The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep17: NoSleep Podcast S17E17

Episode Date: March 27, 2022

It’s Episode 17 of Season 17. Our spells teach you dark lessons.“Movie Night” written by Tor-Anders Ulven (Story starts around 00:05:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson“Licking Bathroom Floors” written by E. T. Webster (Story starts around 00:10:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jeff Clement“Life Lessons with Dweeb Higgins” written by Doug Mallette (Story starts around 00:25:45)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – David Cummings, Jodie – Jessica McEvoy, Dweeb Higgins – Graham Rowat, Producer – Mary Murphy, Miss Q – Nichole Goodnight“Goat Valley Campgrounds – Chapter 4” written by Bonnie Quinn (Story starts around 01:16:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Kate – Linsay Rousseau, Kate’s Dad – Mike DelGaudio, Kate’s Mom – Nikolle Doolin, Louisa – Wafiyyah White, Dapple-Gray Stallion – Elie Hirschman, Little Girl – Nichole Goodnight, Tyler – Matthew Bradford, Buyer – Dan Zappulla“Wakey Wakey” written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 01:12:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson, Woman – Penny Scott-Andrews“So Heavy” written by CM Scandreth (Story starts around 01:24:25)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Ilana Charnelle, Doctor – Jake Benson“Toualetehydrophobia” written by Kevin David Anderson (Story starts around 01:44:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: David – Mike DelGaudio, Jacob – Danielle McRae, Gayle – Kristen DiMercurio, Karen – Wafiyyah White, Dr. Adams – Dan Zappulla, Nurse – Sarah Thomas, Assistant – Atticus JacksonThis episode is sponsored by:Truebill – Truebill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don’t need, want, or simply forgot about. Start cancelling today at Truebill.com/nosleep. It could save you THOUSANDS a year.ShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your online orders faster, cheaper and more efficiently. You’ll spend a lot less time on shipping and a lot more time growing your business. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more “The Ghosts You Know: Five Nightmares Before Bedtime” by L.R. ColeClick here to learn more about Gemma AmorClick here to learn more about CM ScandrethClick here to learn more about Kevin David AndersonExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneEpisode artwork provided with the kind permission of the “Life Lessons with Dweeb Higgins™” showAudio 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

We've got horror to Florida, screen screams from movies and TV, plus another chapter of Goat Valley Campgrounds, coming right up on the No Sleep podcast. And speaking of watching movies and TV, how are all your streaming services doing these days? If you're like me, you're searching through a lot of content and watching a lot of money drain out of your bank account every month, and we've all heard how these subscription prices are going up and up,

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Truebill.com slash no sleep. It could save you thousands a year. Truebill.com slash no sleep. And as you'll learn on this episode, some movies and TV shows are better off not being watched. Intrigued? Well, get ready. because the horror is starting right now.

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 tones declared. And from those days, both present and past, we beseech you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. The sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings. Well, I must say, things have been weird this week.

Very weird. It's hard to explain why. There's just been a general vibe of, peculiarity, an outlandish feel to everything I've done, almost like existence itself is haunted. And speaking of haunted, contributing author and friend of the show, L.R. Cole has a new book out. It's called The Ghosts You Know, Five Haunted Tales Before Bedtime. Sometimes distinguishing what's real or imagined can be a decidedly arduous task. In the end, it always seems wiser to stay close to those ghosts.

you know. It's available in paperback and e-book format. Some of the stories may seem familiar to listeners of the show. Some will be entirely new. All of them will leave you with a lingering sense of unease. Links are in the show notes on where you can buy this fantastic book. But beyond that, things are going smoothly, aside from the aforementioned strange feeling. I registered my interest in booking a stay in Gold Meadow, and I'm waiting to hear back if I'm one of the lucky ones to get a place in the first batch of visitors. Another strange thing recently is that I've been having an overwhelming desire to watch movies. The problem is I can never decide on what to watch. I'm considering asking a friend to help me choose.

And there's something special about him, you know? Magical. Sharing an experience with someone. Now when you really care about, moments to remember. Doesn't matter if the movie is shitty. Or the acting is bad. Or if there's plot holes all over. In the end, it's all about the people you're with.

Man, you gotta watch this part. You'll love this. I say popcorn flying all over as I flail my arms around excitedly. Yes. I am one of those people. Freddy doesn't seem to mind. Most people hate it when I talk too much, or when I get a little too animated.

But Freddy, Freddy really gets me, you know? He knows, I mean nothing by it. He doesn't even win, old Freddy. What a champ. Did you see that shit? I punch him playfully in the shoulder. Freddy and I go way back. Old pals, you know?

It's Freddy, right? Yeah, it has to be. He's got that, uh, that face. Freddy, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred. Frederick, D.F train. A little on the shy side, old Freddy, doesn't talk much. That's all right, though, Freddy. I can do the talking.

Freddy, Frilly, Friley. I say, stuffing my face. with yet another fistful of popcorn. This is it. One hell of a movie, man. He'd never admit it. But he loves it. I can tell.

He doesn't want to love it. But he does. That's Freddy for you. Don't let those dead old eyes fool you. He's a barrel of emotions, that one. Real softy when push comes to shove. Look at him. Shake an all leaf-like.

Oh, he's feeling it all right. Oh, man, this is my favorite part. I nudge him. Remember this part, Freddy? Sure he does. He saw it live not an hour ago. I could tell already. Then, that he'd love the director's cut.

See? I told you. I leaned forward to get a better angle. I fucked up when I cut her throat. There's not enough blood. That's why I had to do the second take. Freddy cheers me on by wailing hysterically. We're all different, Freddy.

We all show excitement in different ways. I mean, your wife, that was smooth. I note with professional interest, she bled out in seconds. She didn't fight back. Like your daughter. Just calm. He only accepted it. He's rocking back and forth in the couch wildly.

I guess the rope will hold a little while longer. Soon. At the end credits now. I pat him on the back. I gotta say, Freddy. This has been an ingenuble evening. We should do it again sometime. Freddy is such a stand-up fellow.

He doesn't want me to leave. I can tell. I know Freddy. No, Freddy. We go way back. All right. All right. I say, rewinding the tape. Just one more time.

Yeah? What is this? The tenth viewing? You must really dig this movie, Freddy. Can't say I blame you, though. It's a true masterpiece. Movie Nights, man. There's something special about movie night.

On second thought, perhaps I shouldn't ask author Tor Anders Olvin about movies. Oh well. In our first tale, we're privy to a recording made by a man in a very strange situation. His current therapist is retiring, and the replacement needs to be caught up to speed. Why not just read the patient files, you ask? Well, in this tale, shared with us by author E.T. Webster, The case is so strange that it can only be told straight from the horse's mouth. Performing this tale is Jeff Clement.

So try not to worry about patient doctor confidentiality. This scenario is far too strange to keep private. Let the world find out why this man can't stop licking bathroom floors. Two, three. So, Dr. Haskins asked me to record this. to help with continuation of care. I'm sure he'll be going over all the treatment notes and stuff with you, but he said it would be good to have my narrative all in one place for you as well.

Dr. Haskins is a really nice guy, and I hope he enjoys his retirement. I'm going to miss him. No offense to the new guy, of course. Okay, so the best of the best. Big issue, I guess, is that I love licking bathroom floors. I like to spread my tongue out as wide as I can and then get down real low, like pushing myself across the floor. Because when you do it that way, you can barely see more than like three inches in front of you.

And so you have this little window of time where you see a stain coming, but you're, you're, You don't know what it's going to taste like yet. Is it going to be salty or sweet or hungent or what? I mean, I can kind of guess based on a color sometimes, but I still get surprised from time to time. Oh, and sometimes I'll hit something sticky that's run down between two tiles, and I'll have to try to get it out with just the tip of my tongue. Um, when that happens, I like to drool on it a little bit to soften it up.

And then I can usually get it out. I'm sorry I have to put some of my medicine on. The sores on my tongue have almost healed up, and the ones in my lips are better too. They keep the bathroom floor really clean here, and they don't use any chemicals on it. Just lots of hot water, I guess. It's not as good as, you know, like a truck stop bathroom. But I guess I'm doing better. There was one time before I came here that I got these, like, really hard blisters all over the insides of my cheeks.

Like a bunch of hot, like pomegranate seeds. You know, pretty small and hard. And then when they burst, there was, like, some blood and pus inside. Still no idea what caused that. Anyway, I'm supposed to be telling you my narrative, not complaining. Narrative is what Dr. Haskins calls my story, because he's too nice to say that he thinks I'm full of shit.

So I was about halfway through college when this happened. I was sharing an apartment with a guy named Nathan. The way it was set up, there were two bedrooms, and the bathroom was in between them. Like, there was a door from each bedroom to the bathroom, and then the rooms also opened onto a hallway. And there was, you know, a kitchen and, like, a room that was a combination dining slash living room.

Anyway, it was way nicer than I could afford on my own, which is why when Nathan said that he was dropping out and moving back home, I was frankly a bit ticked off. But he was like, don't worry, I found this guy to take over my part of the lease. He's really cool. He goes to our school and he keeps to himself most of the time.

So I was like, okay, fine. It's just a few more weeks until the quarter's over and then break. And then if it's really bad, I can find somewhere else to live. So Nathan introduced me to this guy, Greg Vance, who's taking over the lease and, well, Greg was weird. For one thing, he was obviously way older than a regular college student, like his hair was thinning a little at the top, and he just looked unhealthy. He was really skinny, really pale. He had these big, thick glasses, and frankly, the dude kind of stunk.

I mean, he smelled like beer that's been left sitting in the sun for too long, you know? Musty. Anyway, Nathan helped Greg move all these boxes and suitcases and stuff into his old room. And Greg put some food in the fridge, and for a few days I thought things were going to work out okay. guy at all. He was in his room pretty much all the time, typing on his computer. That bothered me a little bit because he typed like really loud, and it seemed like he was at it pretty much 24-7. But I just started wearing headphones while I was studying and putting on music at night to go to sleep, so, you know, no big deal. The bigger deal was that Greg would not help around the

apartment at all. me and Nathan had a system worked out where we'd clean up after ourselves and then there was a rotation on who would clean the common areas once a week. Greg would just leave dirty dishes on the table, counter, in the sink. And if I didn't wash them, then they would just sit there getting grosser and grosser. I left probably a dozen notes for him, but when that didn't work, I knew I had to talk to him. Sorry, all this talking is making some source break open. So here's what I saw when I opened his door to talk to him. He had one of the biggest computer setups I'd ever seen in person.

Five monitors all covered in lines of code and different graphs and charts and stuff, like something out of a cheap sci-fi show. On the wall behind the computer were printouts of, I guess, MRI scans or cat scans of the brain. You know, those cross-sections with different parts lighted up. Hundreds of them. And then laying on the desk was this thing shaped like a hairdriar, connected to the computer by a thick black cable.

The front of it had all these protrusions, these things sticking out. I think maybe they were metal. Anyway, I didn't get a good look, and I definitely didn't get a chance to talk about chores because Greg absolutely flipped out, jumped out of his chair in front of the computer, pushed me out of his room, just yelling at me about coming in without knocking at his privacy and everything. Basically decided to just keep the apartment clean myself. And once the quarter was over, I was out of there. and I really think that would have been it if the girls hadn't started coming over. I come out of my room in the morning and there'd be some random girl on her own way out

or wearing boxers and a t-shirt and poking around the kitchen for a clean bowl and some cereal. The only thing they had in common was that they were all cheerleader hot. And I told you about Greg already, right? I mean, these girls were obviously way, way out of his league. Told myself it wasn't any of my business, but I couldn't help but wondered what was going on, you know? Like maybe Greg was rich or was doing their assignments for them or, hey, he had all that computer equipment, maybe he was a hacker and he was blackmailing them or something. But like I said, I decided that it really was.

really wasn't any of my business, and I was pretty focused on just riding out the corner. But then one morning, the girl eating breakfast at my table was Amber. No mistaking her. She had this curly strawberry blonde hair and the bluest eyes in the world. Man, she'd been my grade school crush, and then my best friend in high school. And I knew for a fucking fact, she would never willingly sleep with a guy like Greg. Not for money, not for grades, not for blackmail, period. I spun on my heel, marched back through the bedroom, and found Greg brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

I grabbed his shoulder, spun him round, and slammed him hard up against the bathroom wall. The toothbrush went flying out of his mouth and his eyes were wide behind his thick glasses. I yelled out of him. to leave Amber alone. I remember telling him, I don't know what your deal is,

and I don't fucking care, but you never go near her again. He opened his mouth to say something. I just wound up and punched him square in the nose. I'm not really a puncher, probably lucky I didn't break my knuckles or something. Brick's nose started bleeding, though. He kept his hands around it

and ran back into his room. leaving a trail of blood across the tile floor. I went back out of the living area, but Amber was gone. I tried calling her between classes all day that day, but I wasn't able to reach her. When I got back to the apartment, it was obvious Greg had locked himself in his room again. I made cup of ramen for dinner and sat there wondering what the hell was going on, you know, wondering if I should call the police or talk to the... university or what? I went to sleep that night and woke to a heavy weight pressing me down into the

bed and a tight circle of metal protrusions pushed against the side of my skull. There was a high-pitched wine and that's it. That's the end of my narrative. I know Dr. Haskins has talked to my original roommate, Nathan. And he swears up and down that he was in school and in that apartment all quarter, and that I was the one locking myself away in my room for days at a time. I know the name never changed on the lease. I know Amber says she never met, Greg. I know the university doesn't have any records on him. And look, intellectually, I'm not. Intellectually, I'm I know that in reality there's not some random weirdo with a mind control Ray gun out there. But that's what I remember.

Just like I remember waking up the next morning and finding the door to Greg's room open and the room empty like no one had ever been there. Just like I remember, turning and seeing those dark red spots of dried blood on the tile floor. or elevating in anticipation with licking bathroom floors. Well, some of our stories really do leave a bad taste in your mouth. Let's take a short break from that unpleasantness. So, spring has sprung, and plenty of our listeners are gearing up for a busy summer. And with so many of us running online businesses from our homes,

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No sleep to get a 60-day free trial. That's two months free of no hassle, stress-free shipping. Just go to shipstation.com. Click on the microphone at the top of the page and type in No Sleep. Ship Station. Yes, make ship happen. So there you go. I hope you've learned a little bit from this.

And if you want to learn more life lessons, you're in luck. We have some for you right now. It's important to have a role model. growing up, a hero that you can learn from and aspire to be like, someone who can teach you all those lessons that you might just ignore when they come from parents or teachers. And in this tale, shared with us by author Doug Mallet, we learn of one such idol from that most beloved of institutions, Children's Television. I perform this tale alongside Jessica McAvoy, Graham Rowett, Mary Murphy and Nicole Goodnight.

So let's be grateful that they're bringing the classics back. Who doesn't love a reboot? We're going to learn from the best as we receive life lessons with Dweeb Higgins. The good behavior of an entire generation can, in part, be credited to Dweeb Higgins. He was a friendly face, a reliable teacher, a daily presence that filled the mushy gray matter of impressionable children with lessons that would last a lifetime. Kids found him entertaining. Parents found him educational.

Networks found him profitable. Until he wasn't. He was a TV puppet, and he died the only death a TV puppet can. He was canceled. That was 30 years ago. Today, Jody stands in front of a large, windowless building. Satellites rise like rusting horns from the rooftop.

It's a terribly plain building, but Jody still looks at it with wonder because inside, there is a world of possibilities. The job hunt has been a grind, the rejections being outnumbered only by those that never responded at all. All of those potential jobs were just that, though. Jobs. Clerical work, pushing people.

paper. They would pay the bills, and yes, she needed to pay the bills. But this job, the possibility inside this terribly plain building, this was a job she wanted. Have you heard of the show? The producer sits behind a small desk. She scours a notepad, finding Jody's name and adding a little check beside it. She hasn't offered her own name yet, and Jody would be too preoccupied to remember anyway. She's been rehearsing answers to possible interview questions all day, and there's been little room to think about much else. She couldn't tell you what she had for breakfast, but if asked where she sees herself in five years, she could tell you all about how writing for the rebooted Dweeb Higgins show is the perfect start to writing her own children's book,

without so much as a single um or a. And yes, she's heard of the show. Oh, definitely. When I was little, I used to watch every morning. He'd teach you how to brush your teeth, how to tie your shoes. I think I even learned not to touch a hot stove. Jody can say all of this with confidence because it's true. Life Lessons with Dweeb Higgins was Can't Miss Television for pre-stove.

school Jody. So much that she learned in school has faded in the decades since graduation. Calculus and stoichiometry underutilized to the point of erasure, but Jody has never forgotten things like Dweeb Higgins' rule of sharing. S-T-R-A-N-G-E. Strange. Sharing totally rocks and nurtures great energy. So get out there and get strange, kids, Dweeb would often say. It's just so great that you're bringing it back. We think this new generation needs to weave, but we need to make sure we meet the demands of the modern child. Things have changed.

It's a spiel the producer has given before, just as rehearsed as Jody's own answers. Jody agrees. They sure have. The song comes so naturally. A theme song she sang a hundred, hundred times as a little girl. Even as an adult, Jody sometimes finds herself humming it.

An earworm sleeping soundly in her subconscious, occasionally waking to the sweet smell of nostalgia. All you need is a friend like dweeb to learn a lesson. The producer smiles, charmed. The smile puts Jody at ease. So far, everything is going exactly as rehearsed. We'll let you know when they're ready. She returns to her notepad.

So many more names to check. Jody spends the weight perusing the artwork in the small lobby. Old vintage posters of the Life Lessons with Dweeb Higgins show. The posters are very much of their time, the early 90s. Old, colorful, blocky letters. spell out the show's name. There are rainbows and shooting stars, and in the middle, is our host.

Dweeb Higgins. The creators of Dweeb Higgins have done their low-budget best to make him look human. They have mostly failed. He's about the size of a man, only ever seen from the waist up. His head is a bit too small,

his skin a bit too tight and rubbery. His hair is a tangled travesty. His expressions are limited to looking either shocked or confused. For this poster, they've at least gone with shocked. Jody remembers him being a bit cuter. There are other posters as well, more shows from the Dweeb Higgins era. There's one for a variety show called Gem Gladstone and the Rock Stettys. These were humans, real humans, caked in metallic face paint and dressed in rhinestone outfits that would spark alike disco balls when the studio spotlights caught them just right.

There's one for a costume character show called Mary Bighead and Co. As the name implies, the show was led by a top-heavy mascot, seemingly always ready to topple under the weight of its oversized orange-ferred melon, as it spastically conducted an audience of children through sing-alongs. There's also a poster for the Wumble Tumbles, a puppet theater show, but marionettes instead of hand puppets like Dweeb. Their talented string pullers always managed to get impressive movements from their stiff little limbs. After scanning the posters, Jody catches the eye of another woman who's also been waiting patiently in the lobby. The woman smiles, and so does Jody. Any other time the interaction wouldn't have stopped there.

Any other time Jody would have said hello and introduced herself. Jody might occasionally get nervous, but she never gets shy and takes great pride in her chit-chat. But there will be no small talk today, because Jody already knows why this woman is here. This woman is here for an interview. same as her. Of course, Jody knew there'd be others. There had to be others interested in writing for the reboot of a beloved children's show. But the reality that she might get passed up,

that she might be adding another tally to a long list of rejections, actually seeing the physical embodiment of that reality smiling pleasantly at her, well, Jody's sorry if she's not feeling very friendly. Jody hates that she sees it this way. she hates that she's already betraying her very nature in the face of opportunity. But for now, this very pleasant woman will stay a stranger. They're ready for you. The producer motions for her to follow.

They walk down a short hallway lined with more posters and pictures of Dweeb Higgins, a decade's worth of content. With the competition left in the lobby, Jody's back in her comfort zone. Chit Chat has been reactivated. This is just so cool. I've always wanted to work in TV. It's a dream just to have the opportunity. If I'm being honest, I'm a little nervous.

This is a pre-planned line, but that doesn't make it any less true. They arrive at double doors. Above the doors is a big sign that reads, Do not enter when red light on. filming in progress. But there is no red light on, just the producer smiling. Once again, that smile gives Jody hope that everything is still on track, that this interview will be the one that finally works out.

You'll be fine. The producer promises, It's a lie. She pushes through the door to reveal the studio. All the interview press. in the world couldn't have prepared Jody for seeing it in person. The rush of nostalgia is dizzying, like being awoken in the middle of the night, that brief moment where dream and reality are the most entwined.

Just seeing the studio lights, the bleacher seating, the blocky TV cameras, the stage. The stage consists of a backdrop with the Life Lessons with Dweeb Higgins logo. rainbows, stars, so much color. Everything even more vibrant than in her childhood memories. In front of the backdrop is a chest-high counter where Dweeb's puppeteers would hide. And beyond the stage are various props and set pieces ready to be rolled into place at a moment's notice. Jody thinks, if only briefly, that if this is as far as she gets,

Maybe that's enough. But no, that's not what she planned. That's not what she rehearsed. She is going all the way. She does wonder, however, the studio is empty. Not a soul. There's just a lone folding chair set in front of Dweeb's counter. The producer gestures toward it.

Have a seat. Jody sits in the chair for minutes that feel like many more, as that warm sense of nostalgia is slowly infected with the cool touch of nerves. Finally, she hears the voice coming from behind the counter. It's instantly familiar, high-pitched yet quiet, like a frightened child's. It's Dweeb Higgins. I'm sorry, I'm a bit shy. Maybe if we get to know each other a little better.

Jody immediately understands the game. She may have expected an unorthodox interview. It is for a children's show, after all. But having it with Dweeb himself... Well, she couldn't have planned on that. But she does not see this as a setback. In fact, while others might find it strange, Jody finds it delightful.

I'd like that a lot. She leans forward. That's when the hands creep over the lip of the counter. White-gloved hands. Then the head rises. First is the hair, even more tangled after decades of storage. Then his big plastic eyes. They can't blink, but they can move side to side,

making him look a bit more paranoid than engaged. He begins. Hello, Dweeb Higgins. My name is Jody. Dweeb reveals the rest of his stiff, rubbery face. His mouth flaps as he speaks. It's easy for Jody to smile at the thought of two puppeteers smushed uncomfortably together behind the counter, one working the mouth, the other the hands.

It's a funny image, and she looks forward to meeting them. What kind of people can bring Dweeb to life so. flawlessly. What stories they must have. Dweeb extends a hand and Jody shakes it. It's a soft grip. Someone skilled at shaking the fragile mits of children. Dweeb's still quite shy, still ready to dive back behind the counter at any moment. It's very nice to meet you. Do you mean it? I sure do. and she sure does. She leans in further and whispers,

trying to be friendly, trying to be reassuring. When I was a little girl, I was a real big fan of yours. So you know me? Sure. At least, I feel like I do. That's not fair.

I don't know you at all. No, I guess you don't. But we can. Can change that, can't we? Dweeb pauses and rubs his chin with a gloved hand. The international sign for thinking before excitedly concluding. We sure can. Dweeb stands up straighter, more confident, more comfortable.

He rises higher above the counter, now looking down at Jody in her small folding chair. Ask you a few questions, Judy. Of course. What is your favorite animal? Jody thinks. It's a dog. She loves dogs, but that's too obvious. A dog would be a normal answer.

But this is not a normal interview. How about a pig? Yes, a pig. Oink, oink, oink! Dweeb points to Jody. It's her turn. Jody has an oinked in decades. but she gives it a try.

Dweeb roars with laughter. It takes Jody by surprise. So much louder, so much deeper than she expected. Dweeb contains himself long enough to ask another question. Blue. Jody instinctively responds and immediately regrets. Blue is so pedestrian. Should have said Scobola for something.

But Dweeb seems to love it. You'd do if you saw a blue pig. I guess I'd wonder who painted it. It gets a chuckle from Dweeb, and she's thankful that it wasn't another belly laugh. Okay. I painted a pig blue. Why? Why did you paint a pig blue?

Jody's ability to roll with the punches is right up there with her ability. to chit-chat. She's game. She loves games. That's why she's here, after all. To play. Because I thought it was cute. You thought it was cute?

I did. Do you think the pig thought it was cute? I don't know. Maybe. Do you think the pig wanted to be painted blue? I... Do you think it hurt the pig? Um.

The first um. The first misstep. The first filler word and the first step toward the absolute breakdown of weeks' worth of carefully rehearsed Q&A sessions. All to try and reconcile the reasoning behind painted pork. Dweeb asks again, a bit impatient. Jody, do you think the pig was hurt when you painted it blue? It's likely been happening since the outburst of laughter, but Jody finally registers the steady change in Dweeb's voice.

It's dropped a little lower. An adult's voice beginning to bleed through, like helium wearing off. She also realizes just how far back she's sitting in her chair and just how much closer Dweeb has leaned in. She's flustered. The one thing she swore she wouldn't be, The death knell of any interview. But fine, it happened.

And now that she can admit it, she can fix it. She's not out of the game yet. She sits up straighter and leans forward herself. It probably didn't love it. No, I guess it probably didn't. So it's okay to hurt something as long as it makes it cuter, right? That's not what I see. said.

As long as it makes you smile and makes others smile, it'd be okay to hurt something. Or someone? If only just a little? Absolutely not. And just like that, Dweeb perks back up, his voice as high and shrill as ever. Oh, good. I feel like I'm really getting to know you, Jody. I'm glad.

Dweeb takes on a more casual posture, folding his arms across the counter and putting him back to eye level with Jody. You like children, Jody? I do. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Me either. Do you want to keep children safe, Jody? Of course. Dweeb leans forward again. Let's say that you see a child, a little girl, all alone in the park. The child looks very scared.

There's a pause. Dweeb stares blankly at Jody, unmoving. It breaks the illusion for a moment, reminding Jody that, of course, this is just a puppet. This was always just a puppet. She feels a bit silly that she needed to remind herself of this and speaks just to break the silence. Okay. You know she's scared. Maybe she's crying and looks lost.

So? What do you do? While unrehearsed, Jody's answer comes as easily, maybe more so, as any other. Because she's been that little girl lost and alone in the park. At six years old, she'd chased a duck, a plump waddling little fella straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon. She didn't catch it. She didn't even come close, but not for lack of trying. She'd pursued it halfway around a lake before the animal remembered its power of flight and took off.

By that point, Jody had put enough distance between herself and her mother that the ducks would be the only ones to hear her cries. In that moment, the park never felt bigger. The separation never greater. The threats of a fading sun. never more dangerous. All she wanted was for someone, for anyone, to help. And that's her answer. I talked to her.

See if I can help her find her parents or her guardian. Why should the child trust you, Jody? Sorry, I don't quite understand. Why should the child trust you, Jody? I'd be very friendly, and I'd be very recently. Because you are very friendly and very reassuring. I am. Dweeb's voice had dropped lower again, almost a hiss, and Jody notices.

But there's something else that is much more alarming. The smell. There's a distinct hot smell of sweat emanating from the puppet. Body odor. But thick as fog. The image that had tickled her before, the pair of puppeteers smushed together behind the counter, now feels grotesque. She imagines them intertwined, sweating, skin blotchy and red, unwashed areas slippery and grinding

together to create the soupy odor. Jody swallows and can taste the smell all the way down her throat. Do you think that someone who wants to hurt a child? Someone who wants to do bad things to a child Could be very friendly and very reassuring I Could they pretend To be very friendly and very reassuring

As far as Jody's concerned This interview is over She doesn't want to be in the presence of this puppet for a moment longer Let alone for eight hours a day But she worked very very very hard and spent long hours prepping for this interview. She missed nights out with friends, missed out on some of that beloved chit-chat, all so that she could be sitting here right now. So, no, she doesn't want the job anymore, but she sure as hell wants to be offered the job,

just so that she can turn it down. Sure. You're a little bitty girl. Will you talk to never, ever, ever trust strange. Everyone should be taught to never trust strangers. Yes, I was taught that. But here you are, hoping that this little girl wasn't taught that at all. Jody thinks she sees Deweeb blink, which is impossible, likely her own rising anger playing tricks on her. Think a child should trust you, trust a stranger, just because you're very visible.

Just because you're very friendly? Just because you're very reassuring? No. That a child should ignore one of the most important lessons that they'll ever, ever, ever learn just because of you? Jody wants him to shut up. Needs him to shut up. Her hand begins to instinctively lash out, ready to pinch this asshole puppet's mouth shut. But she catches herself and is glist.

Glad to have controlled the impulse. She doesn't want to touch that skin to feel the paint crack and flake from his face. To get that stench of latex of rancid sweat on her fingertips. Is that what you want to teach them? Dweeb is getting loud, more and more accusatory. His voice rises. Is it? Hers does as well.

Is it, Judy? Dweeb leans further over the counter, stretching toward Jody, his face so close to hers. Now Jody has an even more terrible realization. That smell, that ungodly smell, is coming from the puppet's mouth, pushed out like hot breath with each accusation. And one thing, Jody, pigs sure aren't safe around you? Why would a child... Jody stands. She slams the countertop with closed fists, sending an electric shock of pain from palm to elbow.

But it's worth it just to see Dweeb cower, retracting like a scared child. Fine! I'd just leave her to sit in the dark, dangerous park all by herself crying her eyes out. Is that better? Dweeb gasps, dramatically covering his mouth with gloved hands. Jody pushes away from the counter. The pleasure of getting the job, the pleasure of getting the job and then turning down the job. None of it compares to the pleasure of the next three words. You dweeb!

Jody storms toward the double doors already looking forward to sharing those same three words with the producer. She might even rip down a poster or two on her way out. She's smiling at the thought. when she yanks the door handles and realizes they're locked. There's a brief moment where she thinks this might be her fault, a push instead of pull situation. But no, they're locked. And the voice from behind lets her know why.

You can't go. Be if we let someone who wants to hurt children just leave. She turns back to the stage. but Dweeb is gone, and that's worse. The grand studio that had recently flooded her with the happiest of childhood memories now feels treacherous, like a darkening place full of lengthening shadows, murky places where anything could hide. But beyond these shadows, against the far wall, is a glimmer of hope.

Another door, another exit. She takes a few steps that direction when Dweeb peers out from around another corner, a cubby where extra stage lights are stored. You're not friendly at all! He ducks back out of sight. Jody watches that corner carefully as she continues, putting enough space between her and it to feel like Dweeb could never stretch his poppity arms out far enough to grab her. Of course, all bets are off at this point, aren't they?

Maybe his puppet arms could stretch across the entire studio. Maybe they could wrap around her ankle like a prehensile tail and drag her into that pitch black cubby. Jody reminds herself that she would do well to stop being concerned with Dweeb himself. Whoever is controlling Dweeb could just as easily toss the little bastard to the ground and run her down. The thought of those puppeteers, their clothes soggy with sweat, that stench, seeping through their pores like sewage through a molding sponge, the idea of them getting their hands on her, pulling her tight against their slippery bodies. Well, she's not ready to think much more about that right now.

But the fact that they haven't revealed themselves yet means they have much more store than just catching her. They want her scared. Congratulations. The voice comes from behind her. She turns to see Dweeb in the last row of bleachers, an impossible feat. Not impossible just because a moment ago he was on the other side of the studio. There could always be more than one puppet, right?

No, this is impossible because there's simply not enough room for a puppeteer, let alone too, to hide behind that thin strip of aluminum seating. Jody recognizes this impossibility, but her brain also recognizes that recognizing this impossibility will likely put her on the road to pure, uncut, uncensored madness. Dweeb's face doesn't help. It's more animated. The stiff rubber now capable of greater contortion,

now expressing something he couldn't be. for anger jody's feet catch up to her fear and she bolts as she passes the counter the one with the stars and the rainbows and the good memories now forever marred dweeb lunges out gloved hands paw at her shirt and waist she flails desperate to break away but those digging groping hands won't let her So instead, she seizes Dweeb by the neck and squeezes. There's little resistance. Duib was never made of the most durable materials. Cheap foam and latex squished through Jody's fingers,

and she knows if she pulls it wouldn't take much to rip the head clean off. Dweeb coughs and he gags. He pleads for life. In all this insanity, This strikes Jody as the most absurd. Keep up the act to the very end. So Jody yanks, hoping to tear his head from his neck and hoping that he somehow feels it. But when she does, his whole body goes sprawling from behind the counter and tumbles to the ground.

In an instant, he's lifeless, a deflated heap on the floor. He is what he always. was a puppet. Adrenaline pumping and primed for more violence, Jody pushes over Dweeb's counter, ready to confront the stinking bastards, the cowardly men behind the curtain. She wonders if they'll cough and gag and plead when she chokes the life from them, too. She finds nothing.

No one behind the counter. No one to chastise. No one to throttle. just the lingering stench. It's time to run. And so she does. She crosses the studio and makes it to the far door. In her terrified dash, she hasn't considered that this door might also be locked.

And she feels like a fool when she finds that it is. She turns to see Dweeb still lying on the floor. She can only see the top half of him, the other half masked by the backdrop. He's on his stomach, face turned to the side, eyes wide and empty, mouth agape. For Jody, it brings to mind the image of a dead child, perhaps one left in the road after being struck by a car. Life lessons with Dweeb Higgins had taught little Jody all about looking both ways before crossing the street. She shudders at the thought. Then he starts to move, to slide backwards.

But it isn't Dweeb returning to life. He isn't moving on his own. Someone unseen, someone on the other side of the backdrop is dragging him from view. Jody very much wishes that he remained looking like a run-over child. A morbid thought, but at least she could keep an eye. eye on him. She frantically scans the room for another way out. She doesn't connect it, but the feeling of hopelessness spreading through her like a poison is one that she's felt before. The last time she felt it was at six years old, alone in a sunless park. Terrified of the unknown,

unable to wrap her embryonic mind around the incomprehensible idea of abandonment. The feeling washes over her much like the nostalgia before it. But of course, this is different. Where nostalgia takes you back, offering sensation of old comforts, sweet and sugary, this feeling also returns you to the past, unearthing long-buried dread. The opposite of nostalgia. Trauma. Both then and now she wishes for someone to save her.

Both then and now she wants her mother. This time what she gets is Dweeb Higgins. His gloved hands creep around the edge of the backdrop. Then his tangled hair. Then his big, terrible eyes. His once large pupils are now pinpricks. His mouth a sneer. Jody came in with the energy to fight for the job.

But in this moment, she's not even sure she wants to fight for her life. What if she does and lives? She'll be seeing those pinprick eyes every night forever. She'll wake up hearing that screeching voice. The accusation of stranger will float from every shadow. A fate worse than death. Reruns of this nightmare playing in syndication forever. The door behind Jody opens hard,

striking her in the back and pitching her forward. She spins to see the competition, her rival interviewee, last seen in the lobby. The woman that had previously filled Jody with an unbearable sense of resentment is now the most wonderful sight she's ever seen. But this once pleasant woman is frazzled, wide-eyed, absolutely horrified. Hurry. She's already running back through the door. The will to survive has come back.

Jody will worry about the nightmares later. For now, she'll live. Jody dashes through the door while the interviewee rushes further down the long hallway. With the glowing ominous red of emergency lights as her only guide, Jody lags behind. This interviewee, is fast. Jody thinks that maybe this woman should consider a different career path.

Professional escapees? If there are, Jody thinks it's a good time to try out for that position as well, and she picks up her pace. She rounds a tight corner into another hall. She's desperately trying to keep up, but she's failing this audition as well. The woman is pulling far ahead of her. Wait, make miss. She trails off, actually feeling guilty in this moment. She never did learn this woman's name, and now she's relying on her to save her life. It's the first thing she's going to ask if they make it out alive,

and boy or girl, she'll have her first child's name lined up and ready to go. Jody steals a look behind her and immediately wishes she hadn't. Dweeb peers from around the last corner, smiling wide and toothless. Even more sinister and grotesque bathed in the red light. Jody nearly stumbles, but her new friend is right there to catch her. I can get you out of here, just hurry. She jerks Jody forward and sends her down the hallway first. The interviewee stays on her heels to make sure that Jody keeps up the,

pace. Rounding another corner, Jody spots a door at the end of the hall. Above it, she sees the most glorious thing in the world. A glowing exit sign. Jody's feet feel lighter, hope lifting her up, almost a reason to smile. Again, she might not connect it, but when she was six years old, she had the same feeling when she saw her mother cresting the hill of a vast almond Park, a distant figure calling her name. In that moment, little Jody knew that everything would be fine, that the nightmare was over. She ran to her mother then as she runs toward the aluminum door now. She's only feet from the crash bar when the interviewee calls out from behind.

No, no, no, it's locked. Trust me. Of course it is. Everything else is locked. Why wouldn't the one way I? out be as well. But they aren't completely out of luck just yet. The interviewee stands by another side door, already propping it open. She waves wildly for Jody to get inside, like a third base coach trying to get a runner

to make it all the way home. The last chance. The winning score. Jody rushes through the door and immediately skids to a stop when she gets inside. It's dark, a disorienting void. The room could be the size of a janitor's closet, or it could be the size of a soccer field. She gets one glance back at the interviewee before the woman slams the door shut. Jody hurries to it, but already knows that it's been locked.

The very last of a series of locked doors today. She could fumble around in the dark looking for, an exit. She could play an involuntary game of blind man's bluff. Maybe she could find a way out, but something else finds her first. As Jody's eyes adjust to the darkness, figures emerge from the black. At first, they're unrecognizable, just odd-shaped and disproportioned blobs of shadow. But as they approach, they become much clearer. There's Jim Gladstone and the rock steadies. The rhinestones on their outfits that would normally shimmer in the light

look like glassy, blind eyes here in the dark. There's Mary Bighead and Co. Their giant noggins sway side to side with each step. Their shaggy fur matted and stained like long-abused carpet. There's the Wumble-tumbles, moving stiffly across the floor. Strings rise from their limbs and disappear into the darkness above them. Controlled by unseen puppeteers. The collection of costumed creatures, Jody's childhood memories, all shambled toward her.

The smell comes with them. Thick and pungent, rolling in like a nauseating breeze. The stink is inescapable, but Jody recognizes with horror that, So is the entire situation. Each figure holds their own weapon of choice. All are colorful, adorned with stickers and ribbons, adorable in their own ways. They're cheap, handmade with leftover costume parts, broken puppet arms, felt covered wood. A few are sharpened and may be capable of slicing or at least poking, but most are just blunt objects.

It would take quite a while for someone to be beat to death with this imaginative assortment. But these creatures aren't yet slated for reboot. They have plenty of time. Through the hallway door, the interviewee can hear Jody scream and scream and scream. This mystery woman will become known as Constance Quince. Miss Q. co-host of life lessons with Dweeb Higgins and almost as beloved by children as the puppet himself

she would have told Jody this had she asked and then maybe they wouldn't have been strangers maybe they could have even been friends she takes a moment to listen to the screams they are occasionally cut short and Miss Kew imagines it's probably because one of her new pals landed a solid blow to Jody's face. Then Miss Kew turns and waves an enthusiastic goodbye to a hidden camera,

one of the many placed throughout the entire studio. She skips her way down the hall. There's a pep in her step and a song in her heart. She whistles the rest of the theme song as she pushes through the unlocked exit door and out into the most gorgeous, sunshiney day. Dweeb would call it a be-you-until full day. When this particular episode of the newly reimagined life lessons with Dweeb Higgins' airs, Jody might have been glad to hear that children across the country will be rooting for her.

Many would have even cheered had she run through the exit door instead of trusting a person whose name she didn't know. But her mistake and subsequent violent death won't be completely pointless. At the end of the show, Dweeb will ask all the children watching. So what did we learn, kids? And they'll shout back, never, ever, ever trust strangers. It's a lesson that will last them a lifetime. Ultimately, networks will once again find the show profitable.

Parents will once again find it educational. Kids will once again find it entertaining. Because while things have changed since it first aired, Dweeb is here to meet the demands of the modern child. And fortunately, there are plenty of episodes. left. Welcome to Goat Valley Campgrounds. Looking 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 your parents before her.

We know you'll enjoy your stay as long as you behave yourself and follow your. the rules. Your survival depends on it. The No Sleep Podcast presents Goat Valley Campgrounds by Bonnie Quinn. Chapter 4. Are you familiar with the Emerald Ash Boar? It's an invasive pest in North America that destroys ash trees. On campgrounds like mine, we require that people buy local firewood instead of bringing their own in across state lines. Otherwise, if they bring in tanking in painted wood, they could introduce the ash bore to my campground and destroy my trees. It only spreads from there. Firewood isn't allowed to leave the campground either. If the ash borer is already here, it may have burrowed into the wood and they may take it home with them. Sometimes, I think my campground

is already infected. Something settled in the land and turned it old, and now it continues to corrupt everything it touches. It bored into the trees, sank into the soil. and lingers in the shadows of the forest. And like the ash boar secretly infesting the firewood being loaded into the back of a witless camper's truck, we never know if something we bring into the campground has fallen victim to this rot. The only way we find out is the hard way.

My name is Kate. This is Goat Valley Campgrounds. This is not a pleasant story. Perhaps more unpleasant than the rest simply because it involves animals. I'm loath to describe things in such a way that they necessitate warnings to my audience, but perhaps I can scrub my soul of the screams of the foals by doing so. I think that's warning enough.

My most vivid memories of my father are while he was resplendent with joy at the thought of keeping horses. The mundane memories all blend together. Him sitting at the dinner table, him sitting in his study leafing through his books, him helping carry lumber to some part of the campsite. I cannot tell you any of these moments individually because they're unremarkable points in the fabric of my life. The months leading up to the horses, however, are like gold thread woven into the tapestry, catching the light and reflecting it back at me. They shine because he's shown.

It's all settled. I wrote the check today and they'll be delivered tomorrow. They? We're getting horses. I remember him coming outside to where I was playing in the yard. And I only dimly aware of these proceedings stood there dumbly until he picked me up and set me astride on the swing. By this time next year, you'll have a horse of your own and be riding it around the campsite. Mom said we weren't going to get horses. I finally talked her into it.

We're going to build a barn. Louisa is going to offer riding lessons and the campground will get a portion of the proceeds. But I get my own horse and don't have to share it, right? You might need to share it a little. He bought me a saddle for Christmas. while the barn sat furnished but empty until the spring. It was for both of us, my younger brother and I, but I knew in my heart that it was for me.

Already my brother had failed to display much interest in the campground, and even at that young age, we knew who would be taking it over in the future. Then, when the snow melted, the horses arrived. My father didn't want to just own horses. He wanted to breed them. He had four mares and a stallion. no special bloodline, but fine, adequate horses. I remember mothers saying sourly that he was being too ambitious,

that none of us had much experience with horses, but my father dismissed her concerns. We had someone on staff, Louisa, whose family did raise horses for a while, until they sold all but one. That last lies buried on their property, its head under the oak tree and the four halves of its torso at each corner of the field.

Feels strange to be working with horses again. You still okay with this? Yeah, just bad memories. Yeah, plenty of those around here. Another story for another time, I suppose. Anyway, Louisa knew what to do and had been given a pay raise in preparation for her additional responsibilities. She lies buried in the cemetery. No need to do to her body what was done with her parents.

That first year, all four mares gave birth. I claimed the biggest, a chestnut as my own. I named it chestnut. I wasn't an imaginative child. My brother at first refused to call any of them his own. He interacted with the horses grudgingly, perhaps resenting the attention our father was giving them. He was more like her mother. I took after our father, and I wondered if my brother sometimes wishes he had a closer relationship with dad. He's never spoken about it. Around midsummer, I noticed that he was spending time with the small dappled gray foal. He'd lean on the fence and stare at it for hours while it stood there staring back at him. I was young enough that I didn't

think much of it, other than to assume my brother was weird and honestly growing up like that, we were both a little weird. I'm not sure I want the campground though. I want to go be a doctor. What you want doesn't matter. This is about what you deserve. Kate will never go along. She doesn't have to agree. Who are you talking to? I was just talking to myself. This is why you don't have friends at school. You're weird. You don't have friends either. I think that's why my brother got married and I didn't. He left the campground behind when he went to college.

I did not. I carried it with me and there was only room in my heart for the land. Near the end of the spring, my mom woke me up saying that my father needed my help. He was in the horse pasture. I dressed and went to where he was just outside the fence line. His clothing stained with mud with a pile of dirt near. I think I knew. When I hopped the fence and followed my father through the tall grass to a round spot of trampled grass, the earth stomped flat and soaked with blood. I think I knew. The foals were dead, all but the little gray one that watched me as I helped drag their bodies to the waiting grave. I remember that I didn't cry. Autumn and winter passed. Spring came and the four mares once again

gave birth to four foals. By then, the small dappled foal was no longer small, but a full-grown horse that towered over all the others. He suckled on the mares all through the previous summer, all four, not just his own mother, and he'd grown quickly because of it. He was beautiful, but wild, and only my brother could ride him. I hated him for it, watching him use the saddle that had been given to both of us but was really meant for me. I remember that this was the spring that my brother grew distant, like he wasn't there, staring off into the distance and daydreaming. And I remember our parents getting cross with him repeatedly for it. I remember our father snapping at him, telling him to pull his head out of his ass, and I was shocked to hear the frustration

in his voice. I didn't make the connection until I was older that he was worried about the horses, afraid that whatever killed the foals last year would return, and it bled into every other aspect of his life. My father loved this land, but after we got rid of the horses, I think he resented it. One night in the early summer, I woke to the little girl calling for me. She went quiet when I sat up in bed. My bedroom was on the second floor, but that didn't stop her shadow from being visible through the sheer curtains over my window. What do you want? Your brother left the house. I'd had conversations with the little girl before. She stopped talking to me after my first period, the mark of adulthood, I suppose.

She doesn't talk to adults. She only weeps. And no, I never got her to say anything about herself. We're not supposed to leave the house at night. He's going to be in trouble. You should go after him. And the beast? Not here yet.

Be sure to leave through the garage. I shoved the covers back and put on my shoes. The little girl hummed the entire time. time, and as I descended the stairs, her humming stopped and turned into weeping from just outside my parents' bedroom. I wasn't certain where to go as I left the yard via the driveway. It was the screaming of the foals that led me to the pasture. The barn doors were open. Father had taken to checking them every night compulsively and ensuring they were locked tight. The foals were out in the field. The big dappled gray stallion was loose as well. My brother clung to its back.

I watched from the fence as the stallion ran down one of the foals and kicked it, knocking its legs out from under it, and then it half-reared and came down, and I heard the crunch of bone from where I stood. The foal began to scream. I felt like I was frozen in place by the sound, helpless to watch as my brother slipped off the stallion's back and knelt over the wounded foal and slid its throat.

And the dapple gray horse bent its head and began to eat. It ripped the skin off in long strips, tossing its head back as it swallowed, and then buried its nose again in the full steaming body. It ate and ate, stripping muscle off bone, tearing open the organs and devouring those, leaving not a scrap of meat behind. This was how the foals died the previous year. This is what killed my chestnut, my brother and his big gray horse. I ran back to the house. It was close to dawn, so I went to my room and covered my ears with my hands and counted the minutes until the beast arrived. The little girl's screams reminded me of the foals in the field.

The next morning I helped my father bury the bones of the foals. I remember how angry he was and how my brother was no help at all, off in the corner of the pasture with his dapple-gray stallion. The horse seemed even bigger now, fully as large as a Clydesdale. My father snapped at him over lunch, and I thought that perhaps today wasn't a good day to tell him what happened. perhaps tomorrow when dad wasn't as upset. That's what almost got me killed. That night, I woke to the sound of scratching against my window. Kate, wake up.

Go away. I'm tired. I don't want to talk. You have to open your eyes. You have to. Fine. I'm awake. Are you... My brother stood over me in the darkness. I could barely see his outline, but he felt vacant. One of his arms was raised and in his hand was a kitchen knife. I threw the stuffed bear I slept with Adam on instinct. Then, while he batted that away,

I seized the lamp off the nightside table and smashed it into the side of his face. From outside my window, the little girl screamed in fear, and I think that was what woke my parents up. They came running upstairs, flung on the light, and found me sitting on my bed with my brother groaning at my feet and bruises already swelling around his eye socket. He sometimes reminds me of the black eye I gave him. My retort is that he was going to kill me.

Our parents took us downstairs and mom made hot chocolate while my brother held ice against his face. Tyler, you need to tell us what happened. We won't be mad. We just need to know. Did you talk to the man with no shadow? No, I didn't. I know better.

Then who told you to attack your sister? I know you wouldn't do this on your own. Right? He was quiet for a long time, swinging his legs back and forth and kicking the table. It grated on my nerves, but I knew better than to say anything. It was best to stay quiet when mother was serious like this. The horse did, the gray one. It told me now that it was big and strong, it was time for me to take what I deserve.

Inheritance is not strictly to the eldest. There is plenty of precedent in stories for the youngest child to inherit. it. However, before that could happen, something had to disqualify the eldest as a worthy successor. I had to be removed. I don't even want the campground. I want to go be a doctor or maybe something with math. I don't like chopping trees or all these other things that live in the campground. Then why did you try to kill me? Kate, enough. Because it told me to, okay? I don't know. It just it told me to and I did what it said. Go to your room. Don't leave it until we tell you to. Kate, you too. Your dad and I need to talk.

Mom and dad argued about what to do with the stallion long into the night. I stayed up trying to catch snippets of their conversation from the other side of my closed bedroom door. They finally settled on selling it. Mom started searching for a buyer immediately and quickly found one. The dapple gray stallion was a beautiful horse after all. In the meantime, my brother wasn't allowed out of his room except to use the bathroom and for meals. At night, they locked the door, and they had me sleep the foot of their bed. At the time, I thought this was a fair punishment. He'd killed my chestnut after all, and deserved this.

I didn't think about how it was all precautions to ensure he didn't try to kill me again. I told you earlier that Louisa was helping us with the horses and that she's now buried in the cemetery. When the buyer arrived, my father sent her to bring the dapple-gray stallion to the waiting horse trailer. I was lingering nearby, wanting to see with my own eyes. that the horse was gone. This one's a little difficult. That's what you said over the phone. No, really.

I mean it. Don't put it with the other horses. It's already killed one of ours. I won't. Is that it in the field? Damn, it's as big as you claimed. Still want it? Sure.

I could use a good work horse. Just be careful. It's from Goat Valley Campground after all. Yeah, yeah, I get it. I remember watching as Louisa approach the dapple-gray stallion, how she tried to slip a harness over his head and how he led her, and I thought that wasn't right, that he was being too compliant. And then how he snapped his head up and to the side and the reins wrapped around her wrists. And I remember that look of perfect

surprise before he turned, pulling her forwards, knocking her off balance so that she fell face-first into the ground. I remember him rearing and how he remained there a half-second poised in the air, his breath steaming in the early morning chill and the arc of his hooves as he brought them down onto Louisa's skull I remember how he began to eat her body and I remember my dad's face set into a severe line as he and my mother discussed what to do now the buyer had left wanting nothing to do with the horse now

no one could blame him the police had gone as well taking what was left of Louisa with them we can't sell it now we shouldn't even tried. I didn't want to kill it. I hoped it could be rehabilitated, I guess, once it was off our land. And now Louisa is dead. She was a good person. She didn't deserve that. She didn't deserve anything that happened to her family. I'll take care of it from here. It's my responsibility. Just keep the kids inside. None of us said anything more to him. We merely looked on and solemn witness as he took the shotgun down and loaded it, tucked it under his arm.

and left in the direction of the barn. My mother held my brother as he cried silently. When Dad returned, he said it was done. It wasn't until late that night after my brother was asleep that I heard my parents talking downstairs. I'd been sleeping only lightly and woke at the sound of voices. I crept down the hallway to listen. We can't let Tyler find out.

No, of course not. I mean, I feel bad lying to them, but it's better if he keeps believing it's dead. hopefully its influence will fade over time. Assuming we can keep it away from the campground. I'll talk to the town tomorrow. We'll form a hunting party and get rid of it for good. The staff can start work on repairing the barn wall first thing in the morning.

We'll tell Tyler we had to replace some of the boards because the shotgun blast damaged it. And not because the horse kicked its way free before you could kill it. Exactly. The only thing Dad's hunting expedition succeeded in was to drive it off for a while. We didn't see the dapple gray stallion after that, not until the fall. I was walking past the barn when I became aware of a commotion from inside. The barn door was cracked, and I peered inside the dim interior. One of the mares flew through the air past my line of sight and slammed into the wall of the barn.

It struggled to stand, crying out in terror, as the gray stallion advanced on it. He put one hoof on the mare's shoulder and opened his mouth. His teeth were sharp, and he clamped. down on the mare's neck. That desperate agonizing shriek was finally silenced when the stallion jerked his head back and ripped the mare's throat out. I stood there, transfixed, watching as the horse ate. He turned to look at me, calm, as if daring me to do something about this. Chunks of meat fell from his lips as he chewed, then he swallowed, turned his head back to the mare and ripped more meat from her corpse.

Why do you stare, little girl? I took a few steps backwards. I knew I needed to run, but my legs felt weak. Meat is best when it's fresh like this. Do you want to try some? No. Then run away, little girl, lest I feel inclined to finish what your brother failed to do. It's laughter sounded like screams.

I ran out of the barn through the field searching for my dad. He didn't need to be told what was wrong. He ran for the house and returned with his shotgun, heading for the barn. But it was too late. All that was left of the four mares and the one stallion were bones. I helped him bury them out beside the foal. My brother doesn't like horses anymore. Neither do I.

You see, the dapple-gray stallion is still around. I tell my staff to keep an eye out for hoof prints or horse dung. We let Brian's dogs lose if we find signs. I'm sure it's alarming to the campers to see a pack of enormous hounds running around. But it's better than the alternative. We found that the horse will feast on human flesh as readily as the bodies of its own kind. Years later, the dapple-gray stallion returned. It didn't enter the campground, for my parents were watching for its return.

One of the neighbors saw the hoof prints and warned them that they kept my brother home from school for a few days while my father went out searching for it. The stallion was smart, however. It stayed away in the fields and the forest that spread out like patchwork around the town. It killed one of the locals instead, possibly out of hunger, or possibly because it's a cruel, evil thing. She went out into the field to see why the dogs were in such a panic. The horse stood waiting for her in the early morning mist, its eyes shining like stars from the pale light of the dawn. She thought perhaps it was lost, a neighbor's horse that had broken out of its enclosure.

But as she approached, she realized how large it was, how very unnaturally large, and how the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. I know this because she's not the one who died. It was her husband who came running at the sound of her cries. She turned and ran, and the horse ran after her, knocking her over each time she stumbled to her feet. And then when her husband came carrying a gun, it charged him, cracked his chest open with a hoof and tore out one of his legs. lungs. She remembered how he continued gasping for a few seconds before expiring, while the horse calmly stood there and chewed on the organ dangling from its mouth. By the time the police arrived, there were only bones left of his body. It left after that. It comes back every handful of years. The locals warn their children to stay away from horses. They watched for hoof prints in the

soft earth, sensible precautions that have kept the horse from claiming any more human victims at least. It still gets to the livestock every now and then. There are those within the town that are unwilling to tolerate this. They claim that we're the root of all their misfortune, that they could live in peace not having to watch over our shoulders and be wary of strangers if only the campground wasn't here. It's a foolish dream. There's always been evil in the world.

They just want someone to blame. There's a rot here. It corrupts everything it touches. It brings us monsters and devils. But it also eats at the mundane, the ordinary, the ruined remnants of a lonely horse, or the innocent body of a newborn foal. This land has a long history and its share of tragedies. Sometimes they echo down through the years.

Remember, we don't keep horses on our campground. If you see a chestnut full walking through the pasture, know that it won't hurt you. But it isn't really there. its bones lie buried under the mound on the east side of the field. And if you see an immense gray stallion, be wary of approaching. It isn't on my land anymore, but it's somewhere out there. Perhaps it will merely crack your skull and feast on your body. And perhaps it will accept you as its master

and whisper to you dreams of power and position until you are driven to kill the innocent, to slake its hunger, and you are master no more. but slave to the dapple gray horses bidding. Boat Valley Campgrounds was written and adapted for audio by Bonnie Quinn. Produced for the No Sleep Podcast by Phil Michalski. Musical score composed by Brandon Boone. Starring Lindsay Russo as Kate.

Mike Delgado as Kate's dad. Nicole Doolin as Kate's mom. Wafia White as Louisa. Ellie Hirschman as the Dapple Gray Stallion, Nicole Goodnight as the Little Girl, Matthew Bradford as Tyler, and Dan Zapula as the buyer. Join us next week for Chapter 5 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.

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