The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep24: NoSleep Podcast S17E24

Episode Date: May 15, 2022

It’s Episode 24 of Season 17. Our spells will catch you off guard. “I Can’t Hear You” written by Erica Photiades (Story starts around 00:05:30) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Natalie �� Tanja Milojevic, Kelsey – Jessica McEvoy, Kelsey’s Mom – Nikolle Doolin, Natalie’s Mom – Linsay Rousseau, Pale-Eyed Woman – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Natalie’s Dad – David Cummings “Glenda Green” written by Lauren Janis (Story starts around 00:22:35) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Anna – Wafiyyah White, Mary Burnaby – Danielle McRae, George – Jesse Cornett, Steve – Dan Zappulla, Mother – Mary Murphy “Something Came in the Rain” written by Nicole Fowler (Story starts around 00:43:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Kristen DiMercurio, Henry – Matthew Bradford “The Trail” written by Steven M. Fletcher (Story starts around 00:57:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Carly – Nichole Goodnight “The Whispering Trees” written by Nick Creighton (Story starts around 01:07:15) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Mom – Nichole Goodnight, Autumn – Sarah Ruth Thomas “Aunt Audrey’s Wind Chimes” written by Manen Lyset and J.J. Cheesman (Story starts around 01:35:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Erin – Erin Lillis, Aunt Audrey – Mary Murphy This episode is sponsored by: Upstart – Upstart believes people are more than their credit score. We take a holistic view of an applicant, rather than write them off because of their credit score. We want to empower people to take control of their debt and financial future. Get started by going to Upstart.com/nosleep 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 Lauren Janis Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset Click here to learn more about J.J. Cheesman Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “I can’t hear you” illustration courtesy of Jörn 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

It's the penultimate episode of season 17. I hope you're fully braced before we start this one up. Oh, it's always sad to say goodbye to another season, even if we're excited about the new season starting up. True. Saying goodbye can be hard, but sometimes saying goodbye can be a good thing. Like when you're getting rid of a bad thing? Exactly. Like debt.

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Easy. Don't wait and check your rate today at upstart.com slash no sleep. Right. That's upstart.com slash no sleep to check your rate today. Don't forget to use our URL to let them know we sent you. Loan amounts will be determined based on your credit, income and certain other information provided in your loan application. That goes without saying. knew you'd say that. Whatever. So listeners, go to upstart.com slash no sleep. It's a fiscally sound decision. I think we should say goodbye to this ad and start the show. You got it. Goodbye ad. Hello Horror. Times long gone. In 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 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. So that's it, friends. The goat sleeps in the valley once more. The campgrounds are closed for the season. But I think it's safe to say that the gates will be reopening again.

Kate has got so much more to share with us after all. But I, for one, am glad to take a little break from goats in general. I've been having nightmares about the beasts, you see. They're horned visages, their weird horizontal hourglass eyes, their angry bleeding. And I'm sure that it's simply because Goat Valley Campgrounds was so good. There couldn't be any other possible reason I'm being haunted by a tall, cloaked figure in a skeletal goat mast. Now, in totally unrelated news, I'm all packed for my vacation next week. Only just back from Colorado, and I'm already heading out again.

Ohio! How exciting! I can't pinpoint exactly where the Gold Meadow Resort is, obviously, because this is a VIP retreat, and I know many No Sleep podcast fans might try parachuting in to get a snap or two of me. But it's in southeastern Ohio, near the Appalachian Mountains, and there are a lot of bluebirds around, so I'm told. I showed Brandon, who's intimately familiar with Ohio, and he did recall something about the place,

but he couldn't put his finger on what. I'm sure it was something wonderful and totally not dangerous, though. Anyway, I must make haste because it's going to be a long trip. I'll catch you on site next weekend, folks. For now, it's time for the horror. In our first tale, we joined Natalie and Kelsey, a pair of teenage girls who want to do nothing more than chill out, paint their nails, and listen to the B-52s.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Erica Fotiis, their parents just will not leave them alone. Performing this tale are Tanya Milosovich, Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Doolin, Lindsay Rousseau, and Sarah Thomas. So sit back with a snack and put on Love Shack, because if you're trying to talk to me, then I can't hear you. Kelsey flung herself backward onto her bed in a cloud of springy blonde curls. God, I'm so sick of this.

What's going on? I removed my headphones. Love Shack continued murmuring through the tinny speakers. She's been yelling up the stairs at me like, The stupidest questions. I'm like, hello? But she doesn't respond. She just keeps asking more bullshit questions.

Kelsey sighed and looked down at her nails. We'd been in the middle of painting them. In her exasperation, she'd smeared a long line of passion plum down the back of her hand. Damn it. She rubbed at the smear with her fingertip. I passed her the bottle of nail polish remover with some cotton balls, and she started scrubbing

until the stain resembled a faded bruise. What she's saying? Oh, it's so dumb. She'll be like, Kelsey, honey, are you okay? And I'll be like, yeah, mom, I'm fine. And then she'll say, are you happy? And I'll go, why?

And then she won't say anything for a while. Then she'll say, where are you? Are you safe? What? Kelsey shook her head. head. Yeah, I know. I'm like, Mom, I'm upstairs in my room. Of course I'm safe. And then she stops talking to me. It's crazy. Why don't you go downstairs and ask her what's going on? I tried the last time she did this, but when I went downstairs, no one was home. I didn't hear her leave,

but she must have gone to the store or something. Can you pass me the pink? I want to do polka dots on top. Which pink? I held up magenta magic and pink perfection. Not those, the one behind your foot. The bed creaked beneath us as I turned to find Carnation Bliss tucked under one of her pillows. You are really picky. I tossed her the bottle. Well, you could do a lot better than plain black. It's so depressing.

I like black. I think it makes me mysterious. Plus, none of the asshole jocks hit on me. when I dress a little more edgy. Whatever you say. I got me a Chrysler. It seats about 20. So hurry up and bring your jukebox money.

Love Shack is a little place where we can get together. Love Shack, baby. Put that on my stereo. I love that song. I rewound the tape in my crappy old wot. watching as the little wheels inside spun as though being powered by invisible hamsters. Love Shack, baby Love Shack. Kelsey, honey, are you there?

Her mom's voice caught thrush sing-along like a knife. Kelsey groaned and got up to turn off the tape. What, Mom? Kelsey, it's your mother. Kelsey's blue eyes open wide and she stared at me dumbfounded. Kelsey, are you there? Mom, Jesus! I told you already that I'm...

What's it like where you are? Kelsey's mom's voice sounded odd to me. A staticy whine like the radio going out of signal at first, then loudly buzzing in our ears like a mosquito. We couldn't kill. Instinctively, I rubbed my ear. Mrs. Watson, is everything okay? Who is that?

It's Natalie. I'm hanging out with Kelsey. We're upstairs in her room. Mrs. Watson didn't respond. Even though Kelsey had stopped the tape, Love Shack was playing again on the stereo. I told you, this is what happens every time. She asks some bad shit questions, and then she stops talking. Do you want to go downstairs and check on her? Maybe she's sick. No, it's cool. I don't really want to talk to her. She examined her toenails, eyes scanning the nail polished bottles that lay strewn across the bed. Did Dave call you after your date last week? Wow, I'd forgotten about Dave.

I guess it was just last Friday, but it felt like years ago. What did we do? I tried to remember, but everything felt hazy, like something from a dream. Dave? I don't remember if he called. Kelsey looked at me quizzically. She was wearing a lot of baby blue eye shadow. It didn't look very good on her,

but I didn't want to hurt her feelings by telling her that. What do you mean you don't remember? You were obsessed with him. Oh, Dave, please take me to the roller rink. Dave, I want to drink chocolate shakes with you every day and have 27 of your babies. Kelsey roared with laughter and fell back on the bed, landing on a pile of nail polish bottles. Ouch.

I tossed a pillow at her and it bounced off her chest, still shaking with giggles. You deserved that. I rolled my eyes as she rubbed her neck and mock whimpered. Seriously, though. You told me the date was great. You were all mooney over him. Honestly, I think he's kind of a nerd, but you're the one. who won't date the hot jucks.

Why couldn't I remember my date with Dave? What did we do? I was having trouble picturing his face, too. Did he have blonde hair or brown? Blue eyes? Green eyes? Love shack, baby love shack. How long is this song? Kelsey, is Natalie with you?

Mrs. Watson's voice blared in our ears with the force of a freight train's horn, Love Shack's whaling chorus was gone. Mom! She just said she was! Silence answered her. This was getting really weird. I thought about going home, but it was only 3.30. How was it only 3.30?

We'd been painting our nails and hanging out for at least an hour. Ooh, I have an idea. Kelsey turned towards me. I'm going to call Trevor. Who's Trevor? Oh, he's this guy I know from around. Anyway, he really likes pranking people. I want to see if he'll come over and screw with my mom.

Why? Because it'll be hilarious. She walked to her phone and started dialing. I still couldn't believe her parents let her have a phone in her room. We just had the one in the kitchen. So every time I needed to call someone, there was always somebody watching. How could I talk to Dave when my mom was cooking, hamburger helper three feet from me.

Hey, it's Kelse. All of a sudden, her voice had gone husky and deep, like she was 25 years old and wearing fishnets and high heels. It's Kelsey! You know who I am, quit messing with me. She sounded like herself again. I need a favor. My mom is pissing me off royally right now.

Can you prank call her or ding-dong ditch or something? Why? Because I need a laugh and you're the best at it. I promise I'll owe you a favor. No, not that kind of favor. Don't be gross. Great. Thanks, Trev.

She hung up the phone and blew on her nails. He says he'll take care of her. Who is this guy? I didn't feel comfortable listening to her side of the conversation and I imagined the other end was worse. He's a little older. I'm not really sure. But it's fine. He's cool.

Don't worry about it. He's not going to hurt her. Just scare her a little. Do you think that's a good idea? Kelsey rolled her eyes. If you had to put up with my mom all the time, you'd understand. Below us, I heard banging on the door. Wow, that was fast. We crept next to the bedroom door to hear what was happening.

Knock a little louder, sugar. Kelsey, is that you? Mrs. Watson's voice buzzed again in our ears. I just wanted to smack it away like a fly. It made my ears itchy. Jesus H. Christ! I've told her 50 times that I'm... A door downstairs opened.

I heard what sounded like a bunch of chairs being knocked over. What is going on? My heart was pounding in my chest. This didn't feel right. Is that Trevor? What the hell is he doing? I heard banging again. It sounded like it was coming from all the walls of the house.

Downstairs, glass shattered. I looked over at Kelsey, expecting her to fly off the bed and down the stairs to confront Trevor. But she just sat there, rigid. Her eyes were narrow slits. And her mouth was a thin white line as if she was concentrating on a difficult task. Her expression made the blue eye shadow on her eyelids extend upwards to her eyebrows like a clowns.

I would have cracked a joke about her makeup then, but this wasn't funny. The pounding continued, shaking the walls of her bedroom. Was she the one creating the chaos downstairs? Kelsey, make it stop! This isn't funny. You're scaring me. From beneath us, I heard someone crying. Deep, diaphragm heaving sobs

dredged up from the blackest pits of grief. The sound seemed to break Kelsey out of her trance. She blinked rapidly at me, her own blue eyes filling with stunned tears. That is not. She grabbed her phone again and began furiously punching numbers. Get out of my house, asshole! I told you to do something funny!

Not upset my mom and break a bunch of shit. I sat on the bed feeling uneasy. How was she talking to Trevor? Did he answer the downstairs phone? What did you say to my mom? I heard masculine mumbling on the other end of the line. You are such a piece of shit. Forget this number, asshole.

She slammed the phone down. For a moment, we sat in silence. The sound of crying continued to driest. lift up the stairs. He told my mom that I was dead and that she deserved to burn in hell. Then he told me he couldn't resist breaking some dishes while he was here because he was already jonesing for it. What?

That's awful. I'm going to check on my mom. Kelsey opened the door and walked downstairs. The crying grew softer, then stopped completely. The house was silent. And for some reason, it felt worse that way. A voice called to me, and it felt like my ears were stepping on broken glass. Natalie? Is that you?

It was my mother. What was she doing here? Mom? The house was silent. Where did Kelsey and her mom go? Oh my God, Natalie. Honey, where are you? Is Kelsey with you? My head felt swimming, and my vision started. started to spark with flashes that became black floating dots. I felt like I was going to throw up. But I needed to follow her voice. I got up off the bed and walked down the stairs.

I hadn't noticed how dark it had gotten. I could swear that the clock upstairs said 3.30. But it was nighttime now. The house was dark. Except for lights coming from the family room, which cast a glow on the carpeted floor. illuminating the doorway. I walked toward it tentatively as though it were a portal to another world.

Kelsey was standing in the doorway staring at her mother and father. I could see my mother and father there too. They were all sitting in a circle around a woman I'd never seen before. She had long, dark hair in a braid down her back and very pale eyes. There were lit candles all around them. The flickering glow creating string. strange drifting shadows around the room. Both my mom and Kelsey's mom were crying.

Kelsey's mom had gotten up from the circle and was sweeping up broken glass into a dust pan. My dad's hair was completely white. How would that happen? Kelsey and I looked at each other and then at the crazy scene in front of us. The strange woman looked directly at us and smiled. Hello, Kelsey. Hello, Natalie. Who the hell are you?

Kelsey's hands were bald into tight fists. I hope she hadn't smeared her nail polish. They're here? My father looked around the room before staring back at the woman. His face puzzled and fascinated. I thought I heard sounds coming from her bedroom. But every time I went upstairs, no one was there. Natalie?

Maybe? Tears slid down my mother's nose and hit the car. coffee table, but she just kept crying. Why did she look so old? The woman fixed her pale eyes on us. Girls, your parents have waited a long time to talk to you. It's been 30 years since the accident. Do you remember what happened? Kelsey turned to me, her face pale. What accident? Suddenly, all the mental fog I'd felt that afternoon dissipated in an instant. I remember driving Kelsey home from watching Edward's scissor hands at the movies. It was late and the roads were icy. We were giggling, singing along to the B-52s. I must have hit black ice. Because suddenly we were spinning out of

control and Kelsey was screaming. We had something hard and then it all went black. When I came to, it was 3.30 and we were upstairs. in her bedroom. We'd been there ever since. I looked into the woman's pale eyes and nodded, remembering an old saying that if you'd saved a person's life, you were responsible for it forever. Did that also mean you were responsible if you caused that person's death? I took Kelsey's hand and squeezed it. The pale-eyed woman turned to our parents. You can talk to them now. Some folks keep their work and home life separate. Some people are known to bring their work home with them.

Other people work from home. And in this tale, shared with us by author Lauren Janice, we meet a woman who lives and works in the town morgue, which opens up a whole world of possibilities when you hear noises downstairs in the night. Performing this tale are Wafia White, Danielle McCray, Jesse Cornett, Dan Zapula, and Mary Murphy.

So on the night before a funeral for a friend, let's take a trip to Glenda Green. I have always lived in the morgue. It is just as odd saying it loud as it is for you to hear it. You see, I was born in the hall upstairs. My father, the mortician at the time, delivered me. He would later call it the highlight of his career, bringing life into the world.

when he has always been surrounded by the dead. Honestly, I wish he would have left after I was born, taking my mother and I into the city, gotten her the help she needed from her postpartum psychosis. Proper help. Not that backwater treatment of, pray it away. My father should have known. God has no place in medicine.

But he clung to that cross until the day he died. I buried him next to mother. My faltering faith buried with him. That is how I became head mortician of Glenda Green. The cold sterility of the basement is comforting to me. The cheap fluorescent bubs buzzing, washing out the gray room, everything in here is gray. The cement walls, the metal tables,

and the large freezers that line the wall immediately to your left when you first walk through the gray door at the bottom of the steps. I walk over to the middle table, the only one occupied tonight, a girl I knew. I know them all, of course. The town is suffocatingly small. Mary Burnaby was in my graduating class. We had sleepovers as children on the floor, right above my head. Those nights were filled with horror movies and too much sugar that, more often than not,

ended with her chickening out and calling her mom to pick her up. I pulled back the sheet like I had for the sheriff. The bruising around her eyes had already begun to hill when she died. The bruises around her neck would never get the chance. A tear slides down my cheek as I sit heavily into the rolling chair, the squeak of it echoing in the room. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself. Pulling out my phone, I connect to the speakers and put on the music full blouse.

I close my eyes, detach for the moment. When I open them, I look at her again and begin my work. Hours later, and she is ready. She looks just like she had in life, the way I remembered her. Youth will glow to her cheeks and lips, long dark lashes sweeping down. After cleaning up and making sure everything is in order for her to be brought up to the parlor tomorrow morning, I locked the door to the morgue and make my way up the stairs. The white doors seem so far away.

My sore body taking too long to get to the top. I finally make my way through the door. I'm greeted by the darkness of the mud room. Frowning, I pull the string that dangles from the ceiling above. The click resounds, but no light. The house in the morgue below worked on separate power supplies, and the morgue has a system of three backup generators in the event of an exterior power outage.

If the power had gone out while I was down there, I wouldn't even notice. Swearing under my breath, I stumbled through the dark, shedding my scrubs and tossing them blindly into the washer, grabbing my rope from the hook on the back of the door into the kitchen. I double-checked and confirmed that I had locked the door down to the morgue. Then I entered the kitchen. The time on the stove read 11.17 p.m.

I could have sworn I had changed out the bulk in the mudduring. but maybe I was mistaken, or the socket itself was having trouble. At least it's not a power outage. I can deal with a broken light tomorrow. The spray of the water spits out of the showerhead, cold at first, but then steadily warmer. I faced the stream, letting it fall down on me. I stand there for a while before reaching for the shampoo. As I open my eyes, I freeze.

I could see through the fog glass of the sandals. standing shower into the bathroom, into my bedroom beyond. I shouldn't be able to see my bedroom, though. The door was closed and locked. I've always locked every door behind me. I'm a woman in her early 30s, living alone in a county where we have more bars than restaurants. Looking around the bathroom, I don't see anyone there. Leaving the water running, I slowly open the shower door and step out onto the mat. I wrap my towel around me and slowly approach the door. All I can hear is the shower behind me, the fan, and the sound of water dripping off of me onto the tile. I step out onto the hardwood floor of my room. The bedroom door leading to the hallway is also ajar. My wardrobe is on the far

side of the room. I just need to get to the wardrobe, pull out the drawer, grab the shotgun, and loaded. My heart beats painfully in my chest. My lungs burning from the strain of breath, I didn't realize I had been holding. Easy as it sounded. It all depended on me getting past the door without the intruder knowing. I run for the door, slamming all my weight into it. It closes without resistance. The force of the impact on the solid wood rattles in my teeth. I hit the lock into place and listen. My ear pressed into the door. No sound comes from behind it. Then I fill it. Air brushing my cheek like a breath. I shrieked as I whip around, slipping and falling. No one is behind me. The room is just as empty as before. A movement to my left. I turn my head

and watch the thick emerald green curtain sway heavily, harding enough for me to see the window crack open behind it. I get up and run to the window. slamming it shut and locking it, then quickly going around and checking the other two windows as well, and the door once more for good measure. I pull the shotgun out and load it. Sitting on the bed, I strained my ears, listening, but only hear the wind outside, an owl in the distant, the creaking of the old oak outside my window, all the familiar sounds, once I have listened to and fallen asleep to for decades. I get up and go into the bathroom. shutting off the shower.

Setting the shotgun down on the vanity, I quickly pull on my lounge pants and tank top. Grabbing the shotgun once more, I go back to my room and sit down on the bed, nervously chewing my lip as I looked around the empty space. My eyes snagged on my cell phone. I pick it up and make a call to George, the local sheriff. His word voice answers on the second ring.

Anna? I don't know if I'm being paranoid. But I think someone is in my house. The words pour out of me as fast and shaky as I recount the events of the night to him. He listens patiently. I can have Steve stop by and check things out. I frown. Steve is new to town and new to the police force.

What about you or Sarah? We're out on a call in Adams County right now. Adams County? Big fire. They needed all the hands they could get. He covers the receiver with his hands, says something I can't make out to someone else. We won't be back for another three hours at least. Do you really want to wait?

No, go ahead and send Steve. I'm sorry. It's okay, Anna. I'm glad you called me. How long do you think it will take for him to get here? I just asked Sarah to call him. Thank you, George. Anytime. And I'll stop over as soon as I'm back in town.

You don't have to. It's probably nothing. I do. And I will. Someone called his name in the background. Eve will be there soon. And I'll call you when I'm on my way. Do you still have your dead shotgun? Right here in my hand. I can hear the smile in his voice. You keep that close and sit tight. In a locked room.

I smile into the phone. Already on it. Thank you again. See you soon. Bye, George. I disconnect the phone. Anxiety nodding in my stomach. I reassure myself that it's only a matter of minutes until Steve gets here, and I'm probably

just overreacting. It was a long day, and I haven't slept well in weeks. My mind must be playing tricks on me. A loud scrape at the door. My head whips around. The bedside light flickers then goes out. The doorknob rattles. I have a gun!

My voice sounded much more confident than I feel. The rattling stops. You. You. I cocked the gun. The sound is loud and unmistakable. You can't. Shakes violently in the frame with each massive boom of the fist.

Out. Their voice is animalistic and dark. I never heard anything like it. It's barely even human sounding. I scream and back away. Fear spreads like pins and needles through my body. The gun shakes in my hand as the thing keeps shrieking. Get out.

Get out. The doorbell rings. The thing goes silent. Floor boards creaking as if they are shifting their weight from one foot to the other. I let out a horrific gas. and run to the window. Throwing it open, I see him at the front door. Up here!

He takes a step back and looks up at me. Confusion on his face. It's in the house! His brows furrowed together. The door crashes and splinters behind me. The gun slips from my hand, falling to the floor. I scream and throw my legs over the window sill. Steve draws his gun with a curse,

pointing it at me. No, behind me. Get out of the way. I leap at the tree without a backwards glance, the bark biting into the flesh of my arms as I scrambled to get my footing. I slide and fall from the branch, landing on my back. My vision tunnels. I can hear Steve yelling, but I can't understand him.

Gunfire. My vision clears as I look up at my window. The glass shatters. The wind moves the curtains just enough for me to see the thing that had burst through the splintered glass. Mary, Burnaby, and her finest blue dress staring down at me with clouded eyes. Her lips are moving. I can't hear her over the sound of my own blood rushing through my head.

Is that Mary? Steve runs to my side. Words pour from his mouth and a waterfall of nervousness, each word crashing into the next. That can't be Mary. Mary is dead. What is that? He looks behind me. Oh.

His face pales. Dear God. I turn my head. The movement makes me want to vomit. I clench my eyes closed, pain dancing and swirling through my temples. I opened them and quickly wish I hadn't. I'm looking at the cemetery next door. The iron fence, the flickering of headstones, and the lumbering bodies crawling through the dirt.

and grass. Steve claws at me to get up, practically dragging me to his cruiser where he unceremoniously dumps me in the front passenger seat. He runs to the other side when the earth shakes. I hear a massive crack as he freezes in the front of the car. The headlights showcase the fear on his face as he seems to jerk down, the booming crack noise fading into a loud, crumbling sound as the earth gives way beneath his feet. The cruiser door flies open. Boney fingers claw at me as I scream and kick. They pull me from the car, dragging me across the lawn towards the cemetery.

My hands grapple at the ground, pulling up the grass. My nails scrape on the roots of the oak. They drag me through the open gates and to the graveyard. Don't fight. Mary's face comes into view. Don't! The hands lift me. I'm being carried by at least three of the dead.

I look back at my house, my home. As the earth shifts, it breaks into one large crack that spider webs out. The house crumbles in on itself, then seeks into the great maw that has opened in the ground, that has swallowed steep hole. I watched the town lights from down the hill flickered in Goblat as a wave ripples down, rumbling and roaring as it swallows. The dead carry me deeper into the heart of the cemetery. I have a sudden realization of where they are headed, to the two unassuming headstones just off the main path.

I twist a look at the creatures that hold me. Mary at my head. A larger hulking mass at my side. In a familiar tweed suit, he saved for Sunday services. A smaller, more decayed body at my feet, with a silver cross at its neck. Across, I remember watching Twinkle in the light when I was still small, now reflected by the light of the moon. Mom, Dad? My voice is sore from the screaming.

How? What? My mother lowers me. unto the patch of dirt between their turnt rays. The sound of her voice is heartly discernible through teeth and bone. I don't understand. Mary sits, leaning her head on the tombstone, her sightless eyes looking out at the ruin of the town

as it continues to crumble and frowns. She whispers to me, her voice strained against her battered vocal cords. I look at my parents. My father corpse nods. It sounds like crunching of dried leaves. My eyes shift to the town of Glinda Green as it is swallowed into a giant sinkhole. A warm hand caresses my cheek, fluttering down, pressing two fingers to my throat. She's cold.

Her pulse is weak, but it's there. George. I try to open my eyes, groaning at the pain and the bile that rises in my throat. It's okay, Anna. You're okay. His hand brushes through my hair. My eyes finally open, and I look up at him. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the lines on his face too deep for someone his age. My eyes shift behind him to his sister, Sarah. She holds a phone to her ear.

Her head is off, hair a mess of curls like her brothers. I look around me at the field of grass and stone, beautiful in the morning light, completely undisturbed, sitting up slowly with George's help. I look out at the great hole that stops a few yards from the cemetery gate. What happened? I clench my fist and I feel the bite of metal again. my palm. Opening my hand, I look down. My mother's small, tarnessed silver cross, the chain wrapped loosely around my hand. Sing cold. George gazes out into the distant, then looks back at me quizzically. How did you get out of here? I think back to the night before, Mary's voice,

echoing in my head. The dead take care of them. their own. Well, that was quite a grave situation, but it's time for a break. And even though I'm outside, I've completed my walk through the forests, in and around Goat Valley. Nice to be home, chilling in the backyard. Taking breaks can be a very positive thing. There's always so much to do, and I'm trying to guard against burnout. Look, life can be overwhelming, and many people are burned out without even knowing it. Symptoms can include lack of motivation, feeling helpless or Trapped, detachment, fatigue, and more. As we near the end of season 17, you might think I can take some time off,

but there's still lots of podcast work to do. And sure, I love what I do, but I can tell when I'm working too hard. It affects my body and mind. Emotional exhaustion is something I struggle with. That's why I'm glad this podcast is sponsored by Better Help. Therapy can go a long way to helping us find balance in our life and overcome the struggles of burnout. We associate burnout with work, but that's not the only cause.

Any of our roles in life can lead us to feel burned out. And BetterHelp Online Therapy wants to remind you to prioritize yourself. Talking with someone can help you figure out what's causing stress in your life. I've talked to my therapist about burnout, and it's been helpful to discover the ways to identify and alleviate it. I also know you can find that kind of therapy with BetterHelp. BetterHelp is customized online therapy that offers video, phone, and even live chat sessions with your therapist,

so you don't have to see anyone on camera if you don't want to. It's much more affordable than in-person therapy, and you can be matched with a therapist in under 48 hours. And no-sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no-sleep. That's better-h-E-L-P.com slash no sleep. Now, it's time to get back to the show. I'd better get inside, too.

I think it's going to rain. The sun can give life or it can take it away. Searing heat, beating down upon the soil day after day after day with no respite, it takes its toll. But in this tale, shared with us by author Nicole Fowler, there may be respite on the horizon when a storm finally threatens to break. Performing this tale are Kristen Di Maccurio and Matthew Bradford. So watch your crops and hope their thirst will be quenched.

But remember, sometimes a blessing comes wrapped in a curse. And there's a chance that something came in the rain. The sound of Henry's ball bounce and against the wood floor in the half-empty sitting room at the front of the house is pounded in its way towards the kitchen in the back, where I sit at the small wooden table with a cigarette in hand. My head is throbbing from the noise. Henry?

Why don't you take that outside? Because, Mama, it smells funny outside. What is he talking about? As I stare out the kitchen window that looks to be vibrating from the swelter in August heat, all I can see are grassy fields cooked yellow from the sun, reminded me that this long drought we've had has doomed me to another disappointing crop season. There isn't a cloud in the sky, nothing out of the ordinary. Given that my five-year-old son is blind, though,

his sense of smell is far better than mine. It looks fine outside to me. Maybe you smell the manure from the Henderson's farm up the road. In Kansas farm country, up the road means ten miles away. They were the nearest neighbors to us. He doesn't budge. Half the time I wonder if he'd also been born deaf for the amount of times he doesn't listen to me.

While I bless the heavens for giving me a child, life sure has been tested me since his birth. His father, Billy, and I, married in the summer of 27, after meeting at a dance hall in my small hometown of Great Bend, Kansas, before he whisked me away to raise cornfields on the outskirts of the even smaller town of Abilene. He promised me everything I ever wanted, and for a while he seemed to deliver. Our farm was flourishing. He'd spent hours on end tend into the lush cornfields, crops we'd sell to production plants, stores, markets, and so on. With the money we'd get,

We'd often find ourselves traveling to Kansas City to shop, buying city folk furniture and goods. He'd surprised me on occasion with new dresses and jewelry. But my favorite times were when we'd simply spend our evenings having dinner, dancing and dreaming about what was next. What came next? I got pregnant. As excited as I was, Billy seemed indifferent. That's when I felt something shift in him, in our marriage.

Soon after Henry was born, we learned of his blindness. Billy was not pleased. He blamed me for what plagued Henry, which caused a rift between us. Then, as if it happened overnight, our crops had been hit with such a series of droughts and pests that our income started drying up. We even had to sell some of the nice furniture and goods we'd bought just to make some ends meet. Eventually, he spent less time in the fields, and more time, God only. knows where, sometimes days on end. He took to the drink, often coming home from wherever he'd been with a bruise or two from fights he said he'd never wanted to speak of. Then one day,

he came home, and I remember him being drenched from some rainstorm that caught him on the road. He had cuts and bruises all over, to which he insisted he was in a car accident. He looked awful. As I tended to his wounds, he kept saying he wanted to make things right. by us, sell the farm and move away. He seemed so frightened. He hugged me that night. I hadn't been that close to him in years, it felt like. We even made love. By the next morning, however, he was gone, without a trace. That was last November, and he hasn't been back since. That isn't just Henry's ball. That is the sound of rolling thunder clapping in the distance. That is the sound of rolling thunder clapping in the distance.

Confused, I look further out the window into the horizon to see if a storm is out there. Nothing out west. The sound of thunder is getting closer. Henry, you hear that? Sounds like rain's approaching. Mama, it smells. That must be the rain, sweetie. I put out my cigarette in the ashtray and make my way down the front hall.

Leaning against the frame of the front door, I peer out into the distance. Sure enough, a small but mighty-looking rainstorm is approaching us from the east. The Lord's answering my prayers, sweetie. We're finally getting some rain. I look to Henry playing in the sitting room. He's wearing linen shorts, no shirt, and is not at all concerned with the approaching storm. As the thunder grows louder, the wind starts picking up. A quick survey of grass, now swaying, draws my eye to the clothesline just off to the left side of the front porch. Damn.

Damn what, Mama? Nothing, just the laundry I hung up, and mind your tongue, young man. I grabbed the wicker basket that sits at the foot of the staircase by the door and head out to fetch the laundry. As I begin to remove the clothes, I can't help but notice the approaching storm has a funny smell to it. I pause for a moment. It isn't like a rain smell at all, or a manure smell from the Henderson's. It is a metallic smell of sort. This must have been what Henry meant about the funny smell.

I noticed something else strange occurring with the storm. From the looks of it, it isn't very big at all, maybe a quarter mile wide at most, and everything else in the horizon still appears to be blue skies. Then something even stranger happens. The storm stops for a moment, a few hundred yards away from the house. If I had a wilder imagination, I would think that it was almost looking at me. I'd seen tornadoes and other terrible storms in my lifetime, but I'd never seen anything like this. Suddenly, the storm abruptly moves forward towards the house.

It's approaching so fast that I grab the rest of the laundry as quickly as I can and dash back to the front door. I make it just in time as the rain sweeps the front porch. I set the basket down, realizing I dropped a silk slip in the doorway that's getting soaked. I go to grab it with the intention of shutting the door. But then I feel the cool breeze come through. This feels quite nice, actually. I close my eyes and feel my skin cool off. This storm ain't so bad.

I inhale a deep breath, trying to ignore the unusual metallic smell. As I exhale, I head back to the staircase to hang up my drenched slip. When something catches my eye, coming from the sitting room, it's Henry. He's standing at the bay window, focusing intently on something outside. It's almost as if he sees something. Perhaps the smell and the sound of the storm are overwhelming his senses. It's quite something, isn't it, sweetie? He doesn't answer me, as he continues to stare blankly out the window.

Maybe you'd like to go outside for a bit and feel the rain on your face? Still no answer. I approach him at the window and caress his shoulder to ensure he knows I am trying to talk to him. Does that sound like fun? Splashing about in the rain for a bit? No, not well, they're outside. What he says startles me a bit. I look outside and don't see anything unusual.

What do you mean they? Did you hear a critter? No, there were people in the rain. I fall silent. I approach the window to get a better look. No one's out there. Did you hear someone? I see them.

My gaze shoots back to him. I dropped the slip I was still carrying and put my hand to my mouth to cover a soft gasp. What do you mean you see them? I can see people standing in the rain. They're looking at us. A chill goes up and down my spine as I once again look outside and see no one.

I'm close enough that my breath fogs the glass. Sweetie, I don't see any... Then there's him. Without looking at my son, I know he's pointing at something. Him who? The man in the window, he's looking right at you. I jump back a bit at the thought, growing more terrified of what he's saying. This is unlike him.

What kind of game is Henry playing? I turned to him and grab his arm. Now listen here, young man. It's not funny to tease your mother like this. Just then, his eyes start to widen as he backs away slowly from the window, tracing his line of sight to follow something on the outside of the house. He's coming in. I caress my hand over my rapidly beaten heart as I try to follow his gaze.

Henry, listen to me. I promise you, there's no one... Why didn't you close the front door? I shoot my gaze to the front hall, unable to breathe. I am now caught in a battle between looking at Henry and at the thing he's supposedly staring at. Something standing in the front hallway. Something my blind son can see. Something invisible to me.

Who is it, sweetie? You're scaring me. When he doesn't answer me, I decide to play along. Who's there? I asked the space before us. I moved to stand in front of Henry, nudging him behind me for his protection. I beg of you to leave. This is a godly house.

We don't want any trouble. I look around in all directions, fearing I must look foolish talking to someone who isn't there. But then I feel it. That feeling you get when you know you're not alone. The air in the house gets crue. cooler and the skin on my arms turns to goose flesh. There is a presence before me. I can feel it. It is looking right at me. Perhaps it is sudden curiosity that drowns out my fear, but in this

moment I slowly lift my hands to see if I can connect with it. Who are you? I feel a tug on my other hand down by my side. I look down to see Henry looking up at me, directly into my eyes. something he's never done before. Lord have mercy. He's looking at me. Then it all starts coming together. I prayed for rain. It came.

I'd have been in such a state of shock until now that I didn't immediately realize the miraculous event of my son being able to see for the first time in his life, something I always prayed for. Whatever is in this storm, in our home, has to be some kind of miraculous gift sent to us. I feel tears forming in my eyes as I smiled down at Henry's angelic face. But Henry's expression isn't that of joy and happiness. There is some fear there.

What is it, Henry? He just shakes his head no in response, as if to say he doesn't want me to touch the presence. I don't want him to be frightened. There is nothing to be scared of. You can see, for the first time in your life, the rain that came directly to us to end our drought? Further extended my hand, I finally make contact with the presence. My whole body feels electric.

I have to believe God sent them to answer our prayers. I stroke the space before me, as if I were stroking the cheek of an angel, or that of my billy as if he finally came back to make things right. My moment of joy is interrupted when I hear Henry whisper. God didn't send them. I looked down at him in disbelief for saying such a thing. Just then, the presence tattens what feels like a powerful, callous grip around my wrist, and slices my palm wide open diagonally from wrist to the bottom of my little finger with what feels to be a dull, jagged knife. I scream in pain as I push Henry away from me to keep him at a distance. Let go of me! Blood drips from my hand to the floor. I tug, trying to pull away. When the presence

finally lets me go. I fall to the floor shouting and crying hysterically in pain as I cradle my bloody hands to my chest. Leave! Get out of my house! I notice Henry, who's standing across from me. He turns his sights from me on the floor to the very tall gloom in presence. Oh no. Don't you dare hurt my son? But Henry seems to be listening to something the presence is saying. He mutters a few words in agreement, and then he nods his head. Henry, can you hear what it's saying? He says they'll leave for now, but they'll be back. Why? What do they want? To collect what's owed, because... Damn it, cause what? Because daddy never held up his end of the deal. End of the deal. What does daddy have to do with this? In this moment, the rain stops and the clouds part to let the

sun shine once again. Before Henry can answer me, he convulses slightly. He then looks around as he always does, behind blinded eyes, reliant solely on his other senses. He crouches down to feel around the floor for his ball. Henry! I crawl over to him. What just happened?

You tell me right now! I think I lost my ball. No, with those people? Who were they? What people, Mama? Don't tease me, young man. What do they want with us? I attempt to shake some sense into him.

You said they were going to come back? Why? What does Daddy have to do with it? I don't know. You do know, answer me. Mama, you're hurting me. I reflect on how aggressive I'm being with him, then feel my heart sink to the floor.

He really doesn't know what is happening. I let go of his shoulders and back away. I'm sorry, sweetie. Mama just injured herself. and got scared for a moment. I caress his cheek, letting him know everything is okay. I get up from the blood-stained floor

and feebly walk back towards the kitchen. Can I play ball again, Mama? Sure. Back in the kitchen, I opened the liquor cabinet, Billy used to frequent, and grab a bottle of bourbon. I removed the cap and set the bottle on the counter,

knowing what I must do. I take the kitchen cloth, hang in near the wood-burning stove, wad it up and place it in my mouth. I bite down hard as I count backwards from five. When I reach one, I grab the bottle and pour the alcohol onto my slashed palm. I immediately cry out unholy words as the cloth muffles the sound. The pain makes me so nauseous that I brace myself over the sink.

A minute later, I finally remove the cloth from my mouth and wrap it around my hand. I watch as blood seeps through the fabric. My breath starts to catch up with me as I pull away from the counter and sit back down at the kitchen table. I use my trembling, uninjured hands to grab another cigarette from my case. As I put it to my lips, that same smell comes back. The smell from the rain, what I thought was metallic. It was the smell of blood. I quickly and nervously grab the matchbook and light my cigarette.

I take a deep inhale, and as I exhale, I return my gaze out of the night. the kitchen window. The grassy fields are once again yellow from the sun. There is no storm anywhere on the horizon, not a single cloud in the sky. It's as if it never happened. But I know it did. I just don't know why or what. Looking down at my injured hand resting on the table, I know I'm in a state of shock and confusion. Confusion as to how a storm could seemingly target us like that. confusion as to what possessed Henry to suddenly see for the first time in his life, then say terrible things, then lose his sight again and act as though nothing happened. Why could Henry see them and I couldn't?

What did he, or rather, the presents mean by collecting what was owed? Or that Billy played some kind of a role in all this? Did that explain all those times he came home blooded and bruised, sometimes soaked, and I assumed it had been because of a fight? Did that explain his disappearance? More importantly, when would they be back? It was then I realized I never asked Henry exactly who they were, or how many of them were in the rain.

My breath picks up again as I grow terrified at what was to come. Just as everything is starting to go silent in my head, I can hear Henry, who has found his ball again and starts to bounce it once more. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and darkness deep. Remain with us. Embrace No Sleep.

The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement. and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear

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