back to gaze up the front of my apartment building to where my window would be. Her fury hadn't been directed at me. She had been trying to tell me something. I didn't know why or how. I'd never heard of a banshee being a protective spirit. The singing had stopped. The officer turned to me from the driver's seat.

Are you okay? I almost didn't answer him. It was crazy. It was unbelievable. He'd made no sense. But I was certain all the same. I think that someone's in my apartment. Amy Belfrey and two male accomplices were arrested when police searched my apartment moments later.

They'd broken in and were waiting in the dark to ambush and rob me. The men were armed with duct tape and knives. Amy was carrying a taser. She'd assumed because I had doctor in front of my name that I'd have money and had followed me home after one of her appointments. I'd never suspected a thing. I have not seen or heard from the silver-haired woman since that night. I know that I will one day,

and that she'll sing the O'Sullivan song for me, just as she did from my grandparents before me. but when we meet again, I will not be afraid of the banshee. Temp work can be an absolute bore. You're simply there to earn a paycheck. It's not what you intend to do as a career. It's a necessity. So it's fair if you don't put a proper amount of effort in, right?

But in this tale, shared with us by author Jen Mearish, we're reminded that carelessly half-assing things can have dire consequences. Performing this tale are Mick Wingert, Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, Aaron Lillis, Matthew Bradford, Wafia White, and Mike Delgado. So try to be mindful of others. It matters more than you think. Besides, works nearly over, and it might not be the first, but you've got to get on it to get home. It's the last train. A baby's unhappy shriek erupted from one of the exam rooms down the hall. stabbing an icicle through Kenna's aching head.

Squeezing her eyes shut. Kenna cursed the temp agency for sending her on this job. Her workspace was a tiny table in a back office, sandwiched between the copy machine and the file cabinet. Its only advantage was its location, far from the waiting room filled with snot-nosed, germy children. The gig sucked, but it paid the bills for now. The jangling of the telephone knifed into her.

her forehead. Opening one eye, Kenna squinted at the wall clock. Ten more minutes until she could escape and run down the block to CVS for headache medicine. She picked up the receiver. Good morning, downtown pediatrics. Yes, I can schedule that for you. Are you an existing patient? Kenna's stomach growled like an irate bear. She wondered if the caller could hear it. I don't see any weekend appointments until July. We can do the seventh at 9 a.m. Any change in insurance? Okay, Ms. Williams, you're all set.

She clicked to submit the appointment. The clock read 1155. Please, phones. Stay quiet for five more minutes. The ringing seized her brain and shook it, like a child with a snow globe. Kenner rubbed her temples and picked up the phone. Downtown Pediatrics. Hi. My name is Shauna Middlewood.

The voice was worn out, raspy, as if its owner had recently been shouting. May I help you? I understand you have a callix specialist on staff. Dr. Milar? Sorry, ma'am. Dr. Miller is no longer with the practice. He retired May 1st. The caller was silent for a minute.

Is there another doctor with this specialty? Her voice caught, followed by an unmistakable sniffle. Kena shifted in her chair, itchy with embarrassment for this woman. No, ma'am. I'm sorry for getting upset. It's just that I haven't slept in several weeks now. Jacob's two months old. He never stops crying.

Can I speak with one of the doctors? Kenna checked the schedule. Dr. Nasser is out today. The other physicians are with patients and the nurses are in clinic. I can transfer you to voicemail. No. Kenna flinched. Please don't transfer me.

I just don't know what else to do. I've called everywhere. I've tried everything. I'm all by myself. My husband's out of town. The voice trailed off, replaced by the sound of a baby fussing. Is there anyone else you could refer me to?

I don't care how far it is. I'm in Devonshire, but I'll drive out of state if I have to. Kenna pictured Devonshire. The suburb where she'd worked as a server at bar mitzvahs and kinsigneras to pay her college tuition. She remembered the slim people in gowns and tuxes who'd lifted champagne flutes from Kenna's tray with manicured fingers and looked right through her. I don't know what to tell you, ma'am. In the background of the call, the baby started howling.

Kenna held the receiver away from her ear. The caller was crying again. I'm afraid of what I might do. Ma'am. Please. Sorry, I can't help you. Is there anyone? I can't help you.

She replaced the receiver on its cradle more forcefully than she intended. The bang struck her pounding head like a mallet on a gong. Kenna? She jumped. Her boss, Deborah, stood in the doorway, arms folded. Her workspace might be far from the waiting room, but it was right. right next to Deborah's office. Yes? Got a minute.

Uh. Kenna glanced at the wall clock. Come and see me when you get back from lunch. Deborah held Kenna's gaze, then disappeared back to her office. Swallowing, Kenna grabbed her purse and hustled out the door. The street was noisier than the office, but it sounds comforted Kenna as she stepped on to the sidewalk, joining the river of anonymous pedestrians. The car's engines, the chattering,

strangers, even the bus's squeaking brakes, soothed her brain like a bath. She extended a leg and kicked a pigeon off the curb, chuckling at its affronted warble. Inside the store, Kenna hummed along to the piped-in pop music, selecting a bottle of ibuprofen from the shelf. On her way to the cash registers, she nearly tripped over a stroller parked in the aisle. Muttering curses under her breath, she grabbed a package of Super C. Might as well protect herself against those little plague rats. And then I had to listen to Deborah give me a big speech about empathy.

What the hell? It's not my fault, Dr. Miller retired. Kenna's phone was pressed to her ear as she strode home from the subway. Something was pinching her heels. She looked down and sighed. She'd forgotten to swap her pumps for sneakers before she left work.

Ah, dude, that sucks. What did the lady say again? The one who called? She said her baby cried a lot. Like, duh, babies cry. a lot. Kenna perched on the end of a planter and kicked off a shoe. She clearly hasn't slept in a while. She was crying as much as the baby was. Probably colic. Kenna blinked. How did you know that? Tyler was an expert on cannabis varieties, Xbox, and rock climbing equipment, but to her knowledge,

not babies. Sounds like Ashley right after she had Emma. She like never slept. Your mom went over there every day to watch the baby just so Ash could take a nap for a few hours. Kena pulled on her sneakers and stuffed the pumps into her bag. I don't get it. So you lose some sleep? What's the big deal? I slept like four hours a night during finals. Yeah, but not for months on it. That shit is intense. I've never seen Ash like that. She looked like hell and she cried all the time. I was kind of worried about her for a while there. Kenna strode down the sidewalk. Ugh, I am so never having kids.

Usually Tyler would have chimed in with something like, yeah, seriously. Today, he said nothing. Kenna felt a rush of irritation. So what should I have done with her genius if you're so smart? Yeah, I don't know. Give her to Deborah, I guess. She's the boss. Let her deal with it. Fine. Well, tomorrow, you can go in instead of me since you know so goddamn much. Hey, don't take it like that. I'm just...

Mansplaining, maybe. Kenna stepped off the curb. A taxi blared its horn as it turned. the corner, inches from her feet. She quickly hopped backward. Right, what? How am I mansplaining? I'm just telling you about my sister. I'm just saying call like is a real thing. Call me crazy, but I would have thought my own boyfriend would be supportive instead of criticizing me. Kenna. She ended the call and stuffed the phone into her pocket. A minute went by, then another. She waited for it to ring. Tyler always called back.

The phone remained silent. Kenna turned down an alley to take a shortcut to her apartment. Condensation dripping from window air conditioners plopped against the pavement as she dodged litter. At first, the footsteps were so quiet that she barely noticed them. High heels clicked against the concrete. Staccato taps, reverberating off the brick walls. Kenna ignored them. If it had been a man's footsteps, she might have picked up the pace.

Or at least taken a lot. look, but there was nothing to fear from a woman. Emerging, finally, onto her street, Kenna glanced back, except for a dumpster and a scuttling rat. The alley was empty. A baby was crying, drawing deep breaths and belting out its misery. The sound grew louder and louder until it blotted out everything, like an ambulance siren passing you on the street, blaring straight into your brain. Kenna woke with a gasp, fumbling for her phone, swiping to kill the chirping alarm.

Squinting at the sunlight, she shoved aside the bed spread and stumbled toward the bathroom where her roommate, Renata, hair wrapped in a towel, was just leaving. In the kitchen, Kenna flopped into a chair with her coffee mug and breakfast hot pocket. Across the table, Renata set down her cereal spoon and glanced away from the TV news. Dang, girl, you look as tired as I feel. Did someone with kids move into our building? Not that I know of. Why?

I couldn't sleep last night. Some baby kept crying. Kenna gulped her coffee and cringed as it burned her tongue. You didn't hear it? Earing swished as Renata shook her head. Nope. Lucky. It was all friggin' night long.

Kenna glanced at her phone and, round. Still no call or text from Tyler. Renata stood up and carried her bowl to the sink. You've been working at that pediatrician's too long. Babies on the brain. Ew, shut up. I do not have babies on the brain. Well, maybe in my mom's wildest dreams. Well, anyway, see you tonight for Margarita Fridays. She closed the dishwasher and flounced out of the room. Later. Kenna took a bite of her sandwich. Her eyes drifted to the countertop TV, which Renata had left on.

On screen was a photo of a smiling white woman, taken from social media by the look of it. The newscaster's voice struck a somber tone. Tragic news this morning from Devonshire. 31-year-old mother, Shauna Middleton, was found dead yesterday evening in an apparent suicide, just a few yards away from her infant son. The images changed, showing a tiny, pink-faced base. A sticker on his one-Z read, two months. Police responded to a 911 call placed from the Middleton's home.

The responding officers found a baby left alone in the living room in a portable crib. They discovered the victim's body in a bathroom on an upper floor of the residence. Kenna dropped her breakfast and stared. Middleton was on maternity leave from her job as an executive at Morse Investments. She had no criminal record and no known history of mental illness. The family had recently relocated to the area. area following a job transfer. Middleton's husband, reached by phone this morning,

requested that the media respect the family's privacy during this terrible time. No way. No fucking way. Shawna Middleton's blue eyes gazed confidently at the camera. Her brown hair was long and straight, like a Barbie doll's. She looked like someone with advantages, someone who'd had every reason to think things would always go her way.

Kenneth jabbed the power button on the remote and the screen went dark. She poured the coffee down her throat and pushed the rest of the hot pocket into the garbage disposal. Gathering up her bag and purse, she thought she could hear it still. A baby's woeful wails, bouncing between the tall buildings all the way up to the sky. Kenna, a word? Sying, Kenna forwarded the phone to the front desk and trudged into Deborah's office, sitting on the plastic chair facing the desk. Down the hall, a toddler bawled. Deborah folded her hands and leaned forward.

I couldn't help, but here. That's the third caller you've snapped out this morning. Kenna avoided Deborah's brown eyes. Sorry. And reception told me they asked you for more HIPAA forms two hours ago. Kenna shifted awkwardly, bracing herself for Deborah's next words, which would certainly announce that she was fired. Is everything okay?

The gentle tone of voice made Kenna look up in surprise. I had a rough night last night. I didn't sleep much. Aren't you feeling well? Not really. For a split second, Kenna contemplated telling Deborah about the caller, about the news broadcast that had replayed in her head all morning.

Just as quickly, she tossed that idea. She was already in enough trouble. You're free to go home if you're not, Well. The concern in Deborah's eyes brought pinprick tears to Kenna's. She thought about the short paycheck that would result from an afternoon off. Her student loans weren't going to pay themselves. No, I'm good.

I'll try to do better. Are you sure? Everyone has rough days, Kenna, but being rude to customers is not acceptable. I understand. All right. We'll give it one last shot. Kenna stared at her folded hands. Go on back now.

She got up and scurried back to her table. The afternoon dragged. Kenna felt like a piece of taffy stretched thin and libeled to break. She chugged office coffee from a paper cup. Call slowed. The copy machine clacked in word as she ran off more forms. As she stood waiting, lulled by the drone of the machinery, the newscaster's words returned unbidden.

Shawna Middleton, body found in a bathroom. She wondered how they'd determined that it was a suicide. She would not Google's story. She would not. If Deborah caught her on the phone, that would be the end of it. Kenna walked to the front desk and deposited the still-warm papers in the appropriate trays. Hefting a stack of patient files from the day's appointments, she made her way to the file room.

The shelves span the height of the room, floor to ceiling. In the back, next the F's, Kenneth set the file folders onto a stool and peeped through the shelves. Sliding her phone from her pocket, she opened a web browser and typed. The dead woman's husband had been away on business, she read. The couple had no family in the area. A neighbor said they heard the baby crying sometimes and were shocked that something like this could happen to such a nice young couple.

According to investigators, the cause of death was electrocution. The young mother had swaddled her baby's son in his crib, stepped into the tub she'd filled, switched on a hairdryer, and dropped it in. Kenna ran down the hall to the restroom. Breathing hard, she splashed cold water on her face and looked into the mirror. Her eyes, blue like the dead woman's, looked sunken, surrounded by shadows. A woman had done a horrible thing. and Kenna was possibly the last person who had spoken to her while she was alive.

Kenna forced herself to walk back to the file room. She concentrated on placing the folders in alphabetical order, telling herself not to picture an upstairs bathroom in an elegant house, willing herself not to imagine whether there had been blood. When five o'clock finally came, Kenna burst through the door like a tiger from a cage. The air was thick, threatening rain. But she gulped in greedy breaths as she started walking.

Overhead, power lines buzzed with static in the moist air. Near the subway entrance, the gray man paced in his usual place. His sneakers shuffling along the pavement, his hand-lettered sign bore a single word, repent. Slowly, he looked up at Kenna, extended an arm, and pointed at her face. She hurried past him and down the subterranean. steps. Kenna was hanging her damp coat in the closet. You're coming out with us, right? You look like you could use a drink.

Before she could answer, the door buzzer sounded, and Renata jumped up from the couch to answer it. A few seconds later, their friends Henry, Paul, and Marie strolled in through the apartment door. Kenna's bleary eyes watched her friends, laughing and bantering back and forth. They were so relaxed, so carefree, so normal. La Ciudad Mexican restaurant made their margaritas strong, she knew. One or two of those should take the edge off. They piled into the subway, exited at Weiler Street, assembled around La Ciudad's corner table,

and ordered every appetizer on the menu. Kenner reached for the salt-rimmed glass and drank, the green liquid flowing down like sweet fire. Mariachi music blasted from the speakers. Several more of their friends showed up and just, join the party. Kenna was glad for the big group. Glad it was Friday.

Glad they were so loud they wouldn't notice if she was quiet. Across the room, a waitress with long, dark hair turned around and looked at Kenna. She had Shauna Middleton's face. Kenna gasped, blinked, and looked again. The waitress was just one of the Friday regulars. Stuffing signed receipts into her apron as she carried a tray full of empty glasses. absurdly, Kenna thought about proposing a toast to Shauna, having a drink for her to remember her life. The concept was so ridiculous and terrible that she started giggling hysterically, mirthlessly, unstoppably.

No more for you. Their laughter roared in Kenna's ears. Later they all careened down the sidewalk on their way to some bar where some friend's band was playing. Kenna's mind wobbled, a boat a drink. drift on an alcoholic sea. It was raining again, but Renata was singing as she threw an arm around Kenna's shoulder and another around Marie's. A car splashed past, its horn, a shrill wine that trailed off into the darkness.

In the crowded smoke-filled bar, Kenna's stomach roiled, the tequila threatening to erupt. She clutched her abdomen and put out a hand to lean against the bar. Hey, you okay? You don't look so good. I think I'm going to head home. Want me to come with you? Kenna looked up. Renata was standing next to Henry.

His head was turned away, talking to other friends, but his arm was around Renata's shoulder. That was new. Now I'm good. Take an Uber, okay? Be safe. Renata turned to Henry, sliding an arm around his waist. The Uber app refused to load,

displaying a vague message about an unavailable server. Kenna wiped raindrops off the phone and tried hailing a taxi, but they all sped by with passengers in the back seat. She gave up and turned back toward the subway. If she hurried, she could still make the last train. Kenna gripped the rails as she lurched down the ramp stairs to the platform. She skidded a little, then flopped down on a bench, slapping the sides of her face as if sobriety could be applied like lotion. She looked down the length of the platform. A flat plane bisecting a tube-shaped cave.

She was alone, and yet it seemed that Shana Middleton was there too. Kenna imagined Shana sitting on the bench next to her, wearing a business suit and heels, both of them facing forward like two commuters waiting for the same train. Suddenly, a baby's mournful wail filled the station, echoing off the soggy walls. Kenna leaped to her feet and looked around. The dim platform was empty. The stairs leading up the street were vacant, littered with soggy shreds of garbage. Get the grip.

Her breath came in ragged gasps. There's no baby here, Kenna. No baby. The baby's cry grew louder by degrees, as if someone were pushing a baby stroller in her direction. Heart slamming against her chest, Kenna stumbled backward. tripping over the bench. Her arms flailed, and her phone went flying, bouncing against the floor and skittering toward the track.

She dived for it, landing on the damp cement, and sliding too fast. She swiveled her body to try to stop, but her legs went over the edge. Somehow, her arms locked against the yellow painted rim of the platform. And then her elbows were the only thing holding her up, keeping her from sliding into the shadows that concealed the third rail. In terror, she kicked her.

at the tunnel wall, but succeeded only in making her body slide a few more inches toward the track. A flicker of movement appeared at the stairs. Kenna squinted. It appeared to be a homeless woman, with long, raggedy hair and stained clothes, walking slowly toward her. Her arms trembled alarmingly. The baby was still crying. The shrieks reverberated off the tunnel walls, swallowing up the narrow space all the way to the tiny light in the distance, the headlamp of the approaching train.

The woman moved closer. Her head cocked to one side, studying Kenna. It looked like she had something bulky underneath her coat. Sadly, she shook her head. Kenna's arms began to shake violently with the effort of holding on. The train sounded like a rushing wind, gradually growing louder as its light grew brighter. One of her elbows slipped.

The woman was just a few feet away now. She looked into Kenna's eyes and leaned down, causing Kenna's heart to leap with hope. Then Kenna saw what was bundled in the woman's coat. It was one of those wearable baby carriers. It was empty, its fabric sagging toward the woman's chest. I can't help you. Her voice sounded just the same as it had on the phone.

The light approached inexorably, like the dawn. Kenna screamed, as loud as the baby now, as deafening as the screech of the child. trains breaks as it barreled into the station, and her arms gave way, and she fell. See? That story illustrates why I prefer to walk instead of taking the train. Like I'm doing right now. Yes, still walking in the forest. Much better than the train. Even though the train doesn't run through the forest, well, you get my point. So, I found my way to Goat Valley campgrounds. It's a nice place. I ran into some dude carrying a strange cup. Looked a little like a skull.

Now, I was going to talk to him, but decided against it. I'm still having some anxiety about interacting with people. Maybe you feel the same way. I've always been kind of shy. Don't let my charming demeanor on the podcast fool you. And it's not easy to socialize with people, even if I'm not worried about them coughing the virus on me or whatnot? I guess that's why solo walks in the woods are so therapeutic. But we do live in a social environment, and I know that healthy interactions with others are important. That's why I like to talk about my shyness issues with a therapist. Learning new ways to handle social anxiety can be extremely helpful, and that's something you can develop with a better help therapist. Better help allows you to have sessions with a trained

professional counselor online from anywhere in the world. It's an easy and affordable way of working through issues which are holding you back or preventing you from being happier in life. Listen, happiness is something we all deserve and better help wants you to start living a happier life today. You can log into your account anytime and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses that will challenge you to think about yourself in new ways. and weekly video or phone sessions are available. It's an extremely helpful service that I continue to recommend you take advantage of. So visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep, 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. no sleep. Okay, I'm going to keep on walking. Walking away from Mr. Skull Cup dude, and we'll get back to the show. Enjoy some time of your own in a lovely outdoor park. It can be tough being the sensible one when all your friends like to go a bit wild, a little bit goofy, a little bit wacky, getting kind of loud, behaving all rowdy, disrespecting the memorialized dead. But in this time,

shared with us by author Themas Cura. We're reminded that it can be a bad idea not to show due respect to those beyond the grave. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Lindsay Russo, Jeff Clement,

Kyle Akers, Dan Zapula, and Danielle McCray. So try to keep your pals grounded and don't let them drag you down with them. Otherwise, you might find yourself stuck in a situation you can't escape. Not even if you rode away on the Paper Boys bike. In my hometown, there's a beautiful sprawling park.

It's several acres of green, with a good portion of it lovingly maintained as a rolling lawn, complete with playground, jogging track, and pavilions. A lot of people consider it the jewel of the city. For my friends and I, though, it will be forever tainted. The sight of unspeakable horrors. the origin of a tragedy that killed half of us, and left the remaining half irrevocably scarred. We were hanging out at my place.

My friends Tara Beth and Kylie were sleeping over because it was a Friday, and both of my parents were going out of town for a friend's wedding. I was considered old enough to stay home by myself, but my parents thought having some friends over would be safer and less scary for me. Maybe if I'd been alone, the whole thing would have been avoided. Two sequels into the Friday the 13th series, a knock at the front door scared me out of my skin. Terabeth giggled as she got up and trotted over to the front door.

Kylie didn't even blink. Relax! It's not Jason. It's just Jason. Sadly, I knew exactly what she meant. Jason, as in her boyfriend, not the monster from the movies. It didn't precisely reassure me, though. Why is he here?

I didn't like, Jason. He was kind of a bad boy, but not in the cute way, more in the obnoxious way. But Terabeth had been my best friend since I moved to her street when we were five. Tara gave me that scathing look teenage girls are so good at. Pure scoff, complete with an exasperated huff. I was still protesting. when she opened the door, and had to swallow the last of it so that Jason wouldn't hear.

Hey, Vanessa. Hey, Kylie. What's up? Kylie waved without looking up from the movie. I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a small, short smile. Hey, Jason. Listen, it's nothing personal, but my parents will kill me if they find out... I caught a glimpse of movement behind him, and my arms dropped. So did he. my faux politeness. Did you bring somebody else? My voice rose to a sharp pitch that I hated, but couldn't help. It happened any time I got good and mad.

Two more boys slid out onto the walkway, each of them smiling apologetically. I knew both of them. Eric was in our grade and Jason's BFF. He wasn't as annoying as Jason was, but the association tainted him. Tim was a year younger, Eric's little brother. No way! I cannot believe you just... I was seeing red when I flipped to look at Tara, who I think knew she'd messed up at that point

because I didn't lose my temper often. Did you honestly think that this was okay? I was about ready to throw the lot of them out of my house. When Jason held up a couple of boxes of pizza and rolled his eyes so hard, they came dangerously close to flying. back into his skull and rattling around. Relax, Nessa.

We weren't going to come in. It's barely nine. The park's right across the street. We thought you girls would like to come hang. He jerked a thumb at the park, and I narrowed my eyes a little. He was lying through his teeth, and I knew it. But it was harder to argue against hanging out in the park when it was barely after sunset, especially when I'd just drawn the line about them coming into my...

my house. I went to grab my shoes. He did have pizza. We didn't spill into the park until a half hour later, because it took that long to peel Kylie off the TV and get her to put her shoes on. She was a diehard horror movie fan, and I swear she was addicted to them. It was no longer barely dark, but well into twilight. The faux gas lamps made it seem safer than it probably was. Nothing bad could happen in a well-lit, nicely kept up area, could it? Especially with so many of us? It wasn't long before Jason produced the first beer, though. I almost got up and went home right then and there,

but I'd already made such a fuss about the in-my-house thing that I didn't feel like I could without really damaging my friendship with Tara. Peer pressure is a terrible thing. It would have been better for all of us if I had. Instead, I sat there uncomfortably, trying not to notice him passing the can around, or how the laughter got louder and rowdier when he pulled out the second. In fact, I was trying so hard not to notice

that I didn't realize what they were talking about until I happened to look up. I'm not scared. Eric was laughing while Jason dared him on. He already had one. leg swung over the edge of the seat. I got to my knees and started to yell. What the fuck, guys?

What the hell is wrong with you? But they were either too drunk, too stupid, or too far away to hear me. Eric settled on the bronze seat and put his feet up on the pedals, looking proud of himself for the whole ten seconds he managed to stay up there before he fell off. I was on my feet by then, running in their direction. I just couldn't believe that they were playing around on a memorial for a dead kid. It was just the stupidest, cruelest thing I could imagine. I couldn't stop picturing his parents,

what they would have felt seeing some dumb teenagers laughing and climbing all over a replica of their son's bike. After losing him the way they had. And not to mention, I knew his brother. Evan and I were in the same class. We were all six when his big brother got hit by the truck while working. his delivery route, we'd witness the devastation firsthand. Yeah, it had been 10 years, but one doesn't just forget something that horrible. And even if they'd had the excuse of not knowing, which they didn't, there was a plaque right there beneath the statue. The Paperboy's bike,

in loving memory of Henry J. Kevin's, 1970 to 1984. It had lights and everything. My turn. Jason climbed on just as I arrived and was reaching for his sleeve, fully intending to knock him off. Woo! Look at me! I shoved instead. He toppled off the other side, landing across Eric on the grass. What the hell, Nessa? Tara was too giggly to be sober.

Eric and Jason were laughing like lunatics. I glowered down at them, disgusted, and then paren't. pivoted to look at her. We went to his funeral, Tara. I stabbed a finger in the direction of the plaque. That seemed to take some of the laugh out of her. She gave me an irritated look instead, reaching down to grab the beer can and taking a swig.

When did you get so lame, Nessa? I was tempted to knock the can out of her hand, but there were some things a friendship just couldn't endure. When do you turn into such a jerk? I waved at the plaque again. What if Evans saw that? Nobody cares anymore, Nessa. It was like a zillion years ago.

Are they going to do arrest us? She tossed the mostly empty can on the sidewalk. It clanked and tipped over, spilling suds all over the concrete. I scowled, bending down to pick it up. I think she knew I would, too. I think she was counting on me being very not okay with littering on a dead kid's memorial because the instant my back was turned she climbed up on the bike and spread her arms like a tightrope walker whooping wildly.

Tim and Kylie grabbed the sides and pretended to push her. I threw the can away and turned on my heel, intending to head home. That was when I saw it for the first time. The blue truck idling at the corner. I'd lived on this block for most of my life and knew everybody on it. No one owned a blue truck. My first thought was that it was an unmarked police car. My second was that it was a pervert.

Either way, I was pissed at my soon-to-be former friends, but still felt obligated to warn them. How long has that truck been there? I grabbed Kylie and Tim, physically turning them in that direction. Tim, who'd had the least to drink, kind of shook his head. I don't know. It wasn't there when we got here. I think he was scared of me. Good. That was immensely satisfying at the time, and might have saved his life later. I looked at Kylie.

What if it's an undercover police truck? I asked, knowing full well that her dad was the deacon and would have a fit. As expected, she sobered up pretty quick, shooting suddenly nervous glances at it. I think we should go. She reached for Tara after I released her. Even Tara, Jason, and Eric were sitting up and looking. No way. Unmarked police cars are always black or white. Jason spoke with the confidence of the irredeemably idiotic. As expected, even though she was drunk and had a pair of her.

lost half of her brain cells hanging out with him. Tara sat up straighter on the bike, allowing Kylie to help her off as I walked away. What's it doing there then? Ew, I bet it's some kind of creep. Kylie let go of Tara and hurried to catch up to me. Probably because I was in volleyball and track and pretty athletic. I'd also been taking mixed martial arts off and on for a few years.

Not that it ever came to that. There was never a fight, a physical confrontation. I was almost to the end of the park when the rest of them caught up with me. Tim was carrying the pizza boxes. I tossed the can of beer in the first trash bin I passed, wiping the gross sticky sensation off on the grass. That hesitation gave them the time they needed to get there and meant I was just a few feet back when Eric tried to step out into the street.

The truck roared to life, headlights blazing, and leap toward him. The tire squealed and left big, greasy black marks on the street. I could smell the burnt rubber, bitter and pungent. Kylie screamed. I tried to lunch for Eric, but Jason got there first. He grabbed him by the back of his flannel shirt and hauled him onto the sidewalk. The truck bounced over the curb and missed him by what could have only been a handful of inches and then went tearing away into the night.

We all stood there, wide-eyed and in shock, for as long as it took for Eric to get back to his feet. He was clearly shaken. His eyes were bright with tears when he looked at Jason. Thank you. He tried to hit you, like, on purpose. We need to call the police. Terabeth nodded.

They all did. I wasn't even worried about letting them in the house at that point. Fuck getting grounded. There was some kind of psycho murderer on the loose. I grabbed Tara's arm and started to step off the curb when I heard it again. The same squeal of tires, the same roar of an engine. I threw myself backwards on instinct, taking Tara with me. I looked up just in time to see the truck hopped the curb and miss me by engines.

That was impossible. There was no way. That was a dead-end street. It couldn't possibly have gotten past us in the last 15 seconds. I scrambled to my feet and raced onto the green, huddling there with my friends in speechless horror. That was the same truck, right? Terabeth nodded. I covered my eyes, feeling like I was going to be sick.

It just appeared! Tim sounded like a little kid at that moment. Three or four instead of fourteen. I focused on taking deep breaths, but it was hard to around the taste of burnt rubber in the air. What are we going to do? The ghost truck is going to kill us, just like Henry. No, it's not. There's houses right over there.

Jason shifted and pointed further down the sidewalk, toward the boundary of the park that had no adjacent road. It wasn't connected to anything but someone's lawn. We'll just walk over and ask to use a phone. He was right. But Henry's house, we all shared a look. Eventually, Jason shook his head. It doesn't matter.

We can't stay here forever, and we can't cross the road. We have to go that way. He was right, again, but I didn't like it. We gathered together and prepared to walk to the other end of the park. No one said much at first, but it was pretty clear what we were all thinking. Silent accusations were flying through the air like daggers. I didn't have to be the one to voice them. Tara was the first.

She snapped at Jason. This is all your fault. If you hadn't dared him to get on the stupid bike, none of this would be happening. He's the one who got on it. Wow, I thought. Way to throw your best friend under the... I cut the thought off. The analogy made me feel green all over again.

What the hell? I was walking ahead of the rest of them, sick to death of their childish antics and bullshit. None of this would have happened. He made air quotes with both hands. If your girlfriend had invited us all over... Which turned all eyes to me. I could feel the blame for not letting them in my house rising

and turned around to ball them out. but stopped. Do you guys smell that? Had no place here, right smack dab in the middle of the park. But when I turned my head, I saw it. The road, not the next mile of the park. Henry's house was directly across from us,

separated by two dozen feet. I heard the engine rev and froze, staring in disbelief. The others turned around. Kylie screamed. Terabeth let out a terrible whale. There's no way. There's no way.

There's no way. There's no way. There's no way. There's no way. There's not supposed to be a road here. There isn't a road here. The house is on the wrong side. The park is bigger than... It has to be fake.

I can't hate Eric for saying that. He paid for it. God knows he did. Yeah, yeah, it has to be like, not real. Ghost are real. It must have been the beer. I didn't drink any. The smell, the sound, the feel of the truck when it rushed past my face.

None of that felt fake. I didn't think there was anything that could fool all five of my senses. The pizzas were they're wrong kind of mushrooms. We just got the wrong pizza meant for somebody else. Guys, I don't. But before I could finish, Jason bolted, straight out into the street, sprinting for the other side. He made it about halfway before the truck hit him. He flew so far.

I think I blocked everything out, but the sound. That sound, though. Oh, that sound. And the shriek, Tara produced. I'll never forget that either. It wasn't a natural sound. No human could make that under any other circumstances. Raw, almost animal.

It must have torn her throat to shreds. She was still screaming when Eric ran down the sidewalk. He's still alive! I doubted that. I doubted it very much. I just think he hadn't settled yet. Eric must have believed or maybe he was just in shock or, I don't know.

We have to go get him! We can't just leave him there! And out he went. Around the truck came again. Somehow back where it had started without having passed us at all. Headlights, a grisly orange, painted with Jason's blood. It jumped when it rolled over him. Bounced.

I flinched and looked away. Something hit the ground beside me. I looked down reflexively. It was Eric. His eyes were wide open, but it was clear to me he was gone. Mostly because of the way his body was twisted up. Kylie fainted. Tim turned and looked at me, eyes wide with panic.

He's dead. There, that's my brother! Poor guy. Poor kid. I don't wish that kind of pain on anyone. There's no point. We're going to die here. We're all going to...

And he turned to the road. I just barely managed to hold him back, snagging his arm at the last second and hauling him back into my chest. He wouldn't want you to die. I don't know where the words came from, but they burst out of me with a life of their own. If we just wait, maybe there's a chance. There has to be away.

He sobbed. I held him until he stopped trying to tug away. turned him so neither of us had to watch the truck loop over and over and over until it was a blue blur, lights trailing all around it. When I felt he wasn't going to bolt anymore, I let him go and bent to check on Kylie and found the newspaper. Right next to Eric, a neatly folded newspaper speckled in blood. Filled with horror, I scooped the thing up with a sort of scream I used. usually reserved for a fat spider and brew it with all my might across the street to my shock and

amazement it made it flew all the way to the other side and landed neatly on the lawn of henry's house the truck had vanished i watched for a few minutes more looked to the left and right no sign of the truck i stuck my foot out and tapped the ground nothing happened I took a deep breath and stepped out, holding my breath as I walked. I thought every step was going to be my last. Every single millisecond I waited to hear the scream of tires and the primal growl of an engine. I didn't dare open my eyes until I kicked the curb and tripped, tumbling onto the sidewalk on the other side,

scrape my knees and palms open, but I'd never been so happy to scrape a knee in my entire life. I rolled over and saw Tim, Kylie, and Tara on the other side. Kylie was just starting to sit up with Tim's help. Tara was watching me. I locked eyes with her and smiled. But when she moved toward the road, we both heard it. The engines growl.

My heart plummeted. I looked toward the house, sprinted toward it, actually. But on the way I got slapped in the back with something that nearly knocked. me over. I thought for a second that it was the truck and my heart hit my ribs so hard I thought it was going to shatter. When I regained my balance and twisted around, realizing what it was that had hit me and that I wasn't dead in the same moment, there was a newspaper lying at my feet. Tim was walking across the road, trembling with terror. I ran back, holding out my arms to him, coaxing him when he had nearly reached the edge of the street, and we both heard the engine

roar. I looked up and saw Tara trying to cross. Too soon, I guessed, or maybe because she hadn't thrown the paper. Tim told me afterwards they'd handed it to him because he had the strongest arm. The truck nearly mowed them both down. I hauled Tim the last few inches to safety and threw him on the lawn, taking a deep breath and waiting. Sure enough, a few seconds later, a newspaper flew across the road and landed, just barely, on the cusp of the lawn. The truck vanished at the end of the road, and Kylie walked across to me, woodenly, each step halting and awkward. But she made it. She made it across, and the three of us gathered, waiting for Tara's throw. It landed halfway across the street, neatly in the middle of the

solid white lines. I heard her scream, and I waited. waited, hoped that it would return to her side the way it had with Tim, Kylie, and me. But it didn't. It sat there in the middle of the road, right between the tires of the truck as it swept around and around and around again. I don't know how long we waited until I turned and sprinted up the lawn to the Kevin's house. I pounded on the door, sobbing the whole time, until I realized there wasn't anyone to answer it. They'd moved across town years ago. This house had been vacant ever since.

The second that realization crossed my mind, the door opened, as if of its own volition, there was a teenage boy on the other side. He looked at me, and I looked at him for what felt like an eternity, so much like Evan, and then he smiled, and I heard the smack. I looked down and saw a newspaper laying at my feet. But it hadn't come from the other side of the road, from Tara. It said, memorial statue installed at Lincoln Avenue Park, in honor of local team, slain in a hit and run.

I don't remember making it to the next house down. I barely remember the elderly couple that answered, even though I'd known them my whole life. The sirens, those are crystal clear. The look on my parents' faces when they got home the next morning, That's clear too. I went to Eric's funeral, mostly just to support Tim. It was hard.

It was hard seeing his whole family devastated. I didn't go to Jasons. I regret that a little bit. I just couldn't bring myself to go, knowing they still hadn't found Tara at the time. Her body showed up two weeks later at the far end of the park, curled up next to the fence that divided the Kevin's old property from the public space. She was skin and bones, from what I understand.

They said she'd starve to death, just a few feet from help. She must have gone to hide, they said, because obviously no one believed a ghost truck had killed Eric and Jason. She wasn't there when they went to look for her. For a while, they thought she'd been kidnapped. Some folks still think she was and that the kidnapper just dropped her off at the park when she was on the cusp of death.

The community put in a series of speed bumps around the park a few months later. I don't know if that'll help though. So, for your sake, and the sake of anyone you care about, don't ride the paper boy's bike. Welcome to Goat Valley Campgrounds. Looking for the boat valley campgrounds.

for a place to escape your busy life and reconnect with nature. Goat 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 3

Have you ever walked by an abandoned house and wondered what was inside? Perhaps some of you even entered one. You were lucky. Not everyone comes out. We have our share of these rundown buildings. The local economy is, well, lacking. Family-owned stores fail. Barnes fall into disuse.

Something happens to the previous occupants of a farmhouse, and no one's willing to move in, leaving it for the wind and the weeds to claim. Desolate places. Haunted by failed ambitions. Every town has them. And they appear in the oddest places, don't they? Almost like they're placed where they want to be found. We're drawn to the places we fear.

It's an odd paradox of humanity. We shun these broken and battered things, knowing in our heart, that they're not always empty, that their hollow shells may host more than just dust and mold. Yet they eat at the edges of our minds. They consume our imaginations until someone succumbs and walks inside. Not all of them come out. My name is Kate.

This is Goat Valley Campgrounds. The sheriff finished six years ago. It was during the early spring when the nights were still cold, and we only got the dedicated campers that enjoy that sort of weather. Which is a shame. The campground is pleasant during the early spring. The trees are luminescent in the sunlight. Their leaves glow gold,

and the spirits of the forest and field are beginning to stir. The queen of spring and fertility might even pass through, and we leave out offerings just in case she graces our campground. It's probably the safest part of the year, provided it isn't the week of Pentecost. You should strongly consider visiting us in the spring. Just check the rating on your sleeping bag first. I don't want to get panicked phone calls about rule number 19 at 3 in the morning

just because you didn't pack appropriately for the weather. Rule number 19 for the record states, while it can get cold at night, you should not see frost forming inside your tent. If you are woken by the cold and see frost, call the camp emergency number. Stay calm and stay in your tent. We'll come get you. Also, don't forget about rule number 16. don't eat food you find sitting out around the campsite.

It's not yours. And worse, it might be an offering and you will offend whoever it is intended for. There's at least one culture that I know of where the goddess of spring infertility is also the goddess of fire. And while no one wants to die, you especially don't want to die that way.

Anyway, six years ago, we had some campers that had clearly not read the list of rules or maybe they did and thought they were just some kind of joke because they broke rule number three. Don't follow the lights. I can't believe I even have to say this one. Don't follow the lights. They wound up exiting the campsite

without anything bad happening to them, at which point they lost sight of the lights because they were no longer on old land. They were on a road. This is when they called the camp emergency line, as they realized they were lost and weren't wanting to try to figure out the way back so late at night,

Not when they were on a road and someone could easily come and pick them up. Is this Goat Valley campgrounds? It is. What's the problem? I'm accustomed to being woken up with emergencies, so I was able to go from being sound asleep to fully coherent in a matter of seconds. We're lost. We left the campground road and now we're not sure how to get back to our camp. Did you follow the lights? Yes.

I told you not to follow the lights. First off, is there anything unusual near you? Patches of ice, the sound of someone begging for help, or even just a strange sense of unease? No, no, nothing like that. We're just lost. We're near the road, like a normal road, one for cars, not the campground roads. Huh?

You're not on the campground land then? That's odd. Okay, stay where you're at. I'll make a lap around the campground, and I should see you if you stay in one place. Seriously, don't go wandering around. You got lucky this time. Don't push it. The lights always take people to danger.

In the past, they've led campers to the thing in the dark as it roamed the campground, or tricked them into approaching the lady in chains, or simply brought them up around my house near dawn when the beast arrives. It isn't adverse to a quick snack before carrying off the little girl. It struck me as odd that the lights would take them off the campground. There's a lake nearby on a neighbor's land, but that's a bit of a hike to get to, and they'd see the lights of the landowner's house

before blundering into the water and encountering any of the creatures at shelters. What was so dangerous that the lights would forego all other threats on my land and lead them there. I was uneasy as I put on some jeans and my shoes and got my car keys. Dawn was a long way off, so I estimated that I'd be able to find them, and return them to their campsite

and still have time to return to the house before the beast arrived. The little girl skipped alongside the car as I eased it out of the garage and down the driveway. But she was also still sobbing while skipping, so it was a bit unnerving. Nothing about this felt right.

Something had come to my campground. It sat on the outskirts, waiting for us, like a spider in its web. It started raining as I was pulling through the gate and onto the road that led out of the campground. Inwardly, I groaned. The forecast had said only a 40% chance, but it seemed we'd gotten unlucky, for the rain quickly escalated into a downpour, covering my windshield and a sheet of water as I pulled out

onto the road that wound along the west side of the campgrounds. At least they weren't on campground land, I thought. The rain can be dangerous for people caught out in it. But fortunately, people don't go on out in the rain because, well, rain. They stay under shelter, and thus, Stay safe, and the only emergencies we have to respond to is if someone's tent collapses. I covered the west side of the campsite and was almost to the south road when the lost campers called me back. Sorry, I know you told us to stay put, but it's raining, and we're wet and cold.

And it's almost 2 a.m., and I want to be back in my bed asleep, but here we are with you making life difficult for me. Where did you go? We took shelter on the front porch of the house. It wasn't far. There's no lights inside and no one answered when we knocked. So we're just going to stay on the porch until we see your car. The house is visible from the road. It should be fine, right? Fine.

Do you better come running when you see my headlights and stay on the phone with me? I couldn't shake the bad feeling I had. I drove slowly across the south side and then up the east. And then I was at the northern border. See anything yet? Nothing. No cars have come by at all. I thought about it a moment, trying to place where they were.

Are there any landmarks? You should have seen me by now. No, it's just an open field and intermittent trees all around us. The house is the only building at sight. The campsite borders a major road to the south and some fields and houses to the east and west. The north is just empty land. They'd come out the north. They were on the ass end of nowhere and there shouldn't be any house.

out there. I didn't know whose front porch they were standing on. You need to leave the porch. Go wait by the road. Now. Oh, the door opened. I guess someone is home. My family doesn't deal with things that exist outside the campground boundaries. It's not because we can't or won't, but because they're a different sort of threat. One that cannot be contained and endangers everyone in the area. So I called the sheriff. And I turned on to the north road and drove slowly. Slowly, peering through the dark and the rain, straining to see a house nestled in among the trees. I drove past it twice, and finally, on the third pass, I saw it. A small wood building was nestled not far from the road, at the base of a slight slope.

The porch covered half the front of the house, and the windows were vacant and dark. No one stood outside. No flashlight beams illuminated the interior. I pulled halfway off the road, as far as I could with the nearly non-existent shoulder. I waited in my car until the sheriff arrived, and I was deeply relieved to see his headlights appear in my rearview mirror. Waiting in the dark and the rain like that, with the house hunched ominously in the corner of my vision, while I kept a careful watch on the trees to either side of the road. It was a little stressful, to say the least. At one point, a dead branch had fallen

from a tree and it felt like my heart was still hammering in my chest, even as I got out of the car to go greet the sheriff. That house shouldn't be here. He held out his umbrella so I could duck under it. Yeah, no shit. Two of my campers followed the lights. They dumped them off around here and their phone disconnected after they took shelter on that porch. I've called for backup. We can wait until they get here and then sweep the house to find the bodies. What do you think? Should be over. Should be over. Okay. The natural things tend to scurry off into the night when humans show up in mass. Whenever grabbed them, we'll probably be gone by the time we break down that front door. Too bad about the rain. Otherwise, we could just set the house on fire and call it a day.

This is why I liked the old sheriff. He took care of things. While I relied on rituals and appeasements, he believed in assault rifles and gasoline. And sure, gunfire isn't going to kill everything, were most things, if we're being honest, but nothing, human or otherwise, likes being shot. It'd knock a lot of things down, and after that, well, that's what the gasoline is for. Fire is more effective than bullets. We'll still need to burn it.

This house isn't supposed to be here. You can always start the fire from the inside, and it'll burn up the support beams and collapse the roof. Good plan. But let's make sure to get the bodies out First, it'll be nice to send something home to their families. We don't get to do that very often. Yeah, sure.

Sounds great. Something was moving inside the house. Look, I tapped the sheriff on the elbow and pointed. He fell silent and then pressed the handle of the umbrella into my palms. He moved towards the house, walking slowly, his hand falling to unclip his pistol in the holster. I followed just behind him. glancing back and forth to watch our flanks. Not that it would have done a lot of good.

Have you been out in the country at night? I'm used to the darkness, but I think people forget how bright the cities and suburbs are. Out here, in the rain, it's like the world ends outside the narrow beam of a flashlight. The sheriff paused just short of the porch. He shone the flashlight into the window and the house swallowed the light up,

presenting us with an inky void and nothing more. I wondered if perhaps the windows were covered on the inside. A body slammed against the window. I screamed and fell backwards, slipping on the mud and falling, landing hard on my ass in a puddle. The umbrella bounced away, and the cold rain shocked the panic out of me. And I stared up at the house in naked horror as a young man stared back at me. His eyes were wide, the whites vivid in the light of the sheriff's flashlight. His skin pale where his palms pressed against the pain of glass.

His mouth was open. He was screaming something, desperately yelling directly at us. His gaze locked onto my face. But I couldn't hear anything except for the roar of the rain. Something jerked him backwards. He flew away from us. His hands outstretched towards the window. His mouth opened in a shriek.

His eyes still fixed on me in mindless desperation. The darkness inside swallowed him, like he vanished behind a cloud, and the interior was an empty voice. once more. The sheriff didn't hesitate. He stripped off his rain jacket, wrapped it around his fist a couple times, and then punched the fucking window in. He knocked the glass away and fumbled with the pain, unlocking it and sliding it up. What are you doing? They're not going to get here in time. It never works out that way. We're always too late.

But no, don't! My pleading did nothing to stop him. He put a leg through. He put a leg through. through and eased the rest of his body into that house, and the darkness swallowed him up. No, no, no, no, what? There was no way I was following the sheriff inside. I can't even claim that I was doing the sensible thing and waiting to tell the backup what the situation was, because I knew in my heart that the sheriff was right. These entities, all of them, the things on our campground and the things that hunt elsewhere, never let numbers get the better of them.

They slip away well before help. arrives, and yes, this was a house we're talking about, but it had somehow gotten here where there had been no house before, and I didn't doubt that whatever was inside would whisk its layer away before it could be stormed by angry men with guns and cans of gasoline. These things only yielded up the dead, and only on their terms. So if I'm being honest, I didn't go after the sheriff because I was afraid. And I know there was nothing I could have done at any point to save him,

but I didn't even try. And logically, I know I would have been lost too if I'd attempted it, but I can't help but hate myself for it. The next part is hard to talk about. The front door was flung open. I saw the sheriff and he seemed larger. His eyes shone like an animal's in the light of my flashlight

and his frame filled the doorway. I think this is just my imagination, remembering him as something powerful, something indomitable. I wish it were so. He was just a man caught in the teeth of something terrible. Yet despite the odds, he had the young man with him. One fist was gripped tight on the back of the man's jacket, and he was hauling him along,

the poor boy almost too terrified to move. Gates, here, keep him safe. And he threw him forwards. The man stumbled on the steps of the porch, and he fell into the mud, and I moved to help him. It's okay. I'm here. I got you. You're going to be fine. I'll be back with the other one.

And the sheriff? He went back inside. I dragged the man away from the house. There was something in the darkness. It spoke to me. It kept asking me things. It was demanding something from us. I don't remember.

I just kept going. Yes, yes, I'm sure it was awful, but please, shut up. Susan, my girlfriend, she's still in there. Where is she? I need to go get her. Oh, no, you're not going anywhere. I've already got one valiant idiot to deal with. You stay put right there.

My back suit is going to be soaked. Are you going to be able to save her? Sure. We're great at that around here. He nodded at me. pale and shivering. And I shut the door on him and returned to stand vigil at the house, waiting for the sheriff's return. He'd gotten one of them out, and because of this, I allowed myself a faint glimmer of hope. The door swung slowly back and forth in the wind. It peered into

the darkness that my flashlight could not breach, waiting. And the sheriff emerged for a second time, both hands around a woman. She was screaming hysterically and fighting, thrashing and kicking at her rescuer. A little helpful at this one? He had her in a bear hug and was literally carrying her from the building. I stepped forward to the very edge of the porch and reached out a hand to grab her from him. I should be in bed right now, but no. My hand closed over her. wrist just as the darkness boiled out of the house. It was like watching a pot overflow. Thick bubbles of inky blackness churned out of the doorframe and around the sheriff, enveloping him in an instant. I saw his arms outstretched, shoving the woman forwards to where I

stood waiting. I pulled, but the darkness searched forward. Thick, hustules rolling over the woman as well, and there was a moment of pressure as it pulled back towards the house. and I dug my heels into the mud, felt myself slipping. I considered letting go, lest I be pulled in, too, and then it released her. I fell backwards, stumbling wildly, and I hit the ground for a second time that night, and I stayed there, sitting in a puddle and staring at the wrist still clutched in my fingers. A wrist, an elbow, a shoulder, and part of a rib cage, and nothing more. The house was gone, and with it, the sheriff and the rest of the woman.

We claimed that the woman had an accident in the rain, fell and broke her neck, and died in the woods or something. There's wild animals about, and that was why we could only recover part of the body. That's the excuse we gave. The young man, we said, was separated from her while lost, and we recovered him. A little hypothermic, but no serious injuries. I lost track of what happened to him after he was released from the hospital. He came back to our town, though, many years later. The police found him dead after a local called in a car crash.

We'd have assumed it was a suicide if it weren't for the dashboard camera that I suspect he'd gotten specifically to provide evidence of what he was seeing. He'd driven off the road in an attempt to ram the house with his car. The house vanished before he hit it and he tried to turn but couldn't. Not before he smashed into a particularly stout tree. The police let me see the video of the camera and then destroyed it. You see, the house is still around. People see it every now and then.

Never for long. Only for a handful of seconds, perhaps a minute or two. Long enough to get a second look, sometimes a third, just enough to confirm that it's that tiny wooden house with the porch and the black windows. The door hangs open, barely a foot. It never appears in the same place twice, at least not in the reports I've gathered. I've marked them on a map I keep folded in my desk.

The sheriff is still alive. The woman is not. And there was half of her lung in the piece the darkness left behind after it severed her out of my grasp. She couldn't have survived that. But the sheriff, the lady with extra eyes, gave me a candle not long after he vanished. She told me to light it, and when it went out,

then I would know that he was dead. I don't think she was trying to console me. It sits in my bedroom on top of my dresser. It's been burning for six years now. I feel the weight of my guilt every time I look at it, pressing on my shoulders. And I hear the rain and see that darkness bubbling out of the house and the sheriff's outstretched hands

shoving the woman to safety in a last futile gesture. He shouldn't have gone back in. One would have been enough. Or perhaps I shouldn't have been so frightened. Perhaps I should have stepped up on that porch, been closer, had better footing, and been able to wrench her free before it was too late, and then his sacrifice wouldn't have been in vain. I think it's more likely that I would have been swallowed up by the house as well. I've dealt with monsters and demons, but I don't think that made me particularly brave. I wasn't like the old sheriff.

I couldn't throw myself into the teeth of the unknown for the sake of. of a stranger. I wrote my rules, and I cleaned up the mess when someone doesn't follow them. But I wasn't there, fighting for my campers that go astray. I wasn't the one braving whatever lay inside the vanishing house. And at that time, I thought I never would. 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,

Jesse Cornett as the former sheriff, Andrew Tate as one of the campers, and Mary Murphy as another camper. Join us next week for Chapter 4 of Goat Valley Campgrounds. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shes. 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 past 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.

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